The Mad Courtesan (16 page)

The Earl of Banbury returned the letter and nodded.

‘This could not bring more content,’ he said smugly.

‘If only Bess would not harp on about herself.’

‘We must give the old mare her head.’

‘The filly is our concern,’ said Chichester with a wry chuckle. ‘Queen she may well be but virgin she will not stay. We must find a husband for her bed in good time.’

‘The Duke of Parma offered his son.’

‘The young man died with fear.’

‘There are other dukes with other sons.’

‘Italian? French?’

‘Spanish even.’ He pondered. ‘No, not Spain.’

‘Should we look to Holland or Germany?’

‘There are possibilities enough on our own soil, Roger.’

‘Then that is our way,’ said Chichester, standing to attention with military suddenness. ‘Arabella will try one and try all till she find the man most fitted for her lusty
purposes. She can roll through the bedchambers of Europe.’

Banbury grinned. ‘Royal business indeed!’

‘Let her marry four of them like her grandmother!’

‘Observe some decorum here, sir. You talk of the future Queen of England.’

‘Elizabeth has her favourites – why not Arabella?’

‘Would you turn our sovereign into a species of whore?’

‘Why not?’ said Chichester with a hint of soldierly coarseness. ‘I believe that every woman should mix a little lunacy with her loving.’

Banbury was amused. ‘A roving monarch in search of a mate. Bedding the noblest youth in all Europe.’

‘Arabella Stuart – Queen of England!’

‘A mad courtesan!’

A
lexander Marwood was a self-appointed martyr. A man who was terrified of women married one of the most fearsome members of the breed. A person who hated responsibility and loathed riotous behaviour owned the largest and most volatile inn along Gracechurch Street. A creature who detested all plays and players found himself host to one of the best theatre companies in London. A natural recluse with an abiding contempt for mankind was daily surrounded by hundreds of abominable faces. A reluctant father spent much of his waking hours guarding the virginity of a nubile daughter. An already seriously balding individual presented himself with regular excuses to tear out the remaining tufts from his unlovely scalp. Marwood’s life was death by crucifixion.

He felt another nail being driven through his palm.

‘A prudent landlord should always look for profit.’

‘I have enough manure at the Queen’s Head, sir.’

‘We offer your patrons a delight, Master Marwood.’

‘Not on these premises.’

‘But this yard is ideal for our purposes.’

‘We have all the dancing nags we require.’

‘Nimbus is a king among horses.’

‘Crown him elsewhere.’

Cornelius Gant was meeting stiff opposition from the emaciated landlord. The more that Marwood was pressed, the more he retreated into a twitching hostility. Cavernous eyes glared. Lids fluttered violently like agitated butterflies. His slight, angular body arched and shuddered its refusal. Gant tempered his argument with rank flattery.

‘You are highly regarded, sir,’ he lied extravagantly. ‘Many say that the Queen’s Head is without a peer. Your ale is much praised and your hospitality commended. When people think of Mine Host, they think of Alexander Marwood.’

‘Away with these jests!’

‘Your inn is always full, your patrons always happy.’

‘Do not spoil my trade with your low tricks.’

‘Nimbus and I seek only to increase it.’ Gant applied some real persuasion. ‘Six hostelries have already given us licence and each one has begged us to return. We have put money in their purses, Master Marwood, and added a lustre to their name. Ask of us at The Feathers in Eastcheap. Go to the Brazen Serpent. Seek a report from the Antelope. They and three others will attest our merit.’

Marwood stole a glance at Nimbus then studied the
owner again with unabated suspicion. Something told him that he would be widening the scope of his martyrdom if he acceded to this strange request. His twitch took up residence on his left ear and made it vibrate like the wing of a hummingbird.

Gant tried once more. ‘Do you not stage plays here?’

‘Against my better judgement.’

‘And do they not put money into your coffers?’

‘Not enough!’ wailed Marwood. ‘They will never yield enough to pay for the tortures I undergo in housing them.’

‘Westfield’s Men must give you a sizeable rent.’

‘Only when I hound them for it.’

‘Let me offer mine in advance, sir …’

Marwood was speechless. The uncouth old man in the garb of a long-discharged soldier was holding out a bag of coins. He was actually willing to buy the right to put his horse through its paces in the yard. Whatever happened during the performance, the landlord could not lose. He trapped the hummingbird ear with one hand then appraised Nimbus afresh. Cornelius Gant jingled the coins. The deal was struck.

