The Mad Courtesan (14 page)

The two men were soon helpless with laughter.

The long years spent in the exclusive company of actors had rubbed off on Nicholas Bracewell. A book holder had to cope with all manner of emergency and there had been a number of occasions when he had made impromptu appearances on stage himself in minor roles. He enjoyed these brief excursions enough to feel confident of his ability to deceive. If not a true actor, he had learnt how to look, speak and move on a stage. These skills now had a practical application.

‘Will you buy me a drink, sir?’

‘Order what you wish.’

‘Then I’ll begin with a kiss.’

‘As many as you like.’

Nicholas had returned to the Pickt-hatch in Clerkenwell that night. Dressed like a gallant, hair and beard trimmed by a barber, he was able to gain entry without being recognised. Peg, who had entertained him on his first visit, now thought she was blandishing an entirely different client. He bought wine for them both and used a slurred voice to hide his distinctive West Country burr. By hunching his shoulders, he altered the whole shape of his body. Bess Bidgood had been fooled by the disguise and Peg was equally taken in.

‘Will you climb the stairs with me, sir?’ she said.

‘Soon, mistress. Very soon.’

‘Will you let me please you?’

‘In every way that you choose.’

Peg giggled. ‘I’ll not disappoint you, sir.’

Nicholas exchanged mild banter with her while keeping the room under careful observation. It was full of raucous noise as other gallants sported with other courtesans. There was drinking, gambling, singing and frank groping. Couples would occasionally totter off upstairs but they would soon be replaced by returning pairs. There was a limit to how long Nicholas could maintain his surveillance. His purse was not large enough to sustain endless purchase of wine and he would not be able to keep Peg at bay indefinitely. He was fast approaching the moment when he would have to feign vomiting in order to escape from the premises when he was given additional proof that he was in the right place.

There was a thunderous clatter as a young gallant came tumbling down the stairs. It brought a jeer from his fellows but no sympathy. Nicholas crossed to help the drunken youth up and found him relatively unharmed. Carrying his doublet over his arm, the gallant was wearing a white shirt above his hose. Even in the gloom, Nicholas could see the streaks of blood down the back of the shirt and his curiosity quickened at once.

‘You bleed, young sir,’ he said.

‘In the service of love!’

‘Who gave you these wounds?’

‘The mistress of the bedchamber.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Perfection, sir …’

The youth gave a loud belch then staggered across to a
group of friends who caught him as he pitched forward into their hands. He had taken his pleasures and was now dead to the world for a long time. Nicholas would get no more from him but the Pickt-hatch had yielded vital confirmation. He was very close to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. She lay in a bed in one of the rooms upstairs. Peg came over to embrace him and to drag him towards the stairs so Nicholas pretended to retch violently. The girl pushed him away in disgust and strong male hands soon ejected him into the lane outside. His visit to the establishment was over but he was now completely convinced.

The mad courtesan was there.

It was a difficult labour. Agnes Jarrold struggled hard and suffered greatly. The little house in Cambridge echoed with her cries of pain for several hours. Though the child was anxious to come before its time, the mother seemed strangely reluctant to bear it. Stark memories of two previous births held her back. While it remained inside and part of her, the baby was patently alive and safe. In delivering it to the outside world, Agnes felt, she would be consigning it to the grave alongside its two predecessors. In the marital bed in Trinity Street, the battle between mind and body raged on. There was no anaesthetic to ease her torment, no medicine to take away the phantoms that haunted her. Caught up in the eternal mystery of childbirth, a fond housewife was racked by the eternal pangs. What made the crucial difference for her on this occasion was the presence of her elder sister.

‘Hold me tight, Agnes.’

‘I have no strength left.’

‘Push hard, push hard!’

‘I faint, I fail …’

‘Now, Agnes! Be a mother and
fight
for the child!’

Margery Firethorn was there throughout, encouraging her sister, sharing her travail, stilling her fears, bossing the surgeon, bullying the midwife and keeping the anguished husband on the other side of the bedroom door with a series of abusive yells. When the exhausted mother found one last burst of energy to give birth, it was Margery who talked her through it and who told her she was now the mother of a fine son. Agnes Jarrold gave her a smile of thanks before lapsing into unconsciousness. The surgeon looked to his patient, the midwife wrapped the yowling infant in swaddling clothes and Margery was able to recall the existence of a husband.

