The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (20 page)

Surrounded by her guard, Queen Elizabeth sailed down the hall and ascended the dais to take up her seat on the throne. Resplendent in a billowing dress of red velvet, she acknowledged all those around her with a condescending wave. Her hair was encircled with pearls and surmounted by a tiny gold crown that was encrusted with diamonds. Her jewelled opulence filled the hall. Time had been considerate to her handsome features and her regal demeanour was unimpaired. Flames from the candles and from the huge fire made her finery dance with zest.

The actor-manager concluded with an awed whisper.

‘Gentlemen, we are in the presence of royalty!’

Nicholas Bracewell took over the watch. When the Queen was settled, she motioned to Sir Edmund Tilney, the
Master of the Revels, and he in turn signalled to the book holder. On a call from Nicholas, the command performance began.

Music wafted down from the gallery where Peter Digby and his musicians were placed. The Prologue was delivered and the trial scene commenced. From his first line, Firethorn exerted his power over the audience. He went on to bewitch them with his voice, to thrill them with his spirited honesty and to move them with his anguish. By the end of the scene, he had touched all their hearts and prompted the first few tears.

When sentence of death was passed, the judge vacated the stage and Lorenzo was led away by two gaolers. Music played as the others processed off. George Dart came on to set a stool in position and to remove the bench he had brought out earlier for the trial. He skipped hurriedly off.

Assuming a look of wistful integrity, Firethorn was led on stage again by his gaolers. He sat on the stool in his cell. The two men departed, Lorenzo stared at the manacles on his wrists then he looked up with supplication in his eyes.

While Firethorn declaimed his soliloquy, the players in the tiring-house got ready for their next entrance. As Nicholas lined them up in order, he kept a wary eye on Ruff. The executioner was more nervous than ever. One of the most experienced actors in the company seemed to be unsettled by the occasion. Sweat still poured out of him and he moved from foot to foot.

‘Do please take care, Master Ruff!’

‘What?’ he replied with a start.

‘My safety lies with you, sir.’

The voice came from inside the doublet of the figure standing beside him. Equipped with a false head, John Tallis was about to double as Lorenzo during the execution.

‘Use me kindly,’ said the boy plaintively.

‘I will, John,’ promised the other.

‘Let the axe fall in its rightful place.’

‘Oh, it will,’ said Ruff grimly. ‘It will.’

As Lorenzo finished his speech, the gaolers went on to bring the condemned man out of his cell. The trembling George Dart now replaced the stool with the block. Drums rolled and the procession made its way solemnly on stage.

Edmund Hoode was first in his role as the judge. Courtiers and guards followed him. The chaplain came next, holding his prayer book tightly. Lorenzo was guided
to the centre of the stage by the two gaolers. Ruff brought up the rear as the executioner.

When the tableau had been formed, the chaplain turned to admonish the prisoner sternly.

‘Settle Christ Jesus in your heart and confess.’

Lorenzo remained silent but Tallis’s teeth chattered.

‘Join in prayer with me,’ continued the chaplain, ‘for the salvation of your soul. Go to your Maker with a contrite heart.’

He began to recite prayers at the hapless Lorenzo.

Samuel Ruff only half-listened to the words. Dressed in the traditional black garb of an executioner, he stood beside the block with the head of the axe resting between his feet. Through the slits in the mask, he stole a glance at the Queen of England. She was a serene and majestic figure no more than a dozen yards from him. Though guards flanked her, they were caught up in the action on the stage.

Closing his eyes for an instant, Ruff offered up his own prayer. His opportunity had been heaven-sent. It was up to him to seize it with eagerness. The significance of it all was brought home to him and extra pressure was imposed. His arms and shoulders were now awash with sweat and his palms were pools of moisture. He schooled himself to wait just a little longer. To buttress his determination, he recalled other executions that Queen Elizabeth had witnessed. The blood was soon pulsing in his temples.

