The Mad Courtesan (22 page)

Seen against the clear night sky, St Paul’s was still the great act of worship it had always been but the darkness shrouded the deterioration to its fabric. It was showing its age. Battered by time and beaten by inclement weather, its stonework was pitted, its tracery mouldering, its pinnacles encrusted with filth and its buttresses scored. Smoke from sea coal had blackened parts of its exterior and there was an air of neglect about it.

Yet the cathedral still had the capacity to surprise and to overawe. Anyone who chanced to look up at its roof that night would have seen an extraordinary sight. A single flickering candle suddenly appeared at the very top of the tower and worked its way slowly around the perimeter like a guiding light to holy pilgrims. It was a benign presence but it startled the nesting swifts and swallows, it alarmed the perching ravens and jackdaws, it fluttered the roosting pigeons and it spread panic among the predatory kites who used the mighty roof as the vantage point from which they could swoop down upon the offal of London. The candle went a little higher, the flame burned brighter and there was a thunderous flapping of wings as hundreds of tenants quit their lodgings and took to the sky.

Cornelius Gant was pleased to have such an impact on his feathered audience. He had climbed to the top of the cathedral to take stock of it from above and to finalise his preparations for Saturday’s feat. The next time that he stood there, Nimbus would be beside him. As he surveyed the whole city from his lofty position, he felt once more that surge of power and ambition which had brought him to London.

He blew out his candle and laughed in the darkness.

Owen Elias was not a regular visitor to the stews. Like most actors, he took his pleasures where he could find them and so it was largely a succession of tavern wenches whom he numbered among his conquests. At the same time, however, he felt completely at ease in the Pickt-hatch. Its atmosphere
of bawdy banter and tobacco smoke were second nature to him and he fitted into its snug sinfulness as well as any of the usual patrons. Various punks blandished him with their wiles and their wares but he bided his time until he found the one whom he sought. The slim and sensual Frances was indeed a different proposition. Her brand of carnality had a whiff of danger about it. Like Sebastian Carrick before him, Elias knew that an hour in her bed would be an experience not easily forgotten. When she fixed her eyes upon him, he felt the lick of her tongue and the scratch of her nails. He also saw the coffin of a murdered actor being lowered into the ground. This was the one.

He bought them both wine and acted the role in which Nicholas Bracewell had schooled him. Frances was supremely captivating. She knew how to interest, to tease, to excite and to heighten anticipation. When she finally led him towards the stairs, she gave him a first snarling kiss by way of a deposit on the madness that was to follow and Elias had to fight off the natural surge of his lust. This rustling courtesan was also a cold-blooded killer who would not scruple to send him on the same route to the grave on which she had dispatched his former colleague.

Alone together in her room, he got final confirmation.

‘Your reputation is very high, Frances,’ he said. ‘You were recommended to me by a friend.’

She put her arms around him. ‘I like to please.’

‘My friend spoke of your fingernails.’

‘They are yours tonight, sir,’ she said, putting her hands
under his doublet to gouge his back through his shirt. ‘I’ll scratch my name on your back as well.’

‘First, you must give greeting to my friend once more.’

Owen Elias eased her away and took out the portrait of Sebastian Carrick which had been borrowed from the latter’s sister. Holding the picture close to the candle, he grabbed Frances by the neck and thrust her head close to the flame. She recognised the features at once and turned on Elias with a screech of fury, going for his eyes with the fingernails she had just used to tempt him. The Welshman was ready for her. Catching her wrists, he twisted her arms behind her back then forced her across to the window. His foot kicked it open and he pushed her forward long enough for her struggle to be seen from the street. Pulling her back to him, he held her in a firm grip and took the squirming body out of the room and along the passageway.

Nicholas Bracewell was alert and ready. He had seen what he expected. The figures at the window had brought a man out of a doorway opposite the building. He hesitated in the middle of the street and gave Nicholas plenty of time to study his profile and identify it as that of the assailant whom he and Edmund Hoode had disturbed in an alleyway. When he saw the axe dangle from the man’s hand, he knew that he stood close to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The book holder drew his sword and approached with care. Owen Elias may have played his role to perfection so far but he was now beyond the realms of his rehearsals. What happened from now on was pure improvisation.

