The Malevolent Comedy

by Edward Marston

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Nicholas, ‘officers will be called.’

  ‘Get this man off me!’

  ‘First, tell us your name.’

  ‘It is Cyrus Hame and I’m a playwright with Banbury’s Men. I’d certainly not work for your company if this is how I’d be treated.’

  ‘Cyrus Hame?’ said Nicholas. ‘The co-author of Lamberto?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Let go of him, Leonard.’

  Leonard released him and looked at his face properly for the first time. Seen from a distance, there had been a strong resemblance to the man who had once questioned him in the yard. On closer inspection, doubts began to crowd in. Leonard’s face fell.

  ‘It’s not him, Nick,’ he said.

  Edmund Hoode got there early so that there was no chance of missing her. The designated spot was close to St Paul’s Cathedral. Before he reached it, however, he saw that she was already there, impelled by the same impatience that he felt. The servant girl beside her was sent away as he approached, retreating several yards to allow them privacy. Hoode’s excitement robbed him of his voice. Ursula spoke first.

  ‘You may be surprised to see me here, Master Hoode,’ she said.

  ‘The surprise is equalled only by the delight.’

  ‘Delight?’

  ‘It’s a kind of ecstasy,’ he said.

  ‘I came to tell you that this is improper,’ she said, briskly. ‘It was foolish of Bernice to give you such an invitation but wrong of you to send her that poem in the first place. She is young and headstrong. When she wrote to you, Bernice did not know what she was doing.’

  Hoode was despondent. ‘Bernice?’ he said.

  ‘I came here ahead of her in the hope that I could speak to you first. Please, Master Hoode, I take you for a gentleman with high principles. I do not believe that you would lead a young lady astray.’

  ‘No, no. I would not dream of it.’

  ‘Then tell that to my sister.’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘And be kind to her as you do so,’ said Ursula. ‘I knew that I could count on your understanding.’

  ‘You can count on anything I have,’ he murmured.

  ‘It is better to hurt her now than cause her deeper pain later on.’

  ‘You show consideration to your sister,’ said Hoode, realising that his sonnet had fallen into the wrong hands. ‘I’ll do the same I promise you. I can see now that I behaved impetuously and I regret it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.’

  He was tentative. ‘Bernice told you of the poem, then?’

  ‘She even showed it to me. It was well written, Master Hoode,’ she said, ‘but I would expect that of you. I admired its form while frowning at its sentiments. Had such a sonnet been sent to me, I would have blushed to receive it. It had a maudlin note.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Bernice was deeply affected. She has conceived a fondness for you that she mistakes for something else. I felt it my duty to save her from any humiliation that might come.’

  ‘That’s very honourable of you.’

  ‘I’m glad that we are in agreement, sir.’ She offered her hand and he shook it. At her touch, Hoode felt a thrill throughout his whole body. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It was good of you to come here.’

  ‘It was the only thing I could think of doing.’

  ‘You behaved like a dutiful sister.’

  ‘I’ll steal away before Bernice comes. Be gentle with her.’

  ‘Rely on me,’ he said.

  ‘I will.’

  When she turned away, he blew a kiss at her departing back. Hoode’s dejection slowly lifted. His fulsome sonnet might have hit the wrong target but it had allowed him two precious minutes alone with the woman he loved. It had also given him an insight into her essential goodness and moral rectitude. Ursula Opie was not a woman to be swept into his arms by a mere sonnet. She was a goddess who had to be worshipped from afar, a wondrous icon, an ethereal being that was all the more inspiring for being so unattainable. Her rejection of him only served to intensify his devotion.

  Meanwhile, there was another sister on her way. Bernice Opie came tripping along with a servant at her heels. When she caught sight of him, a broad smile lit her face. Ursula had asked him to be kind and gentle. It was an easy request to satisfy. Nothing would have persuaded him to send a poem of any sort to Bernice Opie. It had to be explained away as a foolish romantic gesture on his part. Hoode cleared his throat and began to rehearse his excuses.

