Nicholas was there in a supportive capacity. His presence was vital. Quilter was so tense and queasy that he seemed about to keel over at any moment. Both men tried to shut their ears to the foul language and gruesome anticipation they could hear all around them. When his friend rocked slightly, Nicholas steadied with him a hand.
‘You did not need to put yourself through this, Frank,’ he said.
‘My ordeal is nothing beside that of my father.’
‘Remember him as he was, not as you will see him today.’
‘He will expect me to be here, Nick.’
‘Yet he will never observe you in this crowd.’
‘Father will know,’ asserted Quilter. ‘If there were ten times this number here, he would be keenly aware of my absence. I’ll not let him down in his hour of need.’ He forced a smile of gratitude. ‘I know what it cost you to be here with me today, Nick. It’s a favour I’ll not easily forget.’
‘It was the least I could do, Frank.’
‘Nobody else in the company volunteered to take on the office.’
‘Westfield’s Men had a play to stage.’
‘So did you.’
‘Your need was greater.’
‘The others did not think so.’
‘There was a lot of sympathy for you, Frank.’
‘But much more resentment, I’ll warrant. Is it not so? I bear the name of a brutal killer, that is what they believe. They’ll want no part of Frank Quilter after this. And who can blame them? In their eyes, I’m stained with the blood of the victim.’
‘Only because they do not know the truth.’
‘How can we persuade them?’
Nicholas’s reply was lost beneath a roar of approval as the crowd welcomed the condemned prisoners. Gerard Quilter would not die alone. Flanked by armed riders, two carts were pulled along by sweating horses through the mass of people. Cruel jeers and vile taunts filled the air. Arms opinioned, Gerard Quilter was in the first of the carts, standing up with the hangman’s assistant beside him. Nicholas saw the family likeness at once. The father had the son’s handsome face and dignified bearing. Even in his dire distress, Gerard Quilter contrived to keep his back straight and his chin up. He was coping with the grisly situation by drawing on his faith, praying to God to help him through the ordeal that lay ahead and asking that his reputation would one day be vindicated. That was his only source of comfort. Frank, his only son, would be there to witness his humiliation. His father was ashamed to be seen by him in such a condition. All that he could hope was that his son was so revolted by the hideous spectacle that he would not rest until the family name was cleansed.
Nicholas was impressed by the way that Gerard Quilter held himself. There was no hint of dignity in the following cart. Jane Gullet, a snarling virago, was hurling abuse at the crowd and ducking to avoid the ripe fruit that was thrown at her from all sides. Convicted of witchcraft, she was sentenced to burn for using her black arts against her husband, an old man who had died, it was alleged, as a result of a spell put upon him. The poison she put in his food was the more likely cause of his death but the crowd would not be deprived of their witch. What they saw was no rebellious wife. Instead, they viewed a venomous hag with a vicious tongue from which a stream of imprecations flowed. The only fit place for her was among the flames. Had Gerard Quilter been hanged alone, he would have been taken to the gallows at Tyburn. Since he shared the day of execution with Jane Gullet, it was decided to dispatch both of them at the same venue. It was an added humiliation for him. As a condemned murderer, Quilter was attracting enough opprobrium. Partnered with the feral old woman, he looked as if he was her confederate, an accessory to the poisoning of her husband and a willing participant in the evils of witchcraft.
As the carts trundled towards the gallows, some of the spectators were not satisfied with flinging taunts or tossing missiles. One man clambered up beside the prisoner in the first cart and tried to belabour him. Nicholas had to restrain Quilter from trying to go to his father’s assistance. It was, in any case, a futile urge. Quilter would never have barged his way through the press. Besides, his father’s attacker was quickly overpowered and hustled away. Quilter was shaking with anger.
‘Why do they goad him so?’ he asked. ‘Is he not suffering enough?’
‘Turn your head away,’ advised Nicholas.
‘From my own father? I would not do that even if they tear him to pieces with their bare hands. I want to see everything, Nick. Each remembered detail will fire my need for vengeance,’
‘Against whom?’
