‘First, be warned. Barnaby is in a truculent mood.’
‘A broken leg would make anyone truculent.’
‘It is not the leg that irks him but a black cat.’
‘A black cat?’ echoed Frant. ‘Is not that a sign of good fortune?’
‘Not in this case. That’s his complaint.’
‘This is not a request, Lawrence. It’s a demand. Giddy must be dismissed forthwith.’
‘When he has proved himself such a boon to us?’
‘He’s no boon to me,’ growled Barnaby Gill. ‘He’s a curse.’
‘Everyone else loves the man.’
‘They have not been entombed in a foul privy!’
‘Calm down, Barnaby.’
‘They have not been attacked by a wild cat in the middle of the night. If Giddy Mussett had done either of those things to them, they’d take a different view of him.’
‘But he did neither of those things to you,’ said Lawrence Firethorn.
‘He did, he did.’
‘Nick Bracewell swears the man is innocent.’
‘Then he conspires against me.’
‘Giddy shared a room with Nick and Edmund. At the time when a cat came in through your window, Giddy was fast asleep.’
‘Only after he’d tossed the animal in on top of me.’
‘How could he? Nick vouches for him. He never left their room.’
‘Then Nick is lying through his teeth.’
‘I beg leave to doubt that, Barnaby,’ said Frant, standing in the doorway. ‘Nick Bracewell is as honest as the day is long. He would not lie to anyone.’
‘Sebastian!’ cried Firethorn, pounding him on the shoulder by way of a welcome. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time. What brings you here?’
‘I’ve come to defend Nick against vile accusations.’
‘I can do that for myself,’ said Nicholas, who had entered the taproom with him. He turned to Gill, who was seated in a chair. ‘You have my sympathy for what happened last night. It must have been a shock to you. But do not blame Giddy Mussett.’
Gill was still enraged. ‘I blame the pair of you.’
‘Then you must blame Edmund, Dick Honeydew and the other apprentices as well for all of them shared the room with Giddy. The six of us will take our Bible oath that he did not stir from his mattress.’
‘He must have. Who else would hurl a cat on top of me?’
‘Could not the cat have jumped in on his own?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘They are famed for their curiosity. An open window was an invitation he could not refuse.’
‘There,’ said Firethorn. ‘That’s your answer, Barnaby. This cat took a liking to you and wished to sleep in your arms. Enough of your protests, man. Do you not recognise an old friend standing here?’
‘I am sorry to hear of your plight, Barnaby,’ said Frant pleasantly.
‘Which one?’ replied Gill. ‘They come upon me daily.’
‘Nick talked of an affray at the Queen’s Head.’
‘It was more than that, Sebastian. It was vicious assault on me. When they could not take my life, they broke my leg instead. I believe that Giddy Mussett may have been behind that outrage as well. He had me removed so that he could usurp my place.’
‘This is lunacy,’ said Firethorn. ‘Ignore him, Sebastian. When the riot broke out, the man Barnaby accuses was locked up in the King’s Bench Prison.’
Frant was interested. ‘Tell me more. Who caused the affray?’
‘My enemies,’ wailed Gill.
‘It was not simply an attack on you, Barnaby,’ scolded Firethorn.
‘Then why is my leg in a splint?’
‘We were all victims that day,’ said Nicholas. ‘Westfield’s Men were robbed of their home and a murder was committed in the gallery.’
‘Murder?’ gasped Frant.
‘During the tumult, a friend of Lord Westfield’s was stabbed to death.’
‘Can this be true? A spectator killed while watching a play?’
‘Felled by an assassin who was biding his time.’
‘These are dreadful tidings. Who was the man?’
‘His name was Fortunatus Hope.’
‘Newly come to London and part of our patron’s circle,’ said Firethorn.
‘Before that,’ added Nicholas, ‘he was an acquaintance of Lord Conway’s.’
Frant shook his head. ‘He was much more than an acquaintance, Nick,’ he explained. ‘Conway’s Men have played in Dover a few times and I have met their patron more than once. I am sure that he introduced me to a Fortunatus Hope last year. It is not a name that one forgets.’
