The Mad Courtesan Page 7

  ‘What of the funeral?’ said the lawyer.

  ‘It will be delayed now that we have traced Sebastian’s family. You have the right to make all decisions here.’

  ‘Not while I am a common prisoner.’

  ‘Her Majesty must take account of your predicament.’

  ‘She has placed me in it.’

  ‘We will see what Lord Westfield may do to help.’

  ‘You earn my gratitude once more.’

  Andrew Carrick shook him warmly by the hand. There were tears of remorse in his eyes now and his sense of loss drew an odd confession out of him.

  ‘I wish I had seen Sebastian upon the stage.’

  ‘He adorned it even in the smallest part.’

  ‘My anger got the better of my curiosity. I should have relented. Now, alas, it is too late.’

  ‘He will be well remembered by his fellows.’

  The lawyer pondered briefly then gave a wistful smile.

  ‘That thought brings me some comfort.’

  Comfort was singularly lacking at the Queen’s Head where the company met for its first rehearsal of the new play. Before they could even begin, there was a sudden cloudburst and the inn yard was awash within minutes. Soaked by the rain and saddened by the news about their colleague, Westfield’s Men retreated into the room that they used as their tiring-house and continued their work in a dispirited mood. It was an inauspicious start for Love’s Sacrifice and its author was plunged into the kind of despair that he usually reserved for failed romances. Edmund Hoode lounged somnolently in a corner, dividing himself between anguish at the death of a friend and morbid predictions about the future of his new work. Lines which had sprung joyously from his brain to dance on the page now seemed dull and lifeless. Characters whom he had fleshed out with care now appeared skeletal. A plot which drove forward in a rising trajectory now limped along without purpose.

  Lawrence Firethorn tried to lift the general gloom with a booming attack on the leading role but he made no headway. Even in the hands of such a gifted clown as Barnaby Gill, the comic moments sounded tedious. The only performance which cut through the torpor to excite and uplift was that given by Owen Elias in the inherited role of Benvolio. He did not so much play the part as ambush it with greedy enthusiasm, so much so that it might have been written purely as a vehicle for his talents. It was an altogether exuberant reading that brought Sebastian Carrick to mind only to dismiss his claim to this particular role. Owen Elias proved beyond doubt what many had argued for some time. He was the better actor. When he declaimed his final speech over the entwined bodies of the dead lovers, he was deeply moving.

  Moistened eyes and dry throats broke out in all parts of the room. Edmund Hoode was coaxed back from dejection to the belief that his latest play might – against all the odds – be redeemed.

  Lawrence Firethorn tampered with that belief.

  ‘I require a few changes, Edmund,’ he said.

  ‘You were always a man of habit.’

  ‘Give me a longer speech at the end of Act Two and a shorter one at the start of Act Four. Let me dally less, let me suffer more. I would have a song to lighten my final hour on earth. Make it play upon the heartstrings.’

  ‘All this will be done, Lawrence.’

  The two men had repaired to the taproom with Barnaby Gill to lubricate their sorrow and to analyse the morning’s work. No play was ever accepted without reservation by the actor-manager and Hoode was braced to add refinements to order. Gill, too, invariably suggested improvements in his own role and an extra dance was conceded to him yet again so that he could offset a dark tragedy with his comic antics. Firethorn was not yet finished.

  ‘There is one more amendment …’

  ‘I await your command,’ said Hoode.

  ‘That closing epitaph …’

  ‘The music of truth,’ complimented Gill with unwonted gravity. ‘You have never brought a piece to such a beautiful conclusion, Edmund.’

  ‘I thank you for that, Barnaby.’

  ‘It has a quiet magnificence to it, sir.’

  ‘As did the man who delivered the speech.’

  ‘Owen Elias surpassed himself.’

  ‘I could not wish for a finer Benvolio.’

  ‘That speech alone will seal his fame.’

  The remark served to reinforce Firethorn’s decision.

  ‘Cut the lines, Edmund.’

  ‘Cut them!’

