The Mad Courtesan (20 page)

The question was jabbed straight at the actor.

‘On what condition would you return to us, Owen?’

‘To Westfield’s Men?’

‘Name your price.’

‘It is far too high, Nick.’

‘I have a strong nerve.’

‘Then I demand two things. A full apology.’

‘You ask a lot of Master Firethorn.’

‘And a contract that makes me a sharer.’

Nicholas thought it over then gritted his teeth.

‘You will have both,’ he said.

Nimbus began his conquest of London at a steady trot, moved up into a canter then went full gallop through the hearts and minds of its citizens. He and his astute master chose their venues with care, increasing the size of their audience each time and widening the scope of their performance. All classes watched and wondered. Every spectator rushed off to broadcast the news of this latest prodigy. Nimbus did not have to search for an arena any longer. Cornelius Gant was besieged by eager innkeepers and urgent landlords, offering handsome rewards in return for a performance at their respective hostelries. A city which
revelled in the baiting of bears and bulls now talked about a sensational horse. No blood was spilt, no pain visited upon the animal, no cruelty practised, yet the partners bewitched their public in a most profound way.

Gant used each occasion to advertise future delights.

‘Thank you, kind friends!’ he called. ‘This evening, you may see us at the Black Bell in Candlewick Street. Tomorrow morning, you will find us at the Crossed Keys in Gayspur Lane and in the same afternoon, at The Gun in Cordwainer Street.’ His face collapsed into a grin. ‘Look for us soon at The Unicorn in Hosier Alley. Nimbus is as rare a creature as any unicorn, I warrant.’

Fresh applause broke out from the spectators at the Red Lion. Delighted with what they had seen, they wanted more and began to yell out hopes and expectations. Gant shouted out his boast above the tumult.

‘Nimbus will dance across London Bridge and swim across the Thames at its widest point. He will do something that no horse has ever done before.’ Gant stoked up the furnace of excitement. ‘He will fly to the very top of St Paul’s!’

News of the feat met with tumultuous approbation.

‘When will Nimbus do it?’ they cried.

‘Let us ask,’ said Gant.

He looked across at the horse and gave a signal. Nimbus shook his head slowly as if deep in contemplation then he came across to whinny in his master’s ear. Gant waited for the laughter to subside then passed on the decision.

‘Saturday!’

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather began their rounds in Clerkenwell with the usual amalgam of duty and resignation. Shocked to discover that they had been impersonated, they now saw it as a happy accident which yielded direct benefit. It was they who were given credit for saving the life of the man who had been so grievously assaulted in Cock Lane and they who now gained a lurking respect from the denizens of the area. Men who might before have sneered at their passing now held their tongues and shrunk back. The two aged watchmen liked their brief status as heroes. They strolled along Turnmill Street with an air of authority they had never possessed before. It was gratifying to be taken seriously at last and they were particularly pleased with their impact on a man who loitered opposite the Pickt-hatch. As soon as he saw the officers of the law approach, he shot out of a doorway and tore off down the street. Taplow and Merryweather smiled.

They were so caught up in their minor triumph that they did not hear the cry of mingled pleasure and pain that came from a bedchamber above their heads. The Pickt-hatch was already open for business. Frances was putting her personal seal on the back of another exhausted customer.

Her delicate hands caressed his shoulders then drew small circles up and down his spine. As his kisses became deeper and his movements more frantic, she locked her fingers into his hair to pull him even closer. His body arched and thrust, his blood raced, his senses tingled. In the silken comfort
of a four-poster, their separate madness became one long mutual ecstasy. At the very peak of their cascading joy, he rose up to let her sink her teeth into his chest and to bite hard with animal hunger. He winced, he laughed, he sighed, he collapsed with utter satisfaction.

Beatrice Capaldi also knew how to leave her mark.

Andrew Carrick was astonished to receive a visitor so late in the evening and duly delighted. Nicholas Bracewell was always welcome company. They sat on stools in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and conversed by the light of a tallow candle. Carrick was keen to hear the latest report from Clerkenwell and to learn of his daughter’s reaction to a performance by Westfield’s Men. The lawyer’s gratitude boiled over once again and his visitor took advantage of it.

‘I come in search of help, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘What may I do for you?’

