The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Five

The Rose was an aptly named symbol of the flowering of the London theatre under Queen Elizabeth. It was not simply a source of entertainment for idle pleasure-seekers but one of the results of that great upsurge of creative energy which had established the Tudor dynasty as a major force in world politics. Like the two outdoor playhouses in Shoreditch — The Theatre and The Curtain — it helped to meet the rising demand for new plays of all kinds. The stage was a truthful mirror of its time. It celebrated all that was best and castigated all that was worse. It provoked, it enchanted, it mocked, it inspired. On occasion, it even destroyed. With its bustling freedom and its dangerous spontaneity, it had an impact which was unique and which stretched far beyond the confines of the actual playhouses. Drama was beloved at court. It was an art that was practised with royal assent.

Floral tribute was inevitable because the capital’s most recent theatre was built on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink. The choice of Southwark was deliberate. Like Shoreditch, it was conveniently outside the city boundaries and thus spared the civic hostility and narrow-mindedness that hindered work at the few remaining inn-yard venues such as the Queen’s Head. Material which would arouse moral outrage in Gracechurch Street could be presented with undiluted vigour at The Rose. It had given Edmund Hoode wider scope for his imagination and more leeway for his daring. Love’s Sacrifice could never be staged at the Queen’s Head in its original form. The irony was that Southwark permitted a freedom that was offset by an act of self-imposed censorship.

Owen Elias was outspoken in his wrath.

‘It is treachery of the basest kind!’ he exclaimed.

‘You have lost but one speech,’ said Nicholas.

‘I have been stabbed in the back by my fellows.’

‘That is not true, Owen.’

‘Those twenty lines crown the whole play,’ argued the Welshman with hopeless fury. ‘They lift the drama and redeem the hero in his tragic fall.’ Self-interest emerged. ‘They give my Benvolio an opportunity for which I have waited this long time. I am betrayed, Nick!’

‘Do not be cast down.’

‘I am mortally wounded,’ said the other. ‘Sebastian would not have suffered this slight. Had he played the part, it would have been seen without mutilation. Benvolio would have delivered his last oration.’

‘That is something we will never know.’

‘Fight for me here. Take up my cause.’

‘I have done so many times.’

Nicholas Bracewell had profound sympathy for the actor. He yielded to none in his admiration of Lawrence Firethorn but he was not blind to the other’s faults. Professional envy had dictated the omission of the final speech. The dead hero did not want to cede any of his glory to another. It was unjust but it was not altogether untypical and the book holder heard himself making the same soothing sounds he had made before to others in a similar predicament. Firethorn liked to occupy more than his place in the sun.

Owen Elias and his friend were standing on the stage of The Rose not long after the morning’s rehearsal had ended. Because the theatre now had its own resident company — Lord Strange’s Men — access to its boards was limited and the new play had to content itself with one full rehearsal before being launched upon the public. Most of the work on Love’s Sacrifice had thus been done at the Queen’s Head and the preparation was thorough. Westfield’s Men had no difficulty in adapting their performances to the special demands of The Rose.

Lawrence Firethorn berated his company with his usual gusto but they knew that his criticism was largely for show. He was clearly delighted with the rehearsal and confident that the afternoon would add yet another classic role to his gallery of triumphs. It gave his ebullience a slightly manic edge. As the actor-manager came strutting towards them, Owen Elias sidled off and watched mutinously from a corner. The beaming Firethorn closed on his book holder.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said jovially. ‘What do you think of it, sir? Is not this place a marvel?’

‘I like it well.’

‘Master Henslowe has worked wonders and we must repay him with like amazement on the stage itself.’

‘Indeed sir.’

‘How many souls will it now encompass?’

‘Some four hundred more.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘That takes the tally almost to two thousand and a half. Westfield’s Men will pack them in to the full number.’ He paraded around. ‘But this stage, Nick! This joyous scaffold! I feel as if I could reach out and touch every spectator. Truly a miracle of construction.’

Nicholas had already noted all the improvements. The Rose had been built a few years earlier on the initiative of Philip Henslowe, a former dyer and pawnbroker, and one John Cholmley, a grocer. Used at first for animal-baiting as well as for the performance of plays, the building had undergone extensive alteration during the previous winter. Henslowe had laid out the substantial sum of £105 to enlarge a structure that would henceforth operate exclusively as a theatre. By demolishing a wall at the rear, he was able to move the stage back and produce more standing space in the pit as well as additional seats in the galleries on both sides. The thrust of the acting area was consequently reduced and this made for the sense of intimacy which so impressed Firethorn. It was an architectural paradox. The audience expanded and yet somehow got closer to the performance.

