Chapter Three
The meeting took place in Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch, a sprawling, half-timbered dwelling with a thatched roof in need of repair. Situated in Old Street, the house was presided over by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, a formidable woman with a homely appearance that belied her strength of character and her iron determination. Not only did she cope with a husband whose roving instincts were a continual threat to marital harmony, she brought the children up on true Christian principles, provided bed and board for the company’s apprentices and ruled the roost over her servants. The place was never less than clean, the food never less than delicious and the hospitality never less than warm. When the first guest, Edmund Hoode, arrived, Margery gave him a cordial welcome and wanted to hear all about his visit to the ailing Barnaby Gill. The second person to knock on her door was Owen Elias, the spirited Welsh actor, and she accepted his kiss with a girlish laugh. But it was for Nicholas Bracewell that she reserved her most affectionate reception, wrapping him in a tight embrace and chortling happily. Firethorn had to call his wife to order.
‘Let the fellow in, Margery,’ he scolded, ‘before you squeeze all the breath out of him. You have three thirsty guests in the house and your husband’s throat is also dry.’
‘Say no more, Lawrence,’ she replied, bustling off to the kitchen.
Nicholas went into the parlour to be greeted by the others. Ordinarily, Barnaby Gill would have been present at such a gathering. There were other sharers in the company but he, Firethorn and Hoode made all the major decisions, assisted usually by Nicholas, who, as the book holder, was only a hired man but who was included in discussions about future policy because of his cool head and resourcefulness. Gill always objected strongly to his presence at such meetings but he was overruled each time by Firethorn, the leading actor and manager of Westfield’s Men. Nicholas was pleased to see that Elias had replaced Gill at the table. Unlike the troupe’s clown, the Welshman was a firm friend. He was also a person with firm opinions that were expressed with characteristic honesty. There would be none of the petty bickering that Gill invariably brought to any exchange of views.
Taking the seat to which Firethorn waved him, Nicholas turned to Hoode.
‘How is he, Edmund?’ he asked.
‘Barnaby is wallowing in self-pity,’ said Hoode.
‘No novelty there,’ observed Firethorn tartly.
‘Show some sympathy, Lawrence,’ chided Hoode, shooting him a look of reproof. ‘He’s in great discomfort. The doctor gave him some medicine to ease his pain but it has no effect. Barnaby suffers dreadfully. The pain is not confined to his leg, I fear. It is seated in his heart and his brain as well.’
‘He does not have a heart.’
‘Shame on you! At such a time as this, Barnaby needs our support.’
‘Then let us drink to his health,’ said Firethorn as Margery entered with a tray that bore four cups of wine and a platter of cakes on it. ‘Thank you, my angel,’ he added, patting her on the rump as she passed. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Find someone else to wait on you, hand, foot and finger,’ she retorted before handing out the refreshments. ‘Is there anything else you need, Lawrence?’
‘Only peace and quiet, my dove.’
‘I’ll make sure that the children don’t interrupt you.’
After distributing a smile among the three guests, she sailed out again and left the men to raise their cups to the absent Gill. Firethorn was anxious to begin the discussion.
‘Well, Nick,’ he said, taking a first sip of wine, ‘did you see Lord Westfield?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Eventually.’
‘What did he say about this afternoon’s disorder?’
‘He was shocked and disgusted. Fearing injury to himself and his friends, he hustled them out so quickly that he was quite unaware of the fact that one of them was in no position to leave.’
‘Did he identify the dead man?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name was Fortunatus Hope.’
‘I think he should have been called Misfortunatus,’ said Elias with a grim chuckle, ‘for he chanced on no luck at the Queen’s Head. Who could have wanted to kill the fellow?’
‘Lord Westfield could throw no light on that, Owen. Nor could he even tell me where the man lived. Master Hope, it seems, only recently came into his circle and was still much of an unknown quantity. What our patron has promised to do,’ said Nicholas, ‘is to make enquiry among his other friends to see if any of them were better acquainted with the fellow. At the very least, we should write to his family to tell them of the tragedy that has befallen them.’
