The Mad Courtesan (6 page)

Nicholas kept a tactful silence while his employer vented his self-pity. They then strolled back together along Bishopsgate Street towards the city walls. Firethorn had been sobered. Instead of cantering in through Bishopsgate itself in search of his first conquest, he was leading his horse somnolently along and wondering how he would face the barbed gibes of Barnaby Gill. When his fury had blown itself
out, he turned as ever to Nicholas for counsel. The latter argued that their first priority was to contact Andrew Carrick to inform him of the death of his son. Firethorn agreed at once and undertook to solicit the help of their patron, Lord Westfield, to gain admittance to the Tower. He offered to visit the prisoner with Nicholas but the book holder insisted on going alone. Out of consideration to the bereaved father, he would keep a vain actor away from him and save an already painful situation from becoming an agony.

As they merged with the jostling crowd which pressed in through the gate, an immediate problem exercised Firethorn.

‘What of
Love’s Sacrifice?
’ he asked.

‘It will have its hour at The Rose.’

‘Sebastian was to have played Benvolio.’

‘Assign the role to someone else.’

‘Edmund has written the part with him in mind.’

‘A good actor will trim the role to suit himself,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we have the ideal substitute in Owen Elias.’

Firethorn was dismissive. ‘He is not competent.’

‘He proved his mettle in
Marriage and Mischief.
’

‘A harmless romp of no consequence.
Love’s Sacrifice
is richer material. It is drama in a tragic vein.’

‘Then Owen elects himself. Tragedy is his strength.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘Put him to the test, sir.’

‘We will look elsewhere for our Benvolio.’

‘Against the wishes of the author?’ said Nicholas. ‘I have it from Edmund Hoode himself. He told me that Owen would be a wiser choice for Benvolio than Sebastian. Your
worthy poet will confirm that opinion and Master Gill will lend his authority to it as well.’

‘Ha!’ snarled Firethorn with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. ‘What do playwrights know of true players? What do mincing comedians know of real men? Edmund and Barnaby may say what they wish. I am proof against their folly.’

‘But I share it, Master Firethorn.’

‘You side with them against
me
!’ accused the other.

‘I support Owen Elias to the hilt.’

‘Treachery!’

‘No, sir. Fair dealing.’

Firethorn turned an apoplectic stare on him but Nicholas met it without flinching. A silent battle of wills took place. Without his book holder’s support, Firethorn would have enormous difficulty in getting his way against the combined determination of Hoode and Gill. He tried to cow Nicholas with a growl of disapproval but the latter stuck bravely to his guns. Few people dared to obstruct the freewheeling tyranny of Lawrence Firethorn. Fewer still could do so with such audacity and composure.

Nicholas was adamant. ‘Owen Elias is your man.’

The actor-manager put all his anger into another long stare but it lacked the power to frighten or subdue. He was up against the one person in the company whom he could not bully into submission, the one person who was a match for him. He eventually accepted it. Stamping his foot hard on the cobbles, he capitulated in a pained gurgle.

‘So be it.’

The decision would have dire repercussions.

W
hitehall was the biggest palace in Christendom. Covering some twenty-four acres, it incorporated all the grandiose extensions and refinements that Henry VIII had bestowed upon it with such kingly zeal. Like Hampton Court, it was one of the rich spoils of Wolsey’s fall, but every sign of the Archbishop’s occupation was ruthlessly swept away to be replaced by the distinctive symbols of the Tudor dynasty. In its decorative solidity and its sprawling wonder, it embodied the pomp and circumstance of the new monarchy. By the time that Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, Whitehall was firmly established as the seat of government and it was here that she so often presided over her court.

Attendance at court was the social obligation of the aristocracy and the distant hope of lesser mortals. It was the setting in which the Virgin Queen lived out her public and private lives. The court was the centre of affairs, the
source of patronage, and the regular avenue to profit and promotion. Those who wished to rise in the world or simply maintain the eminence they had already achieved were duty-bound to make regular appearances at court and participate in its sophisticated games and rituals. It was an expensive commitment since courtiers were expected to dress finely at all times and to spend long hours gambling and gossiping in the corridors of power but it was a charge that could not be shirked. To be out of court was to be out of favour and so the nobility flocked to Whitehall to show due respect, to mingle with their peers and to gain advancement.

The Queen set high standards for her courtiers. She valued intelligence in a man, ability to sing songs to a lute, skill in the composition of lyric poetry and prowess in the tiltyard. Her favourites tended to be those of all-round excellence. Like her father, she wanted her court to be a cultural centre where music, drama, poetry and the dance could flourish. To this end, she allowed the Great Hall to be used on many occasions for music recitals and the performance of plays. Those few enlightened souls who retained their own theatrical companies were thus looked upon with special favour. It made Lord Westfield’s visits to court a source of continual pleasure.

‘What is the new piece called, my lord?’

‘
Love’s Sacrifice.
’

‘We have all made
that
in our time.’

‘And will hope to do so again.’

Polite outrage. ‘My lord!’

‘I will never be too old to admire a trim shape and a fair countenance, nor yet too wasted to desire a closer acquaintance with such an angel.’