‘Draw up a contract.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘Articles of agreement between a theatre company and a new sharer. You have the means to do this, Master Carrick?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the other. ‘Here are pen and parchment before me, as you see, and I have all the authority that the office of attorney can bestow. But I have no knowledge of such a form of contract.’

‘Could I dictate the terms to you?’

‘They would have to be very exact.’

‘I have memorised them with care.’

Andrew Carrick pulled the candle closer to illumine the
parchment that he unrolled before him. Dipping his quill into the inkwell, he was poised for instruction. Nicholas spoke with slow precision.

‘Articles of Agreement, made, concluded and agreed upon and which are to be kept and performed by Owen Elias of London Gent. unto and with Lawrence Firethorn Esquire in manner and form following, that is to say … Imprimis. The said Owen Elias doth covenant, praise and grant to and with the said Lawrence Firethorn, his executors, administrators and assigns in manner and form following, that is to say that he, the said Owen Elias, will play with Westfield’s Men for and during the time and space of three years from the date hereof, for and at the rate of one whole share according to the custom of players …’

The lawyer wrote with a flowing hand. He was fascinated by the contractual obligations laid upon both parties and had several questions to ask. Nicholas was supremely well informed. Before coming to the Tower, he had taken the trouble to examine Edmund Hoode’s contract with the company and he had also been present during many of the frequent legal wrangles between Firethorn and the other sharers. Carrick was very complimentary.

‘You should have been a lawyer yourself,’ he said.

‘In some sort, I am.’

‘Here is your contract. I am glad to be of help.’

‘Your assistance may prove invaluable.’

Nicholas took the scroll and secreted it inside his jerkin. He was about to take his leave when his host did him another important favour.

‘Here is something that may be of interest to you.’

‘Speak on.’

‘Prison restricts movements but it sharpens ears,’ said Carrick. ‘I have learnt to listen.’

‘And what have you heard?’

‘Enough to make a firm judgement.’

‘About whom?’

‘My friend, Harry Fellowes.’

‘The Clerk of Ordnance?’

‘That is but one of many aspects of his existence. He is also a priest, a soldier, a scholar and more besides. What concerns you most is that Harry is a moneylender.’

‘You have hinted as much before.’

‘I now have more proof of his dealings,’ said Carrick. ‘There never was such enthusiastic usury. Harry lends much and often to men of high rank. He has been doing so for many years and has a long list of noble debtors. One of those names is of especial interest to you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Who is that?’

‘The Earl of Chichester.’

‘A close friend of Banbury’s Men.’

‘Chichester and Banbury intrigue to appoint the next monarch. Such machinations cost money. Politics is mostly buying and bribing.’ He shrugged his disgust. ‘But you will see what this means.’

‘Harry Fellowes is aiding our enemies. If they should succeed, we will suffer. Westfield’s Men will be cut down by a loan transacted within the Tower of London.’

Carrick grinned. ‘Ask me a question.’

‘Is the Clerk of Ordnance so well paid that he can afford to give subsidies to all and sundry?’

‘No,’ said the other, delighted to pass on the fruit of his meditations. ‘Crown officials are poorly paid. They get their reward from the status of royal service and from the incidental benefits of their employment.’

‘Benefits?’

‘I will come straight to it. Harry Fellowes is a kind and Christian man who has helped me to stave off boredom and despair in my imprisonment. However …’

‘Go on, sir.’

‘He is also a cunning malefactor who has made a private fortune from the public purse.’ Carrick held up his palms. ‘Do not ask me how he has done it because I can only guess at the details, but this I can say with absolute certainty. Harry has used his position to falsify and defraud.’

Nicholas ran ahead of him. ‘This loan to the Earl of Chichester must therefore give him great satisfaction. His lordship is Master of Ordnance.’

‘Harry steals money from beneath his superior’s nose then lends it back to him at a high rate of interest.’

Nicholas appreciated the irony of the situation but he also began to see the full ramifications. Banbury’s Men had seized centre-stage with
The Spanish Jew,
an acerbic play which attacked a hated minority who were traditionally associated with usury. It was a work which served the cause of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, who was in alliance with Banbury himself. Their campaign was financed by a loan which had been raised – not from foreigner or Jew –
but from the Crown official who laboured at his accounts in the Tower of London. Shorn of his affability and shown in his true light, Harry Fellowes was every bit as villainous as the character who was portrayed by Giles Randolph.