Anxiety was turning its hunger on Nicholas Bracewell. From a vantage point at the rear of the stage, he watched the proceedings with mounting concern. He was more
fully aware than anyone of the extent of the danger. As the moment of truth approached, he wondered if he had made the right decision or if he had delivered up an innocent life to the stroke of death. Nicholas had an impulse to rush on stage and intervene but he resisted it. The chance had to be taken. Peril had to be faced.

The chaplain intoned the last words of his prayer.

‘And may God have mercy on your soul … Amen!’

Having completed the spiritual offices, he stood back so that the rigour of the law could be enforced. The loyal subject was about to be executed for his supposed disloyalty. On the command of the judge, the gaolers took Lorenzo to the block, made him kneel in front of it and position his false head carefully over the timber.

The drums rolled more loudly. Nicholas was on tenterhooks.

Samuel Ruff now took over. He was no mock executioner in a play. He was a gleaming figure of vengeance with murder in his heart. A last fleeting look at the Queen showed him that Her Majesty was totally captivated by the performance. Everyone was off guard. Ruff swallowed hard, tightened his jaw then wiped his palms dry on his hips. It was now or never.

He took a firm grip on the glittering axe.

Nicholas fought off another urge to interrupt. Teeth clenched and fists bunched, he was tormented by the helplessness of his situation. Whatever the cost, he must hold back.

The drums beat out their tattoo, the judge nodded
and the executioner lifted the axe high in the air. Its blade shimmered in the candlelight. Its menace was real. But it did not arc towards John Tallis. Another victim had been selected for execution. Jumping down from the stage, Ruff charged towards the throne with a wild cry of revenge.

‘Death to all tyrants!’

His weapon was aimed at the head of the Queen.

Yet somehow she was prepared for the attack and ducked out of the way with great dexterity. The guards, too, were ready and they closed in upon Ruff to grapple with him. Instead of scything through the royal neck, the axe thudded into the back of the throne and almost split it asunder.

‘Seize the villain!’

‘Hold him!’

Shouts and screams rent the air. A large space was cleared around the throne as terrified nobles scampered out of the way. The Court was horrified that the sovereign had been so close to a grisly death and the suddenness of it all bewildered them.

Overpowered by the guards, Ruff was held tight. The glare of hatred that he directed at the Queen soon turned to a look of utter amazement. Removing crown, wig and pearls she gazed back at him with the hurt expression of someone who feels she has been betrayed by a close friend.

It was not the Queen of England at all.

It was Richard Honeydew.

Waves of astonishment rolled across the hall. Sir Edmund Tilney, a spruce figure in almost garish apparel,
climbed on to the stage and raised his hands to quell the noise.

‘You will not be deprived of your entertainment,’ he told them. ‘There will be a short intermission then Her Majesty will join us. What you have just witnessed requires some explanation …’

Ruff was not allowed to hear it. He was hustled out of the room without ceremony. Richard Honeydew went with him. They found Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell waiting for them in the corridor.

The book holder’s immediate concern was for the boy. He was relieved to see that Richard was quite unharmed. The actor-manager looked at Ruff and gave a dark chuckle.

‘Caught like a rat in a trap!’ he noted. ‘You were right, Nick. This was indeed the way to draw his hand.’

The stunned Ruff turned on the book holder.

‘How did you know?’

‘There were many things,’ explained Nicholas. ‘They all pointed towards religion. You were so true to the old faith that you were prepared to kill for it.’

‘And to die for it!’ said Ruff defiantly.

‘Will Fowler was a devout Roman Catholic as well but he renounced his religion. You could not forgive him for that, Sam. Nor could you rest easy while your days in the theatre came to an end and Will’s talent flourished. Your bitterness went deep.’

‘Will betrayed us!’ argued Ruff.

‘Out of love for his young wife,’ reminded Nicholas.

‘I did not know of her,’ said the other quietly. ‘It is perhaps
as well. Susan would have weighed on my conscience.’

‘What conscience?’ sneered Firethorn, pointing a finger at him. ‘You’re a traitor, sir!’

‘I am loyal to the old religion!’

Richard Honeydew was baffled by an important detail.

‘But why was Will Fowler murdered?’ he asked.

