Lawrence Firethorn was angry with himself for having been momentarily carried away by the spectacle. A man whose life revolved around cleverly devised stage effects knew some deft handiwork when he saw it and he tried to work out exactly how it was all done. He was not helped by the rapturous ovation that was being accorded to his new rival for the public’s adoration.
Nimbus.
Beatrice Capaldi arrived in her barge at the wharf well before the appointed time. When the vessel was moored, the four oarsmen went ashore to stretch their legs. Beatrice remained under the rich canopy which covered the raised area in the stern of the boat. Lying back on cushions, she was protected from the prying eyes of the rougher sort who hung about the waterfront. Her lutenist sat on a stool nearby and played soft airs. Beatrice was at her most elegant in a dress of black and red that exactly matched the colours of her latest hat in the Spanish fashion. A silver fan could be used to cool or conceal, a pomander kept the odours of the river away from her nostrils.
The swift approach of a horse made her sit up. She did not expect Lawrence Firethorn to appear quite so early. His impatience was testimony to the fevered love which he bore her. She heard the horse being reigned in then urgent feet ran along the planking on the wharf. Her visitor came aboard without ceremony and she looked up to greet him. But it was not the over-eager Firethorn. It was Giles Randolph.
‘We must speak alone,’ he said pointedly.
‘As you wish.’ She dismissed the lutenist with a flick of her fan then delivered a mild reproach to her visitor. ‘This is most unseemly, sir.’
‘You have deceived me, Beatrice.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘Your promises were mere nothings.’
‘Have a care, Giles.’
‘You entertained a visitor at your house.’
‘I deny it.’
‘You swore to be true to me!’ he accused.
‘And so I have.’
‘I know the day, the time, the man.’ Randolph let his pain show through. ‘Beatrice, how could you consort with that disgusting old lecher?’
‘Of whom do you speak?’
‘Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester.’
The momentary pause and the flicker of her eyelids were enough to condemn her. Giles Randolph began to upbraid her in the strongest terms but was silenced by a blazing retort.
‘It is my house,’ she said proudly, ‘and I entertain whomsoever I wish. You are not my keeper, sir. I may have my pick of any man in London. Why should I deign to favour an actor when I may choose an earl? Giles Randolph is not even an aristocrat in his own profession. Lawrence Firethorn will always outrank him.’ She stabbed home her advantage. ‘If I want the best – and nothing less will suffice – I should give myself to him this very afternoon.’
‘No, Beatrice!’ It was a howl of anguish.
She retreated into silence and let him dribble his apologies all over her. When he had humbled himself completely before her, she probed for details.
‘Who told you of the Earl of Chichester?’
‘Owen Elias.’
She was contemptuous. ‘A hired man!’
‘He quit the company this morning,’ said Randolph sourly, ‘and left The Spanish Jew without its ridicule of Firethorn. His parting shot concerned yourself. I was to ask you why the coach bearing the Godolphin coat of arms was seen outside your house on a certain night.’
‘I hate all Welshmen!’ she asserted.
Randolph found consolation. ‘Owen Elias has cut his own throat. He has left our company and Westfield’s Men have disowned him. Firethorn will never let that ugly Celtic visage anywhere near the Queen’s Head!’
Owen Elias sat in the taproom at the Queen’s Head and took his final instructions from Nicholas Bracewell. The morning rehearsal was uncertain but by no means calamitous. It was just conceivable that Love’s Sacrifice could survive before an audience without Lawrence Firethorn in the leading role. Owen Elias was a more muted King Gondar but he gave a very competent reading of the part. Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode sat at the table to add their counsel. The four men were determined to rescue the company from the wilful absence of its actor-manager. Alexander Marwood interrupted their discussions with an uncharacteristic chuckle.
‘Good day, gentlemen!’ he said warmly. ‘You’ll have spectators enough in my yard today.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because of the promise I have from Master Gant.’
‘Cornelius Gant?’
‘He and Nimbus are the wonders of London,’ said the twitching landlord. ‘And you helped them, Master Bracewell. You gave Nimbus the wings to fly!’
