The Mad Courtesan

by Edward Marston

  His work inevitably suffered. During the performance of The Two Maids of Milchester on the following afternoon, he was so subdued that Barnaby Gill was able to wrest scene after scene from him. Firethorn did not even seem to notice the indignity, let alone to care. His mind was on higher things. When the play was over and a disgruntled audience had filed out of the Queen’s Head, the actor turned to the one man in the company who might yet save him.

  ‘Advise me, Nick!’ he begged.

  ‘My advice is to forget this lady,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘She spurned me. No woman has ever done that before. Am I not Lawrence Firethorn? Am I not King Gondar and Tarquin and Black Antonio and Pompey the Great and Richard the Lionheart and all the other giants of the London stage?’

  ‘You are indeed, sir.’

  ‘Yet she spurns me. She spurns every one of me!’

  ‘It may be for the best.’

  ‘When it murders my very soul!’

  Firethorn’s howl shook the timbers of the private room where they conversed. Nicholas Bracewell had to balance honesty against diplomacy. He was thankful that Mistress Beatrice Capaldi had turned down the invitation from his employer but he would not dare to say that to an infatuated man of legendary temper. Besides, he had come to understand the nature of that infatuation now that he had seen the lady herself at close range. Beatrice Capaldi was a cut above the conventional beauties who idolised the famous actor and who flung themselves at his feet. They were all victims of his charm and his arrogant manliness. Beatrice Capaldi would never join their number. She liked victims of her own.

  ‘Why does she dare to scorn me?’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘The lady may be fast married, sir.’

  ‘That is no barrier. I have borrowed a wife from many a husband before now and will do so again. Besides, she brought no Master Capaldi to watch me perform. When you gave her my letter, you said she was attended by two manservants.’

  ‘It is true, sir.’

  ‘Then her husband is of no account,’ decided Firethorn with a snap of his fingers. ‘If he exists, it is my bounden duty to cuckold the rogue. If not, let’s waste no more breath upon him. Beatrice came to me alone. I cling to that.’

  ‘Consider her name,’ suggested Nicholas, making one last attempt to deter his employer. ‘Mistress Capaldi.’

  ‘I consider it every minute of the day, Nick.’

  ‘The lady is of Italian extraction.’

  ‘It is the essence of her beauty.’

  ‘She may also be wed to an Italian gentleman.’

  ‘Your conclusion?’

  ‘Beatrice Capaldi is a Roman Catholic.’

  ‘Love is without denomination!’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘Were she Protestant, Jew or Presbyterian, I could worship her no less. Were she a godless child of an African heathen, it would not alter my heart. Were she got between two Druids in some pagan rite, I would not stay my hand here. I love her!’

  ‘That is plain, sir.’

  ‘Then help me, Nick!’

  ‘I am yours to command.’

  ‘What game does she play with me?’

  Beatrice Capaldi stood bolt upright while her dressmaker made a few final adjustments to his latest creation. With an ingratiating bow, he then backed away so that she could inspect the result in the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated one wall of her bedchamber. The dress was a work of art in white and silver. Simple and heavily padded, it had a close-fitting bodice with a long-fronted stomacher that dipped in a deep point to the stiffened basque of the French farthingale. The basque was made of the same material as the flounced bell-shaped skirt and concealed the hard line of the wheeled farthingale. Trunk sleeves were full at the top and tapered to the wrists, giving the demi-cannon effect that was now in fashion. Beatrice Capaldi examined each detail with care until she was entirely satisfied. She then walked around the room to get the feel of her new dress and to enjoy the sensual swish of its skirt. When she had had her fill, she repaid her dressmaker with an indulgent smile. He bowed frantically then backed out with servile gratitude. Left alone in front of the mirror, she toyed with the low square décolletage across the front of the dress so that she could display a more generous area of her full breasts. There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered with writing materials on a tray. Beatrice Capaldi crossed to sit at the little table and the paper was put in front of her. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, she wrote a single line.

  ‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

  The letter was sealed but not signed and the name of Master Lawrence Firethorn was added with a flourish. She handed the missive to the manservant with a curt order.

  ‘See it delivered to the Queen’s Head directly.’

  Nimbus was equal to the occasion. The London debut of Cornelius Gant and His Amazing Horse was a comprehensive success. It took place in the yard at The Feathers where fifty or more casual bystanders were transformed into a rapt audience. The performers showed enough of their skills to dazzle the spectators while holding back their principal tricks for use before larger gatherings at a later date. Dancing and counting were the basis of their act. While the versatile Gant played on a pipe, Nimbus went through a whole series of dances, beginning with a coranto and ending with a sprightly galliard. But it was the money trick which tricked money out of purses.

  ‘Place your coins in this hat, sirs,’ invited Gant as he held it out. ‘You’ll get it back with interest, I warrant.’ When the spectators hesitated, Nimbus grabbed the hat in grinning teeth to take it around. Twenty or more coins were tossed laughingly into the receptacle which was then taken back to Cornelius Gant. Taking hold of the hat, he pulled out a gold coin and held it up.

  ‘Who gave you this, Nimbus?’

