Despite being built in Drury Lane, the Royal was billed as the ‘Theatre Royal, Bridge Street,’ owing to the need to direct audiences to its oddly concealed entrance. The only way in lay at the end of a rat run of alleyways running along the back of the Bridges Street townhouses. The theatres may have been legal once more but, apparently, after all the years of persecution, they still preferred to be near impossible to find. Besides which, there was something deliciously seedy about getting there, which somehow only enhanced the sordid thrill of the matinee.

Clive was so excited he was actually skipping, which was inconvenient for Jerry given the narrow width of the alley.

“Zounds! Give over, Clive, will you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just so excited!”

Clive seemed to have quite forgotten having his hopes dashed. He was once again aligned with his fate, and though presently steeped in shadows, he only had to glance up to see that the sky that formed the alley’s ceiling was still very much azure!

They were now filing along with a queue of other theatre-goers – clearly the show was to be well-attended. A shady looking pirate of a fellow with a beard and a patch took their brass entry tokens at the door.

They ducked beneath the low lintel, and down a couple of steps, and the auditorium unfurled before them. A wall of sound: the auditorium was filling up fast, and the din of raucous converse was growing; tuning instruments droned from somewhere to the right; Clive fancied he heard the name of Nell Gwyn, and more than once.

Clive had somehow expected the London theatre to be dark and dingy, poorly lit by oil-lamps like the town hall back home (before it burnt down). But his first overwhelming impression was of tall space and light, and green and gold everywhere. The light fell in mote-filled beams from a glazed dome overhead that appeared to be in need of a good clean. Somehow, a pigeon had managed to gain entry, and was flapping around the eves. The boxes, the galleries, and the backless semi-circular benches around the pit were all swaddled in green baize, with the addition of gold-tooling for the more expensive reaches. The stage was a long bold thrust into the audience pit, adorned with iron spikes, with the six-man orchestra halved to either side; above it, the proscenium arch (Clive’s first) fluted with trumpeting angels in plaster; and, at the apex, the coat of Charles II himself, who had granted the theatre its patent (hence the Royal’s sobriquet: ‘The King’s Theatre’).

Jerry gave Clive a nudge. “Stop gawping! You’re in the cockpit.”

Clive giggled. “You said ‘cock!’”

“Get down there, will you? Just pick a good seat.”

Clive started. “You’re not going to sit with me?”

“Nah. I’ve arranged a little backstage rendezvous with our witty orange seller from earlier!”

“What... Nell?”

“The same!”

“But she’s the main part!”

“So, if she’s late on stage – you’ll know why!”

“I mean – when are you going to see her?”

“Well, there’s always costume changes... Now get on with you! I’m off to freshen up! I’ll see you after.”

And then Jerry was gone, bounding up a stairway to the left, two steps at a leap!

Clive seated himself quickly – there weren’t so many bench seats left. And something was happening on stage...

A giggle of lyre, tambourine and virginal heralded a sizeable incursion of the fairer sex. Of course! The orange wenches! The Citrus Circus! The Mandarin Maneaters! At once the toast, butter and marmalade of all London Town! Clive had indeed heard tell (and what red-blooded male, or fruit lover, had not?) and, having met one in person already, was somewhat prepared for the sheer sauce that was making its way up on stage. He was not, however, prepared for the audience’s reaction...

The pit erupted into raucous erectness, forcing Clive to attention in defence of his meagre sight line. The sellers’ dresses were scandalously off-shoulder, hanging precariously from nothing more than a couple of fetching ribbons upon arms, and the brazen forthrightness of the girls’ not insignificant endearments (the tops of which not so much peeped over necklines, as leered) snagged one’s gaze from the equally curvaceous and succulent citruses peeking from cheesecloth-covered baskets.

And then... Clive gasped! For... glimpsable beneath the long skirts (yet more ribbons, yet more lace)... were nothing less than arrant naked ankles! Stockingless and bare as Eve for all the world to see! A warm pulse began to beat under Clive’s collar. These girls were pure bloody filth!

Not every member of the audience was as restrained as Clive... many surged towards the stage in a tidal wave of belaced longing (it was becoming clear why there were large iron spikes around the apron)!

But the orange sellers loved it! Every one of them knew how to juice the crowd, each employing an idiosyncratic foible that was all their own: this one juggled and orbited fruit about her wrists; another could make the tangerine globes appear from the most unlikely locations about her person; another could fit three oranges in her mouth simultaneously; and a fourth could balance one upon a raised and (thrice gasp!) naked foot!

Shouted orders came in thick and fast! The sellers began lobbing oranges, with the unerring accuracy of practice, to tabbed regulars in the pit or boxes. The regulars so served, they then descended into the coalface of the throng, vending up close and personal, coyly fending off groping hands seeking ripeness both within and without the baskets.

