When the first bear was white with lather and dripping with gore, it was taken out by the bearward. Whining dogs were dragged out on leashes to tick their wounds and rue any tactical errors. The new bear that was brought in had been blinded by its owner to provide another kind of sport for the bawling spectators. Chained to the post, the animal was faced by a semicircle of six men who were each armed with a long whip. On a given command, they began to beat the bear unmercifully, splitting open its flesh with patent relish as they piled torment on torment. All that it could do by way of defence was to lurch out at its hidden attackers and make the post shudder with its rattling chains. Cornelius Gant was even more horrified at this spectacle but he gained some consolatory pleasure when one of the men slipped, rolled in close to the bear and had his face ripped away with one savage cuff from the huge claws.
The popularity of the hideous entertainment could not be denied and it was not aimed at the vulgar taste of the lower sort. People from all classes of society were present and Gant saw shrieking ladies on the arms of their gallants as well as powdered punks being fondled by their clients. If he was shocked by the treatment of the bears, he was even more revolted by what followed. As a last sop to the bloodlust of the crowd, a pony was chased into the ring with a monkey tied to its back. The pony scurried around in a circle of pain as its rider bit, gouged and pulled at its mane but the monkey was the least of its problems. More dogs poured in to bite at the slender legs as they went faster and faster around the arena. Laughter and jeers sent the pony into an even deeper panic as it ran madly towards a vicious fate.
It was still vainly trying to shake off its pursuers as Cornelius Gant stalked out of the building in disgust.
Lord Westfield always took a keen interest in the fortunes of his theatre company but events in the royal household made that interest even more intense. Having watched a rousing performance of Hector of Troy at the Queen’s Head that afternoon, he repaired to his private room with a small entourage to partake of refreshment and to discuss plans for the future with the leading sharers. The noble gentleman might be vain and sybaritic but he was shrewd enough to discern the hand that worked so hard and so efficiently in the cause of Westfield’s Men. As a result, Nicholas Bracewell was invited to join the gathering and he hovered on its fringes. Lawrence Firethorn, restored to his best form by a message of love, lapped up the compliments and flirted gently with the two young ladies in the room. Barnaby Gill preened himself in a corner and Edmund Hoode lurked silently. There was a deal of idle chatter but Lord Westfield was the only person who was saying anything of value.
‘This illness of Her Majesty is inopportune,’ he said.
‘For whom?’ asked Firethorn.
‘Why, for Her Majesty, of course,’ risked Gill with a wicked grin that was instantly replaced by a mask of deep loyalty. ‘I respect our dear Queen as much as any man in the kingdom and I pray daily for her quick recovery.’
‘That may or may not come,’ said Westfield. ‘And we have to take the latter possibility into account. A change of monarch will mean a change of attitude towards the theatre. I would not want my company to be jeopardised.’
‘Indeed, no,’ agreed Firethorn with alarm.
‘What may we usefully do?’ said Gill.
‘We carry your name with honour,’ added Hoode.
Lord Westfield nodded. ‘I hope that you will continue to do so, Edmund, but dangers lie ahead. It needs cautious diplomacy on my part and some wise decisions on yours.’
‘You speak of dangers,’ said Firethorn.
His patron turned to the book holder to cue him in.
‘Tell them, Nicholas. You will know.’
‘But a little, my lord,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘If Her Majesty dies, there will be a disputed succession and many are now rushing forward to take part in that dispute. Each party has its own claimant from whom they expect due return on their devotion. The Earl of Banbury, for instance …’
‘That old fool!’ muttered Firethorn.
‘… has formed an alliance with the Earl of Chichester to advance the cause of Arabella Stuart. Should that lady ever sit on the throne, our rivals are like to be known henceforth as the Queen’s Men.’
The suggestion rocked the three sharers so hard that they all protested and gesticulated in unison. Their patron waved them into a troubled silence.
