The Vizard Mask

by The Vizard Mask (retail) (epub)

  Nevertheless, Penitence found London peculiarly oppressive. It was hot, of course, and she had grown used to the unlimited space of Somerset, but a town that had once been relaxed to the point of disorderly was now become tidy, almost prissy.

  On her first promenade she wondered what was different about the merchants who passed her before realizing that the thread of moustache which prosperous men had worn in imitation of Charles II had gone. Now they were fully shaved in imitation of James II. Gone too was the relaxed dress; coats were narrower and stiffer. There were fewer ribbons, and shoes were decorated with buckles.

  Women’s fashion had changed as well. And not for the better. She didn’t like the elaborate caps which rose in a wired pleated frill at the front nor the formalized drapery of the gowns with their bustles and trains. The effect wasn’t so pretty nor so comfortable as in her day. She caught the echo of the thought. Oh God, I’m getting old.

  The theatre was in a bad way. King’s had died of Killigrew’s poor financial management. The only playhouse in London now was the Duke of York’s and even there attendances were down. ‘The king has no enthusiasm for it,’ Otway told her, ‘you’d think politics, hunting and Catherine Sedley were the only things to concern him.’

  The biter had been bit with a vengeance. Sir Charles Sedley, it was said, raved furiously at the king’s adultery with his daughter. In the tradition of James’s mistresses, Catherine Sedley was plain but she had her father’s brilliant bitchiness and confessed herself puzzled at James’s fascination with her. ‘It cannot be my beauty, for I have none; and it cannot be my wit, for he has not enough to know that I have any.’

  Other old friends were in trouble. John Hoyle was drunker than ever. Dryden had found it politic to turn Catholic. Charlie Hart was dead.

  Nevertheless it was delightful to be welcomed into Aphra’s soirées, and to be greeted as an honoured Thespian when she visited the tiring-room. Thomas Betterton bowed over her hand and said: ‘I was privileged to see your Beatrice, ma’am.’

  When, acting modesty, she protested she was too old and too rusty for the Widow Ranter – but try to take her away from me – he said earnestly: ‘Age cannot wither you nor custom stale your infinite talent.’ Having just seen his Macbeth, the compliment moved Penitence almost to tears. Close to, he was of unexceptional height with a face like a cottage loaf; on stage he’d been seven feet tall.

  Aphra also insisted on effecting an introduction between Penitence and the king’s recently appointed Chief Justice, Sir George Jeffreys: ‘A fine, forceful man and a wonderful playgoer. One can’t have too many friends in that class. He’s saved several plays by his frequent attendance. One’s dedicating one’s translation of The History of Oracles to him. You must recall him, dear. He was often backstage at King’s. He was ravished by your Desdemona.’

  He was brought to the next soirée to meet her.

  ‘And I tell you, dear madam,’ roared the Lord Chief Justice, ‘that Othello is a fool. Magnificent, but a fool. Had he brought his case to my court, your Desdemona should have gone free as a bird and that lying, snake-tongued knave Iago should have been whipped at the cart’s-arse as Titus Oates is whipped now, ’til the blood runs. I’d have pinned his slanders to his shoulders, I’d have discovered the rogue.’

  Penitence batted admiring eyelashes: ‘How illuminating to have a great legal mind view the play, my lord.’ As Aphra said, you couldn’t have too many friends in Sir George’s class. But I still don’t remember him. If, as he was telling her, he’d come to the tiring-room after one of her appearances in Desdemona, he hadn’t made much of an impact.

  He was immoderately clever, it was said, and his roots were humble. Perhaps it was only when James, to whom he seemed devoted, came to the throne that he had been given room to spread his extremely large personality. His somewhat unremarkable face was charged with blood and power so that it was difficult to look away from it. He heated Aphra’s hot, untidy front room with his energy and his enormous, surprisingly musical, bass voice. He was about forty years old, a heavy drinker, and still greedy for flesh – his hand was constantly touching Penitence’s – for attention, for everything. They said he was unhappily married.

