The Mad Courtesan

Chapter One

Nicholas Bracewell ducked in the nick of time and the rapier whistled above his head to describe a vicious semicircle of thwarted rage. Backing away and drawing his own weapon, he had to repulse a violent attack as his adversary closed on him at once and scythed away with murder in his heart. Here was no occasion for the finer points of swordplay. It was a wild, undisciplined tavern brawl that called for strength of arm and speed of brain. Nicholas demonstrated both in equal measure as he parried further blows, flicked his wrist to expose his target then went down on one knee as he thrust his blade straight and true into his enemy’s side. There was a howl of fury mingled with disbelief as the man staggered backwards, then, dropping his sword, clasping his fatal wound with both hands and emitting one last roar of anger, he fell to the ground in a writhing heap.

The applause was paltry but well earned and Nicholas acknowledged it with a modest smile. Though he was only the book holder with Westfield’s Men, he was an expert in the mounting of stage fights and he had proved that expertise once again. The watching actors and apprentices gave him due reward with their eager palms while Nicholas helped up the now grinning corpse of Sebastian Carrick and dusted him off with a few considerate smacks. The two men were standing on the makeshift stage in the yard of the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street, the inn where the company performed most of its work and attested its claim to be considered the leading theatrical troupe in London. One of the main reasons for its pre-eminence was the crucial influence of Nicholas Bracewell behind the scenes. He was the sheet anchor to a vessel that sailed through an almost permanent tempest and he had saved untold mariners from a gruesome death below the mountainous waves.

Sebastian Carrick was the first to offer compliments.

‘You excel yourself, Nick,’ he said.

‘It is easy when you have the trick of it.’

‘But a devilish task to learn that trick. You can instruct us all in the art of fencing, seasoned though we be. I have never before encountered such a shrewd teacher as Master Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘You are an apt pupil, Sebastian.’

‘Aye,’ said the actor with a grin. ‘A grateful one, too. I had rather be killed by you than by any man in London!’

General laughter broke out among the spectators. Sword fights were an integral part of theatre and they had to be choreographed with sufficient verve and realism to convince an audience that would press very close to the stage. The death of Sebastian Carrick had been so well rehearsed that even those who had witnessed the sequence many times were momentarily fearful that they had indeed lost a friend and colleague. When Nicholas thrust home his blade, however, it simply passed between the side and the arm of his quarry but with a timing and accuracy born of years of experience.

Carrick gave the book holder a confiding nudge.

‘I doubt that Owen will fight as fairly as you, Nick.’

‘He is an able swordsman.’

‘Able enough to cut me down for good and all.’

‘You do him wrong, Sebastian.’

‘Marry, that’s his complaint.’

‘Then must you settle your account with him.’

‘I would be rid of this turbulent Welshman.’

‘Soothe his turbulence.’

Owen Elias, the subject of their exchange, stood no more than a dozen yards away and glowered at his fellow actor. He was a stocky man in his thirties with broad shoulders above a barrel chest. His face was striking rather than handsome with smouldering eyes that were ignited by some dark, Celtic passion. He had good reason to resent Sebastian Carrick. Not only had the latter borrowed money from him which he was refusing to repay, he had committed what was, in the Welshman’s view, the cardinal sin. He was preferred as an actor. By virtue of his grace, charm and poise, Carrick was repeatedly cast in better roles than those offered to Elias and it rankled. Turbulence ensued.

It was time for the rehearsal to begin properly and Nicholas Bracewell took control with accustomed firmness. The stage was set for the first scene, the actors withdrew to the tiring-house, the musicians took up their positions in the gallery above. Westfield’s Men steadied themselves for yet another performance of Vincentio’s Revenge, one of the stock plays in their extensive repertoire, a brooding tragedy that was shot through with violence. Early in Act Three, the lascivious courtier, Lodovico — as played by Sebastian Carrick — would be killed in a tavern brawl by Owen Elias in a role that was not even dignified by a name. Lodovico might appear to die but it was The Stranger who suffered the more serious professional wound.

Even amid the happy turmoil of preparation, Nicholas spared a thought for the tribulations of Owen Elias. As an actor, the Welshman was incomparably better than Sebastian Carrick but the latter had physical attributes which made him more appealing and personal qualities that made him more acceptable. Tall, slim and dashing, he had the lazy confidence of a philanderer allied to an air of almost aristocratic refinement. Owen Elias was too ebullient and wilful. He was altogether too combative in urging his right to promotion within the company and he thus reviled the easy tact and plausibility which gained advantage for his rival. Nor could he forget or forgive the effortless skill with which Carrick had persuaded him to open his purse and part with money that he could ill afford to lose. Vincentio’s Revenge was nothing beside the dire retribution that Owen Elias contemplated.

