The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Six

Cornelius Gant and his ever-obedient Nimbus were seasoned professionals who knew how to adjust their act to the needs of their spectators. The Falcon Inn at Uxbridge was a small and rather decrepit establishment which stood on the edge of the village and which was patronised by the lower sort. When Gant rode up on his horse, he saw that the company was too poor to offer much remuneration, too coarse to want subtlety and too drunk to cope with entertainment of any length. It was time for ‘The Saga of the Six Buckets’.

‘Place them here, friend,’ said Gant, indicating the spot with a finger. ‘Set them in a line, two paces apart.’

One of the drawers had come out to help him, putting the three full buckets of water in position first before adding the three empty wooden pails. Beer-sodden locals trailed out into the yard with noisy curiosity. The glowering landlord watched through a window. A couple of mangy dogs crept up. It was an uninspiring group but it was nevertheless an audience and the performers responded accordingly.

Gant began by doffing his hat while he made a bow then got his first laugh as Nimbus sent him flying by swinging a flank against his owner’s exposed rump. The horse did a form of curtsey by way of apology and the spectators roared with appreciation. Gant and the animal went through some more byplay until the guffawing rustics were thoroughly warmed up. The next bow was in unison with the curtsey.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Gant, ‘we present a little drama entitled “The Saga of The Six Buckets”. You see them before you and I now give each of them a number.’ He started with the full pails and kicked each one as he walked past. ‘One — two — three — four — five — six. Remember those numbers, I beseech you. Nimbus will remind you what they are.’

The horse did so with well-rehearsed aplomb, giving the first bucket one kick, the second bucket two and so on up to the sixth bucket which received six taps with the hoof. To prove that it was no accident, Nimbus then went through the buckets in reverse order to check off their numbers. The applause was mixed with cheers and whistles. Cornelius Gant used raised palms to quell the beery tumult.

‘You have seen nothing yet, good sirs,’ he warned with a roguish wink. ‘We will now show you a feat of conjuration. Standing in front of you are three full buckets — one, two and three; with three empty buckets — four, five and six.’

‘What’s the trick?’ called out one of the locals.

‘To make water move by magic,’ said Gant. ‘Without stirring from this spot I will empty the full buckets and I will fill the empty ones. Can such a thing be done?’

‘Never!’ came the first cry.

‘Impossible!’ yelled another.

‘Only witchcraft could do that!’ howled a third.

‘No witchcraft,’ promised Gant. ‘Only the Eighth Wonder of the World — Nimbus. Mark, gentlemen. “The Saga of The Six Buckets” is about to begin.’

He was standing some ten feet away from the pails and remained motionless throughout the act. Nimbus waited for his cue, his eyes never leaving his master. Gant reminded the audience of the number that each bucket bore then he snapped his first command.

‘One!’

Nimbus sunk its nose into the first bucket and began to slurp away. The water level sank visibly. When a half had been drunk, Gant altered the command.

‘Three!’

The same treatment was accorded to the third bucket. Gant then sent his horse back to the first, on to the second and on to the third once more. It slaked an almighty thirst at a quite alarming speed and the audience was enraptured. Awe soon turned to vulgar amusement.

‘Four!’

Nimbus pulled its nose out of the water and straddled the bucket next in line before urinating straight into it with remarkable precision. It produced wild hilarity.

‘Five!’

The animal seemed to have an endless supply that it could turn on and off like a tap. Steam rose from the fifth bucket and the hilarity shaded into hysteria.

‘It is an old trick,’ said Gant, ‘but I’ll venture to stale it once more.’ They hooted at the pun. ‘Six!’

Nimbus obliged once more then gave a ladylike curtsey. Three full buckets of water now stood empty and three empty buckets were now brimming. Gant held out his hat to collect the coins that were thrown then he snatched it away as Nimbus pretended to relieve himself into the haul. There was free ale for the visitor that evening and free hay for his horse. Both slept soundly in the same stable.

