The Vagabond Clown Read online

  ‘A plan has already been devised.’

  ‘Even you cannot watch both of them at the same time.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘I’ll keep guard over Giddy Mussett. Someone else will make sure that he does not get too close to his rival.’

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘George Dart. I’ve told him to fetch and carry for Barnaby.’

  ‘Is he equal to the task?’

  ‘He’ll not let us down.’

  Ostlers came out to take charge of the horses. While the others got out of the wagons and unloaded their belongings, Nicholas and Firethorn went into the inn to speak to the landlord about accommodation. It was soon arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. Nicholas was responsible for deciding on the sleeping arrangements. Having put Mussett in the room that he would occupy himself with six others, he assigned Gill to a chamber as far away as possible. A tiring journey made supper especially welcome and the actors ate and drank with enthusiasm. Though he provided a deal of merriment, Mussett refused to touch any ale and Nicholas was duly impressed. Gill, by contrast, seated at the other end of the table, consumed too much food and drank far too much wine. The meal did not improve his bad temper. He glared at Mussett.

  ‘They should have left you in prison where you belong,’ said Gill harshly. ‘A rat-infested cell full of the lowest criminals is your natural home.’

  Mussett responded with an amiable chuckle. ‘You’ve committed some heinous crimes yourself, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I’ve watched you at the Queen’s Head and found you guilty of a murderous assault on every part you played.’

  ‘Enough of that!’ said Nicholas over the laughter. He suppressed Mussett with a cold stare. ‘I thought we had an agreement, Giddy.’

  ‘Barnaby put it out of my mind. But you are right, Nick,’ he went on, exuding penitence. ‘My comment was cruel and unfair. I offer Barnaby a sincere apology.’

  Gill was not appeased. ‘Then I throw it back in your teeth.’

  ‘If only I had some!’

  Mussett bared his few remaining fangs and raised another laugh. Firethorn brought the brief exchange to an end by drawing Gill into conversation about their mutual triumphs during former tours of the provinces. It was a successful distraction. Gill slowly mellowed. Nicholas, meanwhile, repeated his warning to Mussett to avoid any more clashes with the man he had been hired to replace. The rest of the evening passed without any further outbursts. One by one, the actors drifted off to bed. Mussett was among the first to leave and Nicholas was struck by the way that he ignored a parting jibe from Gill. Time rolled on until a mere handful of them still lingered in the taproom. Deputed to stay close to Gill, the exhausted Dart could barely keep his eyes open. He was grateful when his charge finally struggled from his seat with the aid of a wooden crutch.

  ‘Let me help you upstairs, Master Gill,’ volunteered Dart.

  ‘First, take me outside, George.’

  ‘Willingly.’

  ‘Let me rest on your shoulder.’

  Steadying himself on the crutch and the shoulder, Gill hopped across the floor on one foot with painful slowness, wincing as he did so but bearing the discomfort bravely. Dart was a patient assistant who escorted him all the way to the privy in the yard.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ said Gill, opening the door.

  ‘Am I to wait?’

  ‘No, take yourself off to bed. I can manage alone.’

  Dart withdrew gratefully and Gill closed the door of the privy behind him before loosening his breeches. It was no easy task when he could only stand on one leg. He began to regret the amount of drink that he had taken. It made him light-headed. Still in pain, he refused to let his disability get the better of him. It took an age for him to lower himself gingerly onto the seat. He soon lapsed into a reverie. So preoccupied was he with thoughts of wreaking his revenge on his rival that he did not hear the stealthy feet that approached outside nor even the gentle scraping noise against the timber. Five minutes later, he was ready to leave and begin the laborious climb up to his room. But there was an obstacle to overcome first. When he tried the door, it would not open and, no matter how hard he pushed against it, he could not budge it. Gill was enraged. He was trapped in a foul-smelling prison. He seethed, he shouted, he banged on the door with his crutch but nobody came to his rescue because he was out of earshot. While the rest of the company bedded down happily for the night, Gill was shut away in the Stygian gloom of the privy.

