The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Seven

Margery Firethorn was deeply bored with Cambridge. She found the town far too provincial for her taste, the university far too exclusive and the prevailing atmosphere of Puritanism far too oppressive. Most important of all, she found the company of her brother-in-law far too depressing and she was soon asking herself yet again why her sister had married such an inferior creature. Jonathan Jarrold was a studious man with the deficiencies of such a life writ large upon him. Small in stature and sparse of hair, he was anxious and preoccupied, his busy eyes imprisoned behind spectacles and his shoulders already rounded into a scholarly hunch. He spent as much time reading books as selling them and had no conversation that did not touch on the literary world. Jonathan Jarrold rightly feared his sister-in-law for her temper and her termagant bluntness. In Agnes, he had certainly married a more suitable and sweet companion for his academic ways. She was a dutiful wife with a pale beauty that was not entirely muffled by the dullness of her apparel. Agnes Jarrold loved her husband with a kind of defensive resignation.

‘He is a good man, Margery,’ she said plaintively.

‘His goodness is not in doubt,’ said her sister. ‘It is his manhood that I question. Can such a fool really perform the office of fatherhood?’

‘You do him wrong!’

‘Only because he has done you a graver injustice.’

‘He is a fine husband.’

‘Jonathan Jarrold is married to his books.’

‘We have been happy here in Cambridge.’

‘That shambling skeleton would not make me happy!’

‘Margery!’

‘I expect real passion in my bed!’

‘Silence! He may hear you.’

Agnes Jarrold quivered with apprehension. They were sitting in the garden of her little house in Trinity Street and she was finding her sister’s presence a mixed blessing. While Margery undoubtedly gave her unstinting affection and reassurance about the trial that lay ahead, she also brought an abrasive note into a gentle household. The quiet and ineffectual Jonathan Jarrold somehow enraged his sister-in-law who loathed him for his very inoffensiveness. There were still two weeks to go before the baby came to term and Agnes was praying that domestic calm could be sustained until the moment when motherhood would unite them all.

Her husband was prepared to make a supreme effort. As he came out into the garden, he manufactured a smile that had particles of real sincerity and pleasure in it.

‘Are you ready for me, Margery?’ he said politely.

‘No, sir,’ she grunted.

‘The entertainment will soon begin.’

‘Do not miss it on my account.’

‘But I hope you will accompany me.’

‘My wits are turned enough already.’

Agnes interceded. ‘Go with him, sister. You have sat with me long enough. Jonathan offers you a diversion.’

‘Yes,’ he added. ‘It is not only London that can delight with its theatrical presentation. We have drama of our own here in Cambridge.’

‘It may ease the tedium,’ said his wife.

Or make that tedium even more unbearable, thought Margery. Nevertheless, she allowed herself to be talked into witnessing the performance. Agnes herself was in no condition to attend a public event and she was pathetically grateful to her sister for taking her place. As soon as she set off with her brother-in-law, however, Margery regretted her decision. In his usual sober attire, he shuffled beside her through the narrow streets and washed his blue-veined hands in the air. Jonathan Jarrold sought desperately to please.

‘It is a tragedy about Richard the Third,’ he said.

‘I have seen four such plays in London.’

‘Students bring a freshness to the drama.’

‘I am married to a Titan of the stage.’

‘We’ll win you over yet, Margery.’

‘Do not build on that vain hope, sir.’

The beauty of Queen’s College took some of the jaundice from her eye and she actually smiled when she saw the sun glancing off the River Cam and turning the flotilla of swans into a picture of feathered radiance. In the cloistered tranquillity of an academic foundation, Margery did find some objects of interest and her attentive companion was lulled into the belief that Cambridge might yet surprise her with its talent. The performance of plays, revels and scenici ludi in the college halls and chapels was a vital part of university life and Jonathan Jarrold shared joyfully in it. That joy was kept from Margery Firethorn. When she took her seat in the hall at Queen’s College, she discovered that the play about Richard the Third was called Richardus Tertius because it was written entirely in Latin.

‘I will not understand a word of it!’ she complained.

‘The acting will explain all,’ said Jarrold.

‘Wake me if I snore.’

