The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Eleven

Giles Randolph had the overweening vanity that afflicted so many in his profession but it was tempered by an acceptance of one grim truth. An actor needed a patron. Inspired as he believed himself to be and gifted as he certainly was, he never forgot to pay due respect to the Earl of Banbury and to acquaint him with each shift of company policy. Randolph was thus a familiar caller at the sumptuous residence near Charing Cross and he could always count on a goblet or two of Canary wine with his host as they flattered each other with token compliments. The earl glowed with optimism.

‘All things proceed as I would wish,’ he said.

‘We strive to serve your lordship.’

‘You must wipe Lawrence Firethorn from the stage and kill off Westfield’s Men for good.’ Common sense intervened. ‘But you must feed wisely off the remnants. Edmund Hoode is a playwright to be wooed into my company and I would find a place for Barnaby Gill as well.’

‘Neither is entirely to my taste,’ said Randolph, ‘and I feel sure that Hoode would never countenance working for Banbury’s Men. Gill is another matter but I have severe reservations.’

‘Overcome them, Giles. He is a supreme clown.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘When his company falls, rush in to pick him up.’

‘I will offer him a helping hand …’

The bibulous earl sipped more wine and confided his hopes for the future. His politic alliance with the Earl of Chichester would bear royal fruit that would profit both himself and his troupe. He held out the possibility that the new Queen might elevate his company into her own and the purring Randolph stroked the fur of his own self-importance.

Banbury underlined the significance of Saturday.

‘You must play The Spanish Jew,’ he ordered.

‘Playbills have already gone out to that effect.’

‘Introduce some more material to favour us.’

‘The company poet is working on that now.’

‘And let that clever rogue cut Firethorn to ribbons once more,’ said the earl. ‘What is his name?’

‘Owen Elias.’

‘An asset to Banbury’s Men.’

‘That is why I chose him, my lord.’

‘How did you tempt him into our ranks?’

‘By a promise that he would become a sharer.’

‘And will he, Giles?’

The actor shook his head. ‘Never, my lord.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘When he has done what we need, he’ll be discarded.’

‘But he is an arresting player.’

‘We have talent enough in the company,’ said Randolph airily, ‘and we have no room for this upstart Welshman. He is a quarrelsome fellow. Admit him to the rank of sharer and he will argue all day long about the roles he wishes to play.’ He became supercilious. ‘Owen Elias is without true quality. Only the finest talents are worthy of a place among Banbury’s Men. We use him, we lose him. That is his station.’

The patron plucked at his goatee beard.

‘Just another hired man, eh?’

‘Yes, my lord. And hired men come and go.’

Unaware that his hold on fame was of such short lease, Owen Elias went home to his lodging in the confident belief that he would soon become a sharer with his troupe. Sharers were stockholders in the company and, as such, were expected to make a financial investment in it but this aspect had been waived in his case — Giles Randolph told him — because they were very keen to ensure his services. Elias was so carried away with his sudden eminence that he did not hear the mutinous grumblings of the other sharers who had paid an average of fifty pounds for their position. There was no way that the Welshman could raise that amount. His weekly wage with Westfield’s Men had been seven shillings.

Life with the new company had its definite drawbacks but he was ready to overlook them in exchange for the promised promotion and security. Once he had worked his way into Banbury’s Men, he assured himself, the problems would disappear and he would be able to offer the world vivid proof of his outstanding talents. As he clambered up the stairs to his room, he began to declaim his first speech. When he flopped down onto the stool, he quoted whole segments of dialogue. While he lay on his back and studied the beams above his head, he went through an entire leading part from a play. Owen Elias was a conscientious actor who wasted no opportunity to practise his craft. His voice was still bouncing off the walls as fatigue finally caught up with him. A rhyming couplet died uncompleted.

He dozed quietly off, then woke with a start only minutes later. Realisation brought him fully awake. Nothing that he had recited with such affection had come from the repertoire of his new company. It had all been from his time with Westfield’s Men. The work of Edmund Hoode had seeped into his mind so completely that he could produce it by the yard with word-perfect accuracy. The Spanish Jew was the piece in which he made his name but it did not provide the leading role which he had acted so fervently in his room. It was the role of King Gondar which had tripped readily off his tongue. Owen Elias was quoting Love’s Sacrifice.

