The Vagabond Clown Read online

  ‘When do you set off, Nick?’ asked Frant.

  ‘Within the hour.’

  ‘Glad to shake the dust of Faversham from your feet, I daresay.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There were happier memories along with the one that has cast a shadow over today. We had our success with The Foolish Friar.’

  ‘It was more than a success, Nick. It was a triumph.’

  ‘Your daughter did not seem to think so.’

  ‘Thomasina liked it as much as I did.’

  ‘That was not the feeling that I had,’ said Nicholas. ‘Was there something in the piece that offended her?’

  ‘How could there be? It was harmless fun.’

  ‘Did she find it too bawdy, perhaps?’

  ‘Not at whit. The fault was not in the play, Nick. Thomasina had something else on her mind, as did I, and it came between us and full enjoyment. The doctor called to see my brother yesterday,’ he explained, ‘and I managed a word with him alone. The news is not good. According to the doctor, David has less than three months to live.’

  Nicholas was upset. ‘I’m truly sorry to hear that. I so enjoyed meeting him.’

  ‘It made me feel guilty. I’ve neglected my brother shamefully. If it had not been for the fact that Westfield’s Men were coming to Faversham, I might not have seen him this time.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘That is why Thomasina was distracted yesterday. Her thoughts were with her uncle.’

  ‘She strikes me as a compassionate niece.’

  ‘Oh, she is. Thomasina always puts others first.’

  ‘How long will you stay in Faversham?’

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ said Frant. ‘There’s a party travelling to Dover and we’ll join them for safety. We have commitments at home or we’d stay longer with David. So, my friend, we must part.’

  ‘Meeting you again was a happy accident.’

  ‘The happiness is all mine, Nick. I wish you well in Canterbury.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Shall we see you when we reach Dover?’

  ‘Yes, Nick. Thomasina and I will be there to watch you.’

  ‘We’ll count on you.’

  ‘Tell that to Lawrence,’ said Frant, glancing at Firethorn. ‘He looks as if he is in need of cheering news. When you play in Dover, you will have at least two spectators.’

  Westfield’s Men set out from Faversham with some trepidation. With its uncomfortable memories, the Blue Anchor was an inn that they were glad to leave but the open road held even more danger for them. One assault on them had already taken place. They feared that a second, more deadly attack might come. Firethorn did his best to dispel their anxiety by riding at the head of the column with his sword in his hand. Armed and alert, Owen Elias brought up the rear on his horse. At Nicholas’s suggestion, the wagons kept much closer together than before so that one of them could not be picked off with such ease. The book holder drove the first wagon, carrying the apprentices and some of the baggage with him. Seated beside Nicholas was Edmund Hoode, who felt too exposed on his donkey so he had tethered the animal to the wagon.

  It was a cloudy day but there was no imminent threat of rain. They rumbled along the well-worn track that pilgrims had taken in earlier days. Hoode took note of that.

  ‘How many feet have come this way, Nick?’ he wondered.

  ‘Far too many to count.’

  ‘The shrine of St Thomas was the most popular in England.’

  ‘Rightly so, Edmund.’

  ‘There are tales of wondrous miracles being performed there.’ He looked nervously around. ‘We could do with one ourselves.’

  ‘What sort of miracle did you have in mind?’

  ‘One that put us safely in the middle of Canterbury.’

  ‘We’ll get there in due course,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘But will we arrive in one piece?’

  ‘I am sure that we will. There are too many of us to tempt highwaymen and we are too vigilant to be caught in an ambush again. Rest easy.’

  ‘Someone has a grudge against us, Nick.’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is why Giddy was killed. But our enemy may have been satisfied by his death and quietly withdrawn.’

  ‘Do you still think that Conway’s Men may be involved?’

  ‘Not so much the company as its patron. He certainly bears a grudge. So does Tobias Fitzgeoffrey. He is eaten away with envy at what Lawrence has achieved.’

  ‘With the help of others,’ said Hoode.