It was a prophetic utterance. The play began and she sank beneath the weight of its dreariness. Richardus Tertius was an earnest work that drew a sort of blundering eagerness out of its undergraduate cast. They entered with spirit then stood with wooden awfulness while they tried to declaim the tortuous Latin. Those who attempted gesture and movement made so many errors that they quickly abandoned the experiment and resorted to tableau acting. Classical scholars found much to admire and there was a deal of nodding throughout but there was nothing to hold a simple playgoer. Margery’s head only nodded forward onto her ample bosom. Caught up in the severe brilliance of the verse, her brother-in-law was well into Act Three before he heard the unladylike snoring beside him.

Before he could wake her, real drama intervened.

‘Come, sir. Come quickly, sir.’

‘What is it, Nan?’

‘Your wife has need of you, sir. Come at once.’

The old servant plucked at her master’s sleeve and earned a broadside of protests from the audience all around her. Jonathan Jarrold was annoyed at the interruption but immediately aware of its implications. His third child was about to make its entry into the world. A sharp nudge brought Margery back to life and an urgent whisper made her leap to her feet. Her voice rang out through the hall and brought the play to a halt.

‘Take me to my sister!’ she yelled imperiously. ‘Her ordeal can be no worse than this one — and at least she will not have the baby in Latin!’

Lawrence Firethorn missed his wife dreadfully and was quite unable to take advantage of the fact. It rankled. Days of licence had yielded nothing more than disappointment. Nights of freedom had yet to be marked by a conquest. He writhed in torment. His life as an actor had always been one of peaks and troughs but the two had never been simultaneous before. As he scaled the very heights of his profession, he was cast down into the abyss of misery. Beatrice Capaldi had turned him down. The letter which Nicholas Bracewell delivered was an invitation to dine with him that evening but she rejected it with a disdainful shake of her head. Two hours of King Gondar had left him in a state of blissful delirium but a spectator in the lower gallery destroyed it instantly. Nor was there compensation to be found. Firethorn had summoned an old acquaintance to warm his bed but she had failed him badly. While his head lusted for her, his heart remained true to Beatrice Capaldi and his naked body voted with the latter party. For the first time in his life, a beautiful woman left his chamber unsatisfied.

His work inevitably suffered. During the performance of The Two Maids of Milchester on the following afternoon, he was so subdued that Barnaby Gill was able to wrest scene after scene from him. Firethorn did not even seem to notice the indignity, let alone to care. His mind was on higher things. When the play was over and a disgruntled audience had filed out of the Queen’s Head, the actor turned to the one man in the company who might yet save him.

‘Advise me, Nick!’ he begged.

‘My advice is to forget this lady,’ said Nicholas.

‘She spurned me. No woman has ever done that before. Am I not Lawrence Firethorn? Am I not King Gondar and Tarquin and Black Antonio and Pompey the Great and Richard the Lionheart and all the other giants of the London stage?’

‘You are indeed, sir.’

‘Yet she spurns me. She spurns every one of me!’

‘It may be for the best.’

‘When it murders my very soul!’

Firethorn’s howl shook the timbers of the private room where they conversed. Nicholas Bracewell had to balance honesty against diplomacy. He was thankful that Mistress Beatrice Capaldi had turned down the invitation from his employer but he would not dare to say that to an infatuated man of legendary temper. Besides, he had come to understand the nature of that infatuation now that he had seen the lady herself at close range. Beatrice Capaldi was a cut above the conventional beauties who idolised the famous actor and who flung themselves at his feet. They were all victims of his charm and his arrogant manliness. Beatrice Capaldi would never join their number. She liked victims of her own.

‘Why does she dare to scorn me?’ demanded Firethorn.

‘The lady may be fast married, sir.’

‘That is no barrier. I have borrowed a wife from many a husband before now and will do so again. Besides, she brought no Master Capaldi to watch me perform. When you gave her my letter, you said she was attended by two manservants.’

‘It is true, sir.’

‘Then her husband is of no account,’ decided Firethorn with a snap of his fingers. ‘If he exists, it is my bounden duty to cuckold the rogue. If not, let’s waste no more breath upon him. Beatrice came to me alone. I cling to that.’

‘Consider her name,’ suggested Nicholas, making one last attempt to deter his employer. ‘Mistress Capaldi.’

‘I consider it every minute of the day, Nick.’

‘The lady is of Italian extraction.’

