Nicholas Bracewell 09 - The Fair Maid of Bohemia Read online

  While the players came out to take their bows, Nicholas peeped through the curtain at the rear of the stage to take his own first look at Lord Westfield’s guest. She had posed a far greater threat to Malta than the whole Turkish army, but it had been no deliberate attack. Any damage had been unwittingly caused. Nicholas could see that and his annoyance at once faded into admiration.

  What surprised him most was her youth. The flamboyant Lord Westfield had a predilection for Court beauties, mature ladies who were seasoned in the arts of coquetry and who added a lustre to his entourage. The newcomer did not conform to the archetype in any detail. Nicholas decided that she could be no more than sixteen or seventeen at most. And with her tender years came the bloom of pure innocence.

  Sparkling blue eyes were set in a face of delicate loveliness that needed no cosmetics. An inner radiance seemed to shine out of her. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a corseted bodice in dark blue. A heavy, jewelled stomacher-front dipped to a point over her stiff farthingale skirt. A gown of a lighter-blue material fitted the shoulders and waist neatly. It was fastened from the high-standing collar to the hem with large jewelled buttons and loops. The wide lace ruff was a series of white petals around her face. Her fair hair was swept up under her tall-crowned, brimless hat, which had ostrich feathers held in place by precious stones.

  Nicholas was viewing a child on the cusp of womanhood. He was impressed with her aristocratic mien but not so overwhelmed by her that he was unable to take a full inventory of her charms. In doing so, he saw things which had eluded the actors. Where they had stolen hungry glances, Nicholas was able to feast his eyes. Applause was long and loud. She was on her feet to contribute to it with ardent clapping. There was an air of astonishment and regret about her, as if she had just discovered something truly remarkable, only to have it snatched away from her when the players made their exit. The gaze which she fixed on the Grand Master was full of frank yearning.

  Lawrence Firethorn rushed to place the most flattering interpretation upon it. When he had bowed a dozen times towards her, he waved a farewell and led his troupe from the stage. After berating them for their lapses during the performance, he took Nicholas aside to share in what he felt was another personal triumph.

  ‘She loves me, Nick! That angel is mine!’

  ‘Do not bank on that,’ suggested Nicholas discreetly.

  ‘She stood to honour my performance.’

  ‘Indeed, she did, and justly so. You and Master Gill were supreme this afternoon and kept the play from falling apart.’

  Firethorn gave a haughty snort. ‘That was nothing of Barnaby’s doing! I had to rescue the piece from his depredations as well as from the idiocies of the rest of the company. What was wrong with the fools? I had to carry the entire play on my own shoulders.’

  ‘And you did so superbly.’

  ‘Why, then, did she not give me my due reward during the performance itself? I was Jean de Valette to the life, yet she gave her readiest attention to the cavortings of Hilario. Can she really set Barnaby’s stale clowning above my passion and my eloquence?’ He gestured towards the stage. ‘Had she not just shown me that I was the true object of her desire, I tell you, Nick, I would have been deeply wounded. All is forgiven. She has been heaven-sent to me. In the art of wooing, I am still a veritable Grand Master.’

  Nicholas let him preen himself for a few minutes before he introduced a note of reservation. He first made sure that nobody else was within earshot.

  ‘The young lady did not prefer Hilario’s performance,’ he said. ‘It was simply easier for her to understand.’

  ‘That boring array of dull songs and dreary dances?’

  ‘The songs were accompanied by comic mime.’

  ‘What is comic about Barnaby Gill pulling hideous faces and waving his arms around?’

  ‘Gesture surmounts all language barriers.’

  ‘Barriers?’

  ‘Yes,’ explained Nicholas. ‘That was why the young lady did not give your portrayal its due reward. She does not speak English. She liked best what she comprehended most, and that was mime and dance. They need no translation.’

  Firethorn gulped. ‘Not speak English? Can this be so?’

  ‘It would be my guess.’

  ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Observation of the lady,’ said the other. ‘Those high cheekbones do not belong to an Englishwoman. And though she dresses in the Spanish fashion, that fair hair has not travelled here from Spain. There is another clear indication, and that is our patron’s attitude towards her. Lord Westfield usually indulges in badinage with his female companions. He treated this one with great respect and spoke no word to her while I watched. The lady is a foreigner.’

  ‘By Jove, this may be true! Of what country, Nick?’

  ‘Some part of Germany, perhaps. Austria, more likely.’

  ‘And of high birth?’

  ‘Without question.’

  Firethorn slapped his thigh. ‘By all, this is wonderful! I have conquered the heart of an Austrian princess! No wonder my jewelled speeches fell on deaf ears. Bring her to me and I’ll talk the universal language of love. I’ll teach her gestures that she will never see from Barnaby and we’ll dance a jig together, she and I, that will last a whole night.’ He punched Nicholas playfully on the shoulder. ‘Fetch her to me, Nick. I’ll meet this princess in a private room. And if she speaks no English, I’ll be a lusty tutor for her lips. Bring her to me presently. I must have her.’

  Nicholas accepted the charge reluctantly. With dozens of urgent chores confronting him, the last thing he wanted to do was to act as Firethorn’s messenger. He knew, also, that his journey would be in vain. This was one admirer whom the actor would never possess. She was infinitely beyond his reach. As he set off on his errand, his protective instincts came to the fore. Nicholas was the guardian of Westfield’s Men and he could always recognise a threat to the company. Her mere presence at a performance had inadvertently inflicted harm on them. Further contact with her would bring more serious and lasting injury. Nicholas felt it in his bones. In pursuing his alabaster saint, Lawrence Firethorn was leading his troupe towards certain catastrophe.

  ***

  Alexander Marwood swam against the tide of humanity that was pouring out of the Queen’s Head. It gave the testy landlord no satisfaction to observe that his innyard had been filled with paying customers, many of whom bought ale or food from his servingmen to swell his coffers. Westfield’s Men were troublesome tenants to him. He lived in constant fear that their occupation of his premises would bring the ire of the city authorities down on him, lead to wild affrays, cause damage to his property, and—notwithstanding the eternal vigilance both of himself and his Gorgon wife—result in the seduction of his nubile daughter, Rose, by one of the rampant satyrs who called themselves actors. Marwood’s suffering found no relief in the marriage bed. His wife, Sybil, had long since converted that into an instrument of torture.

  Delighted playgoers who streamed out into Gracechurch Street were met by no genial host. What confronted them was the grim little figure of the landlord buffeting his way towards his inn and cursing his fate with even more than his usual relish. A hat concealed the balding pate that was harrowed with anxiety, but the haggard face, with its haunted eyes and its twitching lips, its deathly pallor and its expression of cold terror, was a drama in itself. Manacled to misery, he took a perverse pleasure in rattling his chains.

  When he finally fought his way to a side-door, he let himself into the inn. Marwood was scuttling along a narrow passageway when he saw a familiar figure coming down a private staircase that led to the lower gallery. The landlord pounced on Nicholas Bracewell and sank skinny fingers into his arm.

  ‘The end is in sight!’ he moaned.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘The spectators have all but dispersed and they have done so in a happy mood. Your servingmen have made you a tidy profit, Master Marwood.’

  ‘That is small consolation.’

  ‘A full yard. The numbers ought to please you.’

  ‘They strike at my heart.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men continue to bring custom to the Queen’s Head. Can you not find at least a crumb of comfort in that?’

  ‘No,’ said Marwood, releasing his arm to bring both hands up in a gesture of despair. ‘Because it will not last. My yard may be packed today. Tomorrow or the day after, it may as easily be deserted.’

  ‘Not while Westfield’s Men offer their plays.’

  ‘And how much longer will that be?’

  ‘As long as we keep our reputation in good repair.’

  ‘The law will not permit it, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘What law?’

