The Mad Courtesan Page 5

  Alone in his lodging, shut away from the world, Edmund Hoode sat at his table and worked by the light of a tallow candle. He was a nocturnal creature, a gifted poet whose Muse visited in the silence of the night and kept him from his slumbers. All of his best plays and most of his best sonnets had been written in the hours of darkness when his creative juices were in full flow and he could apply himself without distraction. It was at once gruelling and inspiring. Quill pen, inkhorn and parchment became closely acquainted and formed a willing partnership right up until dawn. It was only when the first rays of light tapped softly at his window that Hoode paused to read and reflect.

  As the resident playwright with Westfield’s Men, he was required to provide a number of new plays each year. Love’s Sacrifice was his latest composition, a moving tragedy that was shot through with irony and pathos. It was the tale of a mighty king who bravely extended his empire into unconquered and hitherto unconquerable territory. Though he won a famous battle, however, he lost his heart to the queen of the subject nation and remained in thrall to her. The fiery passion which drew them together burned its remorseless way through all that he held most dear. Crackling flames consumed his wife, his children, his friends, his honour, his reputation, his sanity and his imperial crown. Love then exacted the final sacrifice from him by taking his life.

  Though set in Ancient Britain, the play owed much to the story of Antony and Cleopatra but even more to the doomed romance in the author’s own life. He reached the end of Act Five with the mangled bodies of King Gondar and Queen Elsin entwined together in their tomb before the warring parties from their respective countries. Death ennobles them both. As Edmund Hoode stood among the soldiers and gazed down sadly at the tragic scene, he was reminded of the most recent calamity in his severely charred private life. Queen Elsin was his own lost love, forbidden yet irresistible, for ever out of his reach, one more corpse for the overstocked mausoleum of his despair. He used the quill to brush away a tear.

  It was in this mood of suffering, with his sensibilities tingling and his faculties heightened, with his pain and his poetry fusing in perfect harmony, that he penned a long valedictory speech to king, queen and every woman he had ever worshipped. Words came easily but beautifully and the result was a minor miracle. Reading the verse quietly to himself, he knew that he had brought Love’s Sacrifice to a most poignant and affecting conclusion. What he did not realise was that a speech of twenty lines would have a significance that went far beyond the boundaries of his play to put the whole company in mortal danger.

  ‘And has Master Firethorn been informed of this horror?’

  ‘I will speak to him within the hour.’

  ‘It is a grievous blow to Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Sebastian was well respected and well liked, Anne. We will all feel his loss keenly.’

  She gave a shudder. ‘To die in such a fashion!’

  ‘His murder will be revenged,’ vowed Nicholas.

  ‘You must first find the murderer.’

  ‘It will be done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By patience and persistence.’

  She smiled. ‘You have both in large supply.’

  ‘Sebastian Carrick was a friend of mine.’

  ‘And of everyone he met,’ she said wistfully. ‘I never encountered a more engaging young man. He was joyful company indeed. Who could have hated him enough to kill him?’

  It was early morning and Anne Hendrik was seated in the living room of her house in Southwark. She was a tall, well-groomed woman with easy charm and a natural grace. The English widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she had spurned the many offers of marriage that came her way in order to retain her independence and run her husband’s business in the adjoining premises. Under her shrewd eye, it flourished. Since she had no children with whom to share the house, she elected to take in a lodger. Nicholas Bracewell had lived at the Southwark abode for some time now and his landlady had become a good friend and – when need arose and occasion served – a lover. A secretive man found someone in whom he could confide.

  Anne Hendrik saw the practical consequences.

  ‘This will affect the new play at The Rose,’ she said.

  ‘Sebastian was to have taken an important role.’

  ‘To whom will it now fall?’

  ‘My choice would be Owen Elias.’

  ‘What of Master Firethorn?’

  ‘He will resist the idea strongly at first.’

  ‘Can you win him around?’

  ‘Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill are of my persuasion. And there is no other actor in the company who could carry the part as well as Owen.’ Nicholas grew serious. ‘We need the best man we have, Anne. Love’s Sacrifice brings us here to Southwark. Much rides upon the event. We must give off our true fragrance at The Rose.’

  ‘I will be there to inhale it,’ she promised.

  Over a light breakfast of bread and meat, he had told her the full details of Sebastian Carrick’s death. She was frankly appalled. Anne Hendrik was well aware of the multiple burdens under which Westfield’s Men laboured to make their precarious living. This new crisis would only make matters worse. Though she had great sympathy for the company itself, her main object of concern was Nicholas Bracewell. She became fearful.

  ‘Take care, sir,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘The murderer must be brought to justice, Anne.’

  ‘But you will need to search the stews of Turnmill Street to find him. There are many perils there. I would not have you meet the same end as Sebastian himself.’

  ‘I will show all due caution.’

  ‘Go armed, Nick. Take friends.’

  ‘More may be achieved alone.’

  ‘Add discretion to your valour.’

  He grinned fondly. ‘That is why I live in your house.’

  ‘I’d have you continue here,’ she said softly. ‘For my sake, therefore, tread warily in Clerkenwell.’

