At that moment in time, he was more concerned with the ever-changing series of doublets, cloaks, helmets, dresses, gowns and boots for which the play called. There was scenery to be taken on and offstage as well as countless props to be used and discarded. The commotion behind the scenes was every bit as dramatic as the action which was unfolding before the audience. Nicholas Bracewell coped with his usual imperturbability. He had no qualms about the drama itself. Edmund Hoode might fulminate but Love’s Sacrifice was not ruined in any way by the changes forced upon him. The play was sharper than it had been at The Rose and more assured than at the Queen’s Head. Weak moments in the construction were completely obscured by the driving force of a superb leading actor.
Lawrence Firethorn out-distanced all superlatives. King Gondar reigned supreme. To the burning passion and the wonderful audacity of the earlier performances, he now added a note of supplication that was utterly moving. A peremptory monarch dared to show his vulnerability and it made the character infinitely more appealing. A wholly committed audience who sighed his sighs with him had no idea that his portrayal was aimed at a single spectator or that the faint smile she gave him in the middle of Act Five was worth more than a sustained round of applause to him.
With Queen Elsin in his arms, he slowly expired. Minor emendation by Edmund Hoode enabled the king to utter the operative line directly at the lower gallery.
Our tale of woe will yield this sage advice.
True love requires a true sacrifice.
The final speech was spoken by Hoode himself, swaying with emotion over the stricken lovers and using a reedy tenor voice to declaim his verse. Its cadences lulled the audience, its sentiments delighted Lord Westfield and its soaring beauty finally found a way to the heart of Beatrice Capaldi. The prostrate Firethorn did not need to see her hand brush away the little tear. He sensed it immediately. At the third attempt, King Gondar had won her over.
No corpse went off to a royal grave in higher spirits.
The Earl of Banbury was equally pleased with his afternoon at a playhouse in Shoreditch. Seated beside Roger Godolphin at The Curtain, he saw The Spanish Jew whip the spectators up into a paroxysm of hatred that was then softened by some wicked comedy. Lopez was denounced and Lawrence Firethorn was maligned but nobody paused to question the justice of it all. Giles Randolph assassinated the former physician while Owen Elias derided his former employer. The topicality of the piece was greater than ever now and new material had been worked in to extol the virtues of rule by a queen. If Elizabeth was on the point of death, it was expedient to smooth the path of her chosen successor. Banbury’s Men were skilful practitioners. While entertaining the citizenry of London, they also contrived to blacken the reputation of a foreign doctor, besmirch the name of an outstanding actor and offer a telling political argument.
As the spectators poured out of the theatre in animated discussion, they knew they had had a very special experience. The Spanish Jew was much more than a good play. It was a tract for the times and a symbol of the undoubted supremacy of Banbury’s Men. In the dynastic struggle between rival claimants, Giles Randolph had finally emerged victorious. He was the uncrowned king of London theatre.
Unaware of his enforced abdication, Lawrence Firethorn went boldly into a private room at The Theatre for what he knew would be one of the critical encounters of his life. She was waiting for him. The invitation which Nicholas Bracewell had borne to her immediately after the performance had elicited the response for which Firethorn had prayed. He and Beatrice Capaldi at last stood face to face. The beauty which had mesmerised him from a distance was quite intoxicating at close quarters and his senses reeled. He recovered to give her a deep and respectful bow. It was only then that he noticed that they were not alone. A female companion waited quietly in a corner with her face hidden discreetly behind a fan. Her presence did not inhibit Firethorn. As the gloved hand of Beatrice Capaldi was extended towards him, he took it between gentle fingers to place the softest of kisses upon it. Beaming with gratitude, he bowed again.
‘You do me the greatest honour!’ he said.
‘The honour is mine, sir,’ she replied in a voice which had the most tantalising hint of an Italian accent. ‘It was a privilege to watch your performance this afternoon.’
‘It was wholly dedicated to you.’
‘That is a compliment I will cherish.’
