The Darling Strumpet: A Novel of Nell Gwynn, Who Captured the Heart of England and King Charles II

by Gillian Bagwell

  Jimmy Cade and some of his officer friends came late in the evening, and after he had spent he lay with Nell, stroking her hair and face with unwonted tenderness.

  “It had to be done,” he said. “There must be severe punishment for a crime as foul as the murder of a king. But it’s not a spectacle I’d want to see again. You can’t help but feel the blade in your own gut as you watch it going into the poor bastards, imagine your own innards being wound out before your eyes, seeing your own blood sluicing over the scaffold.”

  “Horrible.” Nell shuddered.

  “And somehow it seemed to me that even worse than the pain was the loneliness.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked.

  “Well, it was the look in Harrison’s eyes.” Cade paused, remembering. “In the middle of a crowd that stretched as far as you could see. But not a friendly face among them. Voices shouting for his death, the slower the better. And he knew what he was in for. It seemed he tried not to cry out, not to give them the satisfaction.”

  “But did he cry out?” Nell asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Cade said. “The fires of hell would have been a mercy after that death.”

  Two more regicides were put to death a day or two later, and another ten within the next few days. The savagery of the executions seemed to have unleashed a wild mood in London.

  “Death to all traitors,” Nell heard Jack snarl to one of his cronies. “Too bad they didn’t keep them another fortnight and do them on the Fifth of November.” The other man cackled his agreement.

  The next afternoon Nell sat with Ned the barman and Harry Killigrew. It was too early for much business, and though it was freezing cold outside, the taproom was cozy, the flames in the fireplace chasing away the shadows in the corners and reflecting in the dark panes of the windows.

  “What’s the Fifth of November?” Nell asked Ned.

  “Why, it’s Guy Fawkes Day,” he said. “Sure you’ve heard of him? A Papist. Tried to blow up King James and all the lords in the House of Parliament, he did. When was it, Harry?”

  “Sixteen hundred and five,” Harry said. “But they discovered the plot. ‘Fawkes at midnight, and by torchlight there was found,’” he quoted. “ ‘With long matches and devices, underground.’ ”

  “So the king and all were saved,” Ned continued, “and Fawkes and the others that had intrigued with him were put to death. It used to be kept as a great holiday, but then you’re too young to remember that. In the old days, it was a right party. A great rout of people in the streets, fireworks everywhere. And of course we young ’uns would always build a Guy to burn.”

  “But not before we got our penny,” Harry chimed in. Ned laughed at Nell’s blank expression.

  “The Guy was a dummy, do you see, meant to be like Guy Fawkes. We would parade it through the streets, crying out ‘A penny for the Guy!’ And then the Guy would be put into a bonfire. Fires all over London, there were, in them days.”

  “I’ll warrant there’ll be a Guy or two this year again,” Harry said.

  HARRY WAS RIGHT, AND ON THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER BONFIRES LIT the night sky and Guys of wood and straw and cloth blazed at the center of baying crowds. It was a busy night in Lewkenor’s Lane, and Harry swaggered into the taproom in company with several other young men, whooping and in high spirits.

  “We’ve done it!” he crowed to the room. “We put the final nail in old Nol Cromwell’s coffin tonight!”

  “Aye,” laughed one of his mates. “We’ve just given a show at the old Red Bull, with the blessing of the king himself! The theater is back again, and no mistaking.”

  “You couldn’t have chosen a better day for it than Bonfire Night!” Ned called from behind the bar. “Death to killjoys and traitors, and up with merriment!”

  Cheers greeted this remark, and the lads were welcomed with slaps on the back and drink all around as they drew up stools and benches around a table. Their jubilation was contagious, and Nell worked her way through the admiring crowd that gathered around Harry and his crew. Rose and Jane had joined them, and Rose made room for Nell on the bench next to her.

  “Here’s to the King’s Men!” Harry raised his tankard and all joined in the toast.

