The Mad Courtesan

by Edward Marston

  Love transformed him out of all recognition. He was kind to his children, considerate to his servants and jocund with the apprentices who also lived under his roof. They had never known such happy tranquillity in him and suspected either a secret potion or the onset of madness. Firethorn’s benign mood took him all the way to the Queen’s Head and informed the morning rehearsal. The sniping of Barnaby Gill could not sour it, nor could the plaintive protests of Edmund Hoode. He seemed impervious to the general misery. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to shatter his benevolence.

  ‘I gave my word!’ bellowed Firethorn.

  ‘Lord Westfield spoke a few words himself, sir.’

  ‘I’ll not jump to his command.’

  ‘You are to be reminded that he is our patron.’

  ‘My word is my bond!’

  ‘Your place is here with us.’

  Nicholas was ready to take the verbal shot with which he was sprayed. He passed on the message from Lord Westfield and urged the actor-manager to reconsider his arrangements for Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the tiring-house but Firethorn’s half of the conversation could be heard a hundred yards away. Inadvertently, Nicholas put even greater volume into the roar by making a faint insinuation.

  ‘You commit yourself too soon and too hastily, sir.’

  ‘Do you dare to lecture me!’

  ‘Learn to know the lady better.’

  ‘That is why we float on the Thames together.’

  ‘No, master,’ said Nicholas. ‘Find out more about her before you plunge headlong into this tryst. There may be things about Mistress Capaldi which somewhat alter the character which she presents.’

  Firethorn was outraged. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘It is not for me to impugn her honour but …’

  ‘Be silent, Nick! I’ve heard enough of this.’

  ‘Wait but a week or two and—’

  ‘SILENCE!’

  Nicholas survived the broadside. ‘Lord Westfield will take his seat here on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘His noble buttocks may sit where they wish.’

  ‘He expects to watch Love’s Sacrifice.’

  ‘Prepare him for disappointment.’

  ‘He insists on seeing King Gondar.’

  ‘His Majesty will be on the river.’

  As a last resort, the book holder applied full pressure.

  ‘Fail us on Saturday and you put the company at risk.’

  ‘What care I for that?’

  ‘Westfield’s Men are built around you, sir.’

  ‘My mistress calls and I may not deny her.’

  ‘Our patron will take it ill.’

  ‘Then let him!’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘Westfield’s Men depend on me but I do not depend on them. There is a world elsewhere.’ He crossed to the door and opened it with a dramatic gesture. ‘I go to it on Saturday!’

  Notwithstanding her combative nature, Margery Firethorn had a soft heart that was duly touched by the wonder of creation. The sight of a happy mother with a beautiful baby was more than ample reward for all the effort she herself had put in at the house, and she was even coming to see her brother-in-law in a less unfavourable light. Jonathan Jarrold would never be the kind of man with whom she would choose to share a bed – let alone a marriage – but his delight in the office of fatherhood was moving and his commitment total. He was always ready to help and willing to learn. There were times when Margery actually had no need to scold him and she soon caught herself paying him gruff compliments. Whatever his shortcomings, Jonathan Jarrold, bookseller, was the head of a little family. When he cooed fondly over his son and heir, he made his sister-in-law think of her own brood. Happiness in Cambridge made her homesick.

  Jonathan’s shop was her only link with the capital.

  ‘There is much anxiety over the Queen,’ he said.

  ‘She has the finest physicians about her.’

  ‘The news is not good. A printer who has just come from London was in my shop this morning. Her Majesty is confined to her apartments and takes no part in the government of her realm. Everyone fears the worst.’

  Margery was scornful. ‘They should be on their knees to pray for her recovery. We must not give into fears. We must have faith, Jonathan.’

  ‘It is difficult in the face of such reports.’

  ‘Her Majesty is too young to die.’

  ‘None of us may live for ever.’

  ‘She is every inch a Queen and every inch a woman. I’ll wager that she defies those rumours yet.’

  ‘The rumours have firm foundation.’

