The Queen's Head nb-1

by Edward Marston

  He heard a sound on the landing outside and came out of his reverie. There was a tap on the door. He cleared his throat.

  'Come in.'

  The door opened and Nicholas Bracewell looked in.

  'The lady is below, master.'

  'Show her up, sir.'

  'She will be with you presently.'

  Nicholas closed the door behind him and Firethorn moved to the mirror to check his appearance for the last time. Because Lady Rosamund had expressed a wish to see his Hector, he had thought of dressing up in the costume that he had worn while playing the role, but he decided that that would be gilding the lily. Looking spruce and gallant in his doublet and hose, he adjusted his hat slightly then smiled at himself in the mirror.

  Footsteps sounded outside. He took up his stance and cleared his throat again. There was another tap on the door, it swung open and she was conducted into him. The whole room was filled with her presence and he swooned as he inhaled her luscious perfume. Nicholas withdrew and closed the door, leaving them alone together for the first time in their lives.

  Lady Rosamund Varley stood in the shadows and smiled tenderly at him. A long gown covered her dress, a hood concealed her face. She had come to the assignation with as much eagerness as he had and he sensed her breathless urgency.

  Firethorn had the speech to fit the occasion.

  '"Now shall great Hector lay aside his sword,

  Put off the garlands of a warrior,

  And, talking terms of love, embrace defeat,

  Surrender to his mistress all he hath!"'

  *

  He removed his hat to make his bow. Her gloved hands applauded softly and she stepped forward into the light. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be.

  I have waited for this moment a long time,' he said.

  With courteous boldness, he moved towards her and gently eased back her hood so that he could taste the honey of her lips. The kiss was brief and light and oddly familiar. He pulled back and looked her in the face. His amorous inclination fell stone dead. It was not Lady Rosamund Varley at all. It was his wife.

  And have you done all this for me, Lawrence?' she asked.

  For whom else, my clove?'

  His actors training saved him once again.

  *

  It was well past midnight and a sudden downpour was washing the streets of London and carrying away their refuse in busy rivulets. Splashing through the puddles, Benjamin Creech lurched his way home from the tavern and cursed the weather. It had been a bad day for him. His anger had made him walk out of Westfield's Men and he now saw what a mistake it had been. He was no longer of use. Giles Randolph wanted him where he could do harm.

  By the time that he reached his lodging, he was soaked to the skin. He let himself in and blundered his way upstairs. Belching loudly, he went into his tiny room and tottered towards the mattress, ready to drop on to it as he was to sleep off his inebriation. As he leaned forwards, however, strong arms grabbed him and thrust him into the only chair.

  'Sit down, sir!'

  'Who are you?' grunted Creech, totally bewildered.

  'An old friend has come calling.'

  Too drunk to get up and too weak to protest, Creech had to sit there while the tallow was lighted. The yellow flame helped him to identify his visitor.

  'Master Bracewell!'

  'You left before we had finished our dealings, Ben.'

  'I've no dealings with you, sir!'

  'No,' replied Nicholas. 'Your dealings have been with Banbury's Men.' He held up some gloves. 'These were stolen from Hugh Wegges. That music there was taken from Peter Digby. I found John Tallis's cap here and George Dart's shoes and much else that you sneaked off with.' He threw a glance of disgust around the miserable lodging. 'It is a pity you did not bring Thomas Skillen's broom back here and put it to some use.'

  'Get out!' said Creech drowsily.

  'Not until we have had a talk, Ben.'

  'I've nothing to say to you.'

  'Did you steal this?' demanded Nicholas, thrusting a tabor at him. When Creech remained silent, he grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. 'Answer me, sir!'

  'I cannot...breathe...'

  'Did you steal it?' said Nicholas, exerting more pressure.

  'Aye.'

  'And the rest of the things?'

  'Aye.'

  'Did you try to cripple Dick Honeydew?'

  'You will choke me!'

  'Did you, Ben?'

  'Aye.'...

  'And was it to help Banbury's Men?'

