The Mad Courtesan

Chapter Eight

Nicholas Bracewell strolled into the yard at the Queen’s Head to find that he was not, for once, the first member of the Westfield’s Men to arrive. Two figures stepped out of the morning mist to waylay him. Before he could even begin to defend himself, he was belaboured by their demands.

‘Stop him, Nick!’

‘Prevent this lunacy!’

‘Intercede on our behalf!’

‘Use your influence!’

‘Acquaint him with reason!’

‘Insist on Cupid’s Folly!’

‘Save our reputations!’

‘Save our company!’

‘Save our lives!’

Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill seldom agreed on anything so wholeheartedly. Again, though the playwright was a trusted friend of the book holder, the comedian most assuredly was not. To get either man there so early and so articulate was a wonder in itself. For the pair of them to be acting in concert — with Gill suppressing his dislike of Nicholas in order to appeal for his help — was a mark of real desperation. He let them rehearse their grievances without interruption and learnt of the fatal letter from Mistress Beatrice Capaldi. Convinced that conquest was now in the offing, Lawrence Firethorn had drawn the resident poet into his fledgling love affair.

‘He orders verses for his dark Italian!’ said Hoode with disgust. ‘I have plays to write for Westfield’s Men and he would have me charm his lady’s clothes off with rhyming couplets. My love poems will not serve his lust!’

‘Nor will I suffer for her sake!’ asserted Gill. ‘We chose my Rigormortis for The Theatre and that is what all London wishes to see. Are we to let some powdered female dictate our performances? I’ll not bear it, sirs!’

‘Lawrence must be told, Nick.’

‘If necessary, he must be threatened.’

‘He is sacrificing the whole company here.’

Nicholas was seriously disquieted. He shared their resistance to the intrusion of Beatrice Capaldi and was alarmed by the latest development. It came at a time when Westfield’s Men had to look to their laurels. Their rivals were winning applause on all sides as a dynastic tussle was replicated in the competition between the theatre companies. If Lawrence Firethorn were to lead his troupe on into a new reign, he needed to concentrate all his efforts to that end. There was no place in the scheme of things for a distraction like Beatrice Capaldi.

Barnaby Gill offered one solution to the problem.

‘Ride to Cambridge. Bring back Margery.’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘She would soon dampen his ardour.’

‘Wives do have their uses sometimes.’

‘She would tear him to pieces for his folly.’

‘Send word to her at once.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mistress Firethorn journeyed to Cambridge on an important errand and may be gone for weeks. She will not be prised away from her duty.’

Hoode shrugged helplessly. ‘What, then, is the answer?’

Nicholas calmed them down and agreed to tackle the actor-manager in due course. Whether she was ignoring him or tempting him, Beatrice Capaldi was having a detrimental effect on his company and it had to be pointed out to him. One more thankless task had been added to the book holder’s already long list. His approach needed careful thought.

It was an hour or more before Lawrence Firethorn came riding into the yard on his horse. He was a new man. Gone was the morose individual of the previous day who had been smarting at his rejection. In his place was a buoyant creature who overflowed with such geniality that he could even bestow a kindly smile upon Alexander Marwood, the doom-laden innkeeper of the Queen’s Head. Nicholas held back while the rehearsal was on, letting Firethorn expend some of his manic energy on the makeshift stage. When the book holder finally made his move, the actor was ready for him.

‘You waste your breath, Nick,’ he said. ‘Whatever vile arguments Edmund and Barnaby have thrust upon you, I’ll not hear them. We play Love’s Sacrifice at The Theatre. Aye, and Westfield’s Men will stage the piece three times a week if that is the only way to see my beloved Beatrice.’

Nicholas quickly shifted the argument to other ground.

‘King Gondar will need his funeral speech,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘Owen Elias must be wooed back.’

‘Never! The villain has been exiled.’

‘He will go elsewhere for employment, sir.’

‘Let the rogue!’

‘Even if he joins Banbury’s Men?’

‘The best place for him,’ said Firethorn scornfully. ‘A snake will be at home in a nest of vipers. Of one thing you may be certain, Nick.’ He drew himself up to his full height and spat the words out with venom. ‘Owen Elias will never again share a stage with Lawrence Firethorn!’

