The Mad Courtesan

by Edward Marston

  Adieu, sweet friends, and take thy praise to heaven,

  Embrace that joy for which you both have striven.

  Benvolio shed a real tear then motioned in the soldiers to load the bodies onto their respective biers. As the pair were borne out with due solemnity, King Gondar half opened an eye to catch a fleeting glimpse of the lower gallery. The exercise was a painful one. For the first time in the whole afternoon, his inamorata was visibly moved. Sadness crumpled her face and she brought a hand up to her mouth. In one brief and unscheduled elegy, Owen Elias had achieved what Firethorn – with a hundred speeches – had failed to do. It was galling. The actor-manager bristled posthumously.

  Once offstage, he abdicated his kingship to direct a string of foul oaths at his colleague but his imprecations were muffled by the avalanche of applause that tumbled down on their ears. Postponing his fury, he put on his most imperious smile and led out his company to take their bow. Love’s Sacrifice was an unqualified success, a superb account of a brilliant new play that was set to take pride of place in the company’s repertoire. Though feeding greedily on the ovation, Lawrence Firethorn was interested in only two people in the auditorium. His most obsequious bow went to the delighted Lord Westfield and a more cavalier flourish was aimed at the lower gallery. While his patron responded with frantic clapping, however, the dark lady of his fantasies gave him no more than a level stare. It was enough. The desire which had steadily grown throughout the last two hours now blossomed into complete infatuation.

  The spectators clapped, cheered and stamped their feet for minutes on end but one of them declined to join in. He was a tall, saturnine figure who had sat in discomfort all afternoon as the drama’s excellence was unfolded and as Firethorn’s primacy was reinforced yet again. His visit to The Rose had been redeemed in the closing speech. Twenty lines of verse had made him look with intense curiosity at Owen Elias and bank down his envy. As an idea began to form in the recesses of his mind, the man even managed a smile. Love’s Sacrifice had given him a potent weapon to use against his rival.

  Giles Randolph was content.

  Nicholas Bracewell was on hand to protect his friend from verbal abuse. Before Firethorn could even begin his attack on Owen Elias, the book holder stepped in to congratulate the actor-manager on his performance and to smother him with fulsome praise. It blunted the edge of Firethorn’s rage somewhat but that was all it did.

  ‘God’s blood!’ roared the actor. ‘Are you mad, Owen?’

  ‘Me, sir?’ said the other.

  ‘Are you blind? Are you deaf? Are you insensible?’

  ‘No, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘When I die, the play has ended.’

  ‘Save for that last speech, sir.’

  ‘It was cut, man!’

  Mock innocence. ‘Was it even so?’

  ‘It was excised from the play. So should you be, you scurvy rogue, you canting villain, you Welsh dung-heap!’

  ‘Take heed,’ warned the other, smarting at the insult. ‘Do not insult my nation.’

  ‘Wales is an insult in itself!’ howled Firethorn. ‘It breeds nothing but lechers and thieves. Show me a Welshman and you show me a foul, ugly, leek-faced barbarian. You stole my moment of supreme glory, you dog-breathed Judas!’

  Owen Elias turned puce with anger and Nicholas had to jump in quickly to calm both men and to stop the argument from getting out of hand. He diverted the blame to himself by admitting that it was his suggestion to include the final speech but he insisted that it in no way infringed the greatness of Firethorn’s performance. The crowded tiring-house was voluble in its agreement, as eager as the book holder to prevent a violent confrontation. It was Barnaby Gill who ended the row with a malicious whisper.

  ‘Let her be the judge, Lawrence,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mistress Black Eyes. Ask her if she would cut those lines of Benvolio’s. I fancy she would not.’

  ‘The devil take you, sir!’

  During this short exchange, Nicholas seized the chance to usher Owen Elias over to the far side of the tiring-house where he was hidden by a rack of costumes. When Firethorn turned back to them, they were gone. With his mind now fixed on a higher priority, he glared around for assistance. It came in the shape of George Dart who was staggering past with an armful of props. Firethorn’s hand gripped his collar like an eagle fastening its talons on its prey.