There was no delay. Gant produced a trumpet and blew a wild alarum to gain the attention of all who lounged within earshot of the yard. When his musicianship expressed itself in the beating of a small drum, he drew dozens more out into the open air and sent Nimbus prancing in a circle on its hind legs. By the time that Gant had finished pounding and Nimbus had finished prancing, over two hundred people had formed a circle around them and more were drawn in
from the street outside. The real performance could begin.

It was unerring. The precision of the dancing and the brilliance of the counting display astounded all present but their open-mouthed wonder was relieved at intervals by some inspired clowning. Cornelius Gant allowed himself to be nudged, tripped, butted, bitten, trodden upon and buffeted in a dozen different ways. At one point, Nimbus even rested his front hooves on its master’s shoulders to draw him into a comic dance. When Gant took his bow, the same hooves struck his buttocks with such force that he was propelled forward into a double somersault. Turning from foe to friend, the horse gripped the old man’s collar to drag him upright once more. And so it went on.

The performers had their audience enthralled. Gant felt the familiar surge of power. Repelled by the animal-baiting he had witnessed at Paris Garden, he was yet ready to inflict pain on himself but not on his horse. It was the audience who felt the quiet gnash of his teeth and the gentle flick of his whip. They were his. He controlled their pleasure and dictated their response. Delaying their laughter with some elaborate comic business, he could introduce discomfort. Keeping them in awe for extended periods, he could separate them from the relief of applause. The men, women and children who watched the act might be joyfully absorbed but they were also drained by the cruel suspense, taxed by the multiple unpredictabilities and punished by a cunning sadist.

At the climax of his act, Gant shot the horse dead and put a bullet into the heart of everyone there. Nimbus
expired with such realism that a hushed silence fell upon the yard, broken only by the sobbing of women and the cry of a terrified child. The horse stayed motionless long enough to gain full pity and instil full pain then it leapt to its feet again and danced a merry jig. Pandemonium ensued from the massive swirl of emotions that took place.

The hat of Cornelius Gant had never been filled so quickly and so generously. He collected five times what he had paid the landlord in rent. Marwood was dumbfounded. The performance had brought thirsty mouths into his yard and nimble servingmen had sold a large quantity of ale to the spectators. Nimbus had been a sound investment. There had been none of the dreadful risks associated with Westfield’s Men. One man and a horse had been a drama in themselves.

Gant stressed the fact with a valedictory message.

‘Thank you, my friends!’ he shouted. ‘You have seen a king at the Queen’s Head today. Nimbus has taken the stage from your famous Lawrence Firethorn. I ask you this – who needs an ass of an actor when you have a horse of wonder!’

Alexander Marwood gave a disenchanted smirk.

Nicholas Bracewell had more than his usual cargo of worries at The Theatre that day. Having arranged the transfer of scenery, costumes and property from the Queen’s Head then supervised a rather fraught rehearsal of
Love’s Sacrifice,
he had to soothe troubled actors, castigate wayward stagekeepers and check that everything was in readiness for the afternoon performance. A hundred minor
decisions had to be taken, then enforced, a thousand voices seemed to be calling his name and imploring his advice. But it was the additional anxieties which pressed most heavily upon the book holder.

Chief among these was Lawrence Firethorn who ordered the change of play to accommodate his romantic hopes. The significance of the event made him tense and capricious. He swung crazily between extremes of behaviour and Westfield’s Men suffered as much from his rampant affability as from his fierce and undiscriminating rage. Nicholas worked at full stretch to stop arguments, prevent bloodshed and limit the damage to company morale. Beatrice Capaldi was exerting an influence upon the actor-manager that was highly dangerous and it had to be countered in some way. The book holder tried hard to understand why that influence was linked to this particular play.

Love’s Sacrifice
was a triumph underscored by much unhappiness. Behind the cheers it brought at The Rose and at the Queen’s Head were some unpleasant facts. The play soured relations within the company. It led to the eviction of Owen Elias and, in turn, to his defection to Banbury’s Men. It was now a duet between a lovesick actor and a mystery woman. It had also become the opening salvo in a propaganda battle that was being waged by their patron. Most unsettling of all to Nicholas, it contained a role that had been especially written for Sebastian Carrick. It was an association that haunted the book holder. Every time he worked on the play, he saw the dead body of his
friend on the slab at the morgue. Every time he heard the controversial funeral speech, it was a requiem for his lost colleague.

‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’

‘Yes, Master Gill?’

‘Rescue us from certain catastrophe.’

‘What is the matter, sir?’

‘Why, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill in terror. ‘He is
smiling
at us. He is prowling the tiring-house like some grisly Priapus and grinning. That hideous smile will undo us all. That amorous grin will fright us into imbecility!’

