The Vagabond Clown

Chapter Four

Lawrence Firethorn had always flattered himself that he had the loudest voice in London so he was both surprised and disconcerted when there was such a strong challenge to his primacy. In volume and intensity, Barnaby Gill’s exclamation was truly impressive.

‘Giddy Mussett!’ he roared.

‘Calm down, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury.’

‘I’ll do Mussett an injury if he dares to usurp me. I’ll tear that miserable impostor limb from limb then set his head upon a spike for all to see. How can you even think of such a stratagem, Lawrence?’ he demanded. ‘I’d never yield my place to him.’

‘You’re in no position to hold it yourself.’

‘Then promote someone from within the company.’

‘Who?’

‘James Ingram, Rowland Carr, even Owen here.’

‘None of us can hold a candle to you, Barnaby,’ said Elias.

‘I’d sooner George Dart acted as my shadow than let Giddy Musett within a mile of any role I call my own. God’s blood!’ howled Gill, unwisely smacking his injured leg for emphasis and producing a spasm of pain. ‘Why treat me so barbarously?’

Firethorn looked across at Elias but said nothing. The two men had called at Gill’s lodging to enquire after his health and explain that they would be leaving on tour the following day. They kept the mention of Mussett’s name until the end. It was received with frothing disbelief.

‘It’s a veritable nightmare,’ said Gill, staring ahead with widened eyes. ‘There is only one man in the world whom I detest utterly and you choose him to supplant me.’

‘He merely helps us out of a dilemma,’ said Firethorn.

‘And what about me?’

‘We hoped that this news might please you, Barnaby.’

‘Please me!’ spluttered Gill. ‘Nothing is more certain to displease me. Imagine how you would feel if we replaced Lawrence Firethorn with Alexander Marwood.’

‘Heaven forbid!’

‘This is far more than a mere insult. It’s a betrayal of everything that I have done for Westfield’s Men. Do you not understand that?’

‘What we understand,’ said Firethorn with a soothing smile, ‘is that we are about to take the wonder of our work to various parts of Kent. Our reputation goes before us, Barnaby, and it rests just as much on our comic skills as upon anything else. How can we keep that reputation if we have no clown?’

‘By finding someone else,’ said Gill, ‘but it does not have to be Giddy Mussett.’

‘I fear that it does.’

‘Nobody else is available,’ explained Elias. ‘Clowns of your quality are in short supply, Barnaby. And plays such as Mirth and Madness, Love’s Sacrifice or even A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady would have been impossible without a capable substitute for you. We scratched our heads for ages until Nick Bracewell came up with the answer.’

Gill was rancorous. ‘Yes, I thought this might be Nick’s doing.’

‘He was the person who tracked Giddy Mussett down for us.’

‘In which leaping house did he find him?’

‘None, Barnaby. Giddy was keeping his art in repair by entertaining the other prisoners in King’s Bench Prison. An unpaid debt led to his arrest.’

‘Then how is he able to take up your invitation?’ When both visitors looked uneasy, Gill’s ire reached a new peak. ‘You discharged his debt?’ he asked with incredulity. ‘When that mangy cur is finally locked in his rightful kennel, you actually pay money to get him out again? This beggars belief! Do the other sharers know that you plundered our limited funds in order to bring about this outrage? That you dared to replace me with a fornicating drunkard who’ll brawl his way across Kent with you?’

Firethorn was shamefaced. He had anticipated a hostile response when he broke the news to Gill and he had taken Elias with him in order to deflect some of the anger that would be inevitably produced. What he had not expected was the white-faced rage that greeted his announcement. Propped up on his bed, Gill seemed to forget that he was an invalid and waved his arms violently whenever he spoke. In the confined space of the room, the clown’s fury was markedly increased and he seemed beyond the reach of any reason. Firethorn sought to check the verbal assault by changing the subject.

‘His name was Fortunatus Hope,’ he said.

‘Whose name?’ grunted Gill.

‘The man who was stabbed to death at the Queen’s Head. Nick spoke to our patron about him though he got precious little help. Lord Westfield showed scant sympathy for his friend. He was more concerned about his own skin.’

‘Be fair, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘Master Hope was a newcomer to his circle. Lord Westfield did promise to find out more about the fellow. Nick is due to see our patron again to learn what information has come to light.’

Gill curled a lip. ‘Nick Bracewell has been busy,’ he sneered. ‘Searching the prisons of London for Giddy Mussett and poking his nose into a murder that is of no concern at all to him.’

‘It’s of concern to him and to all of us,’ asserted Firethorn.

