The Mad Courtesan

by Edward Marston

  Well-wishers sent them off with ringing cheers.

  ‘Nimbus is the greatest horse alive!’

  ‘And even greater when he is dead!’

  ‘It is the most amazing sight that ever I saw.’

  ‘No heart can resist them.’

  ‘They will spread merriment wherever they go.’

  ‘That animal is a gift from God.’

  It was left to the waddling publican of the Shepherd and Shepherdess to sum up the feelings of his customers. Gant and Nimbus had not only astounded the onlookers, they had been good for business. Wiping podgy hands on his beer-stained apron, the publican beamed gratefully after the departing guests and gave a knowing chuckle.

  ‘They will conquer London within a week!’

  Lawrence Firethorn was in excellent spirits as he sat back in his chair and savoured the last of the Canary wine in his goblet. Flushed with success after another performance in the title role of Vincentio’s Revenge, he was celebrating his triumph in a private room at the Queen’s Head with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. All three of them were sharers with the company, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus entitled to a portion of any income. Apprentices were given their keep and a valuable training, hired men – like Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias – earned a weekly wage but it was the sharers who were the real beneficiaries. Not only did they get their slice of any profits, they also had first claim on the leading parts in any play. Their status was paramount. In the eyes of the law and the regulatory agencies, they were the company and other members of the troupe were merely their employees. Westfield’s Men had ten sharers but its operational decisions were invariably taken by its three senior figures. Lawrence Firethorn dominated that trio.

  ‘I was in good voice this afternoon,’ he boasted.

  ‘Too good a voice,’ said Gill testily. ‘You roared the lines like a wounded lion. Speak the speeches as they are written, Lawrence. Do not deafen your fellows with ranting.’

  ‘The audience worshipped my Vincentio.’

  ‘So might the rest of London for they must all have heard it. Why must you bellow so much? Even your silence is beset by too much noise.’

  ‘Tragedy calls for sound!’

  ‘Your sound was certainly tragic, sir.’

  Firethorn bristled. ‘At least I did not whisper my words like an old man muttering into his beard.’

  ‘I conveyed meaning with every subtle gesture.’

  ‘It is as well you did not rely on your voice, Barnaby. You sounded like a male varlet plying his foul trade in the stews of Southwark!’

  ‘I’ll brook no more of this!’ exclaimed Gill, using a quivering fist to pound the table around which they sat. ‘I demand an abject apology.’

  ‘Demand what you wish. You will get nothing.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Edmund Hoode wearily as he interrupted yet another of the all-too-frequent arguments between the two men. ‘Both of you gave of your best in Vincentio’s Revenge. I could not fault either performance. Each was soft enough, each was loud enough. Enough of this vain disputation. We have business in hand.’

  Gill stood on his dignity. ‘I have been insulted.’

  ‘And so you will be again, sir,’ said Firethorn. ‘You invite ridicule. If you will hiss like a serpent on stage, we will find you a place in the menagerie at the Tower.’

  ‘They will lock you in the neighbouring cage for they surely have need of a trumpeting elephant!’

  ‘Desist, sirs!’ said Hoode, throwing himself between them once again to prevent the elephant from trampling on the serpent and to stop the serpent from wriggling its way up the elephant’s trunk to spit its venom into the brain. ‘This will not serve our cause at all.’

  He poured more wine for both of them then gave them even more liberal doses of flattery. They slowly allowed themselves to be soothed and to forget their latest verbal duel. Lawrence Firethorn was the acknowledged leader of the company, a striking man in every way, hugely talented and hugely ambitious, blessed with genius but cursed with the vanity of his profession. Alert, handsome and muscular, he dressed like a gallant in the latest fashion. Barnaby Gill was shorter, older and less well favoured. The established clown, he had an uncanny ability to reduce any audience to hysterical laughter with his comic songs, gestures, dances and facial expressions. Offstage, he was lurking melancholic with a weakness for the society of pretty boys that had made the gibe about a male varlet particularly painful. He chose his apparel with great care but erred on the side of ostentation. Firethorn and Gill might wrestle incessantly in private but they worked in perfect harmony on stage.

