The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Four

Whitehall was the biggest palace in Christendom. Covering some twenty-four acres, it incorporated all the grandiose extensions and refinements that Henry VIII had bestowed upon it with such kingly zeal. Like Hampton Court, it was one of the rich spoils of Wolsey’s fall, but every sign of the Archbishop’s occupation was ruthlessly swept away to be replaced by the distinctive symbols of the Tudor dynasty. In its decorative solidity and its sprawling wonder, it embodied the pomp and circumstance of the new monarchy. By the time that Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, Whitehall was firmly established as the seat of government and it was here that she so often presided over her court.

Attendance at court was the social obligation of the aristocracy and the distant hope of lesser mortals. It was the setting in which the Virgin Queen lived out her public and private lives. The court was the centre of affairs, the source of patronage, and the regular avenue to profit and promotion. Those who wished to rise in the world or simply maintain the eminence they had already achieved were duty-bound to make regular appearances at court and participate in its sophisticated games and rituals. It was an expensive commitment since courtiers were expected to dress finely at all times and to spend long hours gambling and gossiping in the corridors of power but it was a charge that could not be shirked. To be out of court was to be out of favour and so the nobility flocked to Whitehall to show due respect, to mingle with their peers and to gain advancement.

The Queen set high standards for her courtiers. She valued intelligence in a man, ability to sing songs to a lute, skill in the composition of lyric poetry and prowess in the tiltyard. Her favourites tended to be those of all-round excellence. Like her father, she wanted her court to be a cultural centre where music, drama, poetry and the dance could flourish. To this end, she allowed the Great Hall to be used on many occasions for music recitals and the performance of plays. Those few enlightened souls who retained their own theatrical companies were thus looked upon with special favour. It made Lord Westfield’s visits to court a source of continual pleasure.

‘What is the new piece called, my lord?’

‘Love’s Sacrifice.’

‘We have all made that in our time.’

‘And will hope to do so again.’

Polite outrage. ‘My lord!’

‘I will never be too old to admire a trim shape and a fair countenance, nor yet too wasted to desire a closer acquaintance with such an angel.’

Lord Westfield’s entourage laughed obediently. He was a portly man of cheerful disposition who devoted himself to the promotion of the arts and the pursuit of pleasure. Excess intruded upon his style of life and choice of apparel. As he led his little group of sycophants towards the Presence Chamber at Whitehall, he was wearing a slashed doublet of aquamarine hue above bombasted trunk hose in a lighter shade. A white ruff supported the amiable bearded face and the long grey hair was hidden beneath a dark-blue hat that was a forest of light-blue feathers. Rings, jewels and a gleaming sword added to the ostentation. A golden chain that let its medallion rest on his sternum completed the dazzling effect. Lord Westfield liked to catch the eye. It was one of the ways he tried to assert his superiority over the loathed Earl of Banbury.

‘Who comes here?’ he said. ‘Stand aside, friends.’

‘The Earl is much moved.’

‘I did not think his legs could scurry so fast.’

‘What can this mean, my lord?’

‘My prayers would have him expelled from court but this sudden departure may betoken something else.’

‘Will you speak to him?’

‘Only with a naked blade.’

Muted sniggers from the entourage before they offered perfunctory bows to the approaching Earl of Banbury. With his own cronies in attendance, the latter was making a hasty and not altogether dignified exit from Whitehall. He threw a glance of hostility at his rival as they passed, then curled a lip in amusement. Lord Westfield’s ire was aroused at once. The Earl knew something that he did not and he was rushing off to act upon his intelligence in order to seize the advantage. Only a matter of the gravest significance could send the noble gentleman away from Whitehall at such a canter and Lord Westfield was desperate to know what it was. He did not have long to wait. Other figures came streaming down the corridor in busy conference and he pounced on one of them without ceremony.

‘What is the news, sir?’ he demanded.

‘The Queen will not hold court today.’

‘How so?’

‘Her Majesty is indisposed.’

‘What is the nature of her illness?’

‘Physicians are in constant attendance.’

Lord Westfield stood back to let the man beat his own retreat from Whitehall. The general exodus could now be explained. Queen Elizabeth was unwell. A monarch who prided herself on her health, who was abstemious with her food and drink, who exercised regularly and who paced her life with extreme care, had actually taken to her bed. It was no minor indisposition. The Queen knew the importance of being seen by her subjects and it was not only her courtiers who viewed her on a daily basis. The main road from Westminster to Charing Cross ran straight through Whitehall so ordinary citizens could express their affection for their sovereign by bringing small gifts for her or simply by waiting for hours to be rewarded by the glimpses of her person that she would considerately afford them. Elizabeth was a visible Queen who revelled in her visibility. But she was also on the verge of her sixtieth year and the burdens of her long reign must have taken their toll. If her physicians had been called then a crisis was in the offing.

