The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Ee! Ah!’

  ‘Calm down, sir. I’ll find it for you.’

  ‘Yah! Oh! Nee!’

  The patient grabbed his shirt and tore it open down to his navel. Three small pieces of meat were resting on his body and Kirk plucked them off at once. The young man gave a cry of relief.

  ‘Leeches!’ he said.

  It was the first word that Kirk had ever heard him speak and it was an important one. The patient was afraid of leeches which had obviously been used on him in the course of some blood-letting treatment. Kirk was sorry for the distress that had been caused but grateful to have made a discovery. The young man could talk after all. It was a distinct advance and it was followed by another when the keeper glanced at the bare chest in front of him. Scratched across it in large fading letters was a name.

  David.

  ‘Is that you?’ he asked. ‘Are you David?’ The young man looked down at his body as if seeing the letters for the first time. Using a finger, he traced each one very carefully and tried to work out what it was. When he finally succeeded, tears of joy rolled down his cheeks. ‘David!’ he said.

  They had given him back his name.

  Anne Hendrik could not bear to be idle. Though she had money enough to live a life of relative leisure, she preferred to keep herself busy and took an active part in the running of her husband’s business. After initial resistance from her employees, she won them over with her acumen, her commitment and her willingness to learn every last detail about the art of hat-making. Anne Hendrik revealed herself to be a highly competent businesswoman – and she could even speak a fair amount of Dutch. There was another value to her work life. It gave her something to chat about with Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘And that is how Preben came to design the new style.’

  ‘Has the hat found favour with your customers?’ he said.

  ‘We have had a number of orders already.’

  They were in the little garden at the rear of the Bankside house. Nicholas was carrying a basket and Anne was cutting flowers to lay in it. Taking care not to prick herself on the thorns, she used her shears to snip through the stem of a red rose.

  ‘But enough of my tittle-tattle,’ she said briskly. ‘What of Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘Happily, there is nothing to report.’

  ‘The performance went off without incident?’

  ‘Yes, Anne. No devil, no falling maypole; no accident of any kind.’ Nicholas grimaced. ‘With the exception of Master Marwood, that is. The fellow is devil, maypole and accident rolled into one.’

  ‘What did you play this afternoon?’

  ‘The Knights of Malta.’

  ‘Did it give your landlord cause for complaint?’

  ‘None at all,’ he said. ‘But he is yielding to other voices. The Puritans have written to him again and an Alderman called at the Queen’s Head to voice his disapproval. One Henry Drewry. We will weather this storm as we have weathered all the rest.’

  ‘Has Master Gill recovered from his fall?’ she asked.

  ‘Completely, Anne, but he will not admit it. He still holds his shoulder at an angle and walks with that limp.’

  They laughed at the actor’s vanity. When the last of the flowers had been cut, they took them back into the house. Anne searched for a pot in which to stand them and looked forward to the supper she was about to share with him. Nicholas had a disappointment for her.

  ‘I fear that I must soon leave you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have an appointment to keep in Eastcheap.’

  ‘Eastcheap!’ she echoed in mock annoyance. ‘You prefer a tavern to my company, Master Bracewell? Things have changed indeed, sir!’

  ‘You mistake my meaning, Anne.’

  ‘What can Eastcheap offer but taverns and trugging-houses?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he agreed. ‘And I intend to visit both.’

  ‘Has it come to this between us?’ she said in hurt tones.

  ‘I do not go there on my own account.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘To find someone,’ he explained. ‘A wandering playwright. Ralph Willoughby has disappeared and we have need of him. I have left sundry messages at his lodging but to no avail. If he will not come to us, then I must go to him.’

  ‘This news is softer on my ears.’

  He slipped an arm familiarly around her waist and kissed her gently on the lips. Their friendship was very important to Nicholas and he would not trade it in for one wild night in Eastcheap. She saw him off at the door and urged him not to be too late. With quickening footsteps, he went off to begin his search.

  A boat took him back across the river and he made his way to Eastcheap with all due haste. Ralph Willoughby was well-known in the area but he had scattered his patronage far and wide. The search could take Nicholas well into the night.

  Bracing himself, he began his journey at the White Hart and found himself the only sober human being on the premises. Willoughby was not there. Next came the Jolly Miller which also produced no missing playwright. The Royal Oak, the Lamb and Flag, even the Brazen Serpent were unable to help. In each establishment, the revelry was loud and lascivious and he was pressed to stay by bawds of every kind. It was not difficult to refuse the entreaties.

  Six more taverns had to be visited before he picked up a trail. A barmaid at the Bull and Butcher remembered seeing Willoughby earlier in the evening. There was a chance that he might still be there.

  ‘Nell was always his favourite,’ she said.

  ‘Nell?’

  She narrowed her eyes as she saw the hope of profit.

  ‘How eager are you to find this friend of yours, sir?’

  Nicholas gave her some coins. It was eagerness enough.

  ‘Nell has a room upstairs,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The first on the right, sir, and it has no bolt within.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’

  He pushed his way out of the crowded taproom to get clear of the noise and the stink of tobacco smoke. The staircase wound its way upwards and he followed its crooked steps. When he reached the passageway at the top, he paused at the first door on the right and tapped. There was no reply and so he used his knuckles more firmly.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked a crisp female voice.