He felt pangs of self-doubt and slept fitfully.

Only a matter of pressing importance would make Nicholas Bracewell call on him at that hour of the night and so Lord Westfield had him admitted at once. Excusing himself from the dinner table, he left his guests and hurried into the small room at the rear of the house which he used as his study. Nicholas was waiting respectfully.

‘Well, sir?’ said the patron.

‘I have information about the Earl of Chichester.’

‘What has the old warrior been up to now?’

‘Borrowing money.’

‘Nothing amiss there. I raise loans myself.’

‘Not from this source, my lord.’

Nicholas recounted what he heard at the Tower and it was received in rapt silence. Lord Westfield did not need to have the implications pointed out to him. He knew that he was being given an excellent opportunity to discredit a lifelong enemy, to hamper Chichester’s claimant to the throne, to render an immense public service by exposing fraud at the Ordnance and — most appealing of all — to frustrate the ambitions of the Earl of Banbury. Everything turned on one issue.

‘How certain can we be of the Clerk’s guilt?’

‘I accept Master Carrick’s judgement,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then so will I,’ decided the other. ‘Lawyers are damnable fellows for using words that they may hide behind. If Carrick is making a formal allegation, he has reasons in plenty. What we now have to do is to find the evidence to flush this Harry Fellowes out.’

‘I have been thinking about that, my lord.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘It requires some help from you.’

Nicholas outlined his idea and saw his listener’s face tighten into a hard ball of concentration. Lord Westfield seemed to disapprove at first but his features gradually slipped into an admiring smile. By the time the book holder finished, his host was rocking with laughter.

‘By all, that’s wonderful, Nick!’

‘It may serve.’

‘Put the plan into action forthwith.’

‘I shall, my lord.’

‘Once again, you show your sterling worth to Westfield’s Men. I hope that Lawrence appreciates your true value.’

‘He has to be reminded of it from time to time.’

‘Tell him that I will attend on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’

‘Love’s Sacrifice at the Queen’s Head.’

‘But we play Cupid’s Folly.’

Lord Westfield gaped. ‘What?’

‘Master Firethorn is indisposed that afternoon.’

‘Am I hearing this aright?’ said the other in tones of disbelief. ‘Banbury’s Men assault us. Giles Randolph makes his bid to thrust Lawrence aside. Love’s Sacrifice is vital to counter the effect of The Spanish Jew and our leading actor tells us he is indisposed!’ Lord Westfield almost frothed at the mouth. ‘This could well be the most telling Saturday in the history of the company. We need to be at full strength and performing the most appropriate piece. Let Lawrence Firethorn know that I request — nay, demand — that he appears in the work of my choice.’

‘I will convey that message to him.’

‘With all due force.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Acquaint him with the name of his patron.’

Lord Westfield showed Nicholas to the door himself and rid himself of one last exasperated question.

‘What, in God’s name, could be more important to Lawrence than leading his company?’

The barge skimmed its way up the Thames to the beat of a dozen oars. Lawrence Firethorn lay beneath the canopy on a bank of cushions, his head pillowed by the exquisite breasts of Beatrice Capaldi, his hair and beard stroked in time to the rhythm of the oarsmen. It was pure joy. He had nothing to do but listen to the slap of the water against the side of the vessel and savour the tender ministrations of his beloved. They had set a course to paradise and were sailing towards a glorious consummation.

Lawrence Firethorn awoke from his dream to find himself in a bed that now seemed impossibly empty without Beatrice Capaldi beside him. He was at home in Shoreditch, staining the marital couch with adulterous thoughts for which he felt no shred of shame. When his wife was with him, he was never deterred from letting his eye rove at will. With Margery safely out of the way in Cambridge, he was a free spirit who could do whatever he liked with whomsoever he chose. An actor who won new hearts every time he stepped onstage, he was surrounded by countless possibilities and he planned to while away Margery’s absence by working steadily through them but Beatrice Capaldi changed all that. His dark lady banished all others from his mind. Since their tryst had been agreed, he had no desire at all to touch another woman. Firethorn was faithful in his infidelity. A creature who had given him no more than a single line on a sheet of paper had enslaved him to the notion of romantic extravagance.

