The Vagabond Clown (10 page)

The news had been worse than he had anticipated. Having seen the endless mistakes made during the rehearsal, Barnaby Gill could not believe that the play had been such a success. Still less could he accept that a man who had never even heard of the piece until a few days ago could give a performance in it that drew such unstinting praise from the other actors. It was galling. When he reached the safety of his room, he was panting for breath and pulsing with rage. He was also deeply hurt that friends like Elias, Ingram and Carr could forget the long years of service that Gill had given Westfield’s Men as its clown and acclaim instead an unworthy intruder. Hundreds of signal triumphs lay behind him yet they were obliterated by two hours in the Lower Courthouse in Maidstone. An event in a building devoted to justice left Gill squirming with a sense of injustice.

He lowered himself into the wheelbarrow again and brooded in silence. It was too late to turn back now. Having elected to travel with the company, he was doomed to remain with them and watch his rival win more approval with each performance. Mussett had to be stopped in some
way. Gill was still trying to work out how when he began to feel drowsy. He tried to shake himself awake. It was too early to retire to bed. He had neither undressed nor closed the shutters. Comfortable as he found it, he did not intend to spend the whole night in a wheelbarrow. Yet somehow he lacked both the strength and the willpower to move. His eyelids became heavy, his body sagged. Even the sound of merriment from the taproom could not keep him from dozing quietly off. The wheelbarrow that he had once derided was now a snug and consoling bed.

Hours later, he was still asleep, snoring up to heaven and dreaming of a time when his art was unrivalled and he was spoken of with awe. The dream did not last. Through the open window came a shape that merged with the darkness until it landed on Gill’s chest. Sharp claws suddenly dug into his flesh and the creature let out a fearsome shriek. Gill came awake to find himself wrestling with a large black cat that seemed to be trying to scratch him to death. It was a desperate encounter. The struggle only ended when he managed to grab the animal by the nape of the neck and hurl it out through the window. As soon as he got his breath back, Gill spat out the name of his tormentor.

‘Giddy Mussett!’

Nicholas Bracewell was heartened by the response from the company. Although they had celebrated into the night, the actors were up the next day to eat an early breakfast before helping to erect their stage in the yard of the Star Inn. The scenery and properties needed for rehearsal had to be unloaded from the wagons. Since
Cupid’s Folly
involved a dance around a maypole, they had to practise setting up the pole in the swiftest and safest way. Even the principal members of the company took their turn with the various duties. Touring with a theatre troupe abolished distinctions between sharers and hired men. All were expected to take on whatever tasks were required of them, however menial they might be. Edmund Hoode, playwright and actor, made no complaint as he set out benches in the galleries. Owen Elias thrived on physical labour. Of the sharers, only Lawrence Firethorn was missing from the work party.

Nicholas was pleased to see the enthusiasm with which Giddy Mussett was going about his tasks. While he had joined the others in the taproom the previous night, he had neither drunk to excess nor become belligerent. A notorious lecher, he confined himself to a teasing remark to a tavern wench. There was no hint of the defiance that he had shown earlier to the book holder. Mussett was as buoyant as ever and his cheerfulness rubbed off on the others. A busy couple of hours seemed to fly past.

When the preparations were complete, Nicholas sent them off to take a rest before the rehearsal began. He was alone in the yard when the visitor arrived.

‘Good morrow, Nick!’ called a voice. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Sebastian!’ said Nicholas, turning to see a tall, thin, well-dressed man with an air of quiet prosperity about him. ‘How could I forget the finest scrivener we ever had?’

‘My hands are not as deft as they once were, I fear. Age takes its toll.’

‘It has been kind to you.’

‘And even kinder to Nick Bracewell.’

They shook hands warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Sebastian Frant was in his early fifties, slight of build and shy of manner. When he lived in London, he had worked for Westfield’s Men for a number of years, copying out their plays with a meticulous skill so that their prompt books were both accurate and easy to read. Frant was a true friend to the company, supporting them whenever they played. Nicholas and the others were disappointed when he retired to Kent.

‘Where do you live now, Sebastian?’ asked Nicholas.

‘In a tiny village not far from Dover.’

‘We play in Dover in due course.’

‘You’ve also played here, I learn,’ said Frant. ‘Had I known, I would have come to watch you. I will certainly hope to see
Cupid’s Folly
for, judging by the maypole, that is the comedy you intend to present here.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘How did you guess?’

‘I copied out every word of the play, including its songs.’

‘And earned my undying thanks. No hand is clearer or neater.’

Frant flexed his fingers. ‘If only that were still the case!’

‘What brings you here?’

‘What else but the news that Westfield’s Men are in Maidstone? My daughter and I are staying with some friends in Bearsted, close by the town.’

‘I did not realise that you were married.’

‘Nor am I any longer,’ said Frant sadly. ‘My wife died three years ago.’ He smiled fondly. ‘But I have my daughter to comfort me now. She is a joyous companion. Thomasina is truly a gift from God.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Barely nineteen.’