‘Stand by!’

The command from Nicholas Bracewell stilled the murmur and put every man on the alert. On a signal from the book holder, Peter Digby and his musicians coaxed solemn sounds from their instruments as the Prologue entered in a black cloak to introduce the play. For the next two hours, the company reacquainted themselves with Vincentio’s Revenge and — even though their audience consisted of no more than some curious horses and some gaping ostlers — they gave the work their full concentration. No matter how many times they had performed a piece, they never took it for granted. A play was like a sword. It needed to be polished and sharpened each time before use. Audiences detested the sight of rust and the feel of a blunt edge. Westfield’s Men always kept their weaponry in good order.

When the rehearsal was over, the actors drifted off into the inn itself to take refreshment before the paying public began to arrive. Nicholas had much to do before he could join them, supervising the stagekeepers as they struck the set for Act Five prior to sweeping the boards and strewing them with rushes, making sure that costumes and properties were in their appointed places, chiding the musicians for being noticeably late with their dirge in Act Four and attending to the ever-widening responsibilities of his job. Because it had been, for the most part, a good rehearsal, he went about his work with the quiet satisfaction of one who had made a substantial contribution to the successes of the morning. He was especially pleased with the tavern brawl. Owen Elias and Sebastian Carrick had never fought with such controlled venom. It had been a highlight of the drama.

Ensconced in the taproom, The Stranger was keen to re-enact the scene with his smiling Lodovico.

‘Give me the money, you viper!’

‘Would that I could, dear friend!’ sighed Carrick.

‘Friend, am I not: dear was I never!’

‘I count you among my closest fellows.’

‘Count out some coins instead, Sebastian.’

‘You will be paid in good time.’

‘I urge the reckoning now.’

‘You do so in vain, Owen,’ said the other with a shrug. ‘Truly, I have no money, sir. I have borrowed afresh to buy myself food and drink.’

‘To borrow and not repay is to steal.’

‘Be patient but a little longer.’

‘Give me my money, Sebastian.’

‘As soon as I may.’

‘Now!’ yelled the fiery Welshman, grabbing him with both hands. ‘Pay me forthwith or — by St David! — I’ll tear you limb from limb and feed you to the inn-yard dogs.’

Sebastian Carrick tried to defuse the situation with an amiable laugh but it only enraged his attacker even more. Rising to his feet, Owen Elias hauled him up from his bench and flung him across the room with sudden power. Fury and envy surged up and conjoined in the Welshman’s breast to send him hurtling after his honey-tongued colleague in order to belabour him unmercifully. Before he could even land the first punch, however, he was drenched from head to toe by a few gallons of cold, brackish water from one of the wooden fire buckets. Nicholas Bracewell had arrived in time to see the quarrel and to dampen it down before it got out of hand. Sebastian Carrick grinned with relief but Owen Elias only glowered as the whole taproom filled with derisive laughter. Chafed but chastened, he did not resist when the book holder hurried both him and his fellow out into the yard. Nicholas did not mince his words and his soft West Country vowels were hardened into a curt threat.

‘Do you seek dismissal from the company, sirs?’

‘Indeed not,’ said Elias.

‘Nothing would grieve us more,’ said Carrick.

‘Brawling will not be tolerated,’ emphasised Nicholas with a warning finger. ‘We are only here at the Queen’s Head on sufferance and we must give our nagging landlord no more excuse to send us hence. Save your argument for some private place or, better still, resolve it here and part as friends. Would you have Westfield’s Men evicted over some petty difference between you?’

‘It is not petty,’ said Elias, still dripping wet. ‘It is a very serious matter and I will be answered.’

Carrick smirked. ‘That bucket was an eloquent reply.’

‘You owe me six shillings, sir!’

‘First, do but loan me a further five.’

‘Scurvy rogue!’

‘Peace, peace!’ ordered Nicholas. ‘Raised voices solve nothing. Let’s hear this out calmly.’ He turned to Carrick. ‘Tell your tale first, Sebastian.’

‘But I am the injured party!’ wailed Elias.

‘Your turn will come,’ said Nicholas, quelling him with a glance. ‘Your temper needs more time to cool.’

