‘The future of England lies in the balance,’ he said.
‘We must tip it our way.’
‘When the moment comes, we’ll push with all our might.’
‘But do we have enough weight?’
‘Look around you, sir. Some of the heaviest names in the kingdom dine at my table today.’
‘Some of them – but not all.’
The Earl of Banbury was getting nervous as the crucial time approached and he was grateful for his colleague’s military self-discipline. Roger Godolphin did not flinch in battle. Banbury took due comfort. Both men were dining in the house on the Strand where the beaming host presided over a groaning board. At a lavish banquet, they could strengthen their position and gormandise at the same time. It was the ideal way to secure their prize. Important figures from state and church sat all around them, devouring their meat with relish, hungry vultures feeding on the carcass of a dead queen and toasting her successor with Tudor blood.
Banbury still hesitated. ‘We need Burghley.’
‘He will not commit himself one way or the other,’ said the host. ‘Besides, his time has passed. She goes, he falls. That gout will carry him off soon enough.’
‘His son, Robert, is now leading Westfield’s party.’
‘That is of no account.’
‘If Robert Cecil can get his father’s approval …’
‘Forget that whole family,’ reassured Chichester. ‘They belong to the old reign and have no place in the new. Robert Cecil may drag fools like Westfield in his wake but he is still too young and untried in the ways of the world.’ He curled his lip. ‘That scheming little hunchback is no match for a true politician like me, sir.’
‘Indeed not, Roger.’
‘I sit at the head of the table.’
It was an appropriate metaphor. The Earl of Chichester was well able to eat, drink, order his servants, dominate his guests, keep five conversations going simultaneously and still be able to commune with Banbury in an undertone. In a very short time, he had given his party the clear advantage.
The Earl of Banbury rose to a wistful sigh.
‘It will mean the end of the Tudor dynasty,’ he said.
‘What of that?’ snapped the other.
‘Her Majesty’s reign has been long and stable.’
‘Too long, sir.’
‘We have all profited from that.’
‘Your memory fails you,’ said Chichester bitterly. ‘The Tudors have never liked the nobility. When Henry Tudor was a peevish boy, there were sixty-four peers in England. When he seized the crown at Bosworth, there were but thirty-eight left and he did little enough to add to them.’
‘His son created earls and marquesses.’
‘Then had them executed out of spite. Henry VIII knew his father’s rule. Strong kingship means a weak nobility. And our Queen has followed this dictate.’ His bitterness deepened. ‘The Tudors raise up in order to cast down. Show me a duke or a marquess in the last hundred years who was never attainted as a traitor.’
Banbury scratched his head. ‘William Paulet?’
‘The only one. Marquess of Winchester and now dead.’
‘And if Arabella comes to the throne …?’
‘When, sir,’ corrected his friend. ‘When Queen Arabella is crowned, I look for a dukedom.’
As he was speaking, the old man’s eyes never left the messenger who was admitted at the far end of the room, spoke with the steward and was then motioned towards the head of the table. The newcomer bowed and delivered his message in a whisper, confirming it with a letter. The Earl of Chichester broke the seal to read the contents as the banter around the table gradually ceased and everyone turned to watch him. A hefty bribe had finally delivered a result. The letter was from one of the Queen’s own physicians.
The host did not need to call for silence. They were all anxious to hear the latest development and to be given reassurance that they had backed the right side.
‘Word from the Palace, sirs,’ said Chichester. ‘Her Majesty is fighting for her life but sinking fast. If the fever does not break soon, she will die by Saturday.’
Communal sadness, relief and joy in one word.
Saturday!
Though there was no performance that afternoon, Nicholas Bracewell still had a full working day. After the early morning fracas at Lawrence Firethorn’s house, he went back to the Queen’s Head to set his staff in motion. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was ordered to make new costumes, Nathan Curtis, the master-carpenter, was commissioned to build some new scenic devices, Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was told to buy fresh rushes to spread on the boards, and George Dart was sent off to the printers for some playbills. Nicholas also found time to instruct the apprentices in swordplay, listen to the latest songs written by Peter Digby, calm the still-agitated Barnaby Gill and offer constructive criticism to Edmund Hoode when the playwright outlined the plot of his next play. No visit to the Queen’s Head would be complete without a brush with the cadaverous landlord.
‘Good day, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas.
‘It has lacked goodness so far, sir.’ He smirked. ‘I may have to invite Nimbus back to my yard.’
‘Nimbus?’
‘Look to your reputation, Master Bracewell.’
‘Why?’
‘There is finer entertainment in town.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘Westfield’s Men have been displaced in my favour.’
‘By Nimbus?’
‘Even so.’
‘Who is he, sir?’
‘A better actor than Master Firethorn.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘A more comical clown than Master Gill.’
‘Can this be possible?’
‘And a more profitable visitor than your company.’
‘What does Nimbus do?’ said Nicholas.
‘Everything, sir.’
‘He is a performer?’
‘Even my wife was entranced.’
It was the highest accolade. Alexander Marwood’s dark melancholy arose very largely out of his marriage to the stone-faced woman of implacable will. Anyone who could coax a response – let alone a smile – out of Sybil Marwood was indeed a remarkable performer. Nicholas was curious.