Marwood gave an excited if garbled account of what had happened at St Paul’s Cathedral. Nimbus and his master were now being hailed on all sides. What thrilled the landlord was the fact that he had engaged the pair to make another appearance at the Queen’s Head. They were to perform briefly on stage after Love’s Sacrifice had run its course. The yard would be packed to the limit with thirsty patrons. It would be one of the most profitable afternoons that the inn had ever known. Alexander Marwood was inebriated at the very thought.
The four men were duly horrified. They did not wish to share their venue with a performing animal. Barnaby Gill stood on his dignity, Edmund Hoode threatened to withdraw his play and Owen Elias refused to have his first attempt at a leading role overshadowed by an actor with four legs. It was the threatened use of their makeshift stage which worried Nicholas because it might not bear the weight of a dancing horse. The argument was over as soon as it began. A figure swept into the taproom and confronted them with a demand that drove every other thought from their mind.
Margery Firethorn was at her most forceful. ‘Where is my husband?’ she said.
Lawrence Firethorn waited until the buzzing crowd began to disperse then he drifted slowly towards the river. Nimbus hung over him like a black cloud. It rankled. He was both hurt and jealous. Firethorn had worked at his craft for many long years to achieve a standard of excellence that nobody could match; yet it was not his name that was the touchstone of the citizenry. Cornelius Gant and his black stallion had pushed the actor aside. In the space of five minutes atop St Paul’s Cathedral, they had dazzled an audience which was ten times the size of any that Firethorn had attracted. It was deeply insulting. The actor offered a dramatic experience that captivated for two hours then stayed in the memory for ever. Nimbus was palmed off on an unsuspecting public by means of a clever conjuring trick and he would be forgotten when the next sensation diverted the commonalty.
Firethorn knew the secret of the flying horse. Nimbus was taken up to the top of the cathedral by means of the circular staircase then brought into view in a flurry of flapping wings. The real skill lay not in getting the animal up there to create the optical illusion but in bringing it down again. Horses could be trained to climb stairs but their gait and their co-ordination forbade any descent. To bring Nimbus down spiralling stone steps was a phenomenon in itself. Firethorn decided that the animal was either carried in some way or that it had been taught to walk backwards.
The wings also puzzled him. They looked very familiar. They were black now instead of being white but he felt certain he had seen them before. The dreadful thought formed in his mind that they had been hired from Westfield’s Men and that his own company had actually aided the spectacular flight of Nimbus. His sense of betrayal was acute. Lawrence Firethorn heard the ripple of water and realised he was now standing beside the Thames. The wharf was in front of him and the barge was moored to it. Four oarsmen and a young lutenist lingered. Beatrice Capaldi was there.
Yet even as his desire was rekindled, it fell short of its former glow. The antics on the roof of St Paul’s had done something which he would never have believed possible. They had focused his mind on the dignity of his profession. Nimbus had dispossessed Beatrice Capaldi. His beloved was waiting for him and the busy river lay before them but he no longer lusted aft
er her company. Doubts crowded in. Guilt resurfaced. He was in an agony of indecision. Part of him wanted to run to the barge to embrace her while another part wished that he was at the Queen’s Head to rub out the vision of a performing animal with his own brand of magic.
After all his suffering, he had to learn the truth. He strode towards the barge and caught her perfume on the air. The brief enchantment of Beatrice Capaldi returned to be shattered for ever.
‘Lawrence!’
He froze where he stood and turned around. The coach which came thundering towards the wharf bore the Westfield coat of arms. Margery Firethorn was leaning through the window to hail him. As the horses were reined in and the vehicle came to a squealing halt, Nicholas Bracewell opened the door and assisted Margery out. The contrite husband rushed to his wife’s arms and lifted her up to kiss her. As they circled in ecstatic reunion, he glanced over her shoulder at the barge where Giles Randolph and Beatrice Capaldi had come into view. A violent argument was ending and Randolph stalked off. He and his courtesan had parted and his priority was now to get back to The Curtain in time to perform The Spanish Jew. At one stroke, Beatrice Capaldi lost two brilliant actors. Lawrence Firethorn felt infatuation leave him like a discarded cloak. He was free again, he was happy, he was married. After tossing Beatrice a look of disdain, he kissed his wife with ready passion.