A rustle of skirts alighted next to Clive – he turned... and found himself staring into the eyes of a... of a... girl! She looked younger than the others; her eyes were large and lashes long. She had not been on the stage. No, newly employed and lacking the know-with-all to pulp the crowd, she had sought out more tender prey, and given Clive’s gross inexperience with the fairer sex, it was safe to say she had found it.

“Kind sir, you look so young! How old are you?”

Clive huckled and fished, open-mouthed, already hooked... “Two and none...”

“Two and none!” She giggled, as if he had something funny, rather than just inane. She whispered closer, “Will ye not taste of mi succulents?” Her naked shoulder brushed his own. “E’en just one?”

Clive realised he was trying to breathe through his eyes. “Twenty!” He’d gotten there! 1645! He was twenty!

“Twenty!” exclaimed the delighted seller. “Sir is famished, surely!” She licked her lips. “Sir has coin enough?”

And then Clive caught a glance of someone entering the theatre at the rear, and ducked instinctively. “Pepys!” he squeaked.

The girl followed his gaze. “Ah, you are Sam’s man? That explains it! Very well, I shall add these to his tab!” She counted out twenty-one oranges (“One gratis for Samuel’s handsome manservant!”) and arrayed them into an elegant pyramid (4 by 4, 2 by 2, 1 on top) next to Clive on the bench. “6 pence an orange – that’s 120d. My thanks to your master! And to you...” Standing, she bobbed, lashed him once more with her large eyes, and vanished back into the heaving throng.

Clive looked at the pyramid next to him. He’d never tasted a China orange before. Clive was not entirely stupid – he was aware they were not exactly paid for (at least not by him). He glanced behind – Pepys was making his way to a box and had not seen him, much less the edifice of exorbitantly expensive fruit he had just unwittingly purchased. Clive looked back down at the pyramid. He selected the zenith and sniffed it closely – he was a bit peckish – and she had given him one extra, after all! He took an exploratory bite – the pocked skin was unyielding and unappetising, but the innards were juicy enough... delicious in fact! Clive was fast developing a taste for the finer things in life, a taste that his purse would not long abide.

As quickly (and loudly) as they had come, the orange sellers vanished into the wings to the disappointed “Awwws!” of the audience. The pit crowd, now fully fluffed, finally seemed to remember they had paid for seats: Clive had to pull his pyramid closer to avoid it being sat on.

The orchestra blared again – this time an upbeat frottola of lyre, viol, flute, virginal and drum. They stood to play – Clive could see their feathered hats bobbing to the rhythm above the edge of the thrust.

And then, with a swish of curtain, the play began!

The Mad Couple or All’s Mistaken.

Clive really didn’t understand why a play needed to have two titles – it was terribly confusing! Why couldn’t playwrights just make up their minds like everyone else?

Fanfare, and six protagonists marched on stage to rapturous applause.

This was a new work and, lacking any popular cultural footholds or knowledge aforethought, Clive had to actually pay attention. It went like this: enter some Duke or other from a war; his lady love Artabella; her brother escorting a defiant continental prisoner; some other trollop called Amphe; her love, Ortellus; and a random guard in a red shirt. And it was this Amphe that was being performed by none other than that very same Nellie Gwyn of orange and Jerry fame. So Amphe, not Artabella, was the main character?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

But now, things got spicey! No sooner had the Duke declared his love for Artabella, than he strode over to the aforementioned trollop, Amphe, and barbed her with:

“What Amphelia did you beleive the world

So Barren of good Faces, that yours

Only dos enrich it, or did you think ’twas

All mens’ fates only to Doat on yours?”

“Ho ho!” roared the audience.

“Hee hee!” yelled Clive.

“That vexed her!” yelled another...

But Nell Gwyn (aka Amphe) was not to be outdone! She turned and addressed the audience directly:

“Vext at what, to see a man I hate;

Love another, a very great vexation!”

Her words positively dripped with sarcasm. She swung back to the Duke, her eyes ablaze with hooded fury...

“Know Sir this Breast!” – Her hands lovered at her bosoms (which only made them swell upward and outwards)—

The room exploded!

The orange fell from Clive’s mouth.

“–has only

Roome for Joy and Love–”

A heckler couldn’t help himself: “And a couple of Chinas besides!”

Nell paused, deliberately, her hands still cupping, a small smile playing about her lips. She looked as if she were trying not to laugh.

Somehow, the pause only made the audience’s mirth louder!

By God, Clive realised... She was milking it! Hands and knees before the udder milking it for all it was worth! This Nell, this orange seller – nay, credit where credit was due! - this Actress, this pretender to every role Clive had ever coveted – was a downright genius! Jerry was right: they (meaning the entire male condition) were in serious trouble!

At last, when the titters had finally died down (or returned to their seats) Nell sashayed over to her grinning lover and buried his head in her chest.