A second question went unanswered as a fresh roar went up. Hauled from her cart, Jane Gullet was dragged towards a pile of faggots and tied to the post that stood in the middle of them. As the crowd spat and yelled, she replied with curses and dark laughter. On the gallows nearby was a more controlled spectacle. Helped up the steps by the hangman’s assistant, Gerard Quilter was met by a chaplain who asked him to repent his crime. Nicholas did not hear the reply in the tumult but he guessed its nature by the way that the prisoner bore himself. There was no admission of guilt, no sense of final capitulation. Head held high, Gerard Quilter was a visible symbol of the innocence that he professed. His son was duly proud of him.
Nicholas did not watch the burning or the hanging. Public executions were anathema to him. They brought back unhappy memories of his time at sea, sailing with Drake on his circumnavigation of the world. Nameless cruelties had been inflicted during the voyage. Nicholas recalled only too well the occasions when he was forced to witness executions aboard the Golden Hind. Even if men were guilty of terrible crimes, he took no pleasure in the sight of their death. When a man was innocent – as he believed Gerard Quilter to be – he could not bear to look. Alone in the crowd, he averted his eyes. Others watched avidly, cheering as the noose was put around one prisoner’s neck and whipping themselves into a frenzy when the faggots were lighted beneath the other.
Francis Quilter was on the verge of collapse. There were two tiny consolations for him. The hangman knew his trade. When the trap was opened and the body plunged, the prisoner’s neck was broken instantly. There was no lingering death. Gerard Quilter had been spared any additional agony. Divine intervention seemed to be responsible for the second consolation. A gust of wind came out of nowhere to fan the flames of the fire and to send the smoke so thickly across the gallows that it obscured the hanged man. Jane Gullet became the focus of attention, howling in anguish and defying the crowd to the last. Only when she was consumed by the flames did the collective hysteria start to abate.
Taking his friend by the arm, Nicholas led him away.
‘You have seen enough, Frank,’ he said.
‘They’re no better than animals,’ muttered Quilter, gazing around. ‘What sort of people enjoy such horrors? And why must they be made public?’
‘The authorities believe that they are setting an example. Each victim who goes to his grave in such an appalling way stands as a warning to others.’
‘But why hang my father when they are burning a witch?’
‘It was a heartless decision.’
‘He did not belong in the company of that repulsive creature.’
‘Neither of them deserved the hatred and ridicule they provoked.’
‘Father was innocent, Nick!’ urged Quilter, bunching a fist to strike the palm of his other hand. ‘What we saw today was nothing short of judicial murder.’
They fell silent and walked swiftly away. Pleased with the entertainment, the crowd was now dispersing with grim satisfaction. Nicholas hoped that his friend did not hear some of the bloodthirsty comments that came from the lips of other spectators. One woman complained bitterly that the hanging had been over too quickly, and that they had been cheated of the victim’s frantic twitches as he choked to death. As soon as they got clear of Smithfield and its denizens, Nicholas guided his friend towards a tavern. When his companion bought him a tankard of ale, Quilter took a long sip before speaking.
‘If your father did not kill Vincent Webbe, then someone else did. The only way to clear the family name is to find the real murderer.’
‘It will be my mission in life.’
‘Where will you start?’
‘With the two men who bore false witness against my father.’
‘Count on me if you need help, Frank.’
Quilter was touched. ‘You have gone well beyond the bounds of friendship as it is,’ he said. ‘It would be unfair of me to burden you any further.’
‘A shared load would be lighter for both of us.’
‘No, Nick. Your first obligation is to Westfield’s Men. They will have missed you badly this afternoon. And why? Because you chose to bear me company on the worst day of my life.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Lawrence Firethorn would not spare you again.’
‘He is not my keeper,’ said Nicholas.
Quilter became wistful. ‘Until today, he was my idol, the actor whom I admire most in the world and on whom I try to pattern myself. Not any more, alas,’ he sighed. ‘How eager will he be to have me beside him after this?’