  Fearing that he would be strangled, Creech nodded his admission of guilt. Nicholas released him and took a step back to reach for something from the table. Starting to retch, the other man rubbed at his sore neck. When Nicholas put his face in close, he could smell the stink on Creech's breath.

  'There is more you have to tell me, Ben.'

  'No.'

  'You did know Redbeard. You were his accomplice.'

  'As God's my witness, I never saw the man before.'

  'You set on me that night in Bankside,' said Nicholas with subdued fury. 'The two of you worked together.'

  'That is not true!' howled Creech.

  'Then how did you come by this?'

  Nicholas dropped something into his lap and his companion stared at it with blurred, uncomprehending eyes. The object had been lying with the rest of Creech's spoils.

  It was the prompt book for Gloriana Triumphant.

  Lord Westfield's Men had grown accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of their leading actor but he could still surprise them from time to time. When Lawrence Firethorn summoned a meeting of the full company, they all expected that it would follow its normal course. He would first harangue them for what he felt were gross lapses in standards then he would commend anything praiseworthy that he had noted in their recent work. Finally, he would remind them of the intense rivalry they faced from other dramatic companies and urge them on to greater efforts to enhance the reputation of Westfield's Men.

  It was different that morning. He did not even look like the same man. In place of the usual alert and spirited personality was a rather dull, jaded, weary human being. Jokes immediately circulated about the exhausting effects of his supposed night with Lady Rosamund Varley and many sniggers had to be held back. Barnaby Gill was on hand with a characteristically tart comment.

  'No wonder he cannot walk straight,' he said to Edmund Hoode in a whispered aside. 'The lady has broken his middle leg!'

  'What is amiss with him?' wondered the other.

  'Lust, Edmund. Over-satisfied lust.'

  They were gathered in the tiring-house at The Queen's Head. Instead of attacking them with a barrage of words, Firethorn spoke quietly and almost without interest. There was no condemnation, no praise and no inspiration. He supported himself with one hand against the door jamb.

  'Good morning to you one and all, gentlemen.'

  (*)Chapter Thirteen

  There was a murmured response from the whole company.

  'I speak or our future,' he began, suppressing a yawn. 'Over the next six weeks, we shall be playing here, principally, at the Red Lion in Stepney, the Boar's Head near Aldgate, The Curtain, The Theatre and at Newington Butts. We will also make our debut at The Rose.' Another yawn threatened. 'Our repertoire will be Love and Fortune, The Two Maids of Milchester, Cupid's Folly, The Queen of Carthage, Marriage and Mischief and...' The pause brought the slightest twinkle to his eye. 'And Hector of Troy.' There was a buzz of interest. 'That is all, gentlemen.'

  The buzz became a mild hubbub and the meeting started to break up. Lawrence Firethorn quelled all movement with a raised voice that flew to the back of the room like a spear.

  'One thing more!'

  Silence fell instantly. He was in no hurry.

  'One thing more, gentlemen,' he repeated casually, as if passing on some minor piece of gossip. 'Westfield's Men have been invited to appear at Court this Christmas.'

  Joy and amazement greeted the announce
ment and Firethorn watched it all with a beaming smile. His energy now seemed fully restored and he shared in general happiness. Performance at Court would bring no great financial advantage but it was a signal honour and it conferred status on the company. The previous year, it had been Banbury's Men who had played before the Queen during the Christmas Festivities. Firethorn's company had now supplanted them and there was a special pleasure in that.

  Nicholas Bracewell watched it all with wry amusement. The leading actor could not simply pass on the good tidings to his fellows. He had to give them a performance and his air of fatigued indifference had fooled them all. The actor had set the place ablaze. Nicholas gazed round the faces in the tiring-house and saw the impact that the news had made.

  Barnaby Gill wore a look of smug satisfaction as if he had just been accorded his just deserts. Edmund Hoode seemed a trifle overwhelmed. Richard Honeydew was ecstatic and almost in tears. Martin Yeo grinned, Stephen Judd giggled and the lantern jaw of John Tallis was dropped in awe. But it was Samuel Ruff whose reaction interested Nicholas the most. He sat in the corner with his eyes glistening, a man whose dream had just been fulfilled.

