The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 4

  Nicholas glanced around the place with candid surprise.

  ‘You lodge here, Samuel?’ he said.

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘Can it be safe?’

  ‘I sleep with one hand on my dagger.’

  ‘And the other on your codpiece,’ said Fowler with a grin. ‘These drabs will give you the pox as soon as they breathe on you, then charge you for the privilege.’

  ‘I’ve no money to waste on pleasure, Will,’ added Ruff.

  ‘What pleasure is there in a burning pizzle?’ Fowler’s grin became rueful. ‘There be three things an actor fears – plague, Puritans and pox. I never know which is worse.’

  ‘I can tell you.’

  ‘Which one, Sam?’

  ‘The fourth thing,’ explained Ruff.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘The greatest fear of all. Being without employ.’

  There was such sadness in his voice and such despair in his eyes that the garrulous Fowler was silenced for once. Nicholas had an upsurge of sympathy for Samuel Ruff. He knew what it was to fall on hard times himself and he had a special concern for those who fell by the wayside of a necessarily cruel profession. Ruff was not only evidently in need of work. He had to be helped to believe in himself again. Nicholas showed a genuine interest.

  ‘How long have you been a player, Samuel?’

  ‘For more years than I care to remember,’ admitted Ruff with a half-smile. ‘I began with Leicester’s Men, then I toured with smaller companies.’

  ‘At home or abroad?’

  ‘Both, sir.’

  ‘Where have you been on your travels?’

  ‘My calling has taken me to Germany, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, even Poland. I’ve been hissed at in many languages.’

  ‘And applauded in many more,’ insisted Fowler loyally. ‘Sam is a fine actor, Nick. Indeed, he is almost as good as myself.’

  ‘No recommendation could be higher,’ said Nicholas, smiling.

  ‘We are old fellows, are we not, Sam?’

  ‘We are, Will.’

  ‘If memory serves me aright, we first played together in The Three Sisters of Mantua at Bristol. They were happy days.’

  ‘Not for everyone,’ recalled Ruff.

  ‘How say you?’

  ‘Have you forgotten, Will? You fetched the trumpeter such a box on the ear that he could not play his instrument properly for a week.’

  ‘The knave deserved it!’

  ‘If he’d not ducked in time, you’d have boxed his other ear and taken his breath away for a fortnight.’

  ‘What was the man’s offence?’ wondered Nicholas.

  ‘He blew a scurvy trumpet,’ explained Will.

  Fowler and Ruff shook with mirth at the shared recollection. As further memoirs were revealed by the former, the other seemed to relax and blossom, secure in the knowledge that there had been a time when his talent had been in demand. Samuel Ruff was older and greyer than Fowler but his build was similar. Nicholas noted the faded attire and the neglected air. He also studied the big, open face with its honest eyes and resolute jaw. There was an integrity about Ruff which had not been beaten out of him by his straitened circumstances, and his pride was intact as well. When Fowler offered him money, he was frankly wounded.

  ‘Take it back, Will. I can pay my way.’

  ‘I mean it as a loan and not as charity.’

  ‘Either would be an insult to me.’

  Fowler slipped the coins quickly back into his purse and revived some more memories of their time together. The laughter soon started again but it lacked its earlier warmth. Nicholas had taken a liking to Samuel Ruff but he could not see how he could help him in the immediate future. The number of hired men in the company was kept to a minimum by Firethorn in order to hold down costs. There was no call for a new player at the moment.

  In any case, Ruff did not appear to be in search of a job. Months without work had taken their toll of his spirit and he was now talking of leaving the profession altogether. Will Fowler gasped with shock as he heard the news.

  ‘What will you do, Sam?’

  ‘Go back home to Norwich.’

  ‘Norwich?’

  ‘My brother has a small farm there. I can work for him.’

  ‘Sam Ruff on a farm!’ exclaimed Fowler with healthy disgust. ‘Those hands were not made to feed pigs.’

  ‘He keeps cows.’

  ‘You’re an actor. You belong on the stage.’

  ‘The playhouse will manage very well without me.’