  Cupid’s Folly drew a substantial audience that afternoon but it had nothing like the size or excitement of the crowds that had come to see the play it had replaced. It was one of the company’s staple comedies, a sturdy and reliable war-horse on which they could trot happily for a couple of hours. With the inimitable Barnaby Gill in the main role, it filled the yard with laughter yet again. George Dart was promoted to hold the book, leaving Nicholas Bracewell free to watch the audience from the same upper room he had used before. He thought it unlikely that one or both of the kidnappers would be there, but he wanted to make sure.

  Having met Cyrus Hame, he at least had a clearer idea of what the man he was after looked like. Nicholas had no qualms about the rough welcome that Hame had been given. He and John Vavasor were known to have done their best to lure Saul Hibbert away from Westfield’s Men and deprive them of what had seemed to be a dazzling new talent. Hame and Hibbert had been birds of a feather, proud peacocks that liked to strut and show off their finery. The disgraced playwright would have little use for his wardrobe in prison.

  Though he scanned the faces in the galleries, Nicholas could see none that looked as if it might belong to the man he sought. All that the kidnappers would want to know was that The Malevolent Comedy had given way to another play, and they could learn that from the playbills that had been posted up to advertise the event. When the play was over, he waited until the applause died down, and the yard began to empty, before making his way downstairs. The landlord intercepted him.

  ‘I knew that he was a villain,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘We owe you thanks for finding him out.’

  ‘I’m glad that he had enough money in his purse to settle his bill.’

  ‘And he’s in prison now, you say?’

  ‘Condemned for his many crimes,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I hear that bigamy was one of them.’

  ‘It was. Under two different names, he had at least three wives.’

  ‘I do not know whether to be shocked or to feel sorry for him,’ said Marwood, smacking his cheek to stop it twitching so alarmingly. ‘One wife is more than enough for me. Two would break my back. Three would be something akin to purgatory.’

  ‘The Queen’s Head will be quieter without Saul Hibbert.’

  ‘I’ll say “Amen” to that.’

  Nicholas broke away and went into the yard. Most of the spectators had left and the scenery was already being taken from the stage. Leonard waved and hurried across to his friend.

  ‘Nicholas, Nicholas!’ he called. ‘I’ve seen her again.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The young lady who asked about the book holder.’

  ‘Are you certain it was her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leonard. ‘I’d swear to it.’

  ‘You were certain about that gentleman this morning and he turned out to be Cyrus Hame. Let’s not have another mistake,’ said Nicholas, warily. ‘You have to be absolutely sure, Leonard.’

  ‘I am. She spoke to me again.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not two minutes ago. I came looking for you at once.’

  ‘Had the lady been at the play?’

  ‘No,’ replied Leonard, ‘she came to ask why The Malevolent Comedy had been replaced. I told her that it was out of favour with you.’

  ‘Good. What else did you say?’

  ‘That its author was in prison and likely to stay there a long time. She seemed pleased. She thanked me
for my help then walked away.’

  ‘You should have followed her!’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Not with these slow legs of mine. Besides, she knows me by sight and would have been warned of my pursuit.’

  ‘In other words, she got away.’

  ‘I’m not such a dullard as that, Nicholas.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I sent George Dart after her,’ said Leonard, proudly. ‘He’s small enough to keep out of sight and young enough to run all the way back here to tell us where she went.’

  Nicholas was thrilled. ‘Excellent work,’ he said, taking him by the shoulders. ‘Saddle a horse for me at once. I want it ready for when George returns. And find Lawrence’s horse as well. He’ll want to come with me to set Dick free.’

  Richard Honeydew had resigned himself to spending a whole day in the stink and discomfort of the disused stable. The woman had given him breakfast and another meal at noon. To his profound embarrassment, she had released his bonds so that he could relieve himself in the corner, any hope of escape removed by the fact that the man stood outside the door with a drawn sword. During the afternoon, the boy had been left alone, suffering from cramp and twisting his body into all kinds of shapes in order to ease it.

  He could hear the traffic in the nearby thoroughfare but remained cruelly isolated from it. Hours seemed to pass. It was late afternoon when he finally heard footsteps, accompanied by the sound of a horse’s hooves. The stable door was open and his captors stepped inside. They were carrying leather bags.