‘So that Sam could take his place,’ said Nicholas. ‘Most of us cheered when the Armada was defeated but it was a crippling blow to those of the Romish persuasion. Sam wanted to strike back on their behalf in the most terrible way he could imagine – by killing Her Majesty. The only chance he had of getting close enough to her was during a performance at Court.’

‘With Westfield’s Men,’ added Firethorn. ‘Our company was the most likely to be invited to play here. This rogue sought to hide himself behind our reputation.’

Nicholas smiled and patted the boy on the back.

‘As it happened,
you
gave the outstanding performance, Dick. You not only deceived an assassin, you convinced the whole Court.’ He turned to Ruff. ‘A true actor will never desert his audience. The lad did not run away on Christmas Day. He stayed with me at my lodging and rehearsed his new part. This dress of his was made by a Dutch hatmaker. It was worthy of a Queen.’

‘You have been very brave, Dick,’ observed Firethorn.

‘I was a little afraid, sir,’ confessed the boy.

‘As were we all,’ said Nicholas.

Samuel Ruff was embittered but chastened. He recognised just how cleverly the book holder had misled
him. Nicholas had evidently suspected him for a long time. As the guards tried to move him away, he held his ground to make a last admission.

‘
I
gave that crib to Susan Fowler.’

‘She would rather you spared her husband,’ said Nicholas.

‘I know.’

‘You should have gone to that farm in Norwich, Sam. You would have been far better off working with your brother.’

Ruff shook his head sadly and gave a smile of regret.

‘There was no farm and I
did
work with my brother.’

‘Redbeard?’ Nicholas was shocked.

‘He was my half-brother. For all his wild ways, Dominic was as committed to the true faith as I am. They imprisoned him in Bridewell for it and gave him those scars on his back. When Dominic was released, he was ready to do anything to help me.’

‘So you repaid him with a sly dagger.’

‘No!’ denied Ruff vehemently. ‘I could never murder my own kin. That was not my doing.’ Pain contorted his face and his chin dropped to his chest. ‘We both knew that it would cost us our lives in the end. Dominic was getting out of hand. The plan was in jeopardy while he lived. I did not want him killed but … it was in some ways a necessary despatch. He had done all that was required of him.’

‘Who stabbed him, then?’ pressed Firethorn.

Samuel Ruff met his gaze with dignity and defiance.

‘That is something you will never know.’

‘Someone has suborned you and set you on!’ accused the other. ‘The rack will get the truth out of you. Take him away!’

As the guards dragged their captive off, Ruff lapsed back into Latin to proclaim his faith.

‘
In manus tuas, Domine, confide spiritum meum
.’

They were the last words spoken by Mary Queen of Scots as she laid her head upon the block. In trying to behead another queen, he had delivered himself up to execution. Interrogation would be followed by a slow, agonising death.

Nicholas was not entirely surprised to learn that Ruff was part of a wider conspiracy. He and Redbeard had been the active partners in the scheme while others lurked in the shadows. Their names would doubtless emerge in conversation in the privacy of the torture chamber.

One revelation, however, had rocked the book holder.

‘I had no idea that Redbeard was his brother,’ he said. ‘I guessed that he was a fellow Catholic when he attacked the inn sign at The Cardinal’s Hat. It mocked his faith. But I did not realise that he and Sam were related.’

‘Two yoke-devils!’ snarled Firethorn.

‘There is no madness worse than religion,’ murmured Nicholas.

Richard Honeydew was troubled by feelings of regret.

‘But Master Ruff was such a kind and friendly man.’

‘He was a fine actor,’ said the book holder. ‘He was even ready to receive a wound in order to play his part effectively. It was his bout with Master Gill that set me thinking.’

‘In what way?’ asked the boy.

‘Sam tried to avoid it in order to hide his fencing skills. But he was forced into the bout and we saw his true merit. A swordsman as expert as that could easily have rehearsed the brawl in the Hope and Anchor. Will Fowler was murdered to plan.’

Edmund Hoode came scurrying along the corridor to join them. Confused by the speed of events, he only
half-understood
why his play had been halted in such dramatic fashion.