The Bawdy Basket

Chapter Two

Anne Hendrik knew him well enough to be able to gauge his moods with some precision. When he fell silent for long periods, she sensed that Nicholas Bracewell was nursing a private sorrow. If he broke that silence with inconsequential chatter, she realised that he was grieving on behalf of someone else. She had learnt from experience not to probe for details. Nicholas would only yield them up when he was ready to do so. Over a frugal breakfast at her house in Bankside, he talked intermittently about the weather, the rising cost of crossing the Thames by boat and the approach of Bartholomew Fair. She decided that he was introducing trivial subjects as a prelude to more serious conversation. Anne bided her time. The attractive widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she now ran the business, in the adjoining premises, that Jacob Hendrik had started when he first came to London as an exile. In the early days, she had taken in a lodger to defray her expenses and found in Nicholas Bracewell the soundest investment she had ever made. Their friendship had matured into something as close as marriage without any of the legal complications or drawbacks associated with holy matrimony. Mutual love and understanding made for a deep but unspoken commitment.

Nicholas finished his meal and pushed his platter away. He sought for the words to explain his behaviour in recent days. Anne waited patiently.

‘I feel that I owe you an apology,’ he said at length.

‘Why?’

‘My manner has been somewhat abstracted.’

‘So has mine, Nick,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I have been so immersed in my work of late that I have been less attentive to you. If an apology is called for, it should surely come from me.’

‘No, Anne. Mine is the graver fault.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Hear me out,’ he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand. ‘Something has been troubling me but I have been unable to confide in you because I was sworn to secrecy. The events of this afternoon absolve me of that oath.’

‘This afternoon? Westfield’s Men perform Mirth and Madness, do they not?’

‘Indeed, they do — but I will not be at the Queen’s Head to help them.’

Anne was astonished. ‘Where will you be?’

‘At a more tragic performance. No mirth of any kind is involved, though there is a degree of judicial madness. I’ll be at Smithfield to witness a public execution.’

‘An execution? What could possibly take you there?’

‘Loyalty to a friend. I go but to lend support to poor Frank Quilter.’

‘But he should be acting onstage in Gracechurch Street.’

‘Not when his father plays the title role in Smithfield.’

She was horrified. ‘His father is to be executed? For what crime?’

‘That of murder,’ he replied solemnly, ‘though Frank is convinced of his innocence. He believes that his father has been falsely accused. Having heard the evidence, I am inclined to take the same view.’

‘Who was the victim?’

‘A man called Vincent Webbe. He and Frank’s father, Gerard Quilter, were old and bitter enemies, it seems. At a chance encounter, their tempers got the better of their common sense and a brawl resulted. Gerard Quilter confesses as much. What he denies is that he killed Vincent Webbe during that brawl. His defence is simple. The victim was stabbed to death yet Gerard Quilter carried no weapon about him.’

‘How, then, was he convicted?’

‘On the word of two men who claim to have witnessed the brawl.’

‘Did they see Master Quilter wield a dagger?’

‘So they avouch.’

‘What manner of man is Frank’s father?’

‘I’ve never met him, Anne,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but if he is anything like his son, I take him to be honest and industrious. Gerard Quilter was a mercer in the city before he retired to the country. That argues wealth and position. Why throw it all away with the thrust of a dagger?’

‘Yet he does concede that he took part in the brawl?’

‘Only to protect himself. It was Vincent Webbe who struck first.’

Anne now understood. Nicholas took the responsibilities of friendship seriously and there was a double obligation in this case. Frank Quilter and he were fellows in the same company, bound together by professional ties. In helping the young actor through the ordeal of the execution, Nicholas was providing the moral support that he would have offered to any member of Westfield’s Men.

‘How will they cope without you, Nick?’ she asked.

‘Indifferently, I hope,’ he said with a grin, ‘for then they will know my true worth.’ His face clouded. ‘But it’s no time for levity. The company will manage because they have done so before. Necessity is a wise teacher. Lawrence Firethorn was not happy to release either of us. He only did so because Mirth and Madness is a play we have staged so often that it is proof against any disaster — even with George Dart holding the book in my stead.’

‘George Dart? I spy danger there.’

‘Give the lad his due, Anne. It is only when he ventures onstage that George is a menace. Behind the scenes, he is keen and conscientious. He’ll not let us down.’

‘What of Frank Quilter?’

‘Ask me when this afternoon’s trial is over.’

‘Would it not be better for him to avoid the distress by staying away?’

‘I suggested that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he felt that it would be a betrayal of his father. Frank believes that there ought to be one person in the crowd who is aware of the condemned man’s innocence.’

‘Two, if you include yourself.’

