The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Ten

Childbirth was a source of mystery and pain. No woman could escape its random cruelties. Rank, wealth and the finest medical advice in the kingdom could not prevent recurring disasters in fraught bedchambers. Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII, had numerous pregnancies but most ended in miscarriages, stillbirths or death on delivery. Only one of her children, Mary, survived infancy and when she herself came to the throne, her barren womb was mocked by phantom pregnancies that had been confirmed by learned physicians. The meanest beggarwoman who gave birth under a hedge could sometimes stand as much chance of rearing the child as the high-born ladies who underwent long confinements. Nothing about the miraculous process was certain except the fact that it cost the lives of large numbers of mothers and babies. Birth and death were familiar bedfellows.

Margery Firethorn understood this only too well. She and her sister were the two survivors of their mother’s seven children and Margery had watched infant mortalities darken the households of many of her relatives and friends. Her bustling benevolence at the Cambridge abode masked her deep concern for Agnes who was not as robust as her elder sister. But each day brought a visible improvement in mother and child as well as a growing self-importance in the father as Jonathan Jarrold came to terms with his new status. After coming through a testing birth, the baby seemed to know that the worst was over and it guzzled happily at the breasts of the wet nurse. The infant Richard patently liked the world well enough to remain in it and his sense of purpose was the best possible physic for his mother. With Margery forever at her side to reassure her, Agnes Jarrold came to believe that she would at last be able to raise a family.

Her thoughts turned fondly to her brother-in-law.

‘I would dearly like to see Lawrence again,’ she said.

‘Then you must come to London and take your place in his audience.’ Margery feigned irritation. ‘My husband is so famous these days that even I have to pay a penny to catch sight of him and twopence to converse with his eminence.’

‘Is he a good father to your children?’

‘I hope he is not a good father to anyone else’s.’

‘Do not twist my words so, Margery.’

‘Lawrence does what his profession allows him. Which means, alas, that he sees little enough of the children and subjects them to what outbursts of fatherhood he can muster when they do meet.’ She set her jaw. ‘They have me as their mother and that gives them two parents in one.’

Agnes Jarrold turned her head on the pillow to look across at the crib where her son slept. The tightly bound linen strips allowed her to see only a portion of his face but it had the peace of true innocence upon it.

‘You have been mother, father and aunt to dear Richard,’ she said. ‘As well as wife and friend to poor Jonathan.’

‘Do not wed me to a bookseller!’ protested Margery. ‘And do not befriend me to a lover of Greek and Latin. I will tolerate the oaf for your sake, Agnes, but I could never lie beside his yapping scholarship.’

‘But he adores you, sister.’

‘Then must he be a devil-worshipper.’

They chuckled in unison. Living in Cambridge had given Margery an insight into a more conventional marriage and it made her long for her own more eccentric variation of holy matrimony. Lawrence Firethorn was vain, irascible, devious and inclined to wander but he was never dull. She might have to suffer his woes but she also enjoyed his triumphs and these brought the kind of sustained exhilaration that was unknown in a quiet bookshop in a university town. When she went to see a play with Jonathan Jarrold, she snored beside him. When she visited a theatre with Lawrence Firethorn, he thrilled her to the core of her being from the centre of the stage. After all their years together, her husband could still make her feel like his leading lady.

‘I am quite recovered today,’ said Agnes bravely.

‘You still need much rest, sister.’

‘But I hate to impose upon you.’

‘Do not worry on my account.’

‘You have a house and family of your own, Margery.’

‘They’ll not melt away in my absence.’

‘They will miss you painfully.’

‘It will serve them right!’

‘How long do you intend to stay in Cambridge?’

‘As long as I deem it necessary.’

‘We would hate to detain you if-’

‘Stop it, Agnes!’ scolded the other. ‘I’ll not be packed off before I am ready to go. That child needs my care, that nurse needs my guidance, those servants need my orders and that dreaming husband of yours needs a box on the ears.’ She leant over the bed to kiss Agnes on the cheek. ‘If all goes well, I may leave at the end of the week.’

‘Lawrence will be surprised at your early return.’

‘That is my hope.’

‘Will you write to him, Margery?’

‘I would rather take him unawares.’

‘So you may depart at the end of the week?’

‘On Saturday.’