  ‘I was not forgetting actors like Barnaby Gill, Owen Elias and James Ingram. Then there are these clever young apprentices curled up behind us. They all helped Lawrence to become what he is – as did a certain playwright called Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘Add your name to that list, Nick.’

  ‘I am only a small link in the chain.’

  ‘Away with this modesty! There are times when you are the chain.’

  They paused for refreshment near Boughton-under-Blean then pressed on at a slightly faster pace. Once past the halfway point, the company felt more secure and there was even some light-hearted banter in the wagons. Firethorn sheathed his sword, Elias yielded his horse to Rowland Carr so that he could take his turn at driving a wagon and Hoode felt confident enough to ride his donkey. Occasional rays of sunshine pierced the clouds. The dejection they had felt since the funeral slowly began to fade away.

  Still driving the first wagon, Nicholas was glad of Richard Honeydew’s company. The fair-haired young apprentice with the angelic face clambered on to the seat beside him and watched the two horses as they used their tails to flick away bothersome insects. Honeydew was still worried.

  ‘The others say that we are cursed,’ he began.

  ‘Do not listen to them, Dick.’

  ‘We’ve met one setback after another.’

  ‘That’s not unusual in this profession,’ said Nicholas resignedly. ‘Acting is a perilous road to follow. Only the brave and the sure-footed ever survive.’

  The boy shuddered. ‘I’m not at all brave.’

  ‘Yes, you are. It took bravery to act the way that you did yesterday in The Foolish Friar. The whole company showed courage. I was proud of you, Dick.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘You set an example to the other lads.’

  Honeydew lowered his voice. ‘Do you know what they are saying?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They think that we are damned.’

  ‘That’s silly talk.’

  ‘I told them that but Stephen claimed there was clear proof.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Giddy was our friend. He could make us laugh without even trying. He was much nicer to us than Barnaby, we all agree on that. Stephen says that he knew we were damned when it was Giddy who was murdered and not Barnaby.’

  ‘He should be ashamed of such a thought!’ said Nicholas angrily.

  ‘That’s what I told him.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him myself.’

  ‘You’ll only get me into trouble with Stephen if you do that.’

  ‘I won’t have anyone saying such things, Dick. We’ve had ill luck, that is all. Giddy must be mourned but we must be very grateful that Barnaby is still with us.’

  ‘He was his old self in The Foolish Friar.’

  ‘Remind the others of that.’

  Nicholas was disturbed by the news that Stephen Judd, one of the apprentices, could make such an observation about the rival clowns in the company. It showed him how unpopular Gill was with the boys in spite of his attempts to befriend them. That they should actually wish him dead instead of Giddy Mussett was alarming. It was something that needed to be discussed fully with them.

  ‘Who is doing it, Nick?’ asked Honeydew.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Trying to destroy Westfield’s Men.’

  Nicholas gritted his teeth. ‘I am hoping to learn that in Canterbury.’

  The road ahead curved slowly round to the right bet
ween two high, grassy banks. Until they reached the crown of the bend, there seemed no cause for alarm. Then a small avalanche descended from the top of one of the banks, hurtling down the incline to strike at the wheels of the first wagon and litter the ground with a pile of sharp stones. The suddenness of the attack spread instant fear. Firethorn’s stallion bolted, Hoode’s donkey threw him from the saddle again and the horses pulling the first wagon were so terrified that they broke into a gallop. Nicholas tried hard to control them but they raced on regardless with the wagon bumping and lurching violently. The apprentices were thrown from side to side and most of the baggage was tossed out of the wagon altogether. The horses had charged over two hundred yards at a reckless pace before Nicholas finally managed to pull them to a halt.

  The four apprentices were in tears, bruised and lacerated after their headlong journey. Scattered on the road behind them were various properties and pieces of scenery, some of it smashed to pieces. After checking that nobody in the wagon was seriously hurt, Nicholas jumped down and went to calm the horses, stroking their necks as he talked to them. It was only when they stopped rolling their eyes that he felt they were soothed. Honeydew was the first of the apprentices to recover, hopping down from the wagon to see if he could be of assistance. Nicholas asked him to hold the bridles of the horses so that he could take stock of the damage. It was extensive. The wheel that had been struck hardest by the stones had lost a couple of spokes and another had shed its iron rim when they hit a deep pothole at speed. Something had snapped underneath the wagon so that it tilted at sharp angle. Without repairs, it was impossible to continue.