The Welshman knew better than to argue with the book holder. A big, broad-shouldered man with a muscular strength beneath his affable manner, Nicholas could assert himself if the need arose. His fair hair and full beard danced gently in the wind but his stern eyes kept Owen Elias subdued as the facts of the case were laid out. Sebastian Carrick made light of the whole business, promising that the debt would soon be paid and apologising for any harm he had unwittingly inflicted on his fellow. Elias took several deep breaths before he trusted himself to words again but they came out in a remarkably measured and reasonable way. When both pleas had been voiced, the actors waited on Nicholas Bracewell to pronounce judgement.

‘You are both in the wrong,’ he said. ‘Sebastian, you should have repaid this money long since. Owen, you should not have provoked a brawl to gain your purpose. Is that much agreed between us?’ The actors nodded. ‘Then let us find a way out of this dilemma. A creditor wants something that a debtor does not possess.’

‘You have hit on the problem, Nick,’ said Carrick with a nonchalant shrug. ‘My purse is quite empty.’

‘It is always empty!’ challenged Elias.

‘A man must live, sweet sir.’

‘Live, yes, but not prey upon his fellows!’

‘Pleasure comes at a price.’

‘Then have it at your own expense and not mine.’

Nicholas interceded. ‘Hear my device. It may suit the both of you in equal part. Sebastian has no money until I pay his wage at the end of the week. Master your pain and indignation until then, Owen, and I will save one shilling of that wage for you.’

‘It is not enough,’ said Elias.

‘It is far too much!’ exclaimed Carrick.

But Nicholas stuck by his decision and — though neither man was pleased — both came to accept the compromise. Owen Elias realised that payment by instalments was better than nothing at all and he took comfort from the fact that it was Sebastian Carrick who had protested most. Evasion of his creditors was an article of faith with the latter. The only thing he ever willingly repaid was a debt of honour incurred at the gaming table. Money that was charmed from the purses of colleagues was his to keep. Friends were fair game.

He sighed. ‘It is a grisly resolution, Nick, but I will abide by it. Here is my hand on it.’ Owen Elias shook the proffered hand. ‘Well, now that matter is done, I must away to borrow afresh or I will dwindle into complete poverty!’

Sebastian Carrick gave a mock bow then sauntered back into the taproom with an amused resignation. His attitude produced more sparks from Owen Elias.

‘Look at him, Nick! Do but look at the saucy knave!’

‘The dispute is settled, Owen. Be content.’

‘He is a vile robber!’

‘Your money will be restored.’

‘It is my reputation that he is stealing,’ protested the other. ‘I am the finer actor yet he filches the finer parts. I have laboured to establish myself with Westfield’s Men yet this upstart displaces me within a few months. It is not just, it is not kind, it is not bearable.’ He extended his arms wide in supplication. ‘What am I to do, Nick?’

‘Endure these slights with dignity.’

‘Never!’

‘Make friends with Sebastian. It is the only way.’

‘I would sooner consort with a leper.’

‘Do not come to blows with him again,’ warned Nicholas.

‘I dare not,’ said Elias with lilting menace. ‘For next time, nobody would be able to stop me. I would kill him.’

Cornelius Gant pointed the musket at the horse’s head and callously pulled the trigger. There was a loud report and a cloud of smoke went up from the weapon. The animal staggered bravely for a few seconds then sank to the ground in a sorry heap and began to twitch violently as the last ounces of life poured out of its noble carcass. It was a grotesque and sickening sight. When its death throes were finally over and its frenzy mercifully abated, it lay cold and silent on the cobblestones, its black coat gilded by the sun and its body twisted into such an unnatural shape that it drew groans of horror from all who had witnessed the summary slaughter. A happy crowd became hostile in a flash. They cursed the cruel owner and formed a ring of gathering fury around him. Cornelius Gant was defiant. As they closed in, baying for retribution, he held the musket like a club and threatened to strike. The tension was heightened until it was on the verge of an explosion.

Then the horse neighed. As if waking from an afternoon sleep in a verdant meadow, it sat up, whinnied mischievously and gazed around its dumbstruck audience. Gant’s ugly old face was split by a toothless grin as he saw the incredulity on every side. After entertaining the throng with all manner of clever tricks, horse and man had reached the climax of their act in the most dramatic way. Cornelius Gant had shot Nimbus dead and the animal had expired to such convincing effect that all present were completely taken in. Many were so relieved to see the horse alive again that they burst into tears. Relief gave way to joy and expressed itself in a riot of applause. Gant chose his moment well. He clicked his fingers and Nimbus got up from the ground to shake itself all over before knocking its owner playfully sideways with its rump. As fresh mirth greeted this latest trick, the horse rounded on Gant, took the brim of his hat in its teeth then lifted it off with another whinny. The hat was dropped into the middle of the yard and the crowd responded generously. A waterfall of coins gushed into the receptacle. Horse and owner took a bow in unison.