  ‘This is treasonable talk, Sam!’ urged Fowler. ‘Actors never give up. They go on acting to the bitter end. Heavens, man, you’re one of us!’

  ‘Not any more, Will.’

  ‘You will miss the playhouse mightily,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Miss it?’ echoed Fowler. ‘It will be like having a limb hacked off. Two limbs. Yes, and two of something else as well, Sam. Will you surrender your manhood so easily? How can anyone exist without the theatre?’

  ‘Cows have their own consolation,’ suggested Ruff.

  ‘Leave off this arrant nonsense about a farm!’ ordered his friend with a peremptory wave of his arm. ‘You’ll not desert us. D’you know what Nick and I talked about as we walked here tonight? We spoke about the acting profession. All its pain and setback and stabbing horror. Why do we put up with it?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’ said Ruff gloomily.

  ‘Nick had the answer. On compulsion. It answers a need in us, Sam, and I’ve just realised what that need is.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Danger.’

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘You’ve felt it every bit as much as I have, Sam,’ said Fowler with eyes aglow. ‘The danger of testing yourself in front of a live audience, of risking their displeasure, of taking chances, of being out there with nothing but a gaudy costume and a few lines of verse to hold them. That’s why I do it, Sam, to have that feeling of dread coursing through my veins, to know that excitement, to face that danger! It makes it all worthwhile.’

  ‘Only if you are employed, Will,’ observed Ruff.

  ‘Where will you get your danger, Sam?’

  ‘A cow can give a man a nasty kick at times.’

  ‘I’ll give you a nasty kick if you persist like this!’

  ‘My mind is made up, Will.’

  Further argument was futile. No matter how hard he tried, Fowler could not deflect his friend from his purpose. Nicholas was brought in to add the weight of his persuasion but it was in vain. Samuel Ruff had decided to return to Norwich. It would be a hard life but he would have a softer lodging than the Hope and Anchor.

  Nicholas watched the two men carefully. They were middle-aged actors in a profession which handled its members with callous indifference. Both had met the impossible demands made upon them for a number of years, but one had now been discarded. It was a sobering sight. Will Fowler’s exuberance came in such sharp contrast to Ruff’s quiet despair. Taken together, the two friends seemed to embody the essence of theatre with its blend of extremes and its death-grapple between love and hate.

  There was something else that Nicholas observed and it made him feel sorry for his friend. Will Fowler had looked forward to the meeting with Samuel Ruff and placed a lot of importance upon it, but it was ending in disappointment. The man he had known in palmier days no longer existed. What was left was a pale reminder of his old friend, a few flashes of the real Samuel Ruff. An actor who had once shared his blind faith in the theatre had now become a heretic. It hurt Fowler and Nicholas shared that pain.

  ‘Can nothing make you change your mind?’ pleaded Fowler.

  ‘Nothing, Will.’

  ‘So be it.’

  They finished their ale in a desultory way then Nicholas went across to the hostess to pay the reckoning. It was even more rowdy now and the air was charged with a dozen pungent odours. Couples groped their way up the narrow stairs to uncertain joy, raucous jeers rose from a game of dice and the old
sailor, swaying like a mainmast in a gale, tried to sing a ballad about the defeat of the Armada. The dog barked and someone vomited in the hearth.

  Nicholas was glad that they were about to leave. He sensed trouble. The Hope and Anchor was a tinderbox that could ignite at any moment. Though more than able to take care of himself in a brawl, he did not look for a fight and it worried him that he had come to the tavern with someone who often did. A buoyant Fowler was problem enough but a jaded one was highly volatile. Nicholas paid the bill and turned to go.

  But he was already too late.

  ‘Away, sir!’

  ‘Will you bandy words with me?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ll break your crown!’

  ‘I have something here to split yours asunder!’

  ‘Stand off!’

  ‘Draw!’

  Will Fowler was being challenged by a tall, hulking man with a red beard and a sword in his hand. The actor jumped up from the settle and grabbed his own blade. A space immediately cleared in the middle of the room as tables were pushed hurriedly away, then the two men circled each other. Before Nicholas could move, Samuel Ruff interceded.