The play was prophetic. Love’s Sacrifice depicted a king who gave up his family, his kingdom and his reputation for the sake of his love. Firethorn had the chance to make a grand gesture of his own, no less momentous in the world that he inhabited. To spend time with Beatrice and to wallow in love, he was ready to ignore the demands of his wife, his fellow actors and his art. For an afternoon in her arms, he was willing to resign his private kingdom.

Love transformed him out of all recognition. He was kind to his children, considerate to his servants and jocund with the apprentices who also lived under his roof. They had never known such happy tranquillity in him and suspected either a secret potion or the onset of madness. Firethorn’s benign mood took him all the way to the Queen’s Head and informed the morning rehearsal. The sniping of Barnaby Gill could not sour it, nor could the plaintive protests of Edmund Hoode. He seemed impervious to the general misery. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to shatter his benevolence.

‘I gave my word!’ bellowed Firethorn.

‘Lord Westfield spoke a few words himself, sir.’

‘I’ll not jump to his command.’

‘You are to be reminded that he is our patron.’

‘My word is my bond!’

‘Your place is here with us.’

Nicholas was ready to take the verbal shot with which he was sprayed. He passed on the message from Lord Westfield and urged the actor-manager to reconsider his arrangements for Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the tiring-house but Firethorn’s half of the conversation could be heard a hundred yards away. Inadvertently, Nicholas put even greater volume into the roar by making a faint insinuation.

‘You commit yourself too soon and too hastily, sir.’

‘Do you dare to lecture me!’

‘Learn to know the lady better.’

‘That is why we float on the Thames together.’

‘No, master,’ said Nicholas. ‘Find out more about her before you plunge headlong into this tryst. There may be things about Mistress Capaldi which somewhat alter the character which she presents.’

Firethorn was outraged. ‘What sort of things?’

‘It is not for me to impugn her honour but …’

‘Be silent, Nick! I’ve heard enough of this.’

‘Wait but a week or two and-’

‘SILENCE!’

Nicholas survived the broadside. ‘Lord Westfield will take his seat here on Saturday afternoon.’

‘His noble buttocks may sit where they wish.’

‘He expects to watch Love’s Sacrifice.’

‘Prepare him for disappointment.’

‘He insists on seeing King Gondar.’

‘His Majesty will be on the river.’

As a last resort, the book holder applied full pressure.

‘Fail us on Saturday and you put the company at risk.’

‘What care I for that?’

‘Westfield’s Men are built around you, sir.’

‘My mistress calls and I may not deny her.’

‘Our patron will take it ill.’

‘Then let him!’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘Westfield’s Men depend on me but I do not depend on them. There is a world elsewhere.’ He crossed to the door and opened it with a dramatic gesture. ‘I go to it on Saturday!’

Notwithstanding her combative nature, Margery Firethorn had a soft heart that was duly touched by the wonder of creation. The sight of a happy mother with a beautiful baby was more than ample reward for all the effort she herself had put in at the house, and she was even coming to see her brother-in-law in a less unfavourable light. Jonathan Jarrold would never be the kind of man with whom she would choose to share a bed — let alone a marriage — but his delight in the office of fatherhood was moving and his commitment total. He was always ready to help and willing to learn. There were times when Margery actually had no need to scold him and she soon caught herself paying him gruff compliments. Whatever his shortcomings, Jonathan Jarrold, bookseller, was the head of a little family. When he cooed fondly over his son and heir, he made his sister-in-law think of her own brood. Happiness in Cambridge made her homesick.

Jonathan’s shop was her only link with the capital.

‘There is much anxiety over the Queen,’ he said.

‘She has the finest physicians about her.’

‘The news is not good. A printer who has just come from London was in my shop this morning. Her Majesty is confined to her apartments and takes no part in the government of her realm. Everyone fears the worst.’

Margery was scornful. ‘They should be on their knees to pray for her recovery. We must not give into fears. We must have faith, Jonathan.’

‘It is difficult in the face of such reports.’

‘Her Majesty is too young to die.’

‘None of us may live for ever.’

‘She is every inch a Queen and every inch a woman. I’ll wager that she defies those rumours yet.’

