The Mad Courtesan Read online

  ‘I like it well.’

  ‘Master Henslowe has worked wonders and we must repay him with like amazement on the stage itself.’

  ‘Indeed sir.’

  ‘How many souls will it now encompass?’

  ‘Some four hundred more.’

  Firethorn grinned. ‘That takes the tally almost to two thousand and a half. Westfield’s Men will pack them in to the full number.’ He paraded around. ‘But this stage, Nick! This joyous scaffold! I feel as if I could reach out and touch every spectator. Truly a miracle of construction.’

  Nicholas had already noted all the improvements. The Rose had been built a few years earlier on the initiative of Philip Henslowe, a former dyer and pawnbroker, and one John Cholmley, a grocer. Used at first for animal-baiting as well as for the performance of plays, the building had undergone extensive alteration during the previous winter. Henslowe had laid out the substantial sum of £105 to enlarge a structure that would henceforth operate exclusively as a theatre. By demolishing a wall at the rear, he was able to move the stage back and produce more standing space in the pit as well as additional seats in the galleries on both sides. The thrust of the acting area was consequently reduced and this made for the sense of intimacy which so impressed Firethorn. It was an architectural paradox. The audience expanded and yet somehow got closer to the performance.

  The actor-manager had been quick to assess every last advantage that he could gain onstage but Nicholas was more interested in the improvements behind the scenes. An enlarged backstage area meant a more comfortable tiring-house for the actors and more generous storage space for properties and scenery. Henslowe had wisely created the preconditions for bigger and more ambitious productions. The Rose could compete more effectively with its rivals. After the privations of the Queen’s Head, it was a privilege to work in a custom-built theatre and Westfield’s Men responded eagerly. Love’s Sacrifice would not lack spirit.

  ‘Our dear patron graces the occasion,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘He will not be displeased.’

  ‘I am in a mood for greatness.’

  ‘Your fellows will not let you down.’

  ‘I’ll take them with me to the very heights!’

  He declaimed a few lines from the play for effect then made an exit. Nicholas was still smiling as Owen Elias came back over to him. The latter’s rage was now muffled beneath a vague sense of guilt.

  ‘I did not mean to speak ill of him, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Sebastian. I had reason to hate the man but none to want him cut down so callously. Had he been here, he would have given a good account of Benvolio.’ Pride reasserted itself. ‘But my performance will be better.’

  ‘It will be different, Owen.’

  ‘Very different, sir, and much better.’ His face clouded. ‘I must make confession to you. I miss him.’

  ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘Even though I profit from his death, I miss the rogue. Let them hang his murderer on the highest tree in the city.’

  ‘We must catch him first.’

  ‘Is there hope of that?’

  ‘Not yet,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘But I will persist.’

  ‘Call on me for help.’

  It was a sincere offer and the book holder was touched. Sebastian Carrick had borrowed money from the Welshman which he had no intention of repaying. Owen Elias had many reasons to despise an actor who had always been preferred to him yet he was prepared to join in the hunt for the killer. Nicholas was grateful. It made him consider his friend’s plight anew.

  ‘Have you conned the lines?’ he asked.

  ‘I know that speech by heart.’

  ‘Could you deliver it this afternoon?’

  ‘Master Firethorn has expressly forbidden it.’

  ‘Master Firethorn will be dead.’

  ‘What say you?’

  ‘Benvolio will have no interruption.’

  Owen Elias let out a wicked chuckle. He knew the risk he would be running if he disobeyed Lawrence Firethorn but that did not frighten him in the least. An actor who had been kept back time and again was not going to squander a heaven-sent chance to make his mark. Love’s Sacrifice might yet enhance his career. He thought of the prostrate figure of Lawrence Firethorn, lying at his feet and powerless to control him. It was a moment that had to be seized and then savoured to the full.

  Wild laughter reverberated around The Rose.