Nicholas Bracewell took charge. They had to get to the Queen’s Head at once. Firethorn’s horse was tied to the back of the coach, then it set off at reckless speed with its three passengers. Margery Firethorn knew that only another woman could have led her spouse astray but this was no time to chastise him. Love’s Sacrifice required some sacrifice on her part. After giving him the good news from Cambridge, she contented herself with nestling beside him and listening to his conversation with Nicholas.
‘You rehearsed this morning?’ said the surprised actor.
‘The play is expected.’
‘You would have staged it without me?’
‘Lord Westfield would not be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘We found another King Gondar to carry the piece.’
‘Another?’
‘Owen Elias.’
‘WHAT!’
Firethorn’s explosion was contained by some scolding words from his wife who had been told enough of what had happened to side with Nicholas in the matter. Quelled into silence, Firethorn heard how Owen Elias had helped to catch the murderer of Sebastian Carrick and to ensnare the devious Clerk of Ordnance. Lord Westfield’s admiration of the Welshman knew no bounds and he was adamant that Owen Elias be welcomed back into his company. When Firethorn learnt that the actor had left Banbury’s Men in turmoil, he was partially mollified but his pride was still affronted.
‘Owen tries to supplant me,’ he complained. ‘He either mocks me at The Curtain or strives to take my place at the Queen’s Head. He wants to rule as King Gondar.’
‘Not if we arrive in time,’ said Nicholas.
Panic assisted performance. The uncertainty which lasted until minutes before the play was due to start keyed up the actors. When Lawrence Firethorn burst into the tiring-house in full stride, they broke into applause and tears. Owen Elias quickly handed over the robes of King Gondar and there was a moment of tension when he handed Firethorn the crown but Love’s Sacrifice outlawed all personal differences. Westfield’s Men went out onto the stage with the arrogant confidence of a conquering army. Firethorn led his troupe magnificently and made this fourth performance of the work the best yet. Nor was he deprived of inspiration from the middle of the lower gallery. Margery Firethorn had elbowed herself into a place there and he acted for her. Unlike the calculating Beatrice Capaldi, his wife would not keep him at arm’s length that night. Their reconciliation would be shot through with high emotion and it was only when he lay there sated that she would ask about a barge on the Thames.
King Gondar was back where he truly belonged.
It was only after Firethorn’s triumph had been cheered to the echo that Nicholas Bracewell dared to tell him what was due to follow. The whole tiring-house shook.
‘I am to be followed by a horse!’ he bellowed. ‘King Gondar is to hand over his throne to Nimbus!’
It was Owen Elias who stepped in to calm him and to suggest a solution. Westfield’s Men were all appalled that the grasping landlord was using their work as a prologue to a dancing animal and they wanted retribution. Nicholas was annoyed that the white wings he had loaned to Cornelius Gant had been painted black without permission so he had further reason to seek recompense. The book holder had discussed the matter with Owen Elias and the latter fashioned a plan.
‘The horse is clever,’ said Elias, ‘but only when he is controlled by his master. I saw these two hold an audience at The Elephant in Shoreditch with their tricks. Gant is like a puppeteer. Every move is dictated by him.’
‘How does this help us?’ growled Firethorn.
‘Nimbus obeys because his eye never leaves Gant.’
‘So?’
‘What would happen if it did?’
Owen Elias whispered to his employer and Firethorn underwent a transformation. An angry face smiled, a broad grin followed and helpless laughter shook the tiring-house.
‘Bring Nimbus forth!’ he called. ‘We’ll have him now.’