  Here was a failed actor, outlawed from the profession, then rescued from obscurity. Instead of milking cows in Norwich over Christmas, he would be playing before Queen Elizabeth. Nicholas was very pleased for him.

  Lawrence Firethorn now swooped down on him.

  'Come here, you knave, you Satan!'

  'Was everything to your satisfaction last night, master?'

  The actor's rich chuckle cut through the tumult. With an arm around Nicholas, he led him out on to the stage which had already been erected in the yard. There were a few people about but there was an illusion of privacy.

  'Why did you not tell me it was Margery?' asked Firethorn.

  'It would have spoiled the moment of discovery.'

  'Indeed, it would.'

  'Mistress Firethorn is an astute woman,' argued Nick. 'She would have to be to marry you, master.'

  'How came she to the Bel Savage?' demanded Firethorn.

  'I brought her there.'

  'Why?'

  'Because she learned of your tryst,' lied Nicholas with convincing sincerity. 'Do not ask me how. Some gossip in the company may have told her. Mistress Firethorn purposed to come to the inn herself last night.'

  'Heaven forfend!'

  'I took your part in the matter and swore that you were faithful to her. The proof of which, I said, was that it was she who was bidden to supper at the Bel Savage.' He gave a discreet smile. 'The rest, I believe, you know.'

  'I do, Nick,' said Firethorn nostalgically.

  'Everything was to your taste?'

  'Margery was a changed woman,' recalled her husband fondly. 'I played Hector once again and sheathed my sword for lack of argument.' He massaged the other's shoulder. 'Marriage has many pains, Nick, but it has its pleasures, too.'

  Nicholas nodded sagely. One night of marital bliss had altered the case considerably. The fever of passion that Lady Rosamund Varley had excited had broken in the arms of Margery Firethorn. He was no longer besotted.

  'How did you dispose of my other guest?' said the actor.

  'By making your excuses. I told her that you had been struck down by a mysterious illness and that you would not be able to meet her. She was not too pleased, master.'

  There was a long, ruminative pause. Firethorn chuckled.

  'No matter. There are other ladies in London.'

  Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode came out of the tiring-house in search of their colleague. Nicholas detached himself and left the three sharers alone on stage.

  'Why was I not told first?' said Gill petulantly.

  'But you were,' reminded Firethorn. 'No man heard the news before you, Barnaby.'

  'What are we to play, Lawrence?' wondered Hoode. That is a question we must address with all speed.'

  'Why not Marriage and Mischief?' suggested Gill, choosing a drama that gave prominence to his talents.

  Parts of it are too base,' complained Hoode.

  'Only those in which Barnaby is involved,' teased Firethorn.

  'It has held the stage these three years for us,' argued Gill hotly. 'It has proven its worth.'

  'So have many other plays,' countered Hoode.

  'My vote is for Marriage and Mischief,' insisted Gill.

  'And mine is not,' added Firethorn. 'Tried and tested it may be, Barnaby, but we cannot offer such a tired piece to the Court. Novelty is in request, sir. That is why I will commission a new play for the occasion.'

  'By whom?' asked Edmund Hoode cautiously.

  The look in Firethorn's eye made him quiver.

  *

  Outdoor performances were less comfortable as the days got colder and the nights started to draw in. Nicholas Bracewell found that the journeys home were now much quicker as he was hurrying to get in out of the chill. As he made his way back after another day at The Queen's Head, he was conscious of winter's swift approach. The wind bit more hungrily and the flurry of rain stung his face. He pulled his hat down over his brow and lengthened his stride. Bankside was not far away now.

  Nicholas was as thrilled as anyone by the invitation to play at Court. It would bring kudos to Westfield's Men. It also gave them an opportunity to perform in conditions which were unique and which would force them to modify their outdoor techniques. Most important of all, it lifted the morale of the company after a succession of setbacks and enabled them to look forward instead of glancing back.