The actor-manager had been quick to assess every last advantage that he could gain onstage but Nicholas was more interested in the improvements behind the scenes. An enlarged backstage area meant a more comfortable tiring-house for the actors and more generous storage space for properties and scenery. Henslowe had wisely created the preconditions for bigger and more ambitious productions. The Rose could compete more effectively with its rivals. After the privations of the Queen’s Head, it was a privilege to work in a custom-built theatre and Westfield’s Men responded eagerly. Love’s Sacrifice would not lack spirit.

‘Our dear patron graces the occasion,’ said Firethorn.

‘He will not be displeased.’

‘I am in a mood for greatness.’

‘Your fellows will not let you down.’

‘I’ll take them with me to the very heights!’

He declaimed a few lines from the play for effect then made an exit. Nicholas was still smiling as Owen Elias came back over to him. The latter’s rage was now muffled beneath a vague sense of guilt.

‘I did not mean to speak ill of him, Nick,’ he said.

‘Of whom?’

‘Sebastian. I had reason to hate the man but none to want him cut down so callously. Had he been here, he would have given a good account of Benvolio.’ Pride reasserted itself. ‘But my performance will be better.’

‘It will be different, Owen.’

‘Very different, sir, and much better.’ His face clouded. ‘I must make confession to you. I miss him.’

‘Sebastian?’

‘Even though I profit from his death, I miss the rogue. Let them hang his murderer on the highest tree in the city.’

‘We must catch him first.’

‘Is there hope of that?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘But I will persist.’

‘Call on me for help.’

It was a sincere offer and the book holder was touched. Sebastian Carrick had borrowed money from the Welshman which he had no intention of repaying. Owen Elias had many reasons to despise an actor who had always been preferred to him yet he was prepared to join in the hunt for the killer. Nicholas was grateful. It made him consider his friend’s plight anew.

‘Have you conned the lines?’ he asked.

‘I know that speech by heart.’

‘Could you deliver it this afternoon?’

‘Master Firethorn has expressly forbidden it.’

‘Master Firethorn will be dead.’

‘What say you?’

‘Benvolio will have no interruption.’

Owen Elias let out a wicked chuckle. He knew the risk he would be running if he disobeyed Lawrence Firethorn but that did not frighten him in the least. An actor who had been kept back time and again was not going to squander a heaven-sent chance to make his mark. Love’s Sacrifice might yet enhance his career. He thought of the prostrate figure of Lawrence Firethorn, lying at his feet and powerless to control him. It was a moment that had to be seized and then savoured to the full.

Wild laughter reverberated around The Rose.

Money could purchase most things at the Tower of London. A small bribe to his gaolers had already gained Andrew Carrick relative freedom within the Beauchamp Tower and a slightly larger outlay of coin bought him an occasional release from his prison. The lawyer posed no threat. He was not held for any real crime and would never even try to escape. It was safe to let him wander at will, to visit the chapel for his spiritual needs, to watch the guard being drilled, to climb the south ramparts and gaze down at the busy Thames. It helped to relieve his enforced idleness and gave him a keen insight into the administration of the citadel. A casual stroll always furnished him with valuable information.

Carrick was coming around the angle of the White Tower when he saw them standing outside the main door. They were deep in animated conversation. The portly frame of Harry Fellowes was bent forward in an attitude of deference. The fluttering hands of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, were expressing an authority that was mixed with gratitude. They formed an interesting double portrait and Carrick studied it with growing curiosity. From random chats with the affable Fellowes, he had gleaned a number of facts about the inner workings of the Ordnance Office. He knew, for instance, that its operations had enlarged dramatically in recent times. During the decade that led up to the Armada year of 1588, the Office had handled, on average, £9,000 per annum. According to Harry Fellowes, that amount had now almost doubled and it was still rising fast. Supplying the army and navy was a vast undertaking. War turned the Ordnance into one of the major spending departments.

Expenditure of another kind was under discussion.

‘When will I receive it?’ said the Earl. ‘There is need for quick dispatch here.’

‘I will bring it to Croxley Hall in person, my lord.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘This evening at the latest,’ promised Fellowes.

‘You oblige me in this, Harry.’

‘I am always your humble servant, my lord.’

‘Do not delay in this matter.’

