The Mad Courtesan

by Edward Marston

  ‘You must speak in person to the heir.’

  ‘I depart from London tomorrow.’

  ‘Nothing should be left to chance, Roger.’

  ‘That is why I will take you on the long journey.’

  ‘My help is yours to call upon.’

  ‘There is another reason why you must ride with me.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Your presence has been requested.’

  The Earl of Banbury gave a smile of self-congratulation that graduated into a full-blown chuckle. Next day, on the vital embassy north, he would not simply be there to lend his weight to the Master of Ordnance. He would be answering a direct summons by the new monarch. It was a sign.

  A restorative night in the arms of Anne Hendrik helped to sustain him throughout a long day. Nicholas Bracewell had no time to rest in the service of Westfield’s Men. His work began early with the erection of the stage in the yard at the Queen’s Head. The rehearsal of Black Antonio occupied him for most of the morning and it left him with a fund of problems to solve before the performance that afternoon. A letter then arrived for him by messenger and he took time off to unseal it. As he did so, a small silver object fell out and only the speed of his hand saved it from landing on the ground. It was a tiny picture of Sebastian Carrick in a silver frame and it touched off some more painful memories for him. The miniature was the work of a mediocre artist but it offered an acceptable likeness of its subject and caught something of his suave vitality. Nicholas saw that the letter was from Marion Carrick who put practical help before a cloying bereavement. Hoping that the miniature might be of assistance to him, she enjoined the book holder to take especial care of something which was even more precious to her now that her brother was dead. He accepted the charge willingly and was grateful to her.

  Lawrence Firethorn now became his major anxiety. After his triumph at The Rose, the actor had at least managed to learn the name of his new beloved – Beatrice Capaldi – and he had been repeating it to himself ever since in a variety of sweet tones. Unfortunately, her name was all that George Dart had been able to glean, except for the fact that she was a lady of some distinction with a coach in attendance. As was his wont in such matters, Firethorn brought Nicholas into action, urging him to mark and track the mystery figure on her next appearance in the audience. But that appearance had not as yet been made. Though Firethorn selected two plays which showed him off to best advantage – The Loyal Subject and Pompey the Great – she did not watch either and he was left in ruins. Black Antonio was a third offering aimed directly at her and he was confident that she would this time be drawn to view his genius. But the play waxed for two whole hours without eliciting one minute of interest from the Mistress Beatrice Capaldi.

  Lawrence Firethorn was plunged into desolation.

  ‘Where is she, Nick?’ he implored.

  ‘I wish I knew, sir.’

  ‘Why must she punish me in this way?’

  ‘Haply, she is detained elsewhere.’

  ‘How much longer must I suffer?’

  ‘Put her out of your mind,’ said the book holder.

  A gargantuan sigh. ‘But she fills it so completely. I am half the man I was when she is not here.’

  It was true. Roles in which Firethorn customarily shone had been played with little more than competence. Three times in a row he had disappointed a following which had come to expect Olympian standards from him. Nicholas was distinctly alarmed. The roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn always had an invigorating effect on his performances but this latest fancy was having a destructive impact. A hideous truth had to be faced. Firethorn was in love. Westfield’s Men were bearing the brunt of this phenomenon.

  ‘I want my Beatrice!’ wailed the actor.

  ‘We have no means of reaching her, sir.’

  ‘Help me, Nick. Track this temptress down.’

  ‘She may already have quit London.’

  ‘Perish the thought!’ cried Firethorn in anguish. ‘If that be so then I am shipwrecked. There must be a way to bring her back to me. There has to be a key to unlock her ice-cold heart so that it will admit me. Be my saviour yet again, Nick. Where is that way? What is that key?’

  ‘Play Love’s Sacrifice once more.’

  It was a random suggestion but it transformed Firethorn in a flash. His body stiffened, his chest swelled, his face coloured, his eyes sparkled, his hope was a tidal wave that washed all before it. The drama which had brought him and Beatrice Capaldi together would be the agency of their reunion. Though it was not due to be staged again for over a week, he would change the agreed programme in order to put Love’s Sacrifice on as soon as possible. Nicholas proffered the advice in all innocence. He was not to know how much potential damage he had just done to Westfield’s Men.