‘That office should surely fall to Lord Westfield,’ said Firethorn.
‘I fancy that we might perform it more readily.’
‘Are our patron’s feathers so completely ruffled, Nick?’
‘His plumage is in danger of falling out. Because of what happened today, he thinks that his own life may now be in jeopardy. By the time I left him, he was shaking like a leaf.’
‘Did you apprise him of that fact that we mean to quit the city forthwith?’
‘I did. He thought it a sensible move.’
‘What of our visit to Dover?’ asked Hoode.
‘Lord Westfield still intends to be there when we play at the castle. He’ll send word to Lord Cobham that we’ll reach Dover earlier than expected.’ Nicholas tasted his own wine. ‘When he has to advise a distinguished friend of a change of date, our patron will reach willingly for his pen. But he is less ready to pass on news of a murder to the family of Fortunatus Hope. I’d have thought it simple courtesy.’
‘Lord Westfield lends us his name, Nick,’ said Firethorn briskly. ‘Do not look for much else from him. He’s a man of strict limitations. But enough of him,’ he went on, slapping his thigh. ‘The decision is made. We take to the road the day after tomorrow. All that we need to debate is whom we take with us.’
‘As large a company as we may,’ said Elias.
‘A number of the hired men will have to be released, Owen.’
‘It seems an act of cruelty to discard them.’
Firethorn shrugged. ‘Cruel but necessary. Some of the musicians will have to stand down as well. We can only take musicians who can also carry parts, or actors who can play an instrument.’
Hoode finished eating his cake. ‘Our main concern is how to replace Barnaby,’ he said, brushing a few crumbs from his arm. ‘Nobody can match his talent but we must find a substitute who will not let us down.’
‘Is there nobody within the company?’ wondered Elias.
‘None, Owen. You can sing as well as Barnaby but I mean no disrespect when I say that you could never emulate his other skills. We must perforce look outside Westfield’s Men.’
‘What is the point?’ asked Firethorn. ‘The best clowns are already employed elsewhere. We could hardly lure one away from Banbury’s Men. Giles Randolph would not oblige us with the time of day, still less with one of his comedians. We’d meet the same rebuff from Havelock’s Men. They’d sooner part with their teeth than help us.’
Elias frowned. ‘There must be someone who meets our needs.’
‘There is,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he is not attached to any company.’
‘Who is this paragon?’
‘Gideon Mussett.’
‘Why, of course!’ said Elias, jumping to his feet. ‘The very man. Giddy Mussett can make an audience laugh until they sue for relief. He is the one clown who could fully disguise the absence of Barnaby Gill.’ His face clouded. ‘Yet, wait awhile. I thought that Giddy was contracted to Conway’s Men.’
‘He was,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but it seems that he fell out with them.’
‘Giddy Mussett falls out with everyone,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘Nobody can doubt his talent but it’s allied to every vice in the calendar.’
‘Barnaby is not exactly a saint,’ Elias noted, resuming his seat.
‘Perhaps not,
Owen, but neither does he drink himself into a stupor, pick a fight on the slightest provocation and frequent the stews of Bankside.’
‘If all who love fine ale and fine women are to be excluded, then half of us will stay in London. On those two accounts,’ admitted the Welshman, ‘Giddy Mussett is no worse than Owen Elias. I, too, am cursed with hot blood and find it difficult to walk away from a quarrel.’
‘Mussett incites quarrels for the sake of it.’
‘Not if he is kept under control,’ argued Nicholas.
‘No theatre company has so far managed that feat.’
‘I believe it to be within our compass.’
Hoode was curious. ‘Why do you say that, Nick?’
‘For two main reasons. The first is simple gratitude. Every actor would rather be working than kicking his heels. Giddy Mussett is no exception. He would make an effort to show his gratitude to us. The second reason,’ said Nicholas, ‘is that we would be much more vigilant than some of our rivals. Let him out of our sight and he would surely go astray. Bind him to a contract of good behaviour and we may have a different result.’
