The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  (*)Chapter Four

  Richard Honeydew was finding that too much talent could be a disadvantage in the theatre. It excited envy. In the few months that he had been with Lord Westfield's Men, he had worked hard and shown exceptional promise but there was a high price to pay. The other three apprentices ganged up against him. Seeing him as a threat, they subjected him to all kinds of hostility, teasing and practical jokes. It was getting worse.

  'Aouw!'

  'That will cool you down, Dicky!' sneered John Tallis.

  'Don't tell on us,' threatened Stephen Judd. 'Or it won't be water next time.'

  'Unless its our own!' added Tallis with a snigger.

  The two boys scuttled away and left Richard shivering with fright. As he came back from the privy, they had drenched him with a bucket of water. His blond hair was plastered to his head, his shirt was soaked and he was dripping all over the floor. It was as much as he could do to hold back tears.

  Richard Honeydew was only eleven. He was small, thin and had the kind of exaggerated prettiness that made him an ideal choice for a female role. John Tallis and Stephen Judd were older, bigger, stronger and much more well-versed in the techniques of persecution. Hitherto, however, Richard had been fairly safe at a rehearsal because Nicholas Bracewell was usually on hand to take care of him. The book holder was his one real friend in the company and it was he who made life tolerable for the boy.

  The apprentice's first instinct was to run straight to Nicholas but the warning from Stephen Judd still rang in his ears. He decided to clean himself up and say nothing. At the back of the tiring-house was a room that was used partly for storage and partly as a rest area where actors could sit out lengthy waits during a performance. Richard trotted along there and he was relieved to Find it empty. Pulling off his shirt, he grabbed a piece of hessian and used it to dry his hair and body.

  He did not hear Barnaby Gill. The actor stood in the doorway and marvelled at the pale torso with its delicate tracery of blue veins across the chest. There was something so natural and beautiful about the scene that his heart took flame. Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him and caused Richard to spin around in alarm.

  'Oh, it's you, Master Gill.'

  'Don't be afeard, Dick. I won't harm you.'

  'I was just drying myself.'

  'I saw.'

  Innocence is its own protection. As the actor moved stealthily towards him, Richard had no understanding of the danger he faced. He continued to work away with the hessian.

  'That's too rough,' observed Gill. 'You need something softer for a body such as yours.'

  'I've finished now.'

  'But your breeches are wet as well. Slip them down and dry yourself properly.' As Richard hesitated, his voice coaxed on. 'Nobody will see you. Come, take them down. I'll help to rub you.'

  The boy was still reluctant but he was at a disadvantage. Barnaby Gill was a leading member of the company with an influence upon its composition. He was not someone to antagonize. Besides, he had always been kind and considerate. Richard recalled gibes made about Gill by the other boys but he still could not fathom their meaning. As the avuncular smile got closer to him, he was ready to submit trustingly to the actor's touch. But it never came. Even as Gill reached out for him, the door opened and a voice spoke.

  'Ah, there you are, Dick!'

  'Hello, Master Ruff.'

  'What do you want?' growled Barnaby Gill.

  'I was looking for the lad,' explained the hired man easily. 'Come, Dick. The best place for you is out in the hot sun. The yard is an Italian piazza today. We'll hang you up to dry with the washing.'

  Before Gill could stop him, Samuel Ruff whisked up the shirr and led the boy out of the room. The sharer was left to fume alone. He reached for the hessian which Richard had used and he caressed its surface for a few seconds. Then he threw it violently aside and stalked back into the tiring-house.

  Ruff, meanwhile, had taken the boy into the yard to watch some of the rehearsal. Without quite knowing how, Richard had the feeling that he had just been rescued.

  'If that ever happens again,' said Ruff, 'you tell me.' Richard nodded happily. He had found a new friend.

