The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Twelve

London was burnished by bright summer sunshine but a tempest raged in the hearts of its citizens. Faint suspicions which first started in the corridors of the Palace spread quickly and developed into full-blown rumours. By the time they worked their way down to the very roots of society, they had hardened into incontrovertible fact. Queen Elizabeth was dying. Everyone knew it, from the mightiest earl in his mansion to the meanest wretch who begged outside Bedlam. The report of her slow demise was a thunderclap that destroyed the hearts of thousands. They had known no sovereign but her and had come to see her as a timeless guardian of themselves and their children after them. Conquest and expansion had distinguished a reign that was also remarkable for its peace and stability. Change had been exiled for over thirty years. Its imminent return was menacing. The capital was thrown into gusting confusion and the people who rushed so madly about were so many dry leaves whisked here and there at will by the heartless caprices of Fate.

The Earl of Chichester summed up the common experience.

‘Oh, what an earthquake is the alteration of the state!’

Then he proceeded to exploit the phenomenon with bland irreverence. Others thronged to his alliance or formed new ones as the issue of the succession predominated. Church leaders met in hasty synods to decide where best to bestow their blessing. Puritans advanced their ideas, Presbyterians wanted their say in the election and Catholics looked to Rome for counsel. Every nobleman in the land was jolted out of his complacency and forced to rediscover the meaning of conspiracy and cabal. Lust for power was a giant needle which embroidered its way through the great houses of the nation with politic speed. Vaulting ambition was a thread of gold.

Hopes, fears and wild conjectures were given a sharper focus by two significant events. Lord Burghley vanished and Dr John Mordrake appeared on the scene. The old fox who had served his Queen so faithfully throughout her reign had now gone to ground. William Cecil, Baron Burghley, was the Lord High Treasurer, the senior figure in the government, a man of real political vision with a firm grasp on the complexities of state. In fading from view and affecting an attack of gout, he was giving tacit acknowledgement of the hopelessness of the situation. Dead queens need no bulwarks.

Dr John Mordrake’s intervention was an even clearer signal. He was a desperate last gamble. Orthodox medicine had failed and so it was time to invoke magic. Dr John Mordrake was a scholar, sage, mathematician, alchemist and astrologer. His detractors called him a mountebank and his adherents a genius but nobody could gainsay the fact that a stream of small miracles had flowed through his eccentric career. The long, lean, bending creature in the black gown and black buckled shoes lived and worked in his laboratory in Knightrider Street. A mane of silver-grey hair gave him an almost saintly quality but it was offset by the dark power that seemed to emanate from him. Nobody could be sure whether the huge medallion which dangled from a chain around his neck was a holy relic or the badge of Satan.

The Earl of Banbury inclined to the latter view.

‘Was the old devil allowed to see Her Majesty?’

‘He was in her private apartments for an hour.’

‘What took place, Roger?’

‘Even my spies cannot peer through walls.’

‘Mordrake will not save her!’ said Banbury with ripe contempt. ‘Though he practises the arts of necromancy, he will not raise her mouldering old body from the dead.’

Chichester smiled thinly. ‘He left with a bottle.’

‘What did it contain?’

‘What else but the Queen’s own urine?’ said the other. ‘Doctor Mordrake hastened back to Knightrider Street to put the royal piss to the test. My man tracked him. This time he was able to peer through walls.’

‘How so?’

‘Because walls have windows, sir. By bribing his way into the bedchamber opposite Mordrake’s house, he was able to take part in the experiments as if he were standing at the shoulder of the venerable fraud.’

‘Did Mordrake examine the contents of the bottle?’

‘In every way.’ Roger Godolphin grew lyrical. ‘He touched, he tasted, he held it up to the light. He applied chemicals to change its colour and heat to change its consistency. In short, sir, he did everything but drink the draught down and sing an anthem. From that one pint of liquid history — taken, as it were, from the past life of our dear departing Majesty — he could foretell the future.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘And he did not like what he saw.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he began to shudder so much with fear and shake so much with horror that he dropped the bottle on the floor and it was smashed to pieces. The worthy doctor has given a precise diagnosis here. Queen Elizabeth fades away. All he has to remember her by is some damp floorboards.’

‘Your spy deserves ten crowns for this!’

‘He rendered better service yet.’

‘Did he so?’

‘When Mordrake recovered his wits enough to be able to hold a pen, he scribbled a letter and sent if off to the Palace by messenger.’ The Earl of Chichester smirked. ‘My fellow intercepted that messenger. A few gold coins gained him a glance at the letter.’

‘What did it say, Roger?’

‘Forty-eight hours.’

‘That is all?’

‘What more was necessary? Death sentence is passed.’

Banbury rubbed greedy palms. ‘Forty-eight hours!’

‘Two more days of the Tudor dynasty then we move in! Dr John Mordrake has earned his fee, I warrant. That learned magician, who can read the signs of the zodiac, has seen the future of the English nation in a bottle of piss.’

‘I applaud his inspiration.’

‘But forty-eight hours to wait.’

‘How many of the Privy Council have we bought?’

‘Enough.’

‘How many of Westfield’s supporters have we lured?’

‘More than enough.’

‘And Burghley?’

‘We still practise on him,’ said the other. ‘Bess has bestirred herself in Hardwick Hall. She made her gout-ridden stepson, Gilbert Talbot, write to Burghley to advise him to make trial of oil of stag’s blood for his ailment. The Earl of Shrewsbury will win over the Lord High Treasurer by means of the pains in their feet. They will soon walk as one!’

The Earl of Banbury executed a little dance of triumph then threw his arms around his host in congratulation.

‘You have been a supreme general, sir!’

‘Yes,’ said Chichester smugly. ‘I have deployed my army like a strategist. A case of money well spent!’

Nicholas Bracewell took against Cornelius Gant the moment that he saw him. He detected a veiled hostility in Gant’s manner, an ingratiating smile that was really a smirk of malice, friendly gestures that hid a deep contempt, a mock humility that cloaked a soaring arrogance. Nicholas had a job which required him to weigh men up at a glance and he found Gant severely wanting. He could sometimes enjoy the company of plausible rogues — Sebastian Carrick had been a case in point — but here was a more malevolent species. It was paradoxical that a religious purpose brought Gant to the Queen’s Head so early in the morning.

‘I have come for the angels’ wings, sir,’ he said.

‘Wings?’

‘Master Marwood told me of them. You staged a play in his yard that had an angel in the story. He remembers those wings very well, sir.’

‘What of it?’ said Nicholas warily.

‘I wish to buy them from you.’

‘We never sell our costumes.’

‘Then let me rent the wings.’

‘That is not our policy.’

‘I will pay well.’

