The Bawdy Basket Read online

  The Bawdy Basket

  An Elizabethan Mystery

  EDWARD MARSTON

  This one is for Judith

  ‘These bawdy baskets be also women, and go with baskets and cap-cases on their arms … they often gain some money with their instrument by such as they suddenly meet withal. The upright men have good acquaintance with them and relieve them when they want. Thus they trade their lives in lewd loathsome lechery.’

  THOMAS HARMAN : A Caveat for Common Cursitors (1566)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  By Edward Marston

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  ‘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.

  ‘Who chose this damnable play?’ he complained.

  ‘You did,’ said Nicholas with a quiet smile.

  ‘I must have been mad. August calls for rustic comedies, where we can feast and frolic. Not for martial tragedies that require me to fight a battle every five minutes, and roar down the walls of the enemy’s fortresses.’

  ‘All goes well,’ noted Nicholas, keeping one eye on the performance.

  ‘Not with me,’ said Firethorn, removing his helmet to wipe the perspiration from his brow with a forearm. ‘Look at me, Nick! I’m being roasted like a pig on a spit. Sweat comes gushing out of me from every pore. My face is a burning waterfall, my armpits are stagnant pools. There’s a steaming swamp between my thighs and my pizzle lies in the middle of it like a dead lily. God’s tits! How can I duel with Scipio when I’ve no strength to lift a sword?’

  ‘Owen feels the heat just as much as you.’

  ‘Which of us will expire from it first?’

  ‘Stand by for your entrance.’

  ‘Already?’ groaned Firethorn.

  Nicholas raised a hand. ‘Wait but a moment.’

  ‘Shame on you, Nick! You’re a cruel Nebuchadnezzar, sending me back into the fiery furnace.’ Hannibal put the gleaming helmet on again. ‘I’m supposed to commit suicide at the end of the play, not every time I step out into that flaming cauldron.’

  ‘Enter!’ said Nicholas, lowering his hand.

  Accompanied by four soldiers, Firethorn went storming back onstage to stamp his authority on one more scene. A small miracle occurred. Close to fatigue only a second before, the actor-manager drew on hidden reserves of energy to berate his troops and to instil fresh confidence in them for the conflict that lay ahead. Firethorn strutted with all of his usual arrogance, his voice stronger than ever. The audience responded to his entry with a buzz of expectation. Everyone crammed into the galleries, or standing shoulder to shoulder in the pit, knew that they were in the presence of the finest actor in London. In the part of Hannibal, he had a role that allowed him to display all his gifts and he did so with magisterial control. Whatever his discomfort, Firethorn did not let the spectators get the tiniest glimpse of it. Proud, fearless and peremptory, he looked completely at ease in his armour, ignoring the mischievous rivulets that ran beneath it all over his body.

  Nicholas Bracewell paid scant attention to Hannibal. He could rely on Firethorn to surge powerfully on, regardless of the weather. The actor had performed during howling gales, sudden downpours and even a swirling snowstorm in the past. He would not be defeated by the hot embrace of summer. Where he led, others followed. In the guise of Scipio, the ebullient Welsh actor, Owen Elias, was also suffering but nobody would have guessed it from his appearance. Nor did Barnaby Gill, the acknowledged clown of the company, seem troubled in any way, capering nimbly around the stage in one of his celebrated jigs as he lightened the heavy drama with comic interludes. Edward Hoode too, the company’s actor-playwright, appeared to be in his element. Westfield’s Men blossomed in the sun. When they came onstage, they actually seemed to be enjoying the sweltering heat.

  There was a single exception and it was he whom Nicholas studied with concern. Francis Quilter was faltering badly. In the important role of Hannibal’s military advisor, he stumbled over lines and forgot crucial moves. At one point, he almost blundered into the mighty general. Nicholas had great sympathy for the young actor. He knew that Quilter was not merely upset by the scorching weather. The latter was distracted by private grief. Something had been gnawing away at him for weeks and he could no longer contain it. His performance suffered as a consequence.

  Lawrence Firethorn had no compassion for the actor. He expected sterling support from his company. When he came offstage again, he was in a towering rage.

  ‘Did you hear that idiot, Nick?’ he cried, dripping with perspiration. ‘Did you see what he almost did out there?’

  ‘Frank is in difficulties,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘Bear with him.’

  ‘I’ll do more than that if he bumps into me again. I swear that I’ll run the rogue through with my sword. He’s a walking liability. What ails the fellow?’

  ‘He has something on his mind.’

  ‘He should have Hannibal on his mind, for that is the play we perform today. Does he expect to be paid for this afternoon’s mistakes? Even that dolt, George Dart, has given a better account of himself. Heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Frank Quilter is supposed to be my chief advisor in these wars. I’d sooner take counsel from a one-eyed baboon. The creature would be sure to remember more of his lines than Frank.’

  ‘Be patient with him,’ urged Nicholas.

  ‘My patience has run dry.’

  ‘He’ll rally yet.’