  ‘Why not leave him here?’ said the woman. ‘That’s the best way.’

  ‘No, he might be found too soon.’

  ‘He knows nothing.’

  ‘He knows your face,’ said the man, ‘and he’s caught a glimpse of mine. It’s safer to take him with us and leave him somewhere miles away from London. By the time he gets back here, we’ll be long gone.’

  ‘If we take him, he’ll slow us down.’

  ‘We’ll do as I say,’ he snapped, handing her his cloak. ‘Wrap him in this and I’ll throw him across my horse. Nobody will know that he’s there. Tie it fast,’ he ordered. Dropping his bag, he turned away. ‘I’ll fetch my horse from the blacksmith. He should be ready now.’

  ‘Hurry back.’

  When her companion went off, the woman crossed over to Honeydew and looked down at him. Her voice gave nothing away but there was a tinge of regret in her gaze.

  ‘You have to come for a ride,’ she said, holding the cloak open. The boy shook his head and pleaded with his eyes. ‘It’s the best way. If we leave you here, you might not be found for days.’

  He tried to shrink away from her but it was no use. She threw the cloak over him and wrapped him in a bundle, using more cord to tie the cloak in place. Honeydew heard the muffled sound of a horse’s hooves as it was pulled to a halt nearby. He was to be taken out of the city and abandoned by the roadside. The thought scared him. But it was not the woman’s accomplice whom he heard, coming to take him away. The next thing that reached his ears was the voice of Nicholas Bracewell as he came bursting into the stable.

  ‘What do you want?’ cried the woman.

  ‘You dropped this in the churchyard,’ said Nicholas, holding up the bloodstained handkerchief. ‘I’m afraid that it got rather stained.’ He saw the bundle, squirming violently on the ground. ‘Is that you, Dick?’

  Nicholas used his dagger to cut the cord and pulled the cloak away. Honeydew did his best to smile but it was impossible with the gag in his mouth. Nicholas tore it away.

  ‘Did they harm you, Dick?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no.’ He saw the woman, edging towards the door. ‘Look out or she’ll get away!’

  Nicholas put out a leg to trip her up and she went down in an undignified heap on the floor. It was the work of a second to cut through Honeydew’s bonds. While the boy rubbed his aching limbs, Nicholas helped the woman up from the floor. Another horse arrived at speed outside and its rider dismounted. Lawrence Firethorn stepped into the stable and, seeing Honeydew, rushed across to embrace him. He turned on the woman.

  ‘You kidnapped Dick and killed Hal Bridger,’ he said, angrily.

  ‘We simply wanted to stop the play,’ she replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she is Mistress Malevole,’ Honeydew piped up. ‘My role was the counterfeit of her. Saul Hibbert put her on the stage.’

  ‘He did more than that,’ she said, baring her teeth. ‘He married me under his real name and swore to love me. But as soon as I was quick with child, he left me and went to Norwich. Months later, a letter came from him.’

  ‘I can guess at its contents,’ said Nicholas. ‘Your husband told you that he was dying and begged you to discharge your debts. How much did he want?’

  ‘Thirty pounds.’

  ‘Did you pay?’

  ‘Like a fool, I did so,’ she admitted. ‘Then I learnt the truth.’

  ‘How did you track him to London?’

  ‘Quite by chance.’

  ‘Where’s your confederate?’

  ‘I came alone.’

  ‘She’s lying,’ cried Honeydew. ‘There’s a man with her. He went to fetch his horse from the blacksmith. They were going to take me with them. The man is dangerous. He’ll be back at any moment.’

  ‘Then he’s all mine,’ said Nicholas, sheathing his dagger. ‘Will you take care of the lady, Lawrence?’

  ‘Gladly,’ replied Firethorn. ‘Dick.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you and Nick.’

  ‘Pass me a piece of that cord, will you? I think that this Mistress Malevole is one that Lord Loveless must reject. She’s liable to scratch. I’ll bind her wrists before we deliver her up.’

