The text of the sermon wafted back into his ears.
‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face …’
Nicholas Bracewell wasted no time in passing on the good news to Samuel Ruff. Though concealing the circumstances in which it had occurred, he told the actor about Barnaby Gill’s change of mind. Ruff was so delighted that he gave the book holder a spontaneous hug that crushed the breath out of him.
‘This gladdens my heart, Nick!’
‘They are happy tidings for us all.’
‘You must have a persuasive tongue in your head.’
‘I used reason and art. No more.’
‘Should I speak with Master Gill on the matter?’
‘That would not be wise,’ said Nicholas hurriedly. ‘Put your past differences behind you, Sam. I am sure that Master Gill will not wish to raise the issue again.’
They had arrived at The Queen’s Head to start a morning rehearsal and they were standing outside the tiring-house. Nicholas could not have given his friend a more welcome present than the intelligence that he would remain with Westfield’s Men. Ruff’s normally serious face was alive with pleasure.
A booming voice interrupted their conversation.
‘Nicholas, dear heart!’
‘Good morning, master.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ muttered Ruff, withdrawing a few paces.
Lawrence Firethorn bestowed an amiable grin on the hired man then turned to Nicholas. The latter knew exactly what to expect.
‘You wish me to carry a message for you?’
‘Without delay, Nick.’
‘Could not George Dart do the office?’
‘No!’ thundered Firethorn. ‘I could not insult the recipient of my missive by sending such a mean bearer. This is a man’s work, Nick, and must not be left to some squirrel-faced youth.’
‘But I am needed here,’ argued the other.
‘Someone else will hold the book in your absence, dear fellow. You are called to a higher duty.’
Firethorn took a letter from beneath his doublet and planted a resounding kiss on it before handing it over.
‘See it delivered.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Wait for an answer.’
‘I will.’
The actor adopted the pose which the vicar of St Leonard’s had favoured in the pulpit on the previous day, and he spoke with holy resonance.
‘“Behold, I send my messenger before thy face …”’
Breaking into irreverent laughter, he clapped Nicholas on the back and went off into the tiring-house to spread his feeling of joy more liberally among the company.
Samuel Ruff stepped forward with raised eyebrows.
‘Am I right in guessing who the lady is?’ he said.
‘Yes, Sam.’
‘Does Master Firethorn know her reputation?’
‘It is one of the snares that leads him on.’
‘He might be less enthralled by her, if he knew what I do, Nick. Lady Rosamund Varley has been very free with her favours.’
‘That is no secret.’
‘This may be,’ suggested Ruff, lowering his voice. ‘Is he aware that she was once the mistress of Lord Banbury?’
Cheapside was the largest and noisiest of the London markets, with scores of country people standing shoulder to shoulder behind their trestle tables, exhibiting their wares in baskets on the ground or holding them up in their hands. Opened early in the morning by the tolling of a bell, the market was a swirling mass of humanity in a cauldron of sound and smell. The best poultry and milk was sold in Leadenhall Street, and those in search of fish would go to Fish Street Hill or to the quays of Queenshythe and Billingsgate, but it was Cheapside that offered the widest choice and brought in the greatest crowds.
As he made his way past the endless stalls, Nicholas Bracewell had much to occupy his mind. He was uncomfortable about his role as an intermediary between Lawrence Firethorn and his latest inamorata. Apart from his fondness for the actor’s wife, he was never happy when he was brought in to help stage manage Firethorn’s private life. A new and disturbing element had now been added. If Lady Rosamund Varley had had such an intimate relationship with Lord Banbury, it was conceivable that she was being used by him as a way of attacking a rival company. By distracting Lawrence Firethorn, she could do a lot of harm to Westfield’s Men.
Nicholas walked on towards the Gothic bulk of St Paul’s. Even though lightning had deprived it of its tower, the building still dominated the skyline and acted as a magnet for the citizens of London. Houses and shops crowded the precinct walls, and an army of criminals found their richest pickings both inside and outside the cathedral. Absorbed as he was in thought, Nicholas kept a careful watch for nips and foists who might try to take his purse.
By the time he reached Ludgate, he was having deep misgivings about his part in promoting an amour which might damage the whole company. The sight of the Bel Savage Inn nearby stirred Nicholas. It figured prominently in his life because it was there that he first fell in love with the mystique of the theatre during an exhilarating outdoor performance given by the Queen’s Men. On a cold afternoon in April, the Bel Savage had determined his future and directed him to Lord Westfield’s Men. With all its glaring faults, he loved the company and was ready to defend it from any threat. As he gazed affectionately at the inn, he came to a decision. He would somehow scupper the new romance. In the interests of the company, Lawrence Firethorn had to be saved from the consequences of his rising lust.
Nicholas hurried out past the City walls and along Fleet Street to the Strand. When he reached the looming opulence of Varley House, he delivered the letter but was told by a maid-in-waiting that her mistress was not at home. He was glad that there was no reply to carry back with him.
As he set off towards the City again, his mind turned once more to his quest. Will Fowler had begged him to pursue the murderer and not a day had passed when Nicholas did not renew his pledge. Redbeard would be found.
