Removing his glove, he slipped a hand inside his doublet to pull out the other letter which had been sent to him from London. Its contents made his jaw tighten.
‘Sad tidings, sir.’
‘As we feared?’
‘Worse, much worse.’
He handed the letter over and his companion took it with frightened willingness. Small, intense and soberly dressed, Robert Rawlins had the appearance and air of a scholar. The pinched face, the shrewd eyes and the rounded shoulders hinted at long years of study among learned tomes in dusty libraries. He read the letter in seconds and turned white with terror.
‘Saints preserve us!’
It was a good omen. On their first night away from the comforts of the capital, Westfield’s Men met with kindness and generosity. They stayed at the Fighting Cocks, a large and pleasant establishment that overlooked Enfield Chase. It was a hostelry that their patron frequented on his journeys to and from his estates near St Albans, and they were the benefactors of his fondness for the place. The landlord not only extended open arms to the company, he made sure that each of them slept in a soft bed, and would take no more than small recompense for this favour. It was a blessing for the actors. There would be times when some of them would have to sleep on straw in the stables and other occasions when they would spend a night under the stars. Real beds, even when shared with a few restless companions, were a luxury to be savoured.
There was further bounty that night. Other guests were staying at the Fighting Cocks, wealthy merchants who were breaking their journey on their way home to Kent and who wanted to celebrate their business successes with some entertainment. Westfield’s Men obliged with an extempore recital. Lawrence Firethorn declaimed speeches from his favourite plays, Barnaby Gill danced his famous comic jigs and Richard Honeydew sang country airs to the accompaniment of a lute. Fine wine and admiration helped the merchants to part with ten shillings between them, a rich gift that went straight into the company coffers.
Fortune favoured them next morning as well. The weather was fine and the landlord gave them free beer and victuals to carry with them on their journey. They set out with a rising step. In Hertfordshire, they had every expectation of a welcome. Lord Westfield’s name was known throughout the county of his birth and it was bound to purchase them special indulgence.
Nicholas Bracewell was sent on ahead to prepare the way. Borrowing the dapple grey from Edmund Hoode, he set off at a canter in the direction of Ware. It was not only because the book holder was such a fine horseman that he was given the responsibility. His ability to look after himself was also paramount. Lone travellers were easy game on some stretches of the road but even the most desperate villains would think twice about taking on someone as solid and capable as Nicholas Bracewell. He exuded a strength that was its own safeguard.
One of the smallest counties, Hertfordshire was the watershed for several rivers and Nicholas was often within earshot of running water. Beef cattle grazed on the pastures and the last of the hay was being gathered in by bending figures with swinging sickles. He rode on past a wood and a deer park until he came to a market garden that specialised in watercress beds. The county was renowned for the excellence of its watercress which was used as an antidote to the scurvy which afflicted so many Londoners. Nicholas took directions from a helpful gardener and then spurred the grey on.
He arrived in Ware to find a small, amiable community going about its daily business without undue complaint. Theatre companies could not just appear in a town and perform at will. Permission had to be sought first and a licence granted. In larger towns, the Mayor was the person to grant such a licence but Ware was too small to support such an august personage. Nicholas instead sought out one of its local council.
Tom Hawthornden was known for his bluntness.
‘You may not play here, sir.’
‘But we are Westfield’s Men.’
‘It matters not if you were the Queen’s own company of actors, Master Bracewell. We have but small appetite for entertainment and it has been truly satisfied.’
‘By whom, Master Hawthornden?’
‘Such another troupe as yours.’
‘When was this?’
‘But two days since. The memory is fresh.’
‘Ours will be the better offering,’ argued Nicholas. ‘We are no wandering band of players, sir. Master Lawrence Firethorn is the toast of his profession. Westfield’s Men are the finest company in London.’
‘Your rivals were so entitled as well.’
‘Do but judge our work against theirs.’
‘It will not suffice,’ said Hawthornden, hands upon his hips. ‘Move on, sir. Ware has witnessed as merry a comedy as we are ever likely to see. It will keep us in good humour for weeks. We need no further diversion.’
Nicholas stopped him as he tried to walk away.
‘Hear me out, master. We offer you a play that has enough laughter, dancing, singing and swordplay to last the people of Ware for a year. It is a lively comedy that only Westfield’s Men may stage.’
‘Too late, sir. Far too late.’
‘Do but see Cupid’s Folly and you will not rue it.’
‘What did you call the play?’
‘Cupid’s Folly.’
‘Then is your journey really in vain.’
‘How so?’
‘We have seen this country tale, sir.’
‘That cannot be, Master Hawthornden,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘We hold the licence of that play. I have the book under lock and key. What you saw, perchance, was another play with the same title. Our comedy tells the story of one Rigormortis, an old man who is pierced by Cupid’s arrow.’
‘Aye,’ said Hawthornden. ‘He falls in love with every wench he sees yet spurns the one who loves him. Her name was Ursula and she did make us laugh most heartily.’
Nicholas gaped. It sounded like the same play. When Tom Hawthornden furnished more details of the action, the case was certain. Ware had definitely seen a performance of Cupid’s Folly even though the play was the exclusive property of Westfield’s Men. It was baffling.