Cornelius Gant flipped back the edge of his coat and detached a large bag of coin from his belt. He tossed it to Nicholas who got an immediate idea of its worth. Westfield’s Men were being offered far more for the loan of their wings than it cost to make them in the first place. It would be a profitable deal but the book holder hesitated. Gant read his mind and threw in another hand-washing grin.

‘You think I will fly off with your wings!’ he said with a cackle. ‘But I will bring them back even as I take them. To this end …’ A second purse was untied from his belt. ‘I leave this as surety. When the wings return, you give me back this purse. Is not this fair?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Then the deal is settled.’

‘Why do you want those wings?’

‘I do not wish to be an angel, that I can tell you.’

‘Is it for some kind of play?’

‘Come to St Paul’s on Saturday.’

Cornelius Gant would say no more but his money was real and his terms generous. The wings had been made for an early play by Edmund Hoode that had now fallen out of the repertoire and they were simply taking up space in the room at the inn where Westfield’s Men stored their costumes and properties. Nicholas consented. When he showed Gant to the storeroom, the latter was delighted with what he saw. The wings were some five feet in length, covered in white feathers and joined by a leather halter which had been fitted around the shoulders of the actor playing the angel. It was this device that particularly thrilled Gant and he tried the wings on, flapping them for effect.

‘Thank you, Master Bracewell. They are ideal.’

‘Be careful, sir. They are partly held by wax.’

‘So?’

‘Remember Icarus. Do not fly near the sun.’

Gant went off into a paroxysm of reedy cackling.

Nicholas was now treated to one of the most unlikely sights he had ever witnessed at the Queen’s Head. Its landlord came skipping blithely over to them. At a time of national calamity, when a dying sovereign was turning the capital into a city of sadness, Alexander Marwood might finally have come into his own. His sustained misery would at last be appropriate, his skulking despair a common mode of behaviour. Instead of this, he was sprightly and joyful. He fell on his visitor as if Gant were his oldest friend and he pressed him to free ale and victuals. Nicholas watched it in bewildered silence. When the two men went off arm in arm, he wondered if he had taken leave of his senses.

Cornelius Gant was not the only angel on the premises.

‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’

‘Mistress Carrick! What brings you here at this hour?’

‘I thought to catch you before your rehearsal.’

‘Then must your reason be important.’

‘It is.’ Marion Carrick handed him the scroll. ‘My father said that I was to put it into your hand without delay. It contains a report about one Master Fellowes.’

‘That makes it almost as welcome as you, mistress.’

Nicholas had never seen her looking so lovely or so like her brother. With the sun slanting down to give her a halo, she really did have an angelic air. Her smile had a sweet innocence which he did not want to remove but there was no helping it. Taking her aside and sitting her down on a bench, he explained that her brother’s killer had himself been killed in a Clerkenwell street. Her ignorance of the area obscured its true character from her and he was able to give a version of the story which obscured the fact that Sebastian’s visit to a prostitute had set the whole tragedy in motion. Marion Carrick was so grateful to hear the news that she burst into tears and had to be comforted.

As he soothed her with gentle patting, he looked down into the beautiful moist face and reflected how different she was from the two other women who had become entangled with Westfield’s Men. Frances from the Pickt-hatch and Beatrice Capaldi from Blackfriars were sisters under the skin. One was paid for nightly promiscuity while the other was more highly selective in her clients but both were courtesans with a streak of madness in them. And neither would baulk at murder. Frances stabbed herself through the heart but Beatrice Capaldi inserted the blade through the breast of her victims. Lawrence Firethorn was being slowly bled to death and his company might perish with him.

Nicholas sighed and helped Marion Carrick up from the bench. In contrast to the other women, she was a decent and wholesome presence but she did not belong in the world of the theatre. Now that her brother’s death had been properly avenged, she could return to her own life. Nicholas was sorry to see her go and she lingered at the parting to give him a soft kiss before hurrying off with the servant who escorted her out into the street. There was no flapping of wings but he felt as if an angel had departed from his life.

The missive remained and he unrolled it at once. Andrew Carrick had been diligent in his research. His letter was an absolute mine of information gleaned from Harry Fellowes and bearing upon the operation of the Ordnance Office. Facts and figures were set down in tabulated profusion. Nicholas knew that his plan could now be put into effect. The search for the man with the axe was over. He could now tackle the conspirators who were trying to chop down Westfield’s Men.

Before that, another rehearsal beckoned.

‘Gentlemen!’ he yelled. ‘About it straight!’

The studious inertia of Cambridge oppressed her more each day and she grew increasingly restless. She bulked large in a small house even when she was stationary but Margery Firethorn was positively overwhelming when she was on the move in such a confined space. Mother and child found her ubiquity rather unsettling. Jonathan Jarrold felt it was like sharing a cage with a hungry she-tiger. While giving her the daily dose of gratitude, he assured his sister-in-law that they could now cope without her. His son, Richard, had come through the real trial and was making visible progress. The bookseller and his wife had every reason to believe that they had finally produced a baby who had come to stay.

Margery agreed to his suggestion. Reasons to leave now greatly outnumbered reasons to stay. She would depart on Friday and break the journey to London at some intermediate hostelry where she could spend the night.

‘That way,’ she told her sister, ‘I may arrive home in good time on Saturday.’

‘Lawrence will be overjoyed to see you, Margery.’

‘I will take my husband unawares.’

‘That was ever your way.’

‘Goodbye, sister.’

‘Give our love to the whole family.’

‘Mine remains with yours.’

‘Lawrence will have missed your warming presence.’

Margery was rueful. ‘That is my fear!’

‘I love her! I need her! I want her! I must have her, Nick!’

‘She sets a high price on her favours, sir.’

‘Beatrice puts my devotion to the test.’

‘Westfield’s Men will suffer.’

‘I will be away but one afternoon.’

‘The company needs you tomorrow as never before.’

‘Do not vex me so!’

Lawrence Firethorn was being ripped apart by competing claims on his loyalty. Lord Westfield had overridden his choice of Cupid’s Folly as the play to be performed at the Queen’s Head on the following afternoon and the determined patron had substituted Love’s Sacrifice. It was an attempt to bring the actor-manager to heel but, as the first playbill was put up to advertise the event, a second letter arrived from Beatrice Capaldi to give details of the slow voyage along the Thames and to hint at the ultimate reward for her doting lover. Firethorn agonised between the demands of professional duty and private dalliance. Anger finally sent him running to the arms of Beatrice Capaldi.

‘Lord Westfield insults me!’ he snarled.

‘No man admires you more,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll not take it!’

‘Our patron chose you as his manager.’

‘Then why does he treat me as a hired man who must play as cast?’ Firethorn worked himself up into a fury. ‘I’ll not be bullied, I’ll not be forced, I’ll not dance to the tune of Lord Westfield or any other man in London! Let him put up his playbills for Love’s Sacrifice. It will not be staged.’

‘It will, sir.’

‘Without me?’

‘With or without you, Master Firethorn.’