‘And you say that he is much more than an acquaintance?’
‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘He was Lord Conway’s nephew.’
Rehearsals of Cupid’s Folly took up all of the morning and most of the afternoon. The performance was not due to begin until early evening when people had finished their work for the day and could allow themselves some entertainment. The play was a staple drama in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men and that was one of the arguments in favour of staging it at the Star Inn. So familiar was it to the actors that many scenes needed scant rehearsal. The bulk of the time could therefore be devoted to the sections that involved Giddy Mussett. Aided by Nicholas, he had conned the part well but his grasp on the character was still unsure. Rigormortis was a longer and more complex role than that of Bedlam and, while there were shared values between them, there were also significant differences. It was left to the book holder to explain what those differences were.
One aspect of the play was mastered instantly by Mussett. Shunned by Dorinda, a beautiful shepherdess, Rigormortis urged his suit again and chased her around the stage so wildly that he blundered into a conical beehive. Immediately, he was attacked by a swarm of angry bees. In an effect devised by Nicholas, he knocked over the hive, tossed a handful of black pepper into the air to suggest the swarm, then jumped, twitched and smacked himself as the bees, apparently, stung him all over. The actors had seen Barnaby Gill play the scene so often that it had ceased to divert them but Mussett’s version made them hoot and clap. Once again, Gill did not share their approval. He watched from his room, writhing with a mixture of envy and regret.
They were emotions experienced by Lawrence Firethorn as well. Even from casual observers who wandered into the yard, Rigormortis was getting more response than Lord Hayfever, the role taken by Firethorn. He envied the clown’s capacity to amuse with a gesture or gain a laugh with a facial expression, and he began to regret the selection of a play that cast him in a subordinate role for once. At the same time, he was forced to admire Mussett’s extraordinary skills. For a man who had never seen the play before, he was making exceptional progress. It remained to be seen if he could sustain that progress in front of an audience.
The success of A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady brought spectators flocking to the inn. Lucas Broome and his wife were among them but this was no formal occasion for the civic worthies and their families. The warm, dry evening lured people from all levels of society. Gatherers had been hired to take money at the door. The mayor and his party were allowed in free but everyone else was charged and they paid willingly. Most of those who came were happy to stand in the yard in front of the stage. By paying extra, people could also occupy the benches in the gallery and make their stay even more comfortable by hiring a cushion. Refreshments were on sale, carried around on trays by servingmen. The beaming Jonathan Jowlett, who took his own seat in the gallery, stood to make a handsome profit from the performance.
Westfield’s Men were delighted with the huge audience that they attracted. It was almost as if they were back at the Queen’s Head. That was their natural home. They had performed at The Theatre and The Curtain, the two playhouses in Shoreditch, and they had trodden the boards at The Rose, the new Bankside theatre, but they preferred their inn yard to all other venues. The Star Inn suited them much more than the Lower Courthouse. Given the number of country
folk in the audience, Cupid’s Folly, with its pastoral setting and rustic humour, was an ideal choice. Up in the gallery, Sebastian Frant explained the plot to his daughter, Thomasina, but took care to give nothing away that would spoil the recurring surprises that made the piece so popular. Thomasina, who had inherited both her father’s intelligence and his reserve, was an attractive young woman in a pale blue dress, who sat upright with her hands folded in her lap. Like everyone else in the yard, she was gripped by a sense of anticipatory pleasure.
Cupid’s Folly did not let them down. From the moment he entered as Lord Hayfever, the pompous landowner, Firethorn held sway over the spectators. Females of all ages craned their necks to get a closer look at the striking figure in his finery. There was abundant romance as well as humour and Edmund Hoode, in a part he had written for himself, was very touching as a lovesick shepherd. It was a role that mirrored a private life that was littered with rejection and unrequited passion. Owen Elias shone as a rapacious farmer while James Ingram was the dashing hero who elopes with the farmer’s daughter and rescues her from parental tyranny. The rest of the company supported the principals loyally.