As they left at dawn next morning, Cornelius Gant cursed the poor quality of the company and the even poorer quality of the ale. They deserved better. The journey to London was in the nature of a social ascent for them. They came from the most humble and degrading circumstances. By working so long and so hard together, they had fought their way out of their misery to create a promise of better things. Gant had come to despise his origins and did not care to be reminded of them in the way that he had been at the Falcon Inn. He owned a remarkable horse who could ensure their fame and fortune if handled properly. Nimbus would not have to debase his talents again in the way that the rustics had compelled and Gant gave him an apologetic slap to reinforce the point.

‘One day we’ll play before the Queen,’ he said proudly. ‘You’ll not fill buckets for Her Majesty. But when we take London by storm, we’ll be able to piss gold!’

Two more days of cancelled public appearances confirmed many suspicions and inflamed much debate. Queen Elizabeth was seriously ill. None of her physicians was ready to admit this openly but none could be found to deny it absolutely. Their silence was disturbing. Equally revealing was the brusque attitude of Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, a wise old statesman whose long partnership with his sovereign had been largely responsible for the stability of her government. A man of great judgement and with a rare ability to master the complex issues of the day, Lord Burghley was a person whose high sense of duty was tinged with real affection for his Queen. She, in turn, relied upon his acumen and his sagacity. It was no wonder that she called him ‘my Spirit’ for his counsel informed nearly all that she said or did. When this paragon remained tight-lipped, therefore, trouble was very definitely in the wind. When a supreme politician like Burghley was for once bereft of words, then he sensed the death of his own career as well. Now over seventy, racked by gout, he was on the verge of extinction.

The woman at the centre of the crisis did nothing to dispel it. Locked in her private apartments and enclosed by a wall of secrecy, she dwindled towards a death that seemed more inevitable with each new day. The passing of any monarch was a cause for national mourning but the imminent demise of Queen Elizabeth would be a tragedy of far greater moment. Her rule had produced one of the finest and most fruitful periods in her country’s history, at once overshadowing what came before and giving promise to what lay ahead. When she went, a potent symbol of England’s glory would fade away. Nobody could replace her but the need to have a successor in readiness now became even more pressing.

The Earl of Banbury sought elucidation on the matter.

‘How do we stand, sir?’ he said.

‘In good order. Negotiations have been started and they have already brought in good results.’

‘Do we have firm promises?’

‘Firm promises from stout fellows. Powerful names are supporting our cause. Others will follow in their wake.’

‘Then money has been well spent.’

‘Favours of all kinds have been used to effect.’

Banbury was ruthless. ‘We must stop at nothing here.’

‘Nor shall we,’ said his companion grimly.

They were standing in the dining room at Croxley Hall. Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, was playing host to his inner circle of friends. First to arrive was the Earl of Banbury who was eager to know what progress their schemes had made. Some of the most influential members of the court had declared their support and he nodded with satisfaction as their names were listed. Others gave tacit approval to the machinations without committing themselves to the risk of direct involvement. It was the Earl of Chichester’s last campaign and he was determined to be on the winning side. They had chosen the next sovereign and now faced the far more daunting task of securing the succession.

‘Have letters been exchanged?’ asked Banbury eagerly.

‘You will see them all, sir.’

‘The strength of our loyalty is fully understood?’

‘Do not fear,’ said the old soldier, tossing his silver mane. ‘We will receive ample recompense from the throne.’

‘You must speak in person to the heir.’

‘I depart from London tomorrow.’

‘Nothing should be left to chance, Roger.’

‘That is why I will take you on the long journey.’

‘My help is yours to call upon.’

‘There is another reason why you must ride with me.’

‘Well?’

‘Your presence has been requested.’

The Earl of Banbury gave a smile of self-congratulation that graduated into a full-blown chuckle. Next day, on the vital embassy north, he would not simply be there to lend his weight to the Master of Ordnance. He would be answering a direct summons by the new monarch. It was a sign.