‘What sort of man is this Nimbus?’
The landlord sniggered. ‘He’s a horse.’
Marwood trickled off and left the book holder to digest the information. A chat with one of the ostlers brought more elucidation. While Westfield’s Men had been performing at The Theatre, their place had been taken at the Queen’s Head by Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. Like his employer, the ostler was full of praise and wonder. Nicholas was glad that his own employer was not there to hear it. Lawrence Firethorn would not endure a comparison with a dancing stallion.
Finishing his stint at the inn, Nicholas rushed off to Cheapside to visit the hatmaker whose name had been given to him by Anne Hendrik. An apprentice was closing up the shop when Nicholas arrived and it did not take long to wheedle the information out of him. Nicholas posed as a glover who had been commissioned by Beatrice Capaldi to make a pair of gloves to match her latest hat. The apprentice duly admitted him to the premises to view the new creation so that he could appraise its colour and material. In the course of their chat, Nicholas relieved him of the lady’s address, then thanked him and slipped away.
Beatrice Capaldi lived in a house near the river at Blackfriars. Though it had a narrow frontage, it was a capacious building with a long garden at the rear as well as a small courtyard with stabling. Evidently, the place was kept in good repair by someone with an appreciable income. As Nicholas walked beside the garden he could hear snatches of a madrigal sung by a boy to the accompaniment of a lute. He fancied that he caught the voice of the lady herself as well but he could not be sure of this and he was soon distracted by the arrival of a visitor. Coaches were more populous in London now but few were of the size and magnificence of this one. It belonged to a person of s
ome eminence and, although he did not see the man who flitted so swiftly into the house, Nicholas did catch a glimpse of the coat of arms on the departing vehicle. He had seen it before but could not remember exactly where. What he could remember was a remark that Anne Hendrik made about the mistress of the house. He listened to the madrigal more carefully.
Early evening took him to The Elephant in Shoreditch. It was the inn which stood closest to The Curtain and was thus frequented by members of the resident company there. Nicholas was conscious that he was venturing in among the enemy but he had no choice. It was the only way to see Owen Elias who was now one of Banbury’s Men.
The Welshman was carousing with his new colleagues.
‘Nick!’ he welcomed. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A favour, Owen.’
‘To ask or to give?’
‘Both.’
‘Call the boy and order more ale!’
‘The treat will be mine.’
‘No,’ said Elias benevolently. ‘On my ground, I pay.’
Nicholas let him buy the drink then detached him to a corner of the taproom. Owen Elias was in an expansive mood after another rousing performance with Banbury’s Men in a testing part. He was still inebriated with his success and Nicholas let him talk about it at length. In a very short time, the actor had established himself at his new home and fallen in love with its novelty. At the same time, there was a whisper of guilt in his manner, a reluctance to look his old friend in the eye that was very untypical. Nicholas said little but heard all with interest.
Owen Elias suddenly became shifty and defensive.
‘Are you sent here by Master Firethorn?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Then why did you come?’
‘On my own account.’
‘You spoke of a favour.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is the best favour that I can offer, Owen. An invitation to return to us.’
‘That’s no favour but a vile threat!’
‘It would be in your best interests.’
‘I have done with Westfield’s Men for ever.’
‘You are needed, Owen.’
‘Then why was I cast out?’
‘Master Firethorn has a temper.’
‘Let him use it on someone else. I’ll none of it!’
‘Do you hate him so much?’
‘I swore revenge on the villain!’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘And you have got that revenge, by all accounts. All of London is talking about your work in The Spanish Jew. You have swinged Master Firethorn soundly. How many more times will you do it?’
‘More times?’
‘When is your revenge complete?’
‘Well …’
‘After one performance, two, three? Or do you intend to blacken another man’s character in perpetuity?’
‘He expelled me, Nick!’
‘Master Randolph may do the same.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘When you have served your purpose, he may turn you out of Banbury’s Men without a flicker of conscience.’
‘He will not,’ said Elias firmly, ‘because I will be a sharer with the company. Engaged by contract.’
‘Have you signed that contract?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Have you seen it then?’
‘It is being drawn up.’
‘And will that content you?’
Nicholas fixed him with a searching gaze that made him shift uneasily on his stool. Owen Elias emptied his pot of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘My life is here now, Nick,’ he said.
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘Master Randolph admires my work greatly.’
‘How did he come to know its quality?’
‘He watched me in Love’s Sacrifice at The Rose.’
‘Giles Randolph?’
‘He was struck by my performance.’
‘But what brought him there in the first place?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Why does he study Westfield’s Men when he has a company of his own? He was at The Rose, you say?’
‘Searching for talent.’
‘And his eye lighted on you?’
‘My similarity to Master Firethorn impressed him.’