Nicholas Bracewell allowed an interval of silence so that his irate companion could calm down slightly. Having come out through Bishopsgate, they were now walking together in the direction of Shoreditch. Rehearsal and performance had gone well because Lawrence Firethorn had acted with Beatrice Capaldi’s second missive next to his heart. It would have been unwise to tackle him at the Queen’s Head where his raised voice abolished walls and made privacy quite impossible. Nicholas therefore waited until the two of them were well clear of the city walls before he touched once more on the delicate topic. Firethorn was leading his horse by the reins. The three of them passed Bedlam.

‘Consider one more time,’ pleaded Nicholas.

‘It is too late.’

‘Renounce this lady, sir.’

‘I am too far gone in to turn back now, Nick,’ said the other with sudden passion. ‘This is no mere conquest that I pursue here. Beatrice is my own true love. I worship her with every fibre of my being. I would do anything to show her that I am in earnest. I fret, I sigh, I long for her. Did I but know where she dwells, I would lie before her threshold all night and sleep in contented adoration.’

Nicholas steeled himself to disillusion his master.

‘Mistress Capaldi lives beside the river,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I tracked her to Blackfriars one night.’

‘Why?’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What reason had you to spy on her? You followed my love without telling me? What kind of treachery is this?’

‘It was on your account that I went.’

‘Behind my back!’

‘I had no other means of helping you.’

‘Helping me! You have lost my friendship for ever!’

‘It grieves me to tell you any more …’

‘Then let us part now.’

‘No, Master Firethorn,’ said Nicholas, detaining him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘When I went past Mistress Capaldi’s home, a visitor left. It was her shrewd stage manager.’

‘I hope he was shrewder and more honest than mine.’

‘It was Giles Randolph.’

‘Never!’

‘He has rehearsed this whole play, sir,’ argued Nicholas bravely. ‘He sent Mistress Capaldi to The Rose and he was there himself to witness her performance and its effect on you. That is how he came to see Owen Elias. Love’s Sacrifice would not have brought him to the playhouse any more than the work of Banbury’s Men would take you to The Curtain. Master Randolph was there with Beatrice Capaldi. They are trying to kill our company by cutting off its head.’

‘ENOUGH!’

Lawrence Firethorn’s anguish echoed for a mile and sent his horse into a panic. The man he trusted most of all had betrayed him and his love in the most comprehensive way. Controlling his steed, he mounted with a leap, then glared down at Nicholas with a loathing he never suspected he could ever feel for him. No more words were necessary. In his now seething rage, Firethorn believed that Nicholas was trying to discredit Beatrice Capaldi on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Partnership with his book holder was over, fidelity to his patron a thing of the past, commitment to his company a trifling irrelevance.

Sharp heels dug into the horse’s flanks. It reared up on its hind legs then took its rider homewards at a gallop. Nicholas Bracewell sighed deeply at his failure then walked on swiftly. He still had business in Shoreditch.

Andrew Carrick gazed through the window of his cell with a glow of satisfaction in his soul. His daughter, Marion, had told him of the apprehension of the murderer in Clerkenwell and, though her account fell short of the full truth, the lawyer was able to shed a father’s tears of contentment. Sebastian’s death had been paid for in full and he could now rest in peace. Carrick longed for the moment when he could extract more details from Nicholas Bracewell whom he knew was the chief architect of events in Turnmill Street. In relating the tale to the bereaved sister, the book holder played down his own part in the affair but the acute father could see behind this show of modesty.

The lawyer was overcome with delight, therefore, when Nicholas actually appeared below in the yard but he was not alone on this visit. Five others marched with him. Lord Westfield led the way with a purposeful figure in the robes of a bishop and a black-garbed clerk who carried writing materials in his satchel. Two soldiers from the Palace guard flanked the deputation. Nicholas Bracewell excused himself to slip into the Beauchamp Tower and Carrick ran to his door to listen for the sound of his footsteps on the stone steps. It seemed like an hour before his gaoler unlocked the door to admit the visitor. Carrick embraced him, thanked him and asked for a complete account of what had transpired outside the Pickt-hatch. Nicholas first took him to the window and pointed at the five men who were now going into the building across the yard with firm footsteps.

‘Did you see them, Master Carrick?’ he asked.

‘I recognised Lord Westfield.’

‘He is prosecuting this matter.’

‘Who was the noble churchman?’

Nicholas was impassive. ‘John Aylmer, Bishop of London. With him was his clerk. And two soldiers to enforce the gravity of their embassy.’

The truth dawned. ‘They visit Harry Fellowes?’

‘The Clerk of Ordnance is being interviewed. Your information was of immense help, sir, and Lord Westfield has used his wide circle of friends to make further enquiry.’

‘Harry has embezzled,’ said Carrick unequivocally. ‘There can be no doubt of his guilt. But proving it is quite another matter. A man who has defrauded the Crown so long and so cunningly will be able to wriggle out of any charge.’

‘That is why I sought the power of the Church.’

‘John Aylmer?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Fellowes is a rogue but he is also a priest. He will not be able to withstand the pressure that the Bishop of London may bring upon him.’ His face was still impassive but his eyes twinkled. ‘Our scheming Clerk will never have met a man quite like this John Aylmer.’

The Bishop of London glowered under bushy eyebrows and put the crackle of authority into his voice. Harry Fellowes swallowed hard and backed away slightly. He was seated at his desk when his room was invaded by the five menacing figures. The Clerk of Ordnance was caught offguard.

‘Remember!’ intoned John Aylmer, ‘that you speak under oath. Do not perjure yourself before your Maker or He will call you to account for it on the Day of Judgement. Speak the truth before us here and we may be inclined to mercy. Lie, deceive or prevaricate and the full majesty of the law will descend upon you.’ A finger of doom pointed. ‘One thing more, Master Fellowes. Though you have neglected your flock this long while, you are still an ordained priest. It was my predecessor as Bishop of London, Edmund Grindal, who brought you into the clergy. That revered Churchman, who went on to become His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, looks down on you from Heaven at this moment and implores you to hold faith with him. Confess your sins to him, to us and to God.’

Harry Fellowes reeled from the grim warning. It was his first meeting with the Bishop of London and he knew instantly that he would not seek to renew the acquaintance. John Aylmer was a sturdy man of middle height with a challenging religiosity about him. In his distress, it never occurred to Fellowes to wonder why a man who hailed from the Norfolk gentry spoke with a Welsh lilt.

Lord Westfield read out the stern indictment.