‘I do, Anne. I am not merely aiding a friend at a time of crisis. My thoughts are with Westfield’s Men. Frank Quilter is a brilliant young actor. We need his talent to shine for us, and it will not do that if he is fretting about his father. That’s my embassy,’ he explained. ‘To take him back to the company in the right state of mind. It’s a most difficult assignment and I’m not sure that I shall succeed.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘If anyone can succeed, Nick, you can.’

‘Thank you. Am I forgiven, then?’

‘There is nothing to forgive.’

‘I hate to keep secrets from you.’

‘You were forced to do so.’

He nodded. ‘I fear that I was. I only confided in Lawrence Firethorn to save Frank from his rebuke. This business has haunted Frank and sullied his work onstage.’

‘That is hardly surprising.’

‘What concerns me is how the rest of the company will respond.’

‘Are they aware of the situation?’

‘All of London is aware of it today. It can be hidden no more.’

‘Westfield’s Men will surely rally behind Frank.’

‘I hope so, Anne,’ he said, pulling his hand gently away, ‘but I have my doubts. Frank and I may believe in the innocence of his father but will the others? All they will see is an actor whose father has faced the disgrace of a public execution. Some of that disgrace will rub off on Frank himself. He may come in for harsh treatment.’

As they gathered for rehearsal at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street that morning, it was the sole topic of conversation. Everyone knew about the execution of Gerard Quilter and all of them had an opinion. Barnaby Gill’s was unequivocal.

‘I say that he should be banned from the company!’ he argued.

‘Do not be so hasty,’ said Lawrence Firethorn.

‘We must not have a criminal in our ranks.’

‘Frank is no criminal. It’s Gerard Quilter who goes to his death this day.’

‘Like father, like son.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Is it, Lawrence?’ asked Gill, jabbing a finger at him. ‘It’s what everyone else in the company feels. Frank Quilter is tainted. His father’s crime is of so heinous a nature that Frank will never outlive it.’

‘Only if the man is guilty of the murder.’

‘Why else should they hang him?’

‘Frank contends that his father is innocent.’

‘Pah!’ sneered Gill. ‘What son will ever admit that his father is a ruthless killer? The fact remains that the man was arrested, charged and convicted in a court of law. He must now pay the ultimate penalty and I, for one,’ said Gill with emphasis, ‘will shed no tears for the villain.’

‘Do you have no sympathy for Frank?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘Not a jot!’

‘Well, I do, Barnaby, and with good cause. When I talked about an execution in Frank’s hearing the other day, I had no notion of this afternoon’s event. No wonder he fled from the taproom in disgust.’ The Welshman shook his head sadly. ‘It was cruel of me to dwell on such details in front of him. My only excuse is that I did not know the truth at the time.’

‘None of us did, Owen,’ said Gill. ‘Except Nicholas, of course. He has been privy to the information from the start and should be sharply reprimanded for keeping it to himself.’

‘But he did not,’ confessed Firethorn. ‘He confided in me.’

Gill was astonished. ‘You knew, Lawrence?’

‘Only a few days ago.’

‘Yet you said nothing to the rest of us?’

‘I was asked to remain silent.’

‘To what end?’ demanded Gill. ‘The news should have been divulged to us. By delaying it, all you did was to increase the force of the blow. The company is in a state of shock to learn that it has a killer in its midst.’

‘The son of a putative killer.’

‘He must bear the sins of his father.’

‘Not if the man is falsely accused.’

‘The law does not make mistakes.’

‘I hate to say it,’ added Elias, ‘but I agree with Barnaby for once. From all accounts, the evidence against the prisoner was clear and decisive. Two witnesses saw him stab the victim repeatedly. Gerard Quilter deserves to die.’

‘And his son deserves to be expelled,’ said Gill.

‘I would not go that far, Barnaby.’

‘No more would I,’ said Firethorn. ‘Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, Frank Quilter is a valuable member of the company. I wish to keep him with us.’

Gill was adamant. ‘Impossible!’

‘Give him the benefit of the doubt.’

‘He’ll corrupt the whole lot of us.’

‘Enough of such wild talk!’ snapped Firethorn.

‘It’s not wild, Lawrence,’ said Elias with a sigh. ‘What Barnaby says is what most of our fellows think. Actors are superstitious by nature, as you well know. They will feel uneasy at the idea of playing alongside a man with Frank’s pedigree.’

‘As an actor, his pedigree is almost faultless.’

‘We judge him first as a man.’

‘Owen speaks well,’ said Gill. ‘Put a rotten apple in the barrel and the rest will soon decay. There’s no remedy for it, Lawrence. Frank must go forthwith.’

Firethorn stiffened. ‘That’s a decision that only I will make.’

‘It has already been made by the company.’