  Patriotism is a powerful drug. In the wake of the victory against the Armada, it affected almost everyone. There was a surge of self-confidence and a thrill of pride that coursed through the veins of the entire nation. Master Roger Bartholomew also felt the insistent throb of patriotic impulse. He imbibed the details of the Spanish defeat, he listened to the sermons preached at St Paul's Cross and he attended many services of thanksgiving. In the faces all round him, he saw a new spirit, a greater buoyancy, a permissible arrogance. People were conscious as never before of the immense significance of being English.

  The drug helped Bartholomew to forget all about his earlier setbacks and vows. Inspiration made him reach for his pen and a play seemed to fall ready-made from his fertile brain. It was a celebration of England's finest hour and it contained speeches which, he believed, in all modesty, would thunder down the centuries. The verse bounded from the page, the characters were moulded to stake their claim to immortality.

  As he blotted the last line and sat back in his chair, Bartholomew allowed himself a smirk of congratulation. His first play was juvenilia. With An Enemy Routed, he had come of age in the most signal way. The success of the piece would wipe away any lingering memories of his disappointment and disillusion. Only one problem remained. Master Roger Bartholomew had to make the crucial decision as to which dramatic company he would favour with his masterpiece. He luxuriated in the possibilities.

  *

  Two weeks wrought many changes among Lord Westfield's Men. As soon as Will Fowler's funeral was over, the general gloom began to lift. Samuel Ruff was an able deputy for his friend and, in spite of occasional remarks about leaving for Norwich soon, he settled in very well. Richard Honeydew was glad to have someone else to look out for him and he revelled in the fatherly concern that the hired man showed him. Lawrence Firethorn moved about in a cloud of ecstasy. Each day, he was convinced, brought him closer to the promised tryst with Lady Rosamund Varley; each performance gave him a fresh opportunity to woo her from the stage. Barnaby Gill's acid comments on the romance were largely unheard and totally unregarded. The company was grateful to the lady. When Firethorn was in love, everyone stood to gain.

  The punishing round of the book holder's life gave Nicholas Bracewell less time than he would have wished to pursue his investigation of Will Fowler's murder, but his resolve did not slacken. After a fortnight, the casual brutality of it all still rattled him. Time after time, he went over the events that had taken place at the Hope and Anchor that night.

  'And Redbeard was carrying a bottle in his hand?'

  'Yes, Nick,' said Samuel Ruff.

  'You're sure of that?'

  'Completely. When he got close, I could smell the ale on his breath. The man had taken too much and could not hold his drink.'

  'Then what happened?'

  Ruff had been through the details a score of times but he did not complain. He was just as committed to finding the man who had murdered his old friend.

  'Redbeard lurched against the settle on which Will was sitting and pushed it a good foot backwards. Some of his ale was spilled over Will.'

  'So he took exception?'

  'The row flared up in a matter of seconds, Nicholas.'

  The book holder sighed. Will Fowler's short temper had caught up with him at last. Nicholas saw the familiar image of his friend, roused in argument, eyes blazing, cheeks aglow, voice howling and brawny arms ready to exact stern punishment. When he was in such a choleric mood, Will Fowler could not easily be calmed down. It had taken a cunning thrust from a sword to bleed all the rage out of him.

  'I will never forgive myself,' said Ruff sadly.

  'You tried to protect him.'

  'I gave that ruffian his chance,' admitted the other. 'I would rather he had run me through than dear Will!' />
  'In some ways, I think he did,' observed Nicholas.

  The two men had just come out of The Queen's Head at the end of another full day. Redbeard preyed on their minds. Nicholas reasoned that a man with a fondness for whores would not keep away from the brothels for long and he was visiting them all in turn. He was carrying a rough sketch of the stranger which Ruff had helped him to draw. They felt it was a good likeness of the man they sought but it had so far failed to jog any memories.

  Samuel Ruff was eager to do his share of the work and he had taken the sketch around the stews in Eastcheap. Nicholas was concentrating on the more numerous brothels of Bankside, certain that their quarry would surface sooner or later.

  'I think Redbeard is lying low,' said Ruff.

  'He'll come out to play at night,' added Nicholas. 'The smell of a bawd will tempt him back.'