  ‘Nell?’

  ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, sounding a more girlish note.

  Nicholas opened the door and stepped into a low cramped chamber that had room for little more than the bed that stood against the window. Candles threw a begrudging light on the scene. Nell was a big, buxom young woman with a generous smile. Lying half-naked on the bed, she was pinned to it by the prostrate figure of Ralph Willoughby. He was still dressed and wheezing aloud in his sleep.

  Nell was completely undaunted by the situation.

  ‘You catch me incommoded, sir,’ she said with a laugh. ‘The poor fellow had more drink in him than desire. If you could shift his carcass off me, then I would be glad to oblige you in his stead.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘An hour at least, sir. I dozed off myself to keep him company.’

  ‘Come, let me relieve you of your burden.’

  ‘I like not dead weight between my legs, sir.’

  ‘Then let me extract him from you.’

  He took hold of Willoughby beneath the armpits and lifted him off the bed. Lowering him into a sitting position on the floor, Nicholas shook him vigorously but could not wake him up. The playwright was in a complete stupor.

  Nell rearranged herself into a more alluring pose.

  ‘Drag him outside, sir, and return for his reward.’

  ‘Alas, mistress, I am not able to take his place.’

  ‘But you are the properer man of the two, I can tell.’

  ‘I must needs take my friend home.’

  ‘I did not know he had a home,’ she observed. ‘Unless it be up here. He spent last night in my arms and the one before. A str
anger bedfellow I could not wish for, sir.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Men love to talk of sin when they sup at my table. Yet when this one tasted my ware, he babbled of nothing but religion.’

  ‘Religion?’

  ‘Haply, I excited his spirit,’ said Nell. ‘But I did not mind this speech. It is all one to me. His bishop in a purple cap went neatly into my confessional box and stayed till he was excommunicate.’

  Nicholas was amused by the metaphor and saw that she was no ordinary whore. Her ample frame and ready turn of phrase made her the particular choice of Ralph Willoughby. Whatever turmoil the playwright had been in, she had clearly helped him through it. Reaching into his purse, Nicholas handed her some money for her pains. Nell beamed her gratitude and leapt up off the bed to embrace him in a sensational bear-hug. He detached himself with difficulty and hauled Willoughby out into the passageway. Nell lolled in the doorway.

  ‘Who is the poor creature?’ she said.

  ‘A good man fallen on bad times.’

  ‘I know him only as Ralph who comes to take communion with me.’

  ‘He is not fit for the service tonight, I fear.’

  ‘That disappoints me, sir,’ she sighed. ‘When he was with me last, he made love as if the Devil was dancing on his buttocks.’

  It was an apt image and more accurate than she realised.

  Nicholas lifted him on to his feet then bent down to let the body fall across his shoulder. Waving a farewell to the irrepressible Nell, he went carefully down the stairs so that he did not bang Willoughby’s head against the wall.

  Coming out into the street, he began the long slow walk.

  Edmund Hoode always worked best in the hours of darkness. When he was closeted in his lodging with no more than a candle and his writing materials, he could devote his full attention to the project in hand. There were far too many distractions during the day and he was, in any case, usually required for rehearsal or performance by the company. When night drew its black cloak around him, however, he came fully alive and his mind buzzed with creativity. As he sat over his table now, verse of surpassing excellence streamed through his brain, but it was not part of some new play that he was writing. The inspiration and the object of his poetic impulse was Grace Napier.

  She was perfection. As he reflected upon her virtues, he saw that she was the woman for whom he had been waiting all his life. She gave him purpose. She redeemed him. Compared with her, all the other women who had aroused his interest were nonentities, momentary distractions while he waited for his true love to come along. With those others, the chase had often been an end in itself. Consummation was rare and the certain conclusion of a relationship. Cupid was never kind to him. He had known much sadness between the sheets.

  Grace Napier was different. She belonged to another order of being. He did not view her in terms of pursuit and conquest because that would demean her and drag her down from the lofty pedestal on which he had set her. All his thoughts now turned on one objective. Marriage to his beloved. In the headlong rush of his ardour, he did not stop to consider the practicalities of such a wild hope. The fact that he had no house to offer her, still less a high income to serve her demands, did not stay his fantasies. He would make any sacrifice for her even if it meant that he left the theatre. Edmund Hoode wanted nothing more than to devote his energies to the composition of odes to her beauty and sonnets in praise of her sweetness.

  I’ll wrap my arms around your slender waist,

  My gracious love, I would not be disgraced.

  The lines sprang new-minted from his pen. He studied them on the vellum then rejected them for their banality. Grace deserved better. He killed the couplet with a slash of ink and turned to his Muse once more. Richer lines began to flow. Deeper resonances were sounded. Whenever he glanced up from his work, he saw Grace Napier on her pedestal, giving him that special smile which was poetry in itself.

  Horror suddenly intruded. As he looked up at her once more, there was someone else beside her, an arresting figure with the arrogant grin of a practised voluptuary. Hoode recognised him at once.