A restorative night in the arms of Anne Hendrik helped to sustain him throughout a long day. Nicholas Bracewell had no time to rest in the service of Westfield’s Men. His work began early with the erection of the stage in the yard at the Queen’s Head. The rehearsal of Black Antonio occupied him for most of the morning and it left him with a fund of problems to solve before the performance that afternoon. A letter then arrived for him by messenger and he took time off to unseal it. As he did so, a small silver object fell out and only the speed of his hand saved it from landing on the ground. It was a tiny picture of Sebastian Carrick in a silver frame and it touched off some more painful memories for him. The miniature was the work of a mediocre artist but it offered an acceptable likeness of its subject and caught something of his suave vitality. Nicholas saw that the letter was from Marion Carrick who put practical help before a cloying bereavement. Hoping that the miniature might be of assistance to him, she enjoined the book holder to take especial care of something which was even more precious to her now that her brother was dead. He accepted the charge willingly and was grateful to her.

Lawrence Firethorn now became his major anxiety. After his triumph at The Rose, the actor had at least managed to learn the name of his new beloved — Beatrice Capaldi — and he had been repeating it to himself ever since in a variety of sweet tones. Unfortunately, her name was all that George Dart had been able to glean, except for the fact that she was a lady of some distinction with a coach in attendance. As was his wont in such matters, Firethorn brought Nicholas into action, urging him to mark and track the mystery figure on her next appearance in the audience. But that appearance had not as yet been made. Though Firethorn selected two plays which showed him off to best advantage — The Loyal Subject and Pompey the Great — she did not watch either and he was left in ruins. Black Antonio was a third offering aimed directly at her and he was confident that she would this time be drawn to view his genius. But the play waxed for two whole hours without eliciting one minute of interest from the Mistress Beatrice Capaldi.

Lawrence Firethorn was plunged into desolation.

‘Where is she, Nick?’ he implored.

‘I wish I knew, sir.’

‘Why must she punish me in this way?’

‘Haply, she is detained elsewhere.’

‘How much longer must I suffer?’

‘Put her out of your mind,’ said the book holder.

A gargantuan sigh. ‘But she fills it so completely. I am half the man I was when she is not here.’

It was true. Roles in which Firethorn customarily shone had been played with little more than competence. Three times in a row he had disappointed a following which had come to expect Olympian standards from him. Nicholas was distinctly alarmed. The roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn always had an invigorating effect on his performances but this latest fancy was having a destructive impact. A hideous truth had to be faced. Firethorn was in love. Westfield’s Men were bearing the brunt of this phenomenon.

‘I want my Beatrice!’ wailed the actor.

‘We have no means of reaching her, sir.’

‘Help me, Nick. Track this temptress down.’

‘She may already have quit London.’

‘Perish the thought!’ cried Firethorn in anguish. ‘If that be so then I am shipwrecked. There must be a way to bring her back to me. There has to be a key to unlock her ice-cold heart so that it will admit me. Be my saviour yet again, Nick. Where is that way? What is that key?’

‘Play Love’s Sacrifice once more.’

It was a random suggestion but it transformed Firethorn in a flash. His body stiffened, his chest swelled, his face coloured, his eyes sparkled, his hope was a tidal wave that washed all before it. The drama which had brought him and Beatrice Capaldi together would be the agency of their reunion. Though it was not due to be staged again for over a week, he would change the agreed programme in order to put Love’s Sacrifice on as soon as possible. Nicholas proffered the advice in all innocence. He was not to know how much potential damage he had just done to Westfield’s Men.

‘I love you for this, Nick,’ said Firethorn warmly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Beatrice Capaldi! She has Italian blood, I warrant. Hot Italian blood that courses through her veins.’

‘Do not build on vain fantasies.’

‘Oh, I could kiss you for this, you lovely bawcock!’

‘Forbear, Lawrence,’ said the eavesdropping Barnaby Gill with a grimace. ‘My lips are already spoken for, good sir!’

Nicholas left the two of them arguing in the taproom and stole quickly away. While his employer was desperate to trace one object of desire, the book holder went in search for another. His unknown woman was no Beatrice Capaldi, no lady of quality with a hard beauty that could enchant and ensnare. She was a common whore in the stews of Clerkenwell and she had given one of her clients a signature that he had taken to his grave. Nicholas saw those rivulets once more and was doubly grateful that the sight had been kept from the already distraught Marion Carrick.