‘The rumours have firm foundation.’

‘Pah!’ she snorted. ‘Should I trust the word of a pox-ridden printer who seeks to impress his Cambridge friends with this idle chatter? Queen Elizabeth will outlive us all. We need her on the throne of England. God save the Queen!’

But Margery’s certainty was fringed with apprehension. The rumours that came from London were now too numerous to discount and they contained a threat of dire consequences for the whole nation. At a more immediate level, there was a danger to Westfield’s Men. A change of sovereign could bring about a change of attitude towards the theatre. She knew enough of the Earl of Banbury’s love of intrigue to realise that he would seek to exploit the death of the Queen to the advantage of himself and his company. Margery bit her lip. Her husband’s livelihood might well be put in hazard. It gave her even more incentive to return home at speed.

Saturday took on more significance.

Harry Fellowes was an unlikely poet but his Latin verses had a pleasing sound and a cold intelligence. He was very proud of them but distressed by the lack of informed praise for his literary endeavours. There were no Classical scholars among his colleagues and the brutish surroundings of the Tower slowly crushed his creative instincts. He was all the more thrilled, therefore, to befriend someone with true learning and sincere interest. Andrew Carrick not only asked to see the published verses, he read them with care, made notes on their excellence and discussed them at length. The Clerk of Ordnance and the imprisoned lawyer who walked along together were strolling through Ancient Rome.

‘And which poems delighted you most?’ asked Fellowes.

‘Those in the style of Ovid.’

‘He was always my master.’

‘Even when you stand before your congregation?’ said Carrick with a teasing smile. ‘I would not have thought that kind of love had any place in a pulpit.’

‘Yet it belongs in the heart of every true man.’

‘Indeed, indeed.’

‘Each of us has many sides to his character.’

‘You seem to have far more than most, Master Fellowes.’

The poet needed reassurance. ‘And did my verses really give you joy, my friend?’

‘They brought Cicero back to my mind.’

‘Cicero?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘If I quote him aright. Haec studentia adulescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant.’

‘Oh, sir, you are too kind!’ Harry Fellowes pounced gratefully on the translation. ‘These studies nurture youth and delight old age.’

The lawyer grew serious. ‘Your work has been a great solace to me in my cell. It held back the horrors of my life and defeated time most wonderfully. It put a glow of hope into some very dark nights.’

‘No praise could be higher than that. Thank you, sir.’

‘Most of all, I liked your line from Virgil.’

‘You recognised the theft?’

‘It was no theft,’ said Carrick. ‘You borrowed and paid back with interest.’ The moneylender laughed. ‘Virgil spoke aloud on your final page. Trahit sua quemque voluptas.’

‘Everyone is dragged down by his favourite pleasure.’

‘It was the theme of all your verses.’

‘There is such deep truth in it.’

Andrew Carrick sighed. ‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’

It was an accurate summary of his son’s life. Sebastian Carrick was bursting with a talent that was marred by his excesses. In a Clerkenwell brothel, his favourite pleasure had dragged him down for good. The sad father tried to shake his head clear of such thoughts and turn a moment of close companionship to material advantage. His admiration of the verses was not feigned but the Ovidian strain did not blind him to the true character of the poet. Harry Fellowes might be a scholar but he was also a shrewd criminal who used his privileged position in the Ordnance Office to deceive and defraud. The hand which had turned such elegant Latin lines could embezzle with equal skill.

Andrew Carrick returned the calf-bound book to him.

‘Your work must seem dull after this,’ he said.

Fellowes was defensive. ‘It has its own appeal.’

‘There is not much scope for poetry in your ledgers.’

‘They have a kind of rhythm at times.’

‘I am sure that you keep them scrupulously exact.’

‘My figures always tally,’ said the other smugly. ‘You could search through every book and not find a discrepancy.’

‘I would welcome the chance to try.’

‘The exercise would bore you, Master Carrick.’

‘Anything is a relief from the tedium of my cell.’

Harry Fellowes looked at him carefully then glanced down at the slim volume in his hand. Gratified by the lawyer’s warm response to his work, he was keen to express his thanks in a more tangible way. If he showed his friend how he laboured at his desk, he could inflate his own self-esteem even more. Andrew Carrick posed no problem. He was simply an unfortunate casualty of a marriage that aroused royal ire.

