The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  'It has not been made yet.'

  'Give Samuel a chance,' whispered Nicholas. 'He's the man for the hour.'

  'Not with that pedigree.'

  'Do you know why he left Banbury's Men?'

  'I don't care,' snapped Firethorn.

  'Shall I tell you what his crime was?'

  'Forget him.' He spoke in praise of you.'

  There was a pause that was just long enough for the first seed of interest to take root. Nicholas carefully watered it with a few details.

  'Giles Randolph took exception to what was said.'

  'Randolph is an amateur!'

  'He's full of self-love. It's not enough for him to be the leading actor with the company. They have to fawn and flatter at every turn to suit his taste, and Samuel could not bring himself to do that. They were playing Scipio Africanus.

  'A miserable piece,' sneered Firethorn. 'Nothing but stale conceits and dribbling verse. I'd not soil my hands with it.'

  'Giles Randolph was playing the hero. He had a scene with Samuel in the role of a tribune. It was--' Nicholas broke off abruptly and shrugged his shoulders. 'Ah, well. You've no wish to hear all this.'

  'Go on, go on.'

  'It may just be idle gossip.'

  'What happened, Nick?'

  Lawrence Firethorn was keen to know. He and Giles Randolph were deadly rivals, talented artistes who competed with each other every time they walked on to a stage. Anything that was to the detriment of Randolph would come as welcome news. Curiosity made Firethorn tap his book holder on the chest.

  'Come on, sir. They had a scene together.'

  'At an important point in the action.'

  'Well?'

  Nicholas had worked with actors long enough to learn some of their tricks. He delayed for a few seconds to heighten the tension then he plunged on.

  'When Samuel gave of his best, Randolph complained that his performance was too strong. It stole the hero's thunder.'

  'Ha! Some hero! Some thunder.'

  'Samuel is a forthright man. He told the truth.'

  'That Randolph is a babbling idiot!'

  'That a leading actor should lead and not surround himself with poor players who would make him look all the better.'

  'And me?' said Firethorn, intrigued. 'What of me?'

  'Samuel used you as an example, master. You would outshine any company. The finer the players around you, the more you rise above them. They feed your inspiration.'

  Firethorn beamed. No praise sweeter than that from a fellow actor. He judged Samuel Ruff to be very perceptive and began to forgive him for his association with Banbury's Men. Nicholas took advantage of his changed mood.

  'Samuel is desperate to join us,' he continued. 'He feels it as a duty to Will Fowler. He is so eager to help us that he offered to do so without payment of any kind.'

  'Indeed?' Firethorn's eye kindled.

  'But I assured him that you were a man of honour, who would not conceive of employing someone without giving him fair reward.'

  'Of course,' agreed the actor, hiding his disappointment.

  'Then it's settled?'

  Firethorn sat on the edge of the four-poster. Even in his night attire, he retained a crumpled dignity. He looked like a Roman senator brooding on affairs of state.

  'Tell him to attend the rehearsal in one hour.'

  Nicholas nodded, then withdrew. It had worked out well. Confident of his powers of persuasion, he had already told Ruff at what time to present himself at The Queen's Head. The story of the hired man's departure from his previous company had not been entirely true but Nicholas had no qualms about embellishing the bare facts. A vain man like Lawrence Firethorn enjoyed seeing the vanity of others exposed. The main thing was that a crisis had been averted. The play would not be cancelled.

  It was one small consolation after an horrendous night.

  *

  Samuel Ruff did not let them down. Though tired and grieving, he arrived at the rehearsal with a secure grasp on his lines and a real understanding of his character. When he was taken through his moves, he learned quickly and his evident respect for Firethorn was another telling factor. He was indeed the man for the hour.

  The performance that afternoon delighted its audience. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the perils of over-hasty passion and its use of mistaken identity was particularly endearing. Firethorn led the company with his usual verve, Edmund Hoode sparkled as a lovelorn gallant, and Barnaby Gill used all his comic skills to set the inn yard at a roar. With splendid wigs and costumes, the boy apprentices brought the female characters vivaciously to life.