  One of Edmund Hoode’s primary duties was to sustain that harmony by writing parts in which each man could display his undoubted brilliance. As an actor-playwright, he was required to produce a regular stream of new plays for Westfield’s Men as well as to polish and adapt his earlier work for revival. Unlike the others, Hoode was not ensnared by pride or obsessed with the need to impress. Tall, slim and clean-shaven, he was a gentler soul, a dreamer and a romantic. His pale, round, wide-eyed moon of a face had been shaped to hang in the sky of unrequited love and he had no taste for the strident confrontations beloved by his companions.

  Lawrence Firethorn addressed the issue before them.

  ‘Gentlemen, we seek another sharer,’ he said solemnly. ‘Old Cuthbert is to retire and he must be replaced.’

  ‘I do not agree,’ said Gill.

  ‘Wisdom never commended itself to you.’

  ‘If we lose one of our number, we have a larger slice of the receipts. Old Cuthbert served the company well but he serves it better still by letting us divide up his share.’

  ‘Put need before greed, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘Ten is a good, round number and we will hold fast to it. So, sirs. Who is to be brought into the fold?’

  Hoode was unequivocal. ‘If it were left to me, I would choose Nick Bracewell without a qualm. He is the rock on which Westfield’s Men build their entertainments. Take but him away and we would all be sucked into the quagmire.’

  ‘Master Bracewell is a mere book holder,’ said Gill petulantly. ‘We must not even consider bestowing such an honour upon him.’

  ‘If worth held any sway, the honour is his already.’

  ‘Indeed, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is pure gold and nobody loves him more or values him higher than I. But he is not, alas, our new sharer. We must look elsewhere.’

  ‘Outside the company?’ said Gill.

  ‘Inside,’ said Hoode. ‘It rewards loyalty.’

  Firethorn nodded. ‘We promote from within. It breeds goodwill and ensures us a known friend. I think there are but two men in the company whom we should weigh in the balance here. Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias.’

  ‘Then it must be Sebastian,’ decided Hoode.

  ‘The Welshman for me,’ said Gill, puffing at his pipe. ‘He has been with us longer and learnt more eagerly. Owen has a temper, I know, but this elevation might curtail it and turn him into a gentleman.’

  ‘Sebastian already is a gentleman,’ said Hoode. ‘He can grace the stage where Owen can only occupy it. I do not deny that Wales has given us the finer actor here. Owen Elias has qualities that Sebastian could never match. He has a voice and presence to rival Lawrence himself but he also has a wayward streak that goes ill with responsibility. As a hired man, he is an asset to the company: as a sharer, he might turn out to be a liability.’

  ‘I side with you, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Sebastian has the better disposition. Sebastian Carrick it is.’

  ‘Owen Elias,’ insisted Gill.

  ‘Carrick.’

  ‘He gets my vote, too,’ said Hoode. ‘He is our sharer.’

  ‘Then where will he find his proportion?’ Gill puffed hard then exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Sebastian has to buy his share. He is reckless with his own money and even more reckless with borrowed coin. Owen Elias is conscientious and frugal. S
ebastian is too fond of his pleasures.’

  ‘No man can be blamed for that,’ said Firethorn easily, ‘or none of us would escape whipping. But you raise a fair question, Barnaby, and it must be answered. How will Sebastian furnish us with his investment?’

  ‘He has many rich friends,’ said Hoode.

  Gill grimaced. ‘They are poorer for his acquaintance.’

  ‘He will find the money somehow. He longs to be a true member of the company. Stay with him, Lawrence.’

  ‘A doubt begins to form,’ admitted Firethorn.

  ‘We have the means to still it,’ said Hoode. ‘Let us not commit ourselves too soon. We will put Sebastian to the test by offering him a half-share in the company. Should he come through that trial, he takes up Old Cuthbert’s place. Is this not the best way?’

  Lawrence Firethorn stroked his dark, pointed beard as he pondered. Barnaby Gill tapped out his pipe on the edge of the table and sniffed noisily. After long consideration, both men nodded their agreement. Sebastian Carrick would be put on probation. It remained only to determine the length of that probation and the scale of his financial contribution.

  Gill foresaw a possible difficulty.

  ‘How can we persuade him that a half-share is a form of distinction rather than a humiliation?’