  ‘Completely, sir.’

  ‘It is the most affecting speech in the play.’

  ‘I care not for that,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘It is a distraction from the death of two tragic figures. We need no words to carry us to the grave.’

  Gill disagreed vehemently. ‘Cut those lines and you geld the whole play, Lawrence.’

  ‘I am the stallion in this drama, Barnaby.’

  ‘But I am the author,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Commissioned by me. Do you flout my authority, sir?’

  ‘Be reasonable, Lawrence.’

  ‘Trim your play, sir.’

  ‘This is the greatest sacrifice yet!’

  ‘Put your company first for once.’

  ‘I say the same to you!’ shouted the playwright. ‘Think what harm you do to Owen Elias if you remove that speech.’

  ‘That is Lawrence’s earnest intention,’ said Gill.

  ‘I will resist him on this!’

  ‘I will support you, Edmund.’

  ‘My words are sacred!’

  ‘Indeed, they are,’ said Firethorn softly, ‘and I would fight to retain each one. But the piece is over-long, Edmund. We can spare twenty meagre lines spoken by a rogue who has words enough in the rest of the play. Do as I bid, sir. It will give a rounder ending to your drama. Believe it well.’

  Argument ceased. The speech was cut.

  The offer was far too good to refuse. They were in a small village to the south of Oxford when they were accosted by the farmer. Cornelius Gant was reclining against the trunk of a chestnut tree and counting his booty from a full day in the university town. Nimbus cropped the grass nearby then ambled across to the pond to stare at its own reflection for a few moments before dipping its muzzle into the cool water. The heavy wagon came to a creaking halt and the farmer got down to the ground. He was a big, broad, red-faced man in his forties whose manner and clothing suggested moderate wealth. He came straight to the point.

  ‘That is a fine animal you have, my friend,’ he noted. ‘I would like to buy him from you.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I could not sell him,’ said Gant.

  ‘Is there no price that would tempt you?’

  ‘He is worth more than you could possibly offer.’

  ‘Do not doubt the strength of my purse,’ said the farmer, walking over to Nimbus to appraise him at close quarters. ‘I am as good a judge of horse-flesh as any in Oxfordshire. When I watched the blacksmith shoe this sturdy fellow, I could see the horse’s mettle. Come, sir. I have great need of such a beast. Let us talk terms.’

  Gant pulled himself lazily to his feet and glanced at the dappled carthorse between the shafts. The dark stripes along its back and loins showed that the farmer was fond of his whip. Gant strolled over to Nimbus and stroked the sleek coat with calculating affection.

  ‘He is no jade, sir. I would not have him beaten.’

  ‘Nor shall he be,’ assured the other. ‘I have beasts enough in my stable for the drudgery. This fellow here would be kept in style for my personal use.’

  ‘Where is your land, sir?’

  ‘Some five miles hence.’

  ‘And you would care for him?’

  ‘Like a father with a child.’

  Gant knew that the farmer was lying but went along with the deceit to drive a hard bargain. When a bag of crowns was tipped into his hands, he reluctantly agreed to the sale. He gave Nimbus a farewell pat on the neck.

  ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said with evident sadness. ‘I am sorry to part with you but you go to a good master. Spare
me further suffering and leave quickly. I will turn my back and rest beside this tree.’

  Nimbus gave a forlorn neigh then turned obediently to the farmer who instantly hitched his reins to the back of the waggon and drove off. Cornelius Gant waited until they were out of earshot before he cackled with delight. It was the second time in a week that he had sold Nimbus for such a handsome profit. He sauntered across to the inn and ordered the best meal that they could provide. By the time he had washed it down with ale, some two hours had passed. Gant paid the reckoning and went back to the chestnut tree near the pond to find Nimbus contentedly grazing once more. Five miles away, an irate farmer was examining his bruises and cursing the horse which had so unexpectedly thrown him from the saddle. He vowed revenge but it was a vain boast.

  Nimbus was already galloping out of his reach.