  Ruff himself was excellent in the testing role of Lorenzo. Not only did he carry his own part well, he improvised cleverly when, first, one of the actors missed an entrance, then another dried in the middle of a speech. Samuel Ruff was a veteran player, seasoned by long years in a demanding profession that had lately turned its callous back on him. In his ebullient performance, there was no hint of the dark sorrow that lay in his heart.

  Love and Fortune proved the ideal play for the occasion. Will Fowler's death had shaken the whole company and there was a funereal air about the rehearsal. Once they began, however, the actors were swept along by the joyous romp and given no time to dwell on their sadness. Out of a deep tragedy, they had plucked forth a comic triumph.

  Nicholas Bracewell was at the helm, marshalling the cast, cueing the action, making sure that the pace was maintained. Part of his job was to prepare a Plot of the drama, which gave details, scene by scene, of what was happening, who was involved and when they made their entrances and exits. Since they worked only from individual sides written out for them by the scrivener, the actors relied totally on the Plot that was hung up in the tiring-house and they had cause to be grateful for the legibility of Nicholas's hand and for his meticulousness. It was all there.

  The book holder was thrilled at the way that Ruff was standing in for his old friend, and he saw the excitement in the man's face every time he came offstage. Here was no farm labourer, content to live out his days in rural anonymity. The playhouse was his true home. Like Will Fowler, he would never be happy away from it. Nicholas resolved to talk further with Firethorn.

  The leading actor himself was in an affable mood, smiling upon all and sundry as he strode back into the tiring-house each time with applause at his heels. Before his next entrance, he would study himself carefully in a mirror and stroke his beard, fondle his locks or make slight adjustments to his hat and garments. It was not only the success of the play that was pleasing him, nor even the fact that Lord Westfield himself was there to witness it. Something else was putting that swagger into his walk. Barnaby Gill identified what it was.

  'In the middle of the lower gallery,' he hissed.

  'I thought so,' said Nicholas, flicking over a page of his prompt book. 'I recognized the signs.'

  'He's directing every line at her.'

  'Is he getting any response?'

  'Response!' echoed Gill with spiteful relish. 'She keeps lowering her mask and favouring him with such ardent glances that he is almost smouldering. Mark my words, Nicholas, she knows how to tickle his epididymis.'

  'Who is she?'

  'Prepare yourself.'

  'Why?'

  'Lady Rosamund Varley.'

  'Oh!'

  Nicholas waved some of the actors into position to make their entrance. He did not dare to reflect on what he had just been told. A possible liaison between Lawrence Firethorn and Lady Rosamund Varley was far too disturbing to consider. He kept his mind on the job in hand and warned the lutenist to make himself ready. Gill's tone remained malicious.

  'Love and fortune indeed!'

  'Don't forget your costume change.'

  'It's lust and misfortune!'

  'Ben!' called Nicholas. 'Stand by.'

  'Aye,' came the gruff reply from a thickset actor.

  'His wife should geld him,' decided Gill. 'It's the only way to tame a stallion like that. Ma
rgery should geld him--with her teeth."

  Benjamin Creech went past with a tray of goblets.

  'Remember to offer the first to Lorenzo,' said Nicholas.

  'Aye.'

  'Don't drink any yourself,' teased Gill wickedly.

  'No,' grunted Creech.

  When his cue came, he straightened his back and made his entrance. Nicholas turned over another page. Barnaby Gill rid himself of some more bilious comments then let his gaze wander until it settled on one of the apprentices. Richard Honeydew was standing in profile as he shook out his petticoats. His face was small and beautifully shaped with a youthful bloom on it that made his skin look like silk. Barnaby Gill watched him in wonderment.

  'Lawrence is such a fool!' he murmured. 'Why bother with women when you can have the real thing?'

  *

  The afternoon had been a resounding success for Lawrence Firethorn. He had held a full audience spellbound, he had delighted his patron, and he had fallen in love. It was an intoxicating experience. He was so carried away that he even paid Marwood the rent that was outstanding. Spared the horrors of Spanish occupation, and now showered with money he never expected to get, the landlord almost contrived a smile. Firethorn slapped him on the back and sent him off. His next task was to take Samuel Ruff aside to put a proposition to him. The player was duly impressed.