  ‘Pah!’ she snorted. ‘Should I trust the word of a pox-ridden printer who seeks to impress his Cambridge friends with this idle chatter? Queen Elizabeth will outlive us all. We need her on the throne of England. God save the Queen!’

  But Margery’s certainty was fringed with apprehension. The rumours that came from London were now too numerous to discount and they contained a threat of dire consequences for the whole nation. At a more immediate level, there was a danger to Westfield’s Men. A change of sovereign could bring about a change of attitude towards the theatre. She knew enough of the Earl of Banbury’s love of intrigue to realise that he would seek to exploit the death of the Queen to the advantage of himself and his company. Margery bit her lip. Her husband’s livelihood might well be put in hazard. It gave her even more incentive to return home at speed.

  Saturday took on more significance.

  Harry Fellowes was an unlikely poet but his Latin verses had a pleasing sound and a cold intelligence. He was very proud of them but distressed by the lack of informed praise for his literary endeavours. There were no Classical scholars among his colleagues and the brutish surroundings of the Tower slowly crushed his creative instincts. He was all the more thrilled, therefore, to befriend someone with true learning and sincere interest. Andrew Carrick not only asked to see the published verses, he read them with care, made notes on their excellence and discussed them at length. The Clerk of Ordnance and the imprisoned lawyer who walked along together were strolling through Ancient Rome.

  ‘And which poems delighted you most?’ asked Fellowes.

  ‘Those in the style of Ovid.’

  ‘He was always my master.’

  ‘Even when you stand before your congregation?’ said Carrick with a teasing smile. ‘I would not have thought that kind of love had any place in a pulpit.’

  ‘Yet it belongs in the heart of every true man.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  ‘Each of us has many sides to his character.’

  ‘You seem to have far more than most, Master Fellowes.’

  The poet needed reassurance. ‘And did my verses really give you joy, my friend?’

  ‘They brought Cicero back to my mind.’

  ‘Cicero?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘If I quote him aright. Haec studentia adulescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant.’

  ‘Oh, sir, you are too kind!’ Harry Fellowes pounced gratefully on the translation. ‘These studies nurture youth and delight old age.’

  The lawyer grew serious. ‘Your work has been a great solace to me in my cell. It held back the horrors of my life and defeated time most wonderfully. It put a glow of hope into some very dark nights.’

  ‘No praise could be higher than that. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Most of all, I liked your line from Virgil.’

  ‘You recognised the theft?’

  ‘It was no theft,’ said Carrick. ‘You borrowed and paid back with interest.’ The moneylender laughed. ‘Virgil spoke aloud on your final page. Trahit sua quemque voluptas.’

  ‘Everyone is dragged down by his favourite pleasure.’

  ‘It was the theme of all your verses.’

  ‘There is such deep truth in it.’

  Andrew Carrick sighed. ‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’

  It was an accurate summary of his son’s life. Sebastian Carrick was bursting with a talent that was
marred by his excesses. In a Clerkenwell brothel, his favourite pleasure had dragged him down for good. The sad father tried to shake his head clear of such thoughts and turn a moment of close companionship to material advantage. His admiration of the verses was not feigned but the Ovidian strain did not blind him to the true character of the poet. Harry Fellowes might be a scholar but he was also a shrewd criminal who used his privileged position in the Ordnance Office to deceive and defraud. The hand which had turned such elegant Latin lines could embezzle with equal skill.

  Andrew Carrick returned the calf-bound book to him.

  ‘Your work must seem dull after this,’ he said.

  Fellowes was defensive. ‘It has its own appeal.’

  ‘There is not much scope for poetry in your ledgers.’

  ‘They have a kind of rhythm at times.’

  ‘I am sure that you keep them scrupulously exact.’

  ‘My figures always tally,’ said the other smugly. ‘You could search through every book and not find a discrepancy.’

  ‘I would welcome the chance to try.’

  ‘The exercise would bore you, Master Carrick.’

  ‘Anything is a relief from the tedium of my cell.’

