The Vagabond Clown

by Edward Marston

  ‘I still hold that he did the deed,’ declared Firethorn.

  Elias nodded. ‘And I side with you, Lawrence.’

  ‘I prefer to reserve my judgement,’ said Hoode. ‘Nick could be right.’

  ‘For Giddy’s sake,’ said Nicholas, ‘I hope that I am.’ There was a tap on the door. ‘Here comes the witness. Now we’ll hear the truth.’

  The door opened and Mussett entered with a tall, stringy woman in her thirties with a roguish look in her eye. Over a plain, crumpled, food-stained dress, she wore a large apron. Mussett had his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  ‘This is Kate,’ he announced. ‘We met last year when I visited Faversham with Rutland’s Men. Kate worked at the Ship then, in the kitchen. To my delight, she now works at the Blue Anchor.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, dropping what she took to be a curtsey.

  ‘I understand that you can help us, Kate,’ said Nicholas pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, sir. I believe that I can.’

  ‘What have you to say?’

  ‘Well,’ she replied, licking her lips before continuing. ‘When Giddy left the taproom earlier, it was to see me. We are old friends, as he says. One look between us was all it took, sirs. We met in the storeroom to …’ She giggled with undisguised glee. ‘To talk to each other alone.’

  Mussett savoured the look of surprise on the faces of his interrogators.

  ‘As I told you,’ he reminded them. ‘Nature called.’

  It took Firethorn an hour to placate Barnaby Gill and a further hour to persuade him that Mussett was not responsible for his ordeal. When he heard about the tryst with Kate, he was thoroughly disgusted, finding yet another reason to detest his rival. Fearing a second attack, Gill insisted on an armed guard and Firethorn had him carried to a room upstairs so that George Dart could sit beside him with a sword across his lap. When news of the arrangement reached the others, they burst into laughter, wondering if the sword was for Gill’s protection or that of Dart. Oddly, Mussett did not join in the fun.

  Nicholas, meanwhile, had searched the creek for anyone who might have seen the wheelbarrow leaving the inn. Most of those who had been there earlier had drifted away but he did find one old man who remembered the incident. Mending a net as he talked, the fisherman had the weathered face of a sailor and the cold eyes of someone who had seen too many unusual sights in his time to be surprised by one more.

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked. ‘I see them both.’

  ‘Both?’ repeated Nicholas. ‘There were two men wheeling him?’

  ‘No, sir. One in the wheelbarrow, one pushing him along.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘He were covered by a sack.’

  ‘Not the man in the wheelbarrow,’ said Nicholas patiently. ‘The other one.’

  ‘Oh, ah, I remember him.’

  ‘Well?’

  The fisherman spat on the ground. ‘It were some distance away, mark you.’

  ‘Just tell me what you saw.’

  ‘A servingman, pushing someone down to the jetty in a wheelbarrow. When he got them in the boat, he cast off and set it adrift. Then he ran back to the Blue Anchor.’

  ‘And you think he was a servingman?’

  ‘He must have been, sir. He wore a cap and a leather apron.’

  ‘Was he tall or short? Young or old?’

  ‘All I know is what I’ve told you,’ said the fisherman. ‘Except that he could run fast. Look for him in the Blue Anchor. That’s where he went.’

  Night passed without incident but Nicholas Bracewell achieved only a few hours sleep. The events of the previous day preyed on his mind. Both clowns belonging to Westfield’s Men had been attacked and he was convinced that it was no mere coincidence. Barnaby Gill had earlier been the target at the Queen’s Head, singled out on purpose. Those who interrupted the performance could have done so at any point in the afternoon but they chose to strike when Gill was alone on stage. During the ensuing affray, others in the company had received cuts and bruises but only the clown sustained serious injury. Nicholas wondered why Gill had been picked out. Another name also kept floating into his mind, that of Fortunatus Hope. Gill had survived, albeit with a broken leg. Hope had perished. For what reason, it was not yet clear. Nicholas explored every possible motive in his mind but none seemed entirely satisfactory.