Giles Randolph sank once more into a vat of boiling oil at The Curtain and sent the audience into a frenzy of applause. The Spanish Jew had been given a spurious topicality by the turn of events and the resident playwright with Banbury’s Men had exploited the coincidence by adding some new scenes and speeches to the piece. Not only did the play excoriate all moneylenders and all Jews, it more clearly identified its central character with Dr Roderigo Lopez and implied a link between his knowledge of poisons and the continuing sickness of the Queen. Giles Randolph was as brilliant as ever but he now excited more hatred than amusement. The play had taken on a distinctly sinister and biting edge.

Humour was by no means expunged from The Spanish Jew. In the role of the Governor — chief adversary and scourge of the villain — Owen Elias managed to combine authority with comic daring. His authority flowed naturally from his stage presence but the humour arose from another source. Seasoned playgoers recognised his impersonation at once. Instead of giving a straight reading of the part, the Welshman mimicked the way that Lawrence Firethorn would have addressed it and the result was uncannily accurate. In appearance, voice and gesture, he was Firethorn to the last detail and the force of his mockery was irresistible. The packed audience at The Curtain was reduced to uncontrollable laughter. As his rival was turned into a figure of fun, Giles Randolph prospered accordingly. Everyone leaving the theatre thought him to be the greatest actor alive.

Lawrence Firethorn was mistaken. Owen Elias had shared a stage with him, after all.

Three more faultless performances in three carefully chosen inn yards had elevated the status of Cornelius Gant and Nimbus. They offered quality entertainment that appealed to a wide spectrum of people and word continued to spread. To give his horse a well-earned rest, Gant decided to explore some of the alternative diversions in the city and he was drawn ineluctably across the river and into Paris Garden. Stairs gave access from the Thames to this notorious place of amusement which abounded in trees, bushes, fishponds and illicit assignations. Cornelius Gant joined the crowd which converged on the wooden amphitheatre. Over a thousand spectators were crammed into the circular gamehouse for an afternoon’s sport. Having paid his twopence, Gant secured a prime place in the lower gallery. He missed nothing.

The audience was in a boisterous mood before the entertainment began but it became much more vocal when the first bear was led in. The animal’s legs were fastened to a stout post by thick chains, enabling it to move no more than a few yards in each direction. When the bearward stepped out of the arena, howling mastiffs were released to bait the hapless creature. They moved in swiftly to snap at its legs or lunge at its body or jump for its throat. Sharp teeth sank into thick fur and blood flowed freely. With the crowd yelling them on, the dogs increased the ferocity of their attack and the bear incurred deep wounds as it tried to fight them off. Its brute strength eventually began to tell. Flashing claws opened one dog up, snapping teeth tore the head off another and a third was crushed to death in a hug. As the carcasses were tossed to the ground, fresh mastiffs came in to take their place and renew the assault.

Cornelius Gant was appalled. Cruel and uncaring in many ways, he had a love of dumb animals that was deeply offended by what was happening. Almost as bad as the bestiality in the ring was the baying satisfaction of the multitude. It was all a far cry from the harmless antics of a well-trained horse and a considerate master.

When the first bear was white with lather and dripping with gore, it was taken out by the bearward. Whining dogs were dragged out on leashes to tick their wounds and rue any tactical errors. The new bear that was brought in had been blinded by its owner to provide another kind of sport for the bawling spectators. Chained to the post, the animal was faced by a semicircle of six men who were each armed with a long whip. On a given command, they began to beat the bear unmercifully, splitting open its flesh with patent relish as they piled torment on torment. All that it could do by way of defence was to lurch out at its hidden attackers and make the post shudder with its rattling chains. Cornelius Gant was even more horrified at this spectacle but he gained some consolatory pleasure when one of the men slipped, rolled in close to the bear and had his face ripped away with one savage cuff from the huge claws.

The popularity of the hideous entertainment could not be denied and it was not aimed at the vulgar taste of the lower sort. People from all classes of society were present and Gant saw shrieking ladies on the arms of their gallants as well as powdered punks being fondled by their clients. If he was shocked by the treatment of the bears, he was even more revolted by what followed. As a last sop to the bloodlust of the crowd, a pony was chased into the ring with a monkey tied to its back. The pony scurried around in a circle of pain as its rider bit, gouged and pulled at its mane but the monkey was the least of its problems. More dogs poured in to bite at the slender legs as they went faster and faster around the arena. Laughter and jeers sent the pony into an even deeper panic as it ran madly towards a vicious fate.

It was still vainly trying to shake off its pursuers as Cornelius Gant stalked out of the building in disgust.