  ‘On, on!’ urged Gant happily. ‘We go to see the Queen!’

  London buzzed with rumour and speculation. The enforced absence from court of an ageing sovereign put a new zest into a languid nobility. Royal physicians and ladies-in-waiting were offered large bribes to reveal the true facts of the situation but they were proof against all enquiry. Queen Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket of silence that only seemed to confirm the worst diagnoses. Since there was no official denial that she was fading away, it came to be generally accepted by those who stood to gain or lose most by a change of monarch. No heir existed, no successor had been named. Factions hardened. Solemn conclaves were held to discuss the various claimants to the throne.

  One such gathering could be found at Croxley Hall in the Strand, the palatial London home of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester. This distinguished old soldier with silver hair and beard encroaching upon a face of wrinkled parchment still retained the habit of command. As one name came firmly into favour, his fist pounded the table and his voice rose above the babble with peremptory authority.

  ‘It is decided,’ he announced. ‘About it, sirs.’

  His confederates streamed from the room to implement their scheme in a dozen different ways and places. The political dice had been cast and they had to move fast to ensure that they would pick up the winnings from the game. Two senior men in the enterprise were left alone together. The Earl of Banbury was at the other end of the long table.

  ‘Well, Roger?’

  ‘Our plan of campaign is sound,’ said his host.

  ‘It will mean a heavy investment.’

  ‘Handsome rewards await us.’

  ‘We must spend money in order to make it,’ reminded the other. ‘Do you have funds at your disposal?’

  ‘None!’ said the old soldier with a shrug. ‘You?’

  ‘Not a penny.’

  ‘Then must we find some capital.’

  ‘Where?’

  The Earl of Chichester considered the matter with a furrowed brow then he gave a brittle laugh. As Master of the Ordnance, he was supremely aware of the importance of having plenty of ammunition in store for an encounter. His coach was soon carrying him towards the Tower of London.

  A long and tiring day became even longer and more tiring in its closing hours. Nicholas Bracewell had hardly stopped since dawn. After the visit to Andrew Carrick, he had set the funeral arrangements in motion, returned to Southwark to see the manager of The Rose about the forthcoming presentation of Love’s Sacrifice, reported back to Lawrence Firethorn at the Queen’s Head, discussed the play’s requirements with its jaundiced author, placated the ever-grumbling landlord of the inn and tried to reconcile Owen Elias to the loss of the finest verse ever written for him. A further session with Firethorn had been followed by long debates with two crucial members of the company, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, and Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter. Both were being called upon to make a major contribution to a new play that was being staged at London’s newest theatre.

  It was late evening before Nicholas could even begin the task of searching the stews of Clerkenwell. Turnmill Street was seething with custom. Easy lust and ready money were all that gained respect there. Nobody welcomed awkward questions about a murder victim. At most of the places he visited, Nicholas found himself ignored, spurned, threatened or even buffeted. Haunts which had been familiar to Sebastian Carrick were full of danger to his friend. Nicholas was a patent outsider. Much against his will, therefore, he had to pose as a client to gain acceptance.

  ‘What would you have, sir?’ she said.

  ‘The wildest creature in the house.’

  ‘We have punks of all ages, all sizes, all colours.’ The old woman gave a toothless grin. ‘Name your pleasure.’

  ‘I would like to choose my company.’

  ‘What price did you set on it, kind sir?’

  Nicholas slipped a few coins into her grubby palm and was rewarded with a foul-breathed kiss. She conducted him along a passage and into a low room that was filled with the stench of sin and tobacco smoke. Noisy men lolled at tables with their whores. By the light of a candle, others played cards in a corner. The old woman waved a hand and Nicholas was confronted by a semicircle of trulls, each one of them showing off her body and shooting him bold glances.

  ‘Take one or take all,’ said the old woman.

  ‘I like true madness,’ he explained.

  ‘You heard the gentleman,’ continued the hostess. ‘He wants some lunacy in his loving. Which of you will serve him best?’ She grinned a challenge. ‘Who is the mad courtesan?’