Lord Westfield’s entourage laughed obediently. He was a portly man of cheerful disposition who devoted himself to the promotion of the arts and the pursuit of pleasure. Excess intruded upon his style of life and choice of apparel. As he led his little group of sycophants towards the Presence Chamber at Whitehall, he was wearing a slashed doublet of aquamarine hue above bombasted trunk hose in a lighter shade. A white ruff supported the amiable bearded face and the long grey hair was hidden beneath a dark-blue hat that was a forest of light-blue feathers. Rings, jewels and a gleaming sword added to the ostentation. A golden chain that let its medallion rest on his sternum completed the dazzling effect. Lord Westfield liked to catch the eye. It was one of the ways he tried to assert his superiority over the loathed Earl of Banbury.

‘Who comes here?’ he said. ‘Stand aside, friends.’

‘The Earl is much moved.’

‘I did not think his legs could scurry so fast.’

‘What can this mean, my lord?’

‘My prayers would have him expelled from court but this sudden departure may betoken something else.’

‘Will you speak to him?’

‘Only with a naked blade.’

Muted sniggers from the entourage before they offered perfunctory bows to the approaching Earl of Banbury. With his own cronies in attendance, the latter was making a
hasty and not altogether dignified exit from Whitehall. He threw a glance of hostility at his rival as they passed, then curled a lip in amusement. Lord Westfield’s ire was aroused at once. The Earl knew something that he did not and he was rushing off to act upon his intelligence in order to seize the advantage. Only a matter of the gravest significance could send the noble gentleman away from Whitehall at such a canter and Lord Westfield was desperate to know what it was. He did not have long to wait. Other figures came streaming down the corridor in busy conference and he pounced on one of them without ceremony.

‘What is the news, sir?’ he demanded.

‘The Queen will not hold court today.’

‘How so?’

‘Her Majesty is indisposed.’

‘What is the nature of her illness?’

‘Physicians are in constant attendance.’

Lord Westfield stood back to let the man beat his own retreat from Whitehall. The general exodus could now be explained. Queen Elizabeth was unwell. A monarch who prided herself on her health, who was abstemious with her food and drink, who exercised regularly and who paced her life with extreme care, had actually taken to her bed. It was no minor indisposition. The Queen knew the importance of being seen by her subjects and it was not only her courtiers who viewed her on a daily basis. The main road from Westminster to Charing Cross ran straight through Whitehall so ordinary citizens could express their affection for their sovereign by bringing small gifts for her or simply
by waiting for hours to be rewarded by the glimpses of her person that she would considerately afford them. Elizabeth was a visible Queen who revelled in her visibility. But she was also on the verge of her sixtieth year and the burdens of her long reign must have taken their toll. If her physicians had been called then a crisis was in the offing.

Lord Westfield turned on his heel and led the way back to his coach. The news was alarming enough in itself but its implications were even more disturbing. A wave of general sympathy would wash over the ailing Queen but her courtiers looked beyond it to a contingency that had to be faced.

If Elizabeth died, who would succeed her?

It was a question that was fraught with all kinds of possibilities and it transformed the stately waddle of Lord Westfield. For the first time in a decade, he broke into a breathless run, fervently wishing that his steps would take him in the right direction.

Giles Randolph expired with a vulpine screech that echoed around the hushed auditorium. As he sank slowly from sight through the trap door in the stage at The Curtain, the spectators genuinely believed that he was being lowered into a vat of boiling oil. Steam rose up from below to reinforce the illusion and Randolph’s screech hit a new note of horror before vanishing with gurgling suddenness.
The Spanish Jew
was the lurid tale of a villainous moneylender who rose to power through unscrupulous means then held the whole country to ransom before overreaching himself. There was
a comic relish in his devilment that somehow endeared him to the onlookers and gave his fall a sad dimension. A man who had consistently lied, cheated, stolen, poisoned and stabbed his way to the top was now claiming frank sympathy. It was an astonishing achievement and a tribute to the skill with which Giles Randolph had played the title role.

The piece itself was a somewhat ramshackle affair but his performance had given it a drive and a unity that it did not really deserve.
The Spanish Jew
was blatant in its prejudices, attacking Spaniards, Jews, usury and other things with a coarse brutality which Randolph softened to some extent but which nevertheless produced a deal of derisive laughter at its intended victims. There was an abundance of action and comedy to delight the groundlings but those who looked beneath the surface of the play could see a real figure lurking there and this gave the drama its extra bite and relevance. Giles Randolph had been handed the sort of part in which he could exhibit the full range of his genius and he held nothing back for two wonderful hours.

Banbury’s Men came out to take their bow in the firm knowledge that they had at last found a winning play. With their actor-manager in the lead,
The Spanish Jew
would go on to thrill and move many an audience. Word of mouth was the best possible advertisement and the shouts of praise that now deafened their ears told them that their triumph would be voiced abroad in no time. Giles Randolph would die his terrible death many times at The Curtain and elevate their custom-built amphitheatre above all other venues.