Lord Westfield always took a keen interest in the fortunes of his theatre company but events in the royal household made that interest even more intense. Having watched a rousing performance of Hector of Troy at the Queen’s Head that afternoon, he repaired to his private room with a small entourage to partake of refreshment and to discuss plans for the future with the leading sharers. The noble gentleman might be vain and sybaritic but he was shrewd enough to discern the hand that worked so hard and so efficiently in the cause of Westfield’s Men. As a result, Nicholas Bracewell was invited to join the gathering and he hovered on its fringes. Lawrence Firethorn, restored to his best form by a message of love, lapped up the compliments and flirted gently with the two young ladies in the room. Barnaby Gill preened himself in a corner and Edmund Hoode lurked silently. There was a deal of idle chatter but Lord Westfield was the only person who was saying anything of value.

‘This illness of Her Majesty is inopportune,’ he said.

‘For whom?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Why, for Her Majesty, of course,’ risked Gill with a wicked grin that was instantly replaced by a mask of deep loyalty. ‘I respect our dear Queen as much as any man in the kingdom and I pray daily for her quick recovery.’

‘That may or may not come,’ said Westfield. ‘And we have to take the latter possibility into account. A change of monarch will mean a change of attitude towards the theatre. I would not want my company to be jeopardised.’

‘Indeed, no,’ agreed Firethorn with alarm.

‘What may we usefully do?’ said Gill.

‘We carry your name with honour,’ added Hoode.

Lord Westfield nodded. ‘I hope that you will continue to do so, Edmund, but dangers lie ahead. It needs cautious diplomacy on my part and some wise decisions on yours.’

‘You speak of dangers,’ said Firethorn.

His patron turned to the book holder to cue him in.

‘Tell them, Nicholas. You will know.’

‘But a little, my lord,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘If Her Majesty dies, there will be a disputed succession and many are now rushing forward to take part in that dispute. Each party has its own claimant from whom they expect due return on their devotion. The Earl of Banbury, for instance …’

‘That old fool!’ muttered Firethorn.

‘… has formed an alliance with the Earl of Chichester to advance the cause of Arabella Stuart. Should that lady ever sit on the throne, our rivals are like to be known henceforth as the Queen’s Men.’

The suggestion rocked the three sharers so hard that they all protested and gesticulated in unison. Their patron waved them into a troubled silence.

‘You see, gentlemen?’ he said. ‘Your book holder is more well informed than his masters. He can foresee consequences to this business. That is why I have formed my own alliance. Our chosen successor is King James of Scotland and our party is led by Sir Robert Cecil.’

His listeners were duly impressed. Sir Robert Cecil was Lord Burghley’s son and, despite his physical shortcomings, a most intelligent and able politician. With such a man at the helm, Lord Westfield’s party was indeed well served. At the same time, everyone recognised that the outcome of a disputed succession was highly uncertain. It was Nicholas Bracewell who remembered their patron’s earlier comment.

‘You mentioned wise decisions, my lord …’

‘I did,’ said the other. ‘Every move that you make must promote the company. Every play that you choose must endorse our party. Westfield’s Men must outshine all other troupes and cast those jackals of Banbury’s into outer darkness.’

‘It shall be done!’ announced Firethorn.

‘Where is our next performance, Lawrence?’

‘The Theatre in Shoreditch.’

‘An excellent venue for our purposes.’

‘Then let us stage Cupid’s Folly,’ urged Gill. ‘My Rigormortis will outshine the sun itself.’

Westfield shook his head. ‘No, Barnaby. The play is less than suitable for the gravity of the occasion.’

‘Most certainly, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why we have selected Love’s Sacrifice.’

‘It lends itself to our device. Edmund …’

‘My lord?’

‘Look to your text, man. See if you cannot add a speech or two in praise of Queen Elsin. Glorify her reign. Fawn and flatter at will. Let every soul in that theatre know that you speak of our own beloved sovereign.’

‘I’ll do it instantly, my lord.’

‘Lawrence?’

‘My lord?’

‘That funeral oration …’

‘It will be cut entirely.’

‘I’ll not hear of it,’ snapped his patron. ‘It gives us our best opportunity to voice our plans. King Gondar dies. The end of one reign is the start of another. Work subtly here, my fellows. Let that closing speech feed off the sorrow of a nation but make it advertise our intent.’

Firethorn grunted. ‘It shall be done, my lord.’

‘You have such a fine actor to speak the lines.’

‘Owen Elias has left us,’ said Nicholas softly.

‘Yes,’ said Gill, seizing the opportunity to discomfit his colleague. ‘Lawrence expelled him in spite of my earnest entreaties. I fought hard to retain the services of so talented a player.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘The rumour is that Owen Elias has joined Banbury’s Men.’