‘Dear lady,’ said Firethorn, dispensing with the formal niceties. ‘Will you dine with me today?’
‘Unhappily, I may not, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, then? Or the next day after that?’
‘It is not appropriate,’ she said demurely.
He was crestfallen. ‘May I never entertain you?’
Beatrice Capaldi gave a signal to her companion and the latter moved across to open the door. Her mistress glided over until she was framed in the daylight beyond.
‘I would see you again, Master Firethorn,’ she said with studied affection. ‘Let us meet on Saturday.’
‘Name but the time and place.’
‘I have a barge that will take us down the river to Chelsea. We may spend the whole afternoon together.’
‘My cup of joy spills over …’
‘Word will be sent of the precise arrangements.’
‘I’ll not sleep till it arrives.’ He was about to give his third bow when hard fact intruded. ‘One moment here. On Saturday next, I am contracted to play with Westfield’s Men.’
‘I had hoped you would prefer to dally with me, sir.’
‘Of course, of course …’
‘Then there is no more to be said.’
‘But I cannot let my company down in this way.’
‘Would you rather betray me, sir?’
‘No, dear lady. My loyalty is adamantine proof.’
‘It seems not,’ she observed tartly. ‘You may strut upon a stage any day of any week. My barge is not for general hire, I assure you. Let me test this devotion of which you speak. If it be sincere, float on the Thames with me this coming Saturday.’
‘It would be a voyage to paradise!’
‘Not if you prefer the demands of your calling.’
Firethorn was in pain. ‘Westfield’s Men rely on me …’
‘I had thought to do the same, sir.’
‘My presence would be sorely missed.’
‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’
Beatrice Capaldi looked deep into his eyes to reinforce her meaning. With a gracious smile that took all resistance from him, she then turned on her heel and went out swiftly. Her companion followed and pulled the door shut. Lawrence Firethorn remained immobile for several minutes. He was overwhelmed by the interview. Beatrice Capaldi was the most remarkable woman he had ever met and his pursuit of her made all else in his life irrelevant. The air was still charged with her fragrance and he inhaled it with sensual nostrils. A leisurely journey to Chelsea in a private barge was a promise of earthly bliss. Westfield’s Men vanished from his concerns as he called silently after the departed goddess.
‘I am yours, my love …’
Marion Carrick was in a quandary. The conflicting emotions which she had brought to The Theatre that afternoon had been stirred up even more by a compelling drama and she now found herself in a state of complete ambivalence. Respect for a dead brother obliged her to remain at home with a grief that could only be relieved by daily visits to church but the urge to find out more about Sebastian was too strong. Love’s Sacrifice made her weep, laugh, sigh, fear and tremble with sheer excitement. Her first visit to a playhouse taught her a great deal about her brother but even more about herself.
Nicholas Bracewell was a considerate host. Once he had dispatched his various tasks, he gave Marion and Anne Hendrik a brief tour behind the scenes and explained the technical effects he had devised for the play. Marion was then able to shower Edmund Hoode with her naive praise and redeem what had been a testing afternoon for the playwright. While congratulating him on his own perfor
mance, Marion was anxious to hear how her brother might have acquitted himself in the same role and she was touched by the esteem in which Hoode obviously held his departed colleague.
Nicholas took the opportunity of a few words alone with Anne Hendrik. Her identification of a hatmaker was a most unexpected bonus and he was duly grateful.
‘You have done Westfield’s Men a great service today.’
‘By looking at a hat instead of watching a play?’ she said mischievously. ‘If all spectators did the same, you and your fellows would quickly go out of business.’
‘The threat to our livelihood comes from elsewhere,’ he said, ‘and you have helped us to measure its power. That hat will lead me to the house of Mistress Beatrice Capaldi where I may begin to unravel her mystery a little.’
Anne Hendrik felt the slightest twinge of jealousy.
‘What do you think of the lady, Nick?’
‘Me?’
‘You have twice been close to her person.’
‘Only on embassy from Master Firethorn.’