All indications had Queen Elizabeth fading fast and unable or unwilling to name a successor. The conflict on that issue would be quickly resolved and the party led by the Earl of Chichester might well emerge victorious. If the educated guesswork of a lawyer was sound then Nicholas was in a position to strike a vital blow for Lord Westfield’s faction. The prospect made him tremble with excitement.

Andrew Carrick spelt out the implications.

‘Start here,’ he said. ‘Expose Harry Fellowes and you bring down the Earl of Chichester with him. There will be no Queen Arabella then. You understand me?’

‘Very well indeed.’

‘Westfield’s Men will be safe.’

G
iles Randolph had the overweening vanity that afflicted so many in his profession but it was tempered by an acceptance of one grim truth. An actor needed a patron. Inspired as he believed himself to be and gifted as he certainly was, he never forgot to pay due respect to the Earl of Banbury and to acquaint him with each shift of company policy. Randolph was thus a familiar caller at the sumptuous residence near Charing Cross and he could always count on a goblet or two of Canary wine with his host as they flattered each other with token compliments. The earl glowed with optimism.

‘All things proceed as I would wish,’ he said.

‘We strive to serve your lordship.’

‘You must wipe Lawrence Firethorn from the stage and kill off Westfield’s Men for good.’ Common sense intervened. ‘But you must feed wisely off the remnants.
Edmund Hoode is a playwright to be wooed into my company and I would find a place for Barnaby Gill as well.’

‘Neither is entirely to my taste,’ said Randolph, ‘and I feel sure that Hoode would never countenance working for Banbury’s Men. Gill is another matter but I have severe reservations.’

‘Overcome them, Giles. He is a supreme clown.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘When his company falls, rush in to pick him up.’

‘I will offer him a helping hand …’

The bibulous earl sipped more wine and confided his hopes for the future. His politic alliance with the Earl of Chichester would bear royal fruit that would profit both himself and his troupe. He held out the possibility that the new Queen might elevate his company into her own and the purring Randolph stroked the fur of his own self-importance.

Banbury underlined the significance of Saturday.

‘You must play
The Spanish Jew,
’ he ordered.

‘Playbills have already gone out to that effect.’

‘Introduce some more material to favour us.’

‘The company poet is working on that now.’

‘And let that clever rogue cut Firethorn to ribbons once more,’ said the earl. ‘What is his name?’

‘Owen Elias.’

‘An asset to Banbury’s Men.’

‘That is why I chose him, my lord.’

‘How did you tempt him into our ranks?’

‘By a promise that he would become a sharer.’

‘And will he, Giles?’

The actor shook his head. ‘Never, my lord.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘When he has done what we need, he’ll be discarded.’

‘But he is an arresting player.’

‘We have talent enough in the company,’ said Randolph airily, ‘and we have no room for this upstart Welshman. He is a quarrelsome fellow. Admit him to the rank of sharer and he will argue all day long about the roles he wishes to play.’ He became supercilious. ‘Owen Elias is without true quality. Only the finest talents are worthy of a place among Banbury’s Men. We use him, we lose him. That is his station.’

The patron plucked at his goatee beard.

‘Just another hired man, eh?’

‘Yes, my lord. And hired men come and go.’

Unaware that his hold on fame was of such short lease, Owen Elias went home to his lodging in the confident belief that he would soon become a sharer with his troupe. Sharers were stockholders in the company and, as such, were expected to make a financial investment in it but this aspect had been waived in his case – Giles Randolph told him – because they were very keen to ensure his services. Elias was so carried away with his sudden eminence that he did not hear the mutinous grumblings of the other sharers who had paid an average of fifty pounds for their position. There was no way that the Welshman could raise that
amount. His weekly wage with Westfield’s Men had been seven shillings.

Life with the new company had its definite drawbacks but he was ready to overlook them in exchange for the promised promotion and security. Once he had worked his way into Banbury’s Men, he assured himself, the problems would disappear and he would be able to offer the world vivid proof of his outstanding talents. As he clambered up the stairs to his room, he began to declaim his first speech. When he flopped down onto the stool, he quoted whole segments of dialogue. While he lay on his back and studied the beams above his head, he went through an entire leading part from a play. Owen Elias was a conscientious actor who wasted no opportunity to practise his craft. His voice was still bouncing off the walls as fatigue finally caught up with him. A rhyming couplet died uncompleted.