  Events at the creek continued to puzzle him. He could not decide whether Gill’s ordeal was intended as a prelude to death or simply as a means of humiliation. If the former were the case, why had someone risked being seen when he could have killed his victim in the privacy of his room? If it was a cruel jest, had it been the work of the same person who had locked Gill in a privy and thrown a snarling cat onto his chest as he lay in his room? Nicholas was perplexed. Westfield’s Men were being stalked by an unknown enemy. It was only a matter of time before he struck again.

  Sheer fatigue eventually claimed Nicholas but, as soon as the first finger of light poked through the shutters, he came awake with a start. Owen Elias nudged him.

  ‘Have no fear, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’ll not escape me to answer a call of nature.’

  Elias pulled back the blanket to reveal the piece of cord that was twisted around his hand. The other end was tied to Mussett’s ankle. The clown was quite unaware that he was tethered to the Welshman. It was ironic. While two of his guards had a disturbed night, Mussett slept like a baby.

  Lawrence Firethorn was not happy to lose both his book holder and his clown for some hours but he accepted the necessity of it. If the danger came from Conway’s Men, then it needed to be identified as soon as possible, and there might never be a time when they were quite so close to their rivals. Firethorn gave the expedition his blessing. The absence of Nicholas and Mussett would impede the rehearsal but it removed one thorny problem. Barnaby Gill would not be able to taunt the man who had replaced him against his will. When he watched the others at work, he would have no excuse to carp or cavil.

  Undeterred by dark clouds, Nicholas Bracewell and Giddy Mussett set out after breakfast on borrowed horses. Both were armed with sword and dagger, confident that they could either beat off any attack or outrun any highwaymen. In fact, it proved an uneventful journey. After maintaining a steady canter until they reached Boughton-under-Blean, they slowed to a trot that made conversation easier.

  ‘Did you not think her a fine woman?’ asked Mussett.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kate Humble. My witness.’

  Nicholas was amused. ‘Is that her name? I saw no humility in her.’

  ‘No, Kate has too much spirit for it to be cowed.’

  ‘She seemed very fond of you, Giddy.’

  ‘With every reason.’

  ‘You must have given her sweet memories.’

  ‘Oh, I did,’ said Mussett with a cackle. ‘But I own that I was worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve seen my face, Nick. It’s so ugly that I dare not look in a mirror. I feared that Kate would not even recognise me. Or, if she did, that she would be so scared that she’d not let me touch her.’

  ‘Your fears were unfounded, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was not my face that mattered to her.’ He let out another cackle. ‘Kate loved me for something else.’

  They quickened their pace and rode on until they saw Harbledown Hill rising before them. It was a long climb but the reward more than justified the effort. When they paused at the summit, they got their first view of Canterbury Cathedral, spearing the sky with its soaring magnificence and dominating the city with Christian certitude. Encircled by a high stone wall, Canterbury had a dignity that set it apart from the other places they had so far visited. Maidstone might be the shire town but here was the acknowledged seat of government of the whole Church of England. It exuded real significance. As they descended the hill, their eyes never left the cathedral, using it as their guide. When they entered the city through Westgate, however, it w
as lost behind intervening buildings.

  It was market day and the streets were filled with people. Nicholas was reminded of the daily bustle in Gracechurch Street except that everything here was on a much smaller scale than in London. The haphazard line of stalls had narrowed an already limited space. With Mussett behind him, Nicholas elbowed his way gently through the crowd in St Peter’s Street, taking stock of his surroundings as he did so. When they crossed the little bridge over the river, he turned to his companion.

  ‘Where will we find them, Giddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Close by The Mercery.’

  ‘Is that where they will rehearse?’

  ‘No,’ said Mussett. ‘Tobias is too lazy to rehearse as early as this. He’ll still be abed with a warm woman, if I know him. We’ll head for the Crown.’

  ‘Will Conway’s Men stay there?’

  ‘I doubt it, Nick. The inn is far too small to hold them. They’ll sleep elsewhere, at the Three Tuns, most like. But the Crown sells the finest ale in the city so that is where I expect him to be.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My good friend, Martin Ling.’

