The Mad Courtesan (13 page)

The influence of Lord Westfield opened doors for Nicholas Bracewell once again. He visited Andrew Carrick in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and gave him an account both of the funeral and of his nocturnal investigations in Clerkenwell. The lawyer thanked him profusely for all that he had done but warned him against taking too many risks. Nicholas had now removed the bandaging from his head to reveal a dark bruise and an ugly scar. He insisted that he was willing to collect more wounds if they would take him closer to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The father was touched.

Grief pressed down upon him. Having lost a son, he was anxious to console his daughter but he was kept in the Tower because his sovereign had a fit of pique. While the Queen was ill, all hope of release had vanished. Andrew Carrick was surprisingly well informed about the progress of events.

‘Her Majesty fades quietly away,’ he said, ‘and her courtiers rush around to find themselves a successor who will favour them. Several names have been mentioned and each has its party and its parasites.’

‘Is the Queen’s illness so serious?’ asked Nicholas.

‘All reports confirm it.’

‘How can you know this?’

‘Imprisonment sharpens a man’s hearing and they talk of nothing else here. People in royal service hang upon every shift of royal power. My friend, Master Fellowes, who is Clerk of Ordnance here, keeps me abreast of all developments.’

‘Does he know the nature of the Queen’s malady?’

‘Old age is her chiefest complaint.’

‘She is but sixty and takes great care of her person.’

‘That is why the rumour has grown abroad.’

‘What rumour, sir?’

‘The Queen has succumbed to some vile poison.’

‘Poison?’ said Nicholas in surprise. ‘Administered by whom? Only her physicians could get close enough to her.’

‘You may have identified the villain, sir.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Dr Lopez.’

Nicholas was sceptical about the theory but he could see how it must have arisen. Roderigo Lopez was one of the most hated and envied members of the medical profession. A Portuguese Jew who fled the Inquisition, he came to England to practise as a doctor and serve as house physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. His renown as a dietician and a wise counsellor spread until he included the Earl of Leicester and Sir Francis Walsingham among his patients. In 1586 he was appointed chief physician to Queen Elizabeth but Lopez was not content with a solely medical role. He used his position at court to champion the cause of Antonio Perez, the Portuguese pretender. Breaking with the latter, the doctor rashly quarrelled with the Earl of Essex who was the main English supporter of the Perez party. Dr Lopez was later arrested at the instigation of Essex who claimed that he had discovered a conspiracy in which the chief physician was to poison the Queen. Her sickness might now seem to confirm the allegations but Nicholas had severe doubts.

‘Dr Lopez is under lock and key,’ he said. ‘He has not been near Her Majesty for months.’

Carrick shrugged. ‘The poison may be slow-acting. It could have been given to her by Lopez in the guise of some medicinal remedy.’

‘The Queen is watched over with too much care.’

‘Some confederate may have done the deed.’

‘Her physicians have not even said that poison is at all involved here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Dr Lopez is too hastily accused. The charges brought by the Earl of Essex have yet to be proved against him. No treason may have occurred. The doctor has been imprisoned for two other crimes.’

‘What are they, Master Bracewell?’

‘He is a foreigner and he is a Jew.’

Andrew Carrick nodded. ‘You speak well. We show little respect to the stranger in these islands of ours. We despise what is different and see it only as a threat.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘But this anxiety over the Queen has brought reward to some quarters. Your rivals prosper.’

‘Banbury’s Men?’

‘I hear tell of a play called
The Spanish Jew
. It could not be more timely. Cross out the name of Spain, insert its neighbour country and you have the villain of the piece.’

‘Dr Roderigo Lopez.’

‘The play draws huge audiences.’

‘It feeds on hatred and prejudice,’ said Nicholas.

‘Banbury’s Men have stolen the march on you. Let us hope that their patron does not do the same.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘A battle for the succession would also be a battle for supremacy on the stage,’ argued Carrick. ‘Lord Westfield will support the claim of King James of Scotland who has a fondness for the drama. If he is to be our next ruler, you and your fellows might be translated into the King’s Men.’

‘We are not yet ready to lose our Queen,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘But what of the Earl of Banbury? Which party does he follow in this matter?’