  Having mastered his horse at last, Firethorn cantered up to them.

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ he enquired, reining in his mount.

  ‘No serious injuries,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘More frightened than hurt, Nick.’

  ‘Then it could have been far worse.’

  ‘This is bad enough,’ said Firethorn angrily, pointing to the wagon and to the trail of baggage in its wake. ‘I hoped that we might be safe but we have not seen the last of them, after all. They want more blood.’

  Adversity bonded them together. With the single exception of Barnaby Gill, who claimed that the avalanche had been directed solely at him, everyone did his share without complaint. The stones were removed from the road so that the other wagons could catch up with the first one. They camped in a semi-circle while the repairs were undertaken. Skills from other occupations were brought into action. During his time at sea, Nicholas had learnt a great deal from the ship’s carpenter and he put that knowledge to good effect. When the horses had been unhitched, the first wagon was propped up firmly so that the book holder could remove the wheel with the broken spokes. The actors watched in admiration as Nicholas fashioned some temporary spokes out of the oaken staffs that were used in The Foolish Friar. Once they were fitted, the wheel could be replaced.

  It was Firethorn who took charge of the other wheel. The son of a blacksmith, he had not entirely forgotten what he had been taught in his father’s forge. The cracked rim was retrieved, a fire was lit and the actor-manager was able to show them how practised a wheelwright he was. Two daggers bound tightly together had to serve as tongs but that did not hold him up. When the fire was red enough, he plunged the rim into it in stages so that the metal slowly expanded. Aided by Nicholas, he got the sizzling rim back on the wheel then used a hammer to tap it into position. It all went so smoothly that Firethorn earned a round of applause. With the wheels now mended, Nicholas could concentrate on the broken struts underneath the wagon.

  Slow, laborious work was made easier by the frequent shouts of encouragement from the others. Not all the actors were spectators. While most of them stayed behind, two of them – Owen Elias and James Ingram – had ridden on to Canterbury. Valuable hours would be taken up by the repairs to the wagon and they were anxious to speak to the mayor during his working day so that they could secure a licence to perform in the city. Firethorn had also instructed them to seek out a suitable inn for the company. When the actors returned, Nicholas was still flat on his back, hammering a new strut into position beneath the wagon. He crawled out to hear what they had to say.

  Wearied by the ride, the Welshman acted as their spokesman.

  ‘Bad tidings,’ he announced.

  ‘Why?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘They’ll not grant us a licence.’

  Firethorn was outraged. ‘They refuse to let us play in the city?’

  ‘No, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘If we return in a week or two, they will be happy to see us perform. Tomorrow, it seems, they start a religious festival that takes over the whole city for days. Even Westfield’s Men could not outdo their grand pageants. In brief, we must take our art elsewhere.’

  ‘What of Conway’s Men?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That was the other problem,’ replied Ingram. ‘Conway’s Men staged a tragedy there only yesterday. The mayor thought it unwise to have one troupe hard on the heels of another. He felt that a distance should be put between them.’

  ‘There is a distance between us and Conway’s Men,’ declared Firethorn. ‘It is a vast chasm. We are real actors while they are mere pretenders. But the mayor speaks sense. I do not wish to tread the boards immediately after Tobias Fitzgeoffrey and his vile crew. We must wait for the stink to clear first.’

  ‘Take me back to London!’ ordered Gill. ‘I’ll not stay in this barbarous county.’

  ‘You’ll do as I wish, Barnaby.’

  ‘It would be an act of suicide, Lawrence. We were ambushed on the road to Faversham. Giddy was murdered at the Blue Anchor and I was fortunate not to follow him into the grave. That avalanche was caused in order to crush me to death and now,’ he went on, pointing in the direction of Canterbury, ‘they have the gall to turn us away from the city like beggars. Let’s cut our losses and go home.’