  He was gentle and compliant when she took him up to her room but he proved a savage lover. Once inside her, he punished her with cruel bites and hard blows until he reached the height of his passion. Frances was bleeding from the nose and the mouth by the time that he drifted off to sleep. She rolled him over onto his back and reached under the pillow for her knife. One deep thrust into his fat throat was all that it needed. Frances watched him grunt his last then she went to the window to give a signal. One more dead body was soon being lugged away from her murderous embrace.

  Chapter Five

  The Rose was an aptly named symbol of the flowering of the London theatre under Queen Elizabeth. It was not simply a source of entertainment for idle pleasure-seekers but one of the results of that great upsurge of creative energy which had established the Tudor dynasty as a major force in world politics. Like the two outdoor playhouses in Shoreditch – The Theatre and The Curtain – it helped to meet the rising demand for new plays of all kinds. The stage was a truthful mirror of its time. It celebrated all that was best and castigated all that was worse. It provoked, it enchanted, it mocked, it inspired. On occasion, it even destroyed. With its bustling freedom and its dangerous spontaneity, it had an impact which was unique and which stretched far beyond the confines of the actual playhouses. Drama was beloved at court. It was an art that was practised with royal assent.

  Floral tribute was inevitable because the capital’s most recent theatre was built on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink. The choice of Southwark was deliberate. Like Shoreditch, it was conveniently outside the city boundaries and thus spared the civic hostility and narrow-mindedness that hindered work at the few remaining inn-yard venues such as the Queen’s Head. Material which would arouse moral outrage in Gracechurch Street could be presented with undiluted vigour at The Rose. It had given Edmund Hoode wider scope for his imagination and more leeway for his daring. Love’s Sacrifice could never be staged at the Queen’s Head in its original form. The irony was that Southwark permitted a freedom that was offset by an act of self-imposed censorship.

  Owen Elias was outspoken in his wrath.

  ‘It is treachery of the basest kind!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘You have lost but one speech,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I have been stabbed in the back by my fellows.’

  ‘That is not true, Owen.’

  ‘Those twenty lines crown the whole play,’ argued the Welshman with hopeless fury. ‘They lift the drama and redeem the hero in his tragic fall.’ Self-interest emerged
. ‘They give my Benvolio an opportunity for which I have waited this long time. I am betrayed, Nick!’

  ‘Do not be cast down.’

  ‘I am mortally wounded,’ said the other. ‘Sebastian would not have suffered this slight. Had he played the part, it would have been seen without mutilation. Benvolio would have delivered his last oration.’

  ‘That is something we will never know.’

  ‘Fight for me here. Take up my cause.’

  ‘I have done so many times.’

  Nicholas Bracewell had profound sympathy for the actor. He yielded to none in his admiration of Lawrence Firethorn but he was not blind to the other’s faults. Professional envy had dictated the omission of the final speech. The dead hero did not want to cede any of his glory to another. It was unjust but it was not altogether untypical and the book holder heard himself making the same soothing sounds he had made before to others in a similar predicament. Firethorn liked to occupy more than his place in the sun.

  Owen Elias and his friend were standing on the stage of The Rose not long after the morning’s rehearsal had ended. Because the theatre now had its own resident company – Lord Strange’s Men – access to its boards was limited and the new play had to content itself with one full rehearsal before being launched upon the public. Most of the work on Love’s Sacrifice had thus been done at the Queen’s Head and the preparation was thorough. Westfield’s Men had no difficulty in adapting their performances to the special demands of The Rose.

  Lawrence Firethorn berated his company with his usual gusto but they knew that his criticism was largely for show. He was clearly delighted with the rehearsal and confident that the afternoon would add yet another classic role to his gallery of triumphs. It gave his ebullience a slightly manic edge. As the actor-manager came strutting towards them, Owen Elias sidled off and watched mutinously from a corner. The beaming Firethorn closed on his book holder.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said jovially. ‘What do you think of it, sir? Is not this place a marvel?’