‘Harry Fellowes, Clerk of Ordnance, we charge you with fraud and embezzlement in the execution of your office and summon you to appear before Sir Walter Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exchequer. The allegations are as follows, that you did wilfully indulge in false recording in the office books, that you did sell Crown property into private hands for your own profit, that you did misappropriate government monies, that you did maliciously and unlawfully …’

It was all there. Harry Fellowes was hit with such a powerful blend of fact and conjecture that he did not pause to disentangle the two. Guesswork was cruelly on target. He was arraigned for sending unserviceable shot to Barbary, for shipping a consignment of unwearable boots to the army in Ireland, for selling ammunition, already paid for, to a naval depot so that he could pocket the second amount, for listing equipment in the two ledgers delivered to the Auditors of the Prest which had not been purchased as stated, but simply taken from the Ordnance store. Indeed, it was Fellowes’s skill at making departments pay for things they never received or requisitions they never made that was the basis of his fraud. One consignment of muskets circulated between six different regiments without ever leaving the boxes in which they were stored. Harry Fellowes embezzled with a sense of humour.

Lord Westfield rolled on remorselessly, John Aylmer lent his ecclesiastical presence and the black-clad secretary wrote down every word. Fellowes could not have done it alone and they soon prised out of him the names of his now wealthy accomplices, Geoffrey Turville, the Purveyor of Materials and Richard Bowland, the Keeper of the Store. Collusion between the trio defeated all the administrative precautions taken and allowed Harry Fellowes, as the instigator of the various schemes, to amass a large personal fortune which he either disseminated throughout his family or used to finance a series of highly profitable loans. When Lord Westfield put the tentative figure of deceits at £10,000, Harry Fellowes admitted it at once in order to conceal the fact that it was almost twice that amount.

John Aylmer, Bishop of London came back into action.

‘All that you have said has been taken down, Master Fellowes. Read what my secretary has written. If it be a fair and true account of your confession, sign it forthwith then pray to God for mercy.’

‘Yes, your grace.’

Fellowes read the document, startled by the range of frauds which had been detected and relieved by the number which had escaped scrutiny. He signed with a shaking hand. Lord Westfield produced another document for perusal.

‘Here is a warrant for your arrest, sir,’ he said with due solemnity. ‘It is signed by Sir Robert Cecil who helped me to initiate these investigations.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Take the villain away!’

Stripped of his office, the Clerk of Ordnance was duly delivered to the Constable of the Tower who promptly incarcerated him in a dank cell and left him there to contemplate the miseries that lay ahead. Nicholas Bracewell joined the deputation as they left by the main gate. They were some distance from the Tower before they broke into laughter. Lord Westfield was gleeful.

‘I should be a member of my own company!’ he said. ‘But it was John Aylmer here who really put our man to flight.’

‘I’ve always wanted to be a bishop,’ admitted Owen Elias, playing with the cross on his chest. ‘But I’d not waste myself on London. Make me Bishop of Wales and let me lead my wayward people back to the Lord.’

They adjourned to a nearby inn where Nicholas had already reserved a private room. The Bishop of London became Owen Elias again, his secretary emerged as Matthew Lipton, the regular scrivener to Westfield’s Men, and the two soldiers were now restored to their status as hired men with the company. Impersonation on that scale rendered all four of them liable to prosecution but Nicholas felt the risk was worth taking. A fraudulent Clerk had been outwitted by a fraudulent Bishop. With a signed confession, Lord Westfield could now hand the whole matter over to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. As he battled for his survival, Harry Fellowes would forget all about the ruse which had entrapped him.

Lord Westfield had a final word alone with Nicholas.

‘The deepest pleasure of all is yet to come,’ he said. ‘Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, will be ruined by these disclosures. Instead of making a queen of Arabella Stuart, he has simply made an arrant fool of himself!’ He chuckled happily. ‘This will make those lions rampant on his coat of arms lie on their backs with their feet in the air!’

Nicholas recalled the coach he had seen outside the home of Beatrice Capaldi. Its identity was now confirmed. The coat of arms had belonged to the Godolphin family. The Earl of Chichester was not using all the money he borrowed from Harry Fellowes to finance his daring bid for political power. Some of it went to subsidise his pleasures at the house in Blackfriars. It was an interesting coincidence.

Nicholas wondered if Giles Randolph knew about it.

Beatrice Capaldi reclined on her four-poster and sipped wine from a Venetian glass goblet. Even when naked and covered with a film of perspiration, she still had natural poise and distinction. A toss of her head turned unkempt hair into a faultless coiffure once more. A lift of her black eyebrow restored full hauteur to her mien. She was an aristocrat in a profession of commoners. Beatrice Capaldi was no ordinary whore who could be bought by anyone with enough money. She was a voluptuous woman of high ambition and a discerning taste. Suitors of all manner besieged her but she rejected the vast majority and chose only the select few. Giles Randolph, actor-manager with Banbury’s Men, was one of those chosen few. Indeed, he had been encouraged to believe that he was now the only one of them.

He lay beside her and fingered the new love-bite she had just implanted on his chest. Still panting from his exertions, he threw down a mouthful of wine and smiled. ‘You are a woman in a thousand, Beatrice!’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘A hundred thousand, a million!’ He kissed the porcelain skin of her shoulders. ‘And you are all mine!’

‘Yes, Giles. I am all yours.’

‘No wonder Firethorn wants you so much!’

‘Can any man resist me?’ she said easily.

‘Not if he has red blood in his veins.’

She laughed and gave him another little bite. Randolph nestled back in the pillows to marvel at her wonder afresh. Beatrice Capaldi was the child of an Italian father and an English mother, inheriting her passion from the former and her dignity from the other, then adding capacities for guile and intrigue that were all her own. Her slender body could deliver all its rich promises, her succulent mouth could draw the very soul out of a man. He was hers. Giles Randolph saw her as his conquest but he was very much her possession. A rich and successful actor, he had money enough to keep her and charms enough to amuse her. When he involved her in the capture of Lawrence Firethorn, she played a game at which she was a consummate expert. Both were ruthless and neither would stop at anything. They were kindred spirits.

‘Tomorrow night we will celebrate,’ he said fondly.

‘All will be achieved.’

‘Firethorn will be outlawed and his company disbanded.’

‘Banbury’s Men will be unrivalled.’

‘Yes,’ he said, looping an arm around her. ‘One day will change both our lifetimes. A queen will die and a new king will attend his coronation in the theatre. We will stay together for ever and rule the whole city.’

Beatrice Capaldi smiled with determined pleasure.

‘I expect no less …’

London awoke at first light to begin the fateful day. The markets were erected and filled with bustling urgency by noisy stallholders. Butchers set out their meat, bakers their bread and fishmongers the latest catch. Farmers streamed into the city with their animals and produce to increase the pungency of the odours and swell the general pandemonium. Careful housewives were up just after dawn to find the best bargains. Children, dogs, beggars and masterless men filtered into the throng. Major streets were turned into human rivers that ebbed and flowed with tidal force. Market time was one long continuous act of collective lunacy.