Harry Fellowes bowed his acquiescence then walked with the Earl towards the Tower gate. Their earnest discussion continued. Andrew Carrick had got close enough only to hear faint snatches of what passed between them but the language of body and gesture had been very clear. What surprised him was that the venerable Earl of Chichester had deigned to visit his military depot at all. In his sinewy and grasping old hands, the Mastership of Ordnance had been largely a titular appointment and he was only shaken into action at moments of national emergency. The real work of the Office was done by the Clerk, Surveyor and Lieutenant of Ordnance. Though last in line, Harry Fellowes had boasted more than once that he was, in some sense, first in importance. It made his lively exchange with the Earl of Chichester all the more intriguing. Carrick soon got more elucidation.

‘I see the very man!’

‘Good day, Master Fellowes.’

‘I have need of that favour, sir.’

‘Ask it,’ said Carrick. ‘It shall be granted.’

Having seen the Earl off the premises, Harry Fellowes was retracing his steps towards the White Tower. The sight of the lawyer brought a flabby smile to his face and he reached for a paper that was concealed inside his cloak.

‘I require the signature of an attorney at law.’

‘Even when he is a prisoner?’

‘A legal quibble, sir.’ They traded a laugh. ‘Will you aid me in this business, Master Carrick?’

‘Gladly, sir. What document must I witness?’

‘One that may presently liberate you from your cell.’

‘I will sign it at once.’

‘This paper contains the terms of a loan.’

‘Between yourself and the Earl of Chichester?’

‘You are very observant,’ said Fellowes with a smirk. ‘The details need not concern you but this you may be told. My loan and your signature may bring us both advantage.’

Andrew Carrick followed him with willing steps.

A fine day, a fanfare of playbills and the ever-increasing fame of Lawrence Firethorn brought a large audience hurrying to The Rose. Gatherers collected the money at the doors then ushered the spectators through into the theatre. Standees soon crowded the pit and the benches in the galleries were filled with equal enthusiasm. The whole theatre buzzed with a hum of expectation. Westfield’s Men were held in high regard and there was no better place to display their wares than at this inspiring playhouse in Southwark.

Lord Westfield timed his own arrival to gain maximum effect, sweeping into his cushioned chair in the upper gallery amid his usual entourage and acknowledging the sporadic applause that broke out by waving a gloved hand. A new play by his beloved company was not to be missed but the sybaritic patron was not there simply to lend tacit support. He expected to reap his share of the harvest of praise. Lord Westfield was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He was more inclined to let it blaze in the afternoon sun. It was the one certain way to annoy and frustrate the Earl of Banbury.

Anne Hendrik also took her place on the benches. Since the theatre was virtually on her doorstep, she had willingly accepted her lodger’s invitation to come along and she had brought Preben van Loew with her. The Dutchman, an impassive character of middle years, was her most skilful hatmaker and he affected an almost puritanical distaste for the theatre but his presence lent her respectability and guaranteed her safety. As on previous occasions — Anne felt sure — her employee would end up enjoying the play hugely while doing his best to disguise the fact. She herself had been given a specific task by Nicholas Bracewell. He had contrived a series of special effects for Love’s Sacrifice and needed a pair of eyes in the auditorium. Anne Hendrik was there to be entertained and to sit in judgement. Handsomely dressed for the event, she looked incongruous beside the dark apparel of her laconic companion but she was used to this situation.

A new play imposed additional responsibilities on the company. It was like fighting a battle with untried weapons. They might taste glorious victory or ignominious defeat. Only when they set their verse on its first cavalry charge into the ears of its spectators could they gauge the possible success of the encounter. In a world of swirling fashion, nothing was certain. Plots and themes which had held sway one month could become tedious the next. Characters who impressed in one piece could find they had no life outside it. Novelty was in request but its precise nature shifted all the time. Westfield’s Men hoped that Love’s Sacrifice would come through unscathed but they could not predict it with any confidence. In the heat of war, strange things could happen. For this reason, the tiring-house was pervaded by an even greater degree of nervous excitement than usual. Players and playwright alike were fearful lest there should be heavy casualties.

It was at times like this that Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn came into their own. The book holder was a calming presence with a comforting smile while the actor-manager was an impatient general who was eager to lead the first attack. They put heart into the entire company and even Edmund Hoode’s faith in the play was restored. He had followed his usual practise of writing a cameo for himself that showed off his not inconsiderable talent as an actor. Barnaby Gill lapsed into his customary testiness and made useless last-minute complaints about the size and scope of his role. Collectively and individually, the company was going down some well-trodden paths.