‘I fear that it has,’ admitted Elias. ‘There’s a lot of bad feeling against Frank Quilter. I do not share it myself but I would be a liar if I denied that it was there.’

Firethorn scratched his beard. Accustomed to dominating his company, he hated to be thrown on the defensive, especially when it was Barnaby Gill who was gaining a temporary advantage over him. When he had first learnt of the execution, he had been shaken by the intelligence, afraid of the consequences of keeping Quilter in the company. What reassured him was the ardour with which Nicholas Bracewell proclaimed the innocence of the condemned man. He was tempted to accept that Gerard Quilter might, after all, be the victim of rough justice. Having taken soundings from the other actors, however, he was beginning to revise that opinion. Disapproval of Frank Quilter was widespread and vocal. Even the more compassionate members of the troupe, like Owen Elias and James Ingram, believed in the guilt of the prisoner. Unable to make up his mind, or to subdue Gill in open debate, Firethorn did what he always did in such circumstances. He summoned his book holder.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he called. ‘A word in your ear!’

‘It is Nicholas who should have whispered a word in our ear,’ complained Gill.

‘He had his reasons,’ said Elias.

Nicholas strolled across to the three men. They were standing in the inn yard while their makeshift stage was being erected. Unable to attend during the performance itself, the book holder was there for the morning rehearsal to shepherd George Dart through the intricacies of his role as a substitute. When he saw the expressions on their faces, Nicholas knew what his fellows had been talking about.

‘Tell them what you told me, Nick,’ encouraged Firethorn.

Gill was petulant. ‘We’ve heard enough already and it comes far too late.’

‘The company is restive,’ said Elias gently. ‘We need guidance.’

‘Then do not look for it from Nicholas,’ said Gill with a dismissive gesture. ‘He is but a hired man. The decision must be left to the sharers.’

‘What decision?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The eviction of Frank Quilter from Westfield’s Men.’

‘But there’s no question of that. Frank is contracted to the company. You cannot rescind a legal document in a fit of pique.’

Gill was insulted. ‘This is no fit of pique, I promise you.’

‘Nor is it a considered judgement, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn.

‘I speak on behalf of the majority.’

‘Then you speak in ignorance,’ said Nicholas civilly. ‘If you knew the full facts of the case, you would not be so ungenerous. Nor would you show such disloyalty to one of your own. Frank Quilter has been a great asset to Westfield’s Men. We are fortunate to number him in our company.’

‘He was no great asset to us in Hannibal,’ said Gill spitefully.

‘True enough,’ conceded Firethorn.

‘Frank was sorely troubled,’ Nicholas reminded them. ‘Who would not be with something as grievous as this hanging over him?’

‘Had he forewarned us, Nick,’ said Elias, ‘we might have understood his plight.’

‘Yes,’ insisted Gill. ‘And thrown him out before he did even more damage.’

‘That will never happen,’ said Nicholas levelly.

‘It will, if I have my way. Most of the sharers are of the same mind.’

Nicholas was hurt. ‘I cannot believe you side with them, Owen.’

‘I do not,’ affirmed Elias. ‘I deplore what his father did, Nick, but I would not oust Frank on that account. If we were all responsible for our father’s mistakes, none of us would escape whipping.’

‘Murder is more than a mistake!’ protested Gill.

‘Granted,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’ve yet to hear convincing evidence of Gerard Quilter’s guilt. From what I know of him, he is simply not capable of murder.’

Firethorn was resigned. ‘Guilty or not, he faces execution this afternoon.’

‘And we suffer the consequences,’ said Gill, ‘as long as his son remains.’

‘He must remain,’ Nicholas contended. Turning to Firethorn, he saw the doubt in the latter’s face. ‘You support Frank to the hilt, surely?’

‘I would like to, Nick,’ said Firethorn quietly, ‘but, in truth, I find it difficult to do so. And I do not want a revolt on my hands. I can only lead where others will follow. When all is said and done, the company is greater than any individual actor.’

‘Westfield’s Men have a reputation for helping each other.’

‘Not when someone commits such a crime,’ said Gill.

‘Frank’s only crime is to be the son of Gerard Quilter.’

‘That is enough, more than enough.’

‘No,’ replied Nicholas, looking to Firethorn once more. ‘Do you set yourselves up as judge and jury, yet give Frank no chance to defend himself?’

‘We’ll hear him out, naturally,’ said Firethorn.

Elias gave a nod. ‘It’s the least that we could do.’

‘Of course,’ said Gill with exaggerated sweetness. ‘We’ll give him a fair hearing first, then we’ll kick him out of the company for good.’

‘What of his contract?’ asked Nicholas.

‘This afternoon’s events revoke it completely.’