‘It is the essence of her beauty.’

‘She may also be wed to an Italian gentleman.’

‘Your conclusion?’

‘Beatrice Capaldi is a Roman Catholic.’

‘Love is without denomination!’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘Were she Protestant, Jew or Presbyterian, I could worship her no less. Were she a godless child of an African heathen, it would not alter my heart. Were she got between two Druids in some pagan rite, I would not stay my hand here. I love her!’

‘That is plain, sir.’

‘Then help me, Nick!’

‘I am yours to command.’

‘What game does she play with me?’

Beatrice Capaldi stood bolt upright while her dressmaker made a few final adjustments to his latest creation. With an ingratiating bow, he then backed away so that she could inspect the result in the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated one wall of her bedchamber. The dress was a work of art in white and silver. Simple and heavily padded, it had a close-fitting bodice with a long-fronted stomacher that dipped in a deep point to the stiffened basque of the French farthingale. The basque was made of the same material as the flounced bell-shaped skirt and concealed the hard line of the wheeled farthingale. Trunk sleeves were full at the top and tapered to the wrists, giving the demi-cannon effect that was now in fashion. Beatrice Capaldi examined each detail with care until she was entirely satisfied. She then walked around the room to get the feel of her new dress and to enjoy the sensual swish of its skirt. When she had had her fill, she repaid her dressmaker with an indulgent smile. He bowed frantically then backed out with servile gratitude. Left alone in front of the mirror, she toyed with the low square décolletage across the front of the dress so that she could display a more generous area of her full breasts. There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered with writing materials on a tray. Beatrice Capaldi crossed to sit at the little table and the paper was put in front of her. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, she wrote a single line.

‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

The letter was sealed but not signed and the name of Master Lawrence Firethorn was added with a flourish. She handed the missive to the manservant with a curt order.

‘See it delivered to the Queen’s Head directly.’

Nimbus was equal to the occasion. The London debut of Cornelius Gant and His Amazing Horse was a comprehensive success. It took place in the yard at The Feathers where fifty or more casual bystanders were transformed into a rapt audience. The performers showed enough of their skills to dazzle the spectators while holding back their principal tricks for use before larger gatherings at a later date. Dancing and counting were the basis of their act. While the versatile Gant played on a pipe, Nimbus went through a whole series of dances, beginning with a coranto and ending with a sprightly galliard. But it was the money trick which tricked money out of purses.

‘Place your coins in this hat, sirs,’ invited Gant as he held it out. ‘You’ll get it back with interest, I warrant.’ When the spectators hesitated, Nimbus grabbed the hat in grinning teeth to take it around. Twenty or more coins were tossed laughingly into the receptacle which was then taken back to Cornelius Gant. Taking hold of the hat, he pulled out a gold coin and held it up.

‘Who gave you this, Nimbus?’

The horse picked out the donor at once and nudged him. Gant indicated another man and asked how much he had contributed. Nimbus promptly tapped his foot three times and three coins were returned to their astonished owner. And so it went on. The animal was able to identify both the giver and the amount given until the hat was completely empty. The applause was vigorous and coins came back more plentifully. By way of an encore, Gant let his partner tip the takings onto the ground so that they could be added up with a tapped hoof. Nimbus was a precise accountant whose nimble work brought forth another hail of money.

It was a gratifying response to an unusual act but it was not only his full purse that pleased Gant. He took more satisfaction from the impact they had had upon the watching patrons. Those men would spread the word throughout and beyond Eastcheap. The seeds of reputation would be sown and future audiences would be primed and set up.

Cornelius Gant and Nimbus had arrived.

The influence of Lord Westfield opened doors for Nicholas Bracewell once again. He visited Andrew Carrick in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and gave him an account both of the funeral and of his nocturnal investigations in Clerkenwell. The lawyer thanked him profusely for all that he had done but warned him against taking too many risks. Nicholas had now removed the bandaging from his head to reveal a dark bruise and an ugly scar. He insisted that he was willing to collect more wounds if they would take him closer to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The father was touched.

Grief pressed down upon him. Having lost a son, he was anxious to console his daughter but he was kept in the Tower because his sovereign had a fit of pique. While the Queen was ill, all hope of release had vanished. Andrew Carrick was surprisingly well informed about the progress of events.

