The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston

– against all the odds – be redeemed.
    Lawrence Firethorn tampered with that belief.
    ‘I require a few changes, Edmund,’ he said.
    ‘You were always a man of habit.’
    ‘Give me a longer speech at the end of Act Two and a shorter one at the start of Act Four. Let me dally less, let me suffer more. I would have a song to lighten my final hour on earth. Make it play upon the heartstrings.’
    ‘All this will be done, Lawrence.’
    The two men had repaired to the taproom with Barnaby Gill to lubricate their sorrow and to analyse the morning’s work. No play was ever accepted without reservation by the actor-manager and Hoode was braced to add refinements to order. Gill, too, invariably suggested improvements in his own role and an extra dance was conceded to him yet again so that he could offset a dark tragedy with his comic antics. Firethorn was not yet finished.
    ‘There is one more amendment …’
    ‘I await your command,’ said Hoode.
    ‘That closing epitaph …’
    ‘The music of truth,’ complimented Gill with unwonted gravity. ‘You have never brought a piece to such a beautiful conclusion, Edmund.’
    ‘I thank you for that, Barnaby.’
    ‘It has a quiet magnificence to it, sir.’
    ‘As did the man who delivered the speech.’
    ‘Owen Elias surpassed himself.’
    ‘I could not wish for a finer Benvolio.’
    ‘That speech alone will seal his fame.’
    The remark served to reinforce Firethorn’s decision.
    ‘Cut the lines, Edmund.’
    ‘Cut them!’
    ‘Completely, sir.’
    ‘It is the most affecting speech in the play.’
    ‘I care not for that,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘It is a distraction from the death of two tragic figures. We need no words to carry us to the grave.’
    Gill disagreed vehemently. ‘Cut those lines and you geld the whole play, Lawrence.’
    ‘
I
am the stallion in this drama, Barnaby.’
    ‘But
I
am the author,’ said Hoode.
    ‘Commissioned by me. Do you flout my authority, sir?’
    ‘Be reasonable, Lawrence.’
    ‘Trim your play, sir.’
    ‘This is the greatest sacrifice yet!’
    ‘Put your company first for once.’
    ‘I say the same to you!’ shouted the playwright. ‘Think what harm you do to Owen Elias if you remove that speech.’
    ‘That is Lawrence’s earnest intention,’ said Gill.
    ‘I will resist him on this!’
    ‘I will support you, Edmund.’
    ‘My words are sacred!’
    ‘Indeed, they are,’ said Firethorn softly, ‘and I would fight to retain each one. But the piece is over-long, Edmund. We can spare twenty meagre lines spoken by arogue who has words enough in the rest of the play. Do as I bid, sir. It will give a rounder ending to your drama. Believe it well.’
    Argument ceased. The speech was cut.
     
    The offer was far too good to refuse. They were in a small village to the south of Oxford when they were accosted by the farmer. Cornelius Gant was reclining against the trunk of a chestnut tree and counting his booty from a full day in the university town. Nimbus cropped the grass nearby then ambled across to the pond to stare at its own reflection for a few moments before dipping its muzzle into the cool water. The heavy wagon came to a creaking halt and the farmer got down to the ground. He was a big, broad, red-faced man in his forties whose manner and clothing suggested moderate wealth. He came straight to the point.
    ‘That is a fine animal you have, my friend,’ he noted. ‘I would like to buy him from you.’
    ‘Oh, sir, I could not sell him,’ said Gant.
    ‘Is there no price that would tempt you?’
    ‘He is worth more than you could possibly offer.’
    ‘Do not doubt the strength of my purse,’ said the farmer, walking over to Nimbus to appraise him at close quarters. ‘I am as good a judge of horse-flesh as any in Oxfordshire. When I watched the blacksmith shoe this sturdy fellow, I could see the horse’s mettle. Come, sir. I have great need of such a beast. Let us talk terms.’
    Gant pulled himself lazily to