Armed with the miniature of the victim, he went back into the lanes that he had already tramped on the previous nights. All the establishments drew him gladly in but his welcome evaporated when it was seen that he was no customer in search of a punk. He was reviled, he was threatened, he was forcibly ejected but he bore it all with equanimity, moving on to the next brothel to continue his investigation. None of the trulls recognised the portrait but a few of the more high-class courtesans claimed to have known him. When and where they had last seen him, however, they could not recall because their brains were too addled by drink and their apprehensions too dulled by the nature of their calling. Before Nicholas could coax out more detail, he was usually expelled by a brutish landlord or a watchful madame.

Another long, taxing and frustrating night finally took him into the Pickt-hatch. Bess Bidgood wobbled her charms at him and he put coin into her hand to buy himself drink and time. Nicholas was in a small, low, smoke-filled room with a dozen or more other men who lolled at tables as they were blandished by the resident whores. As soon as the newcomer sat down on a bench, two young women came to perch either side of him with grinning familiarity. He bought them a drink, pretended to respond to their attentions and worked slowly to win their confidence. One of them planted a kiss on his cheek and told him the Pickt-hatch was the most celebrated house of resort in the district.

‘I come upon recommendation,’ said Nick.

‘Who sent you, sir?’ asked one girl.

‘Did he mention Peg?’ said the other. ‘’Tis me.’

‘My brother sent me here.’

Peg giggled. ‘With two like you, we could both be well satisfied. You are a pretty piece of flesh, sir.’

‘Let me show you my brother.’

‘He is here?’

‘I have his likeness.’

Nicholas produced the miniature and held it up to the candle. The two women squinted at it before making ribald comments. One of them had never seen the face before and the other only had the dimmest recollection of the man but they were both keen to help. Before Nicholas could stop her, Peg snatched the portrait and lurched across to one of the tables to show it to her colleagues. There were more coarse remarks and a few vague memories but none could put a name to the face or locate it at the Pickt-hatch on the night in question. One girl — a sinuous creature in red — stared at the miniature for a long time before shaking her head and tossing it back to Nicholas. Denying all knowledge of one client, Frances was soon luring another up to her room.

Peg tried to entice Nicholas up to her own bed but he feigned a stupor and staggered out to continue his quest elsewhere. Retracing the steps of Sebastian Carrick was proving to be a demoralising exercise and he knew that he could never divulge any of his nocturnal activities to the trusting sister. Marion had sent him a mission whose true nature would distress her beyond measure if she ever found out what it really was. For her sake, he must press on. For her sake — and that of her brother — he had to persevere in his grisly work in the hope that it would finally deliver up a vile murderer.

He was about to knock on the door of the neighbouring premises when he heard a stealthy tread behind him. Nicholas turned just in time. A sturdy figure came out of the dark with an arm raised to strike. His victim moved his head sharply but the club caught him a glancing blow on the temple that made his senses reel. Nicholas tottered a few steps then fell into a pool of liquid offal with a splash. He had enough presence of mind left to cover his head from further attack but it never came. Voices were raised nearby and all that he had to suffer was a vicious kick in the ribs before his assailant took to his heels. Nicholas rolled over in pain and shook his head to try to clear it. A lantern was held over him and four curious eyes surveyed the damage.

‘Master Bracewell, is it not?’ said a voice.

‘Indeed, it is,’ confirmed another.

‘Bless my soul!’

‘We came upon you just in time, sir.’

Nicholas had no breath left to thank the two watchmen but he recognised them both and was eternally thankful for their arrival. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather had prevented another murder in Clerkenwell. As the old men helped him up from the ground, Nicholas felt an odd sense of elation. Someone had tried to kill him but the man had given himself away in doing so. The night had finally yielded its reward. Nicholas Bracewell was getting close.