  For all his exalted position, he was finding it thrilling to be among theatre people and on familiar terms with men and women he had before merely watched from the gallery. His prominent blue eyes searched round for reactions every time he spoke. He’s an actor manqué.

  He took her hand to his huge breast. ‘Make me a promise that you play Desdemona for me, or I’ll not live. Betterton here shall be your Othello, will you not, Tom? A special performance for the Lord Chief Justice. Indulge me.’

  Penitence saw that Betterton was attracted to the idea; his attempts to put on The Widow Ranter were being frustrated by increasing rumours of a Monmouth invasion. In times of disquiet James wanted his audiences watching trusty old plays with patriotic themes, like Henry V, not untried Widow Ranters.

  Every day there were reports of a rebel fleet gathering on the Texel across the Channel, and Penitence had decided that if nothing came of The Widow Ranter soon she would have to go back home. If there was going to be trouble she didn’t want to be so far away from the children.

  On the other hand, it would be deflating to return to the West without having appeared on stage at least once more.

  She said: ‘Can we please Sir George, Tom? It’s so rarely we poor actresses are on the right side of a judge.’

  The Lord Chief Justice was amused. They could tell by the way everybody’s glass vibrated in the roar. Betterton nodded.

  The conversation turned inevitably to the latest news from the Netherlands. ‘Worry not your pretty heads, ladies,’ said Sir George, capturing Penitence’s hand again. ‘If the rogue lands, we have our defences. We’re watching the North-West and Scotland. Traitors and those obnoxious to the government are being rounded up.’

  ‘The North-West?’ asked Penitence, relieved. ‘Monmouth won’t be troubling my neck of the woods then?’

  ‘No, no, ma’am. Lancashire, Cheshire, or Scotland is our information, if the rogue comes at all. Mistress Hughes’s neck of the woods is safe – a pretty neck I’ll warrant. We’ll debar Monmouth from it, but may your Chief Justice see this little neck when he travels the next Assize in the South-West?’

  ‘You are always welcome, my lord,’ said Penitence. She wondered whether her cellar could cope with a visit from Sir George. She wondered if she could.

  * * *

  On 11 June 1685 the Duke of Monmouth made landfall near Dorset’s Lyme Regis in the South-West with an expeditionary force some eighty-odd strong.

  Two of the duke’s most important lieutenants fell out immediately, one shooting the other dead.

  But the invaders could not be relied on to continue wiping themselves out; already Nonconformists were rallying to the duke’s Protestant banner. King James called out his standing army and alerted the Dorset, Somerset and Devon militias.

  Penitence wanted to return to the Priory immediately but was persuaded against it. The rising was in Dorset, if it could be called a rising. Even if it strayed over the border into Somerset, what could the duke do with eighty-odd men? It was only a few days until the performance of Othello. Would she disappoint the Lord Chief Justice, a more dangerous enemy than a thousand Monmouths?

  It wasn’t easy to get a coherent picture of what was happening in Somerset; some reports said the whole county was rising to join the duke, others that he was making little impact on any but the disaffected. Ominously, there had been no word from Dorinda or anybody else at the Priory for over a week.

  By the time Penitence made up her mind that whatever was happening she had to get home, she couldn’t get a seat on a coach. ‘All reserved for military and official personnel,’ she shouted at Aphra, as if it was Aphra’s fault, when she returned from the Flying Coach office. ‘Monmouth’s raised his banner in Taunton – Taunton, that’s only ten miles away across King’s Sedgem
oor – and thousands flocking to it. The bastard’s requisitioning houses and horses.’

  She panicked. Monmouth would be stealing her stock. The household was starving. He’d burned the house down. They were all dead. Monmouth was a murderer, a rapist and killer of little girls. He…

  ‘Calm down, dear,’ said Aphra. ‘We’ve not heard of anybody being hurt, not a piece of furniture splintered, there hasn’t even been a battle.’ She administered milk punch and common sense. ‘Why not put it out of your mind – yes, I know, but listen – give the performance of your life on Saturday and ask our dear Lord Chief Justice to give you a chitty making you an authorized person, or whatever it is. Please him, and he’ll refuse you nothing.’

