The Mad Courtesan (10 page)

The words floated into his ears to give Nicholas a mild sting. He thought of the hideous corpse he had seen laid out on its cold slab. A vile body indeed. Its head was split asunder. Its limbs were bruised. Its back was a blood-red signature on a death warrant.

He glanced around the mourning family, relieved that none of them had been forced to see their beloved Sebastian in his final incarnation. Their memories of a handsome and dashing young man would be untarnished. No parents were present. The mother had long since died and the father was detained elsewhere. Not even the influence of Lord Westfield had been able to release Andrew Carrick from the Tower of London in order to attend the funeral of his only son. The lawyer was keeping a silent vigil in his cell. This meant that the principal mourner was Marion Carrick, younger sister of the deceased, supported by an uncle, an aunt, a few cousins and an old maidservant.

Edmund Hoode had come along with Nicholas to represent the company. They were pleasantly surprised when Owen Elias attached himself to the fringe of mourners.
He had come to pay his respects to a man with whom he had many differences in life. It was a worthy gesture. When the coffin vanished beneath a thin layer of earth, the funeral party began to disperse in subdued bewilderment. Nicholas Bracewell was moving away with Edmund Hoode when there was a tug at his sleeve. He turned to view the pallid loveliness of Marion Carrick who was dressed in seemly black.

‘I must thank you, Master Bracewell,’ she said.

‘We are sorry to intrude upon your grief.’

‘Sebastian’s friends are welcome, sir, and he counted you as one of his best friends. My father wrote to tell me of your consideration in this grim affair. We are indebted to you. It will not be forgotten.’

‘Your brother was an excellent fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He will be fondly remembered by Westfield’s Men.’

‘Indeed, he will,’ added Edmund Hoode.

‘Thank you, sirs.’

Marion Carrick was a neat young woman of middle height with a restrained beauty that was not chased away by evident sorrow. She had none of her brother’s extravagance and yet her charm was almost equal. Anguish lifted for a second to allow a flash of anger to show.

‘This was a most heinous crime,’ she snapped.

‘It shall be answered,’ said Nicholas.

‘May we count on your help, Master Bracewell?’

‘I will not rest until the matter is settled.’

‘This wounds me to the quick. I loved Sebastian with all my heart. I could kill the murderer with my own hands.’

‘He will be brought to justice, Mistress Carrick.’

‘I trust you to fulfil that promise, sir.’

‘It is a most solemn oath.’

Even before he attended the funeral, Nicholas Bracewell was pledged to hunt down the man who had wielded the fatal axe. That pledge now took on new force and urgency. The plea from Marion Carrick had given it a spiritual dimension. He stood beside the grave as a dear friend and colleague. When he walked away, he was a man with a mission.

C
ornelius Gant and his ever-obedient Nimbus were seasoned professionals who knew how to adjust their act to the needs of their spectators. The Falcon Inn at Uxbridge was a small and rather decrepit establishment which stood on the edge of the village and which was patronised by the lower sort. When Gant rode up on his horse, he saw that the company was too poor to offer much remuneration, too coarse to want subtlety and too drunk to cope with entertainment of any length. It was time for ‘The Saga of the Six Buckets’.

‘Place them here, friend,’ said Gant, indicating the spot with a finger. ‘Set them in a line, two paces apart.’

One of the drawers had come out to help him, putting the three full buckets of water in position first before adding the three empty wooden pails. Beer-sodden locals trailed out into the yard with noisy curiosity. The glowering landlord
watched through a window. A couple of mangy dogs crept up. It was an uninspiring group but it was nevertheless an audience and the performers responded accordingly.

Gant began by doffing his hat while he made a bow then got his first laugh as Nimbus sent him flying by swinging a flank against his owner’s exposed rump. The horse did a form of curtsey by way of apology and the spectators roared with appreciation. Gant and the animal went through some more byplay until the guffawing rustics were thoroughly warmed up. The next bow was in unison with the curtsey.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Gant, ‘we present a little drama entitled “The Saga of The Six Buckets”. You see them before you and I now give each of them a number.’ He started with the full pails and kicked each one as he walked past. ‘One – two – three – four – five – six. Remember those numbers, I beseech you. Nimbus will remind you what they are.’

The horse did so with well-rehearsed aplomb, giving the first bucket one kick, the second bucket two and so on up to the sixth bucket which received six taps with the hoof. To prove that it was no accident, Nimbus then went through the buckets in reverse order to check off their numbers. The applause was mixed with cheers and whistles. Cornelius Gant used raised palms to quell the beery tumult.

‘You have seen nothing yet, good sirs,’ he warned with a roguish wink. ‘We will now show you a feat of conjuration. Standing in front of you are three full buckets – one, two and three; with three empty buckets – four, five and six.’

‘What’s the trick?’ called out one of the locals.

‘To make water move by magic,’ said Gant. ‘Without
stirring from this spot I will empty the full buckets and I will fill the empty ones. Can such a thing be done?’

‘Never!’ came the first cry.