  ‘An actor with the company?’

  ‘More important than any actor,’ said Mussett with a grin. ‘As you should know, if anyone does. Martin’s their book holder.’

  Picking their way past the various stalls, they walked on up the High Street until they came to The Mercery, a lane to their left that was lined with shops and houses. So narrow was the thoroughfare, and so much did each story of a building jetty out above the one below, that it was possible for occupants of attic rooms to reach out and touch the fingertips of their neighbours opposite. Silks, satins and other rich fabrics were on sale in the shops and business among merchants was brisk.

  Nicholas thought of Pieter Hendrik, the weaver, who dealt in much simpler materials. He would never aspire to such commercial heights. When they reached the end of the lane, they were confronted by the sheer majesty of Christ Church Gate, the main entrance to the cathedral precincts. Nicholas paused to admire the sculptured beauty of the stone work, and to study the coats of arms above the gate, but Mussett went across to the Buttermarket. He waited outside a small inn until his friend caught up with him. Nicholas looked up at the golden crown emblazoned on the sign above their heads.

  ‘Is this the place, Giddy?’

  ‘I got to know it well when Rutland’s Men were in the city.’

  ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘No,’ said Mussett, restraining him with a hand. ‘This is work for me alone. Martin is as close as the grave. I’ll not get much from him, if I’m seen with a stranger.’

  ‘What if he’s not inside?’

  ‘Then we’ll search elsewhere for him. Mingle with the crowd and wait out here.’

  ‘I want you where I can see you,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Learn to trust me.’

  ‘After what happened in Maidstone? How can I?’

  ‘You have no choice, Nick.’

  With a mischievous grin, Mussett darted in through the door of the inn. Nicholas was annoyed but there was little that he could do. He retreated to the gate so that he could watch the inn from a short distance away. It was a popular hostelry. Customers went in at regular intervals. Those who tumbled out had the happy look of people who had enjoyed the Crown’s ale. Nicholas waited patiently. It was only when the cathedral bell chimed again that he realised how long he had been there. Suspicions began to gnaw at him. Was Mussett really talking to a friend at the inn or had he surrendered once again to the lure of strong drink? Could it be that the clown was not even inside the building? Mussett was closely acquainted with a woman in Maidstone and with another in Faversham. Had he slipped out of the rear of the Crown for an assignation with a third female friend?

  Nicholas went back to the inn and peered in through the window. The taproom was packed with customers but Giddy Mussett was not among them. Chiding himself for trusting the man, Nicholas hurried down an alleyway to the rear of the property. The Crown had a small garden with a bay tree at its centre and some of its patrons had spilt out into the fresh air. Mussett was there. Sitting on a wooden bench, holding a tankard in his hand, he was talking to a bedraggled individual of middle years with unkempt hair sprouting out from the edges of his cap. Nicholas came to a halt. If the man was Martin Ling, he was visible proof that a touring company like Conway’s Men paid their book holder far less than could be earned by someone with a London troupe. Nicholas was suddenly grateful to be employed by Westfield’s Men. He had seen lean times with them but had never endured the kind of suffering that was etched on Ling’s face. Chastened, he withdrew quietly to his former vantage point near the gate.

  When Mussett finally emerged from the inn, Nicholas beckoned him over.

  ‘Was your friend there, Giddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed the other. ‘Martin is older and sadder than ever.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing good of Tobias Fitzgeoffrey. The man is a tyrant.’

  ‘Then why does the book holder stay with him?’

  ‘Why do you stay with Westfield’s Men when you have a tyrant called Lawrence Firethorn in charge and a monster of vanity like Barnaby Gill to irritate you?’

  ‘I love the company.’

  ‘Martin loves to hate his. And he has nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Did you find out anything of interest?’

  ‘I found out that they have been struggling their way around Kent all summer, and with poor results. We earned five pounds in Maidstone. The mayor only gave them eighteen shillings for their pains.’

  ‘What of the attacks upon us?’

