The Mad Courtesan Read online

  Nicholas kept watch but there was no sign of him. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was the next to show up, followed by the skipping eagerness of Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the boy apprentices. New faces came in twos and threes until the majority of the company was assembled in the yard but Sebastian Carrick still refused to come. As the stragglers drifted in, Nicholas’s anxiety was fringed with alarm. Only the most serious mishap could detain the actor from a rehearsal, especially one of a play in which he had an important supporting role.

  Lawrence Firethorn, predictably, was the last to turn up so that he could make a dramatic entry on his horse. As he rode into a yard that was now humming with activity, he surveyed his fellows with a lordly air then raised his hat in acknowledgement of the greetings he attracted. When an ostler came to take his horse, the actor-manager dismounted and summoned his book holder.

  ‘Nick, dear heart! A word, sir.’

  ‘As many as you wish,’ said the other.

  ‘Let’s stand aside.’ Firethorn whisked him into a quiet corner. ‘We had private conference yesterday to settle on the choice of a new sharer. Sebastian Carrick was preferred to Owen Elias. Does that win your good opinion?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both men are worthy, in their several ways, but Owen Elias has the greater ability and range of experience.’

  ‘Other reasons spoke against him.’

  ‘Sebastian has defects, too.’

  ‘We have decided to overlook them and offer advancement to him. I want you to impart the glad tidings.’

  ‘He is not here to receive them.’

  ‘Not here? Our early bird still abed for once?’

  ‘I hope that is the case.’

  ‘What else?’ said Firethorn. ‘He will be here anon. I will warm his ears for being laggard then you can soothe them with this timely news.’ He saw the disquiet on the other’s brow and clapped him familiarly on the shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Nick. No harm has befallen him. Sebastian can walk the darkest streets of the city with safety. Be assured of it. He will not fall among thieves.’

  When the rider appeared on the horizon, the two men could not believe their luck. Travel through open country was always a hazardous business. Rogues, vagabonds, outlaws, robbers, beggars and masterless men were a constant threat to the unwary and the unguarded. Occasional bands of gypsies posed a further threat to the solitary traveller. Most people sought company when they moved between towns and long journeys were rarely undertaken without adequate convoy. Yet here was a man completely on his own, well dressed, as far as they could judge at that distance, and mounted on a sturdy black stallion that moved along the rough track at a steady canter. The closer the rider came, the more convinced were the two men that Fortune was indeed favouring them. Sitting astride their own horses, they lurked in the shelter of a copse as their prey descended the hill towards them with an obliging readiness. A glance between them sealed his fate and they drew their swords for the ambush.

  But the attack was not even necessary. When the man was no more than forty yards away, he suddenly reined in his mount beside some gorse bushes and slipped from the saddle. Fiddling with his breeches, he went behind the bushes with the obvious purpose of relieving himself and his spectators grinned. They would not even need their weapons for this work. The horse was their target, as fine an animal as they had seen in a long time with good conformation, a sleek coat and a touch of real breeding that made their own flea-bitten nags look like the tired jades they were. Black all over, it had a white blaze that ran from ear to nostril like a flash of lightning exploding from a mass of black cloud. Horse and saddle were rich enough bounty in themselves but the pouches that were slung across its loins – embroidered leather that bulged with promise – could bring greater reward yet. During those two fateful minutes behind a gorse bush, the rider would be relieved of more than his discomfort.

  The highwaymen did not delay any longer. Spurring their horses into action, they closed on the stallion and one of them gathered up its reins as they passed. As three sets of hooves clacked on the hard surface of the track, a yell of utter horror went up from behind the bushes. The robbers laughed aloud at what they took to be the bare-arsed abuse that pursued them until they were out of earshot but the hapless wayfarer was now letting his own mirth show. With breeches now up again, he sat in the shade of an elm and pulled out an apple from inside his doublet. He took a first bite and chewed away happily in the confident knowledge that he would not have long to wait.