  ‘Kent is our home for the time being,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘If one place spurns us, we simply go to another. Let’s stay the night in Canterbury while we make our plans then set off again tomorrow.’

  ‘Well said, Nick!’

  ‘There are inns aplenty in the city,’ noted Elias. ‘We can drink to our escape.’

  ‘And keep our eyes peeled for further attacks,’ warned Nicholas. ‘But what else did you learn of Conway’s Men, Owen?’

  ‘Only that their play was not well received.’

  ‘Are they still in the city?’

  ‘No, they left at dawn.’

  Nicholas was disappointed. ‘Tobias Fitzgeoffrey is no longer there?’

  ‘No,’ said Elias. ‘He and his company have quit Canterbury.’

  ‘Where were they headed?’

  ‘Nobody seemed to know.’

  The Three Tuns was a commodious inn that looked particularly inviting after the trials of their journey from Faversham. Once they had settled in, Westfield’s Men took advantage of the light evening to explore the city while they could. Conscious of possible danger, the actors went off in small groups so that nobody was isolated. George Dart, however, much to his disgust, was given the unenviable task of remaining at the inn to stand guard over Barnaby Gill, who refused to venture out. Nicholas Bracewell was in charge of the four apprentices. Firethorn and Hoode walked with them in the direction of the cathedral. As they strolled along, Nicholas took the opportunity to detach Stephen Judd so that he could have a private word with the lad. He scolded him for even thinking that Gill’s death would have been preferable to that of Giddy Mussett and impressed upon him how much Westfield’s Men owed to the talents of their clown. By the time that the book holder had finished with him, Judd was duly cowed and penitent. Nicholas was pleased to see that, when they entered the cathedral, the boy went off to kneel down and beg forgiveness.

  The visitors spent an hour admiring the magnificent interior of the building an
d reading the inscriptions on the various tombstones. It was when they came back out through Christ Church Gate that Nicholas was seized by an impulse. Sending the others on ahead of him, he walked across to the Crown, the small inn that Giddy Mussett had recommended for its ale. Nicholas was not there in search of drink but in the faint hope that a certain person might still be there. A cursory glance around the busy taproom told him that he was wasting his time and he was about to leave. Then he caught sight of a dishevelled individual, sitting alone in a corner and staring into an empty tankard, half-hidden by three customers who stood directly in front of him. Nicholas felt the thrill of recognition. It was Martin Ling, the discontented book holder from Conway’s Men.

  After buying two tankards of ale, Nicholas went over to Ling and sat down.

  ‘Have a drink with me, my friend,’ said Nicholas.

  Ling looked up. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you. Giddy Mussett mentioned your name. You hold the book for Westfield’s Men. God bless you for this!’ he said, lifting the tankard to sip from it. ‘It comes when I most need it.’ He regarded Nicholas through watery eyes. ‘So you have reached Canterbury, have you? Why did you not bring Giddy with you?’

  ‘He’s no longer with us, alas.’

  ‘Fallen out with you already?’

  ‘Fallen out with everything,’ said Nicholas sadly, taking a first sip of his own ale. ‘Giddy is dead. He was murdered at the inn where we stayed in Faversham.’

  Ling was so shocked by the news that he had to take a long drink before he could even speak. Nicholas gave him a brief account of what had happened, making no mention of the other attacks on the company. Ling’s haggard face was creased into folds of sympathy.

  ‘Who could have done such a thing?’ he asked, shaking his head with incredulity.

  ‘I wish we knew.’

  ‘Giddy made enemies as easily as friends but I can’t believe that anyone hated him enough to want him dead. These are dreadful tidings.’

  ‘Why did he leave Conway’s Men?’

  ‘For the same reason that I did,’ said Ling with rancour. ‘He could not stomach Master Fitzgeoffrey. The fellow is mean-spirited and vindictive. I only stayed with him for the sake of the others but he pushed me beyond my limit. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey abused me once too often,’ he went on, baring a row of blackened teeth. ‘When they set off this morning, I stayed behind. Let him find another book holder.’