When she went downstairs, she found Jonathan Jarrold trying to read a Greek lexicon to occupy his mind. After issuing a reprimand, Margery told him that he was a father once more and that mother and baby were in good health. The bookseller went weak at the knees with sheer relief and jabbered his gratitude in English, Latin and Greek. His sister-in-law cut through his trilingual hysteria.

‘What will the boy be called?’ she said.

‘The boy?’

‘Your son, you dolt! Children need names.’

‘We have not settled on one as yet.’

‘Then do so now, sir,’ insisted Margery, determined to
wrest some contribution from him. ‘Your wife has risked her life to deliver a third child. This infant Jarrold should be dignified with a name. Pronounce it, sir!’

‘You have done so yourself, Margery,’ he said.

‘Have I?’

‘This is indeed a third child. Therein lies its name.’

‘Stop talking in Greek.’

‘I favour Latin.’

‘What?’

‘Richardus Tertius.’

‘An innocent babe called after a tedious play!’

‘No, Margery. Our son will be called Richard Jarrold.’

‘Richard III.’

‘Fortune favours us.’

‘A third time pays for all.’

N
icholas Bracewell strolled into the yard at the Queen’s Head to find that he was not, for once, the first member of the Westfield’s Men to arrive. Two figures stepped out of the morning mist to waylay him. Before he could even begin to defend himself, he was belaboured by their demands.

‘Stop him, Nick!’

‘Prevent this lunacy!’

‘Intercede on our behalf!’

‘Use your influence!’

‘Acquaint him with reason!’

‘Insist on
Cupid’s Folly
!’

‘Save our reputations!’

‘Save our company!’

‘Save our lives!’

Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill seldom agreed on anything so wholeheartedly. Again, though the playwright
was a trusted friend of the book holder, the comedian most assuredly was not. To get either man there so early and so articulate was a wonder in itself. For the pair of them to be acting in concert – with Gill suppressing his dislike of Nicholas in order to appeal for his help – was a mark of real desperation. He let them rehearse their grievances without interruption and learnt of the fatal letter from Mistress Beatrice Capaldi. Convinced that conquest was now in the offing, Lawrence Firethorn had drawn the resident poet into his fledgling love affair.

‘He orders verses for his dark Italian!’ said Hoode with disgust. ‘I have plays to write for Westfield’s Men and he would have me charm his lady’s clothes off with rhyming couplets. My love poems will not serve his lust!’

‘Nor will
I
suffer for her sake!’ asserted Gill. ‘We chose my Rigormortis for The Theatre and that is what all London wishes to see. Are we to let some powdered female dictate our performances? I’ll not bear it, sirs!’

‘Lawrence must be
told
, Nick.’

‘If necessary, he must be threatened.’

‘He is sacrificing the whole company here.’

Nicholas was seriously disquieted. He shared their resistance to the intrusion of Beatrice Capaldi and was alarmed by the latest development. It came at a time when Westfield’s Men had to look to their laurels. Their rivals were winning applause on all sides as a dynastic tussle was replicated in the competition between the theatre companies. If Lawrence Firethorn were to lead his troupe on into a new reign, he needed to concentrate all his efforts
to that end. There was no place in the scheme of things for a distraction like Beatrice Capaldi.

Barnaby Gill offered one solution to the problem.

‘Ride to Cambridge. Bring back Margery.’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘She would soon dampen his ardour.’

‘Wives do have their uses sometimes.’

‘She would tear him to pieces for his folly.’

‘Send word to her at once.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mistress Firethorn journeyed to Cambridge on an important errand and may be gone for weeks. She will not be prised away from her duty.’

Hoode shrugged helplessly. ‘What, then, is the answer?’

Nicholas calmed them down and agreed to tackle the actor-manager in due course. Whether she was ignoring him or tempting him, Beatrice Capaldi was having a detrimental effect on his company and it had to be pointed out to him. One more thankless task had been added to the book holder’s already long list. His approach needed careful thought.

It was an hour or more before Lawrence Firethorn came riding into the yard on his horse. He was a new man. Gone was the morose individual of the previous day who had been smarting at his rejection. In his place was a buoyant creature who overflowed with such geniality that he could even bestow a kindly smile upon Alexander Marwood, the doom-laden innkeeper of the Queen’s Head. Nicholas held back while the rehearsal was on, letting Firethorn expend some of his manic energy on the makeshift stage. When the book holder finally made his move, the actor was ready for him.