Rigormortis was the only disappointment. Mussett collected plenty of laughs and his encounter with the beehive earned him an ovation but he was tentative with his lines and uncertain about his movements. It was only when he was on stage alone, dancing, singing or jesting with the audience that he really blossomed. The play concluded with a spirited dance around the maypole that had been set up in the middle of the stage. All the characters joined in and the collisions between Lord Hayfever and Rigormortis were a source of continual hilarity as their respective ribbons became hopelessly intertwined. When Firethorn brought the play to an end with a rhyming couplet, applause reverberated around the yard. This time, he knew, his position as the star had not been threatened by the clown. Mussett had been merely good where he might have been superb. Conscious that he would once more be the cynosure, Firethorn was lavish in his praise.
‘You excelled yourself, Giddy,’ he said, as they left the stage.
‘I made too many mistakes.’
‘Nobody noticed a single one of them.’
‘I did,’ said Mussett, ‘and I’m sure that Barnaby did as well.’
‘Let’s go back out and drink the sweet nectar of applause.’
As Firethorn swept out on stage the whole cast followed to bask in the acclaim. Mussett smiled as broadly and bowed as low as any of them but he was not content.
‘I need something stronger to drink than this,’ he murmured.
Nicholas Bracewell had controlled the performance from behind the scenes but his work was not over when the play had run its course. While the actors changed out of their apparel in the room that was used as their tiring-house, Nicholas had to gather up the properties, put the costumes back in their baskets and, with the help of George Dart, clear the stage. Once that was done, and when the crowd had dispersed, they could begin the process of dismantling it. Nicholas was heaving one of the boards off its trestle when a shadow fell across him. He turned to see the bulky frame of Pieter Hendrik standing there. The weaver was still chuckling at what he had seen.
‘Fery gut, Niklaus,’ he said. ‘Fery funny.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘The pleasure, it is mine. I like it more than the others.’
‘Is that because we did not steal your cloth like Conway’s Men?’
‘No, no. Wistfield’s Men is gooder than them. I like fery much.’
‘I’ll pass on your comments to Master Firethorn.’
‘Ah, yis,’ said Hendrik, his memory jogged. ‘Something else you pass on, please.’ He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Nicholas. ‘This you give to Anne, will you?’
‘When we get back to London,’ said Nicholas. ‘And if we do catch up with Conway’s Men, I’ll be sure to mention your name.’
‘Yis, yis. They owe much money. Thank you.’
After shaking Nicholas’s hand, Hendrik ambled off with happier memories of a theatre troupe. Cupid’s Folly would make him smile all the way back to Mill Street. As one contented playgoer left, two more came over to the book holder. Sebastian Frant introduced his daughter then gave his own verdict.
‘You could not have chosen a better play for the occasion, Nick,’ he said.
‘That is what we felt.’
‘I expected to miss Barnaby Gill but your new clown filled his place admirably. The man was familiar. Did I not see him once with Conway’s Men?’
‘With them, with Rutland’s Men, with Banbury’s Men, even with Viscount Havelock’s company, for a short time. Giddy has played with them all.’
‘I’m glad that he’s added Westfield’s Men to his list.’
‘As are we, Sebastian,’ said Nicholas. He smiled at Thomasina. ‘I hope that you enjoyed the performance as much as your father.’
‘Yes, I did,’ she said demurely.
‘Who caught your eye? Rigormortis? Or did you prefer Lord Hayfever?’
‘I like them both, sir, but I loved the shepherd even more. He sighed so.’
‘That was Edmund Hoode,’ said Frant. ‘You must meet him, Thomasina.’
‘I would like that, Father.’ Her eyes flicked to Nicholas. ‘I am told that you are the most important person in the company.’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Nicholas, ‘that is too gross a claim.’
‘Not in my opinion,’ said Frant. ‘The actors would be helpless without you behind the scenes. You all but run the company. Who pays the rent to the Queen’s Head on behalf of them? Nick Bracewell. Who employs a scrivener like me to produce a neat copy of a new play? Nick Bracewell. Who keeps all the play books safe? Who collects all the money from the gatherers at the door? Who devises many of the tricks that are used on stage? And who spreads contentment among the others simply by being there?’
Nicholas was modest. ‘Your father overstates his case,’ he said.