  ‘My search begins elsewhere.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘A father has the right to know of his son’s death.’

  ‘Master Andrew Carrick?’

  ‘I must find a way to reach him.’

  The Tower of London was the oldest and most secure building in the city. Founded by William the Conqueror on the site of a Roman fortification, it still dominated with its awesome combination of elegance and strength. It was set between neat gabled houses and lawns sloping down to the glittering havoc of the Thames. The Norman citadel had been constructed of white stone from Caen and its enormously thick walls rose to a height of ninety feet. Successive kings enlarged and reinforced the edifice until it became a huge complex of towers, baileys, domestic buildings and outworks. By the time Elizabeth came to the throne, the Tower had fulfilled its usefulness as a royal residence but her family left vivid mementoes in the crypt of the Chapel Royal of St Peter’s ad Vincula where the vast majority of decayed bodies lacked heads. The obvious headquarters for the Mint, the building also housed the Crown jewels, the royal armoury and the national archives. In addition, it was the most feared prison in England. Above all else, however, the Tower remained what it had always been – the focal point of a burgeoning city that was planned around a main river and encircled by fields, forests, marshes and hills.

  Andrew Carrick had admired its imposing exterior for many years until he was invited to sample its accommodation. His view of the Tower of London was more jaundiced now. It had robbed him of his freedom and kept him away from his family and his friends. In its cold and comfortless way, it had shut him out of life itself and forced him into an idleness that was a kind of death to him. Carrick was an able lawyer with eager clients awaiting his services. But the slim, poised, well-dressed man with an incisive mind was now a rather plump and indolent creature with a shabbiness to him that he detested. Imprisonment was irksome. There were, however, compensations.

  ‘Good morrow, sir.’

  ‘Good day, Master Carrick.’

  ‘How does th
e world find you?’

  ‘In excellent heart. And you, sir?’

  ‘I survive, I survive.’

  ‘Have faith, my friend.’

  ‘It goes hard with me, Master Fellowes.’

  ‘We pray for your release.’

  ‘You are most kind.’ Andrew Carrick made an effort to shake off his melancholy. ‘But what of life beyond these walls? Tell me all the news, sir. It is a week and more since we spoke last and I am starved of intelligence. Who rises? Who has fallen? What are the rumours? Give me some interest. Unlock my mind at least.’

  ‘I’ll try what keys I may …’

  Harry Fellowes offered all the news he could and each morsel was snapped up greedily by the prisoner. Fellowes was a short, round, self-satisfied man whose inclination towards pomposity was held in check by his genuine sympathy for Andrew Carrick. Enemies of state deserved to be incarcerated in the Tower before their execution but the lawyer was no traitor. He was an honest, patriotic, God-fearing Englishman whose offence was slight if illjudged. Because he was so harmless a guest, Carrick was given licence to leave his cell and roam his tower for exercise. On one such walk he had been fortunate enough to meet and befriend Harry Fellowes. It was a relationship that kept the prisoner’s hope alive and sustained him through the long reaches of boredom. The Tower of London was a place of work to Fellowes. As Clerk of Ordnance, he was a regular visitor to the armoury and he always came equipped with a fund of stories about court and city. Carrick was sincerely grateful and his lone friend warmed to him.

  ‘That is all I have to tell you, sir.’

  ‘I cannot thank you enough, Master Fellowes.’

  ‘Does it bring relief to your plight?’

  ‘It does, sir,’ said Carrick with tattered dignity. ‘It does. Would that I could repay you in some way.’

  Harry Fellowes appraised him shrewdly for a long time.

  ‘Haply, you may,’ he said. ‘Haply, you may.’

  Nimbus spent the night in the largest stable and on the deepest bed of straw. As shafts of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the timber to fill the place with endless golden dots, the horse woke, raised itself up and looked around. It yawned a welcome to a new day then got to its feet in a gentle rustle. A flick of the head opened the top half of the stable door, a dextrous mouth pulled back the wooden bolt. Kicking the lower half of the door open, Nimbus went off in search of service and he soon found it. He was back less than a minute later with his teeth clamped on the collar of a terrified ostler who was virtually carried along by the horse. The dishevelled young man was thrown into what he thought was an empty stable. As he stumbled over a pile of blankets, however, he had his second shock of the morning. A human voice roared abusively. The blankets then opened like giant petals to allow a bleary-eyed Cornelius Gant to emerge. He glared at the ostler and broke wind.

  ‘Fetch our breakfast, boy!’ he ordered.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hay for Nimbus. Ale and bread for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do not stand there shivering like that. About it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The ostler moved away then turned to look back in wonderment at Gant. ‘You spent the night here, sir?’

  ‘Nimbus and I are never parted.’

  ‘But you kept the whole inn amazed with your tricks. I have handled many horses in my time but none like this of yours. He is without compare. You were showered with coins for your performance and rightly so. Why sleep in a stable when you could afford the finest room at the inn?’

  Gant chuckled. ‘The bed was too small, boy.’

  ‘Too small?’

  ‘It would not hold me and Nimbus.’

  The horse raised its head and gave a manic laugh.