Cornelius Gant was a wiry man of middle height, shrunk by age and battered by experience. His apparel was that of a discharged soldier but his piggy eyes and distorted features suggested less honourable employment. Only when he grinned did he look even remotely personable. In gratitude for his handsome performance, however, the crowd ignored his defects of nature and showered him with congratulation. The whole inn buzzed with excited comment. Gant was glad that they had stopped at Coventry. Its welcoming hostelries had given him rich pickings for three days but it was now time to take his horse and its wondrous feats on the next stage of their journey to the capital. It was there in London, in the finest city in Europe, that true fame and fortune lay and nothing less would suffice his vaulting ambition.

Well-wishers sent them off with ringing cheers.

‘Nimbus is the greatest horse alive!’

‘And even greater when he is dead!’

‘It is the most amazing sight that ever I saw.’

‘No heart can resist them.’

‘They will spread merriment wherever they go.’

‘That animal is a gift from God.’

It was left to the waddling publican of the Shepherd and Shepherdess to sum up the feelings of his customers. Gant and Nimbus had not only astounded the onlookers, they had been good for business. Wiping podgy hands on his beer-stained apron, the publican beamed gratefully after the departing guests and gave a knowing chuckle.

‘They will conquer London within a week!’

Lawrence Firethorn was in excellent spirits as he sat back in his chair and savoured the last of the Canary wine in his goblet. Flushed with success after another performance in the title role of Vincentio’s Revenge, he was celebrating his triumph in a private room at the Queen’s Head with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. All three of them were sharers with the company, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus entitled to a portion of any income. Apprentices were given their keep and a valuable training, hired men — like Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias — earned a weekly wage but it was the sharers who were the real beneficiaries. Not only did they get their slice of any profits, they also had first claim on the leading parts in any play. Their status was paramount. In the eyes of the law and the regulatory agencies, they were the company and other members of the troupe were merely their employees. Westfield’s Men had ten sharers but its operational decisions were invariably taken by its three senior figures. Lawrence Firethorn dominated that trio.

‘I was in good voice this afternoon,’ he boasted.

‘Too good a voice,’ said Gill testily. ‘You roared the lines like a wounded lion. Speak the speeches as they are written, Lawrence. Do not deafen your fellows with ranting.’

‘The audience worshipped my Vincentio.’

‘So might the rest of London for they must all have heard it. Why must you bellow so much? Even your silence is beset by too much noise.’

‘Tragedy calls for sound!’

‘Your sound was certainly tragic, sir.’

Firethorn bristled. ‘At least I did not whisper my words like an old man muttering into his beard.’

‘I conveyed meaning with every subtle gesture.’

‘It is as well you did not rely on your voice, Barnaby. You sounded like a male varlet plying his foul trade in the stews of Southwark!’

‘I’ll brook no more of this!’ exclaimed Gill, using a quivering fist to pound the table around which they sat. ‘I demand an abject apology.’

‘Demand what you wish. You will get nothing.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Edmund Hoode wearily as he interrupted yet another of the all-too-frequent arguments between the two men. ‘Both of you gave of your best in Vincentio’s Revenge. I could not fault either performance. Each was soft enough, each was loud enough. Enough of this vain disputation. We have business in hand.’

Gill stood on his dignity. ‘I have been insulted.’

‘And so you will be again, sir,’ said Firethorn. ‘You invite ridicule. If you will hiss like a serpent on stage, we will find you a place in the menagerie at the Tower.’

‘They will lock you in the neighbouring cage for they surely have need of a trumpeting elephant!’

‘Desist, sirs!’ said Hoode, throwing himself between them once again to prevent the elephant from trampling on the serpent and to stop the serpent from wriggling its way up the elephant’s trunk to spit its venom into the brain. ‘This will not serve our cause at all.’