‘Her Majesty fades quietly away,’ he said, ‘and her courtiers rush around to find themselves a successor who will favour them. Several names have been mentioned and each has its party and its parasites.’

‘Is the Queen’s illness so serious?’ asked Nicholas.

‘All reports confirm it.’

‘How can you know this?’

‘Imprisonment sharpens a man’s hearing and they talk of nothing else here. People in royal service hang upon every shift of royal power. My friend, Master Fellowes, who is Clerk of Ordnance here, keeps me abreast of all developments.’

‘Does he know the nature of the Queen’s malady?’

‘Old age is her chiefest complaint.’

‘She is but sixty and takes great care of her person.’

‘That is why the rumour has grown abroad.’

‘What rumour, sir?’

‘The Queen has succumbed to some vile poison.’

‘Poison?’ said Nicholas in surprise. ‘Administered by whom? Only her physicians could get close enough to her.’

‘You may have identified the villain, sir.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Dr Lopez.’

Nicholas was sceptical about the theory but he could see how it must have arisen. Roderigo Lopez was one of the most hated and envied members of the medical profession. A Portuguese Jew who fled the Inquisition, he came to England to practise as a doctor and serve as house physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. His renown as a dietician and a wise counsellor spread until he included the Earl of Leicester and Sir Francis Walsingham among his patients. In 1586 he was appointed chief physician to Queen Elizabeth but Lopez was not content with a solely medical role. He used his position at court to champion the cause of Antonio Perez, the Portuguese pretender. Breaking with the latter, the doctor rashly quarrelled with the Earl of Essex who was the main English supporter of the Perez party. Dr Lopez was later arrested at the instigation of Essex who claimed that he had discovered a conspiracy in which the chief physician was to poison the Queen. Her sickness might now seem to confirm the allegations but Nicholas had severe doubts.

‘Dr Lopez is under lock and key,’ he said. ‘He has not been near Her Majesty for months.’

Carrick shrugged. ‘The poison may be slow-acting. It could have been given to her by Lopez in the guise of some medicinal remedy.’

‘The Queen is watched over with too much care.’

‘Some confederate may have done the deed.’

‘Her physicians have not even said that poison is at all involved here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Dr Lopez is too hastily accused. The charges brought by the Earl of Essex have yet to be proved against him. No treason may have occurred. The doctor has been imprisoned for two other crimes.’

‘What are they, Master Bracewell?’

‘He is a foreigner and he is a Jew.’

Andrew Carrick nodded. ‘You speak well. We show little respect to the stranger in these islands of ours. We despise what is different and see it only as a threat.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘But this anxiety over the Queen has brought reward to some quarters. Your rivals prosper.’

‘Banbury’s Men?’

‘I hear tell of a play called The Spanish Jew. It could not be more timely. Cross out the name of Spain, insert its neighbour country and you have the villain of the piece.’

‘Dr Roderigo Lopez.’

‘The play draws huge audiences.’

‘It feeds on hatred and prejudice,’ said Nicholas.

‘Banbury’s Men have stolen the march on you. Let us hope that their patron does not do the same.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘A battle for the succession would also be a battle for supremacy on the stage,’ argued Carrick. ‘Lord Westfield will support the claim of King James of Scotland who has a fondness for the drama. If he is to be our next ruler, you and your fellows might be translated into the King’s Men.’

‘We are not yet ready to lose our Queen,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘But what of the Earl of Banbury? Which party does he follow in this matter?’

‘One that will serve him best,’ said Carrick. ‘Pray God that his candidate does not reach our throne. Banbury’s Men would surely triumph then. Your company would be destroyed.’

‘By the new King?’

‘By the new Queen.’

Hardwick Hall was an arresting sight. Even in its present unfinished state, it could stir the spirit and excite the imagination. In little over two years, industrious builders had substantially completed the main structure and they continued to swarm busily over it. Six miles to the south-east of Chesterfield, the house was the brainchild of the redoubtable Elizabeth Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury. Widowed by her fourth husband, she was not only the richest woman in the kingdom but one of the most ambitious and powerful as well. The house was to be a lasting monument to her and she emphasised the fact by having her initials carved in stone on top of the four massive square towers of the west front. Restraint was unknown to Bess of Hardwick. In the imposing west front of the house were no less than fifty windows, some of huge dimensions. The quiet Derbyshire landscape had never seen such an expanse of glass.