  A horse trotted up outside. The woman screamed a warning.

  ‘Fly, Robert!’ she shrieked. ‘They’ve caught me!’

  Nicholas dashed out of the stable to confront the mounted rider, only to face a swishing rapier. As the man hacked madly at him, he moved back out of the way. He ducked as the sword was hurled at him. Wheeling his horse, his attacker then kicked the animal into life and sped off down the nearby street. Nicholas was in the saddle of his own horse at once, using his heels to take him at full gallop in pursuit of the other rider. People were scattered by the headlong race, diving for safety as the two horses clattered past them, protesting loudly and wondering why two men were riding hell for leather in such a busy street.

  Heedless of danger, Nicholas pressed on, jabbing his heels hard to get more speed out of his mount. He began to close the gap between the two horses. The man’s only thought was of escape but Nicholas was driven on by sharper demands. He wanted to avenge the death of Hal Bridger, the kidnap of Richard Honeydew, the theft of the prompt book and the accumulated damage that had been inflicted on Westfield’s Men. He wanted blood.

  The first horse powered on but the second was steadily gaining on it. When the man looked over his shoulder, he saw that Nicholas was only yards behind. It made him curse and kick his horse even harder but he could not outrun Nicholas. In a matter of moments, the other horse drew level and the man was knocked from the saddle by a flying body. Nicholas was determined to catch him, whatever the cost in cuts and bruises. The two of them fell heavily to the ground, momentarily winded.

  Nicholas was the first to recover, getting to his feet and hauling the man upright before punching him in the face then throwing him against the nearest wall. Watched by a crowd of onlookers, the man responded by kicking out with a foot to keep Nicholas at bay while pulling out his dagger. Nicholas wanted him alive. Instead of taking out his own weapon, he spread his arms and waited for the attack. Both men were covered in dust and bleeding from gashes they had picked up during the fall. Nicholas could feel a pain in his shoulder but it did not hold him back.

  ‘What was Saul Hibbert to you?’ he asked.

  ‘A cheat and a liar,’ replied the man, bre
athing hard.

  ‘Why make us suffer for his faults?’

  ‘Because his play was like a child to him. In killing that, we could make him suffer in the way that my sister suffered. He murdered her child so we wanted revenge.’

  ‘Is that why you poisoned an innocent boy?’

  ‘I’d have done anything to destroy that play of his.’

  Pushing himself from the wall, the man lunged at him with the dagger. Nicholas danced out of the way and circled him slowly. Voices in the crowd started to urge them on as people took sides. Nicholas watched the other man’s eyes, seeing the mixture of fear and bravado in them. Another lunge was dodged then he ducked beneath a sweep of the blade. As the man came at him again, Nicholas swayed inches out of reach as the point of the dagger went for his face. His hand shot out, grabbing the man by the wrist and swinging him against the wall with such force that the weapon was dashed from his hand.

  It was Nicholas’s turn to attack. After pummelling away with both fists at the body, he gripped him by the neck. The man spat in his face and tried to grapple with him but most of his strength had been drained away. Nicholas forced him back, banging his head repeatedly against the wall until blood ran freely down the stonework. A final uppercut sent his opponent slumping to the ground. Retrieving the fallen dagger, Nicholas dusted himself off. The fight was over.

  Westfield’s Men received the news of the release of Richard Honeydew, and of the arrest of his two captors, with complete rapture. They had something to celebrate at last. George Dart was, for once, the hero of the hour, having trailed the woman to the inn where she had stayed with her brother, then brought back the information to the Queen’s Head. They were quick to acknowledge Leonard’s assistance as well. Instead of sweeping dung out of the stables, he was invited into the taproom and plied with ale. Even the landlord felt that it was a deserved reward.

  Edmund Hoode stayed long enough to enjoy the festivities, pleased to hear that one of his own plays, A Trick to Catch a Chaste Lady, would return to the stage for the rest of the week. He was on the point of leaving when he noticed that Owen Elias was lifting a tankard to his lips. Crossing to the Welshman, he put a hand over his drink.