The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (30 page)

‘Glanville!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘This is not good. It is less than satisfactory.’

‘If I might be permitted to explain …’

‘This is explanation enough,’ said Jordan, waving an arm around. ‘I looked to have the place finished ahead of time.’

‘Problems arose, sir. Some materials were difficult to come by—’

‘That is no excuse.’

‘But the men are working to the very limit of their capacity. I can promise you that everything will be completed in a month.’

‘A month! It must be ready in two weeks.’

‘That is well-nigh impossible, master.’

‘Then
make
it possible, sir!’ snarled the other. ‘Bring in more craftsmen. Let them work longer hours – through the
night, if need be. I must and will have my Great Hall ready for the celebrations. I can wait no longer.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Glanville with a bow.

Jordan sauntered on down to the far end where the major alteration had occurred. A huge bay window had replaced the old wall and it allowed sunlight to flood in from the eastern aspect. As he shot a glance of reproof at them, the masons began to hammer away again in earnest. Jordan examined their work then looked back into the hall as if trying to come to a decision. He pointed a long finger.

‘We will need the stage there, Glanville.’

‘Stage, master?’

‘A play will be performed at the banquet.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Westfield’s Men will require a platform for their art.’

‘They shall have it.’

Glanville bowed again, anxious not to incur any further displeasure. To be chastised so sharply in front of others was a blow to his self-esteem. He did not want to give his new master another chance to arraign him so openly. Joseph Glanville was a sensitive man.

‘One last thing,’ said Jordan.

‘Yes, master?’

‘I rode past a cottage in the woods.’

‘Jack Harsnett lives there, sir.’

‘Harsnett?’

‘Your forester.’

‘Dismiss him forthwith. I do not like the fellow.’

‘But he has worked on the estate all his life.’

‘He goes today.’

‘For what offence, sir?’

‘Incivility.’

‘Jack Harsnett is a good forester,’ said Glanville defensively. ‘Times are hard for him just now, sir. His wife is grievously ill.’

‘Clear the pair of them off my land!’

Francis Jordan brooked no argument. Having issued his command, he marched the full length of the Great Hall and stormed out. Glanville’s face was as impassive as ever but his emotions had been stirred.

One of the carpenters came across for a furtive word.

‘Here’s a change for the worse!’

‘We must wait and see,’ said the steward tactfully.

‘Jack Harsnett turned out. The old master would not have done it.’

‘The old master is not here any longer.’

‘More’s the pity, say I!’ The carpenter put the question that was on all their lips. ‘Where
is
the old master, sir?’

‘He has gone away.’

The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem worked to an established routine. It could not be changed by one man, however much he might desire it. Kirk had been at Bedlam only a matter of days before he realised this. What he saw as the cruel and inhumane treatment of lunatics could not easily be remedied. Though he tried to show them more compassion himself, it did not always meet with their gratitude and he had been attacked more than once by
impulsive patients. What distressed Kirk most was that he had himself reverted to the very behaviour he criticised in the other keepers. Bedlam was slowly brutalising him.

At the end of one week, he was given a new assignment by Rooksley. He was to take over the care of some of the patients who were locked away in private rooms and did not consort with the others. They were sad cases. One emaciated man was convinced that he was on the point of freezing to death. Even on the hottest days, when his face was running with sweat, he would lie in bed and shiver uncontrollably beneath the thick blanket. Kirk fed him on warm soup and tried to talk him out of his delusion.

Another of his charges was a querulous old woman, the wife of a wealthy glover. Her husband committed her because of her obsession. Barren throughout her life and now well past the age of childbirth, she believed that she was pregnant and feared that she was in imminent danger of bringing a black baby into the world. Kirk learned to humour her and promised not to tell her husband about her imagined affair with a handsome Negro.

But it was the young gentleman who most interested the keeper and engaged his sympathy. In the grim surroundings of Bedlam, the patient in the white shirt and the dark breeches still had an air of distinction. To all outward appearances, he was a normal, healthy, educated young person from a good family. Kirk was not told his name. All he knew was that the patient was incarcerated there by someone who paid a weekly rent and who stipulated that he was to come to no harm. He was supposed to be
possessed by the Devil but Kirk saw little sign of this during his daily visits.

