The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (37 page)

Alchemy was an irresistible temptation for the rogue and charlatan. So little was known of the science and so much claimed for it that fake alchemists set up all over London and found a ready supply of credulous gulls. Greed and folly activated most of the people who visited the new breed of magicians. They came in search of unlimited wealth and unlimited life, hoping to turn base metal into gold and yearning to find an elixir of youth. Notwithstanding the large sums they invested in their ambition, they failed to achieve either objective. Success somehow eluded them, as did the confidence tricksters themselves when their ruses were finally exposed. In the high-sounding name of alchemy,
the public was seduced daily and exploited unmercifully.

Doctor John Mordrake was one of the few scientists whose record was blameless. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, he never tried to mislead or bamboozle his clients. Indeed, he often bent his extraordinary energies to unmasking fraudulent practices among his rival magicians. He never made extravagant claims for what alchemy
might
do, only for what it could do.

His furnace was kept on the ground floor of his house in Knightrider Street and its fumes were often seeking out the nostrils of any passers-by. As he stood beside it now, Mordrake watched his assistant stoke up the fire to increase the heat. The customer, an obese man in brown satin, rubbed his hands with glee.

‘When will my gold be ready, Doctor Mordrake?’

‘Do not be hasty, sir,’ warned the other. ‘There are twelve stages in the alchemical process and none of them can be rushed. The first six are devoted to the making of the White Stone.’

‘And then? And then?’ asked the man eagerly.

‘Six more long and careful stages.’

The assistant raked the coals again and sparks filled the room. While the customer stepped back in alarm, Mordrake held his ground and let the fiery atoms of light fall around him.

‘We are not sure that it will, sir.’

‘But if my metal
is
refined into gold …’

Mordrake tossed his silver locks and gave a lecture.

‘All substances are composed of four elements,’ he
began. ‘By which, I mean earth, air, fire and water. In most things, those elements are not equally balanced. It is only in gold that they may be found in their perfect proportion. That is why we prize gold above all else. It is eternal, it is indestructible.’

‘It is the source of true wealth,’ noted the customer.

‘My friend, my friend,’ said Mordrake sadly. ‘Do not be moved by a sordid desire for gain. Learn from Cicero –
O fallacem hominem spem
!
Oh how deceitful is the hope of man! Remember Seneca –
Magna servitus est magna fortuna
. A great fortune is a great slavery. I do not work to satisfy the greed of men. That is ignoble and not the true end of alchemical inquiry. I seek perfection.’

‘Does that not involve gold?’

‘Only in the initial stage of the search.’ He indicated the furnace with a blue-veined hand. ‘In my raging fire here, I try to bring metals to their highest state, which is gold, but I would learn the science of applying the same principle to everything in life and – yes, sir – to life itself. Do you comprehend?’

‘No,’ said the man dully.

‘I want to clothe all creation in perfection!’

There was a long pause as the visitor assimilated the idea.

‘Can we make a start with my gold?’

Mordrake patted him on the shoulder then led him to the front door. When he had shown the man out, he padded upstairs to return to his work. As the old man entered the room, an elegant figure looked up from the
massive book over which he was poring.

‘Have you found what you were after, sir?’ asked Mordrake.

‘Indeed.’

‘I would not show
Malleus Maleficarum
to many eyes.’

‘That is why I am so grateful to you, Doctor Mordrake.’

‘We’ll set a price on that gratitude later,’ said the other with a scholarly grin. ‘Did the book enlighten you?’

‘Wonderfully, sir. It made me think.’

‘
Vivere est cogitare
.’

‘To live is to think. We learned that tag at Cambridge.’

‘From whom?’

‘Horace.’

‘Cicero,’ said Mordrake. ‘You should have gone to Oxford.’

‘Neither place could help me fulfil my destiny,’ said the young man wistfully. ‘I was born to serve other imperatives.’

‘I am pleased that the book has been a help to you.’

‘Much more than a help, sir. It has pointed out my way for me.’