  It was an hour before someone finally let him out by removing the stake that had been jammed against the door. Gasping for air, Gill hopped out into the yard on his sound foot and made a solemn vow.

  ‘As God’s my witness, I’ll kill Mussett for this!’

  Nicholas Bracewell’s hopes of a swift departure after breakfast next morning were soon dashed. The actors were roused from their slumber, the wagons loaded and the horses harnessed. All ate heartily until the sorry figure of Barnaby Gill came in with the aid of his crutch. Everyone had heard of his plight in the privy and the sniggers were loud. Respected for his talent, the clown was never liked by the majority of the company because he was too vain and disdainful to mix freely with them. In the short time he had been with them, they found Giddy Mussett a much more pleasant companion. When Gill saw his rival, talking to the others with easy familiarity, his wrath was kindled once more.

  ‘You, sir!’ he challenged. ‘You lousy, beggarly, God-forsaken, flea-ridden cur!’

  ‘Good morrow, Barnaby!’ said Mussett cheerfully.

  ‘That was your doing, was it not?’

  ‘What crime am I supposed to have committed now?’

  ‘Locking me in the privy.’

  ‘Is that what happened?’ asked Mussett with a look of innocence. ‘It was not my jest, I promise you. I wish that it had been. If you were trapped in there, you had some idea of what it was like in prison. You were sitting on your own King’s Bench.’

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Firethorn, cutting the laughter dead. ‘Eat your breakfast, Barnaby. Life always feels more irksome on an empty stomach.’

  ‘I demand that you punish Mussett first,’ said Gill.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of his outrageous behaviour towards me.’

  ‘He denies it.’

  ‘I do,’ said Mussett with vehemence. ‘I’d never strike a man when he is down. Your injuries earn you my consideration, Barnaby. Why not take the weight off your foot and join us at the table?’

  ‘Join us?’ echoed Gill with indignation. ‘Join us? Do you dare to claim a place among Westfield’s Men? You are the interloper here, Giddy.’

  ‘Granted, but that does not mean I played a trick on you last night.’

  ‘Do you have any proof that it was him?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘Who else could it be?’ replied Gill.

  ‘Any one of a dozen people, Barnaby. You have hardly endeared yourself to us since we left London. Be more tolerant.’

  ‘I’ll not tolerate this! Giddy deserves to be arrested for this.’

  ‘Why not report me to the Privy Council?’ taunted Mussett.

  Even Firethorn’s booming command was unable to stem their mirth this time. It was so humiliating for Gill that Nicholas took pity on him. Moving across to him, he slipped an arm around his waist and almost carried him to a seat, lowering him carefully down. He looked around the table with a stern eye and the laughter gradually died away.

  ‘If you have finished,’ he said quietly, ‘there is nothing to detain you. When Master Gill has been allowed the privilege of eating his food in peace, he’ll join you and we can all set off.’

  They took their cue and rose from the table. Nicholas’s gentle rebuke achieved more than Firethorn’s angry yell. Most of those who withdrew to the yard were slightly ashamed. The apprentices were completely cowed. Accustomed to being bawled at by Firethorn, they no longer feared his rage quite so much. The last thing they wanted to do, however, was to arouse Nicholas’s displeasure. When the others had
dispersed, Mussett remained behind, standing at the end of the table like a prisoner before a magistrate. Gill scowled at him and Firethorn glowered. Nicholas then came to the defence of the clown.

  ‘I think you are mistaken,’ he said. ‘Giddy could not have been the culprit.’

  ‘He must have been!’ cried Gill. ‘Who else would stoop so low?’

  Mussett gave a shrug. ‘Not me, Barnaby.’

  ‘That’s an arrant lie.’

  ‘Giddy is speaking the truth,’ said Nicholas. ‘I left here at the same time as you and found him asleep upstairs. It was impossible for him to steal away and play that trick on you. I’d surely have heard him leave.’

  ‘There’s your answer, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, relieved to hear that Mussett was, after all, innocent of the charge. ‘It must have been one of the others. Or someone quite outside the company. Have you considered that?’