Lord Westfield turned on his heel and led the way back to his coach. The news was alarming enough in itself but its implications were even more disturbing. A wave of general sympathy would wash over the ailing Queen but her courtiers looked beyond it to a contingency that had to be faced.

If Elizabeth died, who would succeed her?

It was a question that was fraught with all kinds of possibilities and it transformed the stately waddle of Lord Westfield. For the first time in a decade, he broke into a breathless run, fervently wishing that his steps would take him in the right direction.

Giles Randolph expired with a vulpine screech that echoed around the hushed auditorium. As he sank slowly from sight through the trap door in the stage at The Curtain, the spectators genuinely believed that he was being lowered into a vat of boiling oil. Steam rose up from below to reinforce the illusion and Randolph’s screech hit a new note of horror before vanishing with gurgling suddenness. The Spanish Jew was the lurid tale of a villainous moneylender who rose to power through unscrupulous means then held the whole country to ransom before overreaching himself. There was a comic relish in his devilment that somehow endeared him to the onlookers and gave his fall a sad dimension. A man who had consistently lied, cheated, stolen, poisoned and stabbed his way to the top was now claiming frank sympathy. It was an astonishing achievement and a tribute to the skill with which Giles Randolph had played the title role.

The piece itself was a somewhat ramshackle affair but his performance had given it a drive and a unity that it did not really deserve. The Spanish Jew was blatant in its prejudices, attacking Spaniards, Jews, usury and other things with a coarse brutality which Randolph softened to some extent but which nevertheless produced a deal of derisive laughter at its intended victims. There was an abundance of action and comedy to delight the groundlings but those who looked beneath the surface of the play could see a real figure lurking there and this gave the drama its extra bite and relevance. Giles Randolph had been handed the sort of part in which he could exhibit the full range of his genius and he held nothing back for two wonderful hours.

Banbury’s Men came out to take their bow in the firm knowledge that they had at last found a winning play. With their actor-manager in the lead, The Spanish Jew would go on to thrill and move many an audience. Word of mouth was the best possible advertisement and the shouts of praise that now deafened their ears told them that their triumph would be voiced abroad in no time. Giles Randolph would die his terrible death many times at The Curtain and elevate their custom-built amphitheatre above all other venues.

Randolph was not troubled by even a hint of modesty. He took his ovation like a conquering hero on a procession through the streets of a grateful capital. Even his bow had a lordly condescension to it. The sustained clapping was not seen by him as pure gratitude. It was an act of homage to a superior being and he replied with an arrogant smile. Heady compliments fell from the galleries like warm snowflakes and he stretched both arms wide to catch them. Giles Randolph was still luxuriating in the prolonged adoration when a loud voice speared its way through to him.

‘Sublime, sir! Almost the equal of Master Firethorn!’

He stalked off the stage with high indignation.

The insult was far worse than the boiling oil.

Preoccupied as he was with the dramatic turn of events, Lord Westfield responded promptly to the request that was made of him. He always showed a proprietary affection towards his theatrical company and was stunned to learn of the murder of one of its number. He was anxious to do all that he could to further any enquiries into the crime. Word was duly passed along the line and a fulsome letter was written. Nicholas Bracewell was given right of access to the Tower of London.

‘These are mean quarters in which to receive visitors.’

‘No matter, sir.’

‘Yet the straw is fresh. I can vouch for that.’

‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘And the casement catches the sun at noon.’

‘I did not come to mock your lodging, Master Carrick.’

‘Nobler guests than I have sheltered here.’

‘I do believe it.’

‘Finer souls have breathed this noisome air.’

Nicholas let him ramble on. They were in the lawyer’s room in the massive Beauchamp Tower, a cold, bare, featureless apartment that looked down on Tower Green to give its tenant a privileged view of any executions that took place there. Andrew Carrick sensed the bad tidings as soon as his visitor introduced himself and he tried to keep them at bay with an inconsequential stream of chatter. Nicholas could see the family likeness at once. Carrick had his son’s cast of feature and his proud bearing. Imprisonment had bowed his shoulders slightly and lined his face with disillusion but it had not taxed his essential goodness. The book holder knew he was in the presence of a man of integrity.