‘You waste your breath, Nick,’ he said. ‘Whatever vile arguments Edmund and Barnaby have thrust upon you, I’ll not hear them. We play
Love’s Sacrifice
at The Theatre. Aye, and Westfield’s Men will stage the piece three times a week if that is the only way to see my beloved Beatrice.’

Nicholas quickly shifted the argument to other ground.

‘King Gondar will need his funeral speech,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘Owen Elias must be wooed back.’

‘Never! The villain has been exiled.’

‘He will go elsewhere for employment, sir.’

‘Let the rogue!’

‘Even if he joins Banbury’s Men?’

‘The best place for him,’ said Firethorn scornfully. ‘A snake will be at home in a nest of vipers. Of one thing you may be certain, Nick.’ He drew himself up to his full height and spat the words out with venom. ‘Owen Elias will never again share a stage with Lawrence Firethorn!’

Giles Randolph sank once more into a vat of boiling oil at The Curtain and sent the audience into a frenzy of applause.
The Spanish Jew
had been given a spurious topicality by the turn of events and the resident playwright with Banbury’s Men had exploited the coincidence by adding some new scenes and speeches to the piece. Not only did the play excoriate all moneylenders and all Jews, it more clearly identified its central character with Dr Roderigo Lopez and implied a link between his knowledge of poisons and the continuing sickness of the Queen. Giles Randolph was
as brilliant as ever but he now excited more hatred than amusement. The play had taken on a distinctly sinister and biting edge.

Humour was by no means expunged from
The Spanish Jew
. In the role of the Governor – chief adversary and scourge of the villain – Owen Elias managed to combine authority with comic daring. His authority flowed naturally from his stage presence but the humour arose from another source. Seasoned playgoers recognised his impersonation at once. Instead of giving a straight reading of the part, the Welshman mimicked the way that Lawrence Firethorn would have addressed it and the result was uncannily accurate. In appearance, voice and gesture, he was Firethorn to the last detail and the force of his mockery was irresistible. The packed audience at The Curtain was reduced to uncontrollable laughter. As his rival was turned into a figure of fun, Giles Randolph prospered accordingly. Everyone leaving the theatre thought him to be the greatest actor alive.

Lawrence Firethorn was mistaken. Owen Elias had shared a stage with him, after all.

Three more faultless performances in three carefully chosen inn yards had elevated the status of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. They offered quality entertainment that appealed to a wide spectrum of people and word continued to spread. To give his horse a well-earned rest, Gant decided to explore some of the alternative diversions in the city and he was drawn ineluctably across the river
and into Paris Garden. Stairs gave access from the Thames to this notorious place of amusement which abounded in trees, bushes, fishponds and illicit assignations. Cornelius Gant joined the crowd which converged on the wooden amphitheatre. Over a thousand spectators were crammed into the circular gamehouse for an afternoon’s sport. Having paid his twopence, Gant secured a prime place in the lower gallery. He missed nothing.

The audience was in a boisterous mood before the entertainment began but it became much more vocal when the first bear was led in. The animal’s legs were fastened to a stout post by thick chains, enabling it to move no more than a few yards in each direction. When the bearward stepped out of the arena, howling mastiffs were released to bait the hapless creature. They moved in swiftly to snap at its legs or lunge at its body or jump for its throat. Sharp teeth sank into thick fur and blood flowed freely. With the crowd yelling them on, the dogs increased the ferocity of their attack and the bear incurred deep wounds as it tried to fight them off. Its brute strength eventually began to tell. Flashing claws opened one dog up, snapping teeth tore the head off another and a third was crushed to death in a hug. As the carcasses were tossed to the ground, fresh mastiffs came in to take their place and renew the assault.

Cornelius Gant was appalled. Cruel and uncaring in many ways, he had a love of dumb animals that was deeply offended by what was happening. Almost as bad as the bestiality in the ring was the baying satisfaction of the
multitude. It was all a far cry from the harmless antics of a well-trained horse and a considerate master.

When the first bear was white with lather and dripping with gore, it was taken out by the bearward. Whining dogs were dragged out on leashes to tick their wounds and rue any tactical errors. The new bear that was brought in had been blinded by its owner to provide another kind of sport for the bawling spectators. Chained to the post, the animal was faced by a semicircle of six men who were each armed with a long whip. On a given command, they began to beat the bear unmercifully, splitting open its flesh with patent relish as they piled torment on torment. All that it could do by way of defence was to lurch out at its hidden attackers and make the post shudder with its rattling chains. Cornelius Gant was even more horrified at this spectacle but he gained some consolatory pleasure when one of the men slipped, rolled in close to the bear and had his face ripped away with one savage cuff from the huge claws.