  One of the company, a hulking man in his thirties with one squinted eye somewhat lower and larger than the other, who might have looked threatening were it not for the grin that split his face, banged his fist on the table for quiet.

  “Here’s to His Majesty, who brought us back. And may tonight be the first of many shows to come!” Voices joined in from all over the room. “To His Majesty!”

  Ned fought his way through the crowd and set a great jug of ale on the table before the squint-eyed man.

  “Walter Clun!” he cried. “I saw you play at the old Blackfriars when I was but a boy. I remember it still—I laughed ’til I came near to piss myself.”

  “Aye, that’s me,” Clun chortled. “Not a dry seat in the house.”

  “Wat!” Harry called across the table to him. “Where are the others? I thought Charlie Hart was coming?”

  Wat Clun threw up his hands and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “Now there you have me, lad. I told Charlie not to be such a stick-in-the-mud, and to shepherd the old men here on this our night of triumph. But will he now? That is the question!”

  “And here’s me all this time thinking the question was ‘To be or not to be’!”

  The voice boomed from the door, and Wat surged to his feet, roaring with laughter.

  “Charlie! My own true heart! You’ve come after all!”

  The dark-haired newcomer enveloped Wat in a bear hug and kissed him loudly on both cheeks.

  “Aye, I’ve come, and the other old men with me!”

  Hart was indeed accompanied by several men who were noticeably grayer than the lads at the table, but there was nothing old about him, Nell thought. He was about thirty, tall and well built, and the grace and energy with which he moved made her think of the rope dancer she had seen at Bartholomew Fair. His dark eyes shone with happiness as he returned cries of greeting from all sides.

  “Who’s that?” Nell whispered to Rose and Jane.

  “Charles Hart,” Rose answered. “He’s Mr. Killigrew’s leading actor. Mighty fine, isn’t he?”

  “Fine as a fivepence,” Nell agreed.

  Tables, stools, and benches were shuffled until all the actors were seated. Nell noticed that the younger men made way for the older, their deference tinged with admiration and affection. Wat Clun turned to Hart.

  “Now then, Charlie, what do you say?”

  “We’ve made a good start on it,” Hart said. “And I raise my cup to each of you. To John Lacy and to Michael Mohun. Whose light shone through the long dark days. And without whom we’d not be here tonight.” The men on either side of Hart acknowledged the murmurs of agreement from their fellows.

  Big John Lacy, sitting to Hart’s left, surveyed the faces around him. “Back onstage again. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day. Here’s to you, my old dear friend, and the lord of the dance, Charles Hart! And to His Majesty. God save the king!”

  “God save the king!” The room echoed with the cry. Nell gazed at the solemn faces of the older actors around the table. For the first time she felt ashamed of her whoredom, and she wanted desperately not to have to relate to the players as a whore. She felt sure that they embodied some mystery and wisdom, and she wanted only to be in their company and listen to them. She glanced around the room and was relieved that Madam Ross was nowhere to be seen and that Jack was engaged in a game of dice at a corner table and was paying her no mind.

  Soon the spirit of the gathering lightened as the talk turned to the afternoon’s performance.

  “A good house, and a merry, especially considering the weather,” Lacy said.

  “True enough,” Hart agreed. “But then, considering how long some of them had been waiting to discover how it came out, perhaps they didn’t mind braving the cold.”

/>   Nell was puzzled by the laughter at this remark.

  “Why were they waiting?” she ventured to ask. She felt self-conscious when all eyes turned to her, but Lacy answered her cheerfully.

  “The theaters were outlawed under Old Nol, thou knowest that? Well, during that time, some of the old actors twice put up this same play at the Red Bull, and were twice stopped and arrested.”

  “But now,” Nell ventured, “now you can play again?”

  “Yes, thanks be to God and to Charles Stuart,” Wat nodded. “And after eighteen long years, here we sit before you, the King’s Company, in business once again.”