‘On Saturday! This is the basest treachery, man! Saturday!’

‘Calm down, Barnaby.’

‘Then do not put me to choler.’

‘It is but one performance that I miss.’

‘One is far too many, Lawrence.’

‘Even the strongest of us must rest.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby Gill tetchily. ‘And we all know where you will be resting, sir. Between the legs of some dark-haired lady with a fond smile.’

‘You impugn my honour!’

‘I did not know you had any left to impugn.’

Edmund Hoode stepped in smartly to prevent the argument from degenerating into an exchange of wild abuse. He, Barnaby Gill and Nicholas Bracewell were in Shoreditch at the actor-manager’s house. The noise of debate was already so loud and the vituperation already so liberal that the other occupants of the dwelling thought that Margery must have returned from Cambridge. Gill was livid with outrage. The three visitors had come to discuss one crisis and Firethorn had immediately precipitated another by informing them that he would not be appearing with Westfield’s Men on the following Saturday. It was an extraordinary decision for him to make, all the more so in the wake of the battering which his reputation had taken. Love’s Sacrifice might have wooed its audience and won its leading actor a voyage down the Thames but the real interest among playgoers was centred on The Spanish Jew.

The brilliant impersonation by Owen Elias of his former master had caught the public imagination. Those who had seen it trumpeted its wicked accuracy and those who had not clamoured for it to be repeated. In his two performances to date, a discarded Welsh actor had done more harm to the professional renown of Lawrence Firethorn than Banbury’s Men had contrived in two years. The full horror had made itself known to Westfield’s Men. Through the person of their prime talent, they were being viciously ridiculed.

‘We must strike back at once, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘I will do just that,’ promised the other grimly. ‘I’ll meet Owen Elias in a duel, cut his ungrateful Welsh head from his shoulders and send it back to Randolph with an apple in the mouth. That is the way to serve roast pig, sirs!’

‘The Spanish Jew is a powerful weapon.’

‘We have mightier artillery, Edmund.’

‘Then let us fire it from the stage.’

‘On Saturday!’ insisted Gill. ‘Saturday afternoon!’

‘No, sir!’ replied Firethorn with sudden vehemence. ‘On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday but not this forthcoming Saturday.’

‘Give us a reason,’ said Hoode patiently.

Gill pouted. ‘Ask the question of his codpiece.’

‘I am engaged elsewhere on Saturday,’ said Firethorn.

‘But our schedule has The Loyal Subject listed for performance,’ reminded its troubled author. ‘We must trespass on your own loyalty here, Lawrence. Stand by your fellows.’

Firethorn posed. ‘Have I ever let the company down?’

‘Many times,’ said Gill.

‘That is still a deal less than you, sir!’

‘My art is above reproach.’

‘Would that the same could be said for your acting!’

‘Barnaby Gill is Westfield’s Men!’

‘Then are we all digging our own graves.’

Hoode again jumped in to keep them apart then he turned a supplicatory face towards Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder had been listening in silence as he weighed up the situation. He had a potential solution to offer.

‘Owen Elias is our hope of salvation here,’ he said.

‘Only if we kill him instantly!’ hissed Firethorn.

‘He is more use to us alive than dead, sir. And of far more value as one of us than as a member of Banbury’s Men.’ Nicholas spoke with quiet reason. ‘If we can coax him back into the fold, we take the sting out of our rivals. If we can employ him at his true worth, we have a fine actor who will be a credit to us all. And if we move swiftly, we may still stage The Loyal Subject on Saturday, though Master Firethorn may have business elsewhere.’

‘Yes!’ agreed Hoode. ‘Owen will take over his part.’

‘And play it far better,’ added Gill maliciously.

‘No!’ howled Firethorn. ‘Never, never, never! I’ll not yield one syllable to Owen Elias, let alone a whole part. I’d sooner hand the play to Giles Randolph so that he could fill my place. Are you mad, Nick? Do not even mention the name of that leek-eating rogue in my presence. He is gone for ever!’

‘Not while The Spanish Jew holds the stage.’

‘Nick speaks good sense!’ said Hoode.

‘Owen Elias had sold his black soul to Banbury’s Men.’

‘Buy it back,’ urged Nick.

‘Not for anything!’