‘One that will serve him best,’ said Carrick. ‘Pray God that his candidate does not reach our throne. Banbury’s Men would surely triumph then. Your company would be destroyed.’

‘By the new King?’

‘By the new Queen.’

Hardwick Hall was an arresting sight. Even in its present unfinished state, it could stir the spirit and excite the imagination. In little over two years, industrious builders had substantially completed the main structure and they continued to swarm busily over it. Six miles to the south-east of Chesterfield, the house was the brainchild of the redoubtable Elizabeth Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury. Widowed by her fourth husband, she was not only the richest woman in the kingdom but one of the most ambitious and powerful as well. The house was to be a lasting monument to her and she emphasised the fact by having her initials carved in stone on top of the four massive square towers of the west front. Restraint was unknown to Bess of Hardwick. In the imposing west front
of the house were no less than fifty windows, some of huge dimensions. The quiet Derbyshire landscape had never seen such an expanse of glass.

‘Our visit was worthwhile.’

‘I could have been spared the tour of the house.’

‘Bess is inordinately proud of it,’ said the Earl of Chichester. ‘We must humour the lady.’

‘There is only one way to do that, Roger.’

‘Is there?’

‘Become her fifth husband.’

‘God’s wounds! That would be purgatory!’

‘She is a lusty widow.’

‘Let her vent her lust on Hardwick Hall.’

The Earl of Banbury laughed at his friend’s discomfort. Their carriage was bumping along the drive that cut through the extensive front gardens of the estate. Bending backs could be seen all around as a team of urgent gardeners strove to provide the magnificent house with an appropriate horticultural setting. Symmetry was the keynote for hall and garden alike. The noble travellers hoped that their plans would achieve a similar neatness of line.

‘The girl is ours,’ decided the old soldier.

‘She comes at a fearful price,’ said Banbury. ‘We must suffer that grandmother of hers.’

‘Bess can be managed easily.’

‘Four husbands would disagree with you.’

‘We have our queen. What more do we need?’

‘A throne on which to set her.’

‘It will soon be vacant.’

‘And fit to receive our nominated monarch.’

‘Arabella Stuart.’

‘Queen of England!’

The earls congratulated themselves on the speed with which they had moved and the diplomacy which they had shown. Arabella Stuart was an attractive young girl of seventeen with a claim to the throne at least as strong as that of James VI of Scotland. She was the fruit of a dynastic marriage arranged by the manipulative Bess between her own daughter, Elizabeth, and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox. When Arabella was orphaned, she came into the care of her ever-scheming grandmother who considered marrying her to the Duke of Parma’s son, Rainutio Farnese, who had a tenuous link with the English crown through descent from John of Gaunt. During this period, Arabella spent some valuable time at court but the death of her elected bridegroom in 1592 saw her returned to Derbyshire. Inclined to be wayward, the girl was subjected to grandmotherly vigilance of the most intense kind. The visitors from London had been highly conscious of it.

‘Poor creature!’ said Banbury. ‘Arabella cannot draw breath without permission from the old harridan.’

‘A queen will take no orders.’

‘They will still be given, Roger.’

‘Bess can be silenced,’ said his colleague. ‘We will have Her Majesty’s ear without the intervening inconvenience of a grandmother.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘We’ve done it, man! All parties are well served here. England will have her new queen. Arabella will have her throne. We will have supreme
influence. Our friends will have their due reward and our enemies will be roundly swinged.’

‘And what of that meddling grandmother?’

‘Bess will be too busy with Hardwick Hall.’

They turned around to take a last look at the building. Even from that distance and even in its incomplete state, it was a superb piece of architecture. Its scope was quite stunning and its boldness of line echoed the temperament of its creator. Bess of Hardwick was well into her sixties. This latest obsession would surely occupy her remaining years to the full.

The Earl of Chichester gave a throaty laugh.

‘We are the true architects here,’ he boasted.

‘Are we?’

‘Bess only builds a house.’

‘What do we create, Roger?’

‘A kingdom!’

