The Mad Courtesan (8 page)

It was late evening before Nicholas could even begin the task of searching the stews of Clerkenwell. Turnmill Street was seething with custom. Easy lust and ready money were all that gained respect there. Nobody welcomed awkward questions about a murder victim. At most of the places he visited, Nicholas found himself ignored, spurned, threatened or even buffeted. Haunts which had been familiar to Sebastian Carrick were full of danger to his friend. Nicholas was a patent outsider. Much against his will, therefore, he had to pose as a client to gain acceptance.

‘What would you have, sir?’ she said.

‘The wildest creature in the house.’

‘We have punks of all ages, all sizes, all colours.’ The old woman gave a toothless grin. ‘Name your pleasure.’

‘I would like to choose my company.’

‘What price did you set on it, kind sir?’

Nicholas slipped a few coins into her grubby palm and was rewarded with a foul-breathed kiss. She conducted him along a passage and into a low room that was filled with the stench of sin and tobacco smoke. Noisy men lolled at tables with their whores. By the light of a candle, others
played cards in a corner. The old woman waved a hand and Nicholas was confronted by a semicircle of trulls, each one of them showing off her body and shooting him bold glances.

‘Take one or take all,’ said the old woman.

‘I like true madness,’ he explained.

‘You heard the gentleman,’ continued the hostess. ‘He wants some lunacy in his loving. Which of you will serve him best?’ She grinned a challenge. ‘Who is the mad courtesan?’

He was gentle and compliant when she took him up to her room but he proved a savage lover. Once inside her, he punished her with cruel bites and hard blows until he reached the height of his passion. Frances was bleeding from the nose and the mouth by the time that he drifted off to sleep. She rolled him over onto his back and reached under the pillow for her knife. One deep thrust into his fat throat was all that it needed. Frances watched him grunt his last then she went to the window to give a signal. One more dead body was soon being lugged away from her murderous embrace.

T
he Rose was an aptly named symbol of the flowering of the London theatre under Queen Elizabeth. It was not simply a source of entertainment for idle pleasure-seekers but one of the results of that great upsurge of creative energy which had established the Tudor dynasty as a major force in world politics. Like the two outdoor playhouses in Shoreditch – The Theatre and The Curtain – it helped to meet the rising demand for new plays of all kinds. The stage was a truthful mirror of its time. It celebrated all that was best and castigated all that was worse. It provoked, it enchanted, it mocked, it inspired. On occasion, it even destroyed. With its bustling freedom and its dangerous spontaneity, it had an impact which was unique and which stretched far beyond the confines of the actual playhouses. Drama was beloved at court. It was an art that was practised with royal assent.

Floral tribute was inevitable because the capital’s most
recent theatre was built on the site of a rose garden to the east of Rose Alley in the Liberty of the Clink. The choice of Southwark was deliberate. Like Shoreditch, it was conveniently outside the city boundaries and thus spared the civic hostility and narrow-mindedness that hindered work at the few remaining inn-yard venues such as the Queen’s Head. Material which would arouse moral outrage in Gracechurch Street could be presented with undiluted vigour at The Rose. It had given Edmund Hoode wider scope for his imagination and more leeway for his daring.
Love’s Sacrifice
could never be staged at the Queen’s Head in its original form. The irony was that Southwark permitted a freedom that was offset by an act of self-imposed censorship.

Owen Elias was outspoken in his wrath.

‘It is treachery of the basest kind!’ he exclaimed.

‘You have lost but one speech,’ said Nicholas.

‘I have been stabbed in the back by my fellows.’

‘That is not true, Owen.’

‘Those twenty lines crown the whole play,’ argued the Welshman with hopeless fury. ‘They lift the drama and redeem the hero in his tragic fall.’ Self-interest emerged. ‘They give my Benvolio an opportunity for which I have waited this long time. I am
betrayed
, Nick!’

‘Do not be cast down.’

‘I am mortally wounded,’ said the other. ‘Sebastian would not have suffered this slight. Had
he
played the part, it would have been seen without mutilation. Benvolio would have delivered his last oration.’

‘That is something we will never know.’

‘Fight for me here. Take up my cause.’

‘I have done so many times.’

Nicholas Bracewell had profound sympathy for the actor. He yielded to none in his admiration of Lawrence Firethorn but he was not blind to the other’s faults. Professional envy had dictated the omission of the final speech. The dead hero did not want to cede any of his glory to another. It was unjust but it was not altogether untypical and the book holder heard himself making the same soothing sounds he had made before to others in a similar predicament. Firethorn liked to occupy more than his place in the sun.