Tom Hawthornden resorted to a rude dismissal.
‘Go your way, sir. There’s nothing for you here.’
Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.
‘What was the name of this other company?’
Within twenty-four hours of his departure, remorse set in. Margery Firethorn began to wish that she had given her husband a more joyful farewell. They would not then have parted in such a strained manner. Had she not repelled his advances, they could have spent their last night together in a state of married bliss that would have kept her heart warm and put her mind at ease. As it was, she now felt hurt, fractious and unsettled. Long, lonely months would pass before she saw her husband again.
The house in Shoreditch already felt cold and empty. Four apprentices and two hired men had lodged there and she had mothered them all with her brisk affection. Now she was left with only a part of her extended family. The most painful loss was that of Lawrence Firethorn. As man and actor, he was a glorious presence who left a gap in nature when he was not there. He had his faults and no one knew them as intimately as his wife. But they faded into insignificance when she thought of the life and noise and colour that he brought to the house, and when she recalled the thousand impetuous acts of love he had bestowed upon her in the fullness of his ardour.
Caught up in a mood of sadness, she tripped upstairs to the bedchamber she shared with a man she now saw as a species of paragon. What other husband could retain her interest and excite her passions for so many years? What other member of such an insecure profession could take such fond care of his wife and children? That he was loved and desired by other women was no secret to her but even that could be a source of pride. She was the object of intense envy. Where notorious beauties had failed to possess him even for a night, she had secured him for a lifetime. Their pursuit of him only served her purpose.
As sh
e reviewed their last few hours together, she saw how unkind she had been to him. Lawrence Firethorn was unique and it was her place to respect and foster that uniqueness. He was not the callous father she accused him of being, nor yet the selfish husband or the compulsive libertine. He was a great man and, taken all in all, he deserved better from her.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margery used gentle fingers to stroke the garment he had so considerately left behind for her. It was his second-best cloak, worn during his performance in the title-role of Vincentio’s Revenge and redolent with memories of that triumph. Knowing what it had cost him in emotional and spiritual terms to part with the cloak, she had slept all night with it lying across her. It was her one real memento of him.
Apart from the ruby.
Margery sat up with a start. She had chosen to forget all about the ring. It had been the cause of their bitter disputation and she had put it out of sight and out of mind. Now it took on a new significance. It was a love token from her husband, a reaffirmation of their marriage at a time when it would be put under immense strain. Scolding herself for being so ungrateful, she ran to the drawer where she had hidden the present. She would wear it proudly until he came back home again.
Burning with passion, she opened the drawer. But the ring had vanished. In its place was a tiny scroll. When she unrolled it, she saw a brief message from her husband.
‘Farewell, dear love. Since the ruby is not welcome in Shoreditch, I will wear it myself in Arcadia.’
Margery Firethorn smouldered. She knew only too well the location of Arcadia. It was the setting of a play by Edmund Hoode. Instead of gracing her finger, the ring would be worn for effect in The Lovers’ Melancholy. It was demeaning. Such was the esteem in which she was held.
Love had, literally, been snatched from her hand.
Her scream of rage was heard a hundred yards away.
The vestry of the parish church of St Stephen was dank and chill in the warmest weather but Humphrey Budden still felt as if he were roasting on a spit. Misery had brought him there and it deepened with every second. He had to make a shameful confession. The one consolation was that Miles Melhuish was patently as discomfited as he himself was. Inclined to be smug and unctuous for the most part, the vicar was now torn between reluctant interest and rising apprehension. Though he had married many of his parishioners and sent them off with wise words to the land of connubial delight, he had never dared to explore that fabled territory himself. This fact only served to cow the nervous Budden even more. How could any man understand his predicament, still less a rotund bachelor whose idea of nocturnal pleasure was to spend an hour on his knees beside the bed in a frenzy of prayer?
Miles Melhuish sat in the chair opposite his visitor and reached out to him across the table. A vague smell of incense filled the air. The weight of religiosity was oppressive. Their voices echoed as in a tomb.
‘Speak to me, Humphrey,’ encouraged the vicar.
‘I will try, sir.’
‘Is it your wife again?’
‘I fear me, it is.’
‘Not more weeping and wailing?’
‘Thankfully, no, but there is further harm.’
‘To whom?’
Humphrey Budden was a furnace of humiliation. His cheeks were positively glowing and he felt as if steam would issue from every orifice at any moment.
‘Did you pray?’ said Melhuish sternly.
‘Without ceasing.’
‘Has Eleanor prayed with you?’
‘It is the only time I may get close to her.’
‘How say you?’
‘She has put me aside, sir.’
‘Speak more plain.’
It was a difficult request to fulfil. A man who had mastered the delicate art of lacemaking was now forced to chisel words crudely out of himself like an apprentice stonemason. Each swing of the hammer made his brain reel.
‘Eleanor … is … not … my … wife.’
‘Indeed, she is,’ said the vicar. ‘I solemnised the marriage myself and preached a sermon to you on the importance of walking in truth. Have you done that, my son? Have you and your wife walked in truth?’