  ‘I love you for this, Nick,’ said Firethorn warmly.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Beatrice Capaldi! She has Italian blood, I warrant. Hot Italian blood that courses through her veins.’

  ‘Do not build on vain fantasies.’

  ‘Oh, I could kiss you for this, you lovely bawcock!’

  ‘Forbear, Lawrence,’ said the eavesdropping Barnaby Gill with a grimace. ‘My lips are already spoken for, good sir!’

  Nicholas left the two of them arguing in the taproom and stole quickly away. While his employer was desperate to trace one object of desire, the book holder went in search for another. His unknown woman was no Beatrice Capaldi, no lady of quality with a hard beauty that could enchant and ensnare. She was a common whore in the stews of Clerkenwell and she had given one of her clients a signature that he had taken to his grave. Nicholas saw those rivulets once more and was doubly grateful that the sight had been kept from the already distraught Marion Carrick.

  Armed with the miniature of the victim, he went back into the lanes that he had already tramped on the previous nights. All the establishments drew him gladly in but his welcome evaporated when it was seen that he was no customer in search of a punk. He was reviled, he was threatened, he was forcibly ejected but he bore it all with equanimity, moving on to the next brothel to continue his investigation. None of the trulls recognised the portrait but a few of the more high-class courtesans claimed to have known him. When and where they had last seen him, however, they could not recall because their brains were too addled by drink and their apprehensions too dulled by the nature of their calling. Before Nicholas could coax out more detail, he was usually expelled by a brutish landlord or a watchful madame.

  Another long, taxing and frustrating night finally took him into the Pickt-hatch. Bess Bidgood wobbled her charms at him and he put coin into her hand to buy himself drink and time. Nicholas was in a small, low, smoke-filled room with a dozen or more other men who lolled at tables as they were blandished by the resident whores. As soon as the newcomer sat down on a bench, two young women came to perch either side of him with grinning familiarity. He bought them a drink, pretended to respond to their attentions and worked slowly to win their confidence. One of them planted a kiss on his cheek and told him the Pickt-hatch was the most celebrated house of resort in the district.

  ‘I come upon recommendation,’ said Nick.

  ‘Who sent you, sir?’ asked one girl.

  ‘Did he mention Peg?’ said the other. ‘’Tis me.’

  ‘My brother sent me here.’

  Peg giggled. ‘With two like you, we could both be well satisfied. You are a pretty piece of flesh, sir.’

  ‘Let me show you my brother.’

  ‘He is here?’

  ‘I have his likeness.’

  Nicholas produced the miniature and held it up to the candle. The two women squinted at it before making ribald comments. One of them had never seen the face before and the other only had the dimmest recollection of the man but they were both keen to help. Before Nicholas could stop her, Peg snatched the portrait and lurched across to one of the tables to show it to her colleagues. There were more coarse remarks and a few vague memories but non
e could put a name to the face or locate it at the Pickt-hatch on the night in question. One girl – a sinuous creature in red – stared at the miniature for a long time before shaking her head and tossing it back to Nicholas. Denying all knowledge of one client, Frances was soon luring another up to her room.

  Peg tried to entice Nicholas up to her own bed but he feigned a stupor and staggered out to continue his quest elsewhere. Retracing the steps of Sebastian Carrick was proving to be a demoralising exercise and he knew that he could never divulge any of his nocturnal activities to the trusting sister. Marion had sent him a mission whose true nature would distress her beyond measure if she ever found out what it really was. For her sake, he must press on. For her sake – and that of her brother – he had to persevere in his grisly work in the hope that it would finally deliver up a vile murderer.

  He was about to knock on the door of the neighbouring premises when he heard a stealthy tread behind him. Nicholas turned just in time. A sturdy figure came out of the dark with an arm raised to strike. His victim moved his head sharply but the club caught him a glancing blow on the temple that made his senses reel. Nicholas tottered a few steps then fell into a pool of liquid offal with a splash. He had enough presence of mind left to cover his head from further attack but it never came. Voices were raised nearby and all that he had to suffer was a vicious kick in the ribs before his assailant took to his heels. Nicholas rolled over in pain and shook his head to try to clear it. A lantern was held over him and four curious eyes surveyed the damage.