As the performance neared, tempers became more frayed. Gill was the first of many who needed a soft word and a reassuring compliment. Edmund Hoode’s concern was for the integrity of his text.

‘It is no longer my play, Nick!’ he complained.

‘Nothing can dim its quality.’

‘Lines have been cut, scenes moved, characters altered and songs inserted, all to please this creature who has ensnared Lawrence. He has made me write loving couplets which he can throw to her like bouquets of roses.’ Hoode folded his arms in annoyance. ‘I’ll not change another word of
Love’s Sacrifice
. There have been sacrifices enough.’

‘The drama will still shine through, Edmund.’

‘But it will not be
mine
!’

‘Your talent improves everything you touch.’

‘I would dearly like to improve Lawrence with a touch from a club had not this fatal lady already dashed out his
brains.’ He grasped his friend’s arm. ‘Who is she? What is her purpose here? We must find out more about her!’

Nicholas had reached that conclusion some time ago.

‘We will,’ he said.

Anne Hendrik was given a double duty that afternoon. She was to accompany Marion Carrick to the performance in Shoreditch and she was to take up a seat that enabled her to keep a certain member of the audience under surveillance. Nicholas Bracewell had been accurate in his prediction. The dark and enigmatic Beatrice Capaldi swept into her favoured position in the middle of the lower gallery and stirred up a flurry of male interest. Anne had already selected a place at the same level but directly above the stage. She was thus able to look back around the circle of benches to make her own valuation of the lady.

Beatrice Capaldi was indeed striking and her beauty owed far more to nature than to any cosmetic aids. She held herself like a foreign princess, treating all the admiring glances and fulsome compliments that she gathered with autocratic contempt. As Anne Hendrik studied her, an ignoble thought flashed into her mind but she repudiated it with blushing speed and moved on to appraise the resplendent attire. As on the previous occasions, Beatrice Capaldi was there to see and be seen. She wore a dress of white silk that was bordered with tiny pearls and half covered by a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads. Both sleeves and skirt were explosions of black and white but it was the hat which was the real focus of interest.

Marriage to Jacob Hendrik had taught Anne a great deal about hatmaking and running her husband’s business had widened that education considerably. She worked exclusively in the Dutch style to produce small hoods of lawn that were worn with an under-cap. Beatrice Capaldi, by contrast, opted for a hat in the Spanish fashion, tall-crowned but brimless and decorated with jewellery around the lower part. Its most startling ornamentation was a high-standing ostrich feather that was fastened in position with more precious stones. Anne Hendrik set a price on the hat and realised that it cost more than her entire wardrobe. What thrilled her was that she noticed idiosyncratic features which threw a name straight back at her.

She knew who had made the hat.

‘I have never been to a playhouse before,’ confessed Marion Carrick. ‘It is so colourful and exciting.’

‘You are brave to venture here at such a time.’

‘I hope it is not unseemly, mistress.’

‘Your brother would surely approve.’

The girl nodded. ‘I mourn his death and it has made me want to know more about his profession. Master Bracewell, who has been so helpful, tells me that Sebastian was to play in
Love’s Sacrifice
. Curiosity makes me want to see the role that he sadly abandoned.’ She smiled. ‘Master Bracewell also spoke most warmly of you.’

It was Anne’s turn to smile. ‘I am pleased.’

‘He is a good man but he has taken on such a hazardous task on behalf of my family. I fear for his safety.’

‘Nicholas is well able to look after himself.’

Further conversation was cut short by a blast on a trumpet and the running up of a flag that would flutter above the playhouse for the next two hours. Music sounded and the Prologue came out to garner the first small harvest of applause.
Love’s Sacrifice
was in motion and Marion Carrick was instantly hypnotised. Anne Hendrik was absorbed as well but that did not prevent her from throwing regular glances in the direction of Beatrice Capaldi. Touched by what her lodger had said about her, she would now be able to reward him handsomely.

Nicholas would be delighted to hear about the hat.

At that moment in time, he was more concerned with the ever-changing series of doublets, cloaks, helmets, dresses, gowns and boots for which the play called. There was scenery to be taken on and offstage as well as countless props to be used and discarded. The commotion behind the scenes was every bit as dramatic as the action which was unfolding before the audience. Nicholas Bracewell coped with his usual imperturbability. He had no qualms about the drama itself. Edmund Hoode might fulminate but
Love’s Sacrifice
was not ruined in any way by the changes forced upon him. The play was sharper than it had been at The Rose and more assured than at the Queen’s Head. Weak moments in the construction were completely obscured by the driving force of a superb leading actor.