The Mad Courtesan (15 page)

‘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.