‘I think not,’ she said. ‘He was close to Westfield’s Men at one time.’
‘It was a sad day when we had to lose him, Miss Frant.’
‘Come,’ said Frant. ‘There are plenty of scriveners in London.’
‘But none with anything to rival your experience, Sebastian. Before you came to us, you held an exalted position.’
Frant gave a wan smile. ‘Hardly that, Nick! I was secretary to the Clerk of the Privy Council. Have you any idea how tedious it is to copy out edicts and statutes and memoranda? I all but died of boredom,’ he went on. ‘Working for a theatre company was excitement itself after that. When I first set eyes on Cupid’s Folly, I could not stop laughing, and that was before it ever graced a stage.’
He broke off as Firethorn and Elias came striding out of the tiring-house. Both had changed out of their costumes but they still cut an impressive figure. Holding a position in the middle of the stage, Firethorn gazed at Thomasina.
‘Where have you been hiding this divine creature, Sebastian?’ he asked. ‘This surely cannot be your daughter. She is too beautiful to be sired by humankind.’
Thomasina blushed. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, bowing her head.
‘Well,’ said Elias, staring at her. ‘Introduce us to this angel, Sebastian.’
Frant did as he was bidden and both men claimed the privilege of kissing her hand. Nicholas observed how unused she was to flattery. Some of their fulsome comments brought a fresh tinge of colour to her cheeks. He stepped in to fend off any further embarrassment for her.
‘I think that you have not watched a theatre troupe very often, Miss Frant.’
‘Not at all,’ she confessed. ‘I did not know what to expect.’
‘Why have you neglected your daughter’s education, Sebastian?’ asked Firethorn. ‘You should have taken her to every play that you could.’
‘Opportunities to do that are few in number,’ said Frant. ‘Conway’s Men have been to Dover but they are nothing beside you. I’d not make Thomasina sit throu
gh their barren performances.’
‘Giddy Mussett has a low opinion of them as well,’ noted Elias.
‘So does Pieter Hendrik,’ said Nicholas. ‘A weaver in the town who supplied them cloth that they took without paying.’
Frant nodded. ‘They’ve made many enemies in Kent, I fear.’
‘Unlike your lovely daughter,’ said Firethorn, inclining his head towards her in a token bow. ‘Thomasina will only ever leave admirers in her wake.’
After praising the performances of both men, Frant decided that it was time to leave but he promised to watch the company perform in Faversham, and his daughter was eager to see them again as well. As the visitors walked out of the yard, Nicholas waved to their old scrivener. All that his companions could see was the daughter.
‘Diu!’ exclaimed Elias. ‘Have you ever seen such a lovely face as hers?’
‘Forget her, Owen,’ warned Firethorn with a grin. ‘Thomasina is mine.’
‘Edmund was her choice in the play,’ Nicholas told them.
Firethorn was aghast. ‘What? A lovelorn shepherd is preferred over me?’
‘At least, it was not Rigormortis,’ said Elias with a laugh. He looked around. ‘By the way, where is Giddy? We need to celebrate.’
‘Was he not in the tiring-house with you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘No, Nick. He left some time ago. I thought he came out here.’
Nicholas sensed trouble. Mussett was on the loose.
The Black Eagle was a tavern that was situated down an alley that led off the High Street. It was a low, ugly, lopsided building with an air of dilapidation about it. Even in broad daylight, the interior was dark and gloomy. There was a musty smell that was intensified by the tobacco smoke that curled up from a dozen pipes. Yet when Giddy Mussett stepped over the threshold, he breathed in deeply as if inhaling fresh air. The fetid atmosphere of the Black Eagle was like the breath of life to him. The taproom was almost full, every table occupied by shadowy figures playing with dice or cards. Mussett ordered a tankard of ale and quaffed half of it in a single guzzled mouthful. Then his eyes became accustomed to the fug. Having slaked his thirst, he wanted pleasure. He went through into the smaller room at the back and saw Bess Roundel, sitting beside a bearded man who was playing familiarly with her hair. Mussett strolled over to them.
The Vagabond Clown Page 11