Cornelius Gant was among the first visitors to the maelstrom. Though nobody knew him by sight, he heard his name on dozens of tongues as the miraculous Nimbus was discussed. Bills had been posted up to advertise the attempted flight to the top of St Paul’s but it was word of mouth which would bring in the bulk of the audience. Gant would be ready for them. Aided by a boy with a handcart, he bought up baskets of doves, pigeons and any other birds he could find. When the baskets were piled high on the cart, he and the boy pushed its cooing, cawing, fluttering cargo in the direction of the cathedral. Gant was keeping an appointment with the verger.

Further downriver, another market was being held. The unintentional vendor was Queen Elizabeth herself and the commodity on sale was nothing less than her crown. Whitehall Palace was no seething mass of urgent bodies but the figures who glided about in profusion were no less intent on making a profit on their transaction. A buoyant Lord Westfield was there with his entourage and a chastened Earl of Chichester loitered with his adherents. Other alliances stood in other corners and eyed the competition with resentful enmity. It was a market where most would be turned away disappointed. There was only one item for sale and its price was rightly exorbitant.

The Earl of Banbury scurried in with high hopes that were dashed instantly by the leader of his campaign. News of the arrest of Harry Fellowes had been communicated to the Master of Ordnance. Chichester had funded his enterprise with tainted money. The consequences were too frightful to reflect upon. His reputation would never survive the scandal and all who were associated with him would be stigmatised. The watching Lord Westfield saw the face of his rival turn puce as he received the intelligence. It was worth getting up at such an ungodly hour to observe the priceless discomfiture of the Earl of Banbury. Dreams of endless bounty from the gracious hands of Queen Arabella vanished at once.

Word arrived that an official announcement was to be made about the Queen in one of the larger chambers. Every room, corridor and staircase in the Palace emptied its occupants and they converged on a moment of history. Lord Westfield looked around at the distinguished gathering. All the royal favourites were there with their retinues of hopeful supporters. Essex posed, Oxford twitched, Raleigh was pensive, Mountjoy was sad and the others composed their features into what they felt was the appropriate face for such a solemn occasion. A staff was banged once on the floor to command immediate silence then a door opened and two rather decrepit old gentlemen came in.

Their laboured gait and their sense of effort was reminiscent of Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather but these were no tired watchmen. They were trusted servants of the state who were bowed down with grief. Lord Burghley hobbled along with the aid of a walking stick and Dr John Mordrake looked in need of some similar assistance as well. They climbed awkwardly up onto the dais and turned to face the whole court. It should have fallen to the Lord Treasurer to make the grim announcement but he deferred to the old astrologer who was now bent double by the weight of his medallion. Dr John Mordrake cleared his throat.

‘She is gone,’ he said.

A wave of pain hit even the most cynical listeners and a loud murmur started up. Mordrake quelled it at once with a skeletal hand. Having been in at the death, he wanted the privilege of describing it.

‘I was called in too late,’ he continued. ‘Had they let me see her earlier, I might have prolonged a life that was a joy to all who came into contact with her. I count myself lucky to have been her friend and her adviser for many a year and her memory is engraved on my old heart. When I made my examination of her, I knew the worst. She had less than forty-eight hours to live. And so it proved.’ Tears welled. ‘Forgive these moist eyes of mine but we shared a special bond. She was godmother to my only son. Moreover …’

The silence which had fallen on the chamber was charged with mild hysteria. Dr John Mordrake was not talking about Queen Elizabeth at all. As he burbled on about a dear lady with high principles and a love of duty, it was evident that the deceased was Blanche Parry. The astonishing woman who had been at Her Majesty’s side for over three decades as her closest friend had finally passed away, taking with her the scholarly enthusiasm and the love for ostentation which she had shared with the Queen. In the circumstances, it was not surprising that the sovereign had retired into seclusion to watch over her beloved gentlewoman during her last days and the presence of the astrologer now made more sense. Dr John Mordrake had been introduced to the Queen by none other than Blanche Parry herself. The bottle he had borne away from the Palace had contained the specimen from a blind old lady.

Muttering broke out as relieved courtiers heard that their sinecures would continue and fraught politicians realised that all their machinations had come to nothing. Lord Burghley came forward to make a crisp announcement to the effect that Her Majesty would hold court later that morning. Those closest to him caught the whisper of a smile on the face of the old fox. His gout improved.

Lord Westfield was amongst the first to recover. His own support of King James of Scotland as the next monarch had foundered but it could be revived at a later date. The campaign of the Earls of Chichester and Banbury had run aground permanently and there would be corrosive letters from Hardwick Hall to endure. Others, too, had showed their hand in a way that they now regretted and the heavy murmur was largely produced by earnest disclaimers from embarrassed nobles. Saturday at Whitehall was yielding rich rewards for Lord Westfield. Not only did he find a Queen whom he loved alive and well, not only could he watch loathed enemies wince and squirm, he could take real pleasure from the element of intrigue. It was all deliberate.

Blanche Parry was dying and the Queen wished to be with her but she turned the occasion to full political advantage. By retiring to her apartments and maintaining a steadfast silence, she knew that she would create alarm and spread false hope. The question of the succession would bring all the swirling enmities out into the open as the courtiers who had been dearest to her wooed other possible claimants with undue haste and zeal. Long days in hiding had acquainted Queen Elizabeth with the darker truths of her position. She would henceforth reign with an even firmer grip.

Lord Westfield turned to his companions.

‘Can you not see it, sirs?’ he said jovially. ‘Blanche Parry was but the excuse to make examination of her court. Her Majesty wanted to see which way her royal favourites would scatter if she died. She was toying with them.’

‘Why?’ asked a crony.

‘For sport and for education.’

‘She took pleasure from all this?’

‘Yes,’ said Westfield. ‘It softened the pain of Blanche Parry’s death. The Queen has been playing her favourites against each other. She may be the greatest sovereign in Christendom but she is also a mad old courtesan!’

They drifted out of the chamber and along a corridor.

‘Will you go to court, my lord?’ said the crony.

‘Most assuredly. Then on to Gracechurch Street to watch a play. Love’s Sacrifice is an apter choice than ever now. It will celebrate the reign of an adorable Queen. I’ll have special lines written by Edmund Hoode to be worked into the speeches of King Gondar.’

‘What of The Spanish Jew?’

‘Who will wish to see that now?’ said Westfield. ‘Her Majesty was not poisoned by Dr Lopez and the worst usurer in London is no Jew but that damnable Clerk of Ordnance.’

The entourage laughed appreciatively. Lord Westfield saw only one cloud on the horizon. Banbury’s Men had been vanquished but his own company was haunted by a disaster.

‘Lawrence Firethorn must be there!’ he said.

‘And if he is not …?’