Frances was struggling and biting for all she was worth but the strength of the actor took her down the stairs and off towards the front door. They came out in an explosion of noise and went off down Turnmill Street towards the quaking watchmen who had been posted there. The screaming woman was the ideal bait. Elias had hauled her no more than thirty yards before the accomplice moved in to strike. Nicholas yelled a warning that saved his friend’s life. As the axe was lifted into the air, Elias spun round to hold Frances beneath it and subject her to the horror which her victims had suffered. At the same moment, Nicholas Bracewell pricked the upraised arm with the point of his sword.

The man let out a stream of curses and turned his venom on the newcomer, hurling the axe with such force that it would have split his face in two had it connected. But Nicholas ducked just in time and the weapon thudded into the door of a house behind him like the knock of doom. Elias still held the flailing woman and the two watchmen inched closer to the action. Having lost his axe, the man drew his own sword and closed with Nicholas. It was a short and vicious encounter. Blades flashed then locked tight. Fists and forearms were used, knees and feet inflicted further bruises. The man was a practised street-fighter but he never met opponents on equal terms. In Nicholas Bracewell, he was up against someone who was bigger, stronger and more agile.

As they grappled with increasing ferocity, it was the firmer purpose of the book holder which told. Impelled by a vow to a murdered friend, he found the extra energy to twist the man’s sword from his hand and sent it clattering to the
ground. His adversary replied with a kick which sent him down on one knee. Pulling a dagger from his belt, the man hurled himself upon Nicholas with a manic rage that was his own undoing for he impaled himself on the sword that was held up to meet him. With a long, slow, blood-curdling howl of pain, he fell backwards and expired in the filth of Turnmill Street. The killing of Sebastian Carrick was avenged.

‘NO!’
shrieked Frances in despair.

She broke free from her bonds and flung herself down upon the dead man to weep tears of true remorse. Snatching up his dagger, she then leapt up to confront Nicholas, Elias and the two watchmen. She spat her hatred at them then held the weapon in both hands before sinking it into her chest. They watched in silence as she used her last brief seconds on earth to crawl across the man whom she loved so that she could die in his arms. It was a grotesque but not unmoving sight. Full revenge had now been exacted.

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather trembled.

‘They are yours now, sirs,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have solved a crime and brought malefactors to judgement.’

‘Have we?’ said Taplow nervously.

‘Josiah and I but watched,’ admitted Merryweather.

‘No,’ said Nicholas unselfishly. ‘You are the real spirit of the law here. My friend and I simply helped you to bring these two wretches to account. You must take all the credit, sirs. Make a full report.’

Uncertain smiles spread over the gnarled faces.

They had tamed Clerkenwell at last.

A long night held still further surprises for both Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell. After making sworn statements to the authorities – and heaping agreed praise upon the two old watchmen – they went off to a tavern to celebrate their success and to drink to the memory of Sebastian Carrick. It was Elias who pointed out that the fatal brawl in Turnmill Street bore a marked resemblance to the sword fight in which Nicholas had instructed the late actor. Stage violence had anticipated its real counterpart. When his friend was at his most relaxed, Nicholas reopened a crucial debate.

‘Do you still play at The Curtain on Saturday?’

‘Yes,’ said Owen with a scowl.

‘
The Spanish Jew?
’

‘It has brought me acclamation, Nick.’

‘Stolen from Lawrence Firethorn,’ noted the other. ‘No man is great by imitation, Owen. You have talent enough to succeed on your own account. Why ape a fellow actor?’

‘It is … required of me.’

‘In return for the promised contract.’

‘Master Randolph will have it ready by Saturday.’

‘Westfield’s Men have theirs ready now.’

Nicholas slipped a hand inside his jerkin to pull out the contract which Andrew Carrick had drawn up with legal precision. Elias was frankly amazed. He read through the terms by the light of a candle and was touched. It was everything that he had hoped for during his long service with his old company but the contract had a defect.

‘It has not been signed by Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘It will be.’

‘You give me food for thought here.’

‘See if Banbury’s Men can match those terms.’

‘But if I play in
The Spanish Jew
…?’

‘Then this will be null and void,’ said Nicholas, taking the contract and secreting it away. ‘Think it over, Owen, and remember one thing. You acted for Westfield’s Men tonight in Clerkenwell and your performance was without fault.’

