The Vagabond Clown Read online

  Giddy Mussett began slowly, feeling his way into the part. When he forgot lines or missed cues, other actors covered for him so expertly that none of the spectators noticed the slight mistakes. Throughout the play, his performance grew until it even threatened to overshadow Firethorn’s brilliant Lackwit. It was when he came to his jig that Bedlam really took command, dancing with comic verve and keeping the audience in a state of helpless laughter. Nobody appreciated his comic genius more than Lucas Broome. As the play surged on to its climax, he had forgotten all about Barnaby Gill. The name on his lips – and on those of countless others – was Giddy Mussett, a clown whose mobile features and sprightly antics were a positive joy to behold.

  When the play was over, Firethorn was the first to congratulate the newcomer, slapping him on the back and telling him that he had saved their reputation. It was a different matter when he led out his troupe to take their bow. The applause was long and loud but it was not directed largely at Firethorn this time. Accustomed to being the centre of attention, he was dismayed when most pairs of eyes were fixed on Mussett. Even the young women in the hall seemed to prefer Bedlam to Lackwit. It made Firethorn resolve to make certain changes to the play before it was staged again. He was too vain an actor to allow a complete newcomer to steal the plaudits away from him. Instead of being the company’s saviour, Mussett could turn out to be Firethorn’s personal nemesis.

  Back in the tiring-house, the other actors crowded around their clown to shake his hand in admiration. The sight made Firethorn seethe even more. But it was Nicholas Bracewell who took a more considered view of the performance. Biding his time until the general excitement had died down, he took Mussett aside for a private word.

  ‘You did well, Giddy,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Nick.’

  ‘Better than we could have hoped.’

  ‘It is a wonderful part,’ said Mussett, ‘and I mean to make it my own.’

  ‘You’ll not do that if we have any more of your cunning tricks.’

  ‘Tricks?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas sharply. ‘You went missing on purpose. You kept us waiting until the very last moment before you deigned to appear. That was both cruel and unnecessary. You made us suffer, Giddy, and that was unforgivable.’

  ‘The others have forgiven me,’ said Mussett blithely.

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Come, Nick, you must. My performance made amends for everything.’

  ‘Nothing can excuse the way you treated your fellows, Giddy. I thought better of you. When I came to you in prison,’ Nicholas reminded him, ‘you swore to abide by any contract that we could devise. You broke it on the very day of departure, making us think that you would not turn up then falling from that window to gain a few easy laughs. You did not impress me then and you did so less this evening.’

  ‘The play was a success. What more do you ask?’

  ‘Loyalty from every member of the company. I’ve yet to see it in you.’

  ‘I’ve worked hard for Westfield’s Men,’ said Mussett with a disarming smile, ‘and I deserve some reward. Leave off this carping, Nick. We have a triumph to celebrate.’

  ‘Remember the terms of your contract.’

  ‘Can we not forget them for one night?’

  ‘Keep the celebrations within the bounds of reason.’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘And no more of your tricks,’ warned Nicholas. ‘Show some respect for the feelings of others. Turn up when you are told and stop seizing all the attention for yourself. I’ll not tell you again, Giddy.’

  Mussett’s smile vanished. Hands on hips, he stood in an attitude of defiance.

  ‘I rescued Westfield’s Men this evening,’ he asserted.

  ‘Only after you’d first caused us fear and upset.’

  ‘I did that for a reason, Nick.’

  ‘To have another laugh at our expense.’

  ‘No,’ said Mussett. ‘To show you how much you missed me. Without your clown, the play would have been cancelled and you would have been humiliated. I taught you a lesson this evening. You need me, Nick. Take Giddy Mussett out of the company and see what calamity follows. I’ll hear no more threats from you,’ he went on, thrusting out his chin. ‘Westfield’s Men would not survive without me. That gives me power.’