Firethorn’s yell of derision was so blood-curdling that it terminated that stage of the argument. Nicholas weighed in with the alternative suggestion of postponing The Loyal Subject until such time as its star was available and of substituting Cupid’s Folly. Barnaby Gill was revived at once by the thought of leading the company in his favourite play and Edmund Hoode conceded that it was a way to mitigate the awkwardness of the situation. When Firethorn gave his token acquiescence, both men excused themselves to give Nicholas a moment alone with the actor-manager.

The book holder did not mince his words.

‘Lord Westfield is extremely distressed, sir.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Nick.’

‘This is not the time to let Banbury’s Men gain the upper hand over us. It could have serious consequences.’

‘Do not lecture me.’

‘Our performances are in a set order.’

‘I helped to choose them,’ said Firethorn irritably, ‘so do not tell me why The Loyal Subject was marked out for Saturday afternoon. It is the best day of the week for us and one when we can make most impact. The Loyal Subject was commissioned from Edmund when we performed at court. In view of Her Majesty’s grievous condition, we could not make a more apt choice. The play celebrates the life of our revered Queen and enjoins all subjects to serve her devotedly.’

‘Our patron has high admiration for the piece.’

‘Quite rightly.’

‘He is expecting to watch it this weekend.’

‘Then he will be disappointed!’ Firethorn’s cry gave way to a hopeless shrug. ‘I am torn in two here, Nick. I wish to lead my company on Saturday but I may not. I cannot. I simply must not.’

‘Your excuse must be a very persuasive one.’

‘I have … given my word,’ mumbled Firethorn.

‘Could not that promise be fulfilled on Sunday just as well as on Saturday?’ ventured Nicholas. ‘It is but a case of waiting twenty-four hours. Unlike our rivals with their theatres outside the city boundaries, Westfield’s Men may not play on a Sunday. That is the time for dalliance, sir.’

‘Do not make my guilt any worse.’

‘But you give so much ground to Banbury’s Men. If you desert us on Saturday, we lose our most telling play and turn some of our audience towards The Curtain where The Spanish Jew will be mounted once more.’ Nicholas sighed. ‘We are but an army fighting without our captain. Banbury’s Men have both Saturday and Sunday to steal a march on our company.’

‘You counsel well but my heart speaks louder.’

‘May I talk to the lady in your stead?’

‘No, no,’ said Firethorn, fearful that a delicate state of relations might be upset, ‘I must follow my own prompting here. But I do not do so lightly, believe me.’

‘Your mind is quite fixed?’

‘Immovably.’

Nicholas accepted defeat and walked to the door. Now that Firethorn was in a more tranquil mood, he prodded a tentative name towards him.

‘Do not be too harsh on Owen Elias, sir.’

‘I’ll tear the lousy knave limb from stinking limb!’

The imprecations were still pouring out like molten lava as Nicholas waved a farewell and let himself out of the house. It had been a depressing visit. Lawrence Firethorn was even more seriously embroiled with Beatrice Capaldi than he had feared. An actor who rejoiced in his performances was letting a woman come between him and his company. She could not have appeared at a more inauspicious moment.

It was time to call on a hatmaker.

Old age and uncertain health were slowly taking their toll on the Earl of Chichester but the effects of both had been temporarily reversed by the mounting excitement of a dispute over the succession. Action rejuvenated him. It took years off his back and put paid to his incipient deafness, chronic dyspepsia and general fatigue. Roger Godolphin had always lived ostentatiously beyond his means and indulged his taste for rich food and fine wine with ruinous thoroughness. Now he had the perfect excuse to do both. Having raised yet another loan, he was able to entertain on a lavish scale once more and buy support for his cause. Suddenly, he was a power behind the throne and others gravitated towards him. If his nominee were indeed crowned, he would not live to draw full benefit from her reign but he was impelled by the thought that his family would reap untold advantage, his friends would gain immeasurably and he himself would find a niche in history. It was not given to many men to make their mark on one reign. He would have set his imprimatur on two.

‘The future of England lies in the balance,’ he said.

‘We must tip it our way.’

‘When the moment comes, we’ll push with all our might.’

‘But do we have enough weight?’

‘Look around you, sir. Some of the heaviest names in the kingdom dine at my table today.’

‘Some of them — but not all.’