  Harry Fellowes looked at him carefully then glanced down at the slim volume in his hand. Gratified by the lawyer’s warm response to his work, he was keen to express his thanks in a more tangible way. If he showed his friend how he laboured at his desk, he could inflate his own self-esteem even more. Andrew Carrick posed no problem. He was simply an unfortunate casualty of a marriage that aroused royal ire.

  ‘Come with me,’ invited Fellowes.

  They left Ancient Rome and made their way towards a territory of numbers and receipts. Harry Fellowes was no bending author now. He was a keen mathematician who liked order and precision, moving large quantities of money around in the course of his occupation. Once launched on a boastful description of his work, he could not be stopped. The Clerk of Ordnance who was paid a mere £64 per annum claimed that he saved Her Majesty £2,000 a year.

  ‘How?’ asked Carrick.

  ‘By taking the returns of such munitions as return from the seas unspent, which formerly were concealed and converted to private use.’

  ‘You are a prudent steward, Master Fellowes.’

  ‘Nothing escapes me, sir.’

  Carrick encouraged him to talk on and Harry Fellowes did not pause throughout the entire visit. As he flicked through his account books, he became even more complacent and he lapped up the appreciative comments of his guest. Though he was a man of wide abilities, there was no doubting where his real interest lay. Money was the favourite pleasure of Harry Fellowes. It was inevitable that Virgil should again drift into Carrick’s mind.

  ‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’

  Lawrence Firethorn’s powers of recovery were remarkable. When the rehearsal ended that morning, he had been as angry as a wounded bear and clawed everyone who came within reach. When the performance began that afternoon, he was Hector of Troy to the life, leading his company in the tragedy of that name as if all was joy and harmony. The row with Nicholas Bracewell was forgotten, the deep divisions were ignored. Firethorn attacked his role with a verve that was his hallmark. Beatrice Capaldi was not in the audience at the Queen’s Head but he played Hector as if she were, throwing each line to the middle of the lower gallery and strutting about with even more than his usual arrogance. His superb portrait filled the stage with drama and did much to vindicate a reputation that was seriously under attack. He more than earned the ovation which he gained. None of the spectators would have guessed that the brilliant actor whom they had just seen at his peak was ready to forsake his art and his fellows for an afternoon with a woman. Firethorn himself reaffirmed his decision. Fitting his fingers to his lips, he threw invisible kisses to the invisible Beatrice Capaldi and whispered his promise over the applause.

  ‘True love requires true sacrifice …’

  Offstage, he reverted to his former irascibility and those who tried to speak to him suffered accordingly. Barnaby Gill was cursed, Edmund Hoode reviled, Peter Digby abused, Hugh Wegges punched and the unlucky George Dart almost trampled to death. When Alexander Marwood made the mistake of praising the exploits of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus once again, Firethorn lifted him up by his shoulders and deposited him in a horse trough.

  Nicholas Bracewell had to soothe many a troubled brow before his work was done for that day. Gill and Hoode were particularly agitated by the threatened betrayal. Though the comedian was looking forward to Cupid’s Folly on Saturday afternoon, he did not dare to fly in the face of their patron’s wishes. The playwright, too, wanted Love’s Sacrifice reinstated, if for different reasons. Nicholas told them that the decision had been taken right out of their hands by Lord Westfield who would accept no other work. It was Hoode’s latest play that would be advertised for performance.

  ‘Love’s Sacrifice?’ said Gill. ‘Without Lawrence?’

  ‘King Gondar will be there,’ assured Nicholas.

  Hoode was pessimistic. ‘He has refused to appear.’

  ‘Much can happen before Saturday.’

  ‘Yes, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘We may lose our Queen, our company and our profession. Much may indeed happen.’

  Nicholas said no more. When he left the inn, he turned left into Gracechurch Street and kept walking briskly until Bishopsgate loomed up ahead. Leaving the city through one of its great portals, he maintained a steady pace all the way to Shoreditch. The crowds had dispersed from The Curtain and The Theatre but the hostelries were still full of roistering gallants. Nicholas stopped at the sign of The Elephant and found a more pensive Owen Elias brooding alone on a bench outside the establishment. They exchanged greetings.