  Marwood seized on his cue. ‘While you performed here, I watched another tragedy unfolding. While you rejoiced in the numbers of spectators, I quailed before numbers of a different order. Do you know where I have been, sir?’

  ‘Tell me,’ encouraged Nicholas.

  ‘To Clerkenwell. To visit a sick aunt of mine. Word came that she was grievously ill and like to die. I thought that old age had at last caught up with her and went to pay my last respects.’ The memory activated two more nervous twitches on his face. ‘Do you know what I found?’

  ‘The lady was already dead?’

  ‘Her house was boarded up.’

  Nicholas blenched. ‘Another plague victim?’

  ‘One of three in the same street,’ wailed Marwood. ‘I ran away on the instant lest I should contract the disease myself. It is closing in on us again. When plague victims reach th
e required number, the edict will be signed. All theatres, bear-baiting arenas and other places of public assembly will be closed down so that the infection will not spread.’ He snatched off his hat and beat his thigh with it. ‘I will be ruined, Master Bracewell. No plays, no profit. This plague will sever the Queen’s Head like an executioner’s axe.’ He bared his blackened teeth in a fearsome grin. ‘You are looking at a corpse.’

  Nicholas was at once alarmed and relieved, dismayed at the news but grateful that he had intercepted Marwood before the landlord could rush into the taproom to blurt out his doom-laden intelligence. Plague was an ever-present menace for the London theatre companies, and it had more than once swept Westfield’s Men from their stage and sent them touring the provinces in search of an audience. Nicholas was only too aware of the latest outbreak, but he did not realise that it was already reaching such proportions. Summer lay ahead and the warmer weather would only exacerbate the problem.

  There was genuine cause for concern, but Nicholas would at least be able to pass on the warning to his colleagues in a calm and reasonable way. Alexander Marwood would only scatter panic and despondency among them. They needed to be spared that. The book-holder took the trembling landlord by his bony shoulders.

  ‘Say nothing of this to my fellows,’ he insisted.

  ‘But they have a right to know that they will soon be flung into abject poverty.’

  ‘That is a possibility they live with every day. This profession has enough hazards without your adding another prematurely. Besides, it will not advantage your purse.’

  Marwood started. ‘My purse?’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Nicholas. ‘Charge in there to publish your tidings and you will empty the taproom at once. Is that your intention? To deprive yourself of custom before such a circumstance is forced upon you? Your good lady would not approve of that.’

  Seized by a paroxysm of fear, Marwood twisted out of his grasp. Nicholas reinforced his argument.

  ‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ he urged. ‘Do not wish black clouds upon us before they are ready to come. While our plays are still free of any plague edict, do all you can to entice more people into your yard and your taproom. What you take from them now will serve to see you through leaner times ahead. Exploit the goodwill of your customers. Nurture them.’

  Marwood pondered. ‘This is wise counsel,’ he said at length. ‘But my wife must be told the truth.’

  ‘Save it for the privacy of the bedchamber.’

  ‘That has already been afflicted with the plague,’ said the landlord under his breath. He spoke aloud. ‘I’ll break the news to my wife but school her to keep it close for the few days that may remain to us. Master Firethorn must also hear this dire intelligence. I’ll to him straight.’

  ‘That will be my office,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I am on my way to him even now. Leave Master Firethorn to me and simply convey your message to your good lady.’

  The prospect made Marwood emit a mad laugh before he went trotting off down the corridor. Having come from an aged aunt whose house had been boarded up, he was now going to a flinty wife whose heart, mind and body had been shut tight against him for many a long year. His marriage was murder by slow degrees.

  Nicholas faced a less daunting interview, but it was one that he was dreading. He now had a double blow to deliver.

  ***

  Lawrence Firethorn paced the room restlessly, ducking under its central oak beam every time he passed it. Having divested himself of his armour and helmet, he had left his sword with George Dart so that the pig’s blood could be washed from its blade. A few minutes before, a mirror had enabled the actor to comb out his beard and adjust his apparel to best effect. He then adjourned to the private room and awaited the visitation of an angel from a foreign land.