Lawrence Firethorn then diverged from them. As the moment of truth drew near and the excitement spiralled even higher, he twitched the curtain to get a brief glimpse of his latest audience. It was a fateful action. A sea of faces came into view but he saw only one of them. She was seated in the middle of the lower gallery with a poise that set her completely apart from the jostling bodies all around her. A heart-shaped face of inexpressible beauty was framed by black hair that swept upwards and vanished into a most enchanting feathered hat. The dark velvet dress and the white ruff only served to highlight the marmoreal loveliness of an exceptional young woman but the most arresting feature of all was her eyes. Dark and proud, they invested her whole being with a fiery disdain that made Lawrence Firethorn grin inanely. He had an even greater incentive to lead his troops into battle now.

True love beckoned. Conquest was imperative.

Owen Elias was as taut as a lute-string but nowhere near as melodious. Sitting in a corner of the tiring-house, he tried to work up his concentration for the important task in hand and he brooked no interruption. An apprentice who nudged him by mistake and an assistant stagekeeper who brushed past him by accident both felt the sting of his tongue. The irascible Welshman was feeling the strain. Nicholas Bracewell took note of this and drifted across to him for a quiet word.

‘Have no fears, Owen,’ he said. ‘You will excel.’

‘There is no doubting that,’ said the other with a touch of his old bravado. ‘Benvolio will rescue me from this oblivion in which they keep me. I will prove myself as fit a man as any in the company.’

‘Then why the long face?’

‘Because of Sebastian.’

‘You feel guilt?’

‘And sadness, Nick. When all my hatred of the man is put aside, I must acknowledge that this was his part. Benvolio was written with Sebastian in mind.’

‘Serve his memory by playing the part well.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘He would expect no less of you, Owen.’

‘Indeed.’ He resorted to a whisper. ‘As to the last speech in the play …’

Nicholas winked. ‘That must be your decision.’

Owen Elias grinned and felt more confident about what lay ahead. There was no more time to deliberate because a dozen bells were chiming out the hour in the vicinity of the theatre. It was two o’clock and Nicholas Bracewell was in position. With the chimes still echoing, he gave the signal and the performance started. Music was played from above and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak to acquaint the audience with the mood and matter of the play.

Love oftentimes exacts too high a price,

For no man loves without some sacrifice.

Dan Cupid may be Venus’s only joy

But he can be a cruel and wanton boy

Who shoots his arrows far and wide at will.

Trying to wound, he oft contrives to kill.

Such is our case here …

Having relayed the plot in rhyming couplets, Edmund Hoode brought his protagonist bursting onto the stage in a torrent of blank verse. Gondar was angry and no actor could express royal ire like Lawrence Firethorn. With underlings trailing at his heels, he raged and ranted until the whole audience was cowed by his majesty. He wore only a saffron robe over a simple tunic but he was every inch a king as he berated his guards for the unkind treatment of the captured Queen Elsin. Magnanimous in victory and with his own strict code of honour, he sent for his beautiful prisoner to release her from the shackles that bound her and to offer his heartfelt apologies. It was the first meeting between them and it robbed them of all hostility towards each other. Courtship began from the second they laid eyes upon each other. The howling Gondar became a tender and considerate lover.

Never less than remarkable in any part, Firethorn had found one that drew a towering performance out of him. Long before the first act came to a close, the spectators had surrendered to him with the same willingness as the queen and he wooed them with a range of voice and gesture that was irresistible. Richard Honeydew was a wholly convincing Elsin with a wan loveliness that was only increased by adversity. As the actor-manager soared, the young apprentice responded well and their love took flight.

Firethorn slowly pushed out the frontiers of his art. He was not just giving a superb account of himself in a fine play, he was dedicating his talents to a particular person. The fine phrases that he showered upon his queen were really aimed at the inscrutable beauty in the middle of the lower gallery, the eloquent movements were a dance of desire to ensnare her interest. But whenever he stole a glance at the object of his passion, she remained calm and uninvolved. This drove him on to even more sublime heights but she still refused to show obeisance before her king. Black eyes hardly flickered in an impassive face. He was acting at someone who seemed to have a heart of stone.