“–this Breast has only

Roome for Joy and Love, to brave Ortellus!”

The Duke looked nonplussed. Ortellus grinned lasciviously. The audience literarily ejaculated!

Exeunt all but Amphe.

But, no sooner had the Duke left than Nell assumed an entirely different mien, her eyes quivering like soft wineskins to oceans. She beseeched the audience directly...

“How has my tongue bely’d my too true

Heart, in speaking hate unto the Duke and love to Ortellus!”

Clive was gobsmacked. He looked from Nell to the exited Duke and back to Nell. She loved the Duke? But she had just said she loved Ortellus! You’re telling Clive that all that bile and bitumen was for show?

“–Why shou’d I love this

Man, that shews me nothing but contempt,

And hate–”

“–Because that is so much more interesting!” A new voice from the audience – clear and loud, imperious, aloof... steeply inflected...

Nell’s eyes rose and then widened as she saw who spoke, and then they fell like stones, and her head and body followed, to prostrate her upon the boards. A beat – and the rest of the cast did likewise.

And then the audience.

Clive found himself at the centre of a rippling pool of obeisance. Despite being seated, he was suddenly taller than everyone else. He turned...

In the central and most opulent box of the second floor, stood a man in a suit of utmost darkness: a short waisted doublet (rakishly tapered), petticoat breeches, and a wide-brimmed and feathered hat, all in black velvet. The breeches were trimmed with scarlet ribbons; his sleeves, cravat and falling collar were of sparkling pearl silk. Clive was put in mind of nothing so much as a magpye and, true to form, the full-sleeved figure had quite stolen the show with one glittering swoop of a riposte.

But all that was but window-dressing – for it was the face, and the hair, that really devoured the eye...

A chin like a Protestant’s elbow abutted sensual lips frozen in a permanent pout, and both languished below a finely trimmed painter’s moustache. His pointed nose was drooped, his hooded eyes alaze, his deep dimples treacherous, his heavy Catholic brow predatory. His cavalier locks drooped like the ears of a spaniel around a face that was, at once, both deeply relaxed, and unwaveringly alert: it spoke of power at play, with the table stakes far more than you could ever afford to lose.

His royal highness, Charles II, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, breeder of canine doppelgangers and restorer of the theatres, raised a hand to speak: “Was it not the Avon Bard that said: ‘Love me and I’m in your heart, but hate me, and I’m on your mind?’” The King paused to let his words marinate.

Judgement hovered above an answer.

Without raising her head, Nell replied. “Actually, your Majesty, I believe it was you, just now.”

Several male members of the cast openly gasped at that. Artabella actually swooned.

“Ah yes...” Charles nodded slowly, suddenly thoughtful. Finally, he spoke: “Mistress Nell makes an excellent study of cruel love’s barbs. And more besides.”

Nell bowed lower, that tiny smile playing about her lips.

Clive glimpsed at Pepys. The man looked quite ill.

“Continue!” commanded the monarch, with a lacy flourish. “Let’s see these wayward lovers birthed, shall we? Our brother-in-law Master Howard has outdone himself – already this work is much preferred to the English Monsieur...”

A bewigged and round-faced fop swooped in from the wings and bowed – the writer, presumably? And the King’s brother-in-law to boot? The simpering playwright handkerchiefed at the band. Another fanfare. With a sigh of wagging tongues, the audience rose back into their seats. Clive, of course, was ahead of the game and already sitting for, in truth, he had never knelt. And he was still staring too... and not at Master Howard.

He had never seen a real King before!

And then he realised the King was staring also – staring right back at Clive, in fact! Star-crossed orbs met across the social hypotenuse of the Theatre Royal – the one pair wide and guileless, the other hooded and omniscient – divided yet cojuxted by fate. Neither would look away, until, in an act so incomprehensibly sibylline that it would stay with Clive forever...

...the King winked.

Clive hurriedly swung about and front-faced himself. Just his luck! Barely a day in the capital, and already the bloody King of England was making a pass at him! Sodom and bloody Gomorrah! Lot’s wife had gotten herself turned into a pillar of salt for less! Right now, that fate seemed somewhat preferable to Clive...

Needless to say, the rest of the play was something of a blur after that. It was hard to really take in a performance when the back of your head was on fire. While the rest of the audience hooted in laughter at the misadventures of the Duke’s kinsman Philidor, who was chased across the stage by a horde of angry nursemaids seeking payment for the care of his many bastards, Clive barely smiled. Nell’s (Amphe)’s witty verbal contortions, all in avoidance of marrying Ortellus:

“I will not Marry... for a very good reason, because I haven’t a mind to!”

“But surely you’ll not deny me twice!”