Andrew Carrick eventually worked up enough courage to face the grim news that he feared. He sat on a stool and gestured towards Nicholas with a graceful hand.

‘Speak, sir. You have been very patient.’

‘I bring word of your son, Master Carrick.’

‘Do not hedge it about with consideration,’ said the other. ‘Tell me straight. Is Sebastian ill?’

‘Dead, sir.’

‘Dead?’

‘Murdered.’

The lawyer winced at the blow. It was minutes before he was able to resume. Fatherly love was tempered by a note of weary resignation. His sigh carried its own history.

‘I feared that it might come to this,’ he said. ‘My son had many virtues but his vices were too profuse.’

‘Sebastian was a fine man and a fine actor, sir.’

‘You speak like a friend, Master Bracewell.’

‘His death is a loss we must all bear.’

‘Present me with the details.’ He saw the hesitation. ‘Hold nothing back, sir. I doted on Sebastian but he brought me much pain while he was alive. I am prepared for the worst account. Your face tells me it was a heinous crime. Remember that I am a lawyer who would weigh the full facts of the case before I make a judgement. Speak on.’

Nicholas recited the tale without embellishment and the older man listened intently. A long silence ensued. It was broken by the hoarse voice of a distraught father.

‘The murderer must be brought to justice.’

‘He will be,’ said Nicholas.

‘The law must exact full payment.’

Andrew Carrick rose to his feet and paced the room with restless anxiety. At a time when he wanted to devote himself to the pursuit and arrest of his son’s killer, he was himself in custody. He paused to lean against a wall and to slap its cold stone with an open palm. Nicholas sympathised with his obvious frustration. Carrick gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘Your news has made this prison like the pit of hell. I would give anything to be out of its confines and free to avenge my son.’

‘Is there any prospect of that?’

‘In time, Master Bracewell. In time.’

‘May I ask why you are detained?’

‘By special order of Her Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’

Carrick bristled. ‘You would think there were traitors enough to fill these dungeons. You would imagine that London had no shortage of foul criminals and hired assassins to occupy this Tower. Felons abound yet I — an upholder of the law — am put under lock and key. It is barbarous, sir.’

‘What is your offence?’

‘Attendance at a wedding.’

‘You lose your liberty for that?’

‘The bride was a gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber.’

‘This was a secret marriage?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘I took charge of arrangements. The Queen’s anger turned upon the noble groom and upon myself. We are held here at her pleasure while the bride weeps nightly in an empty bed. It is a poor wedding present.’

Andrew Carrick was not the first man to feel the weight of his sovereign’s outrage in the matter of an unlicensed wedding. Queen Elizabeth demanded total obedience and unswerving loyalty from those chosen to attend upon her. In this respect, Blanche Parry was the archetype, a studious woman who had served with tireless devotion for over thirty years and who had a clear-sighted view of her duties even though she was now blind. The example of Blanche Parry was held up to all. She was a first gentlewoman of irreproachable virtue. Others fell short of her high standards and allowed themselves to be led astray by covert passion. More than one attendant had requested the Queen’s permission to marry only to be summarily rejected. Those who dared to put love before royal service were given stern rebuke. When a secret wedding came to light, Elizabeth always found just cause and impediment why those two persons should not be joined together.

Six weeks of incarceration had given Andrew Carrick ample time in which to meditate upon the patent injustice of it all. In witnessing the happiness of one noble lady, he had provoked the ire of another. In helping a friend, he had made the worst possible enemy. A law-abiding lawyer, he was being treated like the vilest outlaw.

Nicholas probed gently for more information.

‘Sebastian never talked of his family, sir.’

‘No, sir,’ said Carrick sadly. ‘We were a hindrance to him. He was bound to outgrow his family and his career.’

‘Career?’

‘Sebastian was a lawyer of some promise, sir. He studied at Oxford before coming to London to join the Middle Temple. It was there that he first encountered temptation.’

‘In what disguise?’

‘Your own, sir.’

‘He was distracted by the theatre?’

‘Intoxicated with it,’ said the other harshly. ‘When he saw plays performed at the Middle Temple, they were not just idle amusement for a working lawyer. They offered another way of life that was palpably free from the restraints of his father’s calling. In short, sir, he turned his back on an honourable profession to embrace the tawdry delights of the theatre.’ He grew conciliatory. ‘I do not mean to impugn your choice of occupation, Master Bracewell, but it lacks the security of the law. And it has led my son to his death.’