  Money could purchase most things at the Tower of London. A small bribe to his gaolers had already gained Andrew Carrick relative freedom within the Beauchamp Tower and a slightly larger outlay of coin bought him an occasional release from his prison. The lawyer posed no threat. He was not held for any real crime and would never even try to escape. It was safe to let him wander at will, to visit the chapel for his spiritual needs, to watch the guard being drilled, to climb the south ramparts and gaze down at the busy Thames. It helped to relieve his enforced idleness and gave him a keen insight into the administration of the citadel. A casual stroll always furnished him with valuable information.

  Carrick was coming around the angle of the White Tower when he saw them standing outside the main door. They were deep in animated conversation. The portly frame of Harry Fellowes was bent forward in an attitude of deference. The fluttering hands of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, were expressing an authority that was mixed with gratitude. They formed an interesting double portrait and Carrick studied it with growing curiosity. From random chats with the affable Fellowes, he had gleaned a number of facts about the inner workings of the Ordnance Office. He knew, for instance, that its operations had enlarged dramatically in recent times. During the decade that led up to the Armada year of 1588, the Office had handled, on average, £9,000 per annum. According to Harry Fellowes, that amount had now almost doubled and it was still rising fast. Supplying the army and navy was a vast undertaking. War turned the Ordnance into one of the major spending departments.

  Expenditure of another kind was under discussion.

  ‘When will I receive it?’ said the Earl. ‘There is need for quick dispatch here.’

  ‘I will bring it to Croxley Hall in person, my lord.’

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘This evening at the latest,’ promised Fellowes.

  ‘You oblige me in this, Harry.’

  ‘I am always your humble servant, my lord.’

  ‘Do not delay in this matter.’

  Harry Fellowes bowed his acquiescence then walked with the Earl towards the Tower gate. Their earnest discussion continued. Andrew Carrick had got close enough only to hear faint snatches of what passed between them but the language of body and gesture had been very clear. What surprised him was that the venerable Earl of Chichester had deigned to visit his military depot at all. In his sinewy and grasping old hands, the Mastership of Ordnance had been largely a titular appointment and he was only shaken into action at moments of national emergency. The real work of the Office was done by the Clerk, Surveyor and Lieutenant of Ordnance. Though last in line, Harry Fellowes had boasted more than once that he was, in some sense, first in importance. It made his lively exchange with the Earl of Chichester all the more intriguing. Carrick soon got more elucidation.

  ‘I see the very man!’

  ‘Good day, Master Fellowes.’

  ‘I have need of that favour, sir.’

  ‘Ask it,’ said Carrick. ‘It shall be granted.’

  Having seen the Earl off the premises, Harry Fellowes was retracing his steps towards the White Tower. The sight of the lawyer brought a flabby smile to his face and he reached for a paper that was concealed inside his cloak.

  ‘I require the signature of an attorney at law.’

  ‘Even when he is a prisoner?’

  ‘A legal quibble, sir.’ They traded a laugh. ‘Will you aid me in this business, Master Carrick?’

  ‘Gladly, sir. What document must I witness?’

  ‘One that may presently liberate yo
u from your cell.’

  ‘I will sign it at once.’

  ‘This paper contains the terms of a loan.’

  ‘Between yourself and the Earl of Chichester?’

  ‘You are very observant,’ said Fellowes with a smirk. ‘The details need not concern you but this you may be told. My loan and your signature may bring us both advantage.’

  Andrew Carrick followed him with willing steps.

  A fine day, a fanfare of playbills and the ever-increasing fame of Lawrence Firethorn brought a large audience hurrying to The Rose. Gatherers collected the money at the doors then ushered the spectators through into the theatre. Standees soon crowded the pit and the benches in the galleries were filled with equal enthusiasm. The whole theatre buzzed with a hum of expectation. Westfield’s Men were held in high regard and there was no better place to display their wares than at this inspiring playhouse in Southwark.