  Lawrence Firethorn played the farewell scene with his wife as if it were the climax of a drama. His arms flapped in protest, his lips kissed at random, his tongue poured out a stream of pious nonsense about how he would pine and wilt in her absence. Onlookers were convinced that the couple would be parted for ever instead of simply endure with a mere fortnight’s separation. Margery shifted between romance and reality with practised smoothness, basking in the effusive compliments while at the same time issuing orders about the running of the house. The beautiful damsel torn away from her handsome prince wanted to make sure that her children were properly looked after and her servants kept in line. When it was time for the travellers to depart, Firethorn embraced her once then helped her into the saddle of her horse. Believing there was safety in numbers, she set off on the road to Cambridge with a sizeable company.

  Her husband waved his hat after her until she was out of sight then his expression changed completely. A sense of liberation coursed through him and he gave a ripe chuckle. Fame brought him a large following. Lovely ladies threw themselves at his feet all over London. For the first time in years, he would be able to bend down and pick them up at will without having to look over his shoulder. Marriage brought many blessings but none, he now decided, as sweet as the occasional release from its chafing yoke. Pulling on his hat and slapping his thigh with joy, he strode back towards his own horse but his euphoria was short-lived. Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying towards him.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  ‘What brings you to Shoreditch this early, man?’

  ‘Heavy news.’

  ‘I’ll hear none today. I feel as light as a feather.’

  ‘It concerns Sebastian.’

  ‘You found the rogue?’

  ‘Alas, I did.’

  ‘Bring him to me. I’ll roast the rascal alive!’

  ‘Sebastian is beyond recall.’

  They were standing in the street so Nicholas moved him into the doorway of a shop to gain some privacy. He then told his tale briefly and calmly. Stunned at first, Firethorn shaded quickly into irritation and then into a black rage. He wanted the murderer brought to justice so that he could take revenge on him with his own hands but these feelings did not arise out of any sense of loss at the death of a loved one. What Firethorn could not forgive was the damage which had been done to his company. The killer of Sebastian Carrick would be called to account for the cruel injury he had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

  ‘What am I to do, Nick?’ he said with both arms flailing away. ‘This heavy news of yours flattens me to a wafer. I named Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer and the fool gets himself axed to death in a squalid brawl.’

  ‘That is not what happened,’ said Nicholas firmly.

  ‘No matter for the details, man. I have to live with the consequences. At one fell stroke, I have lost my sharer, my reputation for good judgement and my hopes of happiness. I have also lost a fine actor who was about to shine in a new play. Who is doing all this to me?’

  Nicholas kept a tactful silence while his employer vented his self-pity. They then strolled back together along Bishopsgate Street towards the city walls. Firethorn had been sobered. Instead of cantering in through Bishopsgate itself in search of his first conquest, he was leading his horse somnolently along and wondering how he would face the barbed gibes of Barnaby Gill. When his fury had blown itself out, he turned as ever to Nicholas for counsel. The latter argued that their first priority was to contact Andrew Carrick to inform him of the death of his son. Firethorn agreed at once and undertook to solicit the help of their patron, Lord Westfield, to gain admittance to the Tower. He offered to visit the prisoner with Nicholas but the book holder insisted on going alone. Out of consideration to the bereaved father, he would keep a vain actor away from him and save an already painful situation from becoming an agony.

  As they merged with the jostling crowd which pressed in through the gate, an immediate problem exercised Firethorn.

  ‘What of Love’s Sacrifice?’ he asked.

  ‘It will have its hour at The Rose.’

  ‘Sebastian was to have played Benvolio.’

  ‘Assign the role to someone else.’

  ‘Edmund
has written the part with him in mind.’

  ‘A good actor will trim the role to suit himself,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we have the ideal substitute in Owen Elias.’

  Firethorn was dismissive. ‘He is not competent.’

  ‘He proved his mettle in Marriage and Mischief.’

  ‘A harmless romp of no consequence. Love’s Sacrifice is richer material. It is drama in a tragic vein.’

  ‘Then Owen elects himself. Tragedy is his strength.’

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

  ‘Put him to the test, sir.’

  ‘We will look elsewhere for our Benvolio.’

  ‘Against the wishes of the author?’ said Nicholas. ‘I have it from Edmund Hoode himself. He told me that Owen would be a wiser choice for Benvolio than Sebastian. Your worthy poet will confirm that opinion and Master Gill will lend his authority to it as well.’

  ‘Ha!’ snarled Firethorn with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. ‘What do playwrights know of true players? What do mincing comedians know of real men? Edmund and Barnaby may say what they wish. I am proof against their folly.’

  ‘But I share it, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘You side with them against me!’ accused the other.

  ‘I support Owen Elias to the hilt.’

  ‘Treachery!’

  ‘No, sir. Fair dealing.’

  Firethorn turned an apoplectic stare on him but Nicholas met it without flinching. A silent battle of wills took place. Without his book holder’s support, Firethorn would have enormous difficulty in getting his way against the combined determination of Hoode and Gill. He tried to cow Nicholas with a growl of disapproval but the latter stuck bravely to his guns. Few people dared to obstruct the freewheeling tyranny of Lawrence Firethorn. Fewer still could do so with such audacity and composure.