The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (40 page)

‘Stand by!’ called Nicholas.

They were actually straining to get on stage now.

The axe bit hungrily into the wood before it was thrown aside. Jack Harsnett took the piece of ash and used his knife to hack it into shape. He then reached for the other piece of wood and bound the two together with a stout twine that would withstand bad weather. Having tested the result by banging it on the ground, he got his knife out again and gouged a name on the timber. It took him a long time but he kept at it with surly patience, sustained by the memory of an occasion when he had carved the same name alongside his own.

His work done, he walked over to the pile of stones that marked the grave and looked down with a wave of grief washing over him. Then he lifted the cross high and brought its sharpened end down hard into the hole that he had dug for it, kicking the earth into place around it and stiffening its hold with some small boulders. His spade patted everything firmly down.

Burial in an anonymous field was the best that he could manage for his wife and only his crude handiwork indicated the place. After one last glance at the grave, he walked quickly back to the cart. There was no point in driving any further now.

Harsnett headed back towards Parkbrook.

Lawrence Firethorn displayed his flowering genius yet again. His portrayal of Vincentio sent shivers down the spines of all who saw it. He was exactly the kind of villain that they liked – dark, handsome, ruthless, confiding, duplicitous and steeped in a black humour that could raise a macabre laugh during a murder. He stalked the stage like a prowling tiger, he sank his speeches like a spear into the topmost gallery and he used a range of gestures so expressive and so finely judged that he would have been understood had he been dumb.

Seeing him as an unscrupulous Italian nobleman, it was hard to believe that he was only the son of a village blacksmith. His voice, his face, his bearing and his movement were those of a true aristocrat but his origins were not entirely expunged. With exquisite refinement, he laid each part that he played on the anvil of his talent and struck a magnificent shower of sparks from it with the hammer of the actor. The theatre was his forge. His art was the wondrous clang of metal.

Absorbed in his role on stage, he could shed it in an instant when he entered the tiring-house. When he got his first real break from the action, he sidled across to Nicholas for elucidation.

‘Well?’

‘I was falsely imprisoned for assault and battery.’

‘How?’

‘Two men attacked me. A third brought constables and swore that I was the malefactor. My word did not hold against theirs.’

‘Rakehells! Who were they?’

‘I mean to find out.’

‘But how did you obtain release?’

‘I bribed an officer to take a message to Mistress Firethorn.’

‘Why to my wife and not to me?’ said the other peevishly.

‘You had enough to do here, sir,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘Besides, I knew that your good lady would move with purpose.’

‘Oh yes!’ groaned Firethorn. ‘Margery does that, sir!’

‘Did I hear my name, Lawrence?’ she asked, coming over.

‘I was singing your praises, sweeting.’

‘And so you should, sir,’ she said bluntly. ‘The message reached me in Shoreditch well after noon. That left me little time and much to do within it. My first thought was to repair to the Counter in Wood Street and demand that Nicholas be handed over to me, but I reasoned that not even my writ would run there.’

Firethorn made a mental note of a possible future refuge.

‘The message urged me to contact your patron,’ she continued, ‘so I flew hither and was told he was too busy to see me. That was no obstacle to me, sir. My business was
imperative and so I forced my way into Lord Westfield’s presence. When he recognised who I was, he praised my appearance and asked why I did not visit the theatre more often.’

‘Keep to the point, woman!’ said her husband.

Nicholas interrupted to wave four soldiers on to the stage and then to cue in a canon that had to be rolled out from the tiring-house.

Margery returned to her tale with undiminished zest.

‘I had caught him just in time for Lord Westfield was about to depart for the country. Hearing of our problem and rightly judging its serious effect on the company, he wrote a letter in his own hand there and then. With a man of his for company, I was driven to the Counter in his coach and that could not but impress the prison sergeant. When he read the letter, he did not hesitate to obey its command. Nicholas was delivered within a matter of minutes. We hastened here and you know the rest.’ She broke off to watch some actors stripping off their costumes. ‘I had not thought that Master Smythe had such comical haunches.’