‘Our visit was worthwhile.’

‘I could have been spared the tour of the house.’

‘Bess is inordinately proud of it,’ said the Earl of Chichester. ‘We must humour the lady.’

‘There is only one way to do that, Roger.’

‘Is there?’

‘Become her fifth husband.’

‘God’s wounds! That would be purgatory!’

‘She is a lusty widow.’

‘Let her vent her lust on Hardwick Hall.’

The Earl of Banbury laughed at his friend’s discomfort. Their carriage was bumping along the drive that cut through the extensive front gardens of the estate. Bending backs could be seen all around as a team of urgent gardeners strove to provide the magnificent house with an appropriate horticultural setting. Symmetry was the keynote for hall and garden alike. The noble travellers hoped that their plans would achieve a similar neatness of line.

‘The girl is ours,’ decided the old soldier.

‘She comes at a fearful price,’ said Banbury. ‘We must suffer that grandmother of hers.’

‘Bess can be managed easily.’

‘Four husbands would disagree with you.’

‘We have our queen. What more do we need?’

‘A throne on which to set her.’

‘It will soon be vacant.’

‘And fit to receive our nominated monarch.’

‘Arabella Stuart.’

‘Queen of England!’

The earls congratulated themselves on the speed with which they had moved and the diplomacy which they had shown. Arabella Stuart was an attractive young girl of seventeen with a claim to the throne at least as strong as that of James VI of Scotland. She was the fruit of a dynastic marriage arranged by the manipulative Bess between her own daughter, Elizabeth, and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox. When Arabella was orphaned, she came into the care of her ever-scheming grandmother who considered marrying her to the Duke of Parma’s son, Rainutio Farnese, who had a tenuous link with the English crown through descent from John of Gaunt. During this period, Arabella spent some valuable time at court but the death of her elected bridegroom in 1592 saw her returned to Derbyshire. Inclined to be wayward, the girl was subjected to grandmotherly vigilance of the most intense kind. The visitors from London had been highly conscious of it.

‘Poor creature!’ said Banbury. ‘Arabella cannot draw breath without permission from the old harridan.’

‘A queen will take no orders.’

‘They will still be given, Roger.’

‘Bess can be silenced,’ said his colleague. ‘We will have Her Majesty’s ear without the intervening inconvenience of a grandmother.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘We’ve done it, man! All parties are well served here. England will have her new queen. Arabella will have her throne. We will have supreme influence. Our friends will have their due reward and our enemies will be roundly swinged.’

‘And what of that meddling grandmother?’

‘Bess will be too busy with Hardwick Hall.’

They turned around to take a last look at the building. Even from that distance and even in its incomplete state, it was a superb piece of architecture. Its scope was quite stunning and its boldness of line echoed the temperament of its creator. Bess of Hardwick was well into her sixties. This latest obsession would surely occupy her remaining years to the full.

The Earl of Chichester gave a throaty laugh.

‘We are the true architects here,’ he boasted.

‘Are we?’

‘Bess only builds a house.’

‘What do we create, Roger?’

‘A kingdom!’

Lawrence Firethorn could not believe his drink-blurred eyes. As he held the letter close to the candle, he read the words a dozen times to be sure of their meaning and confident of their authorship. He was downing another goblet of Canary wine with Barnaby Gill when the messenger sought him out in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Fumbling fingers broke the seal and six words effected his metamorphosis.

‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’

It was a message from Beatrice Capaldi and its import made him laugh with joy before banging the table impulsively with his fist. Barnaby Gill grabbed his own goblet as it danced its way across the vibrating timber.

‘Hold steady!’ he yelled.

‘She has spoken, Barnaby!’

‘Then close her mouth at once.’

‘Beatrice wants me! Beatrice needs me!’

‘Play this mad scene somewhere else, sir.’

‘Look!’ said Firethorn, thrusting the letter at him. ‘What else can these words mean? She invites me!’

Gill gave the paper a disdainful glance before issuing one of his contemptuous snorts. ‘This woman is like all others of her kind, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘She is the highway to damnation.’

‘No, Barnaby. She is the road to Elysium.’

‘Turn back while there is still time, man.’