‘It sounds as if it is at least worth trying.’
‘I believe so, Edmund.’
‘So do I,’ added Elias. ‘Giddy is our man.’
Firethorn was sceptical. ‘Something tells me that we are courting disaster here.’
‘Not if we lay down strict rules,’ said Nicholas.
‘Mussett would not recognise a rule if it recited the Catechism at him. Besides, you are forgetting something, Nick. We seek a substitute for Barnaby and he would never allow Giddy Mussett to take his place. They are sworn enemies.’
‘Need we tell Barnaby?’ asked Elias.
‘He would never forgive us if we did not.’
‘True.’
‘In any case,’ said Firethorn, ‘we might stay silent but the truth would surely get back to him by some means. Giddy Mussett would make certain that it did. Nothing would content him more than to profit at Barnaby’s expense. He’d crow like chanticleer and do his best to oust him altogether.’
‘That would never happen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mussett would only be engaged as a hired man for as long as we required. It would be made clear at the start.’
‘I side with Nick,’ decided Hoode. ‘Giddy Mussett is our only hope.’
‘He gets my vote as well,’ said Elias.
‘Give him your blessing, Lawrence.’
Firethorn downed the remainder of his wine in one loud gulp and pondered. Nicholas exchanged glances with the other two then waited for a response from the man with the real power in the company. Unless Firethorn could be persuaded, they would have to look elsewhere for a clown.
‘I do not like the idea,’ said Firethorn at length.
Nicholas was blunt. ‘Suggest a better one and we’ll gladly accept it.’
‘Mussett is too troublesome a bedfellow.’
‘Do not be misled by his reputation.’
‘And what of Barnaby? He’ll be mortified.’
‘He’ll come to see that we made the only choice possible,’ said Nicholas. ‘Granted, the two men share an intense hatred but only because they are keen rivals. Beneath their hatred is a deep respect for each other’s skills.’
‘That will only make Barnaby green with envy.’
‘Which would you rather have, Lawrence?’ asked Hoode. ‘A green and resentful Barnaby or a pallid clown who makes a mockery of every comedy that we stage?’
‘Edmund is right,’ said Elias. ‘We are in a quandary and there is but one way out of it. Bear this in mind. We make the decision – not Barnaby.’
Firethorn stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Mussett is certainly a fine singer,’ he conceded, ‘and he is as vigorous as any man in a dance. Of his comic skills, there is no doubt. My worries concern his private habits.’
The Welshman chuckled. ‘We all have those, Lawrence.’
‘Employ the fellow and we may imperil the whole company.’
‘That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’
‘There’s no risk if we keep Mussett on a tight rein,’ asserted Nicholas, wishing to bring the discussion to a close. ‘That will be my task. I’ll answer for our new clown.’
Firethorn was still unconvinced. ‘I have grave reservations,’ he confessed. ‘Besides, we do not even know that he will accept a place with us.’
‘Oh, I assure you that he’ll accept anything that’s offered to him.’
‘How can you be so confident of that, Nick?’
‘Because I took the liberty of finding out where he dwells at present,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’ll be more than ready to leave his present abode. I’d stake my life on it. Giddy Mussett is languishing in prison.’
King’s Bench Prison stood on the main road south out of London, close to the Marshalsea, another of the city’s many jails. Stretching down through Southwark, the thoroughfare was noted for the number and size of its inns. There seemed to be a continuous line of hostelries with barely a few shops and houses to separate them. It meant that wretched prisoners were living cheek by jowl with places where pleasure and entertainment were in good supply. While they endured squalid conditions and meagre rations, customers nearby were celebrating their freedom by enjoying the comforts of the Bear, the George, the White Hart and all the other happy taverns that lined the route. Throughout the whole day, sounds of merriment drifted into the ears of the condemned and the convicted, reminding them of what they had lost and making their ordeal all the more difficult to bear.