The Earl of Banbury was getting nervous as the crucial time approached and he was grateful for his colleague’s military self-discipline. Roger Godolphin did not flinch in battle. Banbury took due comfort. Both men were dining in the house on the Strand where the beaming host presided over a groaning board. At a lavish banquet, they could strengthen their position and gormandise at the same time. It was the ideal way to secure their prize. Important figures from state and church sat all around them, devouring their meat with relish, hungry vultures feeding on the carcass of a dead queen and toasting her successor with Tudor blood.

Banbury still hesitated. ‘We need Burghley.’

‘He will not commit himself one way or the other,’ said the host. ‘Besides, his time has passed. She goes, he falls. That gout will carry him off soon enough.’

‘His son, Robert, is now leading Westfield’s party.’

‘That is of no account.’

‘If Robert Cecil can get his father’s approval …’

‘Forget that whole family,’ reassured Chichester. ‘They belong to the old reign and have no place in the new. Robert Cecil may drag fools like Westfield in his wake but he is still too young and untried in the ways of the world.’ He curled his lip. ‘That scheming little hunchback is no match for a true politician like me, sir.’

‘Indeed not, Roger.’

‘I sit at the head of the table.’

It was an appropriate metaphor. The Earl of Chichester was well able to eat, drink, order his servants, dominate his guests, keep five conversations going simultaneously and still be able to commune with Banbury in an undertone. In a very short time, he had given his party the clear advantage.

The Earl of Banbury rose to a wistful sigh.

‘It will mean the end of the Tudor dynasty,’ he said.

‘What of that?’ snapped the other.

‘Her Majesty’s reign has been long and stable.’

‘Too long, sir.’

‘We have all profited from that.’

‘Your memory fails you,’ said Chichester bitterly. ‘The Tudors have never liked the nobility. When Henry Tudor was a peevish boy, there were sixty-four peers in England. When he seized the crown at Bosworth, there were but thirty-eight left and he did little enough to add to them.’

‘His son created earls and marquesses.’

‘Then had them executed out of spite. Henry VIII knew his father’s rule. Strong kingship means a weak nobility. And our Queen has followed this dictate.’ His bitterness deepened. ‘The Tudors raise up in order to cast down. Show me a duke or a marquess in the last hundred years who was never attainted as a traitor.’

Banbury scratched his head. ‘William Paulet?’

‘The only one. Marquess of Winchester and now dead.’

‘And if Arabella comes to the throne …?’

‘When, sir,’ corrected his friend. ‘When Queen Arabella is crowned, I look for a dukedom.’

As he was speaking, the old man’s eyes never left the messenger who was admitted at the far end of the room, spoke with the steward and was then motioned towards the head of the table. The newcomer bowed and delivered his message in a whisper, confirming it with a letter. The Earl of Chichester broke the seal to read the contents as the banter around the table gradually ceased and everyone turned to watch him. A hefty bribe had finally delivered a result. The letter was from one of the Queen’s own physicians.

The host did not need to call for silence. They were all anxious to hear the latest development and to be given reassurance that they had backed the right side.

‘Word from the Palace, sirs,’ said Chichester. ‘Her Majesty is fighting for her life but sinking fast. If the fever does not break soon, she will die by Saturday.’

Communal sadness, relief and joy in one word.

Saturday!

Though there was no performance that afternoon, Nicholas Bracewell still had a full working day. After the early morning fracas at Lawrence Firethorn’s house, he went back to the Queen’s Head to set his staff in motion. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was ordered to make new costumes, Nathan Curtis, the master-carpenter, was commissioned to build some new scenic devices, Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was told to buy fresh rushes to spread on the boards, and George Dart was sent off to the printers for some playbills. Nicholas also found time to instruct the apprentices in swordplay, listen to the latest songs written by Peter Digby, calm the still-agitated Barnaby Gill and offer constructive criticism to Edmund Hoode when the playwright outlined the plot of his next play. No visit to the Queen’s Head would be complete without a brush with the cadaverous landlord.

‘Good day, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas.

‘It has lacked goodness so far, sir.’ He smirked. ‘I may have to invite Nimbus back to my yard.’

‘Nimbus?’

‘Look to your reputation, Master Bracewell.’

‘Why?’

‘There is finer entertainment in town.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘Westfield’s Men have been displaced in my favour.’