‘Good morning!’

‘Ah!’ The man looked up with childlike happiness.

‘I’ve brought you some food, my friend.’

‘Oo!’

‘Shall I sit down here beside you?’

Kirk lowered himself to the floor where the patient was sitting cross-legged. The young man had been humming a song. He could make noises of pleasure and pain but he was unable to form words properly. It did not seem to bother him. He had an amiable disposition.

Kirk lifted the plate from the tray across his lap.

‘It’s meat,’ he said.

‘Ah.’

‘Warm and tasty to tempt the palate.’

‘Ah.’

‘Will you feed yourself today, my friend?’

The patient grinned and shook his head violently.

‘Would you like me to help you again?’

There was frantic nodding. The young man inhaled the aroma of the meat and his grin broadened. He thrust his head forward.

‘Open your mouth,’ said Kirk.

The keeper offered him the first spoonful. It was a slow methodical process. The young man liked to chew his meat for a long time before he swallowed it and the other had to be patient. Eventually, the meal was almost over. Kirk loaded the spoon for the last time and raised it to the young
man’s lips, but the latter had had enough. Shaking his head to indicate this, he caught the spoon with the side of his jaw and knocked the meat down the inside of his shirt. It threw him into a panic.

‘Ee! Ah!’

‘Calm down, sir. I’ll find it for you.’

‘Yah! Oh! Nee!’

The patient grabbed his shirt and tore it open down to his navel. Three small pieces of meat were resting on his body and Kirk plucked them off at once. The young man gave a cry of relief.

‘Leeches!’ he said.

It was the first word that Kirk had ever heard him speak and it was an important one. The patient was afraid of leeches which had obviously been used on him in the course of some blood-letting treatment. Kirk was sorry for the distress that had been caused but grateful to have made a discovery. The young man could talk after all. It was a distinct advance and it was followed by another when the keeper glanced at the bare chest in front of him. Scratched across it in large fading letters was a name.

David.

‘Is that you?’ he asked. ‘Are you David?’ The young man looked down at his body as if seeing the letters for the first time. Using a finger, he traced each one very carefully and tried to work out what it was. When he finally succeeded, tears of joy rolled down his cheeks. ‘David!’ he said.

They had given him back his name.

Anne Hendrik could not bear to be idle. Though she had money enough to live a life of relative leisure, she preferred to keep herself busy and took an active part in the running of her husband’s business. After initial resistance from her employees, she won them over with her acumen, her commitment and her willingness to learn every last detail about the art of hat-making. Anne Hendrik revealed herself to be a highly competent businesswoman – and she could even speak a fair amount of Dutch. There was another value to her work life. It gave her something to chat about with Nicholas Bracewell.

‘And that is how Preben came to design the new style.’

‘Has the hat found favour with your customers?’ he said.

‘We have had a number of orders already.’

They were in the little garden at the rear of the Bankside house. Nicholas was carrying a basket and Anne was cutting flowers to lay in it. Taking care not to prick herself on the thorns, she used her shears to snip through the stem of a red rose.

‘But enough of my tittle-tattle,’ she said briskly. ‘What of Westfield’s Men?’

‘Happily, there is nothing to report.’

‘The performance went off without incident?’

‘Yes, Anne. No devil, no falling maypole; no accident of any kind.’ Nicholas grimaced. ‘With the exception of Master Marwood, that is. The fellow is devil, maypole and accident rolled into one.’

‘What did you play this afternoon?’

‘
The Knights of Malta
.’

‘Did it give your landlord cause for complaint?’

‘None at all,’ he said. ‘But he is yielding to other voices. The Puritans have written to him again and an Alderman called at the Queen’s Head to voice his disapproval. One Henry Drewry. We will weather this storm as we have weathered all the rest.’

‘Has Master Gill recovered from his fall?’ she asked.

‘Completely, Anne, but he will not admit it. He still holds his shoulder at an angle and walks with that limp.’