In an Eastcheap tavern, Cornelius Gant was also learning about London after dark. It was his first visit to the capital and he was still trying to come to terms with the sheer size of the city. By comparison with the towns in his native Cumberland, it was overpowering in its vastness. Every stage of his journey had provided a new source of fascination. He had seen huntsmen in Hyde Park, dead bodies dangling from the gibbet at Tyburn, cows grazing contentedly in St Giles with the mansions of the mighty spearing the sky in the distance alongside the broad Thames, the rambling inns of Holborn and the massive city wall that rose to a height of eighteen feet and wrapped its brawny arms protectively around the capital. As Gant and Nimbus entered through Newgate, they found fresh wonders to transfix them at every turn. Houses, shops, taverns and ordinaries jostled for position beside imposing civic buildings. Street markets turned major thoroughfares into swirling maelstroms. Noise was deafening, smells were pungent. Churches abounded in every ward but all were dwarfed by the majestic bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral. The Tower was a spectacle in itself.

After spending the day absorbing it all, Cornelius Gant was passing the night at The Feathers. While Nimbus rested in his stable, his master joined the company in the taproom to sample the ale and sound out his chances. With money to spend, he soon bought himself voluble drinking companions.

‘And what of entertainment, sirs?’ asked Gant.

‘London has all that a man could wish,’ said one of his newfound friends. ‘We’ve taverns to refresh him, executions to amuse him, stews to supply him with good sport.’

‘What may this man see for further diversion?’

‘Whipping, branding and vile treatment in the pillory.’

‘I have heard tell of bear-baiting.’

‘Southwark will bait you a bear or a bull,’ said the other with an oily grin. ‘And you may wager on the outcome if your purse is deep enough. There are also houses where dog will eat dog or where cocks will fight to the death.’

‘Are there no animals that do tricks?’ said Gant.

‘Why, yes,’ said his guide knowledgeably. ‘There is no marvel that London has not seen. We have had a fish that talked, a cat that sang, an ape that did somersaults to order and a camel that danced a jig. One old sailor even taught a snake to play on a set of pipes. It is all here.’

‘Do you have a horse that can fly?’

‘There is no such animal.’

‘London has never witnessed this miracle?’

‘Never, sir.’

‘It will,’ said Gant with a smile. ‘It will.’

‘Hold still!’ she chided softly. ‘I must bathe the wound before I can bind it up for you. Do not shake your head so. Be patient for a while longer.’

‘I want no bandage around my head,’ said Nicholas.

‘You will have what I decree,’ decided Anne Hendrik with affectionate firmness. ‘And you will take more care next time you walk through Clerkenwell.’

‘But I found what I sought, Anne.’

‘A broken crown and a bloody face?’

‘That was a small price to pay.’

‘You might have endured far worse if the watchmen had not disturbed your assailant.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take no chances, Nick. Think on those who care for you.’

‘I do.’

He squeezed her hand then let her finish her work. The blow on his head had opened up a long cut on his temple and sent a dark bruise looping down the side of his face like a crescent. His wound looked far worse than it felt but he submitted to her tender ministrations and let her bandage away. He also let her put his soiled clothes into a washtub to soak. Anne was shocked when he first returned home in such a condition. That shock had now given way to an anxiety that was tinged with a faint jealousy.

‘Who is this young lady with the miniature?’

‘Marion Carrick is his sister.’

‘I know that. But why do you jump to her command?’

‘It was an entreaty,’ he explained. ‘Over the very grave of her brother, she asked me to find his killer. I could not refuse such an appeal.’

‘That is clear, sir.’

‘Why have you become so cold towards me?’

‘I?’ she said coldly. ‘You are mistaken.’

‘Not as mistaken as you, I think.’

Anne turned away. ‘I am deeply sorry for what happened to her brother but that gives her no rights over you.’ She let her irritation build before she blurted out her protest. ‘I would not have you lose your life over a pretty face.’

‘Nor shall I,’ said Nicholas, taking her in his arms to pull her close. ‘Not as long as I have a far prettier face waiting for me back at my lodging.’

