The Vagabond Clown

The trouble came when he least expected it. Nicholas Bracewell was, for once, caught completely off guard. Until that moment, the performance had been an unqualified success.
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
was an ideal choice for a hot afternoon in the yard of the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street and the spectators were highly appreciative. What was on offer was a riotous comedy that was played with such skill that it kept the large audience in a state of almost continuous hilarity. Waves of laughter rolled ceaselessly across the yard. In the role of a bumbling suitor, Lackwit, who fails time and again to win the hand of his beloved, Lawrence Firethorn led Westfield’s Men superbly, setting a standard at which the others could aim, if only to fall short. The one actor who rivalled his comic genius was Barnaby Gill, the acknowledged clown of the company, a man whose facial contortions were a delight
and whose sprightly jigs were irresistibly funny. Gill was in the middle of one of his famous dances when the shadow of disaster fell across the afternoon.

‘Why do they laugh so, Nick?’ complained Firethorn, who had just quit the stage and was standing beside the book holder. ‘These are stale antics. Barnaby’s jig has as much novelty as the death of Julius Caesar.’

‘He’s a born clown,’ said Nicholas Bracewell admiringly, glancing up from his prompt book to watch Gill at work. ‘He plays upon his audience as upon a pipe.’

‘And produces dull music.’

‘They do not think so.’

Firethorn inflated his chest. ‘
I
am the true clown,’ he boasted. ‘My touch is altogether lighter than Barnaby’s. I play upon playgoers as upon a church organ.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘and produce some very irreverent chords.’

Before he could reply, Firethorn was distracted by a huge roar of laughter from the inn yard. Envy surged through him at once. Annoyed that Gill was getting such a wonderful response onstage, he turned to look at his capering colleague. But it was not the comic jig that was provoking the explosion of joy. Gill, in fact, was standing quite still. Two young men had suddenly leapt up on to the makeshift stage from the audience and were grappling with each other. Assuming that the fight was part of the play, the spectators urged them on, shaking with even more mirth when Gill, outraged that his dance had been interrupted, made the mistake of trying to pull the combatants apart,
only to be set on by both of them. The hapless clown was pushed, punched, slapped, tripped up, kicked hard in the ribs then thrown unceremoniously from the stage.

Amused at first, the standees at the front of the pit lost their sense of humour when the flailing arms and legs of Barnaby Gill landed among them. Items of furniture soon followed as the two interlopers began to hurl various properties from the stage. A chair hit one man in the face. A heavy stool knocked another spectator senseless. Flung into the air, a wooden table caused even more damage when it landed simultaneously on three people. This was no trick to catch a chaste lady, still less a device to entertain the onlookers. It was a deliberate attempt to halt the play in its tracks. Protests were loud and angry. In an instant, the atmosphere in the yard was transformed.

Nicholas was the first to react, discarding his book to make an unscheduled appearance on stage and grab one of the miscreants in order to march him off. Firethorn came charging out to deal with the other young man but the latter jumped into the crowd and started to cudgel everyone within reach. A brawl developed immediately and the whole yard was soon involved. Stirred into action, drunken apprentices clambered onto the stage and tried to release the captive from Nicholas’s hands. Other members of the cast came streaming out to assist their book holder, only to be ambushed by a second group of apprentices who had been roused to join in the melee. Violence was lifted to a new and more dangerous level. The noise was deafening. Above the roars of injured parties rose the screams of women and the
yells of frightened men. There was a mad dash for the exits, producing such congestion that people began to buffet each other indiscriminately.

Nor was there any safety in the galleries. Viewing the disorder from above, those who had paid extra for a seat and a cushion were forced to duck and dodge as missiles were aimed at them from below. Half-eaten apples scored direct hits. Sticks and stones seemed to come from nowhere. One man scooped up fresh horse manure from the stables and flung it at the gallants and their ladies in the lower gallery. Panic reached the level of hysteria as spectators fought their way to the steps. Private battles broke out on every staircase. All trace of courtesy vanished. Rich apparel was badly torn in the commotion, wounds were readily inflicted. Shrieks, curses, threats and cries for help blended into a single ear-splitting sound. Chaos had come to the Queen’s Head. Its morose landlord, Alexander Marwood, the bane of the theatre troupe, viewed the scene from the uncertain safety of a window, shouting himself hoarse and gesticulating wildly as the fighting intensified.

