The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  Nicholas started forward to protest.

  ‘Take more care, sirs!’ he said.

  ‘Away!’ snarled the driver of the cart.

  ‘That is our friend you handle so roughly there.’

  ‘It is our trade.’

  ‘Practise it with more courtesy.’

  The driver let out a cackle of derision then snapped the reins over the backs of the two horses. They pulled hard and the cart bumped on down the lane. It had a full consignment now and made its melancholy way to a piece of waste land beyond the labyrinth of houses. Nicholas and his companion followed it all the way, determined to share in the funeral rites of their former colleague. Both of them had respected Gabriel Hawkes enough to argue for his inclusion in the touring party and it was painful to have their happy memories of him marred by what they were now witnessing. A fund of wit, warmth and real talent was tied up in that winding sheet.

  The cart creaked to a halt beside a huge pit that was still occupied by busy gravediggers. Fresh mounds of earth showed that other pits had already been dug and filled. Plague victims needed to go deep into the earth lest their infection sprout forth. The driver and his assistant unloaded the corpses with as much concern as if they were handling sacks of vegetables. Human beings were dragged off the cart and thrown along the edge of the pit to await the drop into their final resting place.

  Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode were far enough away to miss the worst of the stench but close enough to observe the creature who crept out of his hiding place under a bush. The man was short, ragged and hirsute, old by every external sign yet as nimble as a monkey. While the driver and his assistant had their backs turned, the newcomer moved between the winding sheets as if he knew what he would find inside them. Using a knife to slit open the material, he groped here and grabbed there until he had quite a haul from his bold plundering. It was when he bent over the body of Gabriel Hawkes that Nicholas moved into action.

  Darting forward at speed, he chased the man back to the bushes from which the latter had emerged, diving on him to bring the fellow rolling to the ground. The knife was brandished in Nicholas’s face but it did not deter him. Years at sea with bellicose sailors had taught him how to handle himself in a fight and he quickly disarmed his assailant, winding him at the same time with a punch in the stomach. Hoode came running up to join him.

  The man retreated in a defensive snivel.

  ‘Leave off, good sirs. I do no harm.’

  ‘Robbing the dead is both sin and crime,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have defiled the body of our friend.’

  ‘He is past caring.’

  ‘We are not.’

  ‘Judge me truly,’ said the man, sitting up on his haunches. ‘I only take from those that have no need. These things would only end up in a pit of lime and what’s the use of that. Better that they help the living than lie beneath the ground with the dead.’

  ‘You are a scurvy rogue,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Necessity compels me, sir.’ He was almost chirpy now. ‘Plague is meat and drink to me. It is the only time we poor people may be rich for a day. The bodies of the deceased sustain us. Their loss is our gain. When they become naked, we are clothed. When they are hungry, we are fed. Their sickness is our health.’

  ‘Give me what you took,’ demanded Nicholas.

  ‘It is all mine.’

  ‘Keep most of it. I want what was stolen from that last body. He was a good friend to us.’

  ‘But not to me,’ replied the man peevishly. ‘There was nothing on him to take. A miserable wretch indeed!’

  Nicholas dispensed with further wrangling. Grabbing the man by his beard, he shook him violently until the creature howled for mercy.

  ‘Now, sir. Give me what was taken.’

  The man spat in annoyance then slowly opened the palm of his left hand. Nestling in it was the tiny jewelled earring that Gabriel Hawkes used to wear. It sparkled in the grubby hand of its thief. Nicholas took the earring and stood up to examine it. Neither he nor Hoode made any move when the man gathered up the rest of his haul and scampered away like an old sheep dog.

  The two friends exchanged a glance. Gabriel had at least been spared this final indignity. He owned little enough in life and did not deserve to have it snatched from him in death. They walked back towards the pit and saw that the bodies were now being heaved into it before being covered with spadefuls of lime. The stink was overpowering but they did not turn back. As they looked down into the gaping tomb, they saw dozens of tormented bodies lying across each other at angles. It was now impossible to tell them apart.