Edmund Hoode was transported by delight. His performance in
Love and Fortune
had won plaudits from Grace Napier that thrilled him and congratulations from Isobel Drewry that he did not even hear. The play had been well-received by an audience who knew it for one of the staples of the company’s repertoire. There had been nothing to dim the pleasure of the afternoon. Though everyone was on the alert for trouble, none came and none even
threatened. Hoode’s cup of joy overflowed when Grace acceded to his request.

‘Yes, sir, I would like to dine with you.’

‘We’ll arrange a place and time to suit your convenience.’

‘It will have to be after my return from the country.’

‘You are leaving London?’ His stomach revolved.

‘At the end of the week,’ she explained. ‘But I will not be away for long, Master Hoode, and then we shall certainly dine together.’

‘I will count the hours until that blessed time.’

‘Do not wave me off so soon,’ she eluded with a smile. ‘I do not leave for a few days yet. I will be here at the Queen’s Head again tomorrow to watch
Vincentio’s Revenge
.’

‘And so will I,’ piped Isobel.

Hoode shifted his feet. ‘I am not well-cast in this tragedy.’

‘It is no matter, sir,’ said Grace pleasantly. ‘I would watch you if you played but the meanest servant. It is Edmund Hoode that I come to see and not the part he plays.’

He kissed her hand on impulse. Isobel giggled inappropriately.

When the two of them left, he shuttled between happiness and misery. Grace Napier had agreed to dine with him but she had first to go away. Before he could be really close to her, they would have to be far apart. The thought that she might stir outside London filled him with dread. He wanted her to be in the same city as himself, if not in the same ward, the same house, the same chamber, the same bed and the same love affair. After full consideration, he dismissed the pangs of remorse and decided that he was
entitled to feel triumphant. He had got his response at last. His plays, his performances and his poems had won a promise from his beloved.

It was a triumph that merited a small celebration.

‘More ale, Nick?’

‘I have had my fill, I think.’

‘A cup of wine to see you on your way?’

‘It would detain me in this chair all night.’

They were sitting together in Hoode’s lodging. Desperate to tell of his good fortune, the playwright had pressed his friend to come back for an hour that had somehow matured into four. Nicholas Bracewell drank, listened, nodded at intervals and threw in words of encouragement whenever a small gap appeared in the narrative. He tried to leave more than once but was restrained by his host. Grace Napier was the centre of Hoode’s world and he went round and round her with repetitious zeal.

Nicholas eventually got to his feet and contrived a farewell. Another burst of memoirs held him on the doorstep for five minutes then he broke free. Hoode went back inside to marvel at his luck and to pen another sonnet to its source. If Grace could tolerate him as a venal Duke in
Vincentio’s Revenge
, she must indeed be smitten.

It was a fine night. Nicholas ambled along a street with a sense of having done an important favour to his friend. It did not hurt him to listen to the amorous outpourings of Edmund Hoode and his presence had clearly meant so much to his host. The playwright would do as much for
Nicholas. Not that he would ever lend himself to such a situation. Affairs of the heart were matters of discretion to him and no man had ever heard him boast or sigh. It was one of the qualities in him that most attracted Anne Hendrik.

The incessant talk of Grace Napier turned his mind to his landlady. Most of the things that Hoode praised in his beloved were traits that she shared with Anne. In thinking about one woman, Nicholas gained some insight into his relationship with another. For that alone, it was worth keeping a babbling playwright company. Nicholas sauntered on in a mood of quiet satisfaction. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.

It was only then that he realised just how much he had drunk. His reactions were far too slow. By the time he swung round, the first blow had already caught him on the side of his head. He tightened his fists and crouched to defend himself. There were two of them, burly figures with broad shoulders and thick necks. When both of them charged him, he was knocked back against a wall and his head struck the hard stone. His assailants began to pummel him.

Nicholas fought back as best he could. Evidently, the men were not the thieves he had at first assumed them to be. If they were after his purse, they would have used a cudgel to knock him unconscious or a knife to stab his back. Though he was taking punishment, he managed to retaliate strongly. When his fist made contact with a craggy face, it came back spattered with blood. Bringing his knee
up sharply, he hit one of the men in the groin then pushed him away as he bent double in agony. The second man grappled with Nicholas.