‘I do not agree with you there, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘Broken contracts are meat and drink to lawyers. The last thing we must do is to invite litigation. Much as I hate to say this, Nick,’ he went on, turning to the book holder, ‘the best way forward may be to persuade Frank to withdraw from the troupe of his own free will. Would you undertake that task?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘We demand it of you!’ cried Gill.

‘My answer remains the same.’

‘Nick knows that he would be wasting his time,’ reasoned Elias. ‘Frank Quilter has his pride. He’ll not slink away from the company with his tail between his legs. The only way to get rid of him is to dismiss him summarily.’

‘Then that is what we must do,’ said Gill. ‘Do you not see that, Lawrence?’

Firethorn shifted his feet. Circumstances had conspired to put him in the most awkward position. It was ironic. Westfield’s Men had been enjoying an unprecedented success. Fine weather had brought in large audiences on a daily basis. Their repertoire was wide and received with acclaim. The advent of Frank Quilter had both strengthened them and weakened their hated rivals. Edmund Hoode was on the verge of delivering what he believed to be his finest drama. Topping it all was the news that Alexander Marwood, the melancholy landlord, was confined to his bed. Westfield’s Men had never known such good fortune. Yet, at the very moment of triumph, their equilibrium was threatened. The actions of someone outside the company had shaken them to the core. As long as one particular actor remained, Firethorn’s beloved troupe was at risk. Nicholas Bracewell was a dear and respected friend of his but Firethorn had to disappoint him for once. He took a deep breath.

‘I see no future for Frank Quilter in the company,’ he announced.

Gill beamed. ‘Common sense wins the day at last!’

‘I’d be sorry to part with Frank on this account,’ said Elias.

‘So would I,’ declared Nicholas, ‘but the decision lies not with me. On one issue, however, I do have a deciding voice and that is with regard to my own future. Dispatch Frank Quilter, if you must,’ he said, straightening his shoulders, ‘but bear this in mind. If he goes, you will need to replace me as well.’

She was there. Edmund Hoode sensed it the moment that he stepped out onstage. The anonymous lady who had written to him in praise of his work was somewhere up in the galleries. Whenever he could, he let his gaze scan the faces above him, trying to find that special countenance that looked down on him with such favour. It was not only Hoode’s plays that had been hailed by his correspondent. She had lauded his performances as an actor as well. When he read between the beautifully written lines of her letter, he saw that she was really enamoured of him. Without even meeting the lady, Hoode had made a conquest. Satisfying to any man, it was especially exciting for him because he so rarely aroused such uncompromising love in a woman. The moon-faced dramatist with receding hair was a veteran of doomed romances. Desire on his part was always urgent yet seldom fulfilled. Unrequited love was his usual suit. It was almost as if he sought out unattainable ladies in order to be punished by their rejection. Now, at last, against all the odds, through no effort of his own, someone had picked him out. The elegance of her hand and the scented aroma of her missive spoke highly of the sender. Clearly, she was a person of discernment.

Inspired by the thought that she was watching him, Hoode excelled himself. He entered with sprightly step, delivered his lines with brimming confidence and brought out every aspect of his character. His performance was all the more striking because of the dross that surrounded it. Mirth and Madness was a standard play from their repertoire, a lively comedy that was shot through with moments of high farce. Since the action took place in midsummer, it seemed an ideal choice for a hot afternoon in August, replete, as it was, with songs and dances, and blissfully free from the technical problems associated with Hannibal. As a piece of theatre, it had never failed them. This time it was different. Word of their unfortunate link with a public execution had upset the company deeply but the news about Nicholas Bracewell was even more distressing. He was one of the mainstays of Westfield’s Men. His resourcefulness had saved them from disaster — even extinction — on more than one occasion. The thought that he might desert the troupe caused fear and panic to spread.

Even the acknowledged star of the company wavered. Lawrence Firethorn took the leading role with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His mind was patently not on the play. Where he could usually reap a whole harvest of laughter, he now barely managed to arouse more than an occasional giggle. Owen Elias, too, was a shadow of himself, booming away half-heartedly as if he had no real faith in the part that he was taking. Most of the actors were similarly dispirited, moving through the play like sleepwalkers, unable to shake off their apprehension about their revered book holder. Barnaby Gill, by contrast, was superb. Untroubled by the impending loss of Nicholas Bracewell, he filled the gaps left by the others and seized every opportunity to dazzle. His three comic songs and four hilarious jigs allowed him to monopolise the laughter. Along with Hoode, he injected some zest into the play and the spectators were duly appreciative. To Firethorn’s disgust, it was Gill and Hoode who received most applause when they took their bow.