King’s Bench Prison, however, was not entirely lacking in jollity. Since he had been incarcerated there, Gideon Mussett had done his best to brighten up the lives of his fellow prisoners. He was not impelled by any unselfish concern for their welfare. His songs and dances were never offered freely in order to distract people from the misery of their situation. Mussett was engaged in a battle for survival. He performed for reward. The money that he earned from grateful spectators was spent on drink, tobacco and edible food. Imprisonment for someone as poor as him would otherwise have been a species of torture. Only those with something in their purse could stave off the hunger and despair that claimed so many victims.
Whenever he raised the spirits of his companions with some rousing songs or with a comical dance, he had an appreciative audience.
‘More, Giddy. Please give us more.’
‘Sing to us of Wild Meg again.’
‘Aye, or of the Sweet Maid of Romsey.’
‘Dance, Giddy. We’ve not had a jig today.’
‘Up on the table and dance!’
Giddy Mussett raised both palms to still the outburst of requests. He was a short, angular man in his early forties with an ease of movement that made light of his age. His exaggerated features gave him a striking appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his hooked nose unusually large and his chin pronounced. With the shock of red hair on his head, he looked in profile like a giant cockerel and he certainly had something of the bird’s arrogant strut. Mussett bared his uneven teeth in a grin.
‘My legs are tired today, my friends,’ he said. ‘If you would have them dance, they will need to be revived with a drink of ale or a pipe of tobacco.’
‘You’ve taken every penny we have,’ complained one man.
‘Then there’ll be no jigs this morning.’
‘We’ll not be cheated out of our entertainment,’ said another man, tossing a coin to the clown. ‘There, Giddy. That will buy us your legs again.’
Mussett winked. ‘It’ll buy you no other part of my body, Ned, I tell you that.’
Raucous laughter filled the cell. There were ten of them, crammed together in a narrow cell with a long table at its centre. Sleeping arrangements were primitive and the only ones who managed anything approaching a peaceful night were those strong enough to fight for the best places in the filthy straw. A compound of revolting smells filled the room. Sun streamed in through a window high in the wall to illumine a scene of u
tter degradation. Most of the men were in rags and the two ancient women wore equally tattered garments. The stench of poverty intensified the pervading reek. The only thing that helped them to forget their dire predicament was a performance by their very own clown. But they were to be deprived of even that today.
A key scraped in the lock and the iron door groaned on its hinges. Putting his head into the cell, a brawny man with a greying beard fixed Mussett with a stare.
‘Follow me!’ he ordered.
‘But we want our jig,’ protested the man who had parted with the coin.
‘Then we’ll let you dance at the end of a rope,’ said the jailer with a snarl. ‘Did you hear me, Giddy? Follow me.’
‘I’ll not be long, my friends,’ promised Mussett, waving cheerily to the others. ‘I charge you all to stay where you are until I get back.’
He followed the jailer out of the room then waited while the door was locked again. A minute later, he was conducted into the prison sergeant’s office and left alone with a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Wearing a leather jerkin, the visitor had fair hair and beard. Mussett studied him for a moment.
‘I believe I know you, sir,’ he said.
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ returned the other, ‘and I’m the book holder with Westfield’s Men.’
‘Ha!’ sneered Mussett, spitting on the floor with disgust. ‘Then you are a friend of that vile toad called Barnaby Gill.’
‘I’m pleased to number him among my fellows.’
Mussett was combative. ‘Then we have nothing to say to each other. I despise him. Has he sent you here to mock my condition? Is that your purpose, sir? Do you treat the King’s Bench Prison like another Bedlam where you may gain your pleasure by viewing the mad and the unfortunate? I am neither, Master Bracewell,’ he went on, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘Tell that to your crawling worm of a friend.’
‘I would rather speak to you,’ said Nicholas calmly, ‘and if you have sense enough to listen, you may hear something to your advantage.’
‘Not if it’s coupled with the foul name of Barnaby Gill.’
The Vagabond Clown Page 3