‘You have eyes, you have feelings.’
Nicholas was tactful. ‘They are engaged elsewhere.’
‘A pretty answer but it evades my question.’
‘I thought as any man would think, Anne,’ he said honestly. ‘Beatrice Capaldi is a woman of great beauty.’
‘Did her charms not enslave you?’
‘No.’
‘Would you not like to be in Master Firethorn’s shoes?’
‘My own fit far more comfortably.’
‘Will you admit nothing about this enchantress?’
He was serious. ‘She is no friend of mine.’
Anne Hendrik relaxed and talked at length about the conduct of Beatrice Capaldi during the play itself. The latter seemed to be giving a performance that was as well rehearsed and carefully judged as any on the stage. The idea which had earlier flashed through Anne’s mind now made a second momentary appearance.
‘Nick …’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you observe anything else about the lady?’
‘I was there but as a messenger.’
‘It is only a feeling of mine …’
‘I trust to your instincts, Anne.’
She hesitated then backed off quickly. ‘No!’ she said. ‘It was an unkind thought brought on by merest envy. The lady is truly beautiful and she wore a hat that I would give anything to have sold her.’
Nicholas brushed a kiss against her forehead. Marion Carrick rejoined them to offer her thanks once more. As they left the playhouse, reality began to crowd in upon her again and she became the distressed sister of a murdered actor.
‘We owe much to your kindness, Master Bracewell.’
‘Sebastian was my friend.’
‘We may never be able to repay you.’
‘I do not seek reward.’
‘It irks my father greatly,’ she said. ‘To be locked away at such a time and in such a condition. He feels the weight of our obligation to you. Father would love to be able to offer you recompense of some kind. He is searching desperately for a way to express our gratitude.’
Enforced idleness was a cumulative misery to a man such as Andrew Carrick. A conscientious lawyer with a substantial clientele, he was at his happiest when in the throes of some litigation. Because he found the cut and thrust of argument so bracing, the unforgiving gloom of the Tower of London was especially lowering. He brooded on. Harry Fellowes came to assume more importance in his life by the day. Not only did Carrick savour their brief conversations, he was given a subject for endless speculation. The Clerk of Ordnance was much more than a holder of Crown office. Eminent visitors came to call on him at the Office and Carrick noted their arrival with interest. It was conceivable that the Earl of Chichester came to the Tower to discharge official business with his junior and that the loan arranged between them – witnessed by the lawyer – was related in some way to the operation of the Ordnance Department, but that explanation could not cover the others who came in earnest search of Harry Fellowes.
An astute observer like Carrick soon developed a theory and he waited patiently for a moment to put it to the test. His friend was too guileful to respond to direct questioning and so the lawyer chose a more subtle line of examination.
‘I have a favour to ask of you, good sir,’ he said.
‘Ask away,’ encouraged the other. ‘I will do all I can except secure your release, and I would do that, too, if it were within my power.’
‘You have been a sound friend.’
‘I hate to see you suffer for such a trivial offence.’
‘In future, I will attend no more marriages.’
They shared a laugh, then strolled across the courtyard. Bright sunshine streamed down to imprison them in a neat rectangle of light. Carrick grew confidential.
‘Evidently, you are well acquainted with the nobility.’
‘And they with me,’ said Fellowes.
‘Then haply you may advise me.’
‘On what matter?’
‘I have this client, a gentleman of high rank …’
‘How do you serve him?’
‘Very ill while I am penned up here and his business is very pressing.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is also a subject of some delicacy and one with which I am not altogether qualified to deal. My noble lord’s problem …’
Fellowes guessed it. ‘He requires money.’
‘You are very perceptive, sir.’
‘It needs no great insight to divine that,’ he said. ‘Poverty is the natural condition of our nobility. They build houses they cannot afford, keep retinues of servants whom they cannot pay, then give lavish hospitality that sends them even deeper into debt.’
‘That is certainly the case with my client.’