  ‘If he values his life, he will.’

  ‘Frank is a talented actor.’

  ‘Then where has his talent fled?’

  It was a rhetorical question because Firethorn had to enter the fray once more, and Nicholas had to give other members of the company their cue. The play rolled on with gathering force. Acutely aware of his earlier failures, Quilter made an effort to atone for them. His lines were spoken with more confidence, his movements became more controlled and his general deportment was more appropriate to his role. Instead of garnering unintended laughs, he now earned the respect of the audience. Of more significance to him was the fact that he also retrieved a grudging approval from Firethorn. Instead of staring into eyes that blazed with accusation, Quilter saw a faint gleam of gratitude. Hannibal was impressed by the way that his colleague had markedly improved his performance. The errors vanished. As the tragedy moved into its final act, Quilter was showing his true mettle as an actor.

  Nicholas watched it all from his position behind the scenes. He did not envy the actors. Discomfited by t
he heat himself, he could imagine how much worse it was for the others as they stepped out into the bright sunlight. There was an additional problem for them. Nicholas only caught the faintest whiff of it but the company would have to endure the full impact. Pressed closely upon each other in the pit, hundreds of sweat-sodden, unwashed bodies gave off a fearsome stink, intensified by the bad breath of the standees, and mingling with the odour of fresh manure that came from the stables. Seated in his familiar position in the gallery, Lord Westfield, the troupe’s patron, was holding a pomander to his nostrils, and many of the spectators in the upper levels were sniffing nosegays or pomanders to ward off the stench from below.

  Only a performance of the highest quality could make the audience forget the torrid conditions, and Westfield’s Men provided it. With a revitalised Frank Quilter at his best, the play moved into its closing scenes with cumulative power. Firethorn was supreme. Having watched his military triumphs being overturned by the enemy, he felt that suicide was the only way to make a dignified exit. His final speech was truly harrowing. As the erstwhile conqueror collapsed in a heap on the ground, there was a collective sigh of pain, sorrow and regret. It was some time before applause rang out to fill the inn yard.

  All discomfort was now forgotten. Actors who had sagged in the stifling heat positively bounded back onstage to bask in the ovation. Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe out with eager strides, holding a position centre stage and bowing in turn to different sections of the audience. His face was now one big, broad, gracious, endearing smile. High above him, surrounded by his effete entourage, Lord Westfield discarded his pomander long enough to clap his gloved hands enthusiastically together. Hannibal was among his favourite plays and he was delighted with the way in which the company that bore his name had acquitted themselves. As the noisome reek rose up from the pit, he resorted to slapping his thigh with one hand while the other held the pomander in place. Heat and stink notwithstanding, it had been a remarkable performance.

  Francis Quilter was relieved that it was finally over. He was a tall, slim, wiry, sharp-featured man in his twenties, with a handsome face that lent itself to comedy or tragedy with equal facility. Having discharged his duty, he was preoccupied with more serious concerns. While the others beamed and grinned at the cheering spectators, he remained detached and expressionless. He knew that he had let his fellows down badly in the earlier part of the play but hoped that he had done enough to make amends. A confrontation with Firethorn was inevitable and there would be criticism from other quarters as well. Barnaby Gill, in particular, would voice his displeasure at Quilter’s shortcomings. So would the forthright Owen Elias. A testing time lay ahead for the young actor. The sole support would come from Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder was Quilter’s one real friend in the company, the only person in whom he had confided his grim secret. With Nicholas at his side, he felt, he could face anything, even the wrath of an enraged Lawrence Firethorn.

  Nicholas, meanwhile, resolved to protect his friend. When the actors quit the stage at the end of their curtain call, he took Quilter aside to whisper some advice.

  ‘Keep clear of Master Firethorn,’ he said.

  ‘Is he angry with me, Nick?’

  ‘Furious.’

  ‘He has every right to be. I was abysmal.’

  ‘You were distracted, Frank, that is all.’

  ‘I was completely lost at the start,’ admitted Quilter. ‘I gabbled the first lines that came into my head.’

  Nicholas gave a kind smile. ‘Fortunately, some of them were correct.’

  ‘Most of them were not. Master Firethorn’s eyes were ablaze.’

  ‘You vexed him in the extreme.’

  ‘I thought he was going to strike me.’

  The whole company was crowding into the tiring house. Complaining about the heat, most of them tore off their costumes and sat down on the rough wooden benches that were arranged around the walls. Firethorn was the last to leave the stage, preening himself in front of his public before departing with a final wave. When he swept into the tiring house, his mood changed. He glared around the room.

  ‘Where is that traitor?’ he demanded.

  ‘Here it comes,’ murmured Quilter, bracing himself for the onslaught.

  ‘Where is that tongue-tied lunatic who dared to take part in my council of war? I should have killed him in the Alps and left his rotting body to feed the birds!’