  The horse picked out the donor at once and nudged him. Gant indicated another man and asked how much he had contributed. Nimbus promptly tapped his foot three times and three coins were returned to their astonished owner. And so it went on. The animal was able to identify both the giver and the amount given until the hat was completely empty. The applause was vigorous and coins came back more plentifully. By way of an encore, Gant let his partner tip the takings onto the ground so that they could be added up with a tapped hoof. Nimbus was a precise accountant whose nimble work brought forth another hail of money.

  It was a gratifying response to an unusual act but it was not only his full purse that pleased Gant. He took more satisfaction from the impact they had had upon the watching patrons. Those men would spread the word throughout and beyond Eastcheap. The seeds of reputation would be sown and future audiences would be primed and set up.

  Cornelius Gant and Nimbus had arrived.

  The influence of Lord Westfield opened doors for Nicholas Bracewell once again. He visited Andrew Carrick in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and gave him an account both of the funeral and of his nocturnal investigations in Clerkenwell. The lawyer thanked him profusely for all that he had done but warned him against taking too many risks. Nicholas had now removed the bandaging from his head to reveal a dark bruise and an ugly scar. He insisted that he was willing to collect more wounds if they would take him closer to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The father was touched.

  Grief pressed down upon him. Having lost a son, he was anxious to console his daughter but he was kept in the Tower because his sovereign had a fit of pique. While the Queen was ill, all hope of release had vanished. Andrew Carrick was surprisingly well informed about the progress of events.

  ‘Her Majesty fades quietly away,’ he said, ‘and her courtiers rush around to find themselves a successor who will favour them. Several names have been mentioned and each has its party and its parasites.’

  ‘Is the Queen’s illness so serious?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘All reports confirm it.’

  ‘How can you know this?’

  ‘Imprisonment sharpens a man’s hearing and they talk of nothing else here. People in royal service hang upon every shift of royal pow
er. My friend, Master Fellowes, who is Clerk of Ordnance here, keeps me abreast of all developments.’

  ‘Does he know the nature of the Queen’s malady?’

  ‘Old age is her chiefest complaint.’

  ‘She is but sixty and takes great care of her person.’

  ‘That is why the rumour has grown abroad.’

  ‘What rumour, sir?’

  ‘The Queen has succumbed to some vile poison.’

  ‘Poison?’ said Nicholas in surprise. ‘Administered by whom? Only her physicians could get close enough to her.’

  ‘You may have identified the villain, sir.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Dr Lopez.’

  Nicholas was sceptical about the theory but he could see how it must have arisen. Roderigo Lopez was one of the most hated and envied members of the medical profession. A Portuguese Jew who fled the Inquisition, he came to England to practise as a doctor and serve as house physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. His renown as a dietician and a wise counsellor spread until he included the Earl of Leicester and Sir Francis Walsingham among his patients. In 1586 he was appointed chief physician to Queen Elizabeth but Lopez was not content with a solely medical role. He used his position at court to champion the cause of Antonio Perez, the Portuguese pretender. Breaking with the latter, the doctor rashly quarrelled with the Earl of Essex who was the main English supporter of the Perez party. Dr Lopez was later arrested at the instigation of Essex who claimed that he had discovered a conspiracy in which the chief physician was to poison the Queen. Her sickness might now seem to confirm the allegations but Nicholas had severe doubts.

  ‘Dr Lopez is under lock and key,’ he said. ‘He has not been near Her Majesty for months.’

  Carrick shrugged. ‘The poison may be slow-acting. It could have been given to her by Lopez in the guise of some medicinal remedy.’

  ‘The Queen is watched over with too much care.’

  ‘Some confederate may have done the deed.’

  ‘Her physicians have not even said that poison is at all involved here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Dr Lopez is too hastily accused. The charges brought by the Earl of Essex have yet to be proved against him. No treason may have occurred. The doctor has been imprisoned for two other crimes.’

  ‘What are they, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘He is a foreigner and he is a Jew.’

  Andrew Carrick nodded. ‘You speak well. We show little respect to the stranger in these islands of ours. We despise what is different and see it only as a threat.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘But this anxiety over the Queen has brought reward to some quarters. Your rivals prosper.’

  ‘Banbury’s Men?’

  ‘I hear tell of a play called The Spanish Jew. It could not be more timely. Cross out the name of Spain, insert its neighbour country and you have the villain of the piece.’

  ‘Dr Roderigo Lopez.’

  ‘The play draws huge audiences.’

  ‘It feeds on hatred and prejudice,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Banbury’s Men have stolen the march on you. Let us hope that their patron does not do the same.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’

  ‘A battle for the succession would also be a battle for supremacy on the stage,’ argued Carrick. ‘Lord Westfield will support the claim of King James of Scotland who has a fondness for the drama. If he is to be our next ruler, you and your fellows might be translated into the King’s Men.’

  ‘We are not yet ready to lose our Queen,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘But what of the Earl of Banbury? Which party does he follow in this matter?’

  ‘One that will serve him best,’ said Carrick. ‘Pray God that his candidate does not reach our throne. Banbury’s Men would surely triumph then. Your company would be destroyed.’

  ‘By the new King?’