The popularity of the hideous entertainment could not be denied and it was not aimed at the vulgar taste of the lower sort. People from all classes of society were present and Gant saw shrieking ladies on the arms of their gallants as well as powdered punks being fondled by their clients. If he was shocked by the treatment of the bears, he was even more revolted by what followed. As a last sop to the bloodlust of the crowd, a pony was chased into the ring with a monkey tied to its back. The pony scurried around in a circle of pain as its rider bit, gouged and pulled at its
mane but the monkey was the least of its problems. More dogs poured in to bite at the slender legs as they went faster and faster around the arena. Laughter and jeers sent the pony into an even deeper panic as it ran madly towards a vicious fate.

It was still vainly trying to shake off its pursuers as Cornelius Gant stalked out of the building in disgust.

Lord Westfield always took a keen interest in the fortunes of his theatre company but events in the royal household made that interest even more intense. Having watched a rousing performance of
Hector of Troy
at the Queen’s Head that afternoon, he repaired to his private room with a small entourage to partake of refreshment and to discuss plans for the future with the leading sharers. The noble gentleman might be vain and sybaritic but he was shrewd enough to discern the hand that worked so hard and so efficiently in the cause of Westfield’s Men. As a result, Nicholas Bracewell was invited to join the gathering and he hovered on its fringes. Lawrence Firethorn, restored to his best form by a message of love, lapped up the compliments and flirted gently with the two young ladies in the room. Barnaby Gill preened himself in a corner and Edmund Hoode lurked silently. There was a deal of idle chatter but Lord Westfield was the only person who was saying anything of value.

‘This illness of Her Majesty is inopportune,’ he said.

‘For whom?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Why, for Her Majesty, of course,’ risked Gill with a
wicked grin that was instantly replaced by a mask of deep loyalty. ‘I respect our dear Queen as much as any man in the kingdom and I pray daily for her quick recovery.’

‘That may or may not come,’ said Westfield. ‘And we have to take the latter possibility into account. A change of monarch will mean a change of attitude towards the theatre. I would not want my company to be jeopardised.’

‘Indeed, no,’ agreed Firethorn with alarm.

‘What may we usefully do?’ said Gill.

‘We carry your name with honour,’ added Hoode.

Lord Westfield nodded. ‘I hope that you will continue to do so, Edmund, but dangers lie ahead. It needs cautious diplomacy on my part and some wise decisions on yours.’

‘You speak of dangers,’ said Firethorn.

His patron turned to the book holder to cue him in.

‘Tell them, Nicholas. You will know.’

‘But a little, my lord,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘If Her Majesty dies, there will be a disputed succession and many are now rushing forward to take part in that dispute. Each party has its own claimant from whom they expect due return on their devotion. The Earl of Banbury, for instance …’

‘That old fool!’ muttered Firethorn.

‘… has formed an alliance with the Earl of Chichester to advance the cause of Arabella Stuart. Should that lady ever sit on the throne, our rivals are like to be known henceforth as the Queen’s Men.’

The suggestion rocked the three sharers so hard that
they all protested and gesticulated in unison. Their patron waved them into a troubled silence.

‘You see, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘Your book holder is more well informed than his masters. He can foresee consequences to this business. That is why I have formed my own alliance. Our chosen successor is King James of Scotland and our party is led by Sir Robert Cecil.’

His listeners were duly impressed. Sir Robert Cecil was Lord Burghley’s son and, despite his physical shortcomings, a most intelligent and able politician. With such a man at the helm, Lord Westfield’s party was indeed well served. At the same time, everyone recognised that the outcome of a disputed succession was highly uncertain. It was Nicholas Bracewell who remembered their patron’s earlier comment.

‘You mentioned wise decisions, my lord …’

‘I did,’ said the other. ‘Every move that you make must promote the company. Every play that you choose must endorse our party. Westfield’s Men must outshine all other troupes and cast those jackals of Banbury’s into outer darkness.’

‘It shall be done!’ announced Firethorn.

‘Where is our next performance, Lawrence?’

‘The Theatre in Shoreditch.’

‘An excellent venue for our purposes.’

‘Then let us stage
Cupid’s Folly
,’ urged Gill. ‘My Rigormortis will outshine the sun itself.’

Westfield shook his head. ‘No, Barnaby. The play is less than suitable for the gravity of the occasion.’