‘You see, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘Your book holder is more well informed than his masters. He can foresee consequences to this business. That is why I have formed my own alliance. Our chosen successor is King James of Scotland and our party is led by Sir Robert Cecil.’
His listeners were duly impressed. Sir Robert Cecil was Lord Burghley’s son and, despite his physical shortcomings, a most intelligent and able politician. With such a man at the helm, Lord Westfield’s party was indeed well served. At the same time, everyone recognised that the outcome of a disputed succession was highly uncertain. It was Nicholas Bracewell who remembered their patron’s earlier comment.
‘You mentioned wise decisions, my lord …’
‘I did,’ said the other. ‘Every move that you make must promote the company. Every play that you choose must endorse our party. Westfield’s Men must outshine all other troupes and cast those jackals of Banbury’s into outer darkness.’
‘It shall be done!’ announced Firethorn.
‘Where is our next performance, Lawrence?’
‘The Theatre in Shoreditch.’
‘An excellent venue for our purposes.’
‘Then let us stage Cupid’s Folly,’ urged Gill. ‘My Rigormortis will outshine the sun itself.’
Westfield shook his head. ‘No, Barnaby. The play is less than suitable for the gravity of the occasion.’
‘Most certainly, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why we have selected Love’s Sacrifice.’
‘It lends itself to our device. Edmund …’
‘My lord?’
‘Look to your text, man. See if you cannot add a speech or two in praise of Queen Elsin. Glorify her reign. Fawn and flatter at will. Let every soul in that theatre know that you speak of our own beloved sovereign.’
‘I’ll do it instantly, my lord.’
‘Lawrence?’
‘My lord?’
‘That funeral oration …’
‘It will be cut entirely.’
‘I’ll not hear of it,’ snapped his patron. ‘It gives us our best opportunity to voice our plans. King Gondar dies. The end of one reign is the start of another. Work subtly here, my fellows. Let that closing speech feed off the sorrow of a nation but make it advertise our intent.’
Firethorn grunted. ‘It shall be done, my lord.’
‘You have such a fine actor to speak the lines.’
‘Owen Elias has left us,’ said Nicholas softly.
‘Yes,’ said Gill, seizing the opportunity to discomfit his colleague. ‘Lawrence expelled him in spite of my earnest entreaties. I fought hard to retain the services of so talented a player.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘The rumour is that Owen Elias has joined Banbury’s Men.’
‘Can this be true?’ demanded the apoplectic Westfield. ‘Answer me, Lawrence! Tell me it is not so!’
‘Well, my lord …’
‘Can you be guilty of such idiocy?’
Lawrence Firethorn had to stand there while his patron openly admonished him. It was humiliating. The actor was given such a verbal roasting that he was reminded with horrible force of his absent wife.
Margery Firethorn had come into her own. A long and boring wait now gave way to frantic activity. She had a new baby to nurture, a sister to care for, a brother-in-law to scold and a house to run. The cloistered calm of Cambridge was hit by the whirlwind of her presence. She bustled through its streets, haggled in its markets, scattered its citizens and terrorised any of its students who strayed into her path. A city that was marked by its Puritan restraint now felt the full impact of her devastating maternalism.
Weak but hap
py, Agnes Jarrold lay in her bed and raised a pale hand in a gesture of gratitude.
‘You have been very kind, Margery,’ she said.
‘I have done what needs to be done.’
‘We could not have managed without you.’
‘The child is healthy. That is my reward.’
‘Jonathan joins with me in giving thanks.’
‘Your bookworm of a spouse can thank me best by keeping out of my way. Men have no place at such times. Fatherhood is no more than a stupid grin on the face of the foolish.’
‘Do not be so scornful,’ said Agnes tolerantly. ‘Your husband was welcome enough in your bedchamber when your own children were born.’
‘He was far more welcome when they were conceived,’ said Margery with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Present a man with a child and he becomes one himself again.’
‘That is true, sister. Jonathan is a boy of three.’
‘I did not think him so old.’