The clapping was sustained, the cheers loud. Edmund Hoode heard none of it. His eyes were roving the galleries in search of his mystery correspondent. He was certain that she was there because he could feel her gaze upon him like rays of sunlight. His gaze went swiftly along the rows of smiling faces. Handsome gallants and pretty ladies were there in profusion but he could not pick her out on the crowded benches. The important thing, he told himself, was that she could see him and she had watched him perform on a day when he was head and shoulders above most of his fellows. For the first time in his life, he had even outshone Lawrence Firethorn. Somewhere up there was the lady who made it all possible, the spur to his talent, the beat of his heart. His face glowed with happiness. The impossible had happened. He had fallen in love with someone whom he had never even seen.

As the applause weakened, the actors began to quit the stage. Hoode could not linger. He was about to give up his search and leave when she finally revealed herself. She was seated in the middle of the upper gallery, directly in front of him and with a perfect view of the stage. Rising to her feet, she raised a gloved hand to give him a little wave of congratulation. Hoode trembled involuntarily. She was rather older than he had imagined, and more matronly in appearance, but that did not matter. His admirer was a gorgeous lady with dark hair curling out from beneath her hat and a smile that ignited her whole face. Wearing a dress in the Spanish fashion, she seemed to him the epitome of all that was good in womanhood. He had known younger, daintier, more vivacious ladies in his time but this one had a quality that they had all lacked. She was his.

When he backed his way offstage, Hoode was still in a dream. His mind was filled to bursting with the vision of loveliness he had just seen. It was only when he collided with George Dart that he realised he was in the tiring house.

‘Steady, Master Hoode!’ said Dart in alarm.

‘Oh, forgive me, George. My thoughts were elsewhere.’

‘It was so for most of the company during the play, for their thoughts were neither on mirth nor madness. There were times when I wondered if I was holding the correct book. The actors wandered so.’

Dart was immensely proud that he had been chosen as Nicholas Bracewell’s deputy. While the others mocked him for his misfortunes onstage, the book holder showed tolerance towards him. He knew that the more responsibility Dart was given behind the scenes, the better he discharged it. Aided by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who stood at his side ready to box his ears in the event of a mistake, Dart had been remarkably efficient in his new role. He knew Mirth and Madness well, and had watched Nicholas in action enough times to pick up hints from him. While many others floundered onstage, Dart held his nerve. It was only when the play was over that he let his anxieties show.

‘I never thought to get through the afternoon,’ he confessed.

‘You did well, George.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘You held the tiller with a steady hand.’

‘It did not feel very steady, Master Hoode.’

‘Nick Bracewell would have been proud of you.’

‘There’s no higher praise than that.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘He is a prince of his craft. Westfield’s Men would be lost without him.’

‘That’s why we will never let him go.’

‘But he’s threatened to leave us. Have you not heard the news?’

Hoode came out of his daze. ‘News?’

‘There is a danger that we may lose Nicholas,’ said Dart, biting his lip. ‘Many people are calling for Master Quilter to be ousted from the company. If he goes, Nicholas has warned, then we will have lost our book holder as well.’

‘Nick Bracewell said that?’

Hoode was dumbfounded. He had heard the rumours earlier in the day but had been far too preoccupied take them in. If some as lowly as George Dart could report the ultimatum, then it must have a basis in truth. Hoode shuddered. Nicholas Bracewell was much more to him than a crucial member of the company. He was a close friend of the playwright’s, more reliable than Lawrence Firethorn and far less critical than Owen Elias. The one person to whom Hoode could turn in the emergencies that seemed to litter his life was the book holder.

Nicholas was also the only man in whom he confided details of his private life and, since that had taken such a delightful turn, he needed someone to listen to the tale of his good fortune. Hoode would sooner surrender a limb than lose the companionship of Nicholas Bracewell. The consequences for Westfield’s Men were unthinkable. The playwright resolved to raise the matter instantly with Lawrence Firethorn, who was sitting gloomily on a bench, contemplating the defects of his performance that afternoon. Hoode walked towards him. Before he could reach the actor-manager, however, he was intercepted by a shamefaced James Ingram.

‘You came to our rescue out there, Edmund,’ he said.

‘Did I?’

‘We gave a poor account of ourselves this afternoon. But for you and Barnaby, Mirth and Madness could more properly have been called Misery and Badness. We betrayed the play by being too full of self-affairs. Thank you for helping to save our reputation. You were heroic.’

‘I gave of my best, James, that is all.’

‘It was more than the rest of us managed to do.’

‘I felt inspired today.’

‘We were too jaded to follow your example.’

Patting him on the shoulder, Ingram moved away. His place was immediately taken by a servant who worked at the Queen’s Head. The lad blinked at Hoode for a moment then handed him a letter.

‘I was asked to deliver this, sir,’ he said.

‘By whom?’ The question became irrelevant when Hoode glanced at the handwriting. It was from her. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled.