  It was Lawrence Firethorn.

  An anxiety which had been at the back of his mind for days now thrust itself forward. Firethorn was a real threat. Dozens of beautiful young ladies were hypnotised by the tawdry glamour of the playhouse and were ready to surrender themselves to its ambiguous charms. Those who worshipped at the shrine of Westfield’s Men inevitably tended to see Firethorn as their god. His bravura performances could not be matched by lesser players in smaller roles. Firethorn had no compunction about exploiting the adulation to the full. Swooning females were simply the spoils of war that fell to the victorious general and not even the vigilant eye of his wife, Margery, could stop him from exercising the age-old rites of soldiery. A few discerning acolytes – as Hoode liked to style them – had chosen him in place of the actor-manager. But he was seldom allowed to take advantage of their interest. Lawrence Firethorn had a distressing habit of stepping in and whisking the admirers – quite literally – out from under him. That was not going to happen with Grace Napier.

  Stay close, my love, avoid the scorching fire,

  Prick not yourself upon that thorn’s desire.

  They were not lines to be sent to his loved one. Hoode would engrave them upon his own heart to act as a warning. Whatever else he did, he must not introduce Grace to the insatiable Lawrence Firethorn.

  Further meditation was interrupted by a banging on the door. He went over to unbolt it then opened it wide. Nicholas Bracewell stood there with a familiar figure over his shoulder. Hoode was pleased.

  ‘Ralph?’

  ‘The whole weight of him.’

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘I will tell you when I have lightened my load.’

  Nicholas stepped into the room and lowered the body to the floor, sitting Willoughby up and resting his back against the wall. The slumbering playwright was still dead to the world.

  ‘He was at the Bull and Butcher,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Drink or fornication?’

  ‘One prevented the other, Edmund.’

  ‘He has burned the candle at both ends.’

  ‘There is neither wax nor flame left.’

  ‘Wake up, sir!’ said Hoode, shaking his co-author.

  ‘That will not rouse him,’ said Nicholas, reaching for the jug on the table. ‘Stand aside, I pray.’

  With a swing of his arm, he dashed a few pints of cold water into Willoughby’s face. The latter twitched, groaned, then spluttered. As he came out of his sleep, he opened an eye to blink at the world.

  ‘Nell?’

  ‘You are here among friends,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Edmund?’ A second eye opened. ‘Nicholas?’

  ‘I fetched you from your revelry,’ explained the book holder.

  ‘We have need of you,’ said Hoode. ‘Our play is staged again.’

  ‘I am no longer with the company, sir.’

  ‘It requires your subtle hand.’

  ‘Master Firethorn banished me.’

  ‘This will not concern him,’ said Hoode dismissively. ‘We will work together privily. We are co-mates in this drama, Ralph, and I will not see you ousted. I must have your guidance with The Merry Devils.’

  ‘Do not perform it again!’

  ‘Rather let us make it safe for performance.’

  ‘That is not within my power.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It is not the play that holds the peril,’ said Willoughby with quiet dread. ‘It is my part in its authorship. I am the catalyst here, sirs. Put my work on the stage and you will suffer. The devil will surely come again.’

  ‘There was no devil,’ said Nicholas firmly.

  ‘I am not certain either way,’ admitted Hoode.

  Willoughby was adamant. ‘Truly, there was a devil. I have it from Doctor John Mordrake himself.’

  ‘Mordrake!’ Hoode was impressed.
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br />   ‘He consulted his books, his charts, his crystal and all agreed upon my fate. The life of Ralph Willoughby is forfeit. Save yours, my friends, by turning your backs on The Merry Devils.’

  ‘It is too late,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Then must you put the whole company at risk.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Through me. Mordrake was specific on the matter.’

  ‘A prediction?’

  ‘Yes, Nick. Perform my play again – and disaster will strike!’

  The warning could not have been clearer.

  Grace Napier sat at the keyboard and filled the room with a wistful melody. When she came to the end of her practice, she was applauded.

  ‘Well done!’ said Isobel Drewry.

  ‘I improve slowly.’

  ‘You play sweetly, Grace.’

  ‘The instrument pleases my ear.’

  ‘And mine.’ Isobel giggled obscenely. ‘I wonder if Master Hoode can finger a virginal so delicately!’

  ‘Do not be so vulgar,’ said Grace with a smile.

  ‘He longs to play on your keyboard.’

  ‘Desist!’

  Isobel stepped across to the virginal and ran her finger along it to produce a tinkling stream of sound. They were in the parlour at Grace’s house. Having demonstrated her skill on the recorder, she had shown equal prowess at the keyboard. It was a pleasant way to pass an hour together on a wet morning. Isobel was duly appreciative.

  ‘I could listen to you all day, Grace!’

  ‘You may have to unless this rain stops.’

  ‘But why did you play such sad songs?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘The music was exquisite but full of melancholy strains. Is that your mood today? Is your heart really so heavy?’

  Grace smiled pensively then got up to cross over to the window. She watched the rain drumming on the glass and sending tiny rivulets on their brief journeys. Isobel came to stand beside her.

  ‘Grace …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever been in love?’