  Lord Westfield timed his own arrival to gain maximum effect, sweeping into his cushioned chair in the upper gallery amid his usual entourage and acknowledging the sporadic applause that broke out by waving a gloved hand. A new play by his beloved company was not to be missed but the sybaritic patron was not there simply to lend tacit support. He expected to reap his share of the harvest of praise. Lord Westfield was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He was more inclined to let it blaze in the afternoon sun. It was the one certain way to annoy and frustrate the Earl of Banbury.

  Anne Hendrik also took her place on the benches. Since the theatre was virtually on her doorstep, she had willingly accepted her lodger’s invitation to come along and she had brought Preben van Loew with her. The Dutchman, an impassive character of middle years, was her most skilful hatmaker and he affected an almost puritanical distaste for the theatre but his presence lent her respectability and guaranteed her safety. As on previous occasions – Anne felt sure – her employee would end up enjoying the play hugely while doing his best to disguise the fact. She herself had been given a specific task by Nicholas Bracewell. He had contrived a series of special effects for Love’s Sacrifice and needed a pair of eyes in the auditorium. Anne Hendrik was there to be entertained and to sit in judgement. Handsomely dressed for the event, she looked incongruous beside the dark apparel of her laconic companion but she was used to this situation.

  A new play imposed additional responsibilities on the company. It was like fighting a battle with untried weapons. They might taste glorious victory or ignominious defeat. Only when they set their verse on its first cavalry charge into the ears of its spectators could they gauge the possible success of the encounter. In a world of swirling fashion, nothing was certain. Plots and themes which had held sway one month could become tedious the next. Characters who impressed in one piece could find they had no life outside it. Novelty was in request but its precise nature shifted all the time. Westfield’s Men hoped that Love’s Sacrifice would come through unscathed but they could not predict it with any confidence. In the heat of war, strange things could happen. For this reason, the tiring-house was pervaded by an even greater degree of nervous excitement than usual. Players and playwright alike were fearful lest there should be heavy casualties.

  It was at times like this that Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn came into their own. The book holder was a calming presence with a comforting smile while the actor-manager was an impatient general who was eager to lead the first attack. They put heart into the entire company and even Edmund Hoode’s faith in the play was restored. He had followed his usual practise of writing a cameo for himself that showed off his not inconsiderable talent as an actor. Barnaby Gill lapsed into his customary testiness and made useless last-minute complaints about the size and scope of his role. Collectively and individually, the company was going down some well-trodden paths.

  Lawrence Firethorn then diverged from them. As the moment of truth drew near and the excitement spiralled even higher, he twitched the curtain to get a brief glimpse of his latest audience. It was a fateful action. A sea of faces came into view but he saw only one of them. She was seated in the middle of the lower gallery with a poise that set her completely apart from the jostling bodies all around her. A heart-shaped face of inexpressible beauty was framed by black hair that swept upwards and vanished into a most enchanting feathered hat. The dark velvet dress and the white ruff only served to highlight the marmoreal loveliness of an exceptional young woman but the most arresting feature of all was her eyes. Dark and proud, they invested her whole being with a fiery disdain that made Lawrence Firethorn grin inanely. He had an even greater incentive to lead his troops into battle now.

  True love beckoned. Conquest was imperative.

  Owen Elias was as taut as a lute-string but nowhere near as melodious. Sitting in a corner of the tiring-house, he tried to work up his concentration for the important task in hand and he brooked no interruption. An apprentice who nudged him by mistake and an assistant stagekeeper who brushed past him by accident both felt the sting of his tongue. The irascible Welshman was feeling the strain. Nicholas Bracewell took note of this and drifted across to him for a quiet word.

  ‘Have no fears, Owen,’ he said. ‘You will excel.’

  ‘There is no doubting that,’ said the other with a touch of his old bravado. ‘Benvolio will rescue me from this oblivion in which they keep me. I will prove myself as fit a man as any in the company.’

  ‘Then why the long face?’

  ‘Because of Sebastian.’