‘Can this be true?’ demanded the apoplectic Westfield. ‘Answer me, Lawrence! Tell me it is not so!’

‘Well, my lord …’

‘Can you be guilty of such idiocy?’

Lawrence Firethorn had to stand there while his patron openly admonished him. It was humiliating. The actor was given such a verbal roasting that he was reminded with horrible force of his absent wife.

Margery Firethorn had come into her own. A long and boring wait now gave way to frantic activity. She had a new baby to nurture, a sister to care for, a brother-in-law to scold and a house to run. The cloistered calm of Cambridge was hit by the whirlwind of her presence. She bustled through its streets, haggled in its markets, scattered its citizens and terrorised any of its students who strayed into her path. A city that was marked by its Puritan restraint now felt the full impact of her devastating maternalism.

Weak but happy, Agnes Jarrold lay in her bed and raised a pale hand in a gesture of gratitude.

‘You have been very kind, Margery,’ she said.

‘I have done what needs to be done.’

‘We could not have managed without you.’

‘The child is healthy. That is my reward.’

‘Jonathan joins with me in giving thanks.’

‘Your bookworm of a spouse can thank me best by keeping out of my way. Men have no place at such times. Fatherhood is no more than a stupid grin on the face of the foolish.’

‘Do not be so scornful,’ said Agnes tolerantly. ‘Your husband was welcome enough in your bedchamber when your own children were born.’

‘He was far more welcome when they were conceived,’ said Margery with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Present a man with a child and he becomes one himself again.’

‘That is true, sister. Jonathan is a boy of three.’

‘I did not think him so old.’

The baby stirred in its crib and Margery leant over to tuck it in. Tears clouded the mother’s eyes as she looked at her tiny son. After losing two children to the grave, she viewed the survival of the third as a very special blessing. Her sister’s help and brisk affection had been decisive.

‘You must miss Lawrence greatly,’ said Agnes.

‘Only when I look at your husband.’

‘Lawrence must pine for you as well.’

‘I do not delude myself on that score.’

‘His life must be hideously empty without you.’

Margery Firethorn mixed wistfulness with resentment.

‘Lawrence has a way of filling empty spaces …’

Beatrice Capaldi reclined in a chair at the head of the table. She and her guests had dined royally off silver plate and tasted only the finest wines. The gentlemen caressed her with compliments while the ladies envied her poise and her mystery. In a small but select gathering, the hostess was supremely dominant. Beatrice Capaldi lived for display and effect. She savoured the power she could exert over others.

There was a tap on the door and a maidservant came in to whisper something in her ear. She excused herself and got up to sail gracefully across the room and out into the hall. The man who was waiting bowed obsequiously then handed her the playbill which he had taken down from a post in Shoreditch. Dismissing him with a flick of her fingers, she studied what he had brought her and saw that it was an advertisement for a performance of Love’s Sacrifice to be given at The Theatre. Beatrice Capaldi smiled. She had won the desired response from Lawrence Firethorn. While the spectators would be visiting a play, she would be going to a tryst. Preparations would need to be thorough.

‘Summon my dressmaker!’ she ordered.

‘Now, mistress?’ said the maidservant.

‘This instant!’

The same playbill gave Giles Randolph a different message.

‘We have him, Owen!’ he said.

‘Do we, sir?’

‘He plays at The Theatre and we at The Curtain.’

‘Shoreditch will host the two best actors in London.’

‘No,’ corrected Randolph. ‘The Curtain will have that honour. We present Giles Randolph and Lawrence Firethorn.’

Owen Elias understood. ‘The Spanish Jew?’

‘What else, man? The play is everywhere in request. We have but to announce it to fill our theatre. The audience will come to hiss Dr Lopez and mock Firethorn. To have your old employer in Shoreditch on the same afternoon completes my joy. While he struggles to hold attention with Love’s Sacrifice, we’ll cut his reputation to shreds.’ He gave his companion a token embrace. ‘Repeat your ridicule of him, sir. Banbury’s Men will be indebted to you for ever.’

‘Then let me remind you of your promise, master.’

‘To be sure, to be sure …’

‘This role of mine was to win me a place as a sharer in your company,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I would wish that confirmed with all due haste.’

‘And so it shall be,’ agreed Randolph airily. ‘When we have put Firethorn to flight, you’ll be drawn in among us as a partner in the enterprise.’

‘When may I see the contract?’ pressed the other.