“Not if you ask but once!”

raised a rousing cheer with every riposte, but were quite lost on our young Devonite. When Nell freed the prisoner Zoranzo, the Duke’s enemy, in an even more desperate attempt to garner the Duke’s jealousy (loving the villainous Ortellus being apparently not sufficient), the Duke was reluctantly forced to condemn her to death (“How could I speak that Word to her!”), the audience gasped! Clive merely belched.

The plot thickened as Ortellus, now furious at losing Nell’s love, was incensed to learn that the Duke actually loved her also, and planned to murder him with help from the spurned Artabella’s brother, Arbatus. Only the noble intervention of Artabella, who saved the Duke despite full well knowing he did not love her, stayed her brother’s hand. Matters nearly came to a head (or lack of one) upon the day of Amphe’s execution, until the Duke finally ordered the executioner to remove his head instead, if only to bring an end to his lovesick suffering, and so revealing his true love. Amphe confessed hers in return, and the Duke’s unbreakable betrothal to Artabella was dissolved when Ortellus, to spare his own life, revealed that Artabella was, in fact, the Duke’s long lost sister (that old chestnut).

Clive, of course, was oblivious to all of this. All of his not considerable willpower was focused on keeping his eyes facing directly ahead, and definitely not looking back to see if Charles still had eyes for him. He only knew the play was over when the players started bowing. Judging by the audience reaction, it had been rather good. But even Clive, who had hardly seen the play, had to admit – the women, be it Nell as Amphe, or the actress who had played Mirida, or even the noble Artabella, had quite stolen the show.

The audience began filing out. Clive stayed rooted to the spot for as long as he dared, but he would have to turn to make his exit. He needn’t have worried though, for when he finally snuck a peek, the high box was empty – and Charles II was nowhere to be seen.

Jerry came bounding down the steps towards him.

“Well, whad’ya think? Not bad, eh?”

“Erm... yes, it was... thrilling! Did you get to see Nell?”

“Nah – she’s taken, more’s the pity. And by higher stuff than me...” Jerry gestured up at the box. “I reckon his nibship’s got his eye on her!”

Clive breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s hope so!”

Jerry slapped Clive on the arse. “Come on!”

Clive stuffed his pockets with as many oranges as he could; the rest went down his breeches.

They walked right past Pepys, who seemed to be in a heated debate with the young orange seller from earlier. The seller helpfully indicated the passing Clive, and Pepy’s mien turned wrathful, until he saw Jerry, at which he fast recanted. When, at a safe distance, Clive risked a glimpse over his shoulder – Pepys was dutifully paying the orange seller everything he owed. It was becoming abundantly clear to Clive that Jerry was a very useful friend to have around. Clearly – whatever exactly his job was – it was held in high regard. If not downright terror. Clive was not so sure he wanted to meet Jerry’s boss...

“Oh – that’ll be a shilling and six pence,” said Jerry to Clive as they ducked out of the low entrance and back into the alley.

“I’m sorry?” said Clive.

“For the ticket.”

“Oh, right, of course! Sure!” Actually that was bloody expensive – a total of 18d no less (far more than Clive had any right to be spending in a single day) – but Clive was frankly beyond caring at this point. He padded at his belt, and then padded some more...

“Hey! My purse is gone!”

Jerry nodded sympathetically. “Well, that’s London for you, mate! ’Ave to be careful. Streets are crawling with cutpurses – easiest thing in the world for them to snip a string in passing!”

Slightly panicky now, Clive proceeded to a brisk but comprehensive on the spot cavity search. He came up empty.

“Jerry! It’s not just my purse – they’ve taken everything! Right down to the guinea which I had tucked away safely away up my–”

“–don’t remind me, alright?”

“How’s that even possible with my clothes on?”

“Very talented some of these London cutpurses...”

“Jerry, what am I going to do?”

“My, you are in a fix aren’t you? Well, look, don’t worry about the cost of the show–”

“Wow, Jerry, that’s so–”

“–yeah, I know! S’alright – you can owe me for it.”

“Oh. I see.”

“And as for the rest – well, there’s only one thing to do in a situation like this...”

“Track down the scoundrel responsible using only our wits and highly circumstantial evidence?”

“No, mate. Drink!”

“Oh. I see.”

“And I know the liveliest establishment in town! Why, if you can get through an evening at the Bear in one piece, you can survive anything!”

“But... I don’t have any money...”

“Ah, don’t worry ’bout it! I’m minted!”

Jerry hefted a heavy purse with a grin.

“Oh!” Clive exclaimed, taken with the familiarity of the design, “I see we have the same taste in pursewear!”

“Great minds, Clive! Great minds! So, first round’s on me, and whatever we spend after that – we’ll just add it to your tab. Fair dos?”

“Wow, thanks Jerry!”

“Oh, and that reminds me: on the way, I need to see a man about a dog. Come on!”