They laughed at the actor’s vanity. When the last of the flowers had been cut, they took them back into the house. Anne searched for a pot in which to stand them and looked forward to the supper she was about to share with him. Nicholas had a disappointment for her.

‘I fear that I must soon leave you.’

‘Why?’

‘I have an appointment to keep in Eastcheap.’

‘Eastcheap!’ she echoed in mock annoyance. ‘You prefer a tavern to my company, Master Bracewell? Things have changed indeed, sir!’

‘You mistake my meaning, Anne.’

‘What can Eastcheap offer but taverns and
trugging-houses
?’

‘Nothing,’ he agreed. ‘And I intend to visit both.’

‘Has it come to
this
between us?’ she said in hurt tones.

‘I do not go there on my own account.’

‘Then why?’

‘To find someone,’ he explained. ‘A wandering playwright. Ralph Willoughby has disappeared and we have need of him.
I have left sundry messages at his lodging but to no avail. If he will not come to us, then I must go to him.’

‘This news is softer on my ears.’

He slipped an arm familiarly around her waist and kissed her gently on the lips. Their friendship was very important to Nicholas and he would not trade it in for one wild night in Eastcheap. She saw him off at the door and urged him not to be too late. With quickening footsteps, he went off to begin his search.

A boat took him back across the river and he made his way to Eastcheap with all due haste. Ralph Willoughby was well-known in the area but he had scattered his patronage far and wide. The search could take Nicholas well into the night.

Bracing himself, he began his journey at the White Hart and found himself the only sober human being on the premises. Willoughby was not there. Next came the Jolly Miller which also produced no missing playwright. The Royal Oak, the Lamb and Flag, even the Brazen Serpent were unable to help. In each establishment, the revelry was loud and lascivious and he was pressed to stay by bawds of every kind. It was not difficult to refuse the entreaties.

Six more taverns had to be visited before he picked up a trail. A barmaid at the Bull and Butcher remembered seeing Willoughby earlier in the evening. There was a chance that he might still be there.

‘Nell was always his favourite,’ she said.

‘Nell?’

She narrowed her eyes as she saw the hope of profit.

‘How eager are you to find this friend of yours, sir?’

Nicholas gave her some coins. It was eagerness enough.

‘Nell has a room upstairs,’ she volunteered.

‘Which one?’

‘The first on the right, sir, and it has no bolt within.’

‘Thank you, mistress.’

He pushed his way out of the crowded taproom to get clear of the noise and the stink of tobacco smoke. The staircase wound its way upwards and he followed its crooked steps. When he reached the passageway at the top, he paused at the first door on the right and tapped. There was no reply and so he used his knuckles more firmly.

‘Who is it?’ asked a crisp female voice.

‘Nell?’

‘Come in, sir,’ she said, sounding a more girlish note.

Nicholas opened the door and stepped into a low cramped chamber that had room for little more than the bed that stood against the window. Candles threw a begrudging light on the scene. Nell was a big, buxom young woman with a generous smile. Lying half-naked on the bed, she was pinned to it by the prostrate figure of Ralph Willoughby. He was still dressed and wheezing aloud in his sleep.

Nell was completely undaunted by the situation.

‘You catch me incommoded, sir,’ she said with a laugh. ‘The poor fellow had more drink in him than desire. If you could shift his carcass off me, then I would be glad to oblige you in his stead.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘An hour at least, sir. I dozed off myself to keep him company.’

‘Come, let me relieve you of your burden.’

‘I like not dead weight between my legs, sir.’

‘Then let me extract him from you.’

He took hold of Willoughby beneath the armpits and lifted him off the bed. Lowering him into a sitting position on the floor, Nicholas shook him vigorously but could not wake him up. The playwright was in a complete stupor.

Nell rearranged herself into a more alluring pose.

‘Drag him outside, sir, and return for his reward.’

‘Alas, mistress, I am not able to take his place.’

‘But you are the properer man of the two, I can tell.’

‘I must needs take my friend home.’

‘I did not know he
had
a home,’ she observed. ‘Unless it be up here. He spent last night in my arms and the one before. A stranger bedfellow I could not wish for, sir.’