‘To live is to think. We learned that tag at Cambridge.’
‘From whom?’
‘Horace.’
‘Cicero,’ said Mordrake. ‘You should have gone to Oxford.’
‘Neither place could help me fulfil my destiny,’ said the young man wistfully. ‘I was born to serve other imperatives.’
‘I am pleased that the book has been a help to you.’
‘Much more than a help, sir. It has pointed out my way for me.’
Edmund Hoode was transported by delight. His performance in Love and Fortune had won plaudits from Grace Napier that thrilled him and congratulations from Isobel Drewry that he did not even hear. The play had been well-received by an audience who knew it for one of the staples of the company’s repertoire. There had been nothing to dim the pleasure of the afternoon. Though everyone was on the alert for trouble, none came and none even threatened. Hoode’s cup of joy overflowed when Grace acceded to his request.
‘Yes, sir, I would like to dine with you.’
‘We’ll arrange a place and time to suit your convenience.’
‘It will have to be after my return from the country.’
‘You are leaving London?’ His stomach revolved.
‘At the end of the week,’ she explained. ‘But I will not be away for long, Master Hoode, and then we shall certainly dine together.’
‘I will count the hours until that blessed time.’
‘Do not wave me off so soon,’ she eluded with a smile. ‘I do not leave for a few days yet. I will be here at the Queen’s Head again tomorrow to watch Vincentio’s Revenge.’
‘And so will I,’ piped Isobel.
Hoode shifted his feet. ‘I am not well-cast in this tragedy.’
‘It is no matter, sir,’ said Grace pleasantly. ‘I would watch you if you played but the meanest servant. It is Edmund Hoode that I come to see and not the part he plays.’
He kissed her hand on impulse. Isobel giggled inappropriately.
When the two of them left, he shuttled between happiness and misery. Grace Napier had agreed to dine with him but she had first to go away. Before he could be really close to her, they would have to be far apart. The thought that she might stir outside London filled him with dread. He wanted her to be in the same city as himself, if not in the same ward, the same house, the same chamber, the same bed and the same love affair. After full consideration, he dismissed the pangs of remorse and decided that he was entitled to feel triumphant. He had got his response at last. His plays, his performances and his poems had won a promise from his beloved.
It was a triumph that merited a small celebration.
‘More ale, Nick?’
‘I have had my fill, I think.’
‘A cup of wine to see you on your way?’
‘It would detain me in this chair all night.’
They were sitting together in Hoode’s lodging. Desperate to tell of his good fortune, the playwright had pressed his friend to come back for an hour that had somehow matured into four. Nicholas Bracewell drank, listened, nodded at intervals and threw in words of encouragement whenever a small gap appeared in the narrative. He tried to leave more than once but was restrained by his host. Grace Napier was the centre of Hoode’s world and he went round and round her with repetitious zeal.
Nicholas eventually got to his feet and contrived a farewell. Another burst of memoirs held him on the doorstep for five minutes then he broke free. Hoode went back inside to marvel at his luck and to pen another sonnet to its source. If Grace could tolerate him as a venal Duke in Vincentio’s Revenge, she must indeed be smitten.
It was a fine night. Nicholas ambled along a street with a sense of having done an important favour to his friend. It did not hurt him to listen to the amorous outpourings of Edmund Hoode and his presence had clearly meant so much to his host. The playwright would do as much for Nicholas. Not that he would ever lend himself to such a situation. Affairs of the heart were matters of discretion to him and no man had ever heard him boast or sigh. It was one of the qualities in him that most attracted Anne Hendrik.
The incessant talk of Grace Napier turned his mind to his landlady. Most of the things that Hoode praised in his beloved were traits that she shared with Anne. In thinking about one woman, Nicholas gained some insight into his relationship with another. For that alone, it was worth keeping a babbling playwright company. Nicholas sauntered on in a mood of quiet satisfaction. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.
It was only then that he realised just how much he had drunk. His reactions were far too slow. By the time he swung round, the first blow had already caught him on the side of his head. He tightened his fists and crouched to defend himself. There were two of them, burly figures with broad shoulders and thick necks. When both of them charged him, he was knocked back against a wall and his head struck the hard stone. His assailants began to pummel him.
Nicholas fought back as best he could. Evidently, the men were not the thieves he had at first assumed them to be. If they were after his purse, they would have used a cudgel to knock him unconscious or a knife to stab his back. Though he was taking punishment, he managed to retaliate strongly. When his fist made contact with a craggy face, it came back spattered with blood. Bringing his knee up sharply, he hit one of the men in the groin then pushed him away as he bent double in agony. The second man grappled with Nicholas.
The attackers were strong but they were not skilled fighters. Had Nicholas not been slowed by drink and dazed by the blow on his head, he could have handled them with ease. They were not after his money or his life. They had another purpose and he soon learned what it was.
‘There he is, officers!’
‘Seize the fellow!’
‘Come, sirs!’
‘Stop in the name of the law!’
A young man ran along the street with two members of the watch. Before he knew what was happening, Nicholas found the two constables holding his arms. He protested his innocence and told how he had been attacked, but they would not listen to him.