The Welshman nodded. He was in for another disturbed night. Nicholas took his leave and headed towards the river. He made a slight detour so that his route took him towards Blackfriars. The house of Beatrice Capaldi looked smaller in the darkness and Nicholas walked around it three times as he tried to divine the secrets that lay within. He was about to continue on his way when a vague idea at the back of his mind was given real substance. The front door of the house opened and Beatrice Capaldi herself appeared, wearing a long pink robe over a shift. She stood on bare feet to plant a farewell kiss on the lips of her lover, then she waved a hand as he strode off towards the stables to get his horse. As the couple stood together in the light for those fleeting seconds, Nicholas got a look at the departing visitor.

It was Giles Randolph.

L
ondon was burnished by bright summer sunshine but a tempest raged in the hearts of its citizens. Faint suspicions which first started in the corridors of the Palace spread quickly and developed into full-blown rumours. By the time they worked their way down to the very roots of society, they had hardened into incontrovertible fact. Queen Elizabeth was dying. Everyone knew it, from the mightiest earl in his mansion to the meanest wretch who begged outside Bedlam. The report of her slow demise was a thunderclap that destroyed the hearts of thousands. They had known no sovereign but her and had come to see her as a timeless guardian of themselves and their children after them. Conquest and expansion had distinguished a reign that was also remarkable for its peace and stability. Change had been exiled for over thirty years. Its imminent return was menacing. The capital was thrown into gusting
confusion and the people who rushed so madly about were so many dry leaves whisked here and there at will by the heartless caprices of Fate.

The Earl of Chichester summed up the common experience.

‘Oh, what an earthquake is the alteration of the state!’

Then he proceeded to exploit the phenomenon with bland irreverence. Others thronged to his alliance or formed new ones as the issue of the succession predominated. Church leaders met in hasty synods to decide where best to bestow their blessing. Puritans advanced their ideas, Presbyterians wanted their say in the election and Catholics looked to Rome for counsel. Every nobleman in the land was jolted out of his complacency and forced to rediscover the meaning of conspiracy and cabal. Lust for power was a giant needle which embroidered its way through the great houses of the nation with politic speed. Vaulting ambition was a thread of gold.

Hopes, fears and wild conjectures were given a sharper focus by two significant events. Lord Burghley vanished and Dr John Mordrake appeared on the scene. The old fox who had served his Queen so faithfully throughout her reign had now gone to ground. William Cecil, Baron Burghley, was the Lord High Treasurer, the senior figure in the government, a man of real political vision with a firm grasp on the complexities of state. In fading from view and affecting an attack of gout, he was giving tacit acknowledgement of the hopelessness of the situation. Dead queens need no bulwarks.

Dr John Mordrake’s intervention was an even clearer signal. He was a desperate last gamble. Orthodox medicine had failed and so it was time to invoke magic. Dr John Mordrake was a scholar, sage, mathematician, alchemist and astrologer. His detractors called him a mountebank and his adherents a genius but nobody could gainsay the fact that a stream of small miracles had flowed through his eccentric career. The long, lean, bending creature in the black gown and black buckled shoes lived and worked in his laboratory in Knightrider Street. A mane of silver-grey hair gave him an almost saintly quality but it was offset by the dark power that seemed to emanate from him. Nobody could be sure whether the huge medallion which dangled from a chain around his neck was a holy relic or the badge of Satan.

The Earl of Banbury inclined to the latter view.

‘Was the old devil allowed to see Her Majesty?’

‘He was in her private apartments for an hour.’

‘What took place, Roger?’

‘Even my spies cannot peer through walls.’

‘Mordrake will not save her!’ said Banbury with ripe contempt. ‘Though he practises the arts of necromancy, he will not raise her mouldering old body from the dead.’

Chichester smiled thinly. ‘He left with a bottle.’

‘What did it contain?’

‘What else but the Queen’s own urine?’ said the other. ‘Doctor Mordrake hastened back to Knightrider Street to put the royal piss to the test. My man tracked him. This time he
was
able to peer through walls.’

‘How so?’

‘Because walls have windows, sir. By bribing his way into the bedchamber opposite Mordrake’s house, he was able to take part in the experiments as if he were standing at the shoulder of the venerable fraud.’

‘Did Mordrake examine the contents of the bottle?’