  ‘George Dart!’

  ‘Yes, master?’ gibbered the other.

  ‘Find out her name.’

  ‘Whose name, sir?’

  ‘Her name.’

  Firethorn’s strong hand lifted him from the ground and swung him round to face the drawn curtain. Twitching it back a few inches, he pointed to the goddess in the lower gallery.

  ‘Do you see her now, George?’

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ He was baffled. ‘Which is she, sir?’

  ‘That creature without compare.’

  ‘You lose me, sir.’

  ‘There, imbecile!’

  He boxed George Dart’s ears so hard that the boy let go of his cargo and it fell to the boards with a clatter. The pointing finger of his employer, the hissed description and the threat of more pain combined to identify the lady in question for the squirming stagekeeper. As soon as he was released, he went scuttling off about his business.

  Lawrence Firethorn wanted action.

  It was a quiet funeral. No more than a dozen people were gathered together in the small churchyard in Islington to see the last remains of Sebastian Carrick laid to rest. Light drizzle made a sombre occasion even more depressing. The priest’s incantations were a barely audible murmur. Grief was expressed in gentle sobbing. Nicholas Bracewell watched it all with a muted distress that was increased by an ironic observation. The stage-management of the event was at fault. Sebastian Carrick deserved a more central role on a much larger stage. An actor whose life and work was a hymn to exuberance was now slipping out of the world in furtive silence. Damp soil waited to take him beyond applause.

  The drizzle and the drone continued.

  ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body …’

  The words floated into his ears to give Nicholas a mild sting. He thought of the hideous corpse he had seen laid out on its cold slab. A vile body indeed. Its head was split asunder. Its limbs were bruised. Its back was a blood-red signature on a death warrant.

  He glanced around the mourning family, relieved that none of them had been forced to see their beloved Sebastian in his final incarnation. Their memories of a handsome and dashing young man would be untarnished. No parents were present. The mother had long since died and the father was detained elsewhere. Not even the influence of Lord Westfield had been able to release Andrew Carrick from the Tower of London in order to attend the funeral of his only son. The lawyer was keeping a silent vigil in his cell. This meant that the principal mourner was Marion Carrick, younger sister of the deceased, supported by an uncle, an aunt, a few cousins and an old maidservant.

  Edmund Hoode had come along with Nicholas to represent the company. They were pleasantly surprised when Owen Elias attached himself to the fringe of mourners. He had come to pay his respects to a man with whom he had many differences in life. It was a worthy gesture. When the coffin vanished beneath a thin layer of earth, the funeral party began to disperse in subdued bewilderment. Nicholas Bracewell was moving away with Edmund Hoode when there was a tug at his sleeve. He turned to view the pallid loveliness of Marion Carrick who was dressed in seemly black.

  ‘I must thank you, Master Bracewell,’ she said.

  ‘We are sorry to intrude upon your grief.’

  ‘Sebastian’s friends are welcome, s
ir, and he counted you as one of his best friends. My father wrote to tell me of your consideration in this grim affair. We are indebted to you. It will not be forgotten.’

  ‘Your brother was an excellent fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He will be fondly remembered by Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Indeed, he will,’ added Edmund Hoode.

  ‘Thank you, sirs.’

  Marion Carrick was a neat young woman of middle height with a restrained beauty that was not chased away by evident sorrow. She had none of her brother’s extravagance and yet her charm was almost equal. Anguish lifted for a second to allow a flash of anger to show.

  ‘This was a most heinous crime,’ she snapped.

  ‘It shall be answered,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘May we count on your help, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘I will not rest until the matter is settled.’

  ‘This wounds me to the quick. I loved Sebastian with all my heart. I could kill the murderer with my own hands.’

  ‘He will be brought to justice, Mistress Carrick.’

  ‘I trust you to fulfil that promise, sir.’

