Sir William Rathley was in a foul temper. Lady Cecily South had snubbed him most coldly at the masquerade the day before, and the whole of Sir William’s social circle buzzed with the talk of it. William had hoped to make some progress with her; he was only a minor aristocrat while she and her family stood high in the court. It seemed now, however, that Lady Cecily would not have him. Thus William’s unhappy mood.
In a desperate attempt at retaliation, he abruptly approached Abigail Winslow and asked if she would accompany him to the play that evening. Abigail, to put it kindly, did not stand high in anyone’s social circle. William hardly noticed how pleased Abigail was at his invitation. He only made sure that the word would get back to Lady Cecily.
They arrived at the theatre in fine style, and the play proceeded. Abigail lost herself in the action and the rapid dialogue; she had heard much about the skill of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, and now she believed every word. Then, just as a main character swept on stage, an actual cannon went off, shaking the theater with its loud boom. Abigail started in alarm and looked to her companion to see if he had been as surprised. He appeared to have hardly noticed; instead, Lord Rathley was glaring off down the rows of wooden seats towards a far corner, where a brightly dressed woman was exclaiming over the cannon fire with her companion. Abigail recognized Lady Cecily and knew a bit of social gossip. She swiftly put two and two together and came up with a most distressing four.
Just as she did, smoke began to sting her eyes. Shouts of “Fire!” rapidly displaced the gasps of astonishment over the cannon. The audience surged towards the main exit from the theater. William went rapidly with them, without even looking back to make sure Abigail was accompanying him. She pushed her way frantically along in his wake as the flames ran like lightning through the beams and rafters of the theatre. William shoved his way out into the night, coughing hard but relieved to be alive. Then he felt a sharp stinging pain lower down. He yelped in terror. Flames were darting up his breeches. Before he could do anything else, a sudden splash of cold ale doused the fire most thoroughly.
“Ah,” said William. “Lady Abigail. I am most grateful for-”
Abigail cut him off stormily. “Sir,” she said, “You are a rogue and a scoundrel, and Cecily is most welcome to you!” She dumped the rest of the ale over his head and walked away, leaving William with gaping mouth and soaking breeches as the Globe Theater burned merrily away behind him.
Editorial Note: this bit of historical fiction I’ve retrieved from my old haunt at Wordpress is based on a 17th century eyewitness report of the fire at the Globe Theatre in 1613. I wondered about the guy whose pants literally were on fire and what his story was, and went on from there. I took a bit of artistic license, naturally; so if any descendants of Flaming Breeches Man happen to read this and object that I have portrayed him unfairly, I offer my apologies.