  When they had put a mile or more between themselves and their victim, the two men paused in a clearing in the wood to assess their takings. The stolen horse was even more of a prize than they had imagined and its saddle was a work of art. They dismounted at speed and ran to clutch at the leather pouches but it was a mistake that they would rue for a long while because the stallion reared up on its hind legs and kicked out savagely. Taken completely by surprise, they fell to the ground in mortal terror. Instead of trampling them while it could, however, the animal emitted a high neigh that produced an answering call from the other horses. Before the men could do anything to stop them, all three went galloping off in the direction from which they had come.

  Cornelius Gant had almost finished his apple by the time that Nimbus brought its two companions up to him. The old man gave him a slap of thanks then fed him the core as a further sign of congratulation. It was the work of minutes to search the other two horses for booty. Small sacks that hung from pommels yielded up food, money and other stolen items. When he had transferred the provender to Nimbus, he gave each of the other beasts a slap on the rump that sent it careering wildly off into the undergrowth. Cornelius Gant and Nimbus continued briskly on their way towards Banbury.

  It was proving to be an eventful journey.

  Marriage and Mischief was a perennial favourite which brought a large and vocal audience to the yard of the Queen’s Head and they were not disappointed by the latest rendering of the piece. The comedy was driven along at a cracking pace with a control that never faltered. As the spectators howled with glee or shook with mirth, they never suspected for a moment that the real drama had occurred backstage and jeopardised their entertainment completely. Sebastian Carrick’s failure to appear had forced eleventh-hour changes on the company which had sapped its morale and sent it out on the stage with some trepidation, but it found itself both equal to the emergency and able to disguise it from the onlookers. Owen Elias was given instant promotion and he seized his opportunity with relish, playing his rival’s part as if he had been rehearsing it all his life. He fumed and foamed as a jealous husband who wrongly suspects his wife of infidelity, giving a performance that was at once more comic and incisive than that of the actor he had replaced. Elias’s freewheeling confidence was a tonic to his fellows and they responded accordingly. As Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe out to acknowledge the ovation at the end of the play, he knew that they had given as good an account of Marriage and Mischief as they had ever done.

  Standing in his accustomed place, Nicholas Bracewell gave his full concentration to the task of prompting, giving cues, issuing advice and generally controlling the swirling chaos behind the scenes. He was able to relax slightly now and to address the problem of Sebastian Carrick’s absence. It was as distressing as it was untypical. An actor who prided himself on his work and his punctuality had committed the unforgivable sin of leaving the company in the lurch. He had not even sent a word of warning that he was indisposed. Was he ill? Had he been deliberately led astray? Could he still be sleeping off a night of debauchery? Nicholas had grave doubts on all three accounts. A more grim explanation suggested itself and the book holder felt a sharp pang of apprehension.

  It was not eased when he looked across at Owen Elias who was now bowing low and drinking in the applause as if he had played the leading part. When asked to step into the breach at such short notice, the Welshman showed neither surprise nor alarm but simply grabbed the book to study the new pa
rt. While the actor conned his lines, Hugh Wegges helped him into his costume and used a deft needle to make the adjustments that were necessary. Owen Elias was supremely relaxed. It was almost as if he knew that he would be required to cover for an erring colleague and he did so with impressive skill. Much as he liked his friend, Nicholas was bound to wonder if he was in some way connected with the convenient disappearance of Sebastian Carrick.

  As the applause began to fade, Lawrence Firethorn took one last flamboyant bow before bringing the cast back into the tiring-house. Beaming actor became outraged employer.

  ‘Where the devil is he, Nick?’ snarled Firethorn.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He will be dismissed from the company!’

  ‘Do not be too hasty, master. Sebastian may not be at fault here. Something must have prevented him. He is too loyal an actor to betray us deliberately.’

  ‘We faced disaster on that stage!’

  ‘Yet you created a triumph.’