  'I've been thinking about those wounds of his.'

  'The scars on his back?'

  'They might have cost Will his life.'

  'In what way?'

  Redbeard must have taken a severe beating from someone and his wounds still smarted. He wanted revenge. First of all, he attacks that poor girl and makes her pay for it, then he comes rolling downstairs in a drunken fury. Those scars were still on fire.'

  'Did Will touch his back at all?'

  A glancing blow as he lashed out at the man. No wonder Redbeard drew his sword. He'd been caught on the raw.'

  'That's no excuse for murder, Sam,' reminded Nicholas.

  'Of course not, but you take my point? If that villain had not been given such a beating. Will might be alive today.'

  Nicholas thought it through carefully before speaking.

  'There's truth in what you say but I must disagree about those scars on his back. He was not given a beating.'

  'Then what?'

  'I think he was whipped through the streets.'

  'A malefactor?' said Ruff in surprise.

  'I will ask him when I finally catch up with him.'

  Nicholas waved aside Ruffs offer of company on his search and set off into the night. His mind played endlessly with the possibilities as he walked over the Bridge and swung into Bankside. It was late but he had promised himself he would make three calls. The first two visits were fruitless but he was not dismayed. He went on to the third name on his list.

  The Cardinal's Hat was situated in a narrow, twisting, fetid lane which had an open drain running down its middle. There was no declaration of papacy in the tavern's name. To advertise the wares of the house, the cardinal's hat on the sign outside had been painted with such lewd skill that its crown resembled in shape and colour the dimpled tip of the male sexual organ.

  As Nicholas turned into the dark lane, a figure swung out of the shadows and bumped into him. After a grunted apology, the man tried to move off but Nicholas gripped him firmly by the throat. Slipping a hand into the man's jerkin, he retrieved his newly-stolen purse then flung the pickpocket against a wall. With groans and curses, the man limped off into the night.

  The Cardinal's Hat was so grimy and sordid that it made the Hope and Anchor look like a church vestry. Bare-breasted whores lolled about, drink and tobacco stoked up an inferno of noise, and all the dregs of the London streets seemed to have fetched up within. Tables were jammed so close together that any movement across the room was almost impossible. The reek that greeted him was overwhelming.

  Nicholas lowered his head to duck under the main beam and one of the prostitutes jumped up to plant a guzzling kiss on his lips. He eased her away and sought out the surly landlord. The man was small and sinewy, a watchful polecat with its claws at the ready. He gave Nicholas no help at all until the sketch was produced. Holding it up to the tallow, the landlord squinted at it then let our a yell of rage.

  'That's him! I know the rogue!'

  'He was here?'

  'Last week. Monday. Tuesday, maybe.'

  'You're certain he's the same man?'

  'He's no man,' snarled the other, thrusting the sketch back at Nicholas. 'That's a vile beast you have there.'

  'What did he do?'

  'Alice would tell you if she was here--God help her!'

  'Alice?'

  'Yes!' hissed the landlord. 'When she took him up to her room, he was as quiet as a lamb. Five minutes later, she's screaming for dear life and the scurvy knave is beating her black and blue. The poor drab is in the hospital with both arms broken. But that's not the end of it, sir.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'The dog smashed a window upstairs and leans out to hack at our sign with his sword.'

  'The Cardinal's Hat?'

  'He'd have cut it down if we hadn't chased him off.' The landlord cleared his throat and spat on the floor. 'It's the same man in the drawing. If ever he steps in here again, they'll have to carry him out in his coffin!'

  Sympathy and excitement stirred inside Nicholas. He was sorry that another girl had been so grievously assaulted but he was elated to have picked up the trail at last.

  Redbeard had broken cover. Nicholas would stay at his heels.

  *

  Anne Hendrik sat in her favourite chair and worked at her sewing by the light of a large candle. Her needle rose and fell with an easy rhythm. It did not pause for a second when the front door opened her lodger returned. Anne kept her eyes and her mind on at she was doing, except that her needle now jabbed into the material with a touch of venom.