  The past still obsessed Nicholas, however. Will Fowler's death had not been avenged and he was still dogged by the memory of the slit throat of Alice at The Cardinal's Hat. He was constantly reminded of the savagery of the men he sought. Creech may have been removed but the company was threatened by more malign forces. He had to be vigilant.

  His walk through Bankside took him past the Hope and Anchor and a wash of noise slopped out as he went by the tavern. He thought of the last time he had seen Will Fowler alive, enjoying the company of his two friends, crackling with good humour and infused with a kind of truculent benevolence. Danger had attracted him to his profession and it was danger which had brought him down when he was off guard.

  Nicholas determined that he would never be taken unawares. After the earlier attack on him, he was excessively careful when out alone at night. His increased watchfulness now came to his aid. He was no more than twenty yards from the house when he . saw the man. The tall figure was lurking in the shadows behind the angle of the house. Nicholas would not make any rash move this time. He had learned his lesson.

  Pretending to have noticed nothing, he went up to the front door and fumbled for his key. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched for movement but none came. Yet the man was still there, still waiting, still exuding a profound menace. Nicholas prepared for attack. Inserting his key in the lock, he suddenly turned away from the door and flung himself at the figure in the darkness.

  He met no resistance. The moment he hit the body, it went limp and collapsed against him. He lowered the man carefully to the ground so that he was face down. Between his shoulder blades was the handle of a long dagger.

  Nicholas was totally confused.

  The dead man was Redbeard.

  *

  Anne Hendrik was torn between relief at his safety and horror at the murder which had taken place on her doorstep. When officers had been summoned and the body removed, she drew Nicholas into her bed once more for comfort and reassurance.

  Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms.

  'Who was he?' asked Anne.

  'There was no clue to his identity upon his person,' he said. 'We may never know his true name.'

  'And was he working with Benjamin Creech?'

  'No,' replied Nicholas. 'I am certain of that now. Ben never met him until that day. Redbeard contrived to be seen with him for my benefit.'

  'Why?' she wondered.

  'To throw suspicion upon Ben. I was meant to come upon
them as I did. Redbeard knew that he could escape in that crowd.'

  Anne considered the notion then sat up in surprise.

  'Then it was all part of some deep plot?'

  'I believe so.'

  'What about the prompt book?' she reminded him. 'It was in Creech's lodging with some of the other things he stole.'

  'I was deceived by that at first,' he admitted. 'It was intended that I should be. I would hazard a guess that Redbeard placed the book at the lodging for me to find. It linked Ben with the attack on me and with the killing of Will Fowler.' He shook his head. 'No, Anne. This is not the work of Ben Creech. We are up against a much more cunning adversary. He has been clever enough to hide his trail and ruthless enough to murder his own accomplice.'

  'Redbeard?'

  'My belief is that he was killed by his friend.'

  She was aghast. 'His friend?.'

  'Yes,' he argued. 'Who else would get close enough to a man like that to stab him in the back? Redbeard lived in foul dens and dark alleys. That was his world. Nobody would ever gain an advantage over him there.'

  'Unless it was someone he trusted.'

  'His accomplice. The man who hit me from behind.'

  'Oh, Nick!'

  The memory of the assault made her cling to him for a long time. He had to soothe her with kisses and caresses. Three people had now been murdered in gruesome circumstances and she was convinced that he would be the next victim. Nicholas was equally persuaded that he was quite safe. His life had already been spared once and he now realized why.

  'He will not kill me, Anne,' he decided.

  'How can you be so sure?'

  'Because he needs me alive. He needs me in the company.'

  'For what reason?'

  'I have not fully divined it yet,' he confessed. 'But it has something to do with our appearance at Court. Perhaps that was the desired end all along. Once it had been achieved, Redbeard had served his purpose. He could be cast aside with a dagger in his back.'

  'But why here? Outside my house?'

  'So that I would be aware of his death. So that I would be misled even further. So that I would think all danger had passed.'

  'I cannot make sense of this, Nick,' she complained.

  He pulled her down to him and embraced her warmly. Then there was a long silence as he tried to puzzle it all out. She began to think that he was dozing off but his mind was racing as he evolved a plan.