  Nell was chagrined that she had missed an event of such momentousness as the actors’ triumphant return to the stage. Jimmy Cade and a few of his friends came in the door, and he caught her eye. She was usually happy to see him, but she lingered at the actors’ table for a few minutes.

  “This play you played today,” she queried, “will you give it again?”

  “We will,” Hart said. “But we’ve other fare for the next few days.”

  “And then”—Lacy grinned—“on Thursday, we move to better quarters, indoors, and give the first part of King Henry the Fourth.”

  “I wish I could see it.” Nell looked up at him, hope shining in her eyes.

  “And so you can,” Lacy said. “Even better, come to our rehearsal tomorrow. Then you can say you saw it before any in London.”

  Nell gave him a happy grin and danced off to find Jimmy Cade. By the time she returned downstairs, most of the actors had left. She longed to hear more about the theater and couldn’t wait until she could follow up on Lacy’s invitation.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE NEXT MORNING, NELL WOKE TO FIND THAT THE INSIDES OF her thighs were streaked with blood, and she threw a fervent thank-you heavenward upon discovering that Rose had also started her monthly courses, and so they would both be excused from work and free to watch the King’s Men rehearse.

  Shortly before ten o’clock, they arrived at what had formerly been Gibbons’s Tennis Court in Vere Street, only a few minutes’ walk from Lewkenor’s Lane. Nell had heard that the place, just off the southwestern corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, had been for some time a resort of the gentry and nobility, offering not only tennis and bowls but the highest quality victuals and drink, sheltered gardens, and a large coach house.

  Nell looked around excitedly as Harry welcomed them into the new playhouse. The high-ceilinged room was flooded with sunlight from the rows of windows at the backs of the galleries that lined the two long walls of the building. Knots of men and boys huddled and bustled in preparation for the morning’s work, and with a thrill Nell recognized many of the actors she’d seen the previous evening.

  “It will be the finest theater that London has seen,” Harry said. “Much better than the Red Bull.”

  “Why?” Nell asked.

  “It’s a proper building, not just a yard open to the wind and rain. Less than fifty feet from the stage to the back of the house, so the actors will not have to shout to make themselves heard. It’ll be more like playing at court in the old days.”

  “Very fine,” Rose agreed.

  “You’re looking fine yourself this morning,” Harry said with a wink. “Come, let’s have a closer look.” He pulled her into the shadows under the gallery at the back of the theater, and Nell took the opportunity to wander closer to the stage, where Wat Clun was in conference with one of the younger actors. He grinned as Nell approached.

  “Well, I see you’ve come to join us. What do you think of the place?”

  “It’s grand,” Nell beamed. A raised stage at one end of the room sloped down a little from the darkly paneled back wall with its two doors, to within a few feet of the first row of green-upholstered benches. Candles in many-armed brackets were mounted along the galleries at the sides of the stage, reminding Nell of the light that had blazed forth from the Banqueting House on the night of the king’s return.

  “Come,” Harry called. “It’s about time.” A handful of people were seated on the benches in the pit before the stage, but Harry led Nell and Rose up narrow steps to the upper gallery at the back of the theater.

  “Boxes for gentlemen,” he said. “Much more comfortable than below.”

  “To your beginners, please.” Nell looked down to where a man with a sheaf of papers before him on a table was calling to the actors. They disappeared through the doors at the back of the stage, and silence fell. Harry pulled Rose onto his lap and she giggled. Nell wondered how they could think of anything else when the play was about to begin.

  A group of actors swept onto the stage with an air of regal gravity. They seemed to be wearing their own clothes, but had bits and pieces of what Nell thought must be their costumes. A gray-haired actor that she recognized from the previous night wore a heavy robe of red velvet and a crown, so he must be the king. Some of the others wore capes or had swords hanging at their sides.

  The king glanced around at the men surrounding him, and spoke.

  “So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

  Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

  And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

  To be commenced in strands afar remote. . . .”