Nicholas struggled valiantly against unequal odds. Forced to let go of one man, he beat off three others who tried to overpower him then used his strength to dislodge an attacker, clinging unwisely to Firethorn’s back. The actor was already wrestling with two other invaders of their stage before banging their heads together and sending them reeling. Nicholas looked around in despair. The play had been comprehensively ruined. Properties had been tossed into the crowd and the scenery had been smashed to pieces.
Barnaby Gill had disappeared under the feet of the fleeing public. It was a black day for Westfield’s Men. They came out to support their fellows in the fight but only added to the general tumult. Dick Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the company’s apprentices, still in his costume, abandoned all pretence of being the beautiful Helen, object of Lackwit’s wooing, and hurled himself into the fray. It was a grave error of judgement. Within seconds, his wig was snatched from his head, his dress was torn from his back and he was shouldered roughly off the stage.

Honeydew’s cry went unheard in the turmoil but Nicholas had seen the fate of his young friend. Leaping from the stage, he went to his aid, lifting the boy to his feet with one hand while using the other to brush away a leering youth who was trying to molest the play’s heroine. The book holder carried Honeydew quickly back to the tiring-house.

‘Stay here, Dick!’ he ordered. ‘This is not your battle.’

‘I’ll do my share,’ said Honeydew, raising a puny arm. ‘Westfield’s Men ever stick together. We must all protect our property.’

‘It’s beyond redemption. My job is to save our fellows from serious harm.’ He indicated the cowering figure in the corner of the room. ‘You stay here and comfort George. He needs your succour.’

‘Oh, I do, I do,’ wailed George Dart.

Dart was the assistant stagekeeper, a small, slight, timorous creature who all too often took on the role of the company’s scapegoat. Though he had many sterling qualities, bravery was not among them. While others had
rushed out to do battle, Dart shrunk back into the tiring-house with his hands over his ears. Honeydew took pity on him and put a consoling arm around the diminutive figure. Nicholas felt able to return to the battlefield. When he went out on stage, he was relieved to see that it had now been reclaimed by the actors. With a concerted effort, they had driven all the interlopers off their precious boards and were patrolling them to make sure that nobody else trespassed on their territory. Firethorn stood in their midst, bellowing at the audience to calm down but only succeeding in driving them into an even greater frenzy.

Nicholas glanced up at the galleries. They were rapidly emptying. Even their patron, Lord Westfield, was beating a retreat from his place of honour with the members of his entourage, scrambling through a door that led to a private room. The affray would do untold damage to the reputation of the company, making even their most loyal playgoers think twice before venturing into the Queen’s Head again.
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
had ended in catastrophe. There was worse to come. As the crowd continued to disperse, a familiar figure was revealed. Trampled in the exodus, Barnaby Gill was lying on the ground, clutching a leg and groaning in agony. Nicholas jumped from the stage and bent over him to protect Gill from any further injury. Firethorn also came to the aid of the stricken clown.

‘What ails you, Barnaby?’ he said, kneeling beside him.

‘My leg,’ replied Gill through gritted teeth. ‘God’s blood, Lawrence! How could you let this happen? They’ve broken my leg.’

‘How do you know?’

‘How do you
think
I know, man?’

Nicholas turned to the stage. ‘Fetch a doctor!’ he called and one of the actors ran off immediately. There were still many bodies milling about in the yard. ‘Let’s move him to a place of safety,’ he suggested. ‘We can use that table.’

Calling two more actors to assist him, Nicholas righted the upturned table that had been thrown from the stage. The powerful Firethorn, showing an affection for his fallen colleague that surprised them both, lifted Gill as gently as he could and lowered him onto the table. Four of them bore it slowly away with its passenger still writhing in pain. Only when they had manoeuvred the table into the tiring-house did they feel that he was out of danger. Gill was surrounded by the sympathetic faces of his fellows. They saw the implications at once. A clown with a broken leg would not be able to dance for a very long time. It was a bitter blow to a company that relied so much on the talents of the inimitable Barnaby Gill. Everyone tried to soothe him with kind words.

When they least needed him, Alexander Marwood came bursting in. There was no compassion from the landlord. He ignored Gill completely. His gnarled face was puce with fury and the remaining wisps of hair stood up like tufts of grass on his gleaming pate. He pointed an accusatory finger at Firethorn.