‘Come with me,’ invited Fellowes.

They left Ancient Rome and made their way towards a territory of numbers and receipts. Harry Fellowes was no bending author now. He was a keen mathematician who liked order and precision, moving large quantities of money around in the course of his occupation. Once launched on a boastful description of his work, he could not be stopped. The Clerk of Ordnance who was paid a mere £64 per annum claimed that he saved Her Majesty £2,000 a year.

‘How?’ asked Carrick.

‘By taking the returns of such munitions as return from the seas unspent, which formerly were concealed and converted to private use.’

‘You are a prudent steward, Master Fellowes.’

‘Nothing escapes me, sir.’

Carrick encouraged him to talk on and Harry Fellowes did not pause throughout the entire visit. As he flicked through his account books, he became even more complacent and he lapped up the appreciative comments of his guest. Though he was a man of wide abilities, there was no doubting where his real interest lay. Money was the favourite pleasure of Harry Fellowes. It was inevitable that Virgil should again drift into Carrick’s mind.

‘Trahit sua quemque voluptas …’

Lawrence Firethorn’s powers of recovery were remarkable. When the rehearsal ended that morning, he had been as angry as a wounded bear and clawed everyone who came within reach. When the performance began that afternoon, he was Hector of Troy to the life, leading his company in the tragedy of that name as if all was joy and harmony. The row with Nicholas Bracewell was forgotten, the deep divisions were ignored. Firethorn attacked his role with a verve that was his hallmark. Beatrice Capaldi was not in the audience at the Queen’s Head but he played Hector as if she were, throwing each line to the middle of the lower gallery and strutting about with even more than his usual arrogance. His superb portrait filled the stage with drama and did much to vindicate a reputation that was seriously under attack. He more than earned the ovation which he gained. None of the spectators would have guessed that the brilliant actor whom they had just seen at his peak was ready to forsake his art and his fellows for an afternoon with a woman. Firethorn himself reaffirmed his decision. Fitting his fingers to his lips, he threw invisible kisses to the invisible Beatrice Capaldi and whispered his promise over the applause.

‘True love requires true sacrifice …’

Offstage, he reverted to his former irascibility and those who tried to speak to him suffered accordingly. Barnaby Gill was cursed, Edmund Hoode reviled, Peter Digby abused, Hugh Wegges punched and the unlucky George Dart almost trampled to death. When Alexander Marwood made the mistake of praising the exploits of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus once again, Firethorn lifted him up by his shoulders and deposited him in a horse trough.

Nicholas Bracewell had to soothe many a troubled brow before his work was done for that day. Gill and Hoode were particularly agitated by the threatened betrayal. Though the comedian was looking forward to Cupid’s Folly on Saturday afternoon, he did not dare to fly in the face of their patron’s wishes. The playwright, too, wanted Love’s Sacrifice reinstated, if for different reasons. Nicholas told them that the decision had been taken right out of their hands by Lord Westfield who would accept no other work. It was Hoode’s latest play that would be advertised for performance.

‘Love’s Sacrifice?’ said Gill. ‘Without Lawrence?’

‘King Gondar will be there,’ assured Nicholas.

Hoode was pessimistic. ‘He has refused to appear.’

‘Much can happen before Saturday.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘We may lose our Queen, our company and our profession. Much may indeed happen.’

Nicholas said no more. When he left the inn, he turned left into Gracechurch Street and kept walking briskly until Bishopsgate loomed up ahead. Leaving the city through one of its great portals, he maintained a steady pace all the way to Shoreditch. The crowds had dispersed from The Curtain and The Theatre but the hostelries were still full of roistering gallants. Nicholas stopped at the sign of The Elephant and found a more pensive Owen Elias brooding alone on a bench outside the establishment. They exchanged greetings.

‘What ails you?’ said Nicholas.

Elias was evasive. ‘It is no matter.’

‘Did you play at The Curtain this afternoon?’

‘The Tragical History of King John.’

‘What role did you take?’

‘A small one,’ muttered the other. ‘I died at the end of Act One. It was like being back with Westfield’s Men.’

‘There will be no more small parts for you there.’

