Free The Nine Giants by Edward Marston Page B

will shine forth.’
    ‘I have waited too long already, Nick.’
    ‘So have many others, I fear.’
    ‘Who cares about those wretches? I am
better
.’
    Owen Elias was no shrinking violet. While other hired men took what they could get and were profoundly grateful, he was forever trying to plead his cause. He was without question a far more skilful performer than most of his fellows and his lilting voice was a joy to hear when it was given blank verse to declaim. But his talent as an actor was not matched by his tact as a diplomat. In thrustinghimself forward so openly, he jeopardised his already slim chances of advancement. Nicholas liked him immensely for his Celtic charm and forthrightness but he recognised the fatal flaw in his friend. The runaway arrogance made Owen Elias into his own worst enemy.
    ‘Do you see what I mean, Nick?’
    ‘Tell me later, sir.’
    ‘I can do all that Master Firethorn can.’
    ‘You distract me, Owen.’
    ‘They loved me.’
    ‘Stand aside, I pray.’
    Nicholas was too busy at his post to listen to the actor at that moment but there was a degree of truth in what the Welshman said. In his brief appearance as Argos of Rome, he not only looked and moved remarkably like Lawrence Firethorn, he even sounded like him. Indeed, the audience was so stunned by the similarity between the two men that they really believed they were looking at a pair of identical twins. It was, literally, a double deceit.
    Firethorn was left alone to deliver the Epilogue.
    Comedy, our sages oft advise us,
    May come accoutred in diverse disguises.
    True laughter wears such various attire,
    Colour, cut, fashion and style conspire
    To catch the eye and to create such mirth,
    That heavenly happiness dwells on earth.
    In dressing up our offering today
    We use twice the apparel of another play.

    Behind a cloak hid brooding Argos of Rome,
    His twin of Florence lurked beneath a dome …
    He was leaving the audience in no doubt about the fact that he had played the two parts. He changed cloaks on the line about the brooding Argos and put on his other hat when he referred to a dome. Then he went on to repeat the process throughout the remainder of the Epilogue, thus confirming his genius as a theatrical chameleon. It was a play in itself and the spectators were spellbound.
    Abel Strudwick had been hypnotised by it all for two hours and this final piece of bravura left him totally awestruck. The furious pace and the freewheeling humour gave him an experience that altered his whole view of himself. He wanted somehow to be part of it all, to shed the onerous burdens of being a waterman and join the marvellous world of theatre. What had aroused most wonder in him was the quality of the verse.
Double Deceit
was written largely in prose but it did contain a number of speeches in rhyming couplets that struck him as superb. Delivered by the masterful Firethorn, their shortcomings were cunningly concealed. Strudwick longed to write such lines for such an actor, even to become a performer himself. It was a more honourable existence than rowing incessantly across the River Thames. Receiving the plaudits of such a delirious auditorium was infinitely better than dragging dead bodies out of dark water.
    Matilda Stanford was also entranced by the whole experience. Deeply moved at the Queen’s Head, she hadbeen dizzied by the sheer extravagance of today’s frolic. A simple playbill had brought her to The Theatre with a curiosity that was soon satisfied. Lawrence Firethorn himself had sent the invitation and he had left her in no doubt of that. Whether he was playing Argos of Rome or Argos of Florence, he found a way to direct certain lines straight at her by way of tribute. Matilda was utterly enraptured. With his scintillating display in the twin roles, the actor-manager had even surpassed his sublime performance as Count Orlando – and
this
was the man who had deigned to notice her. Concluding the Epilogue, he blew her a kiss and bowed