He was striding along Fleet Street when an idea brought him to a dead halt. The battered girl at the Hope and Anchor had talked about the raw wounds on her client’s back, and Nicholas had wondered if the man had been dragged through the streets at a cart’s tail and whipped for some minor offence. He now realised that Redbeard may have gained his scars elsewhere.
Swinging off to the right, he headed at speed in the direction of Bridewell. Built as a royal palace by Henry VIII on the banks of the Fleet River, it was a huge, rambling structure of dark red brick set around three courtyards. Members of the royal family had lived there, visiting dignitaries from abroad had stayed there, and the place had been leased to the French Ambassador for some eight years. Since the time of Edward, however, its inhabitants had been of more common stock.
Bridewell was a hospital and a prison.
Orphans, vagrants, petty offenders and disorderly women now stayed at the former palace and its regimen was strict. When Nicholas reached the building, he was given a vivid demonstration of its methods of discipline. A crowd of vagrants had just arrived at Bridewell and they were being whipped in public by the City beadles. The adults were each given a dozen strokes of the whip while the younger ones received half a dozen. With their backs bare, they whined and howled as the savage punishment was enforced.
Several onlookers had gathered to enjoy the spectacle of human suffering, but Nicholas had to turn away. It gave him no pleasure to see flesh sliced open and blood spurt out. During his time at sea, he had been forced to witness many floggings and the cruelty of it all had always turned his stomach. The short, wiry man standing beside Nicholas did not share his qualms. He roared on the beadles and cheered as each stroke landed.
‘They should give a taste of the whip to them as well,’ he averred. ‘A hundred lashes for each one!’
‘Who do you mean, sir?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Them!’ retorted the man. ‘The Spanish prisoners. Captives from the Armada. They should be flogged every
morning!’
‘Why, sir?’
‘For speaking such a scurvy tongue!’
The man emitted a harsh cackle before turning back to his sport. He was soon reviling the victims again, exhorting the beadles to strike harder and revelling in each cry of anguish that was beaten from the shredded bodies. Nicholas despised him with all his soul yet he was grateful to him. The man had reminded him that Bridewell was being used to house captured Spaniards and Catholic prisoners.
Without quite knowing why, Nicholas Bracewell felt that he had just made an important discovery.
He walked away with growing excitement.
Chapter Twelve
Firmness of purpose had always been Margery Firethorn’s hallmark. When she committed herself to a course of action, she held to it with single-minded determination. Her husband did everything in his power to coax and soften her but his most cunning wiles yielded no fruit. He was treated with such cold disdain, then lashed with such a hot tongue, that his domestic life seemed to consist entirely of fire and ice. Margery would not relent until he confessed the truth to her and there was no way that he could bring himself to do that. Stalemate therefore prevailed at the house in Shoreditch.
‘Good morning to you, my angel.’
‘Be silent, sir.’
‘Leave off these jests, Margery. Let us be friends.’
‘Is that your desire?’
‘Nothing would please me more, my love.’
‘Then satisfy my wishes, Lawrence.’
‘I prostrate myself before you.’
‘Who is she?’
He lapsed into his usual silence and she clambered out of the four-poster to carry her bitterness through a new day. There had been a time when Martin Yeo, John Tallis and Stephen Judd had crept along at night to the bedchamber of their host, and sniggered together in the dark as they heard the rhythmical thump of the mattress within. Such nocturnal bliss was a thing of the past for the couple – and for the apprentices – and Firethorn knew that he would need an armed escort and a pack of dogs if he were ever to mount his wife in her present mood. Only the thought of Lady Rosamund Varley sustained him.
Estranged from her husband, Margery dedicated her energies to running the household. She tackled her chores more eagerly, nurtured her children more lovingly, upbraided the servants more often, and kept the apprentices under even closer surveillance.
‘How is that ankle now, Dick?’
‘I am recovered, mistress.’
‘There is no more pain?’
‘Not from my foot,’ said Richard Honeydew. ‘But I still hurt when I think of what I missed at The Curtain.’
‘It was an act of God.’
‘My accident?’
‘A perfect case of divine intervention, I warrant.’
‘To what end, mistress?’ he asked. ‘Was God so displeased with my performance as Gloriana that he prevented it?’
‘No, child. He wished to bring something to my attention.’
‘What was it?’
‘A trifling piece of jewellery.’
They were in the garden and Margery was gathering up herbs to put into a stone pot. The autumnal sky was overcast with dark clouds weighting down the heavens. Margery took some fennel between her fingers and crushed it to sniff its aroma. She moved on in search of other herbs, speaking over her shoulder as she did so.
‘Do you have anything to report to me?’
‘About what, mistress?’
‘Those three rascals. Have they been up to their tricks?’
‘No.’
‘Do not be afraid to tell me, Dick. They will not harm you.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’
It was true. The others now left him alone. Martin Yeo felt he had reaffirmed his position with Gloriana Triumphant, Stephen Judd had withdrawn, and John Tallis, the lantern-jawed juvenile, had neither the wit nor the bravado to act without the support of his co-mates. They still did not befriend Richard but the persecution had ceased.