  Penitence began to steady. ‘But I want to go home now.’

  ‘Be sensible, dear. It’s only two more days, and Monmouth’s not a monster who eats little girls. Even if he was, he’d never get past Dorinda. No, no, he’s just marching about.’

  Penitence kissed her. ‘He’d better not march over my teasels.’

  * * *

  Those who saw Thomas Betterton’s Othello with Peg Hughes as Desdemona were to tell their grandchildren of it with the superiority of those confident its like would never be seen again.

  ‘Decus et Dolor,’ said Becky.

  ‘Decus et Dolor.’ She gulped a breath of the old, unique theatre smell, King’s or Duke’s, and entered, swishing her cloak around her, to give the last act of what she knew would be her finest – and last – performance.

  For one thing, she would never surpass the heights to which she had risen this night because her greatness was due to Tom Betterton, not the other way round. She hadn’t witnessed such acting before. For another, she didn’t have the courage any more to face cowering in the tiring-room with a sick bowl and fighting down terror each time she stepped out from the wings. She couldn’t go back to a life that was like a boxing booth, where victory over one challenger only meant that you were still on your feet to meet the next. She felt pity, as well as envy, for Duke’s new luminary, Elizabeth Barry – and gratitude; the girl was beautiful and talented but had agreed to understudy her for this performance. Also she made Penitence feel old.

  The tiring-room mirror was polite to her years; if there was grey in her hair, it was hidden among the blonde and her skin was lasting well. But the indefinable something that was age would mean she’d soon look ridiculous playing the part of a young bride.

  And the stinkards wouldn’t be slow in pointing it out. She’d forgotten the appalling strain they added to the already nerve-racking life of an actress. There they’d been, flooding into the tiring-room in the interval; another generation, as aggressive and persistent, as rude – though definitely less witty – as the courtiers of Charles. One had already called her ‘Auntie’ as he tried to snap her garter.

  Through the throng Becky had caught her eye: ‘Makes one remember Sir Hugh Middleton kindly, don’t it?’

  But above all what had brought home the realization that she was no longer an actress was the anxiety not only for her children, but for her house, her people and her livestock as Monmouth’s army marched closer and closer to them. She offered her acting career up to God in exchange for their safety, and feared He would not find it acceptable because it was too favourable a bargain on her side.

  Thanks to the presence of Sir George the fops were passably well behaved during the performance. There was absolute silence as she sang the Willow Song, except for the sobs of the Lord Chief Justice.

  At the end, Betterton’s hand holding hers high, she bathed for the last time in that lambent, auditory love that was the audience’s applause and bade a silent ‘Goodbye’.

  Sir George was still weeping as he came backstage – and very aroused. ‘Oh, dear creature, that I could whisk you to dinner and Paradise… that the king had not sent for me this very moment.’ He was waving a piece of paper carrying the royal seal.

  She had to work fast. ‘I am flattered, sir, that you have delayed to see the play out. If I have pleased you, grant me a boon.’ She leaned forward so that he could look down her cleavage. There wasn’t time for subtleties.

  ‘My withers are not stone, Mistress Hughes,’ he breathed wine fumes in her ear, ‘they are flesh, and you have wrung them. Ask of me what you will.’

  She explained, watching calculation enter his light blue pop eyes.

  He said: ‘Shall I lose you now I have found you? We may not dine tonight, but there is still tomorrow.’ He patted her bare shoulder, and appeared to forget to lift his hot hand. ‘No, no, dear lady, it is too dangerous for you to go home.’

  ‘I can think of nothing else but my children until I can see them,’ she said warningly. You can wring your own damn withers. She appeared to melt: ‘Did you not say you will soon be entering…’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘…my, er, neck of the woods? Give me a docket to travel, my lord, that I can prepare my house against your… coming.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Betterton, who’d just come in, run a finger round his collar as if he found it too tight. Anne Marshall was grinning, Becky had raised her eyebrows and Elizabeth Barry was interestedly picking up points.

  Sir George’s mouth was wet. ‘If the king commissions me to bring these rebels to book when they are caught, I shall travel the south-west circuit like the scythe of doom. Shall you fall before me too, madam?’