  'I take that as a great compliment.'

  'Then you accept?'

  'I fear not. My way lies towards a farm in Norwich.'

  'A farm!' He invested the word with utter disgust.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But why, man?'

  'Because I'm minded to leave the profession altogether.'

  'Actors do not leave,' announced Firethorn grandly. 'They act on to the very end of their days.'

  'Not me,' said Ruff solemnly.

  'Would you rather chase sheep in Norwich?'

  'Cows. My brother has a dairy farm.'

  'We must save you from that at all costs, dear fellow. You'll be up to your waist in cow turds and surrounded by flies. That's no fit way for an actor to see out his full span.' He slipped an arm familiarly around the other's shoulder. 'When did you plan to travel?'

  'Today, sir. But for that brawl in the tavern, I would have been well on my journey by now. As it is, I will stay in London until the funeral is over. I owe Will that.'

  'You owe him something else as well,' argued Firethorn. 'To carry on in his footsteps. Can you betray him, sir?'

  'I've already sent word to my brother.'

  'Send again. Tell him he must milk his cows himself.'

  Samuel Ruff was slowly being tempted. Firethorn took him across to a window that overlooked the inn yard. Down below was a mad bustle of activity as the trestles were cleared away by the stagekeepers and journeymen. It was an evocative scene and it had its effect on Ruff. He pulled away from the window.

  'Nicholas Bracewell insists,' continued Firethorn. 'And I always listen to his advice. We need you.'

  'I cannot stay, sir.'

  'It would keep Will's memory alive for us.'

  Ruff ran a hand through his grey hair and pondered. It was no easy decision for him to make. He had resigned himself to a course of action and he was not a man who lightly changed his mind. As the clamour went on outside, he tossed another glance towards the window. His old way of life beckoned seductively.

  'How much were you paid with Banbury's Men?'

  'Eight shillings a week.'

  'Ah!' Firethorn was checked. He had been ready to offer a wage of seven shillings but something told him the man might be worth the extra money. 'Very well. I'll match that.'

  'London has not been kind to me,' said Ruff quietly.

  'Give it another chance.'

  'I will think it over, sir.'

  Firethorn smiled. He had himself a new hired man.

  Murder caused only a temporary interruption at the Hope and Anchor. Everything was back to normal by the next evening. Fresh rushes hid those which had been stained by Will Fowler's blood. Beer and wine had already erased the memory from the minds of the regular patrons and they were preoccupied once again with their games, their banter and their vices. The low-ceilinged room was a throbbing cacophony.

  Nicholas Bracewell coughed as he stepped into the smoky atmosphere. When he looked down at the spot where Will Fowler had lain, his heart missed a beat. He crossed quickly to the hostess, who was drawing a pint of sack from a barrel. She was a short, dark, plump woman in her forties with a pockmarked face that was heavily powdered and large, mobile, bloodshot eyes. Her dress was cut low to display an ample bosom and a mole did duty as a beauty spot on one breast.

  She served the customer then turned to Nicholas.

  'What's your pleasure, sir?' Her features clouded as she saw who it was. An already rough voice became even more rasping. 'You're not welcome here.'

  'I need some help.'

  'I told you all I know. So did my customers.'

  'A man was killed here last night,' protested Nicholas.

  'You think we don't know that?' she retorted vehemently. 'When the watch and the constables and goodness knows who else come running into the house. We like to keep out of harm's way down this alley. We don't want the law to pry into us.'

  'Just answer one question,' said Nicholas patiently.

  'Leave us alone, sir.'

  Look, I'll pay you.' He dropped coins on to the counter and they were immediately swept up by her flabby hand. 'Thai man with the red beard. Samuel Ruff says that he came downstairs.' He didn't lodge here,' she asserted. 'He was a stranger.' Then he was up there for another reason.' The bloodshot eyes stared unblinkingly at him. Nicholas took more money from his purse and handed it over. She leaned forward to thrust her face close to his own.

  'I want you out of here in five minutes.'

  'You have my word.'

  'For good.'