He dozed quietly off, then woke with a start only minutes later. Realisation brought him fully awake. Nothing that he had recited with such affection had come from the repertoire of his new company. It had all been from his time with Westfield’s Men. The work of Edmund Hoode had seeped into his mind so completely that he could produce it by the yard with word-perfect accuracy.
The Spanish Jew
was the piece in which he made his name but it did not provide the leading role which he had acted so fervently in his room. It was the role of King Gondar which had tripped readily off his tongue. Owen Elias was quoting
Love’s Sacrifice.

He felt pangs of self-doubt and slept fitfully.

Only a matter of pressing importance would make Nicholas Bracewell call on him at that hour of the night and so Lord Westfield had him admitted at once. Excusing himself from the dinner table, he left his guests and hurried into the small room at the rear of the house which he used as his study. Nicholas was waiting respectfully.

‘Well, sir?’ said the patron.

‘I have information about the Earl of Chichester.’

‘What has the old warrior been up to now?’

‘Borrowing money.’

‘Nothing amiss there. I raise loans myself.’

‘Not from this source, my lord.’

Nicholas recounted what he heard at the Tower and it was received in rapt silence. Lord Westfield did not need to have the implications pointed out to him. He knew that he was being given an excellent opportunity to discredit a lifelong enemy, to hamper Chichester’s claimant to the throne, to render an immense public service by exposing fraud at the Ordnance and – most appealing of all – to frustrate the ambitions of the Earl of Banbury. Everything turned on one issue.

‘How certain can we be of the Clerk’s guilt?’

‘I accept Master Carrick’s judgement,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then so will I,’ decided the other. ‘Lawyers are damnable fellows for using words that they may hide behind. If Carrick is making a formal allegation, he has reasons in plenty. What we now have to do is to find the evidence to flush this Harry Fellowes out.’

‘I have been thinking about that, my lord.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘It requires some help from you.’

Nicholas outlined his idea and saw his listener’s face tighten into a hard ball of concentration. Lord Westfield seemed to disapprove at first but his features gradually slipped into an admiring smile. By the time the book holder finished, his host was rocking with laughter.

‘By all, that’s wonderful, Nick!’

‘It may serve.’

‘Put the plan into action forthwith.’

‘I shall, my lord.’

‘Once again, you show your sterling worth to Westfield’s Men. I hope that Lawrence appreciates your true value.’

‘He has to be reminded of it from time to time.’

‘Tell him that I will attend on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’

‘
Love’s Sacrifice
at the Queen’s Head.’

‘But we play
Cupid’s Folly.
’

Lord Westfield gaped. ‘What?’

‘Master Firethorn is indisposed that afternoon.’

‘Am I hearing this aright?’ said the other in tones of disbelief. ‘Banbury’s Men assault us. Giles Randolph makes his bid to thrust Lawrence aside.
Love’s Sacrifice
is vital to counter the effect of
The Spanish Jew
and our leading actor tells us he is indisposed!’ Lord Westfield almost frothed at the mouth. ‘This could well be the most telling Saturday in the history of the company. We need to be at full strength and performing the most appropriate piece. Let Lawrence Firethorn know that I request – nay,
demand
– that he appears in the work of my choice.’

‘I will convey that message to him.’

‘With all due force.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Acquaint him with the name of his patron.’

Lord Westfield showed Nicholas to the door himself and rid himself of one last exasperated question.

‘What, in God’s name, could be more important to Lawrence than leading his company?’

The barge skimmed its way up the Thames to the beat of a dozen oars. Lawrence Firethorn lay beneath the canopy on a bank of cushions, his head pillowed by the exquisite breasts of Beatrice Capaldi, his hair and beard stroked in time to the rhythm of the oarsmen. It was pure joy. He had nothing to do but listen to the slap of the water against the side of the vessel and savour the tender ministrations of his beloved. They had set a course to paradise and were sailing towards a glorious consummation.

