The Bawdy Basket

Начало книги

‘A plague on this weather!’ growled Lawrence Firethorn, sinking down on a bench. ‘It will be the death of me, Nick.’

Nicholas Bracewell waited until the next scene in the play was firmly under way before he glanced up from the prompt book. They were in the tiring house at the Queen’s Head, the site of their inn yard theatre, during a performance in front of a packed audience. Nicholas could see that Firethorn was in some distress. His eyes were dull, his breathing heavy, his sturdy frame slack from exhaustion. Playing the title role in Hannibal on a hot summer’s afternoon was proving to be a sustained ordeal. The famous Carthaginian general had just led his army across the frozen Alps, urging them on through a blizzard that existed only in the imagination. While Firethorn and his soldiers pretended to shiver onstage, the sun beat down mercilessly and mocked their snow-covered blank verse. Clad in body armour and helmet, Firethorn felt as if he were being baked alive.

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