‘Will we get to meet the young lady?’

‘Thomasina will insist upon it,’ said Frant. ‘We arrived too late to watch your performance last evening but will not miss
Cupid’s Folly
. How long will you stay in Maidstone?’

‘Until tomorrow.’

‘Whither will you go?’

‘First to Faversham,’ said Nicholas, ‘then on to Canterbury. From there, we travel to Dover where you may chance to see us again.’

‘I’ll hope to watch you before then, Nick. I’ve a brother in Faversham whom I’ve not seen for a while. He may well find that he has guests for a day or two.’

‘It will be comforting to have a good friend in the audience.’

‘Westfield’s Men make friends wherever they go.’

‘Not of your quality, Sebastian. You understand our work.’

‘I understand how difficult it is,’ said Frant, ‘because I’ve seen how much effort goes into each performance. What I do not understand is how you can so willingly bind yourselves to such an uncertain occupation, at the mercy of things over which you have no control. Winter exiles you from your inn yard theatre, plague can expel you from London altogether. And there are other perils to face at every turn.’ He gave a polite shrug. ‘Why do you do it, Nick?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Do the rewards outweigh the hazards?’

‘Most of the time.’

‘I admire you all,’ said Frant seriously. ‘You take risks that I would not even dare to consider. I chose a quiet, safe, dull, uneventful life. I am too cowardly to do what actors do, Nick. You show true bravery.’

Nicholas gave a wry smile. ‘Is it bravery or folly?’

‘The two are closely allied.’

‘We’ve learnt that, Sebastian. But come and meet the others,’ he added, patting Frant on the arm. ‘There are many in the company who still remember you.’

‘Edmund and Lawrence, I hope.’

‘Westfield’s Men would die without them.’

‘And Barnaby. If you play
Cupid’s Folly
, you must travel with Barnaby Gill.’

‘He’s here,’ said Nicholas, ‘but not to play Rigormortis. An affray at the Queen’s Head sent us out on the road. Barnaby’s leg was broken in the commotion.’

Frant was alarmed. ‘A broken leg?’ he repeated. ‘What a cruel blow to a man with such nimble feet. How did it happen?’

‘Let him tell you the story himself, Sebastian.’

‘I long to hear it.’

‘First, be warned. Barnaby is in a truculent mood.’

‘A broken leg would make anyone truculent.’

‘It is not the leg that irks him but a black cat.’

‘A black cat?’ echoed Frant. ‘Is not that a sign of good fortune?’

‘Not in this case. That’s his complaint.’

‘This is not a request, Lawrence. It’s a demand. Giddy must be dismissed forthwith.’

‘When he has proved himself such a boon to us?’

‘He’s no boon to me,’ growled Barnaby Gill. ‘He’s a curse.’

‘Everyone else loves the man.’

‘They have not been entombed in a foul privy!’

‘Calm down, Barnaby.’

‘They have not been attacked by a wild cat in the middle of the night. If Giddy Mussett had done either of those things to
them
, they’d take a different view of him.’

‘But he did neither of those things to
you
,’ said Lawrence Firethorn.

‘He did, he did.’

‘Nick Bracewell swears the man is innocent.’

‘Then he conspires against me.’

‘Giddy shared a room with Nick and Edmund. At the time when a cat came in through your window, Giddy was fast asleep.’

‘Only after he’d tossed the animal in on top of me.’

‘How could he? Nick vouches for him. He never left their room.’

‘Then Nick is lying through his teeth.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Barnaby,’ said Frant, standing in the doorway. ‘Nick Bracewell is as honest as the day is long. He would not lie to anyone.’

‘Sebastian!’ cried Firethorn, pounding him on the shoulder by way of a welcome. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time. What brings you here?’

‘I’ve come to defend Nick against vile accusations.’

‘I can do that for myself,’ said Nicholas, who had entered the taproom with him. He turned to Gill, who was seated in a chair. ‘You have my sympathy for what happened last night. It must have been a shock to you. But do not blame Giddy Mussett.’

Gill was still enraged. ‘I blame the pair of you.’

‘Then you must blame Edmund, Dick Honeydew and the other apprentices as well for all of them shared the room with Giddy. The six of us will take our Bible oath that he did not stir from his mattress.’

‘He must have. Who else would hurl a cat on top of me?’

‘Could not the cat have jumped in on his own?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘They are famed for their curiosity. An open window was an invitation he could not refuse.’

‘There,’ said Firethorn. ‘That’s your answer, Barnaby. This cat took a liking to you and wished to sleep in your arms. Enough of your protests, man. Do you not recognise an old friend standing here?’

‘I am sorry to hear of your plight, Barnaby,’ said Frant pleasantly.

‘Which one?’ replied Gill. ‘They come upon me daily.’

‘Nick talked of an affray at the Queen’s Head.’