‘I’ll not lose sleep over it.’

‘You should, Barnaby.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were directly involved in the crime.’

‘How could I be, Lawrence? I was myself a victim.’

‘We all were,’ said Firethorn. ‘I did not realise it until Nick Bracewell pointed it out to me. The affray was not simply a means of wrecking our performance. It caused a commotion that served to hide a foul murder. The villain who killed Fortunatus Hope was in league with the devils who ruined our play.’

‘Ruined our play,’ repeated Gill morosely, ‘and broke my leg.’

‘Master Hope’s fate was far worse than yours,’ said Elias. ‘Remember that. Which would you prefer — a broken leg or a dagger in your back?’

‘Oh, I’d choose the dagger every time, Owen. At least, it would have saved me from the indignities you pile upon me. To be replaced by Giddy Mussett is a living death. Give me oblivion instead,’ declared Gill. ‘I’d suffer no pain and disgrace in the grave.’

Anne Hendrik was not looking forward to the morning. A night of shared tenderness in the arms of Nicholas Bracewell had left her feeling vulnerable. She always missed him sorely when he was away from London and this time his absence promised to be longer than usual. Knowing that he would only be in Kent, she had toyed with the notion of travelling to the county herself to watch one or more of the performances but the demands of her work were too pressing. Anne was the widow of a Dutch hatmaker, who developed a business in Southwark because the guilds prevented him, along with other immigrants, from operating within the city boundaries. When Jacob Hendrik died, his English wife not only took over from him, she discovered skills that she did not know she possessed. In the early stages, however, before her prudent management led to increased prosperity, she took in a lodger to defray expenses. Nicholas Bracewell soon became much more than a man who slept under her own roof yet he never threatened her independence or forfeited his own. It was an ideal relationship for both of them.

‘Will you be sorry to leave?’ she asked him.

‘I’m always sad to leave you, Anne,’ he replied, slipping an arm around her, ‘but there’s no remedy for it. The Queen’s Head is closed to us and we have no other playhouse in London. We are fortunate to have invitations that take us to Kent.’

She snuggled up against him. ‘You have an invitation here as well.’

‘True, but I could hardly share that with the whole company.’ Anne laughed and he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘There is, I confess, another reason that makes me want to tarry.’

‘Am I not reason enough?’ she said with mock annoyance.

‘You are the best reason I ever met in my life, Anne.’

‘Then I’m content to let you go.’

Nicholas became serious. ‘What irks me as well is that I’ll be unable to look more closely into the murder that took place. For the sake of Westfield’s Men, it’s a crime I would dearly love to solve.’

‘But the victim has no link with the company.’

‘Master Hope was a friend of our patron.’

‘From what you told me, he sounds more like an acquaintance. Someone who was on the very fringe of Lord’s Westfield’s entourage.’

‘It matters not,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered during our performance.’

‘That does not mean you have to be involved in finding the killer, Nick.’

‘I believe that it does. We are implicated here. I’m certain that the riot and the murder were linked,’ he went on, sitting up in bed. ‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady was not merely interrupted to provide cover for a sly murder. It was stopped with a purpose. Someone wanted to inflict harm on us as well as on Fortunatus Hope.’

‘How do you reach that conclusion?’

‘Look at the situation, Anne,’ he suggested. ‘Master Hope is singled out an enemy who means to kill him. Why choose to do the deed in broad daylight at the Queen’s Head? It would have been so much easier to dispatch him quietly in some dark alley or while he slept at night. Do you follow my reasoning?’

‘I think so.’

‘Why go to the trouble of setting up that array? Those lads who started it were no doubt paid well for their work. Why take on such an expense unless there was a double intent?’

‘To strike at Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘They struck with cruel accuracy,’ noted Nicholas. ‘Our performance was abandoned, our property damaged, our actors injured. Hundreds of spectators were demanding their money back. And to add to our woes, the landlord expelled us from his inn and vowed that we’d never play there again.’

‘He has done that before, Nick, on more than one occasion.’

‘My argument holds. Someone was definitely trying to wound us.’

‘A rival, perhaps?’

‘We shall never know until we find the motive behind Master Hope’s death.’

‘I thought that Lord Westfield offered to help you there.’

‘He did,’ said Nicholas. ‘He undertook to speak to someone who might give us more detail about the dead man. But all he learnt was that Fortunatus Hope had a wife and family in Oxford, whom he neglected shamefully in order to pursue his pleasures in London. Master Hope, it seems, was a pleasant individual, popular with friends and agreeable to strangers. Since he went out of his way to avoid an argument, it’s difficult to see how he could have upset someone enough to make them contemplate murder.’ Church bells nearby began to chime the hour. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Six o’clock in the morning and all I can talk about is the stabbing of a playgoer. What kind of conversation is that with which to depart?’