  When Barnaby Gill awoke in his room, he was utterly bewildered. What was he doing in a wheelbarrow that was filled with cushions? It took him a full minute to gather his thoughts. Fatigue had clearly got the better of him. Wearied by a night without much sleep and taxed by the effort of using a crutch, he had succumbed to tiredness in the comfort of the wheelbarrow. His body had made the decision that he had been unable to reach and kept him away from the performance. Torn between relief and exasperation, he vowed to berate George Dart for not waking him up and at least offering him the chance to return to the Lower Courthouse. Gill had no idea how long he had dozed but, when he glanced though the open window, he could see that the sky was just beginning to darken. The play might well be over already. He longed to know how it had been received.

  It took some effort to haul himself out of the wheelbarrow but he eventually succeeded. Reaching for his crutch, he looked back at the place where he had enjoyed such undisturbed slumber. It was softer and more easeful than either the bed in his lodging or the mattress with which the landlord had provided him. In spite of himself, he felt an upsurge of gratitude towards Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder had gone to great trouble to convert the wheelbarrow so that it met Gill’s particular needs. It might yet have wider uses for the invalid. Summoning up his strength, he hopped his way towards the taproom to see if the others had returned yet. His timing could not have been better. As he entered the room by one door, three of the actors came bursting in through another. Owen Elias was in the lead.

  ‘Barnaby!’ he called, seeing the other. ‘Come and join us, old friend.’

  ‘How did the play fare?’ asked Gill.

  ‘Wonderfully well. We are famous throughout Maidstone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James Ingram, ‘and the best news is that the mayor was so pleased with us, he is to pay five pounds for the chaste lady.’

  ‘Much of that should go to Giddy,’ said Elias, sitting at a table, ‘for he was the chief delight this evening. He even put Lawrence into eclipse.’

  ‘Giddy was Bedlam to the life.’

  ‘So was I, James,’ insisted Gill, hitting the floor with his crutch. ‘Edmund wrote that part for me and I am the only actor who can play it properly.’

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ said Ingram tactfully. ‘You made the role what it is.’

  ‘I hope that you all remember that.’

  ‘We do, Barnaby,’ said Elias. ‘You first played the role but Giddy added to what you did. His dances were inspired, his vigour remarkable. Ask anyone who saw him. He was beyond compare.’

  ‘You speak the truth, Owen,’ said Rowland Carr. ‘I never thought to see the day when someone could match Barnaby.’

  Gill sneered. ‘Mussett is but a pale shadow of me.’

  ‘You did not watch the performance.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Ingram. ‘I thought that you were eager to measure yourself against our new clown. What kept you away, Barnaby?’

  ‘I had more important things to do.’

  ‘Is anything more important than cheering on your fellows?’

  ‘Do not look to me to raise a cheer for Mussett. He’s a counterfeit clown, a sham, a mere pretence, a low, dishonest creature that steals from others what he could never achieve by himself, a rogue, a villain, a monster of deceit.’

  ‘That is not how we find him. After this evening, he is a dear friend.’

  ‘More to be honoured than vilified,’ said Elias. ‘Sit down with us, Barnaby. Share our joy. Giddy will be here soon. Take him to your bosom as we have done.’

  ‘I’d sooner roll in a pit of vipers!’

  ‘He is one of us now.’

  ‘Then you are fools to think
so, Owen, and I’ll not stay to see you fawning upon him.’ He started to move away. ‘I bid you all good night!’

  They called him back but he ignored them and hopped out of the room moments before Giddy Mussett entered it with Edmund Hoode. The actors gave their clown a rousing welcome. Ale was ordered and Mussett was the first to seize a tankard.

  ‘Are you allowed to drink that?’ said Elias.

  ‘What man here will try to stop me?’ replied Mussett with a cackle.

  ‘None here, Giddy,’ said Ingram. ‘You’ve earned it.’

  ‘What kept you back?’ wondered Carr.

  Mussett smirked. ‘The mayor wished to introduce me to his wife.’