‘This gentleman here witnessed the affray, sir.’
‘Indeed, I did,’ said the young man, stepping forward. ‘You attacked that person with the beard and this other gentleman came to his aid.’ He pointed to the man who was still doubled up in pain. ‘Do you see, officers, how violent the assault must have been?’
‘Leave this to us, sir,’ said one of the constables.
Nicholas felt a sledgehammer inside his skull, but his brain was still clear enough to work out that the three men were accomplices. With all his experience in the theatre, he could recognise stage management. They had set him up for arrest. When he tried to explain this, he was ignored. Nicholas did not cut an impressive figure with his bruised face, his torn jerkin and his slurred speech. The constables preferred to accept the word of the young man with an air of wealth about him.
Feeling drowsier by the minute, Nicholas did not hear what his two assailants were saying, but they were obviously telling a prepared story. It was backed up by the young man. At one point, this individual stepped close to the lantern held by one of the constables. Nicholas had a fleeting glimpse and noticed two things. Though the book holder had never actually met the young man before, the latter’s profile was somehow familiar, and on his right hand he wore a ring that gave a clue as to his identity because gold initials were embossed on black jet.
Nicholas wondered who GN could possibly be.
Having heard the statements, the constables became officious. Honest and just men, they lacked any real education and did their job as well as their meagre abilities allowed. They belonged to a profession that was much-mocked and much-maligned. London watchmen were notoriously inept and inefficient, as likely to aid a felon’s escape through their stupidity as to bring him to book through their promptness. The two constables were well aware of their low reputation and they resented it strongly. Given the opportunity of such an easy apprehension of an offender, they made the most
of it. One of them confronted Nicholas.
‘I arrest you for assault and battery at the suit of Master Walter Grice.’
‘But it was they who attacked me, officer,’ said Nicholas.
‘Come your way, sir,’ said the constable.
Nicholas faced his assailants and fired a last question.
‘Which one of you is Walter Grice?’
The larger of the two thrust his face in beside the lantern. There was a long cut above his right eye where Nicholas had split open his skin. Blood oozed freely down his cheek but he was not perturbed by it. Nor did he seem to bear Nicholas any ill will for the injury.
‘I am Walter Grice,’ he said. ‘Sleep well tonight.’
The two constables took the prisoner off down the street.
It was midnight when she retired to her bed and he had not returned. When he was still absent after a further hour, Anne Hendrik became worried. Her lodger worked long and variable hours but he was usually home in time for supper. If he was going to be late, or stay away for the night, he always warned her in advance. It was most unlike him to be so late. Anne got up and went across to his bedchamber. By the light of her candle, she saw that the place was still empty. There was nothing which indicated where he might be.
She went back to her own room and climbed into bed once more, rehearsing the possibilities in her mind. Nicholas might have been asked back to the home of one of the players. That sometimes happened. Lawrence Firethorn liked to involve the book holder in any business discussions and Edmund Hoode often used him as a shoulder to cry on. Had he been to either place, he must certainly be back by now.
There were two other possibilities, neither of which was palatable to her. Nicholas had been led astray. Actors were a law unto themselves. They led strange anarchic lives and took their pleasures along the way as and when they found them. Something of that spirit must have rubbed off on Nicholas and it was conceivable that female company had diverted him for once. Some of the company went roistering in taverns almost every night. Had Nicholas been persuaded to join them? He liked women and he was very attractive to them. What was there to stop him? Jealousy flared up and quickly turned to disgust. If he could cast her aside so easily for a casual fling, it said little for the depth of their friendship.
Anne Hendrik then remembered their blissful night together. He had been so tender and loving. No man could change so completely in such a short time. Besides, Nicholas was exceptionally honest. He was secretive but he never deceived her. If there was another woman in his life, he would be candid about it. Anne reprimanded herself for even suspecting him of infidelity. When she thought of the person she knew, with his sterling qualities and his fine values, she realised that he would not go astray easily.
That left only one option and it was fearful to contemplate. He must have met with some accident or misadventure. Violence stalked the streets of London. Even as big and powerful a man as Nicholas Bracewell could not cope with every situation which a dark night might throw up. He had been attacked, he was hurt, he was lying wounded somewhere. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. Nicholas was in serious trouble. She longed to be there to help him.
Where was he?
‘Wake up, sir! Wake up! You’ll have time enough for sleep inside!’
‘What?’
‘You’ve come to the Counter, sir, to take your ease.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘By personal invitation of our constables.’
The prison sergeant laughed harshly and showed blackened teeth. His beard was still flecked with the soup he had eaten earlier. He was a big, muscular, unprepossessing man with the reflex cruelty that went with his trade. While the constables gave their report, he scrutinised Nicholas with a cold and unforgiving stare. He had no difficulty in believing that such a man could commit such a crime.
Nicholas shook his head to focus his thoughts. His memory was playing tricks on him. He recalled the face of Walter Grice then there was a blank. Now he was standing inside the grim walls of the Counter in Wood Street, one of the many prisons in London and among the worst. He was forced to give his name and address then divulge his occupation. Mention of the playhouse brought a sneer from the sergeant.