Night was an unrelieved torment. Lawrence Firethorn twisted and turned in his empty bed as ugly thoughts skewered his brain. Love for Beatrice Capaldi intensified with each passing hour but so did his respect for Nicholas Bracewell. Though he galloped away from the book holder, he was soon overtaken by the horror of the information which Nicholas imparted. Beatrice unfaithful? Her invitation a device to separate him from his company? Their whole relationship a contrivance by Giles Randolph? He could accept none of the propositions and yet he could not deny them either. It was unlike Nicholas to make false accusations but this was a special case. Anxious to secure the actor-manager’s presence on Saturday afternoon, even a normally truthful man might bend the facts, especially if he were prompted by such a self-willed patron as Lord Westfield. There was salvation in sight yet. Firethorn was on the rack but only one person could release him and that was Beatrice Capaldi herself. Only if he honoured the tryst would he learn the truth.

He left Shoreditch early to ride into the city and stable his horse near the wharf where he was due to meet her barge. Hours stretched before him and he spent them in tense meandering along the river. As a nearby clock struck the hour, his guilt was stirred by the reminder that Westfield’s Men were now rehearsing Love’s Sacrifice without him. Some balm did soothe him. The news from Whitehall Palace ran through the city to make it crackle with joy. Firethorn was not betraying his patron at a critical time in a dispute over the succession and that reduced the severity of his guilt. He tried to concentrate on Beatrice and the magic of their love but the face of Giles Randolph kept leering over her shoulder. Italian passion was blighted by a Spanish Jew.

Lurching up into the narrow streets, he found himself part of an excited crowd that converged on St Paul’s. His mind might be obsessed with a dark lady but it was a black stallion which drew spectators to the cathedral. Firethorn was soon staring up at the roof with the thousands of others who had come to witness a miracle of biblical stature. The actor in him was outraged. A play with Lawrence Firethorn in it would never draw such a throng. Why had the whole city turned out? Resentment and envy made him bristle.

The choice of St Paul’s for such crude entertainment was natural. As well as being the focal point of worship in the capital, the great church with its cavernous interior, its walks and its busy courtyard, had served as the nexus for spectacular performances of all kinds. Sermons and masses were on offer but so were occasional bouts of wild audacity. Many still talked of the Spaniard who descended headfirst from battlements to ground by means of a taut rope that was stretched between the two points. Those who tried to emulate him fell to their death or to hideous mutilation. Another man committed suicide by tying a rope to a pinnacle before putting the noose around his neck and diving off. There was even an acrobatic cripple who once stole the weathercock of gilt-plated copper. Countless others had given the noble edifice the status of an occasional fairground.

Nimbus had been promised for noon and Cornelius Gant did not renege on that vow. As the great bell boomed out in the clocktower, the eyes of London scanned the Heavens for the latter-day Pegasus but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as they were losing patience, their vigilance was rewarded. Cornelius Gant used a rope in a way that was every bit as ingenious as the lithe Spaniard of yesteryear. It was threaded carefully through the handles of the baskets of birds so that each would be released at a sharp flick. The noonday clock chimed its fill and left its echo hanging in the air. Gant pulled hard on the rope. The lids of twenty baskets sprang open to send up thick clouds of birds who were quickly joined by the rest of the feathered community up on the roof. The suddenness of it all was breathtaking.

Viewed from below, it was indeed a miracle. Hundreds of birds burst out of the tower to fly up to heaven and there behind them, standing on hind legs so that all could see properly, was a black horse with black wings sprouting out of its shoulders. In that extraordinary moment of revelation, it seemed to all who watched that Nimbus had flown to the top of St Paul’s. Cornelius Gant stepped forward to wave his hat and to set off a veritable broadside of cheering. Nobody knew how he had done it but all accepted one thing. Nimbus was the finest horse in creation.

Lawrence Firethorn was angry with himself for having been momentarily carried away by the spectacle. A man whose life revolved around cleverly devised stage effects knew some deft handiwork when he saw it and he tried to work out exactly how it was all done. He was not helped by the rapturous ovation that was being accorded to his new rival for the public’s adoration.

Nimbus.

Beatrice Capaldi arrived in her barge at the wharf well before the appointed time. When the vessel was moored, the four oarsmen went ashore to stretch their legs. Beatrice remained under the rich canopy which covered the raised area in the stern of the boat. Lying back on cushions, she was protected from the prying eyes of the rougher sort who hung about the waterfront. Her lutenist sat on a stool nearby and played soft airs. Beatrice was at her most elegant in a dress of black and red that exactly matched the colours of her latest hat in the Spanish fashion. A silver fan could be used to cool or conceal, a pomander kept the odours of the river away from her nostrils.

The swift approach of a horse made her sit up. She did not expect Lawrence Firethorn to appear quite so early. His impatience was testimony to the fevered love which he bore her. She heard the horse being reigned in then urgent feet ran along the planking on the wharf. Her visitor came aboard without ceremony and she looked up to greet him. But it was not the over-eager Firethorn. It was Giles Randolph.

‘We must speak alone,’ he said pointedly.

‘As you wish.’ She dismissed the lutenist with a flick of her fan then delivered a mild reproach to her visitor. ‘This is most unseemly, sir.’

‘You have deceived me, Beatrice.’

‘That is a lie!’

‘Your promises were mere nothings.’

‘Have a care, Giles.’

‘You entertained a visitor at your house.’

‘I deny it.’

‘You swore to be true to me!’ he accused.

‘And so I have.’

‘I know the day, the time, the man.’ Randolph let his pain show through. ‘Beatrice, how could you consort with that disgusting old lecher?’

‘Of whom do you speak?’

‘Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester.’

The momentary pause and the flicker of her eyelids were enough to condemn her. Giles Randolph began to upbraid her in the strongest terms but was silenced by a blazing retort.

‘It is my house,’ she said proudly, ‘and I entertain whomsoever I wish. You are not my keeper, sir. I may have my pick of any man in London. Why should I deign to favour an actor when I may choose an earl? Giles Randolph is not even an aristocrat in his own profession. Lawrence Firethorn will always outrank him.’ She stabbed home her advantage. ‘If I want the best — and nothing less will suffice — I should give myself to him this very afternoon.’

‘No, Beatrice!’ It was a howl of anguish.

She retreated into silence and let him dribble his apologies all over her. When he had humbled himself completely before her, she probed for details.

‘Who told you of the Earl of Chichester?’

‘Owen Elias.’

She was contemptuous. ‘A hired man!’

‘He quit the company this morning,’ said Randolph sourly, ‘and left The Spanish Jew without its ridicule of Firethorn. His parting shot concerned yourself. I was to ask you why the coach bearing the Godolphin coat of arms was seen outside your house on a certain night.’

‘I hate all Welshmen!’ she asserted.

Randolph found consolation. ‘Owen Elias has cut his own throat. He has left our company and Westfield’s Men have disowned him. Firethorn will never let that ugly Celtic visage anywhere near the Queen’s Head!’