Owen Elias and his friend were standing on the stage of The Rose not long after the morning’s rehearsal had ended. Because the theatre now had its own resident company – Lord Strange’s Men – access to its boards was limited and the new play had to content itself with one full rehearsal before being launched upon the public. Most of the work on
Love’s Sacrifice
had thus been done at the Queen’s Head and the preparation was thorough. Westfield’s Men had no difficulty in adapting their performances to the special demands of The Rose.

Lawrence Firethorn berated his company with his usual gusto but they knew that his criticism was largely for show. He was clearly delighted with the rehearsal and confident that the afternoon would add yet another classic role to his gallery of triumphs. It gave his ebullience a slightly manic edge. As the actor-manager came strutting towards them, Owen Elias sidled off and watched mutinously from a
corner. The beaming Firethorn closed on his book holder.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said jovially. ‘What do you think of it, sir? Is not this place a marvel?’

‘I like it well.’

‘Master Henslowe has worked wonders and we must repay him with like amazement on the stage itself.’

‘Indeed sir.’

‘How many souls will it now encompass?’

‘Some four hundred more.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘That takes the tally almost to two thousand and a half. Westfield’s Men will pack them in to the full number.’ He paraded around. ‘But this stage, Nick! This joyous scaffold! I feel as if I could reach out and touch every spectator. Truly a miracle of construction.’

Nicholas had already noted all the improvements. The Rose had been built a few years earlier on the initiative of Philip Henslowe, a former dyer and pawnbroker, and one John Cholmley, a grocer. Used at first for animal-baiting as well as for the performance of plays, the building had undergone extensive alteration during the previous winter. Henslowe had laid out the substantial sum of £105 to enlarge a structure that would henceforth operate exclusively as a theatre. By demolishing a wall at the rear, he was able to move the stage back and produce more standing space in the pit as well as additional seats in the galleries on both sides. The thrust of the acting area was consequently reduced and this made for the sense of intimacy which so impressed Firethorn. It was an
architectural paradox. The audience expanded and yet somehow got closer to the performance.

The actor-manager had been quick to assess every last advantage that he could gain onstage but Nicholas was more interested in the improvements behind the scenes. An enlarged backstage area meant a more comfortable tiring-house for the actors and more generous storage space for properties and scenery. Henslowe had wisely created the preconditions for bigger and more ambitious productions. The Rose could compete more effectively with its rivals. After the privations of the Queen’s Head, it was a privilege to work in a custom-built theatre and Westfield’s Men responded eagerly.
Love’s Sacrifice
would not lack spirit.

‘Our dear patron graces the occasion,’ said Firethorn.

‘He will not be displeased.’

‘I am in a mood for greatness.’

‘Your fellows will not let you down.’

‘I’ll take them with me to the very heights!’

He declaimed a few lines from the play for effect then made an exit. Nicholas was still smiling as Owen Elias came back over to him. The latter’s rage was now muffled beneath a vague sense of guilt.

‘I did not mean to speak ill of him, Nick,’ he said.

‘Of whom?’

‘Sebastian. I had reason to hate the man but none to want him cut down so callously. Had he been here, he would have given a good account of Benvolio.’ Pride reasserted itself. ‘But my performance will be better.’

‘It will be different, Owen.’

‘Very different, sir, and much better.’ His face clouded. ‘I must make confession to you. I miss him.’

‘Sebastian?’

‘Even though I profit from his death, I miss the rogue. Let them hang his murderer on the highest tree in the city.’

‘We must catch him first.’

‘Is there hope of that?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘But I will persist.’

‘Call on me for help.’

It was a sincere offer and the book holder was touched. Sebastian Carrick had borrowed money from the Welshman which he had no intention of repaying. Owen Elias had many reasons to despise an actor who had always been preferred to him yet he was prepared to join in the hunt for the killer. Nicholas was grateful. It made him consider his friend’s plight anew.

‘Have you conned the lines?’ he asked.

‘I know that speech by heart.’

‘Could you deliver it this afternoon?’

‘Master Firethorn has expressly forbidden it.’

‘Master Firethorn will be dead.’

‘What say you?’

‘Benvolio will have no interruption.’

Owen Elias let out a wicked chuckle. He knew the risk he would be running if he disobeyed Lawrence Firethorn but that did not frighten him in the least. An actor who had been kept back time and again was not going to squander a heaven-sent chance to make his mark.
Love’s Sacrifice
might yet enhance his career. He thought of the prostrate figure of Lawrence Firethorn, lying at his feet and powerless to control him. It was a moment that had to be seized and then savoured to the full.

Wild laughter reverberated around The Rose.

Money could purchase most things at the Tower of London. A small bribe to his gaolers had already gained Andrew Carrick relative freedom within the Beauchamp Tower and a slightly larger outlay of coin bought him an occasional release from his prison. The lawyer posed no threat. He was not held for any real crime and would never even try to escape. It was safe to let him wander at will, to visit the chapel for his spiritual needs, to watch the guard being drilled, to climb the south ramparts and gaze down at the busy Thames. It helped to relieve his enforced idleness and gave him a keen insight into the administration of the citadel. A casual stroll always furnished him with valuable information.