‘I dispute that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had he still been at the Middle Temple, he might have met the same fate. Lawyers seek pleasure in the stews as well as actors. It is unfair to lay the blame squarely on the theatre.’

Andrew Carrick accepted the point with a nod but he was still troubled by a residual resentment against the theatre. He studied his visitor closely.

‘What drew you into the profession?’ he asked.

‘A deep interest.’

‘So it was with Sebastian.’

‘He was a natural actor. I am not.’

‘Did your father approve, Master Bracewell?’

‘No, sir. He wished me to be a merchant like himself.’

‘You have no regrets in the matter?’

‘None, Master Carrick. And I am bound to observe …’

‘Go on. I value your opinion.’

‘Sebastian himself had no regrets.’

The grieving father accepted the judgement and thanked his visitor profusely for conveying the bad news with such tact and promptness. He talked fondly of his son, recalling childhood incidents that were early signs of the wildness and impetuosity that made him abandon a career in the law for the ambiguous freedom of an actor’s life. Nicholas learnt a great deal about his erstwhile friend and he was interested to hear that Sebastian had a younger sister. His compassion reached out to her. With a mother long dead and a father imprisoned in the Tower, she was unfortunate enough without having to bear this additional horror. Nicholas wished that there was some way to minimise the distress that now stalked Mistress Marion Carrick.

‘What of the funeral?’ said the lawyer.

‘It will be delayed now that we have traced Sebastian’s family. You have the right to make all decisions here.’

‘Not while I am a common prisoner.’

‘Her Majesty must take account of your predicament.’

‘She has placed me in it.’

‘We will see what Lord Westfield may do to help.’

‘You earn my gratitude once more.’

Andrew Carrick shook him warmly by the hand. There were tears of remorse in his eyes now and his sense of loss drew an odd confession out of him.

‘I wish I had seen Sebastian upon the stage.’

‘He adorned it even in the smallest part.’

‘My anger got the better of my curiosity. I should have relented. Now, alas, it is too late.’

‘He will be well remembered by his fellows.’

The lawyer pondered briefly then gave a wistful smile.

‘That thought brings me some comfort.’

Comfort was singularly lacking at the Queen’s Head where the company met for its first rehearsal of the new play. Before they could even begin, there was a sudden cloudburst and the inn yard was awash within minutes. Soaked by the rain and saddened by the news about their colleague, Westfield’s Men retreated into the room that they used as their tiring-house and continued their work in a dispirited mood. It was an inauspicious start for Love’s Sacrifice and its author was plunged into the kind of despair that he usually reserved for failed romances. Edmund Hoode lounged somnolently in a corner, dividing himself between anguish at the death of a friend and morbid predictions about the future of his new work. Lines which had sprung joyously from his brain to dance on the page now seemed dull and lifeless. Characters whom he had fleshed out with care now appeared skeletal. A plot which drove forward in a rising trajectory now limped along without purpose.

Lawrence Firethorn tried to lift the general gloom with a booming attack on the leading role but he made no headway. Even in the hands of such a gifted clown as Barnaby Gill, the comic moments sounded tedious. The only performance which cut through the torpor to excite and uplift was that given by Owen Elias in the inherited role of Benvolio. He did not so much play the part as ambush it with greedy enthusiasm, so much so that it might have been written purely as a vehicle for his talents. It was an altogether exuberant reading that brought Sebastian Carrick to mind only to dismiss his claim to this particular role. Owen Elias proved beyond doubt what many had argued for some time. He was the better actor. When he declaimed his final speech over the entwined bodies of the dead lovers, he was deeply moving.

Moistened eyes and dry throats broke out in all parts of the room. Edmund Hoode was coaxed back from dejection to the belief that his latest play might — against all the odds — be redeemed.

Lawrence Firethorn tampered with that belief.

‘I require a few changes, Edmund,’ he said.

‘You were always a man of habit.’

‘Give me a longer speech at the end of Act Two and a shorter one at the start of Act Four. Let me dally less, let me suffer more. I would have a song to lighten my final hour on earth. Make it play upon the heartstrings.’

‘All this will be done, Lawrence.’

The two men had repaired to the taproom with Barnaby Gill to lubricate their sorrow and to analyse the morning’s work. No play was ever accepted without reservation by the actor-manager and Hoode was braced to add refinements to order. Gill, too, invariably suggested improvements in his own role and an extra dance was conceded to him yet again so that he could offset a dark tragedy with his comic antics. Firethorn was not yet finished.