He stilled her with a kiss and they were reconciled. Anne now voiced her real concern over the dangers that he faced but he calmed her. It was at moments like this — when he was injured or late home — that she realised just how much he had come to mean in her life. His was a warm and unobtrusive presence in the house but she never took him for granted. Much as she wanted a vicious murderer to be brought to justice, she did not want to risk the life of Nicholas Bracewell to achieve that end. It vexed her greatly.

‘Come, Anne,’ he consoled. ‘Put away your fear. I have troubles enough without all this to tax me.’

‘Troubles enough?’

‘Master Firethorn is in love.’

‘With his wife, it is to be hoped.’

‘With the long-suffering Margery, to be sure,’ he said. ‘But she has travelled to Cambridge and left her husband unchecked. He is not a man who should have such freedom.’

‘His wandering eye has wandered once more?’

‘This lady could prove a most perilous adventure.’

‘Who is the creature?’

‘Mistress Beatrice Capaldi. All I know of her is her name and his extravagant report.’ Nicholas clicked his tongue. ‘If he would stay true to his acting, he could rule the world. But he falters. This new love of his could lead him ruinously astray.’

‘Is she as beautiful as Mistress Carrick?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Simply curiosity.’

‘I heard an edge in your voice.’

‘Is she or is she not?’ pressed Anne.

Nicholas gave her a smile of tender sincerity.

‘Both of them pale beside you …’

His head pounded away as she embraced him afresh but it was a pain he was happy to suffer in such a worthy cause.

Time which had already hung heavy now pressed down upon him with cruel force. Andrew Carrick found life in the Tower of London even more oppressive. His cell seemed to shrink in size. Its atmosphere grew staler, its voice more hostile. During nights that stretched out to interminable lengths, he lay on his rough bed and reflected on the misery of his lot. Because he attended a wedding, he was unable to go to a funeral. Because he offended a dying queen, he could not pay his respects to a dead son. It was a running sore in his mind and it would not heal. The lawyer took every opportunity that he could to leave his cell and prowl the stairs. When he could bribe his way out into the fresh air, it was a merciful release for him.

Harry Fellowes knew something of his distress and went out of his way to offer sympathy. Carrick seized gratefully on the chance of conversation.

‘How fares Her Majesty?’ he said.

‘The situation is bleak,’ replied Fellowes.

‘What do her physicians report?’

‘They will not disclose the truth of her condition.’

‘A bad sign indeed.’

‘We must be prepared for the worst.’

Fellowes lightened the exchange by retailing bits of gossip about affairs of the day and he even coaxed a few smiles out of his friend. Carrick was quite intrigued by the plump and loquacious Clerk of Ordnance. The more he learnt about the man, the more interesting he became. Harry Fellowes was no ordinary employee of the state. Previous holders of his position had a military background but he had distinct literary inclinations. Though he matriculated at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he was a Beresford scholar, he took no degree. Instead, he became a gunner at the Tower, served as Clerk to the Armoury and translated an abstruse book about Turkey from the original Latin. The catholicity of his career was at variance with his waddling self-importance.

In the year that he moved to Ordnance, Fellowes was ordained deacon by the Bishop of London who was faced — as was the entire episcopate — with a gross deficiency of able clergy. Installed as Vicar of Grain in Kent, the new shepherd tended his flock with fluctuating enthusiasm. He also replaced his father as Master of Sevenoaks School where he continued his literary endeavours by publishing translations of Seneca as well as a book of his own poems in Latin. His income placed him in the ranks of the county squirearchy and he made wise use of his inheritance when his father died. Scholar, schoolmaster, cleric, civil servant and gunner, he took on a new role with astute buying and selling of property. Carrick surmised that it was this lucrative development of his friend’s career that made possible his additional work as a moneylender.

When Harry Fellowes exhausted his chat, the lawyer took him back to the question of the succession.

‘Where does the Earl of Chichester stand?’

‘How would I know?’ said the other evasively.

‘Is he not your Master of Ordnance?’

‘I am not privy to his thoughts, sir.’

‘You must have a notion of whom he would prefer on the throne,’ probed Carrick. ‘Might it be James VI of Scotland?’