  Nicholas tossed the earring into the pit then offered up a silent prayer. Edmund Hoode was horrified by the callous anonymity of the mass burial.

  ‘Which one is Gabriel?’ he asked.

  ‘God will know,’ said Nicholas.

  They lingered until the busy spades hid the shameful sight with layers of earth. It was all so functional and impersonal. Both of them were deeply affected. When they finally turned and strolled away, neither was able to speak for several minutes. Edmund Hoode eventually came out of his brooding solemnity.

  ‘Why, what a foul contagion it is!’

  ‘A devilish pestilence,’ agreed Nicholas.

  ‘I speak not of the plague.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘That other fatal disease. It struck down Gabriel Hawkes and, in time, it will account for us as well.’

  ‘How say you?’

  ‘I talk of the theatre, Nick. That fever of the blood which drives us to madness all our lives and hurries us towards our graves.’ Hoode gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Who else would take up this profession but a sick man? We are both infected beyond cure. We have caught the germs of false hope and empty fame. The theatre will kill us all.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘It keeps us alive.’

  ‘Only so that we may suffer gross affliction.’

  ‘The loss of our friend has hurt you badly.’

  ‘He was destroyed by his profession.’

  ‘Or by someone in it.’ Nicholas stopped. ‘Gabriel Hawkes did not simply die of the plague. The disease would not have carried him off that quickly without some help from another source.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘He was murdered, Edmund.’

  Like a true man of the theatre, Lawrence Firethorn could not resist the opportunity to deliver a speech in front of a captive audience. Westfield’s Men were summoned to the Queen’s Head that morning. Since the inn was their London home, it was also the most appropriate point of departure. The company gathered in the room that was used as the tiring-house during performance. A great adventure was now in the offing.

  They were all there, including Barnaby Gill, Rowland Carr, Simon Dowsett, Walter Fenby, the beaming George Dart and Richard Honeydew with the other boy apprentices. Edmund Hoode sat pale and wan in the window. Christopher Millfield lounged in cavalier fashion against a beam. Nicholas Bracewell stood at the back so that he was out of range of the full blast of Firethorn’s lecture and well-placed to gauge its effect on individual members of the company.

  Also in the room, like a spectre at the feast, was the hollow-cheeked Alexander Marwood, the luckless landlord of the Queen’s Head. Short, skinny and losing his hair by the week, Marwood had an uneasy relationship with Westfield’s Men and only ever renewed their contract as an essay in self-torture. With no love for drama itself, he found the regular invasion by plays and players an ordeal that kept his nervous twitch in full employment. Westfield’s Men brought danger to his property, to his reputation, to his serving wenches and to his sanity. He was better off without them. Yet now that they were going, now that they were quitting his hostelry for the open road, now that his yard would no longer be packed with thirsty patrons on most afternoons, now that he envisaged empty spaces and unsold beer and falling profits, he came round to the idea that they were the foundation of his livelihood.

  ‘Do not leave me,’ he said wistfully.

 
; ‘We will return, Master Marwood,’ promised Nicholas.

  ‘The company will be much missed.’

  ‘We do not leave of our own accord.’

  ‘This plague is a curse upon us!’

  ‘It may yet bestow some blessings.’

  One of them was to shake off the gloomy landlord and escape his endless litany of complaints. Nicholas had been quick to spot that compensation. As the person who dealt most often with Alexander Marwood, he bore the brunt of the other’s sustained melancholy. It was just one of the duties that Firethorn had cunningly assigned to him.

  The actor-manager now got to his feet and raised up a hand. Silence fell. He held it for a full minute.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘this is an auspicious moment in the history of our company. After conquering London and having the whole city at our feet, we will now make a triumphal tour of the kingdom to distribute our bounty more widely. Westfield’s Men have a sacred mission.’

  ‘What about me?’ wailed Marwood.

  ‘You have a mission of your own, dear sir.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘To sell bad beer at good prices.’