Owen Elias sat in the taproom at the Queen’s Head and took his final instructions from Nicholas Bracewell. The morning rehearsal was uncertain but by no means calamitous. It was just conceivable that Love’s Sacrifice could survive before an audience without Lawrence Firethorn in the leading role. Owen Elias was a more muted King Gondar but he gave a very competent reading of the part. Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode sat at the table to add their counsel. The four men were determined to rescue the company from the wilful absence of its actor-manager. Alexander Marwood interrupted their discussions with an uncharacteristic chuckle.

‘Good day, gentlemen!’ he said warmly. ‘You’ll have spectators enough in my yard today.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Because of the promise I have from Master Gant.’

‘Cornelius Gant?’

‘He and Nimbus are the wonders of London,’ said the twitching landlord. ‘And you helped them, Master Bracewell. You gave Nimbus the wings to fly!’

Marwood gave an excited if garbled account of what had happened at St Paul’s Cathedral. Nimbus and his master were now being hailed on all sides. What thrilled the landlord was the fact that he had engaged the pair to make another appearance at the Queen’s Head. They were to perform briefly on stage after Love’s Sacrifice had run its course. The yard would be packed to the limit with thirsty patrons. It would be one of the most profitable afternoons that the inn had ever known. Alexander Marwood was inebriated at the very thought.

The four men were duly horrified. They did not wish to share their venue with a performing animal. Barnaby Gill stood on his dignity, Edmund Hoode threatened to withdraw his play and Owen Elias refused to have his first attempt at a leading role overshadowed by an actor with four legs. It was the threatened use of their makeshift stage which worried Nicholas because it might not bear the weight of a dancing horse. The argument was over as soon as it began. A figure swept into the taproom and confronted them with a demand that drove every other thought from their mind.

Margery Firethorn was at her most forceful. ‘Where is my husband?’ she said.

Lawrence Firethorn waited until the buzzing crowd began to disperse then he drifted slowly towards the river. Nimbus hung over him like a black cloud. It rankled. He was both hurt and jealous. Firethorn had worked at his craft for many long years to achieve a standard of excellence that nobody could match; yet it was not his name that was the touchstone of the citizenry. Cornelius Gant and his black stallion had pushed the actor aside. In the space of five minutes atop St Paul’s Cathedral, they had dazzled an audience which was ten times the size of any that Firethorn had attracted. It was deeply insulting. The actor offered a dramatic experience that captivated for two hours then stayed in the memory for ever. Nimbus was palmed off on an unsuspecting public by means of a clever conjuring trick and he would be forgotten when the next sensation diverted the commonalty.

Firethorn knew the secret of the flying horse. Nimbus was taken up to the top of the cathedral by means of the circular staircase then brought into view in a flurry of flapping wings. The real skill lay not in getting the animal up there to create the optical illusion but in bringing it down again. Horses could be trained to climb stairs but their gait and their co-ordination forbade any descent. To bring Nimbus down spiralling stone steps was a phenomenon in itself. Firethorn decided that the animal was either carried in some way or that it had been taught to walk backwards.

The wings also puzzled him. They looked very familiar. They were black now instead of being white but he felt certain he had seen them before. The dreadful thought formed in his mind that they had been hired from Westfield’s Men and that his own company had actually aided the spectacular flight of Nimbus. His sense of betrayal was acute. Lawrence Firethorn heard the ripple of water and realised he was now standing beside the Thames. The wharf was in front of him and the barge was moored to it. Four oarsmen and a young lutenist lingered. Beatrice Capaldi was there.

Yet even as his desire was rekindled, it fell short of its former glow. The antics on the roof of St Paul’s had done something which he would never have believed possible. They had focused his mind on the dignity of his profession. Nimbus had dispossessed Beatrice Capaldi. His beloved was waiting for him and the busy river lay before them but he no longer lusted after her company. Doubts crowded in. Guilt resurfaced. He was in an agony of indecision. Part of him wanted to run to the barge to embrace her while another part wished that he was at the Queen’s Head to rub out the vision of a performing animal with his own brand of magic.

After all his suffering, he had to learn the truth. He strode towards the barge and caught her perfume on the air. The brief enchantment of Beatrice Capaldi returned to be shattered for ever.

‘Lawrence!’

He froze where he stood and turned around. The coach which came thundering towards the wharf bore the Westfield coat of arms. Margery Firethorn was leaning through the window to hail him. As the horses were reined in and the vehicle came to a squealing halt, Nicholas Bracewell opened the door and assisted Margery out. The contrite husband rushed to his wife’s arms and lifted her up to kiss her. As they circled in ecstatic reunion, he glanced over her shoulder at the barge where Giles Randolph and Beatrice Capaldi had come into view. A violent argument was ending and Randolph stalked off. He and his courtesan had parted and his priority was now to get back to The Curtain in time to perform The Spanish Jew. At one stroke, Beatrice Capaldi lost two brilliant actors. Lawrence Firethorn felt infatuation leave him like a discarded cloak. He was free again, he was happy, he was married. After tossing Beatrice a look of disdain, he kissed his wife with ready passion.

Nicholas Bracewell took charge. They had to get to the Queen’s Head at once. Firethorn’s horse was tied to the back of the coach, then it set off at reckless speed with its three passengers. Margery Firethorn knew that only another woman could have led her spouse astray but this was no time to chastise him. Love’s Sacrifice required some sacrifice on her part. After giving him the good news from Cambridge, she contented herself with nestling beside him and listening to his conversation with Nicholas.

‘You rehearsed this morning?’ said the surprised actor.

‘The play is expected.’

‘You would have staged it without me?’

‘Lord Westfield would not be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘We found another King Gondar to carry the piece.’

‘Another?’

‘Owen Elias.’

‘WHAT!’

Firethorn’s explosion was contained by some scolding words from his wife who had been told enough of what had happened to side with Nicholas in the matter. Quelled into silence, Firethorn heard how Owen Elias had helped to catch the murderer of Sebastian Carrick and to ensnare the devious Clerk of Ordnance. Lord Westfield’s admiration of the Welshman knew no bounds and he was adamant that Owen Elias be welcomed back into his company. When Firethorn learnt that the actor had left Banbury’s Men in turmoil, he was partially mollified but his pride was still affronted.

‘Owen tries to supplant me,’ he complained. ‘He either mocks me at The Curtain or strives to take my place at the Queen’s Head. He wants to rule as King Gondar.’

‘Not if we arrive in time,’ said Nicholas.

Panic assisted performance. The uncertainty which lasted until minutes before the play was due to start keyed up the actors. When Lawrence Firethorn burst into the tiring-house in full stride, they broke into applause and tears. Owen Elias quickly handed over the robes of King Gondar and there was a moment of tension when he handed Firethorn the crown but Love’s Sacrifice outlawed all personal differences. Westfield’s Men went out onto the stage with the arrogant confidence of a conquering army. Firethorn led his troupe magnificently and made this fourth performance of the work the best yet. Nor was he deprived of inspiration from the middle of the lower gallery. Margery Firethorn had elbowed herself into a place there and he acted for her. Unlike the calculating Beatrice Capaldi, his wife would not keep him at arm’s length that night. Their reconciliation would be shot through with high emotion and it was only when he lay there sated that she would ask about a barge on the Thames.