  ‘A comely woman, as I recall.’

  ‘Plump and delicious, Rowland. Did you hear what the mayor said? He told me that I was the finest clown he had ever set eyes upon and he has seen Barnaby as well. That was sweet music in my ears,’ he confided. ‘The town loved me, the mayor worshipped me and his wife was so consumed with lust for me that her marriage vows were in danger.’ He raised his tankard. ‘Here’s to other conquests along the way, my friends.’ They joined in the toast with alacrity. ‘Victories on the stage, victories in the bedchamber and, most of all,’ he added with a malicious glint in his eye, ‘victory over Barnaby Gill.’

  The news had been worse than he had anticipated. Having seen the endless mistakes made during the rehearsal, Barnaby Gill could not believe that the play had been such a success. Still less could he accept that a man who had never even heard of the piece until a few days ago could give a performance in it that drew such unstinting praise from the other actors. It was galling. When he reached the safety of his room, he was panting for breath and pulsing with rage. He was also deeply hurt that friends like Elias, Ingram and Carr could forget the long years of service that Gill had given Westfield’s Men as its clown and acclaim instead an unworthy intruder. Hundreds of signal triumphs lay behind him yet they were obliterated by two hours in the Lower Courthouse in Maidstone. An event in a building devoted to justice left Gill squirming with a sense of injustice.

  He lowered himself into the wheelbarrow again and brooded in silence. It was too late to turn back now. Having elected to travel with the company, he was doomed to remain with them and watch his rival win more approval with each performance. Mussett had to be stopped in some way. Gill was still trying to work out how when he began to feel drowsy. He tried to shake himself awake. It was too early to retire to bed. He had neither undressed nor closed the shutters. Comfortable as he found it, he did not intend to spend the whole night in a wheelbarrow. Yet somehow he lacked both the strength and the willpower to move. His eyelids became heavy, his body sagged. Even the sound of merriment from the taproom could not keep him from dozing quietly off. The wheelbarrow that he had once derided was now a snug and consoling bed.

  Hours later, he was still asleep, snoring up to heaven and dreaming of a time when his art was unrivalled and he was spoken of with awe. The dream did not last. Through the open window came a shape that merged with the darkness until it landed on Gill’s chest. Sharp claws suddenly dug into his flesh and the creature let out a fearsome shriek. Gill came awake to find himself wrestling with a large black cat that seemed to be trying to scratch him to death. It was a desperate encounter. The struggle only ended when he managed to grab the animal by the nape of the neck and hurl it out through the window. As soon as he got his breath back, Gill spat out the name of his tormentor.

  ‘Giddy Mussett!’

  Chapter Eight

  Nicholas Bracewell was heartened by the response from the company. Although they had celebrated into the night, the actors were up the next day to eat an early breakfast before helping to erect their stage in the yard of the Star Inn. The scenery and properties needed for rehearsal had to be unloaded from the wagons. Since Cupid’s Folly involved a dance around a maypole, they had to practise setting up the pole in the swiftest and safest way. Even the principal members of the company took their turn with the various duties. Touring with a theatre troupe abolished distinctions between sharers and hired men. All were expected to take on whatever tasks were required of them, however menial they might be. Edmund Hoode, playwright and actor, made no complaint as he set out benches in the galleries. Owen Elias thrived on physical labour. Of the sharers, only Lawrence Firethorn was missing from the work party.

  Nicholas was pleased to see the enthusiasm with which Giddy Mussett was going about his tasks. While he had joined the others in the taproom the previous night, he had neither drunk to excess nor become belligerent. A notorious lecher, he confined himself to a teasing remark to a tavern wench. There was no hint of the defiance that he had shown earlier to the book holder. Mussett was as buoyant as ever and his cheerfulness rubbed off on the others. A busy couple of hours seemed to fly past.

  When the preparations were complete, Nicholas sent them off to take a rest before the rehearsal began. He was alone in the yard when the visitor arrived.