  Firethorn preened himself. ‘I thrive on adversity.’

  ‘Owen Elias was our hero this afternoon,’ said Barnaby Gill, seeing the chance to needle the actor-manager. ‘I hope you will now see how foolish it would be to elect Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer. His conduct is unforgivable. The Welshman is made of truer steel. His performance today had something of your genius, Lawrence.’

  ‘It sufficed,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘It saved us, man.’

  Barnaby Gill praised every aspect of a portrayal which he knew could pose a distant threat to the actor-manager. Firethorn’s main objection to Owen Elias was the latter’s weird similarity to him in appearance and technique. Elias might never have the towering capacities of his employer but he could handle a speech with something of the same attack and make a profound impact when given the chance. Lawrence Firethorn was less threatened when the Welshman was kept languishing down among the small parts. Gill – whose lustre and position were not touched by Elias – could acclaim him freely and cause maximum discomfort to his colleague.

  ‘Where is your precious Sebastian?’ he teased.

  ‘Would that I knew, sir!’

  Gill gave a brittle laugh. ‘This is the man you staked your life upon, Lawrence. Prepare yourself for death.’

  He laughed again and sauntered off. Firethorn wheeled round to confront Nicholas and bark an order at him.

  ‘Find Sebastian!’

  ‘I will go as soon as I am finished here.’

  ‘Find him at once!’

  ‘It may not be an easy task.’

  ‘Find him and bring him to me.’

  ‘I fear for his safety.’

  ‘You have good cause, sir,’ said Firethorn with feeling. ‘When I see the villain, I’ll break his traitorous head open for him!’

  Thick bandages had been wrapped around the skull to restore some semblance of normality but they were quite inadequate. Instead of binding the wound up, they simply made it look even more grotesque with its blood-soaked dressing and its awesome finality. The body was naked on its slab beneath a dirty white shroud. Sightless eyes stared upward and the mouth was still wide open. Caked blood disfigured the sad face below the red bandaging. Other corpses lay at peace all around, accepting their fate and awaiting burial in a spirit of Christian resignation. But Sebastian Carrick was still troubled. During his last, cruel, fleeting moment on earth, he had asked a question that pursued him into the mortuary and continued to exercise his vacant mind. In the cold silence of death, his hideous visage was a bellowing enquiry.

  Who did it?

  Giles Randolph was not as yet the most outstanding actor in London but he intended to win that accolade at all costs. As the resident star of Banbury’s Men, he chose his parts with the utmost care and played them with great panache. Large audiences flocked to see him and his company was feted but Randolph was not satisfied. Amid the loudest cheers, he could still hear whispers of doubt about his art. He had yet to prove and sustain his superiority over Lawrence Firethorn, a man for whom he reserved a grudging respect that was all but smothered beneath an implacable hatred. Since Banbury’s Men had found a permanent home at The Curtain – one of the few custom-built theatres in London – they held the whiphand over their rivals at the Queen’s Head but they could not always make that advantage tell. Whenever the ambitious Giles Randolph created a new role with which to dazzle his public, Lawrence Firethorn somehow found a means to outshine him once more. That state of affairs could not be allowed to continue. The company’s illustrious patron was disturbed.

  ‘The rogue does have a modicum of talent,’ said the earl with casual disgust. ‘But not enough to account for their success. Wherein lies their secret?’

  ‘Outrageous good fortune, my lord.’

  ‘There is more behind it than that.’

  ‘Edmund Hoode is a tolerable playwright.’

  ‘His work holds the stage better than our dramas.’

  ‘Barnaby Gill can always scrape a few laughs.’

  ‘He is as popular a clown as any in London,’ said the earl contemptuously. ‘But these explanations still fall short of the full truth. Firethorn, Hoode and Gill are not in themselves sufficient cause for the damnable fame of Lord Westfield’s damnable company.’