  'For good,' he agreed. 'Now, who was she?'

  'Joan. She has the end room on the first floor.'

  Nicholas did not waste any of his meagre time. Bounding up the stairs, he found himself in a passage that was so narrow his shoulders brushed the walls. Crude sounds of lovemaking came from rooms where whores were busy earning their income. The stench made Nicholas cough again. Samuel Ruffs fortunes must have been at a very low ebb to drive him into such an unwholesome place.

  He reached the end room and listened for a moment. No sound came from within. He tapped on the door with his knuckles. There was no answer and so he used more force.

  'Come in,' said a frail voice.

  He opened the door and looked into a tiny room that was lit by one guttering tallow. On the mattress that took up most of the floor space, a young woman was lying in heavy shadow. She seemed to be wearing a shift and was half-covered by a filthy blanket. He peered at her but could only see her in outline.

  'Joan?' he asked.

  'Did you want me?' she whispered.

  'Yes.'

  'Come in properly and close the door,' she invited in a girlish voice, sitting up. 'I like visitors.'

  He stepped forward a pace and pulled the door shut. Joan reached for the tallow and held it so that its thin beam shone upon him. She gave a sigh of pleasure.

  'What's your name, sir?'

  'Nicholas.'

  'You're a fine, upstanding man, Nicholas. Sit beside me.'

  'I came to talk.'

  'Of course,' she soothed. 'We'll talk all you want.'

  'A man was up here with you last night, Joan.'

  'Three, four, maybe five men. I can't remember.'

  'This one was tall with a red beard.'

  Joan stiffened and let out a cry. Putting the candle aside, she wrapped her arms around her body for protection and huddled against the wall. Her voice was trembling now.

  'Go away!' she begged. 'Get out of here!'

  'Did he give you his name?'

  'There's nothing I can tell you.'

  'It's very important.'

  'Just go away
,' she whimpered.

  She broke down into frantic sobbing. When Nicholas bent over to comfort her, however, she pushed him away and drew herself the very corner of the room. He watched the waif-like creature until her fear subsided a little then he spoke gently.

  'I need to find him, Joan.'

  'Leave me be, sir.'

  'He killed a friend of mine. I want him.'

  She curled herself up into a frightened ball and shook her head vigorously. Nicholas held out his purse to her.

  'Keep your money!' she said.

  'Listen to me!' he pressed. 'My friend was murdered last night by that man with the red beard. I'll find him no matter how long it takes. Please help me, Joan.'

  She stayed in the shadows as she weighed him up, then she uncurled and sat up again. He crouched down beside her and tried once more to enlist her aid.

  'There must be something you can tell me.'

  'Oh yes!' she said ruefully.

  'Had you seen him before?'

  'Never! And I don't want to see him again.'

  'Did he give you a name?'

  'He gave me nothing but rough words, sir. But there is one thing I will always remember about him.' A shudder went through her. 'His back.'

  'Why?'

  'He told me not to touch it, and I didn't at first. But I like my arms around a man and I couldn't help it. When my fingers touched his back...'

  'What was wrong with it?' he asked softly.

  'Scars. Dozen of fresh scars all over it. Long, thick, raw wounds that made my flesh creep when I felt them.' A second shudder made her double up. 'He warned me. He did warn me.'

  'What did he do to you, Joan?'

  'This.'

  She pulled the shift over her head and tossed it aside, then she lifted the tallow so that its pallid light fell on her. Nicholas blenched. He felt as if he had been kicked in the pit of the stomach.

  The slim, naked, girlish body was covered in hideous bruises. Thick powder was unable to disguise the swollen face, the split lip and the blackened eyes. There was a telltale lump across the bridge of her nose.

  He understood her fear all too well now. She could scarcely be much more than sixteen. In a fit of rage, her client had beaten her senseless and put years on her. Joan would bear her own scars for the rest of her life.

  Nicholas put the purse into her hands and closed her fingers around it before leaving the room. He had learned something new and revolting about the killer with the red beard. It was not much but it was a start. There had been two victims the previous night. Will Fowler had been killed and Joan had been brutally assaulted. Both of them deserved to be avenged.