  ‘By the new Queen.’

  Hardwick Hall was an arresting sight. Even in its present unfinished state, it could stir the spirit and excite the imagination. In little over two years, industrious builders had substantially completed the main structure and they continued to swarm busily over it. Six miles to the south-east of Chesterfield, the house was the brainchild of the redoubtable Elizabeth Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury. Widowed by her fourth husband, she was not only the richest woman in the kingdom but one of the most ambitious and powerful as well. The house was to be a lasting monument to her and she emphasised the fact by having her initials carved in stone on top of the four massive square towers of the west front. Restraint was unknown to Bess of Hardwick. In the imposing west front of the house were no less than fifty windows, some of huge dimensions. The quiet Derbyshire landscape had never seen such an expanse of glass.

  ‘Our visit was worthwhile.’

  ‘I could have been spared the tour of the house.’

  ‘Bess is inordinately proud of it,’ said the Earl of Chichester. ‘We must humour the lady.’

  ‘There is only one way to do that, Roger.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Become her fifth husband.’

  ‘God’s wounds! That would be purgatory!’

  ‘She is a lusty widow.’

  ‘Let her vent her lust on Hardwick Hall.’

  The Earl of Banbury laughed at his friend’s discomfort. Their carriage was bumping along the drive that cut through the extensive front gardens of the estate. Bending backs could be seen all around as a team of urgent gardeners strove to provide the magnificent house with an appropriate horticultural setting. Symmetry was the keynote for hall and garden alike. The noble travellers hoped that their plans would achieve a similar neatness of line.

  ‘The girl is ours,’ decided the old soldier.

  ‘She comes at a fearful price,’ said Banbury. ‘We must suffer that grandmother of hers.’

  ‘Bess can be managed easily.’

  ‘Four husbands would disagree with you.’

  ‘We have our queen. What more do we need?’

  ‘A throne on which to set her.’

  ‘It will soon be vacant.’

  ‘And fit to receive our nominated monarch.’

  ‘Arabella Stuart.’

  ‘Queen of England!’

  The earls congratulated themselves on the speed with which they had moved and the diplomacy which they had shown. Arabella Stuart was an attractive young girl of seventeen with a claim to the throne at least as strong as that of James VI of Scotland. She was the fruit of a dynastic marriage arranged by the manipulative Bess between her own daughter, Elizabeth, and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox. When Arabella was orphaned, she came into the care of her ever-scheming grandmother who considered marrying her to the Duke of Parma’s son, Rainutio Farnese, who had a tenuous link with the English crown through descent from John of Gaunt. During this period, Arabella spent some valuable time at court but the death of her elected bridegroom in 1592 saw her returned to Derbyshire. Inclined to be wayward, the girl was subjected to grandmotherly vigilance of the most intense kind. The visitors from London had been highly conscious of it.

  ‘Poor creature!’ said Banbury. ‘Arabella cannot draw breath without permission from the old harridan.’

  ‘A queen will take no orders.’

  ‘They will still be given, Roger.’

  ‘Bess can be silenced,’ said his colleague. ‘We will have Her Majesty’s ear without the intervening inconvenience of a grandmother.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘We’ve done it, man! All parties are well served here. England will have her new queen. Arabella will have her throne. We will have supreme influence. Our friends will have their due reward and our enemies will be roundly swinged.’

  ‘And what of that meddling grandmother?’

  ‘Bess will be too busy with Hardwick Hall.’

  They turned around to take a last look at the building. Even from that distance and even in its incomplete state, it was a superb piece of architecture. Its scope was quite stunning and its boldness of line echoed the temperament of its creator. Bess of Hardwick was well into
her sixties. This latest obsession would surely occupy her remaining years to the full.

  The Earl of Chichester gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘We are the true architects here,’ he boasted.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Bess only builds a house.’

  ‘What do we create, Roger?’

  ‘A kingdom!’

  Lawrence Firethorn could not believe his drink-blurred eyes. As he held the letter close to the candle, he read the words a dozen times to be sure of their meaning and confident of their authorship. He was downing another goblet of Canary wine with Barnaby Gill when the messenger sought him out in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Fumbling fingers broke the seal and six words effected his metamorphosis.

  ‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

  It was a message from Beatrice Capaldi and its import made him laugh with joy before banging the table impulsively with his fist. Barnaby Gill grabbed his own goblet as it danced its way across the vibrating timber.

  ‘Hold steady!’ he yelled.

  ‘She has spoken, Barnaby!’

  ‘Then close her mouth at once.’

  ‘Beatrice wants me! Beatrice needs me!’

  ‘Play this mad scene somewhere else, sir.’

  ‘Look!’ said Firethorn, thrusting the letter at him. ‘What else can these words mean? She invites me!’

  Gill gave the paper a disdainful glance before issuing one of his contemptuous snorts. ‘This woman is like all others of her kind, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘She is the highway to damnation.’

  ‘No, Barnaby. She is the road to Elysium.’

  ‘Turn back while there is still time, man.’

  ‘See what she asks for – true sacrifice?’

  ‘You have already sacrificed your wits and your wilting codpiece to her! Do not sacrifice your company as well.’