‘They are jealous of you,’ said Margery.
‘I have done so little compared with them.’
‘You will do so much more in time,’ she prophesied. ‘That is what they fear. Your talent.’ She turned round to face him. ‘Do you have ambitions, Dick?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘What are they?’
‘To be a good actor.’
‘Not a great one?’
‘I could never be as great as Master Firethorn,’ he said with humility, not noticing the way that her expression froze at the mention of her husband. ‘But I can study to be good. My other ambition is to play at court.’
‘That opportunity may not be too far away, Dick.’
‘Nothing could compare with that!’ he announced with joyful sincerity. ‘I was cheated out of my chance to play the role of Her Majesty. I could ask for no greater recompense than to act before her. That is ambition enough for anyone!’
His young face glowed with innocent hope.
Anne Hendrik was grateful for his company at Southwark Market. Not only was Nicholas able to carry what she bought from the stalls, his muscular presence cleared a path through the crowd and spared her the attentions of many undesirables. She was always happy to be in public with him, and felt that their friendship took on a new meaning when they engaged in simple chores together. Anne examined some fruit with a knowing eye, but her mind was on other matters.
‘It is a blessing that the child was safely delivered,’ she said. ‘I feared that she might miscarry.’
‘Because of the shock of Will’s death?’
‘Less tragedies have altered the course of nature.’
‘Not in Susan’s case, thank God,’ he said with a smile.
‘No, mother and daughter are both well.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘The pity of it is that Will Fowler never lived to see his bonny child.’
A letter had arrived from St Albans the previous day to tell them of the birth of a daughter to Susan Fowler. Since neither she nor her parents could write, the missive had been penned by the parish priest. Nicholas and Anne had been delighted to hear the news but they were puzzled by one item in the letter. Susan Fowler had thanked them for a gift of a crib.
‘We sent no crib,’ said Anne. ‘Why did she think we did?’
‘It must have been left for her to find,’ he suggested. ‘A secret offering with the sender unnamed. We should feel flattered that she thought of us, Anne. Susan must believe us capable of such kindness.’
‘If only we had been. I will send another present for the child. It has many needs, I am sure, and few enough of us to care.’
She bought some apples, pears and plums and put them in the already overflowing basket that Nicholas was holding. It was time to head back. As they turned their steps toward home, Anne Hendrik tucked herself in beside him and puzzled over something.
‘Nick …’
‘Yes?’
‘If we did not send that gift – then who did?’
It was a problem which exercised them all the way back.
Because they had set out so early, it was still well before eight when they reached the house. Nicholas took the basket inside and helped her to unload it, then he had a frugal breakfast before going out again. His working day would be another long one.
Taking a boat across the river, he alighted on the north bank and struck off towards Gracechurch Street. There was a performance at The Queen’s Head that afternoon and they were due to rehearse Marriage and Mischief – a seasoned comedy from their repertoire – until noon. Barnaby Gill would take the central role of a jealous husband who is driven into a demonic rage by the apparent infidelity of his wife. Stephen Judd was cast as his spouse.
In view of what he had seen them doing in the tiring-house, Nicholas felt that the drama would have extra piquancy for him. The actor and the apprentice would act out intimacies in public which would be abhorrent in private. The audience who would laugh and mock the old husband
’s plight would have no inkling of the poignancy that lay behind it.
Nicholas was still meditating on the layered irony of the situation when something claimed his attention with a stunning immediacy. Benjamin Creech was standing in a shop doorway near the inn, deep in conversation with a tall, hulking man.
It was Redbeard.
‘Hold the villain!’
The shout burst forth from his lips as he broke into a run.
‘Stop him!’
Alerted by the yells, Redbeard looked up to see Nicholas tearing towards him. He reacted swiftly, spinning on his heel and haring off towards Fenchurch Street in a wild panic. Shoppers were scattered, vendors knocked aside, stalls overturned, and dogs sent howling as the tall figure charged recklessly on through the press. Nicholas chased him at full pelt, oblivious to the irate cries and loud protests he left in his wake. The whole street was now in an uproar.
Redbeard was moving fast but Nicholas found additional speed to close on him. He got within ten yards of his quarry before he came to grief. Sensing that the pursuit was closing in, Redbeard suddenly stopped to grab a low cart and swung it around himself into Nicholas’s path. Before he could stop himself, the book holder had gone headfirst over the obstacle and landed on the ground in a huge pool of cracked shells and egg yolk. The owner of the cart immediately grappled with him and demanded compensation for his ruined produce. By the time that Nicholas shook him off, it was too late. Redbeard had vanished in the crowd.
Trudging back to The Queen’s Head with disconsolate steps, Nicholas threw apologies right and left to the baying multitude. It was only when he reached the inn that he remembered Benjamin Creech. He straightened up and went quickly in through the main gate. Creech was on the far side of the yard, chatting with one of the journeymen. Nicholas hurried over to him, took him aside and pinned him up against a wall.
‘Who was that man?’ he demanded.
‘Take your hands off me!’ growled Creech.
‘Who was he?’ pressed Nicholas, tightening his grip.
‘I have never seen the fellow before.’
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 17