  ‘Good morrow, Nick!’ called a voice. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Sebastian!’ said Nicholas, turning to see a tall, thin, well-dressed man with an air of quiet prosperity about him. ‘How could I forget the finest scrivener we ever had?’

  ‘My hands are not as deft as they once were, I fear. Age takes its toll.’

  ‘It has been kind to you.’

  ‘And even kinder to Nick Bracewell.’

  They shook hands warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Sebastian Frant was in his early fifties, slight of build and shy of manner. When he lived in London, he had worked for Westfield’s Men for a number of years, copying out their plays with a meticulous skill so that their prompt books were both accurate and easy to read. Frant was a true friend to the company, supporting them whenever they played. Nicholas and the others were disappointed when he retired to Kent.

  ‘Where do you live now, Sebastian?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘In a tiny village not far from Dover.’

  ‘We play in Dover in due course.’

  ‘You’ve also played here, I learn,’ said Frant. ‘Had I known, I would have come to watch you. I will certainly hope to see Cupid’s Folly for, judging by the maypole, that is the comedy you intend to present here.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I copied out every word of the play, including its songs.’

  ‘And earned my undying thanks. No hand is clearer or neater.’

  Frant flexed his fingers. ‘If only that were still the case!’

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘What else but the news that Westfield’s Men are in Maidstone? My daughter and I are staying with some friends in Bearsted, close by the town.’

  ‘I did not realise that you were married.’

  ‘Nor am I any longer,’ said Frant sadly. ‘My wife died three years ago.’ He smiled fondly. ‘But I have my daughter to comfort me now. She is a joyous companion. Thomasina is truly a gift from God.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Barely nineteen.’

  ‘Will we get to meet the young lady?’

  ‘Thomasina will insist upon it,’ said Frant. ‘We arrived too late to watch your performance last evening but will not miss Cupid’s Folly. How long will you stay in Maidstone?’

  ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Whither will you go?’

  ‘First to Faversham,’ said Nicholas, ‘then on to Canterbury. From there, we travel to Dover where you may chance to see us again.’

  ‘I’ll hope to watch you before then, Nick. I’ve a brother in Faversham whom I’ve not seen for a while. He may well find that he has guests for a day or two.’

  ‘It will be comforting to have a good friend in the audience.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men make friends wherever they go.’

  ‘Not of your quality, Sebastian. You understand our work.’

  ‘I understand how difficult it is,’ said Frant, ‘because I’ve seen how much effort
goes into each performance. What I do not understand is how you can so willingly bind yourselves to such an uncertain occupation, at the mercy of things over which you have no control. Winter exiles you from your inn yard theatre, plague can expel you from London altogether. And there are other perils to face at every turn.’ He gave a polite shrug. ‘Why do you do it, Nick?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Do the rewards outweigh the hazards?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘I admire you all,’ said Frant seriously. ‘You take risks that I would not even dare to consider. I chose a quiet, safe, dull, uneventful life. I am too cowardly to do what actors do, Nick. You show true bravery.’

  Nicholas gave a wry smile. ‘Is it bravery or folly?’

  ‘The two are closely allied.’

  ‘We’ve learnt that, Sebastian. But come and meet the others,’ he added, patting Frant on the arm. ‘There are many in the company who still remember you.’

  ‘Edmund and Lawrence, I hope.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men would die without them.’

  ‘And Barnaby. If you play Cupid’s Folly, you must travel with Barnaby Gill.’

  ‘He’s here,’ said Nicholas, ‘but not to play Rigormortis. An affray at the Queen’s Head sent us out on the road. Barnaby’s leg was broken in the commotion.’

  Frant was alarmed. ‘A broken leg?’ he repeated. ‘What a cruel blow to a man with such nimble feet. How did it happen?’

  ‘Let him tell you the story himself, Sebastian.’

  ‘I long to hear it.’