The baby stirred in its crib and Margery leant over to tuck it in. Tears clouded the mother’s eyes as she looked at her tiny son. After losing two children to the grave, she viewed the survival of the third as a very special blessing. Her sister’s help and brisk affection had been decisive.
‘You must miss Lawrence greatly,’ said Agnes.
‘Only when I look at your husband.’
‘Lawrence must pine for you as well.’
‘I do not delude myself on that score.’
‘His life must be hideously empty without you.’
Margery Firethorn mixed wistfulness with resentment.
‘Lawrence has a way of filling empty spaces …’
Beatrice Capaldi reclined in a chair at the head of the table. She and her guests had dined royally off silver plate and tasted only the finest wines. The gentlemen caressed her with compliments while the ladies envied her poise and her mystery. In a small but select gathering, the hostess was supremely dominant. Beatrice Capaldi lived for display and effect. She savoured the power she could exert over others.
There was a tap on the door and a maidservant came in to whisper something in her ear. She excused herself and got up to sail gracefully across the room and out into the hall. The man who was waiting bowed obsequiously then handed her the playbill which he had taken down from a post in Shoreditch. Dismissing him with a flick of her fingers, she studied what he had brought her and saw that it was an advertisement for a performance of Love’s Sacrifice to be given at The Theatre. Beatrice Capaldi smiled. She had won the desired response from Lawrence Firethorn. While the spectators would be visiting a play, she would be going to a tryst. Preparations would need to be thorough.
‘Summon my dressmaker!’ she ordered.
‘Now, mistress?’ said the maidservant.
‘This instant!’
The same playbill gave Giles Randolph a different message.
‘We have him, Owen!’ he said.
‘Do we, sir?’
‘He plays at The Theatre and we at The Curtain.’
‘Shoreditch will host the two best actors in London.’
‘No,’ corrected Randolph. ‘The Curtain will have that honour. We present Giles Randolph and Lawrence Firethorn.’
Owen Elias understood. ‘The Spanish Jew?’
‘What else, man? The play is everywhere in request. We have but to announce it to fill our theatre. The audience will come to hiss Dr Lopez and mock Firethorn. To have your old employer in Shoreditch on the same afternoon completes my joy. While he struggles to hold attention with Love’s Sacrifice, we’ll cut his reputation to shreds.’ He gave his companion a token embrace. ‘Repeat your ridicule of him, sir. Banbury’s Men will be indebted to you for ever.’
‘Then let me remind you of your promise, master.’
‘To be sure, to be sure …’
‘This role of mine was to win me a place as a sharer in your company,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I would wish that confirmed with all due haste.’
‘And so it shall be,’ agreed Randolph airily. ‘When we have put Firethorn to flight, you’ll be drawn in among us as a partner in the enterprise.’
‘When may I see the contract?’ pressed the other.
‘My attorney will draw it up in due course.’
Owen Elias was content. His future was assured.
Nicholas Bracewell arrived at the Tower to find Andrew Carrick in conversation with a plump individual who stood no more than five feet in height. The newcomer was introduced to Harry Fellowes and he made the most of the fortuitous encounter with the Clerk of Ordnance.
‘Master Carrick owes his sanity to you,’ said Nicholas.
‘Does he so?’
‘You are his window on the outside world, sir.’
‘Indeed, you are,’ confirmed Carrick.
‘You allow him to see beyond this bleak prison.’
Fellowes nodded fussily. ‘He should never have been committed to the Tower. The least I can do is to offer my friendship and purvey my gossip.’
‘It is much appreciated,’ said Nicholas, ‘and a ready source of wonder. Master Carrick tells me that you know the very nerves of state and hear the faintest stirrings at the Palace. Is there news of Her Majesty?’
‘None to cheer us, Master Bracewell. She fades.’
‘These are grim tidings,’ said Carrick.
‘For some,’ observed Nicholas, ‘but not for all.’