  ‘Master Bracewell, is it not?’ said a voice.

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ confirmed another.

  ‘Bless my soul!’

  ‘We came upon you just in time, sir.’

  Nicholas had no breath left to thank the two watchmen but he recognised them both and was eternally thankful for their arrival. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather had prevented another murder in Clerkenwell. As the old men helped him up from the ground, Nicholas felt an odd sense of elation. Someone had tried to kill him but the man had given himself away in doing so. The night had finally yielded its reward. Nicholas Bracewell was getting close.

  In an Eastcheap tavern, Cornelius Gant was also learning about London after dark. It was his first visit to the capital and he was still trying to come to terms with the sheer size of the city. By comparison with the towns in his native Cumberland, it was overpowering in its vastness. Every stage of his journey had provided a new source of fascination. He had seen huntsmen in Hyde Park, dead bodies dangling from the gibbet at Tyburn, cows grazing contentedly in St Giles with the mansions of the mighty spearing the sky in the distance alongside the broad Thames, the rambling inns of Holborn and the massive city wall that rose to a height of eighteen feet and wrapped its brawny arms protectively around the capital. As Gant and Nimbus entered through Newgate, they found fresh wonders to transfix them at every turn. Houses, shops, taverns and ordinaries jostled for position beside imposing civic buildings. Street markets turned major thoroughfares into swirling maelstroms. Noise was deafening, smells were pungent. Churches abounded in every ward but all were dwarfed by the majestic bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral. The Tower was a spectacle in itself.

  After spending the day absorbing it all, Cornelius Gant was passing the night at The Feathers. While Nimbus rested in his stable, his master joined the company in the taproom to sample the ale and sound out his chances. With money to spend, he soon bought himself voluble drinking companions.

  ‘And what of entertainment, sirs?’ asked Gant.

  ‘London has all that a man could wish,’ said one of his newfound friends. ‘We’ve taverns to refresh him, executions to amuse him, stews to supply him with good sport.’

  ‘What may this man see for further diversion?’

  ‘Whipping, branding and vile treatment in the pillory.’

  ‘I have heard tell of bear-baiting.’

  ‘Southwark will bait you a bear or a bull,’ said the other with an oily grin. ‘And you may wager on the outcome if your purse is deep enough. There are also houses where dog will eat dog or where cocks will fight to the death.’

  ‘Are there no animals that do tricks?’ said Gant.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said his guide knowledgeably. ‘There is no marvel that London has not seen. We have had a fish that talked, a cat that sang, an ape that did somersaults to order and a camel that danced a jig. One old sailor even taught a snake to play on a set of pipes. It is all here.’

  ‘Do you have a horse that can fly?’

  ‘There is no such animal.’

  ‘London has never witnessed this miracle?’

  ‘Never, sir.’

  ‘It will,’ said Gant with a smile. ‘It will.’

  ‘Hold still!’ she chided softly. ‘I must bathe the wound before I can bind it up for you. Do not shake your head so. Be patient for a while longer.’

  ‘I want no bandage around my head,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You will have what I decree,’ decided Anne Hendrik with affectionate firmness. ‘And you will take more care next time you walk through Clerkenwell.’

  ‘But I found what I sought, Anne.’

  ‘A broken crown and a bloody face?’

  ‘That was a small price to pay.’

  ‘You might have endured far worse if the watchmen had not disturbed your assailant.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take no chances, Nick. Think on those who care for you.’

  ‘I do.’

  He squeezed her hand then let her finish her work. The blow on his head had opened up a long cut on his temple and sent a dark bruise looping down the side of his face like a crescent. His wound looked far worse than it felt but he submitted to her tender ministrations and let her bandage away. He also let her put his soiled clothes into a washtub to soak. Anne was shocked when he first returned home in such a condition. That shock had now given way to an anxiety that was tinged with a faint jealousy.