And yet she was not indifferent. Her attention did not wander and her interest did not slacken. Love’s Sacrifice got the same level gaze throughout. It held her without moving her. The Rose bestowed its wonder on Lawrence Firethorn. The intimacy on which he commented earlier allowed him — in his mind’s eye — to reach out and touch her a hundred times. Indeed, his wooing of Queen Elsin became a gentle fondling of the mysterious creature in the audience. When he had done this with other female spectators, they had usually succumbed to his charms with gushing readiness but he had signally failed on this occasion. That failure only sharpened the edge of his desire and turned up the flame of his already crackling performance. When he and his star-crossed queen lay dead together at the end of the play, a communal groan of horror went up. Gondar had been the epitome of military honour and courtly love. His fall was the stuff of tragedy.

The play was not yet over. As the soldiers stood around the royal corpses, the actor who had been such a mesmerising Benvolio held up his hands to command silence. When he had drawn out the pause to its full, agonising length, he used sonorous tones to deliver a speech that had been cut during the rehearsal. Lawrence Firethorn stiffened and let out a growl of disapproval from beyond the grave but Benvolio would not be deflected. The still, sad music of his voice was a fitting epitaph for the doomed lovers.

Adieu, sweet friends, and take thy praise to heaven,

Embrace that joy for which you both have striven.

Benvolio shed a real tear then motioned in the soldiers to load the bodies onto their respective biers. As the pair were borne out with due solemnity, King Gondar half opened an eye to catch a fleeting glimpse of the lower gallery. The exercise was a painful one. For the first time in the whole afternoon, his inamorata was visibly moved. Sadness crumpled her face and she brought a hand up to her mouth. In one brief and unscheduled elegy, Owen Elias had achieved what Firethorn — with a hundred speeches — had failed to do. It was galling. The actor-manager bristled posthumously.

Once offstage, he abdicated his kingship to direct a string of foul oaths at his colleague but his imprecations were muffled by the avalanche of applause that tumbled down on their ears. Postponing his fury, he put on his most imperious smile and led out his company to take their bow. Love’s Sacrifice was an unqualified success, a superb account of a brilliant new play that was set to take pride of place in the company’s repertoire. Though feeding greedily on the ovation, Lawrence Firethorn was interested in only two people in the auditorium. His most obsequious bow went to the delighted Lord Westfield and a more cavalier flourish was aimed at the lower gallery. While his patron responded with frantic clapping, however, the dark lady of his fantasies gave him no more than a level stare. It was enough. The desire which had steadily grown throughout the last two hours now blossomed into complete infatuation.

The spectators clapped, cheered and stamped their feet for minutes on end but one of them declined to join in. He was a tall, saturnine figure who had sat in discomfort all afternoon as the drama’s excellence was unfolded and as Firethorn’s primacy was reinforced yet again. His visit to The Rose had been redeemed in the closing speech. Twenty lines of verse had made him look with intense curiosity at Owen Elias and bank down his envy. As an idea began to form in the recesses of his mind, the man even managed a smile. Love’s Sacrifice had given him a potent weapon to use against his rival.

Giles Randolph was content.

Nicholas Bracewell was on hand to protect his friend from verbal abuse. Before Firethorn could even begin his attack on Owen Elias, the book holder stepped in to congratulate the actor-manager on his performance and to smother him with fulsome praise. It blunted the edge of Firethorn’s rage somewhat but that was all it did.

‘God’s blood!’ roared the actor. ‘Are you mad, Owen?’

‘Me, sir?’ said the other.

‘Are you blind? Are you deaf? Are you insensible?’

‘No, Master Firethorn.’

‘When I die, the play has ended.’

‘Save for that last speech, sir.’

‘It was cut, man!’

Mock innocence. ‘Was it even so?’

‘It was excised from the play. So should you be, you scurvy rogue, you canting villain, you Welsh dung-heap!’

‘Take heed,’ warned the other, smarting at the insult. ‘Do not insult my nation.’

‘Wales is an insult in itself!’ howled Firethorn. ‘It breeds nothing but lechers and thieves. Show me a Welshman and you show me a foul, ugly, leek-faced barbarian. You stole my moment of supreme glory, you dog-breathed Judas!’

Owen Elias turned puce with anger and Nicholas had to jump in quickly to calm both men and to stop the argument from getting out of hand. He diverted the blame to himself by admitting that it was his suggestion to include the final speech but he insisted that it in no way infringed the greatness of Firethorn’s performance. The crowded tiring-house was voluble in its agreement, as eager as the book holder to prevent a violent confrontation. It was Barnaby Gill who ended the row with a malicious whisper.

‘Let her be the judge, Lawrence,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Mistress Black Eyes. Ask her if she would cut those lines of Benvolio’s. I fancy she would not.’

‘The devil take you, sir!’