  ‘I am the clown in the company,’ protested Gill, waving a peevish hand, ‘and I was robbed of my just reward. I blame you, Lawrence. You let that gibbering imbecile, Francis Quilter, run amok so wildly with his lines that he provoked more laughter than me. I’ll not stand for it, do you hear?’

  ‘Be quiet, Barnaby!’

  ‘Not until you censure an appalling performance.’

  ‘If you wish,’ retorted Firethorn sharply. ‘You gave an appalling performance, Barnaby, and it’s earned my severest censure.’

  ‘I was at my peak!’ yelled Gill over the mocking jeers of the others.

  ‘Then I would hate to see you at your worst.’

  ‘Francis should bear the brunt of your admonition – not me.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I know that Frank is new to the company but he should know the difference between an exit and an entrance by now. If I’d not pushed him off when I did, he would have been party to a debate in the Roman camp. Try to remember whose side you are on, Frank.’

  ‘I crave your pardon, Owen,’ said Quilter.

  ‘We’ll need more than an apology,’ resumed Firethorn, determined to upbraid the actor in front of his fellows. ‘To begin with, we need an explanation. How could an actor in whom we have placed such faith betray us so completely?’

  Nicholas moved in quickly. ‘Before we hear his answer,’ he said politely, ‘I have some news to report. It concerns the day’s takings.’

  ‘Nothing is amiss, I hope?’ asked Firethorn anxiously.

  ‘Not with regards to the money itself. The gatherers did brisk business. Hannibal has made us a tidy profit for us this afternoon. Our efforts were richly rewarded.’ There was a murmur of approval from everyone. ‘No,’ he went on seriously, ‘the problem, I fear, is related to the landlord.’

  Firethorn snorted. ‘That death’s head! Marwood is an eternal problem.’

  ‘He is due to collect the rent from us today.’

  ‘Then pay him off and keep his hideous visage away from me.’

  ‘That will not be possible, I fear.’

  ‘Why? The varlet is not trying to raise his charges again, is he?’

  ‘He’s in no position to do so.’

  ‘Then why even bother me with the hated name of Alexander Marwood?’

  ‘Because I bring sad tidings.’ Nicholas paused to make sure that everyone was listening. ‘The landlord is so ill that he has taken to his bed.’ A spontaneous cheer went up. ‘The rent is to be paid instead to his wife.’

  ‘Marwood, ill?’ said Firethorn, rocking with laughter. ‘This is wonderful news, Nick. Why did you keep it from us, man? By heaven, I’ll ride to church this very afternoon and pray for the continuance of his malady!’

  ‘I’ll gladly kneel beside you, Lawrence,’ said Elias, grinning happily. ‘If that miserable devil is abed, we can venture into the taproom with pleasure for once.’

  ‘Am I authorised to pay Mistress Marwood?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Give the money to that old gorgon and have done with it. Tell her that if her husband has the grace to die of his disease, we’ll gladly open a subscription for his coffin. And I’ll be the first to dance on it.’

  The remark unleashed general hilarity. Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, was their sworn enemy, a man who loathed the presence of actors on his premises, yet who welcomed the regular income that they brought in. At the best of times, Westfield’s Men had an uneasy relationship with him and his flint-hearted wife, Sybil. If either of
them was laid low by sickness, no tears would be shed on their behalf in the company. It would be seen as a welcome gift to the actors.

  ‘This calls for a celebration!’ announced Elias. ‘Come, lads! Let’s drink to our deliverance. We’ve sweated enough for one day. It is time to slake our thirst.’

  There was immediate agreement. Everyone hurriedly changed out of his costume so that they could troop off to the taproom. Nicholas took care to keep Firethorn talking so that the actor-manager’s ire was deflected from Quilter. When their discussion came to an end, the room was almost deserted. By the time that Firethorn remembered the sins of his military advisor, the miscreant had slipped quietly away.

  ‘This is your doing, Nick,’ decided Firethorn.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This ruse to distract me so that Frank Quilter could sneak off.’

  ‘The news about the landlord’s illness was important.’

  ‘That’s why you saved it until now, you cunning rogue. You used it as a cloak to throw over the misdemeanours of a bad actor.’

  ‘A good actor, on a bad day,’ corrected Nicholas.

  ‘I’ll hear no excuses.’

  ‘Nor will I offer any. I’ll simply say that Frank has learnt his lesson and is duly contrite. It will never happen again. I give you my word on that.’

  ‘I want to hear the promise from his own mouth.’

  ‘You will, have no fear.’

  Firethorn unclipped his breastplate and tossed it aside. After wiping his face with a piece of cloth, he stared at Nicholas through narrowed lids. The anger had now gone from his voice. It was replaced by curiosity. He scratched his beard ruminatively.

  ‘You like Frank Quilter, do you not?’

  ‘I like him as a friend and admire him as an actor.’

  ‘There was little admire to in his performance today.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Nicholas. ‘He may have gone astray at times but he was very conscious of his waywardness. When he found his bearings, he sailed through the rest of the play without a single mistake. Reproach him for his faults, if you must, but give him credit for pulling himself together.’