  They were in a private room at the Bull and Butcher, the sprawling inn that stood near The Curtain in Shoreditch. It was early evening and they had repaired to the hostelry after yet another stirring performance by Banbury’s Men at their theatre. Giles Randolph was a tall, thin, stately man with an Italianate cast of feature that gave him a faintly sinister air. His voice was a superb instrument for poetry but he was too aware of this fact. Even in conversation he tended to pose and project. In the company of his patron, he knew how to fawn and flatter. The Earl of Banbury was a lascivious old man with a goatee beard that he continually scratched with ring-laden fingers. Though he had a sincere and long-standing interest in the promotion of the arts, he wanted more than his due reward of gratitude. His theatre company was there to advance his own interests and to help him eclipse the rising sun of Westfield’s Men.

  A venal, corseted dandy untouched by finer feeling, the Earl of Banbury detested Lord Westfield as much as Giles Randolph detested Lawrence Firethorn. With the two contending patrons, however, there was a political dimension. In a court that was rife with intrigue and aspiration, the two men wore their companies around their necks like chains of office. What happened on a stage at The Curtain or the Queen’s Head thus had a bearing on an aristocratic duel which had been fought out for many years now.

  The earl drained his silver goblet of wine.

  ‘Banbury’s Men must take first place forthwith.’

  ‘They shall, my lord,’ said Randolph deferentially. ‘We will blaze across the heavens like a comet.’

  ‘I would have you wipe the name of Westfield from the sky. It offends my sight.’

  ‘Plans have been already set in motion.’

  ‘Show no mercy to the wretches.’

  Giles Randolph sat back and gave a thin smile.

  ‘They will be wounded where they hurt most.’

  By the time he inspected the corpse, the caked blood had been washed off the face but it was still impossible to recognise the man. The axe which split open his skull had rearranged his features into a gruesome mockery of their former good looks. Nicholas Bracewell identified his friend more by instinct than by any facial characteristics. The apparel and effects of the deceased served to confirm beyond reasonable doubt that it was indeed Sebastian Carrick. A proud actor had made an ignoble exit but there was faint consolation for Nicholas in his grief. Carrick’s death had been instantaneous. The crude butchery of his murder left no room for prolonged pain or suffering. Final agonies had been spared.

  As Nicholas gazed down at the slaughtered figure on its cold stone slab, his grief soon gave way to a surge of anger. A dear colleague had been cruelly cut down in his prime. On the verge of promotion from the ranks of h
ired men, Sebastian Carrick had been separated for ever from the world of theatre that he loved and adorned. The sense of waste and injustice made Nicholas seethe with indignation. He turned away from the body, fighting hard to contain his impotent rage and direct it to more useful purpose. Westfield’s Men forged a brotherly concord between the two friends. Nicholas wanted vengeance on behalf of the whole family.

  The keeper of the mortuary was a wraith-like individual with a voice like rustling leaves. He nudged his visitor.

  ‘There was good sport in his last hour,’ he said.

  ‘What say you?’

  ‘Look, sir.’ The keeper pulled the body over onto its side to reveal the red channels down its back. ‘Behold the work of a woman! That’s the sign of a leaping house.’

  He let out a harsh cackle. Nicholas studied the long parallel scratches on the white flesh, then gently lay the body on its back before covering it with the shroud. Though the mortuary was perfumed with herbs, the prevailing stink of death could still attack the nostrils and throat. When Nicholas began to cough and retch, he knew it was time to leave. He offered up a silent prayer, then went swiftly after the salvation of fresh air. A grim duty had become an excruciating ordeal.

  His worst fears were now realised. The mortuary had been his first port of call. Convinced that only death could make Sebastian Carrick miss an entrance onstage, he went to review the latest crop of cadavers to be harvested from the dark suburbs. The actor was amongst them, his face tormented by the manner of his death and his eyes still glassy with appalled surprise. Others had met violent ends that night but none could match him for stark horror.