‘By Nimbus?’

‘Even so.’

‘Who is he, sir?’

‘A better actor than Master Firethorn.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘A more comical clown than Master Gill.’

‘Can this be possible?’

‘And a more profitable visitor than your company.’

‘What does Nimbus do?’ said Nicholas.

‘Everything, sir.’

‘He is a performer?’

‘Even my wife was entranced.’

It was the highest accolade. Alexander Marwood’s dark melancholy arose very largely out of his marriage to the stone-faced woman of implacable will. Anyone who could coax a response — let alone a smile — out of Sybil Marwood was indeed a remarkable performer. Nicholas was curious.

‘What sort of man is this Nimbus?’

The landlord sniggered. ‘He’s a horse.’

Marwood trickled off and left the book holder to digest the information. A chat with one of the ostlers brought more elucidation. While Westfield’s Men had been performing at The Theatre, their place had been taken at the Queen’s Head by Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. Like his employer, the ostler was full of praise and wonder. Nicholas was glad that his own employer was not there to hear it. Lawrence Firethorn would not endure a comparison with a dancing stallion.

Finishing his stint at the inn, Nicholas rushed off to Cheapside to visit the hatmaker whose name had been given to him by Anne Hendrik. An apprentice was closing up the shop when Nicholas arrived and it did not take long to wheedle the information out of him. Nicholas posed as a glover who had been commissioned by Beatrice Capaldi to make a pair of gloves to match her latest hat. The apprentice duly admitted him to the premises to view the new creation so that he could appraise its colour and material. In the course of their chat, Nicholas relieved him of the lady’s address, then thanked him and slipped away.

Beatrice Capaldi lived in a house near the river at Blackfriars. Though it had a narrow frontage, it was a capacious building with a long garden at the rear as well as a small courtyard with stabling. Evidently, the place was kept in good repair by someone with an appreciable income. As Nicholas walked beside the garden he could hear snatches of a madrigal sung by a boy to the accompaniment of a lute. He fancied that he caught the voice of the lady herself as well but he could not be sure of this and he was soon distracted by the arrival of a visitor. Coaches were more populous in London now but few were of the size and magnificence of this one. It belonged to a person of some eminence and, although he did not see the man who flitted so swiftly into the house, Nicholas did catch a glimpse of the coat of arms on the departing vehicle. He had seen it before but could not remember exactly where. What he could remember was a remark that Anne Hendrik made about the mistress of the house. He listened to the madrigal more carefully.

Early evening took him to The Elephant in Shoreditch. It was the inn which stood closest to The Curtain and was thus frequented by members of the resident company there. Nicholas was conscious that he was venturing in among the enemy but he had no choice. It was the only way to see Owen Elias who was now one of Banbury’s Men.

The Welshman was carousing with his new colleagues.

‘Nick!’ he welcomed. ‘What brings you here?’

‘A favour, Owen.’

‘To ask or to give?’

‘Both.’

‘Call the boy and order more ale!’

‘The treat will be mine.’

‘No,’ said Elias benevolently. ‘On my ground, I pay.’

Nicholas let him buy the drink then detached him to a corner of the taproom. Owen Elias was in an expansive mood after another rousing performance with Banbury’s Men in a testing part. He was still inebriated with his success and Nicholas let him talk about it at length. In a very short time, the actor had established himself at his new home and fallen in love with its novelty. At the same time, there was a whisper of guilt in his manner, a reluctance to look his old friend in the eye that was very untypical. Nicholas said little but heard all with interest.

Owen Elias suddenly became shifty and defensive.

‘Are you sent here by Master Firethorn?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Then why did you come?’

‘On my own account.’

‘You spoke of a favour.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is the best favour that I can offer, Owen. An invitation to return to us.’

‘That’s no favour but a vile threat!’

‘It would be in your best interests.’

‘I have done with Westfield’s Men for ever.’

‘You are needed, Owen.’

‘Then why was I cast out?’

‘Master Firethorn has a temper.’

‘Let him use it on someone else. I’ll none of it!’

‘Do you hate him so much?’

‘I swore revenge on the villain!’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘And you have got that revenge, by all accounts. All of London is talking about your work in The Spanish Jew. You have swinged Master Firethorn soundly. How many more times will you do it?’