Randolph was not troubled by even a hint of modesty. He took his ovation like a conquering hero on a procession through the streets of a grateful capital. Even his bow had a lordly condescension to it. The sustained clapping was not seen by him as pure gratitude. It was an act of homage to a superior being and he replied with an arrogant smile. Heady compliments fell from the galleries like warm snowflakes and he stretched both arms wide to catch them. Giles Randolph was still luxuriating in the prolonged adoration when a loud voice speared its way through to him.

‘Sublime, sir! Almost the equal of Master Firethorn!’

He stalked off the stage with high indignation.

The insult was far worse than the boiling oil.

Preoccupied as he was with the dramatic turn of events, Lord Westfield responded promptly to the request that was made of him. He always showed a proprietary affection towards his theatrical company and was stunned to learn of the murder of one of its number. He was anxious to do all that he could to further any enquiries into the crime. Word was duly passed along the line and a fulsome letter was written. Nicholas Bracewell was given right of access to the Tower of London.

‘These are mean quarters in which to receive visitors.’

‘No matter, sir.’

‘Yet the straw is fresh. I can vouch for that.’

‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘And the casement catches the sun at noon.’

‘I did not come to mock your lodging, Master Carrick.’

‘Nobler guests than I have sheltered here.’

‘I do believe it.’

‘Finer souls have breathed this noisome air.’

Nicholas let him ramble on. They were in the lawyer’s room in the massive Beauchamp Tower, a cold, bare, featureless apartment that looked down on Tower Green to give its tenant a privileged view of any executions that took place there. Andrew Carrick sensed the bad tidings as soon as his visitor introduced himself and he tried to keep them at bay with an inconsequential stream of chatter. Nicholas could see the family likeness at once. Carrick had his son’s cast of feature and his proud bearing. Imprisonment had bowed his shoulders slightly and lined his face with disillusion but it had not taxed his essential goodness. The book holder knew he was in the presence of a man of integrity.

Andrew Carrick eventually worked up enough courage to face the grim news that he feared. He sat on a stool and gestured towards Nicholas with a graceful hand.

‘Speak, sir. You have been very patient.’

‘I bring word of your son, Master Carrick.’

‘Do not hedge it about with consideration,’ said the other. ‘Tell me straight. Is Sebastian ill?’

‘Dead, sir.’

‘Dead?’

‘Murdered.’

The lawyer winced at the blow. It was minutes before he was able to resume. Fatherly love was tempered by a note of weary resignation. His sigh carried its own history.

‘I feared that it might come to this,’ he said. ‘My son had many virtues but his vices were too profuse.’

‘Sebastian was a fine man and a fine actor, sir.’

‘You speak like a friend, Master Bracewell.’

‘His death is a loss we must all bear.’

‘Present me with the details.’ He saw the hesitation. ‘Hold nothing back, sir. I doted on Sebastian but he brought me much pain while he was alive. I am prepared for the worst account. Your face tells me it was a heinous crime. Remember that I am a lawyer who would weigh the full facts of the case before I make a judgement. Speak on.’

Nicholas recited the tale without embellishment and the older man listened intently. A long silence ensued. It was broken by the hoarse voice of a distraught father.

‘The murderer must be brought to justice.’

‘He will be,’ said Nicholas.

‘The law must exact full payment.’

Andrew Carrick rose to his feet and paced the room with restless anxiety. At a time when he wanted to devote himself to the pursuit and arrest of his son’s killer, he was himself in custody. He paused to lean against a wall and to slap its cold stone with an open palm. Nicholas sympathised with his obvious frustration. Carrick gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘Your news has made this prison like the pit of hell. I would give anything to be out of its confines and free to avenge my son.’

‘Is there any prospect of that?’

‘In time, Master Bracewell. In time.’

‘May I ask why you are detained?’

‘By special order of Her Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’

Carrick bristled. ‘You would think there were traitors enough to fill these dungeons. You would imagine that London had no shortage of foul criminals and hired assassins to occupy this Tower. Felons abound yet I – an upholder of the law – am put under lock and key. It is barbarous, sir.’

‘What is your offence?’

‘Attendance at a wedding.’

‘You lose your liberty for
that
?’

‘The bride was a gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber.’

‘This was a secret marriage?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘I took charge of arrangements. The Queen’s anger turned upon the noble groom and upon myself. We are held here at her pleasure while the bride weeps nightly in an empty bed. It is a poor wedding present.’

Andrew Carrick was not the first man to feel the weight of his sovereign’s outrage in the matter of an unlicensed wedding. Queen Elizabeth demanded total obedience and unswerving loyalty from those chosen to attend upon her. In this respect, Blanche Parry was the archetype, a studious woman who had served with tireless devotion for over thirty years and who had a clear-sighted view of her duties even though she was now blind. The example of Blanche Parry was held up to all. She was a first gentlewoman of irreproachable virtue. Others fell short of her high standards and allowed themselves to be led astray by covert passion. More than one attendant had requested the Queen’s
permission to marry only to be summarily rejected. Those who dared to put love before royal service were given stern rebuke. When a secret wedding came to light, Elizabeth always found just cause and impediment why those two persons should not be joined together.