The Queen’s Head was besieged and Alexander Marwood could have filled his yard five times over. Playgoers who stayed behind were joined by a huge influx of excited spectators who wanted to view the flying horse once more. Cornelius Gant had reserved some special tricks for the occasion. The stagekeepers cleared away the scenery then scattered straw upon the boards. Lawrence Firethorn and his wife joined Lord Westfield up in the gallery. Most of the company came out to watch. The two exceptions were Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell who lurked near a stable in the corner. Elias held a lead-rope while Nicholas fondled a small mirror. The accessories were a vital part of the performance.
Alexander Marwood came onto the stage to announce what he saw as a triumph of management on his part. Nimbus and Cornelius Gant came out to thunderous applause. They began with a dance but it was soon interrupted. Every movement of the horse was controlled by Gant who maintained eye contact with his animal at all times. But that contact was broken when the sun dazzled him with such force that he had to turn away. Try as he may, he was unable to gain his former control because Nicholas Bracewell used his mirror with such skill to direct the rays of the sun. Deprived of commands, Nimbus came to a halt and stood waiting before a soon dissatisfied audience. Shouts and threats replaced the earlier cheers.
Entertainment was at hand. While Gant moved around to dodge the sun’s rays, Owen Elias led a chestnut mare out on stage and its seductive whinny turned the head of Nimbus ruinously away from his master. The mare was called Jenny. She had been procured by the head ostler at the instigation of Elias and she was evidently in season. Nimbus showed dramatic interest. The horse was given many rewards but denied this greatest pleasure of all and the pain of that denial was now extreme.
Jenny rubbed her nose along his flank then swung her hind quarters around to twitch her tail. It was Nimbus’s turn to whinny. Here was better sport than dancing before a crowd. Here was altogether more fitting recreation for a stallion than struggling to the top of St Paul’s Cathedral. Gant yelled and slapped his partner’s rump but he was too late. The love affair proceeded apace. Jenny swayed to entice Nimbus and he needed no more invitation. Urged on by the roaring crowd, he mounted her as if his whole career as a performer had been a rehearsal for this moment then rapid consummation ensued.
Cornelius Gant was destroyed. He could do nothing to stop the progress of true love and earned the derision of the crowd for even trying to interfere. The control he had built up by years of living with Nimbus was fractured in a matter of minutes. After tasting glory on the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, he had literally plunged down to earth. Alexander Marwood was crestfallen. His greed had led him into disaster. A theatrical company caused problems
but at least it gave the performance that was advertised. Nimbus had resigned from public performance. Jenny had taught him things which had been cruelly withheld from him.
The show was over, the crowd dispersed, the casualties sneaked away. Lawrence Firethorn came bounding onto the stage to throw his arms around Owen Elias and to cover him with apologies. Nicholas stood by in readiness.
‘I should never have doubted you, Owen!’ said Firethorn.
‘We are friends again.’
‘I even forgive you that treachery at The Curtain.’
Elias was honest. ‘I was but a pale shadow of you, sir.’
‘All has been redeemed this afternoon. Lord Westfield insists that you stay with the company. This trick with Nimbus was as pretty a piece of theatre as I’ve ever seen.’ Enthusiasm sent him into another embrace. ‘Such a man should be a sharer with the company. If I had a contract, I would offer it to you this instant.’
Nicholas produced the document and handed it over.
‘Then do so, Master Firethorn,’ he said.
The actor-manager was taken aback at first then he led the laughter. Owen Elias was finally given a contract. When he went off to celebrate in the taproom, he left Firethorn alone on stage with Nicholas Bracewell. The yard was empty now but it still reverberated with the sounds of the great events it had witnessed that afternoon. Westfield’s Men had vindicated themselves. Cornelius Gant and Giles Randolph had been put firmly in their places. Margery was now home from Cambridge and all was well in the world.
Lawrence Firethorn was aware that he owed a profound debt to Nicholas Bracewell and he was generous with his thanks. He was also able to rely on the discretion of his book holder. Margery would be told only a fraction of the truth in the privacy of the marriage bed but Firethorn hid nothing from his friend.
The Mad Courtesan Page 24