She drifted off to view the spectacle from a better angle.

‘We have been fortunate, Nick,’ said Firethorn.

‘I know it well.’

‘But why were you imprisoned in the first place?’

‘To keep me from holding the book here, master.’

‘A vile conspiracy!’

‘Which landed me in a vile lodging.’

‘It has the stink of Banbury’s Men about it.’

‘No, master, I’m convinced of that.’

‘But someone wants to damage the company.’

‘Not the company,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lord Westfield himself.’

Before Firethorn could react to the news, the book holder cued him and the actor tore on to the stage to challenge one of his intended victims to a duel. After he had dispatched the man with the poisoned tip of his sword, he shared his thoughts with the audience before he withdrew again. Nicholas sent on actors for the next scene and resumed his conversation.

‘I see it plain now, master.’

‘Our patron is the target?’

‘Without question.’

‘But it was
we
who suffered the attacks, Nick.’

‘Only when Lord Westfield was present,’ said the other. ‘He was here when we first performed
The Merry Devils
. He was at The Curtain for
Cupid’s Folly
and he joined us at The Rose. On each occasion, someone tried to discredit us in order to hurt him.’

‘I begin to see your point, sir.’

‘There was no trouble during
The Knights of Malta
or
Love and Fortune
. Our patron was not here in person to be embarrassed. That is why his enemies stayed their hand.’

‘But he is not here today either.’

‘It does not matter,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The attack is not through the play itself. We’ll have no devil or failing maypole or unexpected death. Lord Westfield’s enemies had failed three times already and were angry at their failure. They sought a new approach.’

‘To disable the book holder.’

‘That would not stop the performance – which was the intention in the other three cases – but it might impair the quality and that would reflect badly on our patron.’

Firethorn was impressed and punched him softly.

‘You did some thinking in that prison, sir.’

‘I’d choose more fragrant places for my contemplation.’

‘You’ll be in one tonight unless I’m mistaken,’ said the other with a roguish grin. ‘Mistress Hendrik came looking for you. When she sees that bruise on your face, I’m sure she’ll make you lie down so that she can tend it properly.’ He cocked an ear to listen to the action on stage. ‘Why did such a beautiful Englishwoman marry such a boring Dutchman?’

‘That has never come up in conversation.’

Firethorn stifled his mirth so that it would not distract.

‘The Counter was a grim experience,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it gave me one valuable piece of information.’

Firethorn made another entry to stab a rival in the back and deliver a soliloquy of thirty lines while straddling the corpse. He sauntered off to applause then shook the Venetian court away to turn once more to his book holder.

‘Valuable information, you say?’

‘I know where to find our merry devil.’

Francis Jordan lay on the bed with a glass of fine wine beside him. It was a warm evening and the casements were open to let in the cooling air and the curious moon. He was naked beneath a gown of blue and white silk that shimmered in the
light from the candelabra on the bedside table. Everything was in order for his tryst with Jane Skinner. The room had been filled with vases of flowers and a second goblet stood beside the wine bottle. He felt languid and sensual.

The clock struck ten then there was a timid knock on the door. She was a punctual lover and that suggested enthusiasm. Jordan was pleased. He rolled over on his side.

‘Come in!’ he called.

Jane entered quickly, closed the door behind her and locked it. He did not see that she withdrew the key to hold it behind her back.

‘Welcome!’ he said and toasted her with his goblet.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I want you to enjoy this, Jane.’

He appraised her with satisfaction. She wore a long white robe over a plain white shift and had a mob cap on her head. Her feet were bare. Even with its worried frown, the face had warmth to it and there was a country succulence about her body which roused him at once.

‘Did my brother ever bring you to his bedchamber?’

‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘The master respected me.’

‘Virgins among the chambermaids! I never heard the like.’

‘We were treated well before, sir.’