‘More times?’

‘When is your revenge complete?’

‘Well …’

‘After one performance, two, three? Or do you intend to blacken another man’s character in perpetuity?’

‘He expelled me, Nick!’

‘Master Randolph may do the same.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘When you have served your purpose, he may turn you out of Banbury’s Men without a flicker of conscience.’

‘He will not,’ said Elias firmly, ‘because I will be a sharer with the company. Engaged by contract.’

‘Have you signed that contract?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Have you seen it then?’

‘It is being drawn up.’

‘And will that content you?’

Nicholas fixed him with a searching gaze that made him shift uneasily on his stool. Owen Elias emptied his pot of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘My life is here now, Nick,’ he said.

‘Can you be sure of that?’

‘Master Randolph admires my work greatly.’

‘How did he come to know its quality?’

‘He watched me in Love’s Sacrifice at The Rose.’

‘Giles Randolph?’

‘He was struck by my performance.’

‘But what brought him there in the first place?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Why does he study Westfield’s Men when he has a company of his own? He was at The Rose, you say?’

‘Searching for talent.’

‘And his eye lighted on you?’

‘My similarity to Master Firethorn impressed him.’

Nicholas was mystified. He was also worried on his friend’s behalf. He was angry at the way Owen Elias had used his skills against his old company but that did not stop him from fearing for the latter. The Welshman’s lust for glory on stage was being cleverly exploited by Giles Randolph who was offering an irresistible inducement to a hired man. If Elias became a sharer, his livelihood was guaranteed but the very talents that were being used against Westfield’s Men at the moment would in time threaten Randolph himself. The performance at The Rose kept rustling away at the back of Nicholas’s mind. Owen Elias might have been the incidental beneficiary of Giles Randolph’s visit but the latter did not come there specifically to see him. There had to be another reason to take him down to Southwark that afternoon.

‘I must go, Nick,’ said Elias, uncomfortably.

‘But I’ve not asked you to do me a favour yet.’

‘What is it?’

‘Pay off an old debt.’

‘Debt?’

‘To Sebastian Carrick. Yes, I know,’ added Nicholas as the other was about to protest. ‘He owed you money. But you owe Sebastian this. You owe him Banbury’s Men.’

‘How so?’

‘Because you gained by his death. Sebastian was to have played in Love’s Sacrifice while you were scrabbling about in the smaller parts.’ Nicholas was blunt. ‘Master Randolph would not have marked your excellence as a Second Servant. He would not have been struck by your King’s Messenger. You took Sebastian’s role to gain all this. You owe him your role in The Spanish Jew and your hope of a contract!’

The Welshman breathed heavily through his nose and searched the table for an answer to the charge. It was a full minute before he raised his head again.

‘You are right, Nick. I am in Sebastian’s debt.’

‘Pay it off.’

‘How?’

‘Help me to catch his murderer.’

Interest quickened. ‘You know who it is?’

‘I know where to find him.’

‘Where?’

‘Will you help? It will take two of us.’

‘I’ll help,’ said Elias soulfully. ‘But for Sebastian, I would still be toiling in minor roles at the Queen’s Head. If that is the favour, I’ll do it gladly.’

‘Thank you, Owen. I’ll advise you when I need you.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’ Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder then got up to leave. He glanced across at the other actors in the troupe then appraised his old friend again. Owen Elias worked with Banbury’s Men but he did not seem like one of them and his arrogance was bound to have ruffled his new colleagues. There would be natural resentment from those who had served the company for a long time at the Welshman’s promotion over their heads. It did not augur well for him.

The question was jabbed straight at the actor.

‘On what condition would you return to us, Owen?’

‘To Westfield’s Men?’

‘Name your price.’

‘It is far too high, Nick.’

‘I have a strong nerve.’

‘Then I demand two things. A full apology.’

‘You ask a lot of Master Firethorn.’

‘And a contract that makes me a sharer.’

Nicholas thought it over then gritted his teeth.

‘You will have both,’ he said.