‘See the mischief you have done, sir?’ he howled. ‘You’ve brought ruin down upon me. You and your knavish company have turned my yard into the pit of Hell.’

‘Away, you rogue!’ yelled Firethorn, rounding on him. ‘Can you not see that Barnaby lies injured here? What are a few damaged pieces of timber to a broken leg? Take that ugly face of yours out of here before it makes me puke.’

‘I demand recompense, Master Firethorn.’

‘You shall have it with the point of my sword.’

‘I’ll not be browbeaten, sir.’

‘No,’ warned Firethorn, bunching a fist. ‘You’ll be hand-beaten, foot-beaten, cudgel-beaten, stone-beaten and axe-beaten until you look even more hideous than you are now. By heaven, if I were not so fond of dumb animals, I’d beat you into a pulp and feed you to the mangiest curs in London.’ He raised an arm to strike. ‘Begone, you foul wretch! You offend our sight.’

Marwood backed away in fear. ‘Stand off, sir, or I’ll set the law on you.’

‘Not before I set my toe against your vile buttocks.’

Nicholas moved in swiftly to prevent Firethorn from carrying out his threat. Taking the landlord by the shoulder, he ushered him out of the room and onto the stage. He disliked Marwood as much as any of them but he knew the importance of trying to placate the egregious little man who, when all was said and done, provided them with their inn yard theatre. Westfield’s Men enjoyed a precarious relationship with Alexander Marwood at the best of times. That relationship would not be improved by a violent assault upon him.

‘I’ll turn you out,’ said Marwood, still pulsing with impotent rage. ‘I’ll not have Westfield’s Men on my premises a moment longer.’

‘Calm down,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are too hasty.’

‘I was certainly too hasty when I let my yard to your troupe.’

‘We’ve both gained from the arrangement.’

‘I should have expelled you years ago, Master Bracewell.’

‘And what would have happened to all the income that we have brought you?’ asked Nicholas, appealing to his pocket. ‘We not only pay you a rent, we fill the Queen’s Head with happy people who are only too ready to drink your ale and eat your food. Come, sir, you have turned a handsome profit out of the company.’

Marwood looked balefully around the yard. ‘Do you call this profit, sir? My benches damaged, my balustrades cracked, my shutters torn off their hinges. I dare not think what horrors that mob visited on my stables. This is a calamity!’ he cried. ‘I am surprised that my inn is still standing.’

‘We regret what happened as much as you.’

‘But you and your fellows are to blame, Master Bracewell.’

‘Not so,’ said Nicholas. ‘We are victims of this affray, not progenitors.’

‘Westfield’s Men attract rogues and vagabonds into my yard.’

‘We appeal to anyone who wishes to enjoy a play. Our spectators were filled with your ale, remember. Hot weather and strong drink worked against us this afternoon. Think how rarely it has done that,’ argued Nicholas. ‘No matter how rough and unruly an audience, our plays usually please
them so much that their behaviour is above reproach.
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
has always found favour before. Set this one bad experience against the hundreds of good ones that have taken place at the Queen’s Head.’

‘My mind is resolved, sir. We must part forthwith.’

‘You forget our contract.’

‘Its terms stipulate that my yard may be hired for the sole purpose of presenting a play. Not for encouraging the sweepings of the city to run riot. The contract is revoked.’

‘Would you lose the income that it gives you?’

‘I’d rather lose that than the inn itself.’

‘The damage may not be as great as you fear.’

‘No,’ moaned Marwood, running his eye over the debris. ‘It’s likely to be far worse. Get your fellows off my property, Master Bracewell.’

‘Not until we help to clear up the mess.’

‘Westfield’s Men will be the death of me!’

Clutching his head in despair, the landlord turned on his heel and scurried off to the taproom. Nicholas let him go. There was no reasoning with Marwood in a crisis. A confirmed pessimist, he preferred to luxuriate in misery. Nicholas took a quick inventory of the yard. Most of the spectators had fled now, leaving only the stragglers and the wounded behind. They limped out of the Queen’s Head as best they could, glad to get away from the scene of devastation. Items from the play lay scattered on the ground alongside food, vomit, discarded tankards and a selection of hats that had been plucked from their owners’ heads. Dick Honeydew’s stolen wig floated in a pool of blood. Doors,
shutters and balustrades had all been damaged. Some of the benches in the galleries had been upended and snapped in two during the headlong flight. It was a depressing sight.