‘That would be unthinkable!’ snapped Fellowes.

‘He can advance a strong claim.’

‘It will not be supported by the Earl of Chichester. Let Scotland suffer the eccentricities of their King. We shall not, Master Carrick.’ He adopted an ecclesiastical pose for once. ‘King James is rumoured to have strange ways.’

‘How so?’

‘My choirboys would not be safe in his presence.’

‘But the king is married.’

‘His wife may be but a cloak to his true designs,’ said Fellowes. ‘But there are other obstacles which make him a fearful choice as our monarch. The Earl will look elsewhere. However …’ He became more confidential. ‘The Scottish King will have his party and I know who will help to lead it.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Lord Westfield.’

‘Why?’

‘King James likes the theatre.’

She was there. Long before he stepped out onstage to gain visible proof of the fact, he knew that Mistress Beatrice Capaldi had come to the performance of Love’s Sacrifice at the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Lawrence Firethorn felt her presence and purred with delight. His book holder’s counsel had borne fruit. The latest play by Edmund Hoode was the love-knot that would bind actor and inamorata together. It was the answer to his prayer. Since the departure of his wife, Firethorn’s bed had been intolerably empty and his heart gaped equally wide for a new tenant. Beatrice Capaldi would fill both venues with sublime ease. She had come. It was the proof for which he had longed.

Others were quick to perceive the change. Edmund Hoode was relieved that his play would get a stirring performance out of its leading actor. When Lawrence Firethorn was below his best — as he had been for days — he dragged down the whole company and took the shine off even the finest drama. A toiling playwright like Hoode wanted due recognition of his talents and this could only come from a committed rendering of Love’s Sacrifice. Barnaby Gill flitted between pleasure and disappointment. He was glad that the reputation of Westfield’s Men would not suffer any more but peeved that he would no longer be able to gain at its expense. When Firethorn was subdued, it was the agile comedian who came to the fore to steal the plaudits. Gill also expressed rank disgust that a mere woman could have such an effect on the work of an actor and, by extension, a whole company.

The situation caused Nicholas Bracewell quiet alarm. He hoped that Beatrice Capaldi was a bird of passage who would not return to haunt them and he was confident that Firethorn would soon forget her when some other female sparked off his lechery. Nicholas foresaw grave difficulties and knew that he would be pressed into service.

‘Nick, dear heart!’

‘We begin in five minutes, sir …’

‘I was never more ready. But first, a favour.’

‘Ask it when I am less busy,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘It will not wait,’ said Firethorn, thrusting a letter at him. ‘When the performance is done, give this to her.’

‘But I will be needed here, sir.’

‘Do as I bid, man. Put it into her hand and wait for a reply. My happiness depends upon it.’

Nicholas sighed and slipped the missive inside his buff jerkin. It was not an assignment to relish. He turned his full attention to the play itself. Its success at The Rose had brought a full audience to the Queen’s Head and, although the piece would be given in a slightly attenuated form, its merits were still plentiful. One of the omissions from the text, however, was causing deep resentment. Owen Elias had lost his funeral speech. Retained in the part of Benvolio at the insistence of Nicholas Bracewell, the actor had seen that part trimmed and weakened at the morning rehearsal. Elias brooded malevolently in a corner of the tiring-house. He would not be able to make the same impact again.

Firethorn came up with a growled reminder to him.

‘We want no final speech from Benvolio,’ he said.

‘It suits the play best,’ argued Elias.

‘It does not suit me, Owen. Remember that.’

‘You give me no choice.’

‘Breathe one word of that funeral oration and I will rise from the dead to cut out your treacherous Welsh tongue! Do you understand, sir?’

Owen Elias crackled with an anger that found no outlet because Nicholas Bracewell took charge of affairs and Love’s Sacrifice began. King Gondar now ruled supreme. Benvolio could only fume away in the background.