‘I will never go back to the Queen’s Head.’

‘You have signed the contract, then?’

‘No. Not exactly …’

‘When will Giles Randolph make you a sharer?’

‘On Saturday, he says.’

‘He says.’

‘Why should he go back on his word?’

‘Why are you so sad?’

Nicholas had touched a raw spot and his friend almost jumped up from the bench. Owen Elias had raised the question of his contract half an hour earlier in the taproom and he had been given the usual reassurances by Giles Randolph but somehow they lacked conviction this time. Whether it was guilt over his old company or disillusionment with his new one, he did not know, but the Welshman suddenly felt the ground shudder slightly beneath his feet. Banbury’s Men had given him a hero’s welcome but he sensed that it would not last indefinitely. He was also well placed to see that his new colleagues did not have the strength in depth of Westfield’s Men. Giles Randolph liked good actors around him but they were not allowed to compete with him. Lawrence Firethorn, by contrast, employed the finest talents he could muster because he knew that he could hold his own against them. Indeed, the more competition he was given, the higher the pitch of his own performance.

Elias’s preoccupation was written on his face and Nicholas read it with interest but without further comment. He had come to The Elephant for another reason.

‘It is time to help Sebastian,’ he said.

‘Now?’

‘If you are ready, Owen.’

‘Where do we go?’

‘Clerkenwell.’

‘I am with you, Nick.’

‘Are you armed?’

‘My dagger will protect me against anything.’

‘Not against an axe,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s call at your lodging for a sword. There may be a brawl.’

Owen Elias chuckled. ‘That cheers me up at once!’

They collected his weapon then proceeded on their way to Clerkenwell. It was a long walk and Nicholas had plenty of time to explain his plan in detail. The element of danger appealed to the actor whose solid frame had weathered many a tavern fight. Sebastian Carrick had died owing him money but he was still eager to avenge the murder. His rival had made possible the surge in his prospects.

Two other accessories were gathered along the way.

‘What would you have with us?’ asked Josiah Taplow.

‘We seek no trouble,’ said William Merryweather.

‘You come but as witnesses,’ said Nicholas.

He told them enough to draw them along but concealed the full story from them. The watchmen trailed in their wake and grumbled at the speed made by the two younger men but they managed to keep up. Nicholas stationed them at the end of Turnmill Street then went on more stealthily with Owen Elias. Light had faded now and they were simply two more shadowy figures in the half-darkness. Nicholas stopped well short of the Pickt-hatch and stepped into a doorway from which he could keep it under surveillance. Owen Elias walked on alone, warned of the perils but excited at the notion of taking the leading role for once. He knocked at the door and was admitted by Bess Bidgood. All that Nicholas could do was to watch, wait and beware of a man with an axe.

St Paul’s Cathedral was the dominating feature of the night skyline. It rose like a mountain above all around it and imposed itself on every view of the city. One of the largest churches in Christendom, it never faded to draw gasps of astonishment from visitors to the capital who saw in its Gothic exuberance and its intimidating sprawl the power of God made manifest. Its massive crossing tower had twice been capped with a spire of wood and lead that reached a height of almost five hundred feet, making it the tallest steeple ever built, but lightning had destroyed it on both occasions. The second disaster, at the start of Elizabeth’s reign, was more serious in that the fire spread from the steeple to the roof and even melted the bells. Though the damage had been patched up, there was no attempt to rebuild the spire and to risk a third calamity.

Seen against the clear night sky, St Paul’s was still the great act of worship it had always been but the darkness shrouded the deterioration to its fabric. It was showing its age. Battered by time and beaten by inclement weather, its stonework was pitted, its tracery mouldering, its pinnacles encrusted with filth and its buttresses scored. Smoke from sea coal had blackened parts of its exterior and there was an air of neglect about it.

Yet the cathedral still had the capacity to surprise and to overawe. Anyone who chanced to look up at its roof that night would have seen an extraordinary sight. A single flickering candle suddenly appeared at the very top of the tower and worked its way slowly around the perimeter like a guiding light to holy pilgrims. It was a benign presence but it startled the nesting swifts and swallows, it alarmed the perching ravens and jackdaws, it fluttered the roosting pigeons and it spread panic among the predatory kites who used the mighty roof as the vantage point from which they could swoop down upon the offal of London. The candle went a little higher, the flame burned brighter and there was a thunderous flapping of wings as hundreds of tenants quit their lodgings and took to the sky.