Nimbus began his conquest of London at a steady trot, moved up into a canter then went full gallop through the hearts and minds of its citizens. He and his astute master chose their venues with care, increasing the size of their audience each time and widening the scope of their performance. All classes watched and wondered. Every spectator rushed off to broadcast the news of this latest prodigy. Nimbus did not have to search for an arena any longer. Cornelius Gant was besieged by eager innkeepers and urgent landlords, offering handsome rewards in return for a performance at their respective hostelries. A city which revelled in the baiting of bears and bulls now talked about a sensational horse. No blood was spilt, no pain visited upon the animal, no cruelty practised, yet the partners bewitched their public in a most profound way.

Gant used each occasion to advertise future delights.

‘Thank you, kind friends!’ he called. ‘This evening, you may see us at the Black Bell in Candlewick Street. Tomorrow morning, you will find us at the Crossed Keys in Gayspur Lane and in the same afternoon, at The Gun in Cordwainer Street.’ His face collapsed into a grin. ‘Look for us soon at The Unicorn in Hosier Alley. Nimbus is as rare a creature as any unicorn, I warrant.’

Fresh applause broke out from the spectators at the Red Lion. Delighted with what they had seen, they wanted more and began to yell out hopes and expectations. Gant shouted out his boast above the tumult.

‘Nimbus will dance across London Bridge and swim across the Thames at its widest point. He will do something that no horse has ever done before.’ Gant stoked up the furnace of excitement. ‘He will fly to the very top of St Paul’s!’

News of the feat met with tumultuous approbation.

‘When will Nimbus do it?’ they cried.

‘Let us ask,’ said Gant.

He looked across at the horse and gave a signal. Nimbus shook his head slowly as if deep in contemplation then he came across to whinny in his master’s ear. Gant waited for the laughter to subside then passed on the decision.

‘Saturday!’

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather began their rounds in Clerkenwell with the usual amalgam of duty and resignation. Shocked to discover that they had been impersonated, they now saw it as a happy accident which yielded direct benefit. It was they who were given credit for saving the life of the man who had been so grievously assaulted in Cock Lane and they who now gained a lurking respect from the denizens of the area. Men who might before have sneered at their passing now held their tongues and shrunk back. The two aged watchmen liked their brief status as heroes. They strolled along Turnmill Street with an air of authority they had never possessed before. It was gratifying to be taken seriously at last and they were particularly pleased with their impact on a man who loitered opposite the Pickt-hatch. As soon as he saw the officers of the law approach, he shot out of a doorway and tore off down the street. Taplow and Merryweather smiled.

They were so caught up in their minor triumph that they did not hear the cry of mingled pleasure and pain that came from a bedchamber above their heads. The Pickt-hatch was already open for business. Frances was putting her personal seal on the back of another exhausted customer.

Her delicate hands caressed his shoulders then drew small circles up and down his spine. As his kisses became deeper and his movements more frantic, she locked her fingers into his hair to pull him even closer. His body arched and thrust, his blood raced, his senses tingled. In the silken comfort of a four-poster, their separate madness became one long mutual ecstasy. At the very peak of their cascading joy, he rose up to let her sink her teeth into his chest and to bite hard with animal hunger. He winced, he laughed, he sighed, he collapsed with utter satisfaction.

Beatrice Capaldi also knew how to leave her mark.

Andrew Carrick was astonished to receive a visitor so late in the evening and duly delighted. Nicholas Bracewell was always welcome company. They sat on stools in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and conversed by the light of a tallow candle. Carrick was keen to hear the latest report from Clerkenwell and to learn of his daughter’s reaction to a performance by Westfield’s Men. The lawyer’s gratitude boiled over once again and his visitor took advantage of it.

‘I come in search of help, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘What may I do for you?’

‘Draw up a contract.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘Articles of agreement between a theatre company and a new sharer. You have the means to do this, Master Carrick?’

‘Why, yes,’ said the other. ‘Here are pen and parchment before me, as you see, and I have all the authority that the office of attorney can bestow. But I have no knowledge of such a form of contract.’

‘Could I dictate the terms to you?’

‘They would have to be very exact.’

‘I have memorised them with care.’

Andrew Carrick pulled the candle closer to illumine the parchment that he unrolled before him. Dipping his quill into the inkwell, he was poised for instruction. Nicholas spoke with slow precision.