  ‘Martin knew nothing of those,’ said Mussett. ‘Tobias does not confide in him. There exists a kind of truce between them but I doubt that it will last much longer. There was one nugget that I dug out of my old friend, however.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It concerns the day that you last played at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tobias Fitzgeoffrey left his troupe in Kent and went off to London that day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to see the work of a particular rival,’ said Mussett. ‘When he came back, Martin told me, he was all smiles for a week afterwards, as if he was celebrating a private triumph. Do you know what play he saw when he was in the capital?’

  ‘I think that I can guess.’

  ‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady.’

  The decision to stage The Loyal Subject in Faversham made it possible to rehearse many of its scenes. While the role of the clown was important, it was not as critical as in the plays so far performed in Kent. Firethorn had the title role, ably supported by Richard Honeydew as a regal Duchess of Milan. The play’s author, Edmund Hoode, took the part of the judge who condemned Lorenzo, the loyal subject, to an undeserved death. The rehearsal took place in an upstairs room at the Blue Anchor. It was a little cramped for their purposes but it was all that the inn could offer. Rain was now falling outside. A rehearsal in the yard was impossible.

  Though not directly involved, Barnaby Gill insisted on being there, sitting in his wheelbarrow, propped up on cushions like an eastern potentate and making summary judgements on performances. During a break, Firethorn tried to persuade him to leave.

  ‘You’ve no need to be here, Barnaby,’ he said.

  ‘Where else can I be? Alone in my room, at the mercy of another attacker?’

  ‘You unsettle us. Your comments are too harsh.’

  ‘Honesty is all that I offer,’ said Gill.

  ‘A bruising honesty that causes too much pain. Not to me,’ added Firethorn with a touch of arrogance. ‘My skills fortify me against your gibes but it is not so with the others. They lack my armour. You even upset Edmund.’

  ‘He needed to be upset.’

  ‘What purpose did it serve?’

  ‘It made him strive harder.’

  ‘I’ll not have you here when Gi
ddy Mussett returns.’

  ‘But that is when I most want to watch,’ insisted Gill. ‘He takes my role in the play, Lawrence. I wish to see how badly he mangles it.’

  ‘Your only wish is to distract him, and I’ll not allow it.’

  ‘I have certain rights.’

  ‘Not when you sit in your wheelbarrow. I can have you moved at will.’

  ‘They are back!’ called Elias, looking through the window. ‘Nick and Giddy have just ridden into the yard.’

  ‘At last!’ sighed Firethorn.

  ‘They look wet and weary from their travels.’

  ‘It matters not if they are safe returned.’

  ‘Let me stay, Lawrence,’ said Gill, almost pleading. ‘I swear I’ll not interfere.’

  ‘There’ll be no opportunity for you to do so.’

  ‘I’ll sit in the corner and be as silent as the grave.’

  ‘Your very presence would speak volumes.’

  ‘I may be able to help.’

  ‘You do that best by being absent,’ said Firethorn peremptorily. He snapped his fingers. ‘George!’ he called. ‘Come here.’

  ‘Yes, Master Firethorn,’ said Dart, trotting over.

  ‘Wheel Barnaby into the other room and stay with him for company.’

  ‘My place is here,’ argued Gill. ‘With my fellows.’

  ‘We can spare you. George, do as I bid.’

  Dart moved to the wheelbarrow. ‘Yes, Master Firethorn.’

  Taking it by the handles, he wheeled the protesting Gill out of the room and along the corridor. The atmosphere suddenly cleared. With their lone spectator out of the way, everyone began to relax. Gill had been far too censorious. The actors had even more cause for delight when Nicholas Bracewell came in a minute later, his hat, jerkin and face moistened by the light rain. Everyone greeted him warmly but it was Firethorn who took him aside for a private word.

  ‘Where is Giddy?’ he asked.

  ‘Stabling the horses. He’ll join us soon.’

  ‘Was the visit a profitable one?’

  ‘I think so. Giddy spoke to their book holder, Martin Ling, an old friend with a lasting grudge against Conway’s Men.’