Cornelius Gant was pleased to have such an impact on his feathered audience. He had climbed to the top of the cathedral to take stock of it from above and to finalise his preparations for Saturday’s feat. The next time that he stood there, Nimbus would be beside him. As he surveyed the whole city from his lofty position, he felt once more that surge of power and ambition which had brought him to London.

He blew out his candle and laughed in the darkness.

Owen Elias was not a regular visitor to the stews. Like most actors, he took his pleasures where he could find them and so it was largely a succession of tavern wenches whom he numbered among his conquests. At the same time, however, he felt completely at ease in the Pickt-hatch. Its atmosphere of bawdy banter and tobacco smoke were second nature to him and he fitted into its snug sinfulness as well as any of the usual patrons. Various punks blandished him with their wiles and their wares but he bided his time until he found the one whom he sought. The slim and sensual Frances was indeed a different proposition. Her brand of carnality had a whiff of danger about it. Like Sebastian Carrick before him, Elias knew that an hour in her bed would be an experience not easily forgotten. When she fixed her eyes upon him, he felt the lick of her tongue and the scratch of her nails. He also saw the coffin of a murdered actor being lowered into the ground. This was the one.

He bought them both wine and acted the role in which Nicholas Bracewell had schooled him. Frances was supremely captivating. She knew how to interest, to tease, to excite and to heighten anticipation. When she finally led him towards the stairs, she gave him a first snarling kiss by way of a deposit on the madness that was to follow and Elias had to fight off the natural surge of his lust. This rustling courtesan was also a cold-blooded killer who would not scruple to send him on the same route to the grave on which she had dispatched his former colleague.

Alone together in her room, he got final confirmation.

‘Your reputation is very high, Frances,’ he said. ‘You were recommended to me by a friend.’

She put her arms around him. ‘I like to please.’

‘My friend spoke of your fingernails.’

‘They are yours tonight, sir,’ she said, putting her hands under his doublet to gouge his back through his shirt. ‘I’ll scratch my name on your back as well.’

‘First, you must give greeting to my friend once more.’

Owen Elias eased her away and took out the portrait of Sebastian Carrick which had been borrowed from the latter’s sister. Holding the picture close to the candle, he grabbed Frances by the neck and thrust her head close to the flame. She recognised the features at once and turned on Elias with a screech of fury, going for his eyes with the fingernails she had just used to tempt him. The Welshman was ready for her. Catching her wrists, he twisted her arms behind her back then forced her across to the window. His foot kicked it open and he pushed her forward long enough for her struggle to be seen from the street. Pulling her back to him, he held her in a firm grip and took the squirming body out of the room and along the passageway.

Nicholas Bracewell was alert and ready. He had seen what he expected. The figures at the window had brought a man out of a doorway opposite the building. He hesitated in the middle of the street and gave Nicholas plenty of time to study his profile and identify it as that of the assailant whom he and Edmund Hoode had disturbed in an alleyway. When he saw the axe dangle from the man’s hand, he knew that he stood close to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The book holder drew his sword and approached with care. Owen Elias may have played his role to perfection so far but he was now beyond the realms of his rehearsals. What happened from now on was pure improvisation.

Frances was struggling and biting for all she was worth but the strength of the actor took her down the stairs and off towards the front door. They came out in an explosion of noise and went off down Turnmill Street towards the quaking watchmen who had been posted there. The screaming woman was the ideal bait. Elias had hauled her no more than thirty yards before the accomplice moved in to strike. Nicholas yelled a warning that saved his friend’s life. As the axe was lifted into the air, Elias spun round to hold Frances beneath it and subject her to the horror which her victims had suffered. At the same moment, Nicholas Bracewell pricked the upraised arm with the point of his sword.