  ‘Put up your sword, Will,’ he implored.

  ‘Stand aside, Sam.’

  ‘There is no occasion for this quarrel.’

  ‘I mean to have blood here.’

  Ruff swung around to confront the stranger. Unarmed but quite unafraid, he leapt between the two combatants and held out his arms, shielding his friend with his body.

  ‘Let us settle this over a pint of ale, sir.’

  ‘No!’ snarled the other.

  ‘Mend your differences,’ advised Ruff.

  The stranger was not deterred. He saw the chance to catch his adversary off guard and he took it. With a lightning thrust, his sword passed under Ruff’s arm and went deep into Fowler’s stomach. The fight was over.

  ‘Will!’ shouted Nicholas, darting forward.

  ‘I’ll … kill him,’ threatened Fowler weakly.

  Dropping his sword, he staggered a few steps then collapsed to the floor. Nicholas bent down to enfold him in his arms, shaken by the speed of it all. The hostess screamed, the card players yelled, the old sailor roared and the dog barked madly. In the general confusion, the stranger ran out through the door and vanished down the alley.

  Everyone pressed in upon the fallen man.

  ‘Stand back!’ ordered Nicholas. ‘Give him air.’

  ‘What happened?’ mumbled Fowler drowsily.

  ‘It was my fault,’ confessed Ruff, covered in remorse as he knelt beside the wounded man. ‘I tried to stop him and he stabbed you under my arm.’

  ‘Curse him!’ groaned Fowler.

  The hostess pushed through the crowd to view the hideous sight. Brawls were common enough in the tavern but they did not usually involve swordplay nor end with someone losing his life-blood all over the floor.

  ‘Carry him to the surgeon!’ she urged.

  ‘He cannot be moved,’ said Nicholas, doing what he could to stem the flow of blood. ‘Bring the surgeon here. Tell him to hurry!’

  The hostess despatched her boy with a curt command. Nicholas was still cradling his friend in his arms and shuddering with disbelief. Will Fowler had been such a powerful and energetic man yet his life was now draining rapidly away in the miserable setting of a Bankside stew. The sense of waste was overwhelming.

  ‘Who was he?’ murmured Fowler.

  ‘Save your strength, Will,’ cautioned Nicholas.

  ‘I want to know,’ he said with a last show of spirit. ‘Who was the rogue?’

  He looked up questioningly but nobody had the answer.

  Nicholas Bracewell was consumed with grief and anger. It was only now that he was about to lose Will Fowler that he realised how much the man’s friendship had meant to him. The actor’s warmth and effervescence would be sorely missed. Nicholas held the body more tightly to pull him back from death but he knew that it was all to no avail. Will Fowler was doomed.

  Samuel Ruff was in tears, tormenting himself with the thought that he was to blame, muttering endless apologies to the prostrate figure. Nicholas saw the blank horror in his face then he noticed that Ruff’s sleeve was dripping with blood that seeped from a wound of his own. The sword thrust had cut his arm before killing Will Fowler.

  The dying man found enough breath to whisper.

  ‘Nick …’

  ‘I’m here, Will.’

  ‘Find him … please … find the rogue!’

  He clutched at his stomach as a new spasm of pain shot through him then his whole body went limp. A final hiss escaped his throat. Will Fowler had no need of a surgeon now.

  Samuel Ruff buried his face in his hands. Nicholas felt his own tears come but his sorrow was edged with cold fury. A dear friend had been viciously cut down. In a flash of temper, a valuable life had been needlessly squandered. Will Fowler had begged him to track down the culprit and Nicholas now took this duty upon himself with iron determination.

  ‘I’ll find him, Will,’ he promised.

  Chapter Three

  Bankside was not entirely given over to stews, gambling dens, taverns and ordinaries. Because it was outside the City’s jurisdiction, this populous area of Southwark had its share of cockpits and bear gardens and bull-baiting rings to please the appetites of those who flocked to them, but it also had its shops, its places of work and its respectable dwellings. Lined with wharves and warehouses for much of the way, it commanded fine views across the river of St Paul’s and the City.