She was very definitely there. Beatrice Capaldi once again sat in a prominent position in the centre of the lower gallery with a poise that set her apart from all the other young ladies around her. The dark velvet of her earlier appearance had now given way to a brightly coloured dress in the Spanish fashion. She wore a pale-green corseted bodice with a deep point. The long, heavy stomacher front in a deeper hue dipped to a point over the stiff farthingale skirt. Full trunk-type sleeves of blue with large, laced wrist cuffs were revealed under the huge hanging sleeves. The royal-blue gown fitted the shoulders and the figure to the waist then blossomed out over the hips to fall stiffly to the ground. The wide lace ruff was starched and wired. A narrow jewelled sash encircled the waist with a pomander dangling from it. Black hair was drawn back from her exquisite face and set off by a few well-placed jewels. A folding fan was carried in a gloved hand.

Lawrence Firethorn took it all in at a glance and read the message in her apparel. Beatrice Capaldi had warmed towards him. Though she was as aloof as before, her vivid attire conveyed her true feelings. The actor responded by displaying the full rainbow of his talents. His performance was a tour de force which made a fine play seem brilliant and which drew his company up to the very summit. The momentum gathered until it became its own undoing. Benvolio was simply carried away by it.

Look down upon these star-crossed lovers here,

Two souls that soared above a common pitch

To reach the very height of earthly joy

Before their tragic fall to grievous death …

The funeral speech was laid over the sad carcasses like a soft and respectful shroud. Owen Elias had never been more moving with his soft lilt. He tasted each line with care and let it roll around his mouth until he had exacted its full sweetness. Lawrence Firethorn hissed unregarded at his feet. The Welshman drew even more tears than at The Rose. It was not just an epitaph for a pair of fallen lovers. Owen Elias knew that he was delivering the funeral oration over his own career with Westfield’s Men. His moment of supreme glory was also an act of suicide but it was worth it.

King Gondar was carried out once more to solemn music. He leapt off his untimely bier in the tiring-house to accost the traitor but the ovation drowned out his curses. With an audience to enjoy and a love to advance, he swept out onto the stage with his company and took his first bow. His eyes went straight to hers and a momentary flame was lit between them. Beatrice Capaldi showed no emotion but she applauded politely as she gazed down at him. Her presence was a signal to him, her bright attire an invitation, her restrained approval a firm promise.

Lawrence Firethorn capitulated before her.

Giles Randolph knew the importance of keeping a spy in the enemy camp. A sharp-eyed ostler at the Queen’s Head reported all that was needful. Basking in his renewed success as The Spanish Jew, the leading light of Banbury’s Men was annoyed to hear of another triumphant revival and of the scintillating performance by his rival as King Gondar. Lawrence Firethorn had once again eclipsed him but good news followed this all-too-familiar intelligence. Randolph took immediate action. After dining with friends that evening, he made his way from Shoreditch to Gracechurch Street. A large hat and a long cloak guaranteed him an anonymity which let him slip into the Queen’s Head unobserved. It was very late and only the very drunk still lingered.

Owen Elias was slumped over a table with an empty pewter tankard in his hand. He groaned as he contemplated the ruins of his theatrical career. Westfield’s Men — in the person of their moving spirit — had expelled him. The company which had been his whole life for so long had now hurled him out into the wilderness. After touching real power on a stage at last he was reduced to complete impotence. His prospects of fresh employment were slight. A twenty-line speech had sealed his doom as an actor.

He became aware of a figure sitting down beside him and of an arm looping around his sagging shoulders. Owen Elias turned bloodshot eyes upon the newcomer but it was a full minute before he recognised Giles Randolph. Jerked out of his maudlin self-pity, he sat up with a start and blinked. He knew the other actor by sight and respected him for his achievements but he had never expected to share a bench in a tavern with such a luminary.

Randolph made his offer with a persuasive smile.

‘We have need of you, Owen.’

‘Of me, sir?’

‘Of you, my fine friend.’

‘How so?’

‘Join a company where your true mettle is appreciated.’

‘Banbury’s Men?’

‘We have a part that only Owen Elias may play.’

‘This is no jest?’

‘Come with me, sir, and I will prove it.’

The Welshman needed no time at all to think it over.

They left together.