  ‘No,’ retorted Gill. ‘It was a vindictive act. I accuse Giddy.’

  ‘Then you accuse him wrongly,’ said Nicholas. ‘How could he be in two places at the same time? I slept near the door. Anyone going out or coming into the room would have woken me as they passed.’

  ‘In that case, he suborned someone else to do the deed.’

  ‘I doubt that. Who would take on such an office? None that I could name. They hold you in high esteem. Why should they lend themselves to a jest like this?’

  ‘On a promise of reward.’

  ‘Then it came not from me,’ said Mussett. ‘My purse is empty. I had no money to ensnare an accomplice, Barnaby. Look elsewhere.’

  ‘Or dismiss the incident from your mind,’ recommended Nicholas.

  ‘Aye,’ said Firethorn. ‘That’s the best advice. Forget the whole business.’ He pointed to the platter of food. ‘And put some victuals inside you. We must be away.’

  Gill was baffled. Until Nicholas had spoken up for him, he was convinced that Mussett had been responsible for the cruel jest. A doubt had now been put into his mind. It was confusing. Unable to gain retribution, he fumed in silence.

  The road to Maidstone took them through some of the prettiest countryside in Kent. It was a fine day but a swirling wind sprung up to bring an occasional shiver to the little cavalcade. Bushes trembled, grass rippled in the fields and trees swayed to the rustling rhythm of their leaves. Clumps of wild flowers shook their petals in complaint. No sooner did a burst of bright sunshine pacify them than the wind strengthened to begin its mischief all over again. Expanses of woodland were interrupted by pasturage for cattle and horses, but the most common sight was acre upon acre of fruit trees, waving to the travellers as they passed. Hops, a new crop to most of them, were also grown, rising high above the hedges and fences that enclosed them. From time to time, they caught sight of a prodigy house, owned by some rich London merchant, or some vast aristocratic estate. Proximity to London made the county an attractive home for the wealthy.

  Lawrence Firethorn rode at the head of his troupe like the captain of an army, chatting to Owen Elias, who rode beside him, about the first performance on their tour and wishing that they were not hampered by the presence of Barnaby Gill. Both men wore swords to deter any highwaymen from attack. Bringing up the rear was Edmund Hoode, a lone figure on a donkey, looking less like a member of a theatre company than a pilgrim on his way to a distant shrine. While others studied the changing landscape around them, Hoode’s mind was elsewhere, grappling with a scene in the new play that he was writing and wondering when and how he would find the time to commit his thoughts to paper.

  Giddy Mussett again diverted the occupants of the first wagon with his jests and anecdotes, endearing himself even more and winning their confidence completely. He then plied them with questions about the company, wanting to know as much detail as he could about the affray at the Queen’s Head. They had been trundling along for an hour when he moved to sit on the driver’s seat beside Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘Let me take a turn with the reins, Nick,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Have you handled two horses before?’

  ‘Two and four, Nick. Here, let me show you.’

  Nicholas gave him the reins, happy to have a rest from keeping the wagon on a fairly straight line while avoiding as many potholes as he could. Mussett was as good as his word. He was an experienced coachman who handled the horses well. Nicholas was able to relax. He was also glad of the opportunity to speak to Mussett alone.

  ‘Who did play that trick on Master Gill last night?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘I hope that you were not involved, Giddy.’

  ‘How could I be?’ asked Mussett. ‘You saw me fast asleep.’

  ‘I saw what I thought was you but the room was fairly dark.’

  ‘It was me, Nick, I dare swear it. I was too tired to pester Barnaby though I would love to shake the hand of the man who did lock him in the privy.’

  ‘It was nobody in the company. Fear would hold them back.’

  ‘Fear of being caught?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and fear of facing me afterwards. They know what I would say. We are bound together in this enterprise. Good fellowship is the only thing that will carry us through. Fall out with each other and we are doomed.’

  ‘I’ve never fallen out with anyone in my life,’ attested Mussett.

  ‘What about Conway’s Men?’

  ‘Ah, that was different, Nick. They fell out with me.’