‘See what she asks for — true sacrifice?’

‘You have already sacrificed your wits and your wilting codpiece to her! Do not sacrifice your company as well.’

‘Beatrice calls to me!’

‘Listen to your friends instead.’

‘A true sacrifice! Do you not understand?’

‘Only too well, sir!’

Firethorn read the letter again to extract its command. The true sacrifice was the play which had twice brought his Beatrice to him. She was now ordering a third performance as King Gondar. That was the way to win her heart. Beatrice had only refused to dine with him in order to whet his appetite. When she was given further proof of his love, he believed, she would submit herself to his wildest demands. Firethorn waved the letter above his head like the captured flag of a beaten enemy. His decision was immediate.

‘We must alter our plans for The Theatre.’

‘No!’ Gill was horrified.

‘Love’s Sacrifice must be staged again.’

‘Not in Shoreditch!’ protested the other. ‘Our agreed choice is Cupid’s Folly.’

‘It will be replaced.’

‘This is cruelty, Lawrence!’

‘Beatrice has spoken.’

‘Think with your brain and not with your pizzle!’

‘We play Love’s Sacrifice.’

Gill stamped a petulant foot. ‘Cupid’s Folly!’

‘A ragged piece that we can well neglect.’

‘I was promised!’

‘Beatrice must not be denied.’

The rank injustice of it all made Gill shake with fury. It was not often that they performed at The Theatre and it was even rarer for his favourite play to be presented there. Cupid’s Folly was a rumbustious comedy which allowed Gill a starring role as Rigormortis and set him above all other stage clowns. To have the play cancelled was bad enough: to see it callously replaced by a drama in which Firethorn took all the plaudits was a professional wound that would fester in perpetuity. Gill’s bitter hatred of the female sex was exacerbated but his complaints went unheard.

‘Would you rob me of my Cupid’s Folly?’ he cried.

‘I simply ask you to give it up for me, Barnaby.’

‘No, no, no!’

Firethorn slipped an avuncular arm around him.

‘True love requires a true sacrifice …’

Owen Elias still had vestigal doubts about his move to another company. Banbury’s Men gave him an important supporting role in a new play that was staged at The Curtain before an appreciative audience but the experience did not wipe away all his reservations. Employment was a boon for which he was deeply grateful even though he did not yet know how it had come about. Giles Randolph enlightened him.

‘Tomorrow, we play The Spanish Jew.’

‘It is much talked about, Master Randolph.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘and it will cause even more conversation now. This sickness of Her Majesty has put the name of Dr Lopez on every tongue. I have but to appear on stage in his guise and they love to revile me.’

‘What part will I take?’ said Elias.

‘The Governor of the city.’ He handed the Welshman a sheaf of papers. ‘Here are the sides for you to study.’

‘It feels like a weighty role.’

‘It is indeed, Owen.’

‘How must I play it?’

‘There you come to the heart of the matter.’

Giles Randolph could hardly contain his mirth as he whispered his instructions. Puzzled at first, Owen Elias soon came to see the virtues in what was being suggested to him. The Spanish Jew would give him more than a challenging role. It would help him to settle an old score.

The two men were soon helpless with laughter.

The long years spent in the exclusive company of actors had rubbed off on Nicholas Bracewell. A book holder had to cope with all manner of emergency and there had been a number of occasions when he had made impromptu appearances on stage himself in minor roles. He enjoyed these brief excursions enough to feel confident of his ability to deceive. If not a true actor, he had learnt how to look, speak and move on a stage. These skills now had a practical application.

‘Will you buy me a drink, sir?’

‘Order what you wish.’

‘Then I’ll begin with a kiss.’

‘As many as you like.’

Nicholas had returned to the Pickt-hatch in Clerkenwell that night. Dressed like a gallant, hair and beard trimmed by a barber, he was able to gain entry without being recognised. Peg, who had entertained him on his first visit, now thought she was blandishing an entirely different client. He bought wine for them both and used a slurred voice to hide his distinctive West Country burr. By hunching his shoulders, he altered the whole shape of his body. Bess Bidgood had been fooled by the disguise and Peg was equally taken in.

‘Will you climb the stairs with me, sir?’ she said.

‘Soon, mistress. Very soon.’

‘Will you let me please you?’