‘My attorney will draw it up in due course.’

Owen Elias was content. His future was assured.

Nicholas Bracewell arrived at the Tower to find Andrew Carrick in conversation with a plump individual who stood no more than five feet in height. The newcomer was introduced to Harry Fellowes and he made the most of the fortuitous encounter with the Clerk of Ordnance.

‘Master Carrick owes his sanity to you,’ said Nicholas.

‘Does he so?’

‘You are his window on the outside world, sir.’

‘Indeed, you are,’ confirmed Carrick.

‘You allow him to see beyond this bleak prison.’

Fellowes nodded fussily. ‘He should never have been committed to the Tower. The least I can do is to offer my friendship and purvey my gossip.’

‘It is much appreciated,’ said Nicholas, ‘and a ready source of wonder. Master Carrick tells me that you know the very nerves of state and hear the faintest stirrings at the Palace. Is there news of Her Majesty?’

‘None to cheer us, Master Bracewell. She fades.’

‘These are grim tidings,’ said Carrick.

‘For some,’ observed Nicholas, ‘but not for all.’

‘Yes,’ said Fellowes. ‘The court is one loud buzz of rumour. There are those who would put a new monarch on the throne before the old one has yet departed. They wonder who will rise, who fall, who will be ennobled, who disgraced. It is no time to lack friends or money to buy that friendship.’

‘What of Her Majesty’s favourites?’ asked Nicholas.

‘They are thrown into a frenzy,’ said the other, warming to his theme. ‘The Queen has spread her bounty far and wide. Robin Dudley may be dead and the dancing Hatton may have followed him to Heaven but there are still many others who hang by the thread of Her Majesty’s indulgence.’

‘Oxford, for one,’ suggested Carrick.

Fellowes was dismissive. ‘Edward de Vere does not merit her favour. He is too tiresome and quarrelsome a fellow. She will be well quit of Oxford. Raleigh is another matter. He is distraught at her illness. The Earl of Essex is likewise shocked but he seeks to turn it to his advantage. Then there is Lord Mountjoy and half a dozen like him. Royal favourites who fear that the favours will cease …’

Nicholas Bracewell and Andrew Carrick were fascinated by the depth of his knowledge and by the breadth of his indiscretion. They fed him questions and got details of scandal and intrigue by reply. Harry Fellowes was a zealous collector of gossip who loved to distribute it freely among friends. It was only when Nicholas quizzed him about the Earl of Chichester that the Clerk of Ordnance backed off. He had said all he intended on the subject. Taking his leave of the two men, he rolled off to his official duties.

Carrick immediately switched his enquiries to an area that had more import for him. Nicholas explained how he had fared on his most recent foray into Clerkenwell. The lawyer was both excited and anxious.

‘You get closer to the murderer each time,’ he said, ‘but I would not have you get too close, Master Bracewell. Remember what befell my son. Keep dear Sebastian in mind.’

‘I do so at all times.’

‘What is your next move?’

‘It must not be rushed,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now that I have located the woman, she must be confronted but only when I have more evidence. It is not she who struck the murderous blow, though her wound was left on Sebastian’s body. She has an accomplice, sir. My next task is to smoke him out.’

‘Go armed, sir.’

‘I will.’

‘Take company for your further security.’

‘It is arranged.’

‘And find this damn rogue!’

‘I found him once already.’

‘What manner of man is he?’

‘A frightened one,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘He knows that I am looking for him.’

Frances lay half asleep and half naked on the bed in her little room at the Pickt-hatch. Marked by the violence of her loving, her last client of the night bumped his way down the stairs in a state of blissful discomfort. An hour in the arms of Frances had been true value for money. He carried his scratches with pride and his memories with boastful honour. She would be sought out again on his next visit to Clerkenwell. As he blundered out into the street, the client turned to glance up at the bedchamber he had just vacated and blew a chaste kiss up to it. He then tottered off down Turnmill Street with the words of some lewd refrain on his lips.

The man who lurked in the shadows watched him until he was out of sight and then stared up at the same window with sturdy patience. Frances appeared long enough to give a signal before she drew the ragged curtain across again. The man hurried into the building. He was a short, ugly creature in his thirties with a compressed power in his squat frame. He wore a simple buff jerkin, hose and cap. When he entered her room with a proprietary swagger, the candle illumined an unprepossessing face into which a large nose had been thrust like a squashed tomato. Beady eyes went first to the money on the little table. Frances watched with trepidation as he counted it out but she relaxed when she saw his thin smile of approval. She was safe.