  Nicholas Bracewell was puzzled. A warm smile and a welcome usually awaited him at the house. This time he had not even elicited a polite enquiry about how his day had gone. Anne sewed on.

  'You have a visitor,' she said crisply.

  'At this time of night?'

  'The young woman insisted on seeing you.'

  'Woman?' He was startled. 'Did she give her name?'

  'No,' replied Ann tartly. 'Nor would she tell me what her business with you was. It was a private matter, she said. I showed her up to your chamber.' Her voice hardened as he took a conciliatory step towards her. 'Don't keep your visitor waiting, sir.'

  He gestured his bafflement then went up to his bedchamber, lapping on the door before going in. The young woman leapt up from a chair and went over to him.

  'Nicholas Bracewell?'

  'Yes.'

  'Thank heaven I've found you!'

  She clasped his hands tightly and tears formed in blue eyes that looked as if they had cried their fill. The woman was short, neat, pleasantly attractive, no more than twenty and wearing a plain dress beneath a simple gown. Nicholas caught a whiff of the country. One glance told him why his landlady had been so offhand with him. The girl was clearly pregnant. Anne Hendrik had seen a distressed young woman in search of Nicholas and assumed that he was the father of the child.

  He ushered her gently to a chair and knelt in front of her. The room was small but well-furnished and impeccably clean. She looked out of place in such comfortable surroundings.

  'Who are you?' he asked.

  'Susan Fowler.'

  'Fowler?...Surely you are not his daughter?'

  'No,' she replied in hurt tones. 'Will was my husband.'

  Fresh tears trickled down her flushed cheeks and he took her in his arms to comfort her, letting her cry her fill before she spoke again. His head shook apologetically.

  'I'm sorry. I had no idea that he was married.'

  'It was almost two years ago.'

  'Why did he say nothing?'

  'He wanted it that way,' she whispered. 'Will said the theatre was a world of its own. He wanted somewhere to go to when he had to get away from it.'

  Nicholas could sympathize with that desire but he still could not fit this attractive young housewife alongside the blunt and outspoken Will Fowler. There was a naive willingness about her that seemed unlikely to ensnare an actor, who, just like his fellows, had always taken his pleasures along the way with much more worldly creatures.

  'Where do you live?' he asked.

  'In St Albans. With my parents
.'

  'Two years ago, you say?'

  'All but, sir.'

  It began to make sense. Two years earlier, the company had toured in Hertfordshire and given a couple of performances at Lord Westfield's country house in St Albans. The relationship had somehow started there and, unaccountably, led to marriage. What now assailed Nicholas was a shaming guilt. They had laid Will Fowler in his grave without a thought for this helpless woman. How did you find out? he wondered.

  'I knew something had happened. He always sent word.'

  'When did you come to London?'

  'Today. Will had spoken about The Queen's Head.'

  'You went there?'

  She nodded. 'The landlord told me.'

  Nicholas was mortified. Of all the people to report a husband's death to a vulnerable young wife, Alexander Marwood was the worst. He could make good news sound depressing. With a genuine tragedy to retail, he would be in his macabre element. Pain and embarrassment made Nicholas enfold Susan Fowler more tightly in his arms. He took the blame upon himself. Sensing this, she squeezed his arms gently.

  'You weren't to know.'

  'We thought he had no next of kin.'

  'There'll be two of us come September.'

  He released his grip and knelt back again. Susan Fowler had been told that he was the best person to explain the horrid circumstances of her husband's death. Nicholas was as discreet as he could be, playing down certain aspects of the tale and emphasizing that Will Fowler had been an unwitting victim of a violent and dangerous man. She listened with remarkable calm until it was all over, then she fainted into his arms.

  He lifted her on to the bed and made her comfortable, releasing her gown from her neck and undoing her collar. Pouring a cup of water from the jug on his table, he dipped a finger in it to bathe her forehead. When she began to stir, he helped her to sip some of the liquid. She began to rally.

  'I'm sorry, sir.'