‘It is the case with most of them, Master Carrick. We have nineteen earls and marquesses in England and there are not half a dozen who can pay their own way.’ He became more expansive. ‘Such men are born to borrow. Look but upon the late Earl of Leicester. When he died in Armada year, he left behind debts of £85,000. Were they honoured by his heirs?’
‘Tell me, sir.’
‘They were not. Those debts were promptly increased. The great man’s funeral alone cost £8,000. Even for such a royal favourite, it was an expensive hole in the ground.’
‘These sums do much to reassure me.’
‘Then your client’s problem is of smaller degree.’
‘He staged an entertainment at his country estate.’
‘How much does he owe his creditors?’
‘Some £650.’
‘A mere trifle,’ said Fellowes airily. ‘I could lend him that amount myself.’
Carrick affected mild surprise. ‘You, sir?’
‘At a moderate rate of interest.’
‘My client would be very willing to pay that.’
‘May I know his name?’
‘Let me first sound him out,’ said Carrick. ‘They lock me up but they allow me pen and ink. I will write to him forthwith and tell him I have found a trustworthy banker.’
‘You may also mention that my credit is good among his peers.’ Fellowes could not resist a boast. ‘I have been of assistance to three earls and a duke.’
Andrew Carrick thanked him and moved gently away from the topic of his fictional client. Having confirmed one part of his theory, he now addressed another. The guard was being changed at the Tower and the soldiers went through their established drill. Carrick watched approvingly.
‘They have fine uniforms and good weapons,’ he noted.
‘Both are essential in the military world.’
‘Do such items come within your remit?’
‘Everything passes through me at one time or another,’ asserted Fellowes. ‘That is why I have so many junior clerks to help me keep the accounts. It is no sinecure that I hold. This month alone, I have drawn up estimates of naval charges affecting the Office and debts due within it. I have made cos
tings of munitions for castles and blockhouses then receipted Exchequer warrants for the necessary sums. I have arranged transport of munitions to our army in Ireland. And I have provided the Earl of Essex with an aide memoire on a subject of military significance.’
‘Your industry does you credit, Master Fellowes.’
‘I serve the Crown as best I may.’
‘We are lucky to have a man of such high probity in a position of such power,’ said Carrick solemnly. ‘There must be grave temptations for weaker souls.’
The Clerk of Ordnance gave a sharp reply. ‘We have a List of Orders to govern all procedures,’ he said sternly. ‘They make abuse impossible. All records must be kept in duplicate, one for the Ordnance and another for the Council. All indentures are to be signed by three officers. No purchases may be made on the authority of a single officer. The chest where all our receipts and dockets are held in custody has a three-lock mechanism with separate keys for the Master, Lieutenant and Surveyor of Ordnances.’ Fellowes adopted the pose he used in the pulpit. ‘As you will see from these precautions, we are scrupulous in our dealings.’
Andrew Carrick nodded in agreement. He also noted that such stringent regulations would not have been drawn up in the first place if there had not already been widespread abuse and embezzlement in the Office. He flattered the other with unstinting praise before slipping in a last question. ‘How long have you been Clerk of Ordnance …?’
Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather bundled through the streets of Clerkenwell in a vain attempt to impose law and order upon an unruly neighbourhood. It was a dark night with a churlish breeze that carried the promise of rain. The two watchmen sauntered along in step and wondered if there was a less burdensome or unrewarding job than the office of constable. They had uniforms, lanterns and weapons of a sort but no status beyond that of buffoons. Taplow often thought nostalgically of his days as a plasterer and Merryweather longed to be back among his dead poultry. The former would have been more of a match for criminals with a trowel in his hand and the latter could have given a far better account of himself in a brawl if armed with his cleaver. They traded their customary moans then fell back into a dutiful silence. As their old legs measured out the reeking filth of Turnmill Street, they inhaled the air of sweeter memories. Josiah Taplow saw rows of inviting walls and William Merryweather viewed the necks of a hundred chickens.
The Mad Courtesan Page 16