Tired but comforted, she soon lay in his brawny arms.

‘It was a long night,’ she murmured.

‘Long nights pay.’

‘They were all satisfied.’

‘That left no work for me.’

‘You were there.’

Frances snuggled up to him like a child in need of a parent’s love and protection. Her snarling vitality had gone to sleep now and only her vulnerable youth remained awake. He squeezed her tightly with an indifferent affection. She lay in the dark and recalled other nights in another doomed bedchamber. The shivering returned. When his snoring began, she talked to herself.

‘My mother was fifteen when I was born. I watched her bring man after man into her bed. Some liked her, some loved her and some even paid her. But others beat her. There was something about my mother that made men beat her for sport. I watched. They took all she had then rewarded her with their fists and their feet. She spilt much blood for her profession then one day there was no more to spill.’ The shivering was at its height. ‘I swore over her grave that it would never happen to me. They would pay for their pleasure or they would suffer. Those who cheated me would never get the chance to do it again. Thanks to you, sir …’

Frances nestled against him and his snoring deepened. She was about to doze off herself when a worry surfaced.

‘What about him, sir?’ she whispered. ‘That man who came searching with a portrait of his dead friend. He will one day return. What shall we do?’

Her companion rolled over until she was subjected to the full crushing weight of his body. Her shivering stopped and she was able to sleep in peace. All was well.

Queen Elizabeth remained out of sight but not out of mind. Her prolonged absence served only to inflame speculation. When she cancelled appointments with foreign ambassadors, her sickness was established beyond all reasonable doubt. A clever linguist and a skilful diplomat, she loved to deal with emissaries in their native tongue and confound them with her grasp of the political niceties. Her Majesty revelled in all things majestic. To forego her most enjoyable duties argued the seriousness of her condition. It served to put a frenetic energy into the negotiations that were now whirring away all over London.

‘Show me the letter, Roger.’

‘I have it right here, sir.’

‘When was it delivered?’

‘It arrived post haste this morning.’

Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, now held daily meetings with the inner circle of his party. The Earl of Banbury was the first to be given sight of the missive which had been sent from Hardwick Hall by its formidable owner, the Countess of Shrewsbury. Grandmother to the next Queen of England, she was doing her duty with admirable thoroughness.

My good Lord, I am much troubled to think that wicked and mischievous practices may be devised to entrap my poor Arabella and to rob her of her inheritance. Your warnings on this account have been observed to the letter. I will not have any unknown or suspected person to come to my house. Upon the least suspicion that may happen here, any way, I shall give advertisement to your lordship. Arabella walks not late; at such time as she shall take the air, it shall be near the house, and well attended on. She goes not to any other dwelling at all. I see her almost every hour of the day. She lies in my bedchamber. If I can be more precise than I have been, I will be. I am bound in nature to be careful for Arabella, and I find her loving and dutiful towards me. She understands our hopes for her future and will do all that you may ask of her through me. Doubt not that this business will have a joyous conclusion from which both we and the whole kingdom will draw benefit …

The Earl of Banbury returned the letter and nodded.

‘This could not bring more content,’ he said smugly.

‘If only Bess would not harp on about herself.’

‘We must give the old mare her head.’

‘The filly is our concern,’ said Chichester with a wry chuckle. ‘Queen she may well be but virgin she will not stay. We must find a husband for her bed in good time.’

‘The Duke of Parma offered his son.’

‘The young man died with fear.’

‘There are other dukes with other sons.’

‘Italian? French?’

‘Spanish even.’ He pondered. ‘No, not Spain.’

‘Should we look to Holland or Germany?’

‘There are possibilities enough on our own soil, Roger.’

‘Then that is our way,’ said Chichester, standing to attention with military suddenness. ‘Arabella will try one and try all till she find the man most fitted for her lusty purposes. She can roll through the bedchambers of Europe.’

Banbury grinned. ‘Royal business indeed!’

‘Let her marry four of them like her grandmother!’

‘Observe some decorum here, sir. You talk of the future Queen of England.’

‘Elizabeth has her favourites — why not Arabella?’

‘Would you turn our sovereign into a species of whore?’

‘Why not?’ said Chichester with a hint of soldierly coarseness. ‘I believe that every woman should mix a little lunacy with her loving.’

Banbury was amused. ‘A roving monarch in search of a mate. Bedding the noblest youth in all Europe.’

‘Arabella Stuart — Queen of England!’

‘A mad courtesan!’