Lawrence Firethorn could not believe his drink-blurred eyes. As he held the letter close to the candle, he read the words a dozen times to be sure of their meaning and confident of their authorship. He was downing another goblet of Canary wine with Barnaby Gill when the messenger sought him out in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Fumbling fingers broke the seal and six words effected his metamorphosis.

‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

It was a message from Beatrice Capaldi and its import made him laugh with joy before banging the table
impulsively with his fist. Barnaby Gill grabbed his own goblet as it danced its way across the vibrating timber.

‘Hold steady!’ he yelled.

‘She has spoken, Barnaby!’

‘Then close her mouth at once.’

‘Beatrice wants me! Beatrice needs me!’

‘Play this mad scene somewhere else, sir.’

‘Look!’ said Firethorn, thrusting the letter at him. ‘What else can these words mean? She
invites
me!’

Gill gave the paper a disdainful glance before issuing one of his contemptuous snorts. ‘This woman is like all others of her kind, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘She is the highway to damnation.’

‘No, Barnaby. She is the road to Elysium.’

‘Turn back while there is still time, man.’

‘See what she asks for – true sacrifice?’

‘You have already sacrificed your wits and your wilting codpiece to her! Do not sacrifice your company as well.’

‘Beatrice calls to me!’

‘Listen to your friends instead.’

‘A true sacrifice! Do you not understand?’

‘Only too well, sir!’

Firethorn read the letter again to extract its command. The true sacrifice was the play which had twice brought his Beatrice to him. She was now ordering a third performance as King Gondar. That was the way to win her heart. Beatrice had only refused to dine with him in order to whet his appetite. When she was given further proof of his love, he believed, she would submit herself to
his wildest demands. Firethorn waved the letter above his head like the captured flag of a beaten enemy. His decision was immediate.

‘We must alter our plans for The Theatre.’

‘No!’ Gill was horrified.

‘
Love’s Sacrifice
must be staged again.’

‘Not in Shoreditch!’ protested the other. ‘Our agreed choice is
Cupid’s Folly
.’

‘It will be replaced.’

‘This is cruelty, Lawrence!’

‘Beatrice has spoken.’

‘Think with your brain and not with your pizzle!’

‘We play
Love’s Sacrifice
.’

Gill stamped a petulant foot. ‘
Cupid’s Folly
!’

‘A ragged piece that we can well neglect.’

‘I was
promised
!’

‘Beatrice must not be denied.’

The rank injustice of it all made Gill shake with fury. It was not often that they performed at The Theatre and it was even rarer for his favourite play to be presented there.
Cupid’s Folly
was a rumbustious comedy which allowed Gill a starring role as Rigormortis and set him above all other stage clowns. To have the play cancelled was bad enough: to see it callously replaced by a drama in which Firethorn took all the plaudits was a professional wound that would fester in perpetuity. Gill’s bitter hatred of the female sex was exacerbated but his complaints went unheard.

‘Would you rob me of my
Cupid’s Folly?
’ he cried.

‘I simply ask you to give it up for me, Barnaby.’

‘No, no, no!’

Firethorn slipped an avuncular arm around him.

‘True love requires a true sacrifice …’

Owen Elias still had vestigal doubts about his move to another company. Banbury’s Men gave him an important supporting role in a new play that was staged at The Curtain before an appreciative audience but the experience did not wipe away all his reservations. Employment was a boon for which he was deeply grateful even though he did not yet know how it had come about. Giles Randolph enlightened him.

‘Tomorrow, we play
The Spanish Jew.
’

‘It is much talked about, Master Randolph.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and it will cause even more conversation now. This sickness of Her Majesty has put the name of Dr Lopez on every tongue. I have but to appear on stage in his guise and they love to revile me.’

‘What part will I take?’ said Elias.

‘The Governor of the city.’ He handed the Welshman a sheaf of papers. ‘Here are the sides for you to study.’

‘It feels like a weighty role.’

‘It is indeed, Owen.’

‘How must I play it?’

‘There you come to the heart of the matter.’

Giles Randolph could hardly contain his mirth as he whispered his instructions. Puzzled at first, Owen Elias soon came to see the virtues in what was being suggested to him.
The Spanish Jew
would give him more than a challenging role. It would help him to settle an old score.