  ‘It is a most solemn oath.’

  Even before he attended the funeral, Nicholas Bracewell was pledged to hunt down the man who had wielded the fatal axe. That pledge now took on new force and urgency. The plea from Marion Carrick had given it a spiritual dimension. He stood beside the grave as a dear friend and colleague. When he walked away, he was a man with a mission.

  Chapter Six

  Cornelius Gant and his ever-obedient Nimbus were seasoned professionals who knew how to adjust their act to the needs of their spectators. The Falcon Inn at Uxbridge was a small and rather decrepit establishment which stood on the edge of the village and which was patronised by the lower sort. When Gant rode up on his horse, he saw that the company was too poor to offer much remuneration, too coarse to want subtlety and too drunk to cope with entertainment of any length. It was time for ‘The Saga of the Six Buckets’.

  ‘Place them here, friend,’ said Gant, indicating the spot with a finger. ‘Set them in a line, two paces apart.’

  One of the drawers had come out to help him, putting the three full buckets of water in position first before adding the three empty wooden pails. Beer-sodden locals trailed out into the yard with noisy curiosity. The glowering landlord watched through a window. A couple of mangy dogs crept up. It was an uninspiring group but it was nevertheless an audience and the performers responded accordingly.

  Gant began by doffing his hat while he made a bow then got his first laugh as Nimbus sent him flying by swinging a flank against his owner’s exposed rump. The horse did a form of curtsey by way of apology and the spectators roared with appreciation. Gant and the animal went through some more byplay until the guffawing rustics were thoroughly warmed up. The next bow was in unison with the curtsey.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ announced Gant, ‘we present a little drama entitled “The Saga of The Six Buckets”. You see them before you and I now give each of them a number.’ He started with the full pails and kicked each one as he walked past. ‘One – two – three – four – five – six. Remember those numbers, I beseech you. Nimbus will remind you what they are.’

  The horse did so with well-rehearsed aplomb, giving the first bucket one kick, the second bucket two and so on up to the sixth bucket which received six taps with the hoof. To prove that it was no accident, Nimbus then went through the buckets in reverse order to check off their numbers. The applause was mixed with cheers and whistles. Cornelius Gant used raised palms to quell the beery tumult.

  ‘You have seen nothing yet, good sirs,’ he warned with a roguish wink. ‘We will now show you a feat of conjuration. Standing in front of you are three full buckets – one, two and three; with three empty buckets – four, five and six.’

  ‘What’s the trick?’ called out one of the locals.

  ‘To make water move by magic,’ said Gant. ‘Without stirring from this spot I will empty the full buckets and I will fill the empty ones. Can such a thing be done?’

  ‘Never!’ came the first cry.

  ‘Impossible!’ yelled another.

  ‘Only witchcraft could do that!’ howled a third.

  ‘No witchcraft,’ promised Gant. ‘Only the Eighth Wonder of the World – Nimbus. Mark, gentlemen. “The Saga of The Six Buckets” is about to begin.’

  He was standing some ten feet away from the pails and remained motionless throughout the act. Nimbus waited for his cue, his eyes never leaving his master. Gant reminded the audience of the number that each bucket bore then he snapped his first command.

  ‘One!’

  Nimbus sunk its nose into the first bucket and began to slurp away. The water level sank visibly. When a half had been drunk, Gant altered the command.

  ‘Three!’

  The same treatment was accorded to the third bucket. Gant then sent his horse back to the first, on to the second and on to the third once more. It slaked an almighty thirst at a quite alarming speed and the audience was enraptured. Awe soon turned to vulgar amusement.

  ‘Four!’

  Nimbus pulled its nose out of the water and straddled the bucket next in line before urinating straight into it with remarkable precision. It produced wild hilarity.

  ‘Five!’

  The animal seemed to have an endless supply that it could turn on and off like a tap. Steam rose from the fifth bucket and the hilarity shaded into hysteria.