‘In every way that you choose.’

Peg giggled. ‘I’ll not disappoint you, sir.’

Nicholas exchanged mild banter with her while keeping the room under careful observation. It was full of raucous noise as other gallants sported with other courtesans. There was drinking, gambling, singing and frank groping. Couples would occasionally totter off upstairs but they would soon be replaced by returning pairs. There was a limit to how long Nicholas could maintain his surveillance. His purse was not large enough to sustain endless purchase of wine and he would not be able to keep Peg at bay indefinitely. He was fast approaching the moment when he would have to feign vomiting in order to escape from the premises when he was given additional proof that he was in the right place.

There was a thunderous clatter as a young gallant came tumbling down the stairs. It brought a jeer from his fellows but no sympathy. Nicholas crossed to help the drunken youth up and found him relatively unharmed. Carrying his doublet over his arm, the gallant was wearing a white shirt above his hose. Even in the gloom, Nicholas could see the streaks of blood down the back of the shirt and his curiosity quickened at once.

‘You bleed, young sir,’ he said.

‘In the service of love!’

‘Who gave you these wounds?’

‘The mistress of the bedchamber.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Perfection, sir …’

The youth gave a loud belch then staggered across to a group of friends who caught him as he pitched forward into their hands. He had taken his pleasures and was now dead to the world for a long time. Nicholas would get no more from him but the Pickt-hatch had yielded vital confirmation. He was very close to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. She lay in a bed in one of the rooms upstairs. Peg came over to embrace him and to drag him towards the stairs so Nicholas pretended to retch violently. The girl pushed him away in disgust and strong male hands soon ejected him into the lane outside. His visit to the establishment was over but he was now completely convinced.

The mad courtesan was there.

It was a difficult labour. Agnes Jarrold struggled hard and suffered greatly. The little house in Cambridge echoed with her cries of pain for several hours. Though the child was anxious to come before its time, the mother seemed strangely reluctant to bear it. Stark memories of two previous births held her back. While it remained inside and part of her, the baby was patently alive and safe. In delivering it to the outside world, Agnes felt, she would be consigning it to the grave alongside its two predecessors. In the marital bed in Trinity Street, the battle between mind and body raged on. There was no anaesthetic to ease her torment, no medicine to take away the phantoms that haunted her. Caught up in the eternal mystery of childbirth, a fond housewife was racked by the eternal pangs. What made the crucial difference for her on this occasion was the presence of her elder sister.

‘Hold me tight, Agnes.’

‘I have no strength left.’

‘Push hard, push hard!’

‘I faint, I fail …’

‘Now, Agnes! Be a mother and fight for the child!’

Margery Firethorn was there throughout, encouraging her sister, sharing her travail, stilling her fears, bossing the surgeon, bullying the midwife and keeping the anguished husband on the other side of the bedroom door with a series of abusive yells. When the exhausted mother found one last burst of energy to give birth, it was Margery who talked her through it and who told her she was now the mother of a fine son. Agnes Jarrold gave her a smile of thanks before lapsing into unconsciousness. The surgeon looked to his patient, the midwife wrapped the yowling infant in swaddling clothes and Margery was able to recall the existence of a husband.

When she went downstairs, she found Jonathan Jarrold trying to read a Greek lexicon to occupy his mind. After issuing a reprimand, Margery told him that he was a father once more and that mother and baby were in good health. The bookseller went weak at the knees with sheer relief and jabbered his gratitude in English, Latin and Greek. His sister-in-law cut through his trilingual hysteria.

‘What will the boy be called?’ she said.

‘The boy?’

‘Your son, you dolt! Children need names.’

‘We have not settled on one as yet.’

‘Then do so now, sir,’ insisted Margery, determined to wrest some contribution from him. ‘Your wife has risked her life to deliver a third child. This infant Jarrold should be dignified with a name. Pronounce it, sir!’

‘You have done so yourself, Margery,’ he said.

‘Have I?’

‘This is indeed a third child. Therein lies its name.’

‘Stop talking in Greek.’

‘I favour Latin.’

‘What?’

‘Richardus Tertius.’

‘An innocent babe called after a tedious play!’

‘No, Margery. Our son will be called Richard Jarrold.’

‘Richard III.’

‘Fortune favours us.’

‘A third time pays for all.’