  There was general laughter in the room. Now that they were leaving the inn, they could afford to ridicule its mean-spirited landlord. He was not a popular man. Apart from the buoyant hostility he displayed towards the players, he had another besetting sin. He guarded the chastity of his nubile daughter far too assiduously.

  ‘Our departure from here is not without regret,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have been welcome guests at the Queen’s Head this long time and our thanks must go to Master Marwood there for his unstinting hospitality.’

  Muted laughter. They would be back one day.

  ‘It is only when we leave something behind that we come to recognise its true value. And so it is with this fine theatre of ours.’ Firethorn described the inn with a sweep of his hand. ‘We shall miss it for its warmth, its magic and its several memories. By the same token, Master Marwood, I trust that you will miss Westfield’s Men and hear the ghostly echoes of our work here whenever you cross the yard outside.’

  Lawrence Firethorn was achieving the impossible. He was all but coaxing a tear from the landlord’s eye. It was now time to put heart into his company.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘when we quit London, we do so as ambassadors. We take our art along the highways and byways of England, and we do so under the banner of Lord Westfield. His name is our badge of honour and we must do nothing to besmirch it.’ Firethorn pointed at an invisible map in front of him. ‘We ride north, sirs. We visit many towns along the way but our real destination is York. We have special business there in the name of our patron. York beckons.’

  ‘Then let us go,’ said Gill impatiently.

  ‘Not in that mood of resignation, Barnaby.’

  ‘My smile is not at home today.’

  ‘It is spirit that I talk about, man. We must not set out as a band of stragglers with no firm purpose. It is there if only we will see it. This tour is a pilgrimage. We are palmers bearing our gifts towards the Holy Land. Think of York by another name and it will raise your minds to our higher calling. I spoke of the Holy Land. York is our Jerusalem.’

  George Dart was so transported by the speech that he clapped in appreciation. Barnaby Gill yawned, Edmund Hoode gazed out of the window and Christopher Millfield had to suppress a grin but the majority of the company were enthused by what they had heard. All of them had grave misgivings about the tour. It was a journey into the unknown that could be fraught with perils yet Firethorn had made it sound quite inspiring. Stirred by his words and needing the balm of an illusion, they tried to view their progress to York in a new light.

  As a trip to Jerusalem.

  Sweet sorrow flooded the inn yard at the Queen’s Head. When the company came out to begin the first stage of their travels, they were met by moist faces and yearning sighs. Some of the players were married, others had mistresses, most had made themselves known among the impressionable maidenry of Cheapside. Sweethearts were embraced, tokens exchanged, promises made and kisses scattered with wild prodigality. Barnaby Gill turned his back on it all in disgust but George Dart watched with a mixture of envy and regret. No sweetheart came to send him off, no lover hung about his neck. It was so unfair. Christopher Millfield was flirting and laughing with five young women, each one of them patently infatuated with him. George Dart might not have the same height or elegance or stunning good looks but he was personable enough in his own way. Why were the five of them entranced by the swaggering assurance of the actor?

  Could not one of them be spared for him?

  Nicholas Bracewell stood apart from the general throng with Anne Hendrik. Theirs was a more composed and formal parting, the real leavetaking having occurred in the privacy of her bedchamber during the night. She had come simply to wave him off before setting out on her own journey. Nicholas was touched.

  ‘I had not expected this, Anne.’

  ‘Do I shame you before your fellows?’

  ‘Every one of them will be jealous.’

  ‘You flatter me, Nicholas. There are younger and prettier ladies here, today.’

  ‘I have not seen any.’

  She touched his sleeve in gratitude. The gesture was eloquent. Nicholas was not a demonstrative man and he shunned the public display of affection, reserving his emotional commitment for more intimate moments. Anne respected that. She had just wanted to see him once more before their paths diverged.

  ‘When will you leave?’ he asked.

  ‘At noon.’

  ‘Take all proper care.’

