The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 7

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I think he was whipped through the streets.’

  ‘A malefactor?’ said Ruff in surprise.

  ‘I will ask him when I finally catch up with him.’

  Nicholas waved aside Ruff’s offer of company on his search and set off into the night. His mind played endlessly with the possibilities as he walked over the Bridge and swung into Bankside. It was late but he had promised himself he would make three calls. The first two visits were fruitless but he was not dismayed. He went on to the third name on his list.

  The Cardinal’s Hat was situated in a narrow, twisting, fetid lane which had an open drain running down its middle. There was no declaration of papacy in the tavern’s name. To advertise the wares of the house, the cardinal’s hat on the sign outside had been painted with such lewd skill that its crown resembled in shape and colour the dimpled tip of the male sexual organ.

  As Nicholas turned into the dark lane, a figure swung out of the shadows and bumped into him. After a grunted apology, the man tried to move off but Nicholas gripped him firmly by the throat. Slipping a hand into the man’s jerkin, he retrieved his newly-stolen purse then flung the pickpocket against a wall. With groans and curses, the man limped off into the night.

  The Cardinal’s Hat was so grimy and sordid that it made the Hope and Anchor look like a church vestry. Bare-breasted whores lolled about, drink and tobacco stoked up an inferno of noise, and all the dregs of the London streets seemed to have fetched up within. Tables were jammed so close together that any movement across the room was almost impossible. The reek that greeted him was overwhelming.

  Nicholas lowered his head to duck under the main beam and one of the prostitutes jumped up to plant a guzzling kiss on his lips. He eased her away and sought out the surly landlord. The man was small and sinewy, a watchful polecat with its claws at the ready. He gave Nicholas no help at all until the sketch was produced. Holding it up to the tallow, the landlord squinted at it then let out a yell of rage.

  ‘That’s him! I know the rogue!’

  ‘He was here?’

  ‘Last week. Monday. Tuesday, maybe.’

  ‘You’re certain he’s the same man?’

  ‘He’s no man,’ snarled the other, thrusting the sketch back at Nicholas. ‘That’s a vile beast you have there.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Alice would tell you if she was here – God help her!’

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Yes!’ hissed the landlord. ‘When she took him up to her room, he was quiet as a lamb. Five minutes later, she’s screaming for dear life and the scurvy knave is beating her black and blue. The poor drab is in the hospital with both arms broken. But that’s not the end of it, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The dog smashed a window upstairs and leans out to hack at our sign with his sword.’

  ‘The Cardinal’s Hat?’

  ‘He’d have cut it down if we hadn’t chased him off.’ The landlord cleared his throat and spat on the floor. ‘It’s the same man in the drawing. If ever he steps in here again, they’ll have to carry him out in his coffin!’

  Sympathy and excitement stirred inside Nicholas. He was sorry that another girl had been so grievously assaulted but he was elated to have picked up the trail at last.

  Redbeard had broken cover. Nicholas would stay at his heels.

  Anne Hendrik sat in her favourite chair and worked at her sewing by the light of a large candle. Her needle rose and fell with an easy rhythm. It did not pause for a second when the front door opened and her lodger returned. Anne kept her eyes and her mind on what she was doing, except that her needle now jabbed into the material with a touch of venom.

  Nicholas Bracewell was puzzled. A warm smile and a welcome usually awaited him at the house. This time he had not even elicited a polite enquiry about how his day had gone. Anne sewed on.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ she said crisply.

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘The young woman insisted on seeing you.’

  ‘Woman?’ He was startled. ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘No,’ replied Anne tartly. ‘Nor would she tell me what her business with you was. It was a private matter, she said. I showed her up to your chamber.’ Her voice hardened as he took a conciliatory step towards her. ‘Don’t keep your visitor waiting, sir.’

  He gestured his bafflement then went up to his bedchamber, tapping on the door before going in. The young woman leapt up from a chair and went over to him.

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank heaven I’ve found you!’

  She clasped his hands tightly and tears formed in blue eyes that looked as if they had cried their fill. The woman was short, neat, pleasantly attractive, no more than twenty and wearing a plain dress beneath a simple gown. Nicholas caught a whiff of the country. One glance told him why his landlady had been so offhand with him. The girl was clearly pregnant. Anne Hendrik had seen a distressed young woman in search of Nicholas and assumed that he was the father of the child.

  He ushered her gently to a chair and knelt in front of her. The room was small but well-furnished and impeccably clean. She looked out of place in such comfortable surroundings.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Susan Fowler.’

  ‘Fowler? … Surely you are not his daughter?’

  ‘No,’ she replied in hurt tones. ‘Will was my husband.’

  Fresh tears trickled down her flushed cheeks and he took her in his arms to comfort her, letting her cry her fill before she spoke again. His head shook apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea that he was married.’

  ‘It was almost two years ago.’

  ‘Why did he say nothing?’

  ‘He wanted it that way,’ she whispered. ‘Will said the theatre was a world of its own. He wanted somewhere to go to when he had to get away from it.’