‘You’ll be treated well tonight, Jane.’ He waved an arm. ‘These flowers are for your benefit. Come, share some wine with me and we’ll be friends. Take up that goblet.’

‘I will not drink, sir.’

‘Not even at my request?’ Her silence annoyed him
slightly. ‘I see that I am too considerate, Jane Skinner. You give me no thanks for my pains. So let us forget the flowers and the wine. Step over here.’

She began to tremble but did not move at all.

‘Come,’ he said, putting his goblet aside. ‘
Now
, Jane!’

‘No, sir,’ she murmured.

‘What did you say?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you know who I am and what I am?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then do as you’re told girl, and come over here.’

Jane Skinner took a deep breath and stayed where she was. Her hands tightened on the large brass key in her hands. Prickly heat troubled her body. Her mouth was quite dry.

‘I’ll give you one more chance,’ he said with menace.

‘No, sir,’ she replied with her chin up. ‘I will not.’

‘Then I will have to teach you.’

He hauled himself off the bed but he was far too slow. Caught between disgrace and dismissal, Jane wanted neither and chose a third, more desperate course. As Francis Jordan tried to come for her, she tripped across the room, jumped up on to the window sill then leapt out into the darkness.

There was a scream of pain as she landed with a thud on the gravel below.

Jordan rushed to the window and looked down. She was squirming in agony. Doors opened and lighted candles were taken out. Two bodies bent over her in concern. Jordan
was both furious and alarmed. Lying beside her was the key to his bedchamber. Before he could pull back from the window, one of the figures looked up to catch his eye.

It was Joseph Glanville.

It was good to be back in the saddle again. Nicholas Bracewell was a fine horseman who knew how to get the best out of his mount. He was proceeding at a steady canter along the rough surface of the road. It was early on Saturday evening and Westfield’s Men had not long given a performance of
Mirth and Madness
to a small but willing audience at Newington Butt. Instead of staying to supervise their departure, Nicholas was allowed to ride off on important business. The fair which had been at Hoxton the previous week had now moved south of the river. It was at the village of Dulwich.

He heard the revelry a mile off. When he reached the village green, he first saw to his horse then went to explore. The fair was in full swing and it was not difficult to understand why Leonard had enjoyed it so much. Booths and stalls had been set up in a wide circle to bring a blaze of garish colour to the neighbourhood. People from all the surrounding districts had converged in numbers to see the sights, eat the food, drink the ale, buy the toys, watch the short plays, enjoy the entertainments and generally have fun.

Visitors could see a cow with three legs or a sheep with two tails, a venomous snake that wound itself around its female keeper and hissed to order, a dancing bear
or a dog that did tricks, a cat that purported to sing in French, a strong man who bent horseshoes and the
self-styled
Heaviest Woman in the World. The wrestling booth struggled on without the Great Mario and Nicholas spared a thought for Leonard.

Vendors wandered everywhere. They sold fans, baskets, bonnets, aprons, fish, flowers, meat, even a powder that was supposed to catch flies. Kindheart was pulling out teeth with his pincers and the ratcatcher was selling traps. One of the most popular vendors had a tray of cosmetics and a melodic voice.

The village girls giggled with high excitement.

Nicholas eventually saw them. They were three in number, tiny men in blue shirts and hose, demonstrating their agility to the knot of spectators who gathered around their booth. They were midgets, neat, perfectly-formed and seemingly ageless, doing somersaults and cartwheels for the delight of the crowd. They came to the climax of their routine. One braced his legs as his partner climbed up on to his shoulders. The third then climbed even higher to form a human tower. Applause broke out but changed
to a moan of fear as the tower appeared to fall forward. Timing their landing, they did a forward roll in unison and stood up to acknowledge even louder clapping. A woman in a green dress, smaller than any of them, came out from the booth with a box and solicited coins. The villagers gave freely.

He could hear them talking as he went around to the rear of their booth. The woman entered and discussed the takings. Nicholas called out and asked if he could come in.