The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  Her anxieties eased and her confidence slowly returned. She was less furtive in her duties. What happened before could be put down to the new master’s visit to the cellars. Too much wine had put lechery in his mind and lust in his loins. It would not occur again. Jane Skinner talked herself into believing it. She was making the bed in a chamber on the top storey when that belief was fractured. The door shut behind her and she turned to see Francis Jordan resting his back against it.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You startled me!’

  ‘I came to find you, Jane.’

  ‘How did you know I was here, master?’

  ‘I saw you from below,’ he explained. ‘I was in the garden when you opened the window up here. It was an opportunity I could not miss.’

  He smiled broadly and took a few steps towards her. Jane backed away and pulled up a sheet in front of her chest as if trying to ward him off. Shaking with fear, she squealed her protest.

  ‘Do not come any closer, please!’

  ‘If that is what you wish,’ he said, stopping.

  ‘I will scream if you touch me, sir.’

  ‘But I came here to apologise.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Why else? Do you take me for such a complete ogre?’

  ‘No, master,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Put down your sheet, Jane,’ he told her. ‘You are in no danger here, girl. I am sorry for what took place the other day. I was hot with wine and my behaviour was ungentlemanly. Will you accept my apology?’

  ‘Well … yes, sir.’

  ‘It is honestly given. As you see, I am quite sober now.’

  She nodded. ‘May I go, master?’

  ‘I am not stopping you,’ he said, crossing to open the door wide. ‘It is not my purpose to disturb you when you have duties to perform. I know that you are a conscientious girl.’

  ‘I try to be, master.’

  ‘Then carry on with your work. Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His departure was as abrupt as his arrival. He marched out of the room and left her bewildered. Instead of a second assault, she had been accorded respect and even kindness. It soothed her instantly and she went back to the bed. She was just finishing her task when Jordan sauntered up to the door again and tapped on it with his knuckles.

  ‘May I come in, Jane?’

  ‘If you wish, master.’

  The chambermaid was surprised but not intimidated this time.

  ‘I forgot to tell you something,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘It was wrong of me to jump on you like that because it was an insult to you. I see that now. You’re a fine-looking girl, Jane Skinner. You deserve more than a brief tumble like that.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, misunderstanding him.

  ‘A young woman like you should get her full due.’

  ‘Should I, master?’

  ‘Come to me for a whole night.’

  His casual manner reinforced the impact of his order. Jane Skinner reeled as if from a heavy blow. To be grabbed and groped by him was ordeal enough, but this was far worse. Her heart constricted as she viewed the prospect ahead of her. Francis Jordan was the master of Parkbrook House. His word was law within its walls. If she did not comply, she would be dismissed from his service.

  Appraising her frankly, he gave her a thin smile.

  ‘I will send for you some time in the near future, Jane. I’ll expect you to answer my summons.’

  She bit her lip in distress and her mind was a furnace.

  ‘This is a matter between the two of us,’ he said. ‘I would not have it discussed elsewhere. Besides, there is nobody to whom you can turn. My word is everything at Parkbrook.’

  He strolled across to her and lifted her chin with his finger. Jane was petrified. His touch was like a red-hot needle. He ran his eyes over her once more then nodded his approval. Turning on his heel, he went slowly out of the room.

  The chambermaid was horror-stricken. She was caught like an animal in a trap and could see no means of escape. Life at Parkbrook had held no such fears under the old master, but those days had clearly gone. To defy Francis Jordan seemed impossible yet to obey him would be to surrender everything she valued in her life. It was unthinkable. As a deep panic coursed through her, she felt the need to turn to somebody. Glanville would offer her sympathy even if he could not actually save her. With a little cry of anguish, Jane ran off to find him. She felt hurt, molested and thoroughly abused.

  The long journey down to the ground floor left her breathless and she had to pause for a while to gather her strength. Then she was off again, searching every room and corridor with panting urgency, asking anyone she met if they knew where Glanville was. But there was no sign of the steward. At a time when she needed him most, he was simply not there. Despair gnawed at her. It was one of the carpenters at work in the Great Hall who gave her a faint hope.

  ‘I think he be up in his room, mistress.’

  She gabbled her thanks and took to her heels again.

  Joseph Glanville had apartments on the first floor in the west wing. The correct way to approach them was to go up the main staircase and along the landings. But the steward also had a private staircase, a narrow circular affair that corkscrewed upwards at the extreme end of the west wing. It was a mark of status and nobody else was allowed to use it except Glanville, but the chambermaid forgot about that rule. Needing the quickest route to a source of help, she dashed along the corridor and clambered up the oak treads of the private staircase. Her shoes echoed and her breathing became more laboured.

  When she reached the door, she pounded on it with both fists.

  ‘Master Glanville! Master Glanville!’

  ‘Who is it?’ called a stem voice from within.

  ‘Jane Skinner, sir.’

  A bolt was drawn back, a key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. Jane had no opportunity to blurt out her story. The steward glared down at her with smouldering eyes.

  ‘Did you come up that staircase?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, sir. I wanted to see you about—’

  ‘It is for my personal use! You have no right, Jane Skinner.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How dare you flout my privilege!’

  ‘But I needed to—’

  ‘It is quite inexcusable,’ he said angrily. ‘You have no business coming to my apartments. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait until I am available. You must never come here again, Jane. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And you must never use that staircase again. I forbid it!’

  Glanville withdrew and closed the door in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock. Jane was totally shattered. A man who had always shown her consideration in the past was now openly hostile. The one person who might stand between her and Francis Jordan had let her down in the most signal way. Her position was worse than ever.

  The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.

  Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight, but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.
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  He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out. Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.

  Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield’s Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.

  ‘I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘It happens, sir.’

  ‘Is foul play suspected?’