  ‘It is an old trick,’ said Gant, ‘but I’ll venture to stale it once more.’ They hooted at the pun. ‘Six!’

  Nimbus obliged once more then gave a ladylike curtsey. Three full buckets of water now stood empty and three empty buckets were now brimming. Gant held out his hat to collect the coins that were thrown then he snatched it away as Nimbus pretended to relieve himself into the haul. There was free ale for the visitor that evening and free hay for his horse. Both slept soundly in the same stable.

  As they left at dawn next morning, Cornelius Gant cursed the poor quality of the company and the even poorer quality of the ale. They deserved better. The journey to London was in the nature of a social ascent for them. They came from the most humble and degrading circumstances. By working so long and so hard together, they had fought their way out of their misery to create a promise of better things. Gant had come to despise his origins and did not care to be reminded of them in the way that he had been at the Falcon Inn. He owned a remarkable horse who could ensure their fame and fortune if handled properly. Nimbus would not have to debase his talents again in the way that the rustics had compelled and Gant gave him an apologetic slap to reinforce the point.

  ‘One day we’ll play before the Queen,’ he said proudly. ‘You’ll not fill buckets for Her Majesty. But when we take London by storm, we’ll be able to piss gold!’

  Two more days of cancelled public appearances confirmed many suspicions and inflamed much debate. Queen Elizabeth was seriously ill. None of her physicians was ready to admit this openly but none could be found to deny it absolutely. Their silence was disturbing. Equally revealing was the brusque attitude of Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, a wise old statesman whose long partnership with his sovereign had been largely responsible for the stability of her government. A man of great judgement and with a rare ability to master the complex issues of the day, Lord Burghley was a person whose high sense of duty was tinged with real affection for his Queen. She, in turn, relied upon his acumen and his sagacity. It was no wonder that she called him ‘my Spirit’ for his counsel informed nearly all that she said or did. When this paragon remained tight-lipped, therefore, trouble was very definitely in the wind. When a supreme politician like Burghley was for once bereft of words, then he sensed the death of his own career as well. Now over seventy, racked by gout, he was on the verge of extinction.

  The woman at the centre of the crisis did nothing to dispel it. Locked in her private apartments and enclosed by a wall of secrecy, she dwindled towards a death that seemed more inevitabl
e with each new day. The passing of any monarch was a cause for national mourning but the imminent demise of Queen Elizabeth would be a tragedy of far greater moment. Her rule had produced one of the finest and most fruitful periods in her country’s history, at once overshadowing what came before and giving promise to what lay ahead. When she went, a potent symbol of England’s glory would fade away. Nobody could replace her but the need to have a successor in readiness now became even more pressing.

  The Earl of Banbury sought elucidation on the matter.

  ‘How do we stand, sir?’ he said.

  ‘In good order. Negotiations have been started and they have already brought in good results.’

  ‘Do we have firm promises?’

  ‘Firm promises from stout fellows. Powerful names are supporting our cause. Others will follow in their wake.’

  ‘Then money has been well spent.’

  ‘Favours of all kinds have been used to effect.’

  Banbury was ruthless. ‘We must stop at nothing here.’

  ‘Nor shall we,’ said his companion grimly.

  They were standing in the dining room at Croxley Hall. Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, was playing host to his inner circle of friends. First to arrive was the Earl of Banbury who was eager to know what progress their schemes had made. Some of the most influential members of the court had declared their support and he nodded with satisfaction as their names were listed. Others gave tacit approval to the machinations without committing themselves to the risk of direct involvement. It was the Earl of Chichester’s last campaign and he was determined to be on the winning side. They had chosen the next sovereign and now faced the far more daunting task of securing the succession.

  ‘Have letters been exchanged?’ asked Banbury eagerly.

  ‘You will see them all, sir.’

  ‘The strength of our loyalty is fully understood?’

  ‘Do not fear,’ said the old soldier, tossing his silver mane. ‘We will receive ample recompense from the throne.’