‘You do not have to go just yet, Nick.’

‘I’ll not stay abed much longer.’

‘Long enough to answer me this,’ said Anne with a smile. ‘Remind me of the play that was so brutally foreshortened. I have forgotten its title.’

‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady.’

‘Do you know of such a trick?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Why? Is there a chaste lady at hand?’

‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘The play is a comedy.’

‘I’ll not object to laughter.’

‘What will you object to, Anne?’ he asked, taking her in his arms.

‘Only your departure.’

And she kissed him on the lips as evidence of her sincerity.

On previous occasions when they were about to quit the city, Westfield’s Men assembled as a rule at the Queen’s Head but that was an inappropriate meeting place this time. Evicted from their home in Gracechurch Street, they instead gathered across the river in Southwark, choosing the White Hart as their point of departure. Wives, children, friends, relatives, mistresses and, in some cases, even parents, came to send them off. Three wagons had been hired to transport the company and some, like Lawrence Firethorn, brought their own horses. The fine weather over the preceding week meant that they could expect hard, dry, rutted roads that would bruise a few buttocks as they rumbled along, but which was far preferable to being at the mercy of driving rain on muddy tracks. The omens were good.

Having walked with Anne Hendrik the short distance from her house, Nicholas Bracewell was touched to see that the small crowd included some of the hired men who would not even be taking part in the tour yet who had come to wish their fellows well on the journey. It had been the book holder’s task to inform the actors of their fate and it was a sombre experience. Talented men had been left behind because economies had to be made. Reduced in size, the company would be discarding some who would not work again until Westfield’s Men returned to the capital. Actors were not lone victims. Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was too old and frail to cope with the exigencies of travel and there was no place either for such loyal souls as Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, and Hugh Wegges, the tireman. Their functions would fall to other, less practised, hands.

Margery Firethorn had made the long trip from Shoreditch so that her husband would have a wife and children to wave him off. Her face was set in an expression of quiet resignation but she brightened as soon as she saw Nicholas approaching. After rushing across to hug him, she kissed Anne in greeting and nudged her playfully.

‘You have chosen the handsomest man in the company,’ she said.

Anne smiled. ‘We chose each other, Margery.’

‘That’s how it should be. You are blessed in her, Nick.’

‘I’m in no danger of forgetting that,’ he assured her. ‘Anne reminded me of it only this morning. But you must excuse me,’ he said, as new faces arrived. ‘I must make an inventory of who is here and who is yet to come.’

Margery watched him go then stood close enough to Anne to whisper to her.

‘I’m surprised that you two have never wed,’ she confided.

‘How do you know that we have not?’ teased Anne.

‘Because I would see it in your face. If he were mine, I’d drag him to the altar.’

‘Nick is not a person to be dragged anywhere.’

‘He dotes on you, Anne.’

‘Would marriage secure or spoil his devotion?’

‘An apt question,’ conceded Margery, glancing at her husband. ‘Lawrence’s passion has never waned but I can only count on it when we share our bed. Let him venture outside London and he becomes a lusty bachelor. You’ll have no cause to doubt Nick but I’ll not be able to show a like trust in my husband.’

‘You should, Margery. Whenever they are abroad, Nick says, Lawrence never ceases to mention your name with fondness.’

‘Only when his guilt stirs.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘he’s guilty at having to leave you behind.’

She looked across at Firethorn and saw him enjoying a few last moments of fatherhood. His two sons were sitting astride his horse while he chatted with them. Anne’s gaze moved to Edmund Hoode, who was talking earnestly with Owen Elias, then on to Nicholas. He had taken control with his usual efficiency. After counting heads, he was helping George Dart to check the list of scenery, properties and costumes that would be making the journey to Kent. Anne’s surge of pride was matched by her sense of loss. It was inspiring to see Nicholas at work with the troupe. He was in his element and everyone treated him with respect. When she remembered that she would not be seeing him for some weeks, a tremor ran through her. Margery’s hand went to her arm.

‘Be brave, Anne,’ she urged. ‘The first night is the worst.’

Nicholas himself was not looking that far ahead. He had a more immediate concern. When he was satisfied that the wagons had been correctly loaded, he turned to look for missing persons again. Three had been absent at the first count and he was relieved to see that both James Ingram and Rowland Carr had now appeared. However, he was disturbed when there was still no sign of the latest addition to the troupe. He was not alone in being worried about Gideon Mussett. Hoode came anxiously across to him.