  Nicholas could sympathise with that desire but he still could not fit this attractive young housewife alongside the blunt and outspoken Will Fowler. There was a naive willingness about her that seemed unlikely to ensnare an actor, who, just like his fellows, had always taken his pleasures along the way with much more worldly creatures.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

  ‘In St Albans. With my parents.’

  ‘Two years ago, you say?’

  ‘All but, sir.’

  It began to make sense. Two years earlier, the company had toured in Hertfordshire and given a couple of performances at Lord Westfield’s country house in St Albans. The relationship had somehow started there and, unaccountably, led to marriage. What now assailed Nicholas was a shaming guilt. They had laid Will Fowler in his grave without a thought for this helpless woman.

  ‘How did you find out?’ he wondered.

  ‘I knew something had happened. He always sent word.’

  ‘When did you come to London?’

  ‘Today. Will had spoken about The Queen’s Head.’

  ‘You went there?’

  She nodded. ‘The landlord told me.’

  Nicholas was mortified. Of all the people to report a husband’s death to a vulnerable young wife, Alexander Marwood was the worst. He could make good news sound depressing. With a genuine tragedy to retail, he would be in his macabre element. Pain and embarrassment made Nicholas enfold Susan Fowler more tightly in his arms. He took the blame upon himself. Sensing this, she squeezed his arms gently.

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘We thought he had no next of kin.’

  ‘There’ll be two of us come September.’

  He released his grip and knelt back again. Susan Fowler had been told that he was the best person to explain the horrid circumstances of her husband’s death. Nicholas was as discreet as he could be, playing down certain aspects of the tale and emphasising that Will Fowler had been an unwitting victim of a violent and dangerous man. She listened with remar
kable calm until it was all over, then she fainted into his arms.

  He lifted her on to the bed and made her comfortable, releasing her gown from her neck and undoing her collar. Pouring a cup of water from the jug on his table, he dipped a finger in it to bathe her forehead. When she began to stir, he helped her to sip some of the liquid. She began to rally.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’s a trying time for you.’

  ‘I miss Will so much.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That man … at the tavern …’

  ‘He’ll be caught,’ promised Nicholas.

  Susan Fowler soon felt well enough to sit up with a pillow at her back. Now that her secret was out, she wanted to talk about it and did so compulsively. Nicholas was honoured that she felt able to entrust him with her confidences. It was a touching story. The unlikely romance between an ageing actor and a country girl had started with a chance meeting at St Albans and developed from there.

  The picture that emerged of Will Fowler was very much at variance with the man Nicholas had known. His widow spoke of him as kind, gentle and tender. There was no mention of his abrasive temper which had led him into so much trouble and which had finally contributed to his death. Susan Fowler had been married to a paragon. Though the time they spent together was limited, it had been a blissful union.

  Another surprise lay in store for Nicholas.

  ‘We married in the village church.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Will called it an act of faith.’

  ‘All marriages are that,’ he suggested.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she continued. ‘Will had vowed that he’d never enter a Protestant church. He was a Catholic.’

  Nicholas reeled as if from a blow. A man whom he thought he had known quite well was turning out to have a whole new side to his character. Religion was something with which the actor had always seemed cheerfully unconcerned. It did not accord too well with the freebooting life of a hired man.

  ‘He gave it up,’ she said with pride. ‘For me.’

  ‘Are you quite certain of all this?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Will, of the old religion?’

  ‘He was very devout.’

  ‘You talked about it?’

  ‘All the time. He showed me his Bible and his crucifix.’

  ‘Did he say how long he’d followed Rome?’

  ‘For years.’

  Astonishment gave way to speculation. Nicholas began to wonder if the actor’s ebullient manner was a kind of disguise, a wall behind which he hid himself so that nobody could get too close. If he could conceal his religion and his marriage so effectively, it was possible that he had other secrets.

  Susan Fowler was now patently exhausted. The shock of it all was draining her strength and her eyelids were drooping. He told her to stay exactly where she was and went quickly downstairs. Anne Hendrik was waiting for him, schooling herself to be calm yet evidently upset by the situation. She continued to ply her needle and avert her eyes from him.

  ‘An apology is due,’ he began.

  ‘Do not bother, sir,’ she answered.

  ‘The girl will have to pass the night in my chamber.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Anne, looking up at him. ‘I make objection to that, Nicholas. This is not a tavern with rooms to let for any doxy who happens to pass by.’

  ‘Susan Fowler is no doxy.’

  ‘Take her out of my house, if you please!’

  ‘You hear what I say?’

  ‘I care not what her name is.’

  ‘Susan Fowler,’ he repeated.

  ‘She will not pass the night under my roof, sir.’

  ‘The girl is Will Fowler’s widow.’

  Realisation dawned on her and her jaw dropped. It was the last thing she had expected and filled her instantly with remorse. She looked upwards then put her sewing aside and rose from her chair. Her natural compassion flowed freely.

  ‘Oh, the poor lass! Of course, she must stay – for as long as she wishes. The girl should not be travelling alone in that condition.’ She turned to Nicholas. ‘Why did you not tell me that Will Fowler was married?’

  ‘Because I only found out about it myself just now.’ He flashed her a warm grin. ‘Does this alter the case?’