King Gondar was back where he truly belonged.

It was only after Firethorn’s triumph had been cheered to the echo that Nicholas Bracewell dared to tell him what was due to follow. The whole tiring-house shook.

‘I am to be followed by a horse!’ he bellowed. ‘King Gondar is to hand over his throne to Nimbus!’

It was Owen Elias who stepped in to calm him and to suggest a solution. Westfield’s Men were all appalled that the grasping landlord was using their work as a prologue to a dancing animal and they wanted retribution. Nicholas was annoyed that the white wings he had loaned to Cornelius Gant had been painted black without permission so he had further reason to seek recompense. The book holder had discussed the matter with Owen Elias and the latter fashioned a plan.

‘The horse is clever,’ said Elias, ‘but only when he is controlled by his master. I saw these two hold an audience at The Elephant in Shoreditch with their tricks. Gant is like a puppeteer. Every move is dictated by him.’

‘How does this help us?’ growled Firethorn.

‘Nimbus obeys because his eye never leaves Gant.’

‘So?’

‘What would happen if it did?’

Owen Elias whispered to his employer and Firethorn underwent a transformation. An angry face smiled, a broad grin followed and helpless laughter shook the tiring-house.

‘Bring Nimbus forth!’ he called. ‘We’ll have him now.’

The Queen’s Head was besieged and Alexander Marwood could have filled his yard five times over. Playgoers who stayed behind were joined by a huge influx of excited spectators who wanted to view the flying horse once more. Cornelius Gant had reserved some special tricks for the occasion. The stagekeepers cleared away the scenery then scattered straw upon the boards. Lawrence Firethorn and his wife joined Lord Westfield up in the gallery. Most of the company came out to watch. The two exceptions were Owen Elias and Nicholas Bracewell who lurked near a stable in the corner. Elias held a lead-rope while Nicholas fondled a small mirror. The accessories were a vital part of the performance.

Alexander Marwood came onto the stage to announce what he saw as a triumph of management on his part. Nimbus and Cornelius Gant came out to thunderous applause. They began with a dance but it was soon interrupted. Every movement of the horse was controlled by Gant who maintained eye contact with his animal at all times. But that contact was broken when the sun dazzled him with such force that he had to turn away. Try as he may, he was unable to gain his former control because Nicholas Bracewell used his mirror with such skill to direct the rays of the sun. Deprived of commands, Nimbus came to a halt and stood waiting before a soon dissatisfied audience. Shouts and threats replaced the earlier cheers.

Entertainment was at hand. While Gant moved around to dodge the sun’s rays, Owen Elias led a chestnut mare out on stage and its seductive whinny turned the head of Nimbus ruinously away from his master. The mare was called Jenny. She had been procured by the head ostler at the instigation of Elias and she was evidently in season. Nimbus showed dramatic interest. The horse was given many rewards but denied this greatest pleasure of all and the pain of that denial was now extreme.

Jenny rubbed her nose along his flank then swung her hind quarters around to twitch her tail. It was Nimbus’s turn to whinny. Here was better sport than dancing before a crowd. Here was altogether more fitting recreation for a stallion than struggling to the top of St Paul’s Cathedral. Gant yelled and slapped his partner’s rump but he was too late. The love affair proceeded apace. Jenny swayed to entice Nimbus and he needed no more invitation. Urged on by the roaring crowd, he mounted her as if his whole career as a performer had been a rehearsal for this moment then rapid consummation ensued.

Cornelius Gant was destroyed. He could do nothing to stop the progress of true love and earned the derision of the crowd for even trying to interfere. The control he had built up by years of living with Nimbus was fractured in a matter of minutes. After tasting glory on the top of St Paul’s Cathedral, he had literally plunged down to earth. Alexander Marwood was crestfallen. His greed had led him into disaster. A theatrical company caused problems but at least it gave the performance that was advertised. Nimbus had resigned from public performance. Jenny had taught him things which had been cruelly withheld from him.

The show was over, the crowd dispersed, the casualties sneaked away. Lawrence Firethorn came bounding onto the stage to throw his arms around Owen Elias and to cover him with apologies. Nicholas stood by in readiness.

‘I should never have doubted you, Owen!’ said Firethorn.

‘We are friends again.’

‘I even forgive you that treachery at The Curtain.’

Elias was honest. ‘I was but a pale shadow of you, sir.’

‘All has been redeemed this afternoon. Lord Westfield insists that you stay with the company. This trick with Nimbus was as pretty a piece of theatre as I’ve ever seen.’ Enthusiasm sent him into another embrace. ‘Such a man should be a sharer with the company. If I had a contract, I would offer it to you this instant.’

Nicholas produced the document and handed it over.

‘Then do so, Master Firethorn,’ he said.

The actor-manager was taken aback at first then he led the laughter. Owen Elias was finally given a contract. When he went off to celebrate in the taproom, he left Firethorn alone on stage with Nicholas Bracewell. The yard was empty now but it still reverberated with the sounds of the great events it had witnessed that afternoon. Westfield’s Men had vindicated themselves. Cornelius Gant and Giles Randolph had been put firmly in their places. Margery was now home from Cambridge and all was well in the world.

Lawrence Firethorn was aware that he owed a profound debt to Nicholas Bracewell and he was generous with his thanks. He was also able to rely on the discretion of his book holder. Margery would be told only a fraction of the truth in the privacy of the marriage bed but Firethorn hid nothing from his friend.

‘I was a blind fool, Nick,’ he confided. ‘I laughed with the rest of them at Nimbus but I was only watching myself. I was a stallion led astray by a mare. You stopped me from making an exhibition of myself before the whole company.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘We are glad to have you back.’

‘Sebastian and I were yoked together in lunacy.’

‘Were you?’

‘Both of us succumbed to mad courtesans.’

‘Sebastian paid the higher price.’

‘I’ll not forget that.’ Firethorn sighed. ‘His father and his sister have much to thank you for, Nick, and my own gratitude will be never-ending.’ He put an affectionate arm around the other’s shoulders. ‘Look at this place. We have known such joys, such victories, such acclamation in this inn yard. Hector of Troy has fought here. And Vincentio, and King Richard, and Pompey the Great, and Black Antonio, and Julius Caesar, and Troilus, and the mighty King Gondar.’

‘Do not forget Jenny, sir.’

‘Jenny?’

‘The chestnut mare.’

‘Ah, yes! It was Jenny who conquered Nimbus.’

‘She was the maddest courtesan of them all.’