‘There is one more amendment …’

‘I await your command,’ said Hoode.

‘That closing epitaph …’

‘The music of truth,’ complimented Gill with unwonted gravity. ‘You have never brought a piece to such a beautiful conclusion, Edmund.’

‘I thank you for that, Barnaby.’

‘It has a quiet magnificence to it, sir.’

‘As did the man who delivered the speech.’

‘Owen Elias surpassed himself.’

‘I could not wish for a finer Benvolio.’

‘That speech alone will seal his fame.’

The remark served to reinforce Firethorn’s decision.

‘Cut the lines, Edmund.’

‘Cut them!’

‘Completely, sir.’

‘It is the most affecting speech in the play.’

‘I care not for that,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘It is a distraction from the death of two tragic figures. We need no words to carry us to the grave.’

Gill disagreed vehemently. ‘Cut those lines and you geld the whole play, Lawrence.’

‘I am the stallion in this drama, Barnaby.’

‘But I am the author,’ said Hoode.

‘Commissioned by me. Do you flout my authority, sir?’

‘Be reasonable, Lawrence.’

‘Trim your play, sir.’

‘This is the greatest sacrifice yet!’

‘Put your company first for once.’

‘I say the same to you!’ shouted the playwright. ‘Think what harm you do to Owen Elias if you remove that speech.’

‘That is Lawrence’s earnest intention,’ said Gill.

‘I will resist him on this!’

‘I will support you, Edmund.’

‘My words are sacred!’

‘Indeed, they are,’ said Firethorn softly, ‘and I would fight to retain each one. But the piece is over-long, Edmund. We can spare twenty meagre lines spoken by a rogue who has words enough in the rest of the play. Do as I bid, sir. It will give a rounder ending to your drama. Believe it well.’

Argument ceased. The speech was cut.

The offer was far too good to refuse. They were in a small village to the south of Oxford when they were accosted by the farmer. Cornelius Gant was reclining against the trunk of a chestnut tree and counting his booty from a full day in the university town. Nimbus cropped the grass nearby then ambled across to the pond to stare at its own reflection for a few moments before dipping its muzzle into the cool water. The heavy wagon came to a creaking halt and the farmer got down to the ground. He was a big, broad, red-faced man in his forties whose manner and clothing suggested moderate wealth. He came straight to the point.

‘That is a fine animal you have, my friend,’ he noted. ‘I would like to buy him from you.’

‘Oh, sir, I could not sell him,’ said Gant.

‘Is there no price that would tempt you?’

‘He is worth more than you could possibly offer.’

‘Do not doubt the strength of my purse,’ said the farmer, walking over to Nimbus to appraise him at close quarters. ‘I am as good a judge of horse-flesh as any in Oxfordshire. When I watched the blacksmith shoe this sturdy fellow, I could see the horse’s mettle. Come, sir. I have great need of such a beast. Let us talk terms.’

Gant pulled himself lazily to his feet and glanced at the dappled carthorse between the shafts. The dark stripes along its back and loins showed that the farmer was fond of his whip. Gant strolled over to Nimbus and stroked the sleek coat with calculating affection.

‘He is no jade, sir. I would not have him beaten.’

‘Nor shall he be,’ assured the other. ‘I have beasts enough in my stable for the drudgery. This fellow here would be kept in style for my personal use.’

‘Where is your land, sir?’

‘Some five miles hence.’

‘And you would care for him?’

‘Like a father with a child.’

Gant knew that the farmer was lying but went along with the deceit to drive a hard bargain. When a bag of crowns was tipped into his hands, he reluctantly agreed to the sale. He gave Nimbus a farewell pat on the neck.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said with evident sadness. ‘I am sorry to part with you but you go to a good master. Spare me further suffering and leave quickly. I will turn my back and rest beside this tree.’

Nimbus gave a forlorn neigh then turned obediently to the farmer who instantly hitched his reins to the back of the waggon and drove off. Cornelius Gant waited until they were out of earshot before he cackled with delight. It was the second time in a week that he had sold Nimbus for such a handsome profit. He sauntered across to the inn and ordered the best meal that they could provide. By the time he had washed it down with ale, some two hours had passed. Gant paid the reckoning and went back to the chestnut tree near the pond to find Nimbus contentedly grazing once more. Five miles away, an irate farmer was examining his bruises and cursing the horse which had so unexpectedly thrown him from the saddle. He vowed revenge but it was a vain boast.