During this short exchange, Nicholas seized the chance to usher Owen Elias over to the far side of the tiring-house where he was hidden by a rack of costumes. When Firethorn turned back to them, they were gone. With his mind now fixed on a higher priority, he glared around for assistance. It came in the shape of George Dart who was staggering past with an armful of props. Firethorn’s hand gripped his collar like an eagle fastening its talons on its prey.

‘George Dart!’

‘Yes, master?’ gibbered the other.

‘Find out her name.’

‘Whose name, sir?’

‘Her name.’

Firethorn’s strong hand lifted him from the ground and swung him round to face the drawn curtain. Twitching it back a few inches, he pointed to the goddess in the lower gallery.

‘Do you see her now, George?’

‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ He was baffled. ‘Which is she, sir?’

‘That creature without compare.’

‘You lose me, sir.’

‘There, imbecile!’

He boxed George Dart’s ears so hard that the boy let go of his cargo and it fell to the boards with a clatter. The pointing finger of his employer, the hissed description and the threat of more pain combined to identify the lady in question for the squirming stagekeeper. As soon as he was released, he went scuttling off about his business.

Lawrence Firethorn wanted action.

It was a quiet funeral. No more than a dozen people were gathered together in the small churchyard in Islington to see the last remains of Sebastian Carrick laid to rest. Light drizzle made a sombre occasion even more depressing. The priest’s incantations were a barely audible murmur. Grief was expressed in gentle sobbing. Nicholas Bracewell watched it all with a muted distress that was increased by an ironic observation. The stage-management of the event was at fault. Sebastian Carrick deserved a more central role on a much larger stage. An actor whose life and work was a hymn to exuberance was now slipping out of the world in furtive silence. Damp soil waited to take him beyond applause.

The drizzle and the drone continued.

‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body …’

The words floated into his ears to give Nicholas a mild sting. He thought of the hideous corpse he had seen laid out on its cold slab. A vile body indeed. Its head was split asunder. Its limbs were bruised. Its back was a blood-red signature on a death warrant.

He glanced around the mourning family, relieved that none of them had been forced to see their beloved Sebastian in his final incarnation. Their memories of a handsome and dashing young man would be untarnished. No parents were present. The mother had long since died and the father was detained elsewhere. Not even the influence of Lord Westfield had been able to release Andrew Carrick from the Tower of London in order to attend the funeral of his only son. The lawyer was keeping a silent vigil in his cell. This meant that the principal mourner was Marion Carrick, younger sister of the deceased, supported by an uncle, an aunt, a few cousins and an old maidservant.

Edmund Hoode had come along with Nicholas to represent the company. They were pleasantly surprised when Owen Elias attached himself to the fringe of mourners. He had come to pay his respects to a man with whom he had many differences in life. It was a worthy gesture. When the coffin vanished beneath a thin layer of earth, the funeral party began to disperse in subdued bewilderment. Nicholas Bracewell was moving away with Edmund Hoode when there was a tug at his sleeve. He turned to view the pallid loveliness of Marion Carrick who was dressed in seemly black.

‘I must thank you, Master Bracewell,’ she said.

‘We are sorry to intrude upon your grief.’

‘Sebastian’s friends are welcome, sir, and he counted you as one of his best friends. My father wrote to tell me of your consideration in this grim affair. We are indebted to you. It will not be forgotten.’

‘Your brother was an excellent fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He will be fondly remembered by Westfield’s Men.’

‘Indeed, he will,’ added Edmund Hoode.

‘Thank you, sirs.’

Marion Carrick was a neat young woman of middle height with a restrained beauty that was not chased away by evident sorrow. She had none of her brother’s extravagance and yet her charm was almost equal. Anguish lifted for a second to allow a flash of anger to show.

‘This was a most heinous crime,’ she snapped.

‘It shall be answered,’ said Nicholas.

‘May we count on your help, Master Bracewell?’

‘I will not rest until the matter is settled.’

‘This wounds me to the quick. I loved Sebastian with all my heart. I could kill the murderer with my own hands.’

‘He will be brought to justice, Mistress Carrick.’

‘I trust you to fulfil that promise, sir.’

‘It is a most solemn oath.’

Even before he attended the funeral, Nicholas Bracewell was pledged to hunt down the man who had wielded the fatal axe. That pledge now took on new force and urgency. The plea from Marion Carrick had given it a spiritual dimension. He stood beside the grave as a dear friend and colleague. When he walked away, he was a man with a mission.