‘Yes, sir … down by … the river.’
‘Stop holding back.’
‘I … have … no … wife.’
‘Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder.’
‘A woman hath done it.’
‘Done what, man? We are going in small circles.’
Humphrey Budden steeled himself to blurt it all out.
‘Eleanor is no longer my wife, sir. She will not share my bed or suffer my embraces. She says that the voice of God has spoken to her. It is sending her on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.’
‘Wait, wait!’ said Melhuish in alarm. ‘You go too fast here. Let us take it one step at a time. She will not share your bed, you tell me?’
‘No, sir. She sleeps on the floor.’
‘Alone?’
‘She will not let me near her.’
‘Have you given her just cause, Humphrey?’
‘I think not.’
‘Have you caused her some injury or turned her affections from you in some other way?’
Even as he asked the question, Miles Melhuish saw how cruel and inappropriate it was. Humphrey Budden was a strong man but he would never use that strength against a woman. No husband could have been more considerate. His wife must be to blame for what had happened.
The vicar tried to probe into the bedchamber.
‘This problem is of recent origin?’
‘Since I called you to the house, sir.’
‘And what passed between you in former times?’
‘We shared a bed in Christian happiness, sir.’
‘And your wife was then … forthcoming?’
‘Most truly!’
‘She did not hold back from you?’
‘I was the novice at first. Eleanor had to instruct me in my duties and she did so with wondrous skill.’
Miles Melhuish reddened as a vision flashed before his eyes. He saw the naked body of an impassioned woman in the bedchamber of a parishioner. He could sniff her fragrance, feel her touch, share her madness. It took a great effort of will for him to banish her from his mind.
He asked his question through gritted teeth.
‘You say the marriage was happy?’
‘Very happy, sir.’
‘And that she instructed you willingly.’
‘Two husbands had taught her much.’
‘So you and your wife … mingled flesh?’
‘Every night, sir.’
‘The act of love is for procreation,’ said the vicar sharply. ‘It is not a source of carnal gratification.’
‘We know that, sir, and acted accordingly. Our dearest wish was that our union would be blessed with a child.’
‘I’m surprised you have not had several offspring,’ muttered the other under his breath. ‘With such regular activity, you could people an entire town!’ He sat up and pulled himself together. ‘But all that is now past?’
‘This is what she says.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Divine command.’
‘The woman is deranged.’
‘She wishes to become a pilgrim, sir.’
‘Poor creature! She needs help.’
‘Eleanor is leaving soon.’
‘Where will she go?’
‘Jerusalem.’
‘I spy madness.’
Humphrey Budden leaned forward to make his plea.
‘Speak to her, sir!’
‘Me?’
‘You are our only hope. Eleanor will listen to you.’
‘Will she so?’
‘Speak to her!’
It was a cry from the heart and Miles Melhuish could not ignore it. Part of him wanted to shrug the problem off his own shoulders but another part of him wanted to take the full weight of the burden. The vision flashed through his mind again. Long fair hair. Round, trembli
ng buttocks. Joyous breasts. Satin skin. Succulent lips. Total surrender in its most beautiful human form.
The answer to a prayer.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
Lawrence Firethorn pawed the ground like an angry bull. When he began his charge, nobody within striking distance was safe. It was a terrifying spectacle.
‘What did you say, Nick?’ he bellowed.
‘They will not suffer us to play there.’
‘Not suffer us! In Lord Westfield’s own county? Where the writ of our patron runs wide? And they will not suffer us, indeed? I’ll teach them what suffering is, call me rogue if I do not!’
‘Another company got there first, master.’
‘With our play! Stolen without compunction.’
‘They would not hear Cupid’s Folly again,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Nor would they countenance any other play from us. They have eaten their fill.’
‘Then will I make them spew it up again!’ raged Firethorn. ‘By heaven, I’ll make their stomachs burn, the unmannerly rogues, the scurvy, lousy, beggarly knaves, the foul, ungrateful rascals, the stinking, rotting carcasses of men that live in that God-forsaken hole! Keep me from them, Nick, or I’ll carve ’em all to shreds with my sword, I will, and hang the strips on a line for kites to peck at.’
Lawrence Firethorn unsheathed his weapon and hacked at a bush to vent his spleen. The rest of the company looked on with trepidation. Nicholas had met them a mile south of Ware to break the bad news. Predictably, it had thrown the actor-manager into a fury. As he reduced the bush to a forlorn pile of twigs and leaves, they began to fear for the safety of all vegetation in the county. He was armed and dangerous.
It was Edmund Hoode who calmed him down. ‘That bush is not the enemy, Lawrence.’
‘Stand off, sir.’
‘Sheathe your sword and listen to reason.’
‘Reason? What care I for reason?’
‘We are all losers in this escapade.’
‘Indeed we are,’ said Barnaby Gill loftily from his saddle. ‘Cupid’s Folly was to have been my triumph. I never play Rigormortis without I leave the audience in a state of helpless mirth.’
‘It is those absurd breeches,’ sneered Firethorn.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 51