‘Impossible!’ yelled another.

‘Only witchcraft could do that!’ howled a third.

‘No witchcraft,’ promised Gant. ‘Only the Eighth Wonder of the World – Nimbus. Mark, gentlemen. “The Saga of The Six Buckets” is about to begin.’

He was standing some ten feet away from the pails and remained motionless throughout the act. Nimbus waited for his cue, his eyes never leaving his master. Gant reminded the audience of the number that each bucket bore then he snapped his first command.

‘One!’

Nimbus sunk its nose into the first bucket and began to slurp away. The water level sank visibly. When a half had been drunk, Gant altered the command.

‘Three!’

The same treatment was accorded to the third bucket. Gant then sent his horse back to the first, on to the second and on to the third once more. It slaked an almighty thirst at a quite alarming speed and the audience was enraptured. Awe soon turned to vulgar amusement.

‘Four!’

Nimbus pulled its nose out of the water and straddled the bucket next in line before urinating straight into it with remarkable precision. It produced wild hilarity.

‘Five!’

The animal seemed to have an endless supply that it
could turn on and off like a tap. Steam rose from the fifth bucket and the hilarity shaded into hysteria.

‘It is an old trick,’ said Gant, ‘but I’ll venture to stale it once more.’ They hooted at the pun. ‘Six!’

Nimbus obliged once more then gave a ladylike curtsey. Three full buckets of water now stood empty and three empty buckets were now brimming. Gant held out his hat to collect the coins that were thrown then he snatched it away as Nimbus pretended to relieve himself into the haul. There was free ale for the visitor that evening and free hay for his horse. Both slept soundly in the same stable.

As they left at dawn next morning, Cornelius Gant cursed the poor quality of the company and the even poorer quality of the ale. They deserved better. The journey to London was in the nature of a social ascent for them. They came from the most humble and degrading circumstances. By working so long and so hard together, they had fought their way out of their misery to create a promise of better things. Gant had come to despise his origins and did not care to be reminded of them in the way that he had been at the Falcon Inn. He owned a remarkable horse who could ensure their fame and fortune if handled properly. Nimbus would not have to debase his talents again in the way that the rustics had compelled and Gant gave him an apologetic slap to reinforce the point.

‘One day we’ll play before the Queen,’ he said proudly. ‘You’ll not fill buckets for Her Majesty. But when we take London by storm, we’ll be able to piss gold!’

Two more days of cancelled public appearances confirmed many suspicions and inflamed much debate. Queen Elizabeth was seriously ill. None of her physicians was ready to admit this openly but none could be found to deny it absolutely. Their silence was disturbing. Equally revealing was the brusque attitude of Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, a wise old statesman whose long partnership with his sovereign had been largely responsible for the stability of her government. A man of great judgement and with a rare ability to master the complex issues of the day, Lord Burghley was a person whose high sense of duty was tinged with real affection for his Queen. She, in turn, relied upon his acumen and his sagacity. It was no wonder that she called him ‘my Spirit’ for his counsel informed nearly all that she said or did. When this paragon remained tight-lipped, therefore, trouble was very definitely in the wind. When a supreme politician like Burghley was for once bereft of words, then he sensed the death of his own career as well. Now over seventy, racked by gout, he was on the verge of extinction.

The woman at the centre of the crisis did nothing to dispel it. Locked in her private apartments and enclosed by a wall of secrecy, she dwindled towards a death that seemed more inevitable with each new day. The passing of any monarch was a cause for national mourning but the imminent demise of Queen Elizabeth would be a tragedy of far greater moment. Her rule had produced one of the finest and most fruitful periods in her country’s history, at once overshadowing what came before and giving promise to what lay ahead. When she went, a potent symbol of
England’s glory would fade away. Nobody could replace her but the need to have a successor in readiness now became even more pressing.

The Earl of Banbury sought elucidation on the matter.

‘How do we stand, sir?’ he said.

‘In good order. Negotiations have been started and they have already brought in good results.’

‘Do we have firm promises?’

‘Firm promises from stout fellows. Powerful names are supporting our cause. Others will follow in their wake.’

‘Then money has been well spent.’

‘Favours of all kinds have been used to effect.’

Banbury was ruthless. ‘We must stop at
nothing
here.’

‘Nor shall we,’ said his companion grimly.

They were standing in the dining room at Croxley Hall. Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, was playing host to his inner circle of friends. First to arrive was the Earl of Banbury who was eager to know what progress their schemes had made. Some of the most influential members of the court had declared their support and he nodded with satisfaction as their names were listed. Others gave tacit approval to the machinations without committing themselves to the risk of direct involvement. It was the Earl of Chichester’s last campaign and he was determined to be on the winning side. They had chosen the next sovereign and now faced the far more daunting task of securing the succession.

‘Have letters been exchanged?’ asked Banbury eagerly.

‘You will see them all, sir.’

‘The strength of our loyalty is fully understood?’

‘Do not fear,’ said the old soldier, tossing his silver mane. ‘We will receive ample recompense from the throne.’