  ‘Do not be anxious for me.’

  ‘Who minds things here in London?’

  ‘Preben van Loew.’

  ‘An excellent fellow.’

  ‘He was Jacob’s right hand. Business will thrive under Preben, I have no doubt. It takes all hesitation out of my own departure.’

  Lawrence Firethorn reminded them of their purpose.

  ‘We have a mission, gentlemen. About it straight!’

  There was a last flurry of kisses and farewells then the players obeyed his command. Only three of the company had horses. Dressed in a superb doublet of red figured velvet with matching breeches, and wearing a plumed hat of tasteful extravagance, Lawrence Firethorn sat astride a chestnut stallion. He wanted people to see him coming. Barnaby Gill, also attired for show, rode a bay mare. Edmund Hoode, mounted on a dappled grey, wore the more practical apparel for a traveller on dusty roads. The company’s luggage was stacked into a large waggon that was drawn by two massive horses. Nicholas was to drive the waggon with the other sharers and the apprentices on board. The rest of the company was to follow on foot.

  Firethorn removed his hat for a final wave.

  ‘Adieu, sweet ladies! Wish us well!’

  As the torrent of cries began, he urged his horse forward and led the small procession out through the main gate. Gracechurch Street was its usual whirlpool of activity on market day and they had to pick their way through the ranks of stalls and the surging throng. A few cheers went up from those who knew their faces and valued their work but, for the vast majority, buying, selling and haggling vigorously, the price of eggs was of more import.

  The crush thinned as Gracechurch Street merged into Bishopsgate Street and they were able to move more freely. Ahead of them was one of the main exits from the city and they approached it in a welter of mixed emotions. Firethorn had spoken of a pilgrimage but nobody could really guess what lay beyond those walls. The last sight which greeted them within the city itself was less than comforting.

  High above Bishopsgate itself was a series of large spikes. Stuck on to them were the decomposing heads of traitors, bleached by the sun and pecked by the birds. One in particular caught their attention. It was the head of a nobleman which was battered out of shape and which had already lost an eye to some predatory beak. Walking along behind the waggon, George Dart looked up in horror and nudged Christo
pher Millfield.

  ‘Do you see there, sir?’

  ‘An example to us all, George.’

  ‘What manner of man would he be?’

  ‘That is Anthony Rickwood. Late of Sussex.’

  ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘He was executed at Tyburn but two days ago.’

  Dart noticed something that made his hair stand on end. The single eye in the deformed and blood-stained face was glaring down with an anger that was frightening. It was trying to focus its evil intent on one person.

  ‘Master Millfield …’

  ‘Yes, George?’

  ‘I believe he is looking at you.’

  Humphrey Budden was in a fever of apprehension. He hardly dared to leave his wife’s side in case she was seized by another fit. Neighbours had been scandalised by the sounds which had issued from her bedchamber and all kinds of wild rumours were now flying around Nottingham like so many bats flapping about in a belfry. It was distressing to someone in Budden’s position and he had turned once more for advice from Miles Melhuish. Racked by his own ambiguous role in the domestic tragedy, the vicar urged daily resort to prayer for man and wife. He also came up with another suggestion for the suffering husband.

  ‘Let us walk down by the river, Eleanor.’

  ‘If you wish it, sir.’

  ‘This was our favourite place not so long ago,’ he reminded her. ‘Have you so soon forgot?’

  ‘Indeed, no.’

  ‘You’ll come with me, then?’

  ‘I’ll obey my husband.’

  ‘This way …’

  Eleanor was no longer the woman he had married. The comely young widow with such a light heart had turned into a serious introvert with her mind on higher things. That unexplained horror in the bedchamber had robbed him of his chief delight. Eleanor had recovered from her coma with no memory of what had happened. Her naked assault on the praying Miles Melhuish was unknown to her. All was lost. Gone was her warmth, her laughter and vivacity. She was subdued and preoccupied now. Humphrey Budden had been sleeping in a cold bed for nights.