The Vagabond Clown (18 page)

‘Do you dare to call yourselves actors?’ he said, addressing his whole company. ‘A herd of cattle would give
a better account of themselves on stage. And, at least, they would provide the audience with something to drink. All that you will do is to send them to sleep. It is shameful.’

He berated them for several minutes then sent them off in disgrace, confident that his scathing comments would sting them into giving a better performance. Martin Ling, the book holder, was not impressed by the actor-manager’s tirade.

‘You are as much to blame as anyone, Tobias,’ he said.

‘How can you say that when I was the only one to remember my lines?’

‘The play needed more rehearsal.’

‘That’s my decision, Martin.’

‘I only tell you what the others feel,’ said Ling. ‘You disappeared for the whole day yesterday when you should have been here to work on the piece.’

‘I had important matters to attend to,’ said Fitzgeoffrey.

‘What is more important than offering decent fare to our spectators?’

The actor-manager rounded on him. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with handsome features and a commanding presence. Towering over his book holder, he looked down at him with utter contempt.

‘If you do not like the way I run this company, Martin,’ he said with scorn, ‘you are welcome to leave. We’ll happily spare you.’

‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ admitted Ling. ‘But I’ll not go until you pay me the money that you owe.
I’m not the only member of Conway’s Men who is waiting for a debt to be settled.’

‘All in good time.’

‘How often have I heard you say that, Tobias?’

‘Listen, you idiot,’ said Fitzgeoffrey vehemently. ‘When I went off yesterday, it was for the benefit of everyone. I had to perform a service for our patron and was duly rewarded. That money goes straight into our coffers.’

‘When will it come out again to pay us?’

‘When I am good and ready.’

Ling turned away to hide a sneer and began to gather up the properties that had been used during the rehearsal. Fitzgeoffrey remembered something. He crossed the room to block the other man’s path.

‘I heard a rumour that Giddy Mussett was in Canterbury yesterday,’ he said.

‘Did you?’ replied Ling.

‘What did he want?’

‘Who knows?’

‘You’d be the person he’d first seek out. Is that what he did, Martin?’

‘He may’ve done.’

‘Was he alone or did he bring someone else?’

‘I cannot remember.’

‘Did he tell you that he’d joined Westfield’s Men?’ asked Fitzgeoffrey. ‘They must’ve been mad to engage someone like him.’

‘You thought him worth his wage at one time, Tobias.’

‘That was before I knew his true character. No matter.
All that is past now. Well,’ he went on with a knowing smile. ‘I hope that you enjoyed your talk with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t think that you’ll ever see Giddy Mussett again.’

The Foolish Friar
was a happy choice. It made few demands on a company that was still in a state of dejection after the murder of their clown. The two actors who had to work hardest were Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias, learning new lines and practicing endlessly with the wheelbarrow. It became a weapon as well as a means of transport. Elias was able to sweep people off their feet by pushing the wheelbarrow into them, or leave it in places where they would trip inadvertently over it. Gill’s early doubts were soon removed. Confined to his moveable couch, he could still extract the full comedy from his role. If anything, the wheelbarrow enhanced the humour by its originality. No friar had ever rolled on stage quite like that before.

Pleased with the way that the rehearsal had gone, Nicholas Bracewell was nevertheless anxious to get away. He took Firethorn aside to state his case.

‘Let me go back to Canterbury again,’ he said.

‘We need you here, Nick.’

‘But that’s where we’ll solve the murder of Giddy Mussett.’

‘That will have to wait,’ insisted Firethorn. ‘Your duty is to stay here with us. The company is uneasy when you are away. George Dart can hold the book at a rehearsal
but he will never be a Nick Bracewell. In any case, it’s too dangerous for you to ride off alone and I can hardly spare anyone else to go with you.’

‘I’ll take my chances on the road.’

‘It’s a risk I’m not prepared to share. What happens if you are waylaid? It is bad enough to lose Giddy. If you went, we would be crippled indeed.’

Nicholas was earnest. ‘We owe it to Giddy to catch his killer.’

‘We owe it to our audience to serve them up a tasty dish.’

‘What is to stop us solving a hideous crime as well?’

‘Lack of time, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Lack of time and shortage of people. Ride off to Canterbury and the rehearsal will slow to a halt. You were the one who made that wheelbarrow. Who else but you would have thought of using it on stage and coaxing Barnaby back into work? Westfield’s Men
need
you here.’