‘Where is he, Nick?’ he asked.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Nicholas with conviction.

‘And if he does not come?’

‘Then I take the blame squarely on my shoulders, Edmund.’

‘I feared that this might happen.’

‘Have faith. He gave me his word.’

‘Only when he was sober,’ said Hoode, glancing around. ‘And how long will sobriety last when he has so many taverns in which to get drunk? If he is here, I suspect that he’s lying in a stupor in the Bear, the George or the Tabard. This street is a very heaven for a thirsty man. Have you searched the taprooms yet?’

‘There’s no need of that. I warned him to avoid ale.’

‘Then he will drink sack or Canary wine instead.’

‘He’s no money to buy either,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s been bound to a contract that obliges him to curtail his pleasures. If he refuses to obey, he’ll end up back in the jail from which we plucked him.’ He pointed to prison buildings nearby. ‘That may be the answer, Edmund,’ he continued, his spirits reviving. ‘I should have used more care before I nominated the White Hart as our meeting place. What man would wish to return to the very shadow of the place where he was imprisoned? That’s why Giddy is not here. He’ll meet us further down the road where ugly memories are not so easily revived.’

‘We will be the ones with ugly memories, if he lets us down.’

‘That will not happen. He needs work.’

‘Perhaps he’s gone to seek it elsewhere.’

‘I put my trust in him, Edmund.’

Hoode gave a nod. ‘Then I put my trust in your judgement.’

No sooner had the playwright moved away than Firethorn strutted across. He was beaming regally at all and sundry but his eyes were darting nervously. Grabbing Nicholas by the arm, he took him aside.

‘What time did you tell the rogue to be here?’ he asked.

‘Upon the stroke of eight.’

‘It’s almost half an hour past that.’

‘Something has, perchance, delayed him.’

Firethorn was scornful. ‘Some fat whore in red taffeta no doubt!’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Giddy has not gone down that path. We must remember all those nights he spent in prison when he could barely snatch an hour’s sleep, and that in the greatest discomfort. If anything delays him, it’s pure fatigue.’

‘Where did he lodge?’

‘He said he would stay with a friend.’

‘What friend?’ demanded Firethorn. ‘Where does he live? Giddy Mussett is as slippery as a wet ferret. You should not have let him out of your sight, Nick.’

‘He swore to me that he’d be here.’

‘Then where, in God’s name, is the saucy rascal?’

The answer came from behind him. Shutters opened on the window of an upstairs room in the White Hart and a startling figure was revealed. Giddy Mussett was dressed from head to foot in bright yellow garments and wore a blue hat that rose up in a point until it reached the tiny bell at its extremity. In case anyone was not aware of his sudden appearance, Mussett put a fist to his mouth and blew a token fanfare. All eyes turned to look up at him and he revelled in the attention.

‘Good morrow, friends!’ he called. ‘Giddy Mussett is sorry to keep you waiting. He had important business to complete within the tavern here but he is now ready to join you on your wondrous journey into Kent.’ He swayed slightly. ‘I’m privileged to be a member of Westfield’s Men and I hope you’ll welcome me with open hearts.’

Nicholas was both pleased and alarmed to see him, reassured that the clown had actually turned up but distressed by the way that he was slurring his words. Firethorn looked on with disgust.

‘The fellow’s drunk!’ he protested.

‘I think not.’

‘Look at the way he is swaying.’

‘He’s here and we should be grateful.’

‘Get him down, Nick.’

It was a pointless command. Before Nicholas could even move towards the tavern, Mussett contrived his own dramatic exit from the establishment. After waving happily to the crowd below, he seemed to lose his balance and fall headfirst through the window. There was a gasp of horror from all those below. Had they lost their new clown at the very moment they had been introduced to him? Would his blood be spattered all over the ground? Their fears were unfounded. Turning a somersault in the air, Mussett landed on his feet with catlike certainty. He doffed the hat that had stayed miraculously on his head and grinned wickedly at his audience.

‘Giddy is not quite so giddy, my friends,’ he announced in an unwavering voice. ‘I’m as sober as the best among you and ready to share in your great adventure.’

Elias led the applause. ‘It was all a jest!’ he shouted.

Nicholas did not join in the general laughter. Relieved that Mussett was there, he was quietly angry at the way they had all been kept waiting so that the clown could make an impact on his first appearance. He resolved to make his feelings known to Mussett when they had a chance to speak alone. Firethorn, on the other hand, had no such reservations about their new clown.