Nicholas was mystified. He was also worried on his friend’s behalf. He was angry at the way Owen Elias had used his skills against his old company but that did not stop him from fearing for the latter. The Welshman’s lust for glory on stage was being cleverly exploited by Giles Randolph who was offering an irresistible inducement to a hired man. If Elias became a sharer, his livelihood was guaranteed but the very talents that were being used against Westfield’s Men at the moment would in time threaten Randolph himself. The performance at The Rose kept rustling away at the back of Nicholas’s mind. Owen Elias might have been the incidental beneficiary of Giles Randolph’s visit but the latter did not come there specifically to see him. There had to be another reason to take him down to Southwark that afternoon.
‘I must go, Nick,’ said Elias, uncomfortably.
‘But I’ve not asked you to do me a favour yet.’
‘What is it?’
‘Pay off an old debt.’
‘Debt?’
‘To Sebastian Carrick. Yes, I know,’ added Nicholas as the other was about to protest. ‘He owed you money. But you owe Sebastian this. You owe him Banbury’s Men.’
‘How so?’
‘Because you gained by his death. Sebastian was to have played in Love’s Sacrifice while you were scrabbling about in the smaller parts.’ Nicholas was blunt. ‘Master Randolph would not have marked your excellence as a Second Servant. He would not have been struck by your King’s Messenger. You took Sebastian’s role to gain all this. You owe him your role in The Spanish Jew and your hope of a contract!’
The Welshman breathed heavily through his nose and searched the table for an answer to the charge. It was a full minute before he raised his head again.
‘You are right, Nick. I am in Sebastian’s debt.’
‘Pay it off.’
‘How?’
‘Help me to catch his murderer.’
Interest quickened. ‘You know who it is?’
‘I know where to find him.’
‘Where?’
‘Will you help? It will take two of us.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Elias soulfully. ‘But for Sebastian, I would still be toiling in minor roles at the Queen’s Head. If that is the favour, I’ll do it gladly.’
‘Thank you, Owen. I’ll advise you when I need you.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’ Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder then got up to leave. He glanced across at the other actors in the troupe then appraised his old friend again. Owen Elias worked with Banbury’s Men but he did not seem like one of them and his arrogance was bound to have ruffled his new colleagues. There would be natural resentment from those who had served the company for a long time at the Welshman’s promotion over their heads. It did not augur well for him.
The question was jabbed straight at the actor.
‘On what condition would you return to us, Owen?’
‘To Westfield’s Men?’
‘Name your price.’
‘It is far too high, Nick.’
‘I have a strong nerve.’
‘Then I demand two things. A full apology.’
‘You ask a lot of Master Firethorn.’
‘And a contract that makes me a sharer.’
Nicholas thought it over then gritted his teeth.
‘You will have both,’ he said.
Nimbus began his conquest of London at a steady trot, moved up into a canter then went full gallop through the hearts and minds of its citizens. He and his astute master chose their venues with care, increasing the size of their audience each time and widening the scope of their performance. All classes watched and wondered. Every spectator rushed off to broadcast the news of this latest prodigy. Nimbus did n
ot have to search for an arena any longer. Cornelius Gant was besieged by eager innkeepers and urgent landlords, offering handsome rewards in return for a performance at their respective hostelries. A city which revelled in the baiting of bears and bulls now talked about a sensational horse. No blood was spilt, no pain visited upon the animal, no cruelty practised, yet the partners bewitched their public in a most profound way.
Gant used each occasion to advertise future delights.
‘Thank you, kind friends!’ he called. ‘This evening, you may see us at the Black Bell in Candlewick Street. Tomorrow morning, you will find us at the Crossed Keys in Gayspur Lane and in the same afternoon, at The Gun in Cordwainer Street.’ His face collapsed into a grin. ‘Look for us soon at The Unicorn in Hosier Alley. Nimbus is as rare a creature as any unicorn, I warrant.’
Fresh applause broke out from the spectators at the Red Lion. Delighted with what they had seen, they wanted more and began to yell out hopes and expectations. Gant shouted out his boast above the tumult.
‘Nimbus will dance across London Bridge and swim across the Thames at its widest point. He will do something that no horse has ever done before.’ Gant stoked up the furnace of excitement. ‘He will fly to the very top of St Paul’s!’
News of the feat met with tumultuous approbation.
‘When will Nimbus do it?’ they cried.
‘Let us ask,’ said Gant.
He looked across at the horse and gave a signal. Nimbus shook his head slowly as if deep in contemplation then he came across to whinny in his master’s ear. Gant waited for the laughter to subside then passed on the decision.
‘Saturday!’
Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather began their rounds in Clerkenwell with the usual amalgam of duty and resignation. Shocked to discover that they had been impersonated, they now saw it as a happy accident which yielded direct benefit. It was they who were given credit for saving the life of the man who had been so grievously assaulted in Cock Lane and they who now gained a lurking respect from the denizens of the area. Men who might before have sneered at their passing now held their tongues and shrunk back. The two aged watchmen liked their brief status as heroes. They strolled along Turnmill Street with an air of authority they had never possessed before. It was gratifying to be taken seriously at last and they were particularly pleased with their impact on a man who loitered opposite the Pickt-hatch. As soon as he saw the officers of the law approach, he shot out of a doorway and tore off down the street. Taplow and Merryweather smiled.
The Mad Courtesan Page 18