He poured more wine for both of them then gave them even more liberal doses of flattery. They slowly allowed themselves to be soothed and to forget their latest verbal duel. Lawrence Firethorn was the acknowledged leader of the company, a striking man in every way, hugely talented and hugely ambitious, blessed with genius but cursed with the vanity of his profession. Alert, handsome and muscular, he dressed like a gallant in the latest fashion. Barnaby Gill was shorter, older and less well favoured. The established clown, he had an uncanny ability to reduce any audience to hysterical laughter with his comic songs, gestures, dances and facial expressions. Offstage, he was lurking melancholic with a weakness for the society of pretty boys that had made the gibe about a male varlet particularly painful. He chose his apparel with great care but erred on the side of ostentation. Firethorn and Gill might wrestle incessantly in private but they worked in perfect harmony on stage.

One of Edmund Hoode’s primary duties was to sustain that harmony by writing parts in which each man could display his undoubted brilliance. As an actor-playwright, he was required to produce a regular stream of new plays for Westfield’s Men as well as to polish and adapt his earlier work for revival. Unlike the others, Hoode was not ensnared by pride or obsessed with the need to impress. Tall, slim and clean-shaven, he was a gentler soul, a dreamer and a romantic. His pale, round, wide-eyed moon of a face had been shaped to hang in the sky of unrequited love and he had no taste for the strident confrontations beloved by his companions.

Lawrence Firethorn addressed the issue before them.

‘Gentlemen, we seek another sharer,’ he said solemnly. ‘Old Cuthbert is to retire and he must be replaced.’

‘I do not agree,’ said Gill.

‘Wisdom never commended itself to you.’

‘If we lose one of our number, we have a larger slice of the receipts. Old Cuthbert served the company well but he serves it better still by letting us divide up his share.’

‘Put need before greed, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘Ten is a good, round number and we will hold fast to it. So, sirs. Who is to be brought into the fold?’

Hoode was unequivocal. ‘If it were left to me, I would choose Nick Bracewell without a qualm. He is the rock on which Westfield’s Men build their entertainments. Take but him away and we would all be sucked into the quagmire.’

‘Master Bracewell is a mere book holder,’ said Gill petulantly. ‘We must not even consider bestowing such an honour upon him.’

‘If worth held any sway, the honour is his already.’

‘Indeed, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick is pure gold and nobody loves him more or values him higher than I. But he is not, alas, our new sharer. We must look elsewhere.’

‘Outside the company?’ said Gill.

‘Inside,’ said Hoode. ‘It rewards loyalty.’

Firethorn nodded. ‘We promote from within. It breeds goodwill and ensures us a known friend. I think there are but two men in the company whom we should weigh in the balance here. Sebastian Carrick and Owen Elias.’

‘Then it must be Sebastian,’ decided Hoode.

‘The Welshman for me,’ said Gill, puffing at his pipe. ‘He has been with us longer and learnt more eagerly. Owen has a temper, I know, but this elevation might curtail it and turn him into a gentleman.’

‘Sebastian already is a gentleman,’ said Hoode. ‘He can grace the stage where Owen can only occupy it. I do not deny that Wales has given us the finer actor here. Owen Elias has qualities that Sebastian could never match. He has a voice and presence to rival Lawrence himself but he also has a wayward streak that goes ill with responsibility. As a hired man, he is an asset to the company: as a sharer, he might turn out to be a liability.’

‘I side with you, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Sebastian has the better disposition. Sebastian Carrick it is.’

‘Owen Elias,’ insisted Gill.

‘Carrick.’

‘He gets my vote, too,’ said Hoode. ‘He is our sharer.’

‘Then where will he find his proportion?’ Gill puffed hard then exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Sebastian has to buy his share. He is reckless with his own money and even more reckless with borrowed coin. Owen Elias is conscientious and frugal. Sebastian is too fond of his pleasures.’

‘No man can be blamed for that,’ said Firethorn easily, ‘or none of us would escape whipping. But you raise a fair question, Barnaby, and it must be answered. How will Sebastian furnish us with his investment?’

‘He has many rich friends,’ said Hoode.

Gill grimaced. ‘They are poorer for his acquaintance.’

‘He will find the money somehow. He longs to be a true member of the company. Stay with him, Lawrence.’

‘A doubt begins to form,’ admitted Firethorn.

‘We have the means to still it,’ said Hoode. ‘Let us not commit ourselves too soon. We will put Sebastian to the test by offering him a half-share in the company. Should he come through that trial, he takes up Old Cuthbert’s place. Is this not the best way?’

Lawrence Firethorn stroked his dark, pointed beard as he pondered. Barnaby Gill tapped out his pipe on the edge of the table and sniffed noisily. After long consideration, both men nodded their agreement. Sebastian Carrick would be put on probation. It remained only to determine the length of that probation and the scale of his financial contribution.