‘Articles of Agreement, made, concluded and agreed upon and which are to be kept and performed by Owen Elias of London Gent. unto and with Lawrence Firethorn Esquire in manner and form following, that is to say … Imprimis. The said Owen Elias doth covenant, praise and grant to and with the said Lawrence Firethorn, his executors, administrators and assigns in manner and form following, that is to say that he, the said Owen Elias, will play with Westfield’s Men for and during the time and space of three years from the date hereof, for and at the rate of one whole share according to the custom of players …’

The lawyer wrote with a flowing hand. He was fascinated by the contractual obligations laid upon both parties and had several questions to ask. Nicholas was supremely well informed. Before coming to the Tower, he had taken the trouble to examine Edmund Hoode’s contract with the company and he had also been present during many of the frequent legal wrangles between Firethorn and the other sharers. Carrick was very complimentary.

‘You should have been a lawyer yourself,’ he said.

‘In some sort, I am.’

‘Here is your contract. I am glad to be of help.’

‘Your assistance may prove invaluable.’

Nicholas took the scroll and secreted it inside his jerkin. He was about to take his leave when his host did him another important favour.

‘Here is something that may be of interest to you.’

‘Speak on.’

‘Prison restricts movements but it sharpens ears,’ said Carrick. ‘I have learnt to listen.’

‘And what have you heard?’

‘Enough to make a firm judgement.’

‘About whom?’

‘My friend, Harry Fellowes.’

‘The Clerk of Ordnance?’

‘That is but one of many aspects of his existence. He is also a priest, a soldier, a scholar and more besides. What concerns you most is that Harry is a moneylender.’

‘You have hinted as much before.’

‘I now have more proof of his dealings,’ said Carrick. ‘There never was such enthusiastic usury. Harry lends much and often to men of high rank. He has been doing so for many years and has a long list of noble debtors. One of those names is of especial interest to you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Who is that?’

‘The Earl of Chichester.’

‘A close friend of Banbury’s Men.’

‘Chichester and Banbury intrigue to appoint the next monarch. Such machinations cost money. Politics is mostly buying and bribing.’ He shrugged his disgust. ‘But you will see what this means.’

‘Harry Fellowes is aiding our enemies. If they should succeed, we will suffer. Westfield’s Men will be cut down by a loan transacted within the Tower of London.’

Carrick grinned. ‘Ask me a question.’

‘Is the Clerk of Ordnance so well paid that he can afford to give subsidies to all and sundry?’

‘No,’ said the other, delighted to pass on the fruit of his meditations. ‘Crown officials are poorly paid. They get their reward from the status of royal service and from the incidental benefits of their employment.’

‘Benefits?’

‘I will come straight to it. Harry Fellowes is a kind and Christian man who has helped me to stave off boredom and despair in my imprisonment. However …’

‘Go on, sir.’

‘He is also a cunning malefactor who has made a private fortune from the public purse.’ Carrick held up his palms. ‘Do not ask me how he has done it because I can only guess at the details, but this I can say with absolute certainty. Harry has used his position to falsify and defraud.’

Nicholas ran ahead of him. ‘This loan to the Earl of Chichester must therefore give him great satisfaction. His lordship is Master of Ordnance.’

‘Harry steals money from beneath his superior’s nose then lends it back to him at a high rate of interest.’

Nicholas appreciated the irony of the situation but he also began to see the full ramifications. Banbury’s Men had seized centre-stage with The Spanish Jew, an acerbic play which attacked a hated minority who were traditionally associated with usury. It was a work which served the cause of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, who was in alliance with Banbury himself. Their campaign was financed by a loan which had been raised — not from foreigner or Jew — but from the Crown official who laboured at his accounts in the Tower of London. Shorn of his affability and shown in his true light, Harry Fellowes was every bit as villainous as the character who was portrayed by Giles Randolph.

All indications had Queen Elizabeth fading fast and unable or unwilling to name a successor. The conflict on that issue would be quickly resolved and the party led by the Earl of Chichester might well emerge victorious. If the educated guesswork of a lawyer was sound then Nicholas was in a position to strike a vital blow for Lord Westfield’s faction. The prospect made him tremble with excitement.

Andrew Carrick spelt out the implications.

‘Start here,’ he said. ‘Expose Harry Fellowes and you bring down the Earl of Chichester with him. There will be no Queen Arabella then. You understand me?’

‘Very well indeed.’

‘Westfield’s Men will be safe.’