‘You have a contract with the company, Frank.’
‘I have violated its terms already by missing a performance. And because I am the son of Gerard Quilter, I have probably endangered the whole document. You were at the rehearsal this morning, Nick,’ he said. ‘What was the general feeling?’
‘There was much uncertainty,’ replied Nicholas tactfully.
‘Do not hide the truth to spare my feelings. I can imagine the harsh words that were spoken against me by some. They want me out, do they not?’
‘One or two, perhaps.’
‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘He feels the pressure from the others.’
‘In other words, he is against me as well. Then my cause is truly doomed.’
‘No, Frank.’
‘I would hate to lose my place among Westfield’s Men.’
‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas.
‘I’ve brought shame to the company, or so it will be seen. I’ll be an outcast. What is to stop them from expelling me?’
‘The fear that they will lose more than a good actor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you are forced to leave,’ said Nicholas, ‘then I have refused to stay.’
Quilter was dismayed. ‘But you are the very essence of Westfield’s Men.’
‘I hope that others share that view.’
‘No, Nick. I cannot allow this. It’s too great a sacrifice. I’ll fight to hold my place in the company and will go reluctantly, if I fail. But your own future must never be conditional on mine. If I’m to drown, I’ll not take you down with me.’
‘It may not come to that, Frank. Hot words were spoken at the Queen’s Head this morning. When tempers have cooled, our fellows may talk with more sense. They should certainly learn to show more loyalty to one of their number.’
‘You’ve enough loyalty for all of them.’
‘I believe in you, Frank – and in your father’s innocence.’
‘How can we convince the others?’
‘By doing as you say. Vindicate his reputation and Westfield’s Men will be only too keen to woo us back into their ranks.’
‘No,’ said Quilter, shaking his head. ‘I’ll not be the cause of your departure, Nick. Whatever happens, you must stay. I need one friend in the company.’
Nicholas pondered. ‘Then there may be a middle way,’ he said at length.
‘Betwixt what?’
‘Retention and expulsion. After the events at Smithfield this afternoon, a black cloud hangs over the company. I’d be misleading you if I said that you would be welcomed back into the fold. Try to hold them to the contract,’ he went on, ‘and they might still find a way to eject you. But if you sue for leave of absence, you will be free to conduct your investigation and Westfield’s Men will be spared much embarrassment. Will this content you?’
‘It will,’ said Quilter eagerly. ‘That way, both parties are satisfied.’
‘Let me put it to Lawrence Firethorn.’
‘Do not forget to mention the prime benefit. Harp on that, Nick.’
‘On what?’
‘Westfield’s Men will not only be getting rid of me at a time when I might cause them some unease,’ said Quilter. ‘They will have Nicholas Bracewell back at the helm. It will be the finest bargain they ever struck.’
Chapter Three
Margery Firethorn was a motherly woman of generous proportions, with wide hips, a thickening waist and a surging bosom. As befitted the wife of a famous actor, she had a decidedly theatrical air herself and, in the heat of argument, could match her husband for sheer power, strutting and ranting to such effect that she might have been treading the boards at the Queen’s Head before a large audience. In point of fact, Lawrence Firethorn was the sole spectator of her towering rages, stirring performances that he would not inflict on any man, however much he hated him, and which, in the interests of domestic harmony, he did his best to avoid at all costs.
Still handsome, and with an appetite for pleasure equal to his own, Margery was a loyal, long-suffering wife who ran their home in Shoreditch with bustling efficiency, brought up their children in a Christian manner, nurtured the company’s apprentices and coped with the multiple problems of sharing her life with the wayward genius who led Westfield’s Men. Those unwise enough to cross Margery felt the lacerating sharpness of her tongue, but there was one person who invariably brought out her softer side. When he called at the house that evening, she wrapped him in a warm embrace.
‘Nicholas!’ she said with delight. ‘What brings you to Old Street?’
‘The pleasure of seeing you, Margery,’ he said gallantly.
‘Fetch yourself in. Lawrence did not tell me that you were expected.’