  Anne Hendrik had lived in Bankside for a number of years and she knew its labyrinthine streets well. Born of English stock, she married Jacob Hendrik while she was still in her teens. One of the many Dutch immigrants who poured into London, Jacob was a skilful hatmaker who found that the City Guilds had a vested interest in keeping him and his compatriots out of their exclusive brotherhoods. To make a living, therefore, he had to set up outside the City limits and Southwark was the obvious choice. Hard work and a willingness to adapt helped him to prosper. When he died after fifteen happy years of marriage, he left his widow with a good house, a flourishing business and moderate wealth. Other women might have moved away or married again but Anne Hendrik was committed to the house and its associations. Having no children, she lacked company and decided to take in a lodger. He soon became rather more than that.

  ‘Is that you, Nicholas?’ she called.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘There was no need for you to wait up.’

  ‘I was worried about you.’

  Anne came out to the front door as he closed it behind him. When she saw him by the light of the candles, her comely features were distorted with alarm.

  ‘You’re hurt!’ she said, rushing to him.

  ‘No, Anne.’

  ‘But there’s blood on your hands, and on your clothing.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ he soothed.

  ‘Has there been trouble, Nick?’

  He nodded. ‘Will Fowler.’

  ‘What happened?’

  They adjourned to his chamber. Anne fetched him a bowl of water so that he could clean himself up and Nicholas Bracewell told her what had occurred at the Hope and Anchor. He was still very shaken by it all. Anne was deeply distressed. Though she had only met Will Fowler a few times, she remembered him as a lively and loquacious man with a fund of amusing stories about the world of the playhouse. It seemed perverse that his life should be snuffed out so quickly and cheaply.

  ‘Have you no idea who the man was?’ she asked.

  ‘None,’ said Nicholas grimly. ‘But I will catch up with the fellow one day.’

  ‘What of this Master Ruff?’

  ‘He was as stricken as I was, Anne. I helped him to find a new lodging for the night. He could not bear to stay in the place where Will had been murdered.’

  ‘You should have brought him back here,’ she offered.

  Nicholas looked up at her and his affection f
or Anne Hendrik surged. Her oval face, so lovely and contented in repose, was now pitted with anxious frowns. Kindness and compassion oozed from her. In any crisis, her first instinct was always to give what practical help she could. It was a trait that Nicholas shared and it was one of the reasons that they bonded together.

  ‘Thank you, Anne,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We could have found him something better than a room in some low tavern. Did you not think to invite him here?’

  ‘He would not have come,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Samuel Ruff is a very proud and independent sort of man. His friendship with Will goes back many years and it was something that both of them treasured. Samuel wants to keep his own counsel and mourn alone. I can respect that, Anne.’

  While he dried his hands, she took away the clouded water. Nicholas was exhausted. It was hours past midnight and the events at the Hope and Anchor had taxed him. Officers had been sent for and the whole matter was now in the hands of a magistrate. The dead body had been removed and there was nothing that Nicholas could do until the morrow. Yet his mind would not let him rest.

  Anne Hendrik came back. She was a tall, well-kept woman with graceful movements and a lightness of touch in all she did. Her tone was soft and concerned.

  ‘You need your sleep, Nick. Can you manage?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘If you want anything, you have only to call me.’

  ‘I know.’

  She gazed fondly at him then a sudden thought made her reach out and clasp him to her bosom for a few moments. When she released him, she caressed his hair with long, delicate fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry about Will Fowler,’ she whispered, ‘but it could so easily have been you who was killed. I could not have borne that.’

  She kissed him tenderly on the forehead then went out.

  It was typical of Lawrence Firethorn that he took the tragedy as a personal insult. Without a twinge of conscience, he turned the death of a hired man into a direct attack upon his reputation. On the following afternoon, Will Fowler was due to appear in the company’s latest offering at The Queen’s Head, playing the most important of the secondary roles. Since the other hired men were already doubling strenuously, it was impossible to replace him. The whole performance was threatened and Firethorn worked himself up into a fine frenzy as he contemplated it.