  Nicholas smiled but he still had nagging doubts about the clown. Though he had settled into the company with apparent ease, Mussett needed to be watched. There was an unpredictability about him that was worrying. It stopped Nicholas from trusting him too much. Mussett tugged on the reins to guide the horses around a large dip ahead of them then he threw a glance at his companion.

  ‘Dick Honeydew was telling me of the affray,’ he said.

  ‘It robbed us of ten days at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘Was there no way to quell it?’

  ‘None,’ said Nick. ‘It caught us unawares.’

  ‘I’ve been on stage myself when fighting broke out and I always used it to my advantage. The last time it happened,’ recalled Mussett, ‘I tossed a bucket of water over the men who were brawling and dampened their spirits. It amused the other spectators and brought to fight to an end. Laughter is the best way to control wayward lads. Could not Barnaby have contrived it somehow?’

  ‘He had no chance, Giddy. They mounted the stage and assaulted him.’

  Mussett smirked. ‘Was his performance that bad?’

  ‘No,’ chided Nicholas, ‘and you know it only too well, Giddy. The fault lay not with him nor anyone else in the company. We were up against a dozen or so, paid to halt our play and drilled in the best way to do it. They caused such a disturbance that the whole yard was in turmoil. We were lost.’

  ‘Dick mentioned a spectator who was killed.’

  ‘Murdered where he sat.’

  ‘Who was the poor man?’

  ‘Part of Lord Westfield’s circle. A harmless fellow, by all accounts.’

  ‘Dick Honeydew did not know his name.’

  ‘There’s no reason why he should,’ said Nicholas, dropping his voice so that the apprentices behind could not hear him. ‘The lads were shaken enough, as it is. I saw no point in upsetting them again with details of a killing.’

  ‘So what was he called?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Simple curiosity,’ said Mussett. ‘I’m grateful to him. His death helped to give me life. If it had not been for the riot at the Queen’s Head, I’d still be in that torture chamber of a prison. I’ll not forget it in a hurry, Nick. While Barnaby and this other fellow suffered, I was the benefactor.’

  ‘The name will mean nothing to you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because even our patron could tell us little about it. Master Hope had not been in London long enough to win a place among Lord Westfield’s closest friends.’


  ‘Master Hope?’ asked Mussett, his interest quickening.

  ‘Yes, Giddy.’

  ‘Would that be Fortunatus Hope, by any chance?’

  Nicholas was surprised. ‘The very same. You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Heard of him and met him, Nick.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Less than a year ago.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘More than Lord Westfield, I suspect.’

  ‘And you actually met Master Hope?’

  ‘Three or four times,’ said Mussett. ‘It must be the same man because there cannot be two with that name. Besides, nothing pleased him more than to watch a play. That’s when our paths crossed, you see. During my time with Conway’s Men.’

  Maidstone was the shire town, built at an attractive point on the River Medway and containing something close to two and a half thousand inhabitants. Its bustling market drew in people from a wide area, swelling its population and bringing a noise and vibrancy to the heart of the community. Its long main street consisted largely of inns, shops and houses, all well maintained and giving the impression of neatness and civic pride. As Westfield’s Men came down the hill towards High Town, the first sight that greeted them was the prison, where the quarters of some traitors were set up on poles to act as a warning. Giddy Mussett looked over his shoulder at the apprentices.

  ‘Mark them well, lads,’ he said. ‘Those belong to actors who gave a bad performance and were executed for it. You’ll have to be on your mettle.’

  Following Lawrence Firethorn, who now led the way alone, he drove the first wagon along the High Street until they came to the Star Inn, a large and commodious hostelry with more than a faint resemblance to their home in London. It had the same shape and disposition as the Queen’s Head with each storey jutting out above the one below and with its shutters daubed with the same paint. What set it apart from the inn that they had left was that this one had no melancholy landlord with an intense dislike of actors. Jonathan Jowlett, their host, a beaming barrel of a man in his fifties, came into the yard to give them a cordial welcome. Alive to the benefits of having a theatre company in town, he was also fond of plays and had an almost reverential attitude towards those who presented them. Jowlett identified the leading actor at once.