The attackers were strong but they were not skilled fighters. Had Nicholas not been slowed by drink and dazed by the blow on his head, he could have handled them with ease. They were not after his money or his life. They had another purpose and he soon learned what it was.

‘There he is, officers!’

‘Seize the fellow!’

‘Come, sirs!’

‘Stop in the name of the law!’

A young man ran along the street with two members of the watch. Before he knew what was happening, Nicholas found the two constables holding his arms. He protested his innocence and told how he had been attacked, but they would not listen to him.

‘This gentleman here witnessed the affray, sir.’

‘Indeed, I did,’ said the young man, stepping forward. ‘You attacked that person with the beard and this other gentleman came to his aid.’ He pointed to the man who was still doubled up in pain. ‘Do you see, officers, how violent the assault must have been?’

‘Leave this to us, sir,’ said one of the constables.

Nicholas felt a sledgehammer inside his skull, but his brain was still clear enough to work out that the three men were accomplices. With all his experience in the theatre, he could recognise stage management. They had set him up for arrest. When he tried to explain this, he was ignored.
Nicholas did not cut an impressive figure with his bruised face, his torn jerkin and his slurred speech. The constables preferred to accept the word of the young man with an air of wealth about him.

Feeling drowsier by the minute, Nicholas did not hear what his two assailants were saying, but they were obviously telling a prepared story. It was backed up by the young man. At one point, this individual stepped close to the lantern held by one of the constables. Nicholas had a fleeting glimpse and noticed two things. Though the book holder had never actually met the young man before, the latter’s profile was somehow familiar, and on his right hand he wore a ring that gave a clue as to his identity because gold initials were embossed on black jet.

Nicholas wondered who GN could possibly be.

Having heard the statements, the constables became officious. Honest and just men, they lacked any real education and did their job as well as their meagre abilities allowed. They belonged to a profession that was
much-mocked
and much-maligned. London watchmen were notoriously inept and inefficient, as likely to aid a felon’s escape through their stupidity as to bring him to book through their promptness. The two constables were well aware of their low reputation and they resented it strongly. Given the opportunity of such an easy apprehension of an offender, they made the most of it. One of them confronted Nicholas.

‘I arrest you for assault and battery at the suit of Master Walter Grice.’

‘But it was
they
who attacked
me
, officer,’ said Nicholas.

‘Come your way, sir,’ said the constable.

Nicholas faced his assailants and fired a last question.

‘Which one of you is Walter Grice?’

The larger of the two thrust his face in beside the lantern. There was a long cut above his right eye where Nicholas had split open his skin. Blood oozed freely down his cheek but he was not perturbed by it. Nor did he seem to bear Nicholas any ill will for the injury.

‘I am Walter Grice,’ he said. ‘Sleep well tonight.’

The two constables took the prisoner off down the street.

It was midnight when she retired to her bed and he had not returned. When he was still absent after a further hour, Anne Hendrik became worried. Her lodger worked long and variable hours but he was usually home in time for supper. If he was going to be late, or stay away for the night, he always warned her in advance. It was most unlike him to be so late. Anne got up and went across to his bedchamber. By the light of her candle, she saw that the place was still empty. There was nothing which indicated where he might be.

She went back to her own room and climbed into bed once more, rehearsing the possibilities in her mind. Nicholas might have been asked back to the home of one of the players. That sometimes happened. Lawrence Firethorn liked to involve the book holder in any business discussions and Edmund Hoode often used him as a shoulder to cry
on. Had he been to either place, he must certainly be back by now.

There were two other possibilities, neither of which was palatable to her. Nicholas had been led astray. Actors were a law unto themselves. They led strange anarchic lives and took their pleasures along the way as and when they found them. Something of that spirit must have rubbed off on Nicholas and it was conceivable that female company had diverted him for once. Some of the company went roistering in taverns almost every night. Had Nicholas been persuaded to join them? He liked women and he was very attractive to them. What was there to stop him? Jealousy flared up and quickly turned to disgust. If he could cast her aside so easily for a casual fling, it said little for the depth of their friendship.