  A tap on the door made him strike a dramatic pose.

  ‘Enter!’ he cooed in his most mellifluous tone.

  The door opened and he bowed submissively low to greet the newcomer, reaching out to take her hand in order to bestow a kiss upon it. When he found himself staring at the broad fingers of Nicholas Bracewell, he jumped back with such a start that he banged his head on the low beam.

  ‘Where is she, Nick?’ he howled.

  ‘I will come to that in a moment,’ said Nicholas, closing the door behind him. ‘First, there’s more important news.’

  ‘Nothing is more important than her. And me. And us!’

  ‘I met with the landlord on my way back to you.’

  ‘That ghoul?’

  ‘He brings sad tidings.’

  ‘When did the vile rogue bring anything else?’ snarled Firethorn. ‘Away with that leprous knave! I’ll have none of him. Why talk of a cadaver like Marwood when I wish to hear about my beloved?’

  ‘There are other cadavers to make us pause.’

  ‘What say you?’

  Nicholas was brisk. ‘Our landlord visited a sick aunt in Clerkenwell and found her dying of the plague. The third victim in her street. In diverse parts of the city, there have been several more. The numbers climb towards an edict.’

  ‘Close the theatres! That is sacrilege.’

  ‘It is a sound precautionary measure.’

  ‘Where is the soundness in throwing us out on the streets to beg? I’ll not be silenced, Nick. I’ll not have my company smothered to death by process of law! Lord Westfield will intercede on our behalf.’

  ‘Even his intercession will not preserve us.’

  ‘A plague on this plague!’ roared Firethorn, pounding the oak table with his fist. ‘Has it not already taken sufficient toll of us? It has hounded us out of London before. And I have not forgotten the time when it lay in wait to expel us from Oxford. They actually paid us not to play. It was insulting!’

  ‘I took it as an act of consideration.’

  ‘They must not close the Queen’s Head to us again. It is robbery with malice. Stealing our audience from us by official edict and leaving us without any means of support.’

  ‘Pray God it may not come to that!’ sighed Nicholas.

  ‘But you sense a likelihood?’

  ‘I have been concerned for some weeks. We have had some isolated plague deaths in Southwark, but they may well be but precursors of a wider epidemic. Marwood saw the evidence with his own eyes in Clerkenwell. Other wards are also hearing the rattle of the death cart in their streets.’

  Firethorn was dejected. ‘Is there no hope for us, Nick?’

  ‘A little. A little. The plague has abated before when it seemed set to tighten its hold. But we cannot rely on that happening again. My advice is this: Hope for the best but prepare for the worst.’

  Firethorn slumped onto the stool and looked into a bleak future. Touring the towns and cities of England was a laborious and often thankless business. It would take him away from his wife and children for an extended length of time. It would also deprive him of the joy of lording it on the stage at the Queen’s Head, where he could woo and win some of the most gorgeous women in the capital. That thought made him leap to his feet again.

  ‘What of her, Nick?’ he demanded. ‘Give me some medicine to ward off this disease. If I am to lose my occupation, at least let me taste one of its sweetest joys first. Why did you not bring her to me, as I requested?’

  ‘That was not possible, I fear.’

  ‘Did you not speak to her?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘Not even through an interpreter?’

  ‘By the time I reached our patron, his guest had departed.’

  ‘Then why did you not fly after her?’ cried Firethorn. ‘Why did you not overtake the lady and urge my suit? I won her heart. She would have come to me post-haste.’

  ‘I was too late,’ said Nicholas. ‘A coach was waiting to take her to London Bridge, where she is boarding a boat that will take her to Deptford. The young lady will sail from there on the evening tide. She is returning home.’

  Firethorn was aghast. ‘Home? She has spurned the chance of being alone with me in order to go home? This news is worse than the plague and it infects me with rage. She went home?’