Carrick was coming around the angle of the White Tower when he saw them standing outside the main door. They were deep in animated conversation. The portly frame of Harry Fellowes was bent forward in an attitude of deference. The fluttering hands of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, were expressing an authority that was mixed with gratitude. They formed an interesting double portrait and Carrick studied it with growing curiosity. From random chats with the affable Fellowes, he had gleaned a number of facts about the inner workings of the Ordnance Office.
He knew, for instance, that its operations had enlarged dramatically in recent times. During the decade that led up to the Armada year of 1588, the Office had handled, on average, £9,000 per annum. According to Harry Fellowes, that amount had now almost doubled and it was still rising fast. Supplying the army and navy was a vast undertaking. War turned the Ordnance into one of the major spending departments.

Expenditure of another kind was under discussion.

‘When will I receive it?’ said the Earl. ‘There is need for quick dispatch here.’

‘I will bring it to Croxley Hall in person, my lord.’

‘This afternoon?’

‘This evening at the latest,’ promised Fellowes.

‘You oblige me in this, Harry.’

‘I am always your humble servant, my lord.’

‘Do not delay in this matter.’

Harry Fellowes bowed his acquiescence then walked with the Earl towards the Tower gate. Their earnest discussion continued. Andrew Carrick had got close enough only to hear faint snatches of what passed between them but the language of body and gesture had been very clear. What surprised him was that the venerable Earl of Chichester had deigned to visit his military depot at all. In his sinewy and grasping old hands, the Mastership of Ordnance had been largely a titular appointment and he was only shaken into action at moments of national emergency. The real work of the Office was done by the Clerk, Surveyor and Lieutenant of Ordnance. Though last in line, Harry Fellowes had
boasted more than once that he was, in some sense, first in importance. It made his lively exchange with the Earl of Chichester all the more intriguing. Carrick soon got more elucidation.

‘I see the very man!’

‘Good day, Master Fellowes.’

‘I have need of that favour, sir.’

‘Ask it,’ said Carrick. ‘It shall be granted.’

Having seen the Earl off the premises, Harry Fellowes was retracing his steps towards the White Tower. The sight of the lawyer brought a flabby smile to his face and he reached for a paper that was concealed inside his cloak.

‘I require the signature of an attorney at law.’

‘Even when he is a prisoner?’

‘A legal quibble, sir.’ They traded a laugh. ‘Will you aid me in this business, Master Carrick?’

‘Gladly, sir. What document must I witness?’

‘One that may presently liberate you from your cell.’

‘I will sign it at once.’

‘This paper contains the terms of a loan.’

‘Between yourself and the Earl of Chichester?’

‘You are very observant,’ said Fellowes with a smirk. ‘The details need not concern you but this you may be told. My loan and your signature may bring us both advantage.’

Andrew Carrick followed him with willing steps.

A fine day, a fanfare of playbills and the ever-increasing fame of Lawrence Firethorn brought a large audience hurrying to The Rose. Gatherers collected the money at the doors then
ushered the spectators through into the theatre. Standees soon crowded the pit and the benches in the galleries were filled with equal enthusiasm. The whole theatre buzzed with a hum of expectation. Westfield’s Men were held in high regard and there was no better place to display their wares than at this inspiring playhouse in Southwark.

Lord Westfield timed his own arrival to gain maximum effect, sweeping into his cushioned chair in the upper gallery amid his usual entourage and acknowledging the sporadic applause that broke out by waving a gloved hand. A new play by his beloved company was not to be missed but the sybaritic patron was not there simply to lend tacit support. He expected to reap his share of the harvest of praise. Lord Westfield was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He was more inclined to let it blaze in the afternoon sun. It was the one certain way to annoy and frustrate the Earl of Banbury.

Anne Hendrik also took her place on the benches. Since the theatre was virtually on her doorstep, she had willingly accepted her lodger’s invitation to come along and she had brought Preben van Loew with her. The Dutchman, an impassive character of middle years, was her most skilful hatmaker and he affected an almost puritanical distaste for the theatre but his presence lent her respectability and guaranteed her safety. As on previous occasions – Anne felt sure – her employee would end up enjoying the play hugely while doing his best to disguise the fact. She herself had been given a specific task by Nicholas Bracewell. He had contrived a
series of special effects for
Love’s Sacrifice
and needed a pair of eyes in the auditorium. Anne Hendrik was there to be entertained and to sit in judgement. Handsomely dressed for the event, she looked incongruous beside the dark apparel of her laconic companion but she was used to this situation.