The man let out a stream of curses and turned his venom on the newcomer, hurling the axe with such force that it would have split his face in two had it connected. But Nicholas ducked just in time and the weapon thudded into the door of a house behind him like the knock of doom. Elias still held the flailing woman and the two watchmen inched closer to the action. Having lost his axe, the man drew his own sword and closed with Nicholas. It was a short and vicious encounter. Blades flashed then locked tight. Fists and forearms were used, knees and feet inflicted further bruises. The man was a practised street-fighter but he never met opponents on equal terms. In Nicholas Bracewell, he was up against someone who was bigger, stronger and more agile.

As they grappled with increasing ferocity, it was the firmer purpose of the book holder which told. Impelled by a vow to a murdered friend, he found the extra energy to twist the man’s sword from his hand and sent it clattering to the ground. His adversary replied with a kick which sent him down on one knee. Pulling a dagger from his belt, the man hurled himself upon Nicholas with a manic rage that was his own undoing for he impaled himself on the sword that was held up to meet him. With a long, slow, blood-curdling howl of pain, he fell backwards and expired in the filth of Turnmill Street. The killing of Sebastian Carrick was avenged.

‘NO!’ shrieked Frances in despair.

She broke free from her bonds and flung herself down upon the dead man to weep tears of true remorse. Snatching up his dagger, she then leapt up to confront Nicholas, Elias and the two watchmen. She spat her hatred at them then held the weapon in both hands before sinking it into her chest. They watched in silence as she used her last brief seconds on earth to crawl across the man whom she loved so that she could die in his arms. It was a grotesque but not unmoving sight. Full revenge had now been exacted.

Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather trembled.

‘They are yours now, sirs,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have solved a crime and brought malefactors to judgement.’

‘Have we?’ said Taplow nervously.

‘Josiah and I but watched,’ admitted Merryweather.

‘No,’ said Nicholas unselfishly. ‘You are the real spirit of the law here. My friend and I simply helped you to bring these two wretches to account. You must take all the credit, sirs. Make a full report.’

Uncertain smiles spread over the gnarled faces.

They had tamed Clerkenwell at last.

A long night held still further surprises for both Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell. After making sworn statements to the authorities — and heaping agreed praise upon the two old watchmen — they went off to a tavern to celebrate their success and to drink to the memory of Sebastian Carrick. It was Elias who pointed out that the fatal brawl in Turnmill Street bore a marked resemblance to the sword fight in which Nicholas had instructed the late actor. Stage violence had anticipated its real counterpart. When his friend was at his most relaxed, Nicholas reopened a crucial debate.

‘Do you still play at The Curtain on Saturday?’

‘Yes,’ said Owen with a scowl.

‘The Spanish Jew?’

‘It has brought me acclamation, Nick.’

‘Stolen from Lawrence Firethorn,’ noted the other. ‘No man is great by imitation, Owen. You have talent enough to succeed on your own account. Why ape a fellow actor?’

‘It is … required of me.’

‘In return for the promised contract.’

‘Master Randolph will have it ready by Saturday.’

‘Westfield’s Men have theirs ready now.’

Nicholas slipped a hand inside his jerkin to pull out the contract which Andrew Carrick had drawn up with legal precision. Elias was frankly amazed. He read through the terms by the light of a candle and was touched. It was everything that he had hoped for during his long service with his old company but the contract had a defect.

‘It has not been signed by Master Firethorn,’ he said.

‘It will be.’

‘You give me food for thought here.’

‘See if Banbury’s Men can match those terms.’

‘But if I play in The Spanish Jew …?’

‘Then this will be null and void,’ said Nicholas, taking the contract and secreting it away. ‘Think it over, Owen, and remember one thing. You acted for Westfield’s Men tonight in Clerkenwell and your performance was without fault.’

The Welshman nodded. He was in for another disturbed night. Nicholas took his leave and headed towards the river. He made a slight detour so that his route took him towards Blackfriars. The house of Beatrice Capaldi looked smaller in the darkness and Nicholas walked around it three times as he tried to divine the secrets that lay within. He was about to continue on his way when a vague idea at the back of his mind was given real substance. The front door of the house opened and Beatrice Capaldi herself appeared, wearing a long pink robe over a shift. She stood on bare feet to plant a farewell kiss on the lips of her lover, then she waved a hand as he strode off towards the stables to get his horse. As the couple stood together in the light for those fleeting seconds, Nicholas got a look at the departing visitor.

It was Giles Randolph.