Nimbus was already galloping out of his reach.

‘On, on!’ urged Gant happily. ‘We go to see the Queen!’

London buzzed with rumour and speculation. The enforced absence from court of an ageing sovereign put a new zest into a languid nobility. Royal physicians and ladies-in-waiting were offered large bribes to reveal the true facts of the situation but they were proof against all enquiry. Queen Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket of silence that only seemed to confirm the worst diagnoses. Since there was no official denial that she was fading away, it came to be generally accepted by those who stood to gain or lose most by a change of monarch. No heir existed, no successor had been named. Factions hardened. Solemn conclaves were held to discuss the various claimants to the throne.

One such gathering could be found at Croxley Hall in the Strand, the palatial London home of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester. This distinguished old soldier with silver hair and beard encroaching upon a face of wrinkled parchment still retained the habit of command. As one name came firmly into favour, his fist pounded the table and his voice rose above the babble with peremptory authority.

‘It is decided,’ he announced. ‘About it, sirs.’

His confederates streamed from the room to implement their scheme in a dozen different ways and places. The political dice had been cast and they had to move fast to ensure that they would pick up the winnings from the game. Two senior men in the enterprise were left alone together. The Earl of Banbury was at the other end of the long table.

‘Well, Roger?’

‘Our plan of campaign is sound,’ said his host.

‘It will mean a heavy investment.’

‘Handsome rewards await us.’

‘We must spend money in order to make it,’ reminded the other. ‘Do you have funds at your disposal?’

‘None!’ said the old soldier with a shrug. ‘You?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘Then must we find some capital.’

‘Where?’

The Earl of Chichester considered the matter with a furrowed brow then he gave a brittle laugh. As Master of the Ordnance, he was supremely aware of the importance of having plenty of ammunition in store for an encounter. His coach was soon carrying him towards the Tower of London.

A long and tiring day became even longer and more tiring in its closing hours. Nicholas Bracewell had hardly stopped since dawn. After the visit to Andrew Carrick, he had set the funeral arrangements in motion, returned to Southwark to see the manager of The Rose about the forthcoming presentation of Love’s Sacrifice, reported back to Lawrence Firethorn at the Queen’s Head, discussed the play’s requirements with its jaundiced author, placated the ever-grumbling landlord of the inn and tried to reconcile Owen Elias to the loss of the finest verse ever written for him. A further session with Firethorn had been followed by long debates with two crucial members of the company, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, and Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter. Both were being called upon to make a major contribution to a new play that was being staged at London’s newest theatre.

It was late evening before Nicholas could even begin the task of searching the stews of Clerkenwell. Turnmill Street was seething with custom. Easy lust and ready money were all that gained respect there. Nobody welcomed awkward questions about a murder victim. At most of the places he visited, Nicholas found himself ignored, spurned, threatened or even buffeted. Haunts which had been familiar to Sebastian Carrick were full of danger to his friend. Nicholas was a patent outsider. Much against his will, therefore, he had to pose as a client to gain acceptance.

‘What would you have, sir?’ she said.

‘The wildest creature in the house.’

‘We have punks of all ages, all sizes, all colours.’ The old woman gave a toothless grin. ‘Name your pleasure.’

‘I would like to choose my company.’

‘What price did you set on it, kind sir?’

Nicholas slipped a few coins into her grubby palm and was rewarded with a foul-breathed kiss. She conducted him along a passage and into a low room that was filled with the stench of sin and tobacco smoke. Noisy men lolled at tables with their whores. By the light of a candle, others played cards in a corner. The old woman waved a hand and Nicholas was confronted by a semicircle of trulls, each one of them showing off her body and shooting him bold glances.

‘Take one or take all,’ said the old woman.

‘I like true madness,’ he explained.

‘You heard the gentleman,’ continued the hostess. ‘He wants some lunacy in his loving. Which of you will serve him best?’ She grinned a challenge. ‘Who is the mad courtesan?’

He was gentle and compliant when she took him up to her room but he proved a savage lover. Once inside her, he punished her with cruel bites and hard blows until he reached the height of his passion. Frances was bleeding from the nose and the mouth by the time that he drifted off to sleep. She rolled him over onto his back and reached under the pillow for her knife. One deep thrust into his fat throat was all that it needed. Frances watched him grunt his last then she went to the window to give a signal. One more dead body was soon being lugged away from her murderous embrace.