Gill foresaw a possible difficulty.

‘How can we persuade him that a half-share is a form of distinction rather than a humiliation?’

‘I’ll make light of that task,’ said Firethorn airily.

‘Sebastian will see it as one step towards full glory,’ said Hoode. ‘He will understand our caution.’

Gill snorted. ‘It is more than caution in my case.’

‘Throw aside all objection,’ urged the playwright.

‘Yes,’ reinforced Firethorn. ‘To win his confidence, we must show him ours. Have no fears about Sebastian Carrick. He will prove a fortunate choice. I’d stake my life on it.’

Turnmill Street was the most notorious thoroughfare in the whole of Clerkenwell, a long, dark, dangerous, disease-ridden strip of sin that ran parallel with the River Fleet before bending round to thrust itself into Cow Cross with bestial familiarity. In its fetid lanes and alleys, in its narrow courts and yards, in its filthy taverns and tenements, all manner of lewd delight was bought and sold. Turnmill punks were the wildest and most willing in London and they made nightly assignations with courtiers and commoners, soldiers and sailors, merchants and men of law, gapers from the country and gallants from the town. At the sign of the Cock, the Fleur de Lys, the Blue Axe, the Red Lattice, the Rose and other bold outrages against decency, a lustful client could send his soul to eternal damnation and purchase the pox in exchange. Turnmill Street was a warren of infamy. Stews and gambling dens, inns and ordinaries, courtesans and catamites knew but one landlord. He dwelt in Hell itself.

Of all the houses of resort, none was more popular than the Pickt-hatch, so-called because its upper half-door was surrounded with spikes for security. The Pickt-hatch was a common name and sign for brothels but the establishment in Turnmill Street outstretched its rivals in venery. It was run by a wobbling mound of flesh named Bess Bidgood and its reputation brought in ample custom for the large stable of whores whom the motherly hostess kept beneath her wicked roof. Quality and quantity were on tap at the Pickt-hatch.

The young man who lay naked on the bed in a state of joyous near-exhaustion had opted for quality and he had not been disappointed. When Bess Bidgood had lined up her ladies for him to choose at his own discretion, his practised eye had picked out the leanest of them. Frances was not the plump and eager wench in red taffeta that most men coveted but a thin, watchful, feline creature with a carnal charm that was all her own. He wanted an angry lover and none could have been more feral than this wildcat. She bit and fought him every inch of the way and left her own special trademark on his back as she raked it from shoulder to buttock with searing fingernails, pain and pleasure intermingling so closely that they became one. He was in ecstasy.

Frances was content. Here was no sweating husband who talked of his wife, no crude swaggerer who pumped mindlessly into her, no drunken fool whose manhood failed them both and who snored on top of her. She had found a real lover for once, a handsome swain who sensed her needs and matched them with his own. As she ran a hand down the vivid red furrows on his back, she admired the sleek muscularity of his body and relished the feel of his soft beard between her breasts. In a squalid room whose dank walls were covered in painted cloth, they shared a mild sensation of love. It was soon over, however. He rose and dressed while she waited for payment, combing her long black hair with languid movements and resigning herself to more brutish passion from her next client.

His smile was warm and grateful. Dropping some crowns into the goblet on the floor, he slipped an arm around her to give her one last, long kiss then he opened the door and went swiftly out. Frances reached instinctively for the goblet and found it empty. His farewell embrace had been a cruel trick to recover his money and she was left with nothing but a sour memory. Grabbing the knife beneath her pillow, she raced out into the murky passageway but he was already vanishing down the steps. She went quickly back to her bedroom window and flung it open, waiting until her deceitful lover came out into the street before giving a signal with the knife. She then turned back into the room and flung the weapon with such force at the door that it sunk two inches into the wood and vibrated almost as angrily as she did.

The young man, meanwhile, ambled happily along and told himself that the gift of his body was reward enough for any woman and that — by rights — Frances should have paid him. He laughed aloud as he imagined her horror at finding the goblet raided by his sly hand and congratulated himself on getting so much out of the Pickt-hatch for so little. It had been a most pleasant night.

‘Stay, sir!’ called a voice behind him.

‘Why so?’

He turned to ask the last question of his life and got the answer in the shape of a hand-axe that came out of the darkness with vengeful power to cleave his head open and put an extra inch between his staring eyes. Blood drenched him in an instant and the open mouth filled with gore. Before he hit the ground and lay in the offal, he was dead.

Sebastian Carrick had paid for his pleasure after all.