‘Yes,’ said Fellowes. ‘The court is one loud buzz of rumour. There are those who would put a new monarch on the throne before the old one has yet departed. They wonder who will rise, who fall, who will be ennobled, who disgraced. It is no time to lack friends or money to buy that friendship.’
‘What of Her Majesty’s favourites?’ asked Nicholas.
‘They are thrown into a frenzy,’ said the other, warming to his theme. ‘The Queen has spread her bounty far and wide. Robin Dudley may be dead and the dancing Hatton may have followed him to Heaven but there are still many others who hang by the thread of Her Majesty’s indulgence.’
‘Oxford, for one,’ suggested Carrick.
Fellowes was dismissive. ‘Edward de Vere does not merit her favour. He is too tiresome and quarrelsome a fellow. She will be well quit of Oxford. Raleigh is another matter. He is distraught at her illness. The Earl of Essex is likewise shocked but he seeks to turn it to his advantage. Then there is Lord Mountjoy and half a dozen like him. Royal favourites who fear that the favours will cease …’
Nicholas Bracewell and Andrew Carrick were fascinated by the depth of his knowledge and by the breadth of his indiscretion. They fed him questions and got details of scandal and intrigue by reply. Harry Fellowes was a zealous collector of gossip who loved to distribute it freely among friends. It was only when Nicholas quizzed him about the Earl of Chichester that the Clerk of Ordnance backed off. He had said all he intended on the subject. Taking his leave of the two men, he rolled off to his official duties.
Carrick immediately switched his enquiries to an area that had more import for him. Nicholas explained how he had fared on his most recent foray into Clerkenwell. The lawyer was both excited and anxious.
‘You get closer to the murderer each time,’ he said, ‘but I would not have you get too close, Master Bracewell. Remember what befell my son. Keep dear Sebastian in mind.’
‘I do so at all times.’
‘What is your next move?’
‘It must not be rushed,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now that I have located the woman, she must be confronted but only when I have more evidence. It is not she who struck the murderous blow, though her wound was left on Sebastian’s body. She has an accomplice, sir. My next task is to smoke him out.’
‘Go armed, sir.’
‘I will.’
‘Take company for your further security.’
‘It is arranged.’
‘And find this damn rogue!’
‘I found him once already.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
‘A fright
ened one,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘He knows that I am looking for him.’
Frances lay half asleep and half naked on the bed in her little room at the Pickt-hatch. Marked by the violence of her loving, her last client of the night bumped his way down the stairs in a state of blissful discomfort. An hour in the arms of Frances had been true value for money. He carried his scratches with pride and his memories with boastful honour. She would be sought out again on his next visit to Clerkenwell. As he blundered out into the street, the client turned to glance up at the bedchamber he had just vacated and blew a chaste kiss up to it. He then tottered off down Turnmill Street with the words of some lewd refrain on his lips.
The man who lurked in the shadows watched him until he was out of sight and then stared up at the same window with sturdy patience. Frances appeared long enough to give a signal before she drew the ragged curtain across again. The man hurried into the building. He was a short, ugly creature in his thirties with a compressed power in his squat frame. He wore a simple buff jerkin, hose and cap. When he entered her room with a proprietary swagger, the candle illumined an unprepossessing face into which a large nose had been thrust like a squashed tomato. Beady eyes went first to the money on the little table. Frances watched with trepidation as he counted it out but she relaxed when she saw his thin smile of approval. She was safe.
Tired but comforted, she soon lay in his brawny arms.
‘It was a long night,’ she murmured.
‘Long nights pay.’
‘They were all satisfied.’
‘That left no work for me.’
‘You were there.’
Frances snuggled up to him like a child in need of a parent’s love and protection. Her snarling vitality had gone to sleep now and only her vulnerable youth remained awake. He squeezed her tightly with an indifferent affection. She lay in the dark and recalled other nights in another doomed bedchamber. The shivering returned. When his snoring began, she talked to herself.
The Mad Courtesan Page 14