‘Welcome to the company,’ he said, striding forward to shake Mussett’s hand. ‘We are pleased to have you with us, Giddy.’

‘Not as pleased as I am to be here, Master Firethorn.’

‘You were born to entertain.’

‘Laughter is meat and drink to me.’

Replacing his hat, he executed a little dance then did a handstand to show off the two bells attached to his heels. After clicking them several times to pick out a simple tune, he rolled forward and sprang to his feet. Another round of clapping broke out and he bowed to acknowledge it. Mussett had achieved an instant popularity. Other members of the company gathered around to offer their own welcome. Some, like Elias and Hoode, already knew him but most were meeting the newcomer for the first time. Mussett’s gratitude was obvious. While others were still locked away in the filthy cell at the King’s Bench Prison, he was about to set out with the most celebrated theatre company of them all. His commitment to Westfield’s Men seemed wholehearted.

Nicholas was keen to be on the way. There was a long journey ahead of them and a protracted leave-taking would only produce more sadness among those left behind. After giving Anne a kiss of farewell, he called the others to order and told them to clamber aboard the wagons that had been allotted to them. A flurry of embraces with loved ones followed before the departing actors were ready. Nicholas signalled to Mussett to join him on the first wagon and the four apprentices were delighted to have the clown beside them. Firethorn, Elias and James Ingram mounted their horses. For reasons that remained undisclosed, Hoode had decided to travel on a donkey. They were all sorry to be leaving the comforts of London and the security of their playhouse at the Queen’s Head. Travel would be arduous and it was uncertain how well they would be received in the various towns where they intended to play. Unseen hazards might lie ahead. Subduing their individual fears, they put on a brave face for their departure.

At the last moment, however, it was unexpectedly delayed. Out of the stream of traffic that had been rattling south over London Bridge since dawn came a small cart that was moving at some speed. The driver, a stout man in his fifties, yelled aloud and waved to them with his whip. When he reached the wagons, he took his cart in a circle before bringing it to a halt. Lying on straw in the rear and propped up on a leather trunk was Barnaby Gill, his broken leg still held fast between splints.

‘Wait!’ he called. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘That’s madness, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn.

‘I insist. If someone else is to take my roles, I wish to be there to make sure that he does not abuse them.’ His eye flicked over the assembly. ‘Where is the knave?’

‘Here, Barnaby,’ said Mussett, standing up to give him a cheerful wave. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘I take no delight in seeing you,’ said Gill sharply. ‘Now, help me, someone. Get me and my baggage off this cart and onto the most comfortable wagon.’

‘Is it wise to travel in that condition?’ asked Nicholas.

‘If both my legs were broken, I’d happily endure the pain.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘We’ll not let you suffer so, Barnaby. We’re actors. We have no skills as nurses. You need care and attention.’

‘I need to be sure that no threadbare clown will try to displace me.’

‘You will only be in the way, man.’

‘That’s my intention, Lawrence.’

‘Do not be so perverse,’ said Hoode, bringing his donkey alongside the cart. ‘Why give yourself further grief? You’ll get no pleasure from what you see, only the anguish of hearing another being applauded in your stead.’

‘You penned those roles for me, Edmund. I want to protect my property.’

‘It would be more sensible to protect your injured leg.’

‘My mind is made up.’

Hoode and Firethorn tried to persuade him of the folly of his decision but he was adamant. As a leading sharer with the troupe, Gill had rights that he was not prepared to cede to anyone. When the argument reached its peak, it was Mussett who ran across to join in. Alone of those present, he offered encouragement.

‘Welcome, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘Travel beside me in my wagon.’

‘Anywhere but that!’ snapped Gill.

‘But we could discuss the roles I have to play.’

‘Never!’

‘I could explain to you how I’ll outshine you in each and every one.’

‘Keep away from me, Giddy.’

‘Would you not like to have me as your nurse?’

‘I’d sooner eat your night soil!’

Mussett cackled. ‘A herbal remedy that cures all ills, I do assure you.’

Nicholas intervened to separate the two men, sending Mussett back to the first wagon then trying his best to make Gill reconsider his decision. It was all to no avail. The company was forced to accept an additional member on its tour. With the utmost care, Gill was carried across to the last of the wagons with his baggage and made as comfortable as was possible. He sat there with a grim smile on his face. Firethorn had profound misgivings. He turned to Nicholas.

‘I spy danger ahead,’ he confided, rolling his eyes. ‘There is only one thing worse than having no clown.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having two of them.’