  ‘Roper Blundell was poisoned,’ said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. ‘He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.’

  ‘I have never had a complaint before!’ said Marwood defensively,

  ‘Your victims keel over before they can make it.’

  ‘You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘That is my pleasure, sir.’

  ‘My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.’

  ‘A sure sign of drunkenness.’

  ‘They speak well of its taste and potency.’

  ‘Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.’

  Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else’s amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.

  ‘The Queen’s Head has a fine reputation.’

  ‘You may put that down to Westfield’s Men, sir.’

  ‘And to our own endeavours.’ He became businesslike. ‘I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘It will be paid at the end of the performance.’

  ‘You still owe me money from last week, sir.’

  ‘An unfortunate oversight.’

  ‘It is one of your habits.’

  ‘Do not pass remarks on my character,’ warned Firethorn. ‘All accounts will be paid in full.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.

  ‘I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.’

  ‘We play Love and Fortune,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marwood. ‘I want no corpses at my inn.’

  ‘Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you’ll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!’

  Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn’s ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield’s Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queen’s Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.

  Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.

  ‘You should have let me handle him, master.’

  ‘The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!’

  ‘He needs much reassurance.’

  ‘He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.’ Firethorn inhaled deeply. ‘I’ll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I’ll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!’

  ‘Master Marwood does not love the theatre,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Nor does the theatre love him, sir!’

  The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.

  ‘Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?’

  ‘What, master?’

  ‘That he did not want a dead body at the Queen’s Head. Zounds! That Marwood is a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He’s a posthumous oaf!’

  ‘Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?’

  ‘No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!’

  ‘Did you tell him the cause of death?’

  ‘I turned it into a joke against his drink.’

  ‘We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.’

  ‘Not in my opinion, master.’

  ‘You heard Doctor Mordrake.’

  ‘He was mistaken.’

  ‘Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.’

  ‘If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.’

  ‘The two go together,’ said Firethorn. ‘The Devil chose to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.’

  ‘Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.’

  ‘He’s the root cause of all our misfortunes.’

  ‘But he was sad when he learned of Roper’s end.’

  ‘That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby, but he has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest of Hell has done?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.’

  ‘He is employed by one of our rivals?’

  ‘Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury’s Men.’

  Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.

  Alchemy was an irresistible temptation for the rogue and charlatan. So little was known of the science and so much claimed for it that fake alchemists set up all over London and found a ready supply of credulous gulls. Greed and folly activated most of the people who visited the new breed of magicians. They came in search of unlimited wealth and unlimited life, hoping to turn base metal into gold and yearning to find an elixir of youth. Notwithstanding the large sums they invested in their ambition, they failed to achieve either objective. Success somehow eluded them, as did the confidence tricksters themselves when their ruses were finally exposed. In the high-sounding name of alchemy, the public was seduced daily and exploited unmercifully.

  Doctor John Mordrake was one of the few scientists whose record was blameless. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, he never tried to mislead or bamboozle his clients. Indeed, he often bent his extraordinary energies to unmasking fraudulent practices among his rival magicians. He never made extravagant claims for what alchemy might do, only for what it could do.

  His furnace was kept on the ground floor of his house in Knightrider Street and its fumes were often seeking out the nostrils of any passers-by. As he stood beside it now, Mordrake watched his assistant stoke up the fire to increase the heat. The customer, an obese man in brown satin, rubbed his hands with glee.

  ‘When will my gold be ready, Doctor Mordrake?’

  ‘Do not be hasty, sir,’ warned the other. ‘There are twelve stages in the alchemical process and none of them can be rushed. The first six are devoted to the making of the White Stone.’

  ‘And then? And then?’ asked the man eagerly.

  ‘Six more long and careful stages.’

  The assistant raked the coals again and sparks filled the room. While the customer stepped back in alarm, Mordrake held his ground and let the fiery atoms of light fall around him.

  ‘We are not sure t
hat it will, sir.’

  ‘But if my metal is refined into gold …’

  Mordrake tossed his silver locks and gave a lecture.

  ‘All substances are composed of four elements,’ he began. ‘By which, I mean earth, air, fire and water. In most things, those elements are not equally balanced. It is only in gold that they may be found in their perfect proportion. That is why we prize gold above all else. It is eternal, it is indestructible.’

  ‘It is the source of true wealth,’ noted the customer.

  ‘My friend, my friend,’ said Mordrake sadly. ‘Do not be moved by a sordid desire for gain. Learn from Cicero – O fallacem hominem spem! Oh how deceitful is the hope of man! Remember Seneca – Magna servitus est magna fortuna. A great fortune is a great slavery. I do not work to satisfy the greed of men. That is ignoble and not the true end of alchemical inquiry. I seek perfection.’

  ‘Does that not involve gold?’

  ‘Only in the initial stage of the search.’ He indicated the furnace with a blue-veined hand. ‘In my raging fire here, I try to bring metals to their highest state, which is gold, but I would learn the science of applying the same principle to everything in life and – yes, sir – to life itself. Do you comprehend?’

  ‘No,’ said the man dully.

  ‘I want to clothe all creation in perfection!’

  There was a long pause as the visitor assimilated the idea.

  ‘Can we make a start with my gold?’

  Mordrake patted him on the shoulder then led him to the front door. When he had shown the man out, he padded upstairs to return to his work. As the old man entered the room, an elegant figure looked up from the massive book over which he was poring.

  ‘Have you found what you were after, sir?’ asked Mordrake.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I would not show Malleus Maleficarum to many eyes.’

  ‘That is why I am so grateful to you, Doctor Mordrake.’

  ‘We’ll set a price on that gratitude later,’ said the other with a scholarly grin. ‘Did the book enlighten you?’

  ‘Wonderfully, sir. It made me think.’

  ‘Vivere est cogitare.’