  ‘Who is this young lady with the miniature?’

  ‘Marion Carrick is his sister.’

  ‘I know that. But why do you jump to her command?’

  ‘It was an entreaty,’ he explained. ‘Over the very grave of her brother, she asked me to find his killer. I could not refuse such an appeal.’

  ‘That is clear, sir.’

  ‘Why have you become so cold towards me?’

  ‘I?’ she said coldly. ‘You are mistaken.’

  ‘Not as mistaken as you, I think.’

  Anne turned away. ‘I am deeply sorry for what happened to her brother but that gives her no rights over you.’ She let her irritation build before she blurted out her protest. ‘I would not have you lose your life over a pretty face.’

  ‘Nor shall I,’ said Nicholas, taking her in his arms to pull her close. ‘Not as long as I have a far prettier face waiting for me back at my lodging.’

  He stilled her with a kiss and they were reconciled. Anne now voiced her real concern over the dangers that he faced but he calmed her. It was at moments like this – when he was injured or late home – that she realised just how much he had come to mean in her life. His was a warm and unobtrusive presence in the house but she never took him for granted. Much as she wanted a vicious murderer to be brought to justice, she did not want to risk the life of Nicholas Bracewell to achieve that end. It vexed her greatly.

  ‘Come, Anne,’ he consoled. ‘Put away your fear. I have troubles enough without all this to tax me.’

  ‘Troubles enough?’

  ‘Master Firethorn is in love.’

  ‘With his wife, it is to be hoped.’

  ‘With the long-suffering Margery, to be sure,’ he said. ‘But she has travelled to Cambridge and left her husband unchecked. He is not a man who should have such freedom.’

  ‘His wandering eye has wandered once more?’

  ‘This lady could prove a most perilous adventure.’

  ‘Who is the creature?’

  ‘Mistress Beatrice Capaldi. All I know of her is her name and h
is extravagant report.’ Nicholas clicked his tongue. ‘If he would stay true to his acting, he could rule the world. But he falters. This new love of his could lead him ruinously astray.’

  ‘Is she as beautiful as Mistress Carrick?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Simply curiosity.’

  ‘I heard an edge in your voice.’

  ‘Is she or is she not?’ pressed Anne.

  Nicholas gave her a smile of tender sincerity.

  ‘Both of them pale beside you …’

  His head pounded away as she embraced him afresh but it was a pain he was happy to suffer in such a worthy cause.

  Time which had already hung heavy now pressed down upon him with cruel force. Andrew Carrick found life in the Tower of London even more oppressive. His cell seemed to shrink in size. Its atmosphere grew staler, its voice more hostile. During nights that stretched out to interminable lengths, he lay on his rough bed and reflected on the misery of his lot. Because he attended a wedding, he was unable to go to a funeral. Because he offended a dying queen, he could not pay his respects to a dead son. It was a running sore in his mind and it would not heal. The lawyer took every opportunity that he could to leave his cell and prowl the stairs. When he could bribe his way out into the fresh air, it was a merciful release for him.

  Harry Fellowes knew something of his distress and went out of his way to offer sympathy. Carrick seized gratefully on the chance of conversation.

  ‘How fares Her Majesty?’ he said.

  ‘The situation is bleak,’ replied Fellowes.

  ‘What do her physicians report?’

  ‘They will not disclose the truth of her condition.’

  ‘A bad sign indeed.’

  ‘We must be prepared for the worst.’

  Fellowes lightened the exchange by retailing bits of gossip about affairs of the day and he even coaxed a few smiles out of his friend. Carrick was quite intrigued by the plump and loquacious Clerk of Ordnance. The more he learnt about the man, the more interesting he became. Harry Fellowes was no ordinary employee of the state. Previous holders of his position had a military background but he had distinct literary inclinations. Though he matriculated at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he was a Beresford scholar, he took no degree. Instead, he became a gunner at the Tower, served as Clerk to the Armoury and translated an abstruse book about Turkey from the original Latin. The catholicity of his career was at variance with his waddling self-importance.