  ‘My fields will be standing ready,’ she whispered back. She could be ashamed of herself later. Just give me the docket.

  She got it. He called one of his men to bring his travelling writing desk and wrote it out there and then, instructing whomsoever it concerned that Mrs Peg Hughes was to be assisted to the utmost, signed George Jeffreys, Lord Chief Justice. As he sealed it he shouted: ‘Monmouth, thou standest condemned that thou didst come between this woman and myself. For that alone shall you be disembowelled when at last you face your judgement.’

  Becky paused in taking off her make-up. ‘And when will that be, my lord?’ It was July now. Monmouth had been marching the South-West virtually unchecked for nearly a month.

  But the Lord Chief Justice had gone, leaving his wine-flavoured saliva all over Penitence’s arm.

  ‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘talk about highway robbery.’

  ‘So that’s what they mean by “Stand and deliver”,’ said Elizabeth Barry.

  ‘I needed the docket,’ Penitence said defensively. She regretted her performance now that it had gained its end, not least its hamminess. She was aware she had promised the man more than she intended to pay, but consequences had overridden immediate need; he might die, she might die, the world could end before they met again.

  ‘You certainly went bail for it.’

  ‘Let’s hope Sir George isn’t too severe on her when she surrenders her person,’ said Anne. ‘They say he’s got a very big Assize.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Penitence.

  * * *

  Even with accreditation from the Lord Chief Justice, the journey down to Somerset was a nightmare that lasted a week. The flying coaches flew only as far as Salisbury and after that she had to ride post, clinging on to the stout waist of a Bridgwater merchant who was hurrying back from Scotland to take charge of his troop of militia.

  At Yeovil there was no change of post horses. The Post Office rule was that, if it had no mounts available, passengers were free to hire their own after half an hour. Penitence and the Bridgwater merchant waited half a day at the inn while its ostler made fruitless enquiries among the local farmers who were reluctant to hire out such horses as they’d managed to hide from the requisitioning agents of both king and duke. The streets, too, were empty of horseflesh. Eventually Penitence rushed out and captured a mule and a donkey from two countrywomen on their way to market, and offered them a price they couldn’t afford to turn down.

  It meant parting with much of her luggage as well as the Bridgwater merchant, who was taking the mule and a different way to his home than Penitence
’s route. He was worried about her; they had developed the comradeship that comes to benighted travellers. As she packed her saddle-bag with a change of clothing, he knocked at her door to give her – in return for the mule – a cartridge belt, a flintlock cavalry pistol and a lesson on how to use it. ‘She’s old but she’s trusty is Bess. See, she’s rifled and can fire more than one shot. The pan-cover and steel are in one piece, here, and this is the safety catch.’

  He refused to listen to Penitence’s protests that she hadn’t far to go, she had friends along the way, she wouldn’t want to shoot anybody, that the last heard of Monmouth’s army was that it was miles away, camped outside Bristol. ‘War be dangerous to women, no matter which,’ he said. ‘If you spots Monmouth, you shoot un.’

  She paid the ostler three shillings to accompany her on the remaining twelve or so miles home and set off the next morning into a July dawn. The bells of Yeovil’s churches told her it was Sunday.

  The ostler deserted her when they caught up with heavy royalist artillery lumbering along the Somerton road, telling her he must answer a call of nature. What made her cross was that she waited half an hour before realizing he wasn’t coming back from behind his tree.

  The guns were dragged by oxen and blocked the road; her difficulties in getting the little donkey past were compounded by men constantly catching its bridle so that they could eye Penitence up. They weren’t so much lustful as unhappy. She gathered that the royalist commander, Feversham, didn’t understand artillery or the needs of artillerymen, would benefit from having a round of shot stuffed up his person and what was a pretty woman like her doing on a road like this.

  They were heading for Bridgwater. Latest intelligence put the enemy just outside it. Penitence was relieved. Bridgwater was too near for comfort, but it was at least further away than Taunton. With luck, the battle – if there was a battle – wouldn’t touch Athelzoy.