Lawrence Firethorn awoke from his dream to find himself in a bed that now seemed impossibly empty without Beatrice Capaldi beside him. He was at home in Shoreditch, staining the marital couch with adulterous thoughts for which he felt no shred of shame. When his wife was with him, he was never deterred from letting his eye rove at will. With Margery safely out of the way in Cambridge, he was a free spirit who could do whatever he liked with whomsoever he chose. An actor who won new hearts every time he stepped onstage, he was surrounded by countless possibilities and he planned to while away
Margery’s absence by working steadily through them but Beatrice Capaldi changed all that. His dark lady banished all others from his mind. Since their tryst had been agreed, he had no desire at all to touch another woman. Firethorn was faithful in his infidelity. A creature who had given him no more than a single line on a sheet of paper had enslaved him to the notion of romantic extravagance.

The play was prophetic.
Love’s Sacrifice
depicted a king who gave up his family, his kingdom and his reputation for the sake of his love. Firethorn had the chance to make a grand gesture of his own, no less momentous in the world that he inhabited. To spend time with Beatrice and to wallow in love, he was ready to ignore the demands of his wife, his fellow actors and his art. For an afternoon in her arms, he was willing to resign his private kingdom.

Love transformed him out of all recognition. He was kind to his children, considerate to his servants and jocund with the apprentices who also lived under his roof. They had never known such happy tranquillity in him and suspected either a secret potion or the onset of madness. Firethorn’s benign mood took him all the way to the Queen’s Head and informed the morning rehearsal. The sniping of Barnaby Gill could not sour it, nor could the plaintive protests of Edmund Hoode. He seemed impervious to the general misery. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to shatter his benevolence.

‘I gave my word!’ bellowed Firethorn.

‘Lord Westfield spoke a few words himself, sir.’

‘I’ll not jump to his command.’

‘You are to be reminded that he is our patron.’

‘My word is my bond!’

‘Your place is here with us.’

Nicholas was ready to take the verbal shot with which he was sprayed. He passed on the message from Lord Westfield and urged the actor-manager to reconsider his arrangements for Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the tiring-house but Firethorn’s half of the conversation could be heard a hundred yards away. Inadvertently, Nicholas put even greater volume into the roar by making a faint insinuation.

‘You commit yourself too soon and too hastily, sir.’

‘Do you dare to lecture me!’

‘Learn to know the lady better.’

‘That is why we float on the Thames together.’

‘No, master,’ said Nicholas. ‘Find out more about her before you plunge headlong into this tryst. There may be things about Mistress Capaldi which somewhat alter the character which she presents.’

Firethorn was outraged. ‘What sort of things?’

‘It is not for me to impugn her honour but …’

‘Be silent, Nick! I’ve heard enough of this.’

‘Wait but a week or two and—’

‘SILENCE!’

Nicholas survived the broadside. ‘Lord Westfield will take his seat here on Saturday afternoon.’

‘His noble buttocks may sit where they wish.’

‘He expects to watch
Love’s Sacrifice.
’

‘Prepare him for disappointment.’

‘He insists on seeing King Gondar.’

‘His Majesty will be on the river.’

As a last resort, the book holder applied full pressure.

‘Fail us on Saturday and you put the company at risk.’

‘What care I for that?’

‘Westfield’s Men are built around you, sir.’

‘My mistress calls and I may not deny her.’

‘Our patron will take it ill.’

‘Then let him!’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘Westfield’s Men depend on me but I do not depend on them. There is a world elsewhere.’ He crossed to the door and opened it with a dramatic gesture. ‘I go to it on Saturday!’

Notwithstanding her combative nature, Margery Firethorn had a soft heart that was duly touched by the wonder of creation. The sight of a happy mother with a beautiful baby was more than ample reward for all the effort she herself had put in at the house, and she was even coming to see her brother-in-law in a less unfavourable light. Jonathan Jarrold would never be the kind of man with whom she would choose to share a bed – let alone a marriage – but his delight in the office of fatherhood was moving and his commitment total. He was always ready to help and willing to learn. There were times when Margery actually had no need to scold him and she soon caught herself paying him gruff compliments. Whatever his shortcomings, Jonathan Jarrold, bookseller, was the head of a little family. When he cooed fondly over his son and heir, he made his sister-in-law think of her own brood. Happiness in Cambridge made her homesick.

Jonathan’s shop was her only link with the capital.