  ‘I’ll make light of that task,’ said Firethorn airily.

  ‘Sebastian will see it as one step towards full glory,’ said Hoode. ‘He will understand our caution.’

  Gill snorted. ‘It is more than caution in my case.’

  ‘Throw aside all objection,’ urged the playwright.

  ‘Yes,’ reinforced Firethorn. ‘To win his confidence, we must show him ours. Have no fears about Sebastian Carrick. He will prove a fortunate choice. I’d stake my life on it.’

  Turnmill Street was the most notorious thoroughfare in the whole of Clerkenwell, a long, dark, dangerous, disease-ridden strip of sin that ran parallel with the River Fleet before bending round to thrust itself into Cow Cross with bestial familiarity. In its fetid lanes and alleys, in its narrow courts and yards, in its filthy taverns and tenements, all manner of lewd delight was bought and sold. Turnmill punks were the wildest and most willing in London and they made nightly assignations with courtiers and commoners, soldiers and sailors, merchants and men of law, gapers from the country and gallants from the town. At the sign of the Cock, the Fleur de Lys, the Blue Axe, the Red Lattice, the Rose and other bold outrages against decency, a lustful client could send his soul to eternal damnation and purchase the pox in exchange. Turnmill Street was a warren of infamy. Stews and gambling dens, inns and ordinaries, courtesans and catamites knew but one landlord. He dwelt in Hell itself.

  Of all the houses of resort, none was more popular than the Pickt-hatch, so-called because its upper half-door was surrounded with spikes for security. The Pickt-hatch was a common name and sign for brothels but the establishment in Turnmill Street outstretched its rivals in venery. It was run by a wobbling mound of flesh named Bess Bidgood and its reputation brought in ample custom for the large stable of whores whom the motherly hostess kept beneath her wicked roof. Quality and quantity were on tap at the Pickt-hatch.

  The young man who lay naked on the bed in a state of joyous near-exhaustion had opted for quality and he had not been disappointed. When Bess Bidgood had lined up her ladies for him to choose at his own discretion, his practised eye had picked out the leanest of them. Frances was not the plump and eager wench in red taffeta that most men coveted but a thin, watchful, feline creature with a carnal charm that was all her own. He wanted an angry lover and none could have been more feral than this wildcat. She bit and fought him every inch of the way and left her own special trademark on his back as she raked it from shoulder to buttock with searing fingernails, pain and pleasure intermingling so closely that they became one. He was in ecstasy.

  Frances was content. Here was no sweating husband who talked of his wife, no crude swaggerer who pumped mindlessly into her, no drunken fool whose manhood failed them both and who snored on top of her. She had found a real lover for once, a handsome swain who sensed her needs and matched them with his own. As she ran a hand down the vivid red furrows on his back, she admired the sleek muscularity of his body and relished the feel of his soft beard between her breasts. In a squalid room whose dank walls were covered in painted cloth, they shared a mild sensation of love. It was soon over, however. He rose and dressed while she waited for payment, combing her long black hair with languid movements and resigning herself to more brutish passion from her next client.

  His smile was warm and grateful. Dropping some crowns into the goblet on the floor, he slipped an arm around her to give her one last, long kiss then he opened the door and went swiftly out. Frances reached instinctively for the goblet and found it empty. His farewell embrace had been a cruel trick to recover his money and she was left with nothing but a sour memory. Grabbing the knife beneath her pillow, she raced out into the murky passageway but he was already vanishing down the steps. She went quickly back to her bedroom window and flung it open, waiting until her deceitful lover came out into the street before giving a signal with the knife. She then turned back into the room and flung the weapon with such force at the door that it sunk two inches into the wood and vibrated almost as angrily as she did.

  The young man, meanwhile, ambled happily along and told himself that the gift of his body was reward enough for any woman and that – by rights – Frances should have paid him. He laughed aloud as he imagined her horror at finding the goblet raided by his sly hand and congratulated himself on getting so much out of the Pickt-hatch for so little. It had been a most pleasant night.

  ‘Stay, sir!’ called a voice behind him.

  ‘Why so?’