  ‘What ails you?’ said Nicholas.

  Elias was evasive. ‘It is no matter.’

  ‘Did you play at The Curtain this afternoon?’

  ‘The Tragical History of King John.’

  ‘What role did you take?’

  ‘A small one,’ muttered the other. ‘I died at the end of Act One. It was like being back with Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘There will be no more small parts for you there.’

  ‘I will never go back to the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘You have signed the contract, then?’

  ‘No. Not exactly …’

  ‘When will Giles Randolph make you a sharer?’

  ‘On Saturday, he says.’

  ‘He says.’

  ‘Why should he go back on his word?’

  ‘Why are you so sad?’

  Nicholas had touched a raw spot and his friend almost jumped up from the bench. Owen Elias had raised the question of his contract half an hour earlier in the taproom and he had been given the usual reassurances by Giles Randolph but somehow they lacked conviction this time. Whether it was guilt over his old company or disillusionment with his new one, he did not know, but the Welshman suddenly felt the ground shudder slightly beneath his feet. Banbury’s Men had given him a hero’s welcome but he sensed that it would not last indefinitely. He was also well placed to see that his new colleagues did not have the strength in depth of Westfield’s Men. Giles Randolph liked good actors around him but they were not allowed to compete with him. Lawrence Firethorn, by contrast, employed the finest talents he could muster because he knew that he could hold his own against them. Indeed, the more competition he was given, the higher the pitch of his own performance.

  Elias’s preoccupation was written on his face and Nicholas read it with interest but without further comment. He had come to The Elephant for another reason.

  ‘It is time to help Sebastian,’ he said.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If you are ready, Owen.’

  ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘Clerkenwell.’

  ‘I am with you, Nick.’

  ‘Are you armed?’

  ‘My dagger will protect me against anything.’

  ‘Not against an
axe,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s call at your lodging for a sword. There may be a brawl.’

  Owen Elias chuckled. ‘That cheers me up at once!’

  They collected his weapon then proceeded on their way to Clerkenwell. It was a long walk and Nicholas had plenty of time to explain his plan in detail. The element of danger appealed to the actor whose solid frame had weathered many a tavern fight. Sebastian Carrick had died owing him money but he was still eager to avenge the murder. His rival had made possible the surge in his prospects.

  Two other accessories were gathered along the way.

  ‘What would you have with us?’ asked Josiah Taplow.

  ‘We seek no trouble,’ said William Merryweather.

  ‘You come but as witnesses,’ said Nicholas.

  He told them enough to draw them along but concealed the full story from them. The watchmen trailed in their wake and grumbled at the speed made by the two younger men but they managed to keep up. Nicholas stationed them at the end of Turnmill Street then went on more stealthily with Owen Elias. Light had faded now and they were simply two more shadowy figures in the half-darkness. Nicholas stopped well short of the Pickt-hatch and stepped into a doorway from which he could keep it under surveillance. Owen Elias walked on alone, warned of the perils but excited at the notion of taking the leading role for once. He knocked at the door and was admitted by Bess Bidgood. All that Nicholas could do was to watch, wait and beware of a man with an axe.

  St Paul’s Cathedral was the dominating feature of the night skyline. It rose like a mountain above all around it and imposed itself on every view of the city. One of the largest churches in Christendom, it never faded to draw gasps of astonishment from visitors to the capital who saw in its Gothic exuberance and its intimidating sprawl the power of God made manifest. Its massive crossing tower had twice been capped with a spire of wood and lead that reached a height of almost five hundred feet, making it the tallest steeple ever built, but lightning had destroyed it on both occasions. The second disaster, at the start of Elizabeth’s reign, was more serious in that the fire spread from the steeple to the roof and even melted the bells. Though the damage had been patched up, there was no attempt to rebuild the spire and to risk a third calamity.