While the boy ran off, Hoode retreated to a corner of the room so that he could read the letter. It contained only one sentence but it was enough to make his head spin. He almost swooned with delight. The first missive had been unsigned but this one had the tantalising initial of ‘A’. He speculated on what her name might be. Adele? Araminta? Alice? Arabella? Anne? Audrey? Antonia? Unable to select the correct name, he decided that ‘A’ must stand for ‘angel’, for that is what he felt she was, descending from heaven to bring him unexpected joy. The letter was a gift from God. All else fled from his mind. When the firm hand of Lawrence Firethorn fell on his shoulder, he hardly felt it.

‘We owe you a debt of gratitude, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Thank you.’

Hoode looked at him. ‘For what?’

‘The services you rendered the company this afternoon.’

‘Barnaby was the real saviour.’

‘He did no more than he always does,’ said Firethorn irritably. ‘Prancing and pulling faces is the height of his art. But you lifted yourself to a higher plain, Edmund. None of us could rival you.’

Ordinarily, Hoode would have lapped up the congratulations. They rarely came from such a source. A vain man, Firethorn spent more time in boasting about his own theatrical triumphs than in praising the work of others. He believed that simply by allowing other actors to appear beside him onstage, he was conferring tacit approval on them. They deserved no more encouragement. To admit that someone actually gave a superior performance to his was a unique concession. Yet Hoode was unable to enjoy it. He was still caught up in the mood of exhilaration. Hoode would listen to praise from only one source. Her letter was warm in his hand.

‘Will you stay to celebrate with us in the taproom, Edmund?’

‘No, Lawrence,’ he replied. ‘I must away.’

‘That’s dedication indeed! I’ll not try to keep you from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Once it is finished, the whole company will be the beneficiaries. Then they will understand why you’ve scurried off alone each day.’ He nudged Hoode. ‘How goes it?’

‘Very well.’

‘Are you pleased with the results?’

‘Extremely pleased.’

‘When do we get to view this masterpiece?’

‘I’ve had not had that privilege myself yet, Lawrence.’

Firethorn gaped. ‘But you have been slaving at it for several weeks now.’

‘Have I?’

‘You know that you have, Edmund. You have devoted every waking hour to it. Though we missed your company, we admired your sense of purpose. So,’ he said, whispering into Hoode’s ear. ‘Where is it?’

‘What?’

‘The work of art you are rushing off to finish. The new play, man, the new play!’

Hoode stared at him with blank incomprehension.

‘Play?’ he said at length. ‘What play?’

Entertainment of a different kind was on offer at Smithfield that afternoon and it drew a more ghoulish audience. Spectators at the city’s playhouses had gone to be moved by counterfeit deaths and fake horrors. Those who congregated at Smithfield wanted no deceit. They came in search of the real thing. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were part of a milling crowd. Renowned for centuries for its horse-market, the grassy acres that comprised ‘Smoothfield’, as it had been called, were redolent of a grim history. It had been a place of public execution for over four hundred years. Countless villains had been put to death before the eyes of the commonalty. Most were hanged from the gallows that stood between the horse-pool and the wells, but, in the reign of Henry VIII, Tyburn became the regular site for executions. Smithfield, however, was not wholly discarded. At the command of Mary Tudor, over two hundred martyrs were burnt at the stake there and it continued to be used on certain occasions. Gerard Quilter was unfortunate enough to be singled out for one of those occasions.

Nicholas was there in a supportive capacity. His presence was vital. Quilter was so tense and queasy that he seemed about to keel over at any moment. Both men tried to shut their ears to the foul language and gruesome anticipation they could hear all around them. When his friend rocked slightly, Nicholas steadied with him a hand.

‘You did not need to put yourself through this, Frank,’ he said.

‘My ordeal is nothing beside that of my father.’

‘Remember him as he was, not as you will see him today.’

‘He will expect me to be here, Nick.’

‘Yet he will never observe you in this crowd.’

‘Father will know,’ asserted Quilter. ‘If there were ten times this number here, he would be keenly aware of my absence. I’ll not let him down in his hour of need.’ He forced a smile of gratitude. ‘I know what it cost you to be here with me today, Nick. It’s a favour I’ll not easily forget.’

‘It was the least I could do, Frank.’

‘Nobody else in the company volunteered to take on the office.’

‘Westfield’s Men had a play to stage.’

‘So did you.’

‘Your need was greater.’

‘The others did not think so.’

‘There was a lot of sympathy for you, Frank.’

‘But much more resentment, I’ll warrant. Is it not so? I bear the name of a brutal killer, that is what they believe. They’ll want no part of Frank Quilter after this. And who can blame them? In their eyes, I’m stained with the blood of the victim.’