‘You’ll play no scenes nor hold no book here, sir!’
‘Sergeant, I have done nothing illegal.’
‘That’s what they all say.’
The law was slow and ridiculous, but it punished those that it caught very severely. Nicholas had no illusions about what lay ahead. The privations of a long voyage had given him some knowledge of how men could degenerate. Locked away in the Counter was the detritus of society, creatures whose long voyage was made in some foul cell and who would never see the light of day again. Nicholas had no legal redress unless he could enlist the aid of friends. Only one thing mattered inside the prison.
‘Where will you be lodged, sir?’ asked the sergeant roughly.
‘Lodged?’
‘Our guests here choose their favourite chambers.’ Another harsh laugh rang out. ‘There’s countless prisons in London and we’re the best, sir, if you have the garnish for it.’
‘Garnish?’
As soon as he spoke the word, Nicholas understood its meaning. The Counter ran on bribery. It was not the nature of his offence or the severity of his sentence which determined a prisoner’s accommodation. It was his ability to pay. Those with a long purse could buy almost anything but their freedom.
‘We have three grades of lodging here,’ said the sergeant.
‘What are they, sir?’
‘First, there’s the Master’s Side. That’s where you’ll find the most comfortable quarters, sir. There’ll be fresh straw in your cell and sheets that are almost clean.’
‘How much will that cost?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I’ll have to put your name in the Black Book,’ said the sergeant, opening the tome in front of him. ‘That will need a couple of shillings from you. And at each doorway you pass through on your way, the turnkey will expect no less.’
Nicholas made a quick calculation. His money was limited and he had to try to make it last. It was common knowledge that to be poor in prison was to be buried alive. He had to hold out until he could get help from outside.
‘What is the next grade of lodging, sergeant?’ he said.
‘That would be the Knight’s Side, sir.’
‘How much is that?’
‘Half as much but less than half as cosy. You’ll get straw on the Knight’s Side but you have to shake the rats from it first. You’ll have a sheet but you’ll have to fight for it with the others. There’s meat and claret to wash it down, if you’ve the garnish, and tobacco to take away the stink of your habitation.’
‘You said there were three grades, sergeant.’
The harsh laugh grated on the prisoner’s ear again.
‘Shall I tell you what we call it, sir?’
‘What?’
‘The Hole.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll soon find out, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘There’s some as likes to lie in their own soil and feed off beetles. There’s some as prefers four walls with never a window in them. There’s some as would rather starve to death down there than pay a penny to an honest gaoler.’ He crooked his finger to beckon Nicholas forward. ‘I’ll tell you this much, Master Bracewell. We puts more in the Hole than ever we takes out.’
‘I’ll choose the Knight’s Side,’ said the prisoner.
‘Not the Master’s?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Very well.’
The sergeant put his name in the black prison register then charged him for the effort. He was about to motion up an officer who stood at the back of the room when Nicholas interrupted him.
‘I must send a message to someone.’
‘Oh, now that could be expensive, sir.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s against the regulations for us to take messages
out of here. We’d need a lot to sweeten us on that score. It would depend on how long the message was and how far it had to go.’
Nicholas haggled for a few minutes then struck a bargain. He borrowed the quill to scribble some words on the parchment then he rolled it up, flattened it out, and appended the name and address. It cost him five shillings, over half of his weekly wage. As he watched his message disappearing into the sergeant’s pocket, he wondered if it would ever be delivered.
‘It’s late, sir. You’ll be taken to the Knight’s Side.’
‘Thank you.’
The officer came forward to escort Nicholas through a series of locked doors. Each time they stopped, the prisoner had to pay the turnkey to be let through. It was extortion, but he had to submit to it. Eventually, he reached his quarters.
‘Go on in, sir,’ said the officer.
‘Will I be alone?’
‘Oh no, sir. You’ve lots of company there and you’ll hear lots more.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘The cell is next to the jakes.’
He pushed Nicholas in and walked away.
It was a bad time to arrive. It was pitch dark in the cramped cell and the other prisoners were asleep. They stirred angrily when they sensed a newcomer. All the best places had been taken and there was nowhere for Nicholas to lie down properly. As he felt his way around in the gloom, he became aware of his bedfellows. One punched him, another bit his arm, a third shrank away in fear and a fourth cried out for some affection and tried to stroke his leg.
Nicholas found a space where he could sit against the wall with his knees up in front of him. There was no straw and no covering. It was warm, unwholesome and oppressive. If this was the quality of lodging offered in Knight’s Side, he wondered how much more terrible it must be to get thrown into the Hole.
The officer had been right about the proximity of the privy. Prisoners shuffled in and out all night. Nicholas was kept awake by the noise and stench of their evacuations. It was like lying in a pig sty and he wondered how long he could survive it. Certainly, his purse would not gain him many privileges. Nearly all his money had gone already and he had no means of acquiring any more at short notice. As a hand groped across for his purse, he saw that he would have a job to hold on to what he still had.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 39