‘I called in hope of a private word with him.’
‘Then your arrival is timely. He has just returned home.’
Closing the door behind her, she led Nicholas Bracewell into the parlour with a girlish giggle of delight. Firethorn was in parental mood for once, balancing a son on each knee while one of them read a passage from the Bible. When he saw his visitor, he ruffled the boys’ hair, told one of them that his reading was improving then sent both lads on their way. Margery followed them into the kitchen to get some refreshments. Firethorn waved Nicholas to a chair then sat on the edge of his own.
‘Thank heaven!’ he said. ‘I need you mightily, Nick.’
‘How did the play fare this afternoon?’
‘It was a disgrace. Owen Elias blundered his way around the stage, James Ingram forgot more lines than he remembered and I was worse than the pair of them put together. The rest of the company was woefully slothful. I tell you, Nick,’ he continued, rolling his eyes, ‘I was ashamed to put such a half-baked dish before an audience. The only person who distinguished himself was Edmund Hoode.’
‘What of George Dart?’
‘A poor substitute for Nicholas Bracewell, but the lad worked well.’
‘I knew that he would.’
‘Mirth and Madness was a foolish choice,’ said Firethorn, sitting back in his chair. ‘No man can play comedy with a heavy heart.’
‘It sounds as if Edmund contrived to do so.’
‘We’ll come to him in a moment, Nick. First, tell me your news.’
‘It was as frightful as you would expect,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope I do not have to see such pitiful sights again, or hear such obscene taunts from a crowd.’
‘We were the ones deserving of obscene taunts today.’
‘They would have been mild beside the scorn and derision at Smithfield.’
Nicholas gave him a brief account of the executions, omitting some of the more gory aspects and playing down the effect on him and on Francis Quilter. Stroking his beard with the backs of his fingers, Firethorn listened a
ttentively. When his visitor had finished, his host heaved a deep sigh.
‘You and Frank were not the only ones to witness an execution today,’ he confessed. ‘Our audience was present at one as well. Mirth and Madness was butchered to death by Westfield’s Men. I’ll warrant that you can guess why.’
‘Unease about Frank’s position in the company?’
‘That was only a minor cause, Nick. This afternoon’s disaster arose mainly from another source. It concerns the future of our book holder.’ A pleading note came into his voice. ‘You surely cannot mean to leave us.’
‘I stand by my word. If Frank is evicted, I go with him.’
‘But where would the company be without Nicholas Bracewell?’
Margery came sailing in from the kitchen with a tray that bore two cups of Canary wine and some honey cakes. She arrived in time to catch her husband’s last remark and it put an expression of disbelief on her face.
‘Westfield’s Men without Nicholas?’ she cried. ‘That would be like the River Thames without water – empty and meaningless. What’s all this talk of losing Nicholas?’
‘A mere jest, my love,’ said Firethorn, patting her affectionately on the rump. ‘It was in bad taste and I withdraw it forthwith.’
‘I should hope so, Lawrence,’ she warned, putting the tray on the table. ‘When you find a jewel among men, you do not throw him heedlessly away. Hold on to your book holder with both hands, do you hear? By heavens!’ she exclaimed, face reddening with indignation. ‘The very notion makes every part about me quiver. I’ll not stand for it. Let me be blunt, Lawrence. Lose Nicholas and you lose my love. It is as simple as that.’
She handed them a cup of wine each then pressed a honey cake upon Nicholas while studiously ignoring her husband. Tossing her head to indicate her displeasure, she swept out of the room. Firethorn took a long sip of wine.
‘You see my dilemma, Nick,’ he asked. ‘If you desert us, the marital bed will turn to ice. Can you not see what harm you will bring to this house?’
‘Not of my own choosing.’
‘What Margery says is what the rest of the company believe. Except for Barnaby, of course,’ he added, ‘but his voice will always dissent. You are our guardian angel. When they heard that you might be leaving us, our fellows were stricken with remorse. The results were on display this afternoon at the Queen’s Head.’
The Bawdy Basket Page 5