‘Only because they do not know the truth.’

‘How can we persuade them?’

Nicholas’s reply was lost beneath a roar of approval as the crowd welcomed the condemned prisoners. Gerard Quilter would not die alone. Flanked by armed riders, two carts were pulled along by sweating horses through the mass of people. Cruel jeers and vile taunts filled the air. Arms opinioned, Gerard Quilter was in the first of the carts, standing up with the hangman’s assistant beside him. Nicholas saw the family likeness at once. The father had the son’s handsome face and dignified bearing. Even in his dire distress, Gerard Quilter contrived to keep his back straight and his chin up. He was coping with the grisly situation by drawing on his faith, praying to God to help him through the ordeal that lay ahead and asking that his reputation would one day be vindicated. That was his only source of comfort. Frank, his only son, would be there to witness his humiliation. His father was ashamed to be seen by him in such a condition. All that he could hope was that his son was so revolted by the hideous spectacle that he would not rest until the family name was cleansed.

Nicholas was impressed by the way that Gerard Quilter held himself. There was no hint of dignity in the following cart. Jane Gullet, a snarling virago, was hurling abuse at the crowd and ducking to avoid the ripe fruit that was thrown at her from all sides. Convicted of witchcraft, she was sentenced to burn for using her black arts against her husband, an old man who had died, it was alleged, as a result of a spell put upon him. The poison she put in his food was the more likely cause of his death but the crowd would not be deprived of their witch. What they saw was no rebellious wife. Instead, they viewed a venomous hag with a vicious tongue from which a stream of imprecations flowed. The only fit place for her was among the flames. Had Gerard Quilter been hanged alone, he would have been taken to the gallows at Tyburn. Since he shared the day of execution with Jane Gullet, it was decided to dispatch both of them at the same venue. It was an added humiliation for him. As a condemned murderer, Quilter was attracting enough opprobrium. Partnered with the feral old woman, he looked as if he was her confederate, an accessory to the poisoning of her husband and a willing participant in the evils of witchcraft.

As the carts trundled towards the gallows, some of the spectators were not satisfied with flinging taunts or tossing missiles. One man clambered up beside the prisoner in the first cart and tried to belabour him. Nicholas had to restrain Quilter from trying to go to his father’s assistance. It was, in any case, a futile urge. Quilter would never have barged his way through the press. Besides, his father’s attacker was quickly overpowered and hustled away. Quilter was shaking with anger.

‘Why do they goad him so?’ he asked. ‘Is he not suffering enough?’

‘Turn your head away,’ advised Nicholas.

‘From my own father? I would not do that even if they tear him to pieces with their bare hands. I want to see everything, Nick. Each remembered detail will fire my need for vengeance,’

‘Against whom?’

A second question went unanswered as a fresh roar went up. Hauled from her cart, Jane Gullet was dragged towards a pile of faggots and tied to the post that stood in the middle of them. As the crowd spat and yelled, she replied with curses and dark laughter. On the gallows nearby was a more controlled spectacle. Helped up the steps by the hangman’s assistant, Gerard Quilter was met by a chaplain who asked him to repent his crime. Nicholas did not hear the reply in the tumult but he guessed its nature by the way that the prisoner bore himself. There was no admission of guilt, no sense of final capitulation. Head held high, Gerard Quilter was a visible symbol of the innocence that he professed. His son was duly proud of him.

Nicholas did not watch the burning or the hanging. Public executions were anathema to him. They brought back unhappy memories of his time at sea, sailing with Drake on his circumnavigation of the world. Nameless cruelties had been inflicted during the voyage. Nicholas recalled only too well the occasions when he was forced to witness executions aboard the Golden Hind. Even if men were guilty of terrible crimes, he took no pleasure in the sight of their death. When a man was innocent — as he believed Gerard Quilter to be — he could not bear to look. Alone in the crowd, he averted his eyes. Others watched avidly, cheering as the noose was put around one prisoner’s neck and whipping themselves into a frenzy when the faggots were lighted beneath the other.

Francis Quilter was on the verge of collapse. There were two tiny consolations for him. The hangman knew his trade. When the trap was opened and the body plunged, the prisoner’s neck was broken instantly. There was no lingering death. Gerard Quilter had been spared any additional agony. Divine intervention seemed to be responsible for the second consolation. A gust of wind came out of nowhere to fan the flames of the fire and to send the smoke so thickly across the gallows that it obscured the hanged man. Jane Gullet became the focus of attention, howling in anguish and defying the crowd to the last. Only when she was consumed by the flames did the collective hysteria start to abate.

Taking his friend by the arm, Nicholas led him away.

‘You have seen enough, Frank,’ he said.