  Nell was enthralled by the majestic words, and strove to understand them. To her relief the next scene was much easier to follow, and funny. Wat lumbered onto the stage, a huge tankard in his paw, stretched luxuriously, scratched his arse, and demanded of the fair-haired young actor who followed him, “ ‘Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?’ ”

  “ ‘What a devil hast thou to do with the time of day?’ ” the youth cried. “ ‘Unless the blessed sun himself was a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of day!’ ”

  Nell thought she had never seen anything so funny as the picture of virtuous outrage on Wat’s face.

  “Look at him,” she chortled to Rose and Harry. “Like a great round baby caught with stolen sweetmeats.”

  Her heart skipped a beat when Charles Hart strode onto the stage in the next scene, his dark eyes full of snapping fire, and she feared for his safety when he raged at the king, his deep voice seeming to shake the walls as he cried, “ ‘My liege, I did deny no prisoners!’ ”

  When Harry Percy, in the person of Charles Hart, made ready to depart for the war and took tender leave of his wife, played by a young man, as true-to-the-life a woman as any that Nell had ever seen, she felt her own soul ache for his going.

  When the rehearsal was done, Nell sat still for a few moments, not wanting to let go of what she had experienced. She felt drained and yet exhilarated, and as if she was changed in some way. In the course of the three hours she had felt herself consumed with the passions of the king, the prince, of Harry Percy and his wife, of fat Sir John Falstaff and all the rest, had felt as though she herself had lived through all their griefs, their rages, and their joys. She did not want to leave the charmed atmosphere of the playhouse. She lingered to watch as the actors gathered on the benches below, and was overjoyed when Wat Clun waved at her. Dragging Rose after her, she bounded down to where he stood and beamed up at him.

  “Well, sweeting, and what did you think of your first play?” he asked.

  “It was a wonder! You were so funny!”

  Clun grinned.

  “Come to see Beggars’ Bush tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be our last show at the Bull.”

  “Truly?” Nell cried. “Can we, Rose?”

  “Aye,” Rose nodded. “We’ll not miss such a kind offer.”

  ON THE WAY HOME, NELL CAPERED BESIDE ROSE, HOPPING ON ONE leg in circles around her sister and then coming alongside.

  “I thought the prince was wondrous,” she mused. “Why should his father be displeased with him?”

  “Why, for his mad freaks and rogueries with ruffians and low company such as Falstaff and the others. Bowsing, stealing, wenching.”

&nbs
p; “But once the old king was dead could not Hal do as he pleased?”

  “I suppose he could.”

  “And why was Harry Percy so angry?”

  “Lord, I don’t know. I couldn’t follow it all, in truth.”

  “And why—”

  “’Fore God, Nell, you wear me out!” Rose cried in exasperation. “Save your questions for Harry or the actors.”

  Nell did not understand how Rose could not share her burning curiosity to know everything about the play, the players, and the theater. She held her tongue, but her mind seethed with questions. Though she didn’t have to work that night, she haunted the taproom, hoping that the actors might come in, and when Harry Killigrew strode in followed by two of the younger actors, she raced over to them.

  “How can you remember all those words? What play did you play this afternoon? Where do the plays come from?”

  Harry laughed. “You’d best sit down if you’ve got so many questions.” Nell plopped herself on a bench facing the fair-haired young actor who had played Prince Hal.

  “How many plays are there?” she demanded.

  “What, how many plays in the world?” he laughed. “That I cannot tell, but I can tell you what we’ve played over the past weeks, and what we’ll give again. The Traitor, Wit Without Money, The Silent Woman, Othello, Bartholomew Fair—”

  “Where do they come from?” Nell interrupted. “And how can there be so many plays if there have been none for so long?”

  “The two companies divided the plays from the old days,” said Harry. “And my father got the best of those, as he did with the actors.”

  “Is it all lads and men?” Nell asked. “Are there no women players?”