‘In every way.’ Roger Godolphin grew lyrical. ‘He touched, he tasted, he held it up to the light. He applied chemicals to change its colour and heat to change its consistency. In short, sir, he did everything but drink the draught down and sing an anthem. From that one pint of liquid history – taken, as it were, from the past life of our dear departing Majesty – he could foretell the future.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘And he did not like what he saw.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he began to shudder so much with fear and shake so much with horror that he dropped the bottle on the floor and it was smashed to pieces. The worthy doctor has given a precise diagnosis here. Queen Elizabeth fades away. All he has to remember her by is some damp floorboards.’

‘Your spy deserves ten crowns for this!’

‘He rendered better service yet.’

‘Did he so?’

‘When Mordrake recovered his wits enough to be able to hold a pen, he scribbled a letter and sent if off to the Palace by messenger.’ The Earl of Chichester smirked. ‘My fellow intercepted that messenger. A few gold coins gained him a glance at the letter.’

‘What did it say, Roger?’

‘Forty-eight hours.’

‘That is all?’

‘What more was necessary? Death sentence is passed.’

Banbury rubbed greedy palms. ‘Forty-eight hours!’

‘Two more days of the Tudor dynasty then we move in! Dr John Mordrake has earned his fee, I warrant. That learned magician, who can read the signs of the zodiac, has seen the future of the English nation in a bottle of piss.’

‘I applaud his inspiration.’

‘But forty-eight hours to wait.’

‘How many of the Privy Council have we bought?’

‘Enough.’

‘How many of Westfield’s supporters have we lured?’

‘More than enough.’

‘And Burghley?’

‘We still practise on him,’ said the other. ‘Bess has bestirred herself in Hardwick Hall. She made her gout-ridden stepson, Gilbert Talbot, write to Burghley to advise him to make trial of oil of stag’s blood for his ailment. The Earl of Shrewsbury will win over the Lord High Treasurer by means of the pains in their feet. They will soon walk as one!’

The Earl of Banbury executed a little dance of triumph then threw his arms around his host in congratulation.

‘You have been a supreme general, sir!’

‘Yes,’ said Chichester smugly. ‘I have deployed my army like a strategist. A case of money well spent!’

Nicholas Bracewell took against Cornelius Gant the moment that he saw him. He detected a veiled hostility in
Gant’s manner, an ingratiating smile that was really a smirk of malice, friendly gestures that hid a deep contempt, a mock humility that cloaked a soaring arrogance. Nicholas had a job which required him to weigh men up at a glance and he found Gant severely wanting. He could sometimes enjoy the company of plausible rogues – Sebastian Carrick had been a case in point – but here was a more malevolent species. It was paradoxical that a religious purpose brought Gant to the Queen’s Head so early in the morning.

‘I have come for the angels’ wings, sir,’ he said.

‘Wings?’

‘Master Marwood told me of them. You staged a play in his yard that had an angel in the story. He remembers those wings very well, sir.’

‘What of it?’ said Nicholas warily.

‘I wish to buy them from you.’

‘We never sell our costumes.’

‘Then let me rent the wings.’

‘That is not our policy.’

‘I will pay well.’

Cornelius Gant flipped back the edge of his coat and detached a large bag of coin from his belt. He tossed it to Nicholas who got an immediate idea of its worth. Westfield’s Men were being offered far more for the loan of their wings than it cost to make them in the first place. It would be a profitable deal but the book holder hesitated. Gant read his mind and threw in another hand-washing grin.

‘You think I will fly off with your wings!’ he said with a cackle. ‘But I will bring them back even as I take them.
To this end …’ A second purse was untied from his belt. ‘I leave this as surety. When the wings return, you give me back this purse. Is not this fair?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Then the deal is settled.’

‘Why do you want those wings?’

‘I do not wish to be an angel, that I can tell you.’

‘Is it for some kind of play?’

‘Come to St Paul’s on Saturday.’

Cornelius Gant would say no more but his money was real and his terms generous. The wings had been made for an early play by Edmund Hoode that had now fallen out of the repertoire and they were simply taking up space in the room at the inn where Westfield’s Men stored their costumes and properties. Nicholas consented. When he showed Gant to the storeroom, the latter was delighted with what he saw. The wings were some five feet in length, covered in white feathers and joined by a leather halter which had been fitted around the shoulders of the actor playing the angel. It was this device that particularly thrilled Gant and he tried the wings on, flapping them for effect.

‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. They are ideal.’

‘Be careful, sir. They are partly held by wax.’

‘So?’

‘Remember Icarus. Do not fly near the sun.’

Gant went off into a paroxysm of reedy cackling.

Nicholas was now treated to one of the most unlikely sights he had ever witnessed at the Queen’s Head. Its landlord came skipping blithely over to them. At a time
of national calamity, when a dying sovereign was turning the capital into a city of sadness, Alexander Marwood might finally have come into his own. His sustained misery would at last be appropriate, his skulking despair a common mode of behaviour. Instead of this, he was sprightly and joyful. He fell on his visitor as if Gant were his oldest friend and he pressed him to free ale and victuals. Nicholas watched it in bewildered silence. When the two men went off arm in arm, he wondered if he had taken leave of his senses.

Cornelius Gant was not the only angel on the premises.

‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’

‘Mistress Carrick! What brings you here at this hour?’

‘I thought to catch you before your rehearsal.’

‘Then must your reason be important.’

‘It is.’ Marion Carrick handed him the scroll. ‘My father said that I was to put it into your hand without delay. It contains a report about one Master Fellowes.’

‘That makes it almost as welcome as you, mistress.’

Nicholas had never seen her looking so lovely or so like her brother. With the sun slanting down to give her a halo, she really did have an angelic air. Her smile had a sweet innocence which he did not want to remove but there was no helping it. Taking her aside and sitting her down on a bench, he explained that her brother’s killer had himself been killed in a Clerkenwell street. Her ignorance of the area obscured its true character from her and he was able to give a version of the story which obscured the fact that Sebastian’s visit to a prostitute had set the whole tragedy in
motion. Marion Carrick was so grateful to hear the news that she burst into tears and had to be comforted.

As he soothed her with gentle patting, he looked down into the beautiful moist face and reflected how different she was from the two other women who had become entangled with Westfield’s Men. Frances from the Pickt-hatch and Beatrice Capaldi from Blackfriars were sisters under the skin. One was paid for nightly promiscuity while the other was more highly selective in her clients but both were courtesans with a streak of madness in them. And neither would baulk at murder. Frances stabbed herself through the heart but Beatrice Capaldi inserted the blade through the breast of her victims. Lawrence Firethorn was being slowly bled to death and his company might perish with him.

Nicholas sighed and helped Marion Carrick up from the bench. In contrast to the other women, she was a decent and wholesome presence but she did not belong in the world of the theatre. Now that her brother’s death had been properly avenged, she could return to her own life. Nicholas was sorry to see her go and she lingered at the parting to give him a soft kiss before hurrying off with the servant who escorted her out into the street. There was no flapping of wings but he felt as if an angel had departed from his life.

The missive remained and he unrolled it at once. Andrew Carrick had been diligent in his research. His letter was an absolute mine of information gleaned from Harry Fellowes and bearing upon the operation of the Ordnance Office. Facts and figures were set down in tabulated profusion. Nicholas knew that his plan could now be put into effect.
The search for the man with the axe was over. He could now tackle the conspirators who were trying to chop down Westfield’s Men.

Before that, another rehearsal beckoned.

‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled. ‘About it straight!’

The studious inertia of Cambridge oppressed her more each day and she grew increasingly restless. She bulked large in a small house even when she was stationary but Margery Firethorn was positively overwhelming when she was on the move in such a confined space. Mother and child found her ubiquity rather unsettling. Jonathan Jarrold felt it was like sharing a cage with a hungry she-tiger. While giving her the daily dose of gratitude, he assured his sister-in-law that they could now cope without her. His son, Richard, had come through the real trial and was making visible progress. The bookseller and his wife had every reason to believe that they had finally produced a baby who had come to stay.

Margery agreed to his suggestion. Reasons to leave now greatly outnumbered reasons to stay. She would depart on Friday and break the journey to London at some intermediate hostelry where she could spend the night.

‘That way,’ she told her sister, ‘I may arrive home in good time on Saturday.’

‘Lawrence will be overjoyed to see you, Margery.’

‘I will take my husband unawares.’

‘That was ever your way.’

‘Goodbye, sister.’

‘Give our love to the whole family.’