  A brief smile lit up her face and she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Duties intruded.

  ‘If she is to sleep in that chamber, I must take up some clean bedding. And she may need help undressing.’ Her hand went up to her mouth. ‘Oh dear! What must she think of me, giving her such a frosty welcome when she came to my door?’

  ‘She did not even notice it, Anne.’

  ‘It was unpardonable.’

  ‘Susan Fowler is concerned with weightier matters.’

  ‘How long has she known?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘No wonder the girl is in such distress. I’d better go up to her at once and see what I can do to help her.’

  ‘She will be very grateful.’

  Anne went bustling across the room then stopped in her tracks as a thought struck her. She swung round on her heel.

  ‘If the girl is going to be in your bed …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where will you sleep?’

  His grin broadened and she replied with a knowing smile. It would give her the chance to show him how sorry she was.

  Chapter Five

  Edmund Hoode laboured long and hard over Gloriana Triumphant, and it underwent several sea changes. The first decision he made was to set it in the remote past. Censorship of new plays was strict and Sir Edmund Tilney, the Master of the Revels, was especially vigilant for any political implications in a piece. A drama featuring the real characters and issues involved in the defeat of the Armada would be far too contentious to allow even if it were a paean of praise.

  The principals had to be disguised in some way and a shift in time was the easiest solution. Elizabeth therefore became the fabled Gloriana, Queen of an ancient land called Albion. Drake, Hawkins, Howard, Frobisher and the other seadogs all appeared under very different names. Spain was transmuted into an imperial power known as Iberia.

  Creation came easily to some authors but Edmund Hoode was not one of them. He needed to correct and improve and polish his work all the time. It made for delays and heightened frustration.

  ‘When will it be finished?’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘Give me time,’ said Hoode.

  ‘You’ve been saying that for weeks.’

  ‘It’s taking shape, but slowly.’

  ‘We need to have it in rehearsal soon,’ reminded the other. ‘It will first see the light of day at The Curtain next month.’

  ‘That’s what worries me, Lawrence.’

  ‘Pah!’

  The Curtain was one of the very few custom-built outdoor playhouses in London and Firethorn was delighted that Gloriana Triumphant would have its premiere there. Apart from the fact that the theatre was close to his own home in Shoreditch, it offered far better facilities and a far larger audience than The Queen’s Head. It was also patronised more extensively by nobility – Lady Rosamund Varley among them – and this added to its lustre. Edmund Hoode still had qualms.

  ‘I do not like The Curtain.’

  ‘It is ideal for our purposes.’

  ‘The audience is too unruly.’

  ‘Not when I am on stage,’ boasted Firethorn.

  ‘All they want are jigs and displays of combat.’

  ‘Then they will be satisfied, sir. You give them a jig, two galliards and a coranto. What more can they ask? As for combat, they will watch the greatest sea battle in history.’

  ‘I’m still not sure that it will work.’

  ‘Leave it to Nicholas. He’ll make it work.’

  ‘But I have never put ships on stage before.’

  ‘It is a brilliant device. When the cannons go off, the audience will believe they see the Armada itself sin
k below the waves.’ Firethorn caressed his beard. ‘There is just one small thing, Edmund.’

  ‘What?’ sighed the author. ‘Your small things always turn out to be a complete rewrite of the play.’

  ‘Not this time. A few lines here and there will suffice.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘We need more romance somehow.’

  ‘Romance?’

  ‘Yes,’ explained Firethorn, slapping the table for effect. ‘I am portrayed as a famous hero and rightly so, but there must be another side to my character. Show me as a great lover!’

  ‘During a sea battle?’

  ‘Insert a scene on land. Perhaps two.’

  It was yet another example of the influence that Lady Rosamund Varley was having upon him. Since she had taken an interest in him, he went out of his way to present himself in the most attractive light. To play a love scene on stage was a means of rehearsing a dalliance with the lady herself. Firethorn was ready to distort the drama with incongruous material so that he could convey a message to one person in the audience.

  ‘We already have romance,’ argued Hoode.

  ‘Between whom?’

  ‘The seamen and their ships. The subjects and their queen. The people and their country. It is all love in one form or another.’

  ‘Give me real passion!’ insisted Firethorn.

  ‘Passion?’

  ‘Between a man and a woman.’

  ‘But there’s no reason for it.’

  ‘Invent one.’

  They were sitting in the room at Hoode’s lodgings where the author had spent so many interminable nights struggling with the play. He looked down at the sheaf of papers that made up Gloriana Triumphant. To contrive a love affair would mean radical alterations to the whole structure but he knew that he had to comply. Firethorn was relentless in his persistence.

  Hoode’s mind wandered back to an earlier humiliation.

  ‘I played my first important role at The Curtain.’

  ‘Were you well-received?’

  ‘They threw apple cores at me.’

  ‘Ungrateful dolts!’

  ‘It was an omen,’ said the author gloomily. ‘The Curtain has never been a happy place for me.’

  ‘We will change all that with Gloriana Triumphant.’

  Edmund Hoode did not share his optimism. Like most men who took their precarious living from the playhouse, he was racked by superstition. Those apple cores still hurt.