  He turned to ask the last question of his life and got the answer in the shape of a hand-axe that came out of the darkness with vengeful power to cleave his head open and put an extra inch between his staring eyes. Blood drenched him in an instant and the open mouth filled with gore. Before he hit the ground and lay in the offal, he was dead.

  Sebastian Carrick had paid for his pleasure after all.

  Chapter Two

  Theatre companies were like families, haphazard groups of people who were bonded temporarily together by a shared home and a common objective. Filial affection was spontaneous and intimacies flourished. Loyalty was deep. Idiosyncrasies were tolerated in the capacious bosom of the family. Blood was thicker than water. If actors fell idle, they were friendless vagabonds cast out into the wilderness: hired again, they got instant access to the comforts of hearth and home. The lonely exile became the prodigal son.

  Nicholas Bracewell did much to foster the spirit of kinship among Westfield’s Men so that each time it changed its face, the smile remained the same. Continuity of style and purpose was essential. Nobody was more attuned to the different moods and personalities of the company members and he helped to blend them into a single clan. While Lawrence Firethorn was the stern father of the family – and Barnaby Gill the clucking mother hen – Nicholas brought an avuncular concern to his role and cared profoundly for all his nephews. It did not take him long to learn their habits.

  ‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘Good morning, Thomas.’

  ‘What do we play today?’

  ‘Marriage and Mischief.’

  ‘Bushes and benches.’

  ‘As you say, Thomas. Bushes and benches.’

  It was early morning and Nicholas had, as usual, arrived first at the Queen’s Head. He knew the precise order in which his colleagues would make their appearance. Leading the procession was Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, a man whose forty years in the theatre enabled him to reduce all plays to one telling phrase. Marriage and Mischief was a lively comedy of misunderstanding which made great use of eavesdropping in a garden. It was a glorious romp with colourful characters and a complicated plot but the old man had summed it up perfectly. Something to hide behind and s
omething to sit on. Bushes and benches.

  A youth raced up to them. ‘Good morning, masters.’

  ‘You are late, George,’ grumbled the stagekeeper.

  ‘You are in good time, lad,’ said Nicholas warmly. ‘Now stand still and catch your breath.’

  ‘I have been running.’

  ‘Rise earlier and walk to your employment,’ said Skillen.

  ‘You are sweating like a pig on a spit.’

  George Dart was the smallest, youngest and most abused member of the company. He was a convenient whipping boy and not even the friendship of the book holder could protect him from the lash. As an assistant stagekeeper, he was always given the most menial chores and he had already resigned himself to a day of moving the prickliest bushes and the heaviest benches on and offstage. Thomas Skillen might be gnarled with age but he could still clip an ear of his underlings with effect. Marriage and Mischief would bring the customary round of prods and pushes for George Dart who would find an odd kind of reassurance in them. They proved that he was accepted by the company. Pain was home.

  Nathan Curtis was the next to stride into the yard at the Queen’s Head. As the company’s master carpenter, he was always in demand, making new properties and scenery or restoring old ones. Hard on his heels came Peter Digby, the leader of the musicians, a thin, ascetic man of nervous disposition, who liked to be there well before he was needed. When the first of the actors joined them, Nicholas did not even need to turn around to see who it was. As soon as he heard the approach of footsteps behind him, he believed that he could identify the newcomer.

  ‘Good morrow, Sebastian.’

  ‘You insult me,’ said a Welsh voice.

  Nicholas swung round in surprise. ‘Owen!’

  ‘Even he.’

  ‘I had expected …’

  ‘For once, I am first in line.’

  The book holder gave him a proper welcome and talked about Owen Elias’s role in the forthcoming drama, showing a genuine interest in his colleague’s performance and making some useful suggestions. As they conversed, however, he kept one eye on the main entrance to the yard as he awaited the imminent arrival of Sebastian Carrick. The latter might have the inclinations of a dissolute but he was also a committed professional who put his acting before anything else. Even after a long night of indulgence, he would be the first of the hired actors to report to the Queen’s Head; indeed, it was this unquenchable enthusiasm for his work – carefully hidden beneath an easy-going disdain – which made him a potential sharer with Westfield’s Men. Lateness was almost unknown to Carrick so his continued absence was worrying.