‘They’re no better than animals,’ muttered Quilter, gazing around. ‘What sort of people enjoy such horrors? And why must they be made public?’

‘The authorities believe that they are setting an example. Each victim who goes to his grave in such an appalling way stands as a warning to others.’

‘But why hang my father when they are burning a witch?’

‘It was a heartless decision.’

‘He did not belong in the company of that repulsive creature.’

‘Neither of them deserved the hatred and ridicule they provoked.’

‘Father was innocent, Nick!’ urged Quilter, bunching a fist to strike the palm of his other hand. ‘What we saw today was nothing short of judicial murder.’

They fell silent and walked swiftly away. Pleased with the entertainment, the crowd was now dispersing with grim satisfaction. Nicholas hoped that his friend did not hear some of the bloodthirsty comments that came from the lips of other spectators. One woman complained bitterly that the hanging had been over too quickly, and that they had been cheated of the victim’s frantic twitches as he choked to death. As soon as they got clear of Smithfield and its denizens, Nicholas guided his friend towards a tavern. When his companion bought him a tankard of ale, Quilter took a long sip before speaking.

‘This must be avenged, Nick,’ he said firmly.

‘If your father did not kill Vincent Webbe, then someone else did. The only way to clear the family name is to find the real murderer.’

‘It will be my mission in life.’

‘Where will you start?’

‘With the two men who bore false witness against my father.’

‘Count on me if you need help, Frank.’

Quilter was touched. ‘You have gone well beyond the bounds of friendship as it is,’ he said. ‘It would be unfair of me to burden you any further.’

‘A shared load would be lighter for both of us.’

‘No, Nick. Your first obligation is to Westfield’s Men. They will have missed you badly this afternoon. And why? Because you chose to bear me company on the worst day of my life.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘Lawrence Firethorn would not spare you again.’

‘He is not my keeper,’ said Nicholas.

Quilter became wistful. ‘Until today, he was my idol, the actor whom I admire most in the world and on whom I try to pattern myself. Not any more, alas,’ he sighed. ‘How eager will he be to have me beside him after this?’

‘You have a contract with the company, Frank.’

‘I have violated its terms already by missing a performance. And because I am the son of Gerard Quilter, I have probably endangered the whole document. You were at the rehearsal this morning, Nick,’ he said. ‘What was the general feeling?’

‘There was much uncertainty,’ replied Nicholas tactfully.

‘Do not hide the truth to spare my feelings. I can imagine the harsh words that were spoken against me by some. They want me out, do they not?’

‘One or two, perhaps.’

‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘He feels the pressure from the others.’

‘In other words, he is against me as well. Then my cause is truly doomed.’

‘No, Frank.’

‘I would hate to lose my place among Westfield’s Men.’

‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ve brought shame to the company, or so it will be seen. I’ll be an outcast. What is to stop them from expelling me?’

‘The fear that they will lose more than a good actor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you are forced to leave,’ said Nicholas, ‘then I have refused to stay.’

Quilter was dismayed. ‘But you are the very essence of Westfield’s Men.’

‘I hope that others share that view.’

‘No, Nick. I cannot allow this. It’s too great a sacrifice. I’ll fight to hold my place in the company and will go reluctantly, if I fail. But your own future must never be conditional on mine. If I’m to drown, I’ll not take you down with me.’

‘It may not come to that, Frank. Hot words were spoken at the Queen’s Head this morning. When tempers have cooled, our fellows may talk with more sense. They should certainly learn to show more loyalty to one of their number.’

‘You’ve enough loyalty for all of them.’

‘I believe in you, Frank — and in your father’s innocence.’

‘How can we convince the others?’

‘By doing as you say. Vindicate his reputation and Westfield’s Men will be only too keen to woo us back into their ranks.’

‘No,’ said Quilter, shaking his head. ‘I’ll not be the cause of your departure, Nick. Whatever happens, you must stay. I need one friend in the company.’

Nicholas pondered. ‘Then there may be a middle way,’ he said at length.

‘Betwixt what?’

‘Retention and expulsion. After the events at Smithfield this afternoon, a black cloud hangs over the company. I’d be misleading you if I said that you would be welcomed back into the fold. Try to hold them to the contract,’ he went on, ‘and they might still find a way to eject you. But if you sue for leave of absence, you will be free to conduct your investigation and Westfield’s Men will be spared much embarrassment. Will this content you?’

‘It will,’ said Quilter eagerly. ‘That way, both parties are satisfied.’

‘Let me put it to Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Do not forget to mention the prime benefit. Harp on that, Nick.’

‘On what?’

‘Westfield’s Men will not only be getting rid of me at a time when I might cause them some unease,’ said Quilter. ‘They will have Nicholas Bracewell back at the helm. It will be the finest bargain they ever struck.’