‘It was more than that, Sebastian. It was vicious assault on me. When they could not take my life, they broke my leg instead. I believe that Giddy Mussett may have been behind that outrage as well. He had me removed so that he could usurp my place.’

‘This is lunacy,’ said Firethorn. ‘Ignore him, Sebastian. When the riot broke out, the man Barnaby accuses was locked up in the King’s Bench Prison.’

Frant was interested. ‘Tell me more. Who caused the affray?’

‘My enemies,’ wailed Gill.

‘It was not simply an attack on you, Barnaby,’ scolded Firethorn.

‘Then why is my leg in a splint?’

‘We were all victims that day,’ said Nicholas. ‘Westfield’s Men were robbed of their home and a murder was committed in the gallery.’

‘Murder?’ gasped Frant.

‘During the tumult, a friend of Lord Westfield’s was stabbed to death.’

‘Can this be true? A spectator
killed
while watching a play?’

‘Felled by an assassin who was biding his time.’

‘These are dreadful tidings. Who was the man?’

‘His name was Fortunatus Hope.’

‘Newly come to London and part of our patron’s circle,’ said Firethorn.

‘Before that,’ added Nicholas, ‘he was an acquaintance of Lord Conway’s.’

Frant shook his head. ‘He was much more than an acquaintance, Nick,’ he explained. ‘Conway’s Men have played in Dover a few times and I have met their patron more than once. I am sure that he introduced me to a Fortunatus Hope last year. It is not a name that one forgets.’

‘And you say that he is much more than an acquaintance?’

‘Yes,’ said Frant. ‘He was Lord Conway’s nephew.’

Rehearsals of
Cupid’s Folly
took up all of the morning and most of the afternoon. The performance was not due to begin until early evening when people had finished their work for the day and could allow themselves some entertainment. The play was a staple drama in the repertoire of Westfield’s
Men and that was one of the arguments in favour of staging it at the Star Inn. So familiar was it to the actors that many scenes needed scant rehearsal. The bulk of the time could therefore be devoted to the sections that involved Giddy Mussett. Aided by Nicholas, he had conned the part well but his grasp on the character was still unsure. Rigormortis was a longer and more complex role than that of Bedlam and, while there were shared values between them, there were also significant differences. It was left to the book holder to explain what those differences were.

One aspect of the play was mastered instantly by Mussett. Shunned by Dorinda, a beautiful shepherdess, Rigormortis urged his suit again and chased her around the stage so wildly that he blundered into a conical beehive. Immediately, he was attacked by a swarm of angry bees. In an effect devised by Nicholas, he knocked over the hive, tossed a handful of black pepper into the air to suggest the swarm, then jumped, twitched and smacked himself as the bees, apparently, stung him all over. The actors had seen Barnaby Gill play the scene so often that it had ceased to divert them but Mussett’s version made them hoot and clap. Once again, Gill did not share their approval. He watched from his room, writhing with a mixture of envy and regret.

They were emotions experienced by Lawrence Firethorn as well. Even from casual observers who wandered into the yard, Rigormortis was getting more response than Lord Hayfever, the role taken by Firethorn. He envied the clown’s capacity to amuse with a gesture or gain a laugh with a facial expression, and he began to regret the selection of
a play that cast him in a subordinate role for once. At the same time, he was forced to admire Mussett’s extraordinary skills. For a man who had never seen the play before, he was making exceptional progress. It remained to be seen if he could sustain that progress in front of an audience.

The success of
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
brought spectators flocking to the inn. Lucas Broome and his wife were among them but this was no formal occasion for the civic worthies and their families. The warm, dry evening lured people from all levels of society. Gatherers had been hired to take money at the door. The mayor and his party were allowed in free but everyone else was charged and they paid willingly. Most of those who came were happy to stand in the yard in front of the stage. By paying extra, people could also occupy the benches in the gallery and make their stay even more comfortable by hiring a cushion. Refreshments were on sale, carried around on trays by servingmen. The beaming Jonathan Jowlett, who took his own seat in the gallery, stood to make a handsome profit from the performance.

Westfield’s Men were delighted with the huge audience that they attracted. It was almost as if they were back at the Queen’s Head. That was their natural home. They had performed at The Theatre and The Curtain, the two playhouses in Shoreditch, and they had trodden the boards at The Rose, the new Bankside theatre, but they preferred their inn yard to all other venues. The Star Inn suited them much more than the Lower Courthouse. Given the number of country folk in the audience,
Cupid’s Folly
, with its
pastoral setting and rustic humour, was an ideal choice. Up in the gallery, Sebastian Frant explained the plot to his daughter, Thomasina, but took care to give nothing away that would spoil the recurring surprises that made the piece so popular. Thomasina, who had inherited both her father’s intelligence and his reserve, was an attractive young woman in a pale blue dress, who sat upright with her hands folded in her lap. Like everyone else in the yard, she was gripped by a sense of anticipatory pleasure.