‘You must speak in person to the heir.’

‘I depart from London tomorrow.’

‘Nothing should be left to chance, Roger.’

‘That is why I will take you on the long journey.’

‘My help is yours to call upon.’

‘There is another reason why you must ride with me.’

‘Well?’

‘Your presence has been requested.’

The Earl of Banbury gave a smile of self-congratulation that graduated into a full-blown chuckle. Next day, on the vital embassy north, he would not simply be there to lend his weight to the Master of Ordnance. He would be answering a direct summons by the new monarch. It was a sign.

A restorative night in the arms of Anne Hendrik helped to sustain him throughout a long day. Nicholas Bracewell had no time to rest in the service of Westfield’s Men. His work began early with the erection of the stage in the yard at the Queen’s Head. The rehearsal of
Black Antonio
occupied him for most of the morning and it left him with a fund of problems to solve before the performance that afternoon. A letter then arrived for him by messenger and he took time off to unseal it. As he did so, a small silver object fell out and only the speed of his hand saved it from landing on the ground. It was a tiny picture of Sebastian Carrick in a silver
frame and it touched off some more painful memories for him. The miniature was the work of a mediocre artist but it offered an acceptable likeness of its subject and caught something of his suave vitality. Nicholas saw that the letter was from Marion Carrick who put practical help before a cloying bereavement. Hoping that the miniature might be of assistance to him, she enjoined the book holder to take especial care of something which was even more precious to her now that her brother was dead. He accepted the charge willingly and was grateful to her.

Lawrence Firethorn now became his major anxiety. After his triumph at The Rose, the actor had at least managed to learn the name of his new beloved – Beatrice Capaldi – and he had been repeating it to himself ever since in a variety of sweet tones. Unfortunately, her name was all that George Dart had been able to glean, except for the fact that she was a lady of some distinction with a coach in attendance. As was his wont in such matters, Firethorn brought Nicholas into action, urging him to mark and track the mystery figure on her next appearance in the audience. But that appearance had not as yet been made. Though Firethorn selected two plays which showed him off to best advantage –
The Loyal Subject
and
Pompey the Great
– she did not watch either and he was left in ruins.
Black Antonio
was a third offering aimed directly at her and he was confident that she would this time be drawn to view his genius. But the play waxed for two whole hours without eliciting one minute of interest from the Mistress Beatrice Capaldi.

Lawrence Firethorn was plunged into desolation.

‘Where
is
she, Nick?’ he implored.

‘I wish I knew, sir.’

‘Why must she punish me in this way?’

‘Haply, she is detained elsewhere.’

‘How much longer must I suffer?’

‘Put her out of your mind,’ said the book holder.

A gargantuan sigh. ‘But she fills it so completely. I am half the man I was when she is not here.’

It was true. Roles in which Firethorn customarily shone had been played with little more than competence. Three times in a row he had disappointed a following which had come to expect Olympian standards from him. Nicholas was distinctly alarmed. The roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn always had an invigorating effect on his performances but this latest fancy was having a destructive impact. A hideous truth had to be faced. Firethorn was in love. Westfield’s Men were bearing the brunt of this phenomenon.

‘I want my Beatrice!’ wailed the actor.

‘We have no means of reaching her, sir.’

‘Help me, Nick. Track this temptress down.’

‘She may already have quit London.’

‘Perish the thought!’ cried Firethorn in anguish. ‘If that be so then I am shipwrecked. There must be a way to bring her back to me. There has to be a key to unlock her ice-cold heart so that it will admit me. Be my saviour yet again, Nick. Where is that way? What is that key?’

‘Play
Love’s Sacrifice
once more.’

It was a random suggestion but it transformed Firethorn in a flash. His body stiffened, his chest swelled, his face
coloured, his eyes sparkled, his hope was a tidal wave that washed all before it. The drama which had brought him and Beatrice Capaldi together would be the agency of their reunion. Though it was not due to be staged again for over a week, he would change the agreed programme in order to put
Love’s Sacrifice
on as soon as possible. Nicholas proffered the advice in all innocence. He was not to know how much potential damage he had just done to Westfield’s Men.

‘I love you for this, Nick,’ said Firethorn warmly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Beatrice Capaldi! She has Italian blood, I warrant. Hot Italian blood that courses through her veins.’

‘Do not build on vain fantasies.’

‘Oh, I could kiss you for this, you lovely bawcock!’

‘Forbear, Lawrence,’ said the eavesdropping Barnaby Gill with a grimace. ‘My lips are already spoken for, good sir!’

Nicholas left the two of them arguing in the taproom and stole quickly away. While his employer was desperate to trace one object of desire, the book holder went in search for another. His unknown woman was no Beatrice Capaldi, no lady of quality with a hard beauty that could enchant and ensnare. She was a common whore in the stews of Clerkenwell and she had given one of her clients a signature that he had taken to his grave. Nicholas saw those rivulets once more and was doubly grateful that the sight had been kept from the already distraught Marion Carrick.