  ‘You feel guilt?’

  ‘And sadness, Nick. When all my hatred of the man is put aside, I must acknowledge that this was his part. Benvolio was written with Sebastian in mind.’

  ‘Serve his memory by playing the part well.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘He would expect no less of you, Owen.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He resorted to a whisper. ‘As to the last speech in the play …’

  Nicholas winked. ‘That must be your decision.’

  Owen Elias grinned and felt more confident about what lay ahead. There was no more time to deliberate because a dozen bells were chiming out the hour in the vicinity of the theatre. It was two o’clock and Nicholas Bracewell was in position. With the chimes still echoing, he gave the signal and the performance started. Music was played from above and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak to acquaint the audience with the mood and matter of the play.

  Love oftentimes exacts too high a price,

  For no man loves without some sacrifice.

  Dan Cupid may be Venus’s only joy

  But he can be a cruel and wanton boy

  Who shoots his arrows far and wide at will.

  Trying to wound, he oft contrives to kill.

  Such is our case here …

  Having relayed the plot in rhyming couplets, Edmund Hoode brought his protagonist bursting onto the stage in a torrent of blank verse. Gondar was angry and no actor could express royal ire like Lawrence Firethorn. With underlings trailing at his heels, he raged and ranted until the whole audience was cowed by his majesty. He wore only a saffron robe over a simple tunic but he was every inch a king as he berated his guards for the unkind treatment of the captured Queen Elsin. Magnanimous in victory and with his own strict code of honour, he sent for his beautiful prisoner to release her from the shackles that bound her and to offer his heartfelt apologies. It was the first meeting between them and it robbed them of all hostility towards each other. Courtship began from the second they laid eyes upon each other. The howling Gondar became a tender and considerate lover.

  Never less than remarkable in any part, Firethorn had found one that drew a towering performance out of him. Long before the first act came to a close, the spectators had surrendered to him with the same willingness as the queen and he wooed them with a range of voice and gesture that was irresistible. Richard Honeydew was a wholly convincing Elsin with a wan loveliness that was only increased by adversity. As the actor-manager soared, the young apprentice responded well and their l
ove took flight.

  Firethorn slowly pushed out the frontiers of his art. He was not just giving a superb account of himself in a fine play, he was dedicating his talents to a particular person. The fine phrases that he showered upon his queen were really aimed at the inscrutable beauty in the middle of the lower gallery, the eloquent movements were a dance of desire to ensnare her interest. But whenever he stole a glance at the object of his passion, she remained calm and uninvolved. This drove him on to even more sublime heights but she still refused to show obeisance before her king. Black eyes hardly flickered in an impassive face. He was acting at someone who seemed to have a heart of stone.

  And yet she was not indifferent. Her attention did not wander and her interest did not slacken. Love’s Sacrifice got the same level gaze throughout. It held her without moving her. The Rose bestowed its wonder on Lawrence Firethorn. The intimacy on which he commented earlier allowed him – in his mind’s eye – to reach out and touch her a hundred times. Indeed, his wooing of Queen Elsin became a gentle fondling of the mysterious creature in the audience. When he had done this with other female spectators, they had usually succumbed to his charms with gushing readiness but he had signally failed on this occasion. That failure only sharpened the edge of his desire and turned up the flame of his already crackling performance. When he and his star-crossed queen lay dead together at the end of the play, a communal groan of horror went up. Gondar had been the epitome of military honour and courtly love. His fall was the stuff of tragedy.

  The play was not yet over. As the soldiers stood around the royal corpses, the actor who had been such a mesmerising Benvolio held up his hands to command silence. When he had drawn out the pause to its full, agonising length, he used sonorous tones to deliver a speech that had been cut during the rehearsal. Lawrence Firethorn stiffened and let out a growl of disapproval from beyond the grave but Benvolio would not be deflected. The still, sad music of his voice was a fitting epitaph for the doomed lovers.