‘I have obligations to Giddy as well.’

‘So do we all.’

‘Then let me discharge them.’

‘In due course.’

Nicholas gave up. Torn between duty to the company and an urge to avenge a crime, he had become increasingly frustrated. But he knew that Firethorn was right. The book holder’s presence was crucial. As well as advising Edmund Hoode how
The Foolish Friar
could be amended to their advantage, he had engaged Sebastian Frant as their scrivener, made further important adjustments to the wheelbarrow, and inspected the place where they would perform so that
he could take dimensions and decide where best to set the stage. Nicholas had also been a calming influence on the apprentices, all of whom had been overwhelmed by the murder of their clown.

‘Take heart, Nick,’ said Firethorn, reading his mind. ‘I, too, would like to saddle up and gallop to Canterbury but we must discharge our obligations here first. Besides, I think that you are forgetting something.’

‘What’s that?’ said Nicholas.

‘The villain has struck twice and may do so again. It behoves us all to stay close together for our own protection. If you leave, you weaken our defence badly. Do you hear what I’m saying?’ he asked, slipping an arm around the book holder. ‘We may not need to go in search of the killer. He will come to us.’

Given the circumstances, the performance of
The Foolish Friar
was an extraordinary achievement. Westfield’s Men were beset by all kinds of problems. Their new clown had been murdered at the Blue Anchor and it left them in the state of cold fear. Coming, as it did, in the wake of the ambush at the ford, the crime made them feel highly vulnerable. Most of the actors just wanted to creep away from Faversham. Their old clown, Barnaby Gill, forced to step into the breach, was nursing a broken leg and could only take the title role if changes were made to the play that permitted its foolish friar to be moved around the stage in a wheelbarrow. To make up for the lost dances, additional songs were written. To master the new scenes that Edmund Hoode had provided, intensive rehearsal was necessary. Owen Elias, in particular, was put under immense pressure. He was called upon not only to learn a different role at
short notice but, as a fellow friar, had to wheel Gill around in his wheelbarrow and, at the height of the action, sing a duet with him. Mistakes came so thick and fast during rehearsals that they despaired of ever getting the play in a fit state for an audience.

Yet somehow they succeeded. Staged before the citizens of Faversham in their town hall,
The Foolish Friar
was a glorious romp that was played to the hilt by the actors. None of the spectators would have guessed that the actors were mourning the death of Giddy Mussett, stabbed to death less than forty-eight hours earlier. Grief was hidden beneath joyous abandon. Gill surpassed himself in the role of a cunning friar with so much charm and guile that he was able to exploit the people of a small town for bed, board and money. Pleading poverty, he nevertheless contrived to become the wealthiest man in the town. His folly consisted in overreaching himself. Not content with living off the townspeople, he tried to collect sexual favours as well, assuring the young women in question that he would absolve them of any sin that they committed with him.

Lawrence Firethorn played the local magistrate, taken in at first by the friar’s plausible tales and allowing him and the other friar to live under his own roof. It was only when the magistrate’s daughter – Richard Honeydew at his most enchanting – aroused the lust of the lecherous friar that their guest was revealed in his true light. Using his supposedly broken leg as a means of gaining sympathy, the friar had no disability once he had enticed his prey into a bedchamber.
To expose the man, and to get his revenge, the magistrate encouraged his daughter to agree to an assignation and then, at midnight, went to the friar in her place. Firethorn had made his name playing tragic heroes but he proved that he could disguise himself as a woman just as effectively as any of the apprentices. Donning a cloak and covering his beard with a veil, he worked the friar up into such a passion that the man confessed his base desires. It was left to the magistrate to beat him, arrest him and push him swiftly around in circles in the wheelbarrow before tipping him into the river.

The splash that the audience heard was nothing more than a bucket being dropped offstage into a barrel of water by Nicholas Bracewell but it was so well timed that it sounded very convincing. Instead of being tipped out, the friar was, in fact, lifted from his wheelbarrow by Elias and Hoode, who were stationed behind the scenery for the purpose. It was only one of many effects that the book holder had devised and, like all the others, it worked remarkably well. The audience went into ecstasies. A comedy with darker undertones,
The Foolish Friar
was hailed as something that was infinitely superior to the play given earlier by Conway’s Men. Even the mayor was impressed. He still had reservations about the whole notion of drama but they did not prevent him from joining in the laughter with everyone else.

Nicholas was relieved that the performance had gone so well and congratulated Gill on his ability to improvise so brilliantly. Firethorn actually embraced the invalid and
everyone in the company agreed that the foolish friar had been hilarious. Gill was happy at last. He was the undisputed clown once more. It appealed to his vanity that the person the mayor first wanted to meet was the friar. Firethorn, for once, did not bristle with jealousy. The reputation of Westfield’s Men had been upheld and that is what mattered most to him. They had also earned some money in the process. He was very conscious of the main reason for their success. He took his book holder aside.

‘We owe it all to you, Nick,’ he said.

‘It was a victory for the whole company.’

‘Only because you suggested a play that could entice Barnaby back on stage.’

‘I’ve never seen him better,’ said Nicholas.

‘Nor I. Perhaps we should keep him in that wheelbarrow in perpetuity. That device gained more laughs than
I
did,’ he complained good-humouredly. ‘You’ll have to make one for me as well, Nick.’

‘Barnaby would prefer to have two good legs rather than a single wheel.’

‘He’s back with us and for that blessing I must thank you.’

‘Edmund did his share, so did Sebastian Frant.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘It was good to have our old scrivener back again. I must go and speak to him – and to that beautiful daughter of his.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘I’m sure that Thomasina would prefer a handsome magistrate like me to a foolish friar with his leg in splints.’

He left the room that they had been using as their
tiring-house and went out into the hall to receive plaudits from all sides. Most of the audience had dispersed but a number of spectators still lingered. When he followed the actor-manager, Nicholas was touched to see that Pieter Hendrik was waiting to see him.

‘I did not expect to see you here in Faversham,’ said Nicholas in surprise. ‘Did you enjoy the play?’

‘Fery much,’ replied Hendrik, grinning broadly. ‘The friar, he make me laugh. But ver is the other man, the one I see in Medstone?’

‘Giddy Mussett was unable to appear today, I fear.’

‘Fery sorry to hear that.’

‘What brings you to Faversham?’

‘Vork, my friend. I hev customers here so I deliver what they buy. Then I hear that these actors will put on a play, so I stay to vatch.’

‘I’m glad that you did,’ said Nicholas.

Hendrik’s grin vanished. ‘Ver is Conway’s Men?’

‘Still in Canterbury, I hope. We travel there tomorrow morning.’

‘You speak to Master Fizzgoffrey?’

‘Oh, yes,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Tobias Fitzgeoffrey and I have more than one thing to discuss. Your bill is among them. I’ll remind him of the money that he owes.’

‘Fery good, I thenk you. Give my luff to Anne.’

‘I’ll give her your letter as well.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Hendrik, waving a farewell. ‘That, I forget.’

Nicholas watched him go then switched his gaze to
Firethorn, who was being introduced to David Frant and his wife. While lapping up their praise, the actor’s chief interest was in Thomasina and he took her hand to kiss it. Nicholas could see that she was not sure how to react. He went to her aid.

‘A whole bevy of Frants,’ he observed. ‘We are honoured.’

Frant smiled. ‘We came in force to support you, Nick.’

‘You did more than that, Sebastian. You provided me with the only pieces of the play that I could read clearly.’ He turned to Thomasina. ‘Your father claims that his hand no longer has its former neatness but that’s not true.’

‘I know,’ she said fondly. ‘Father has lost none of his accomplishments.’

‘What are
your
accomplishments?’ asked Firethorn, smiling at her ‘Apart from a lovely face and a graceful carriage, that is. What hidden talents do you have?’

‘None, Master Firethorn.’

‘Come, come. I’ll not believe that.’

‘Thomasina is too modest,’ said Frant with paternal pride. ‘She has many accomplishments. She sings well and plays upon the virginals. But her greatest talent lies in the way that she looks after her father.’

‘I’d love to hear you play something,’ said Firethorn, catching her eye. ‘I, too, have a keen interest in the virginals.’

The remark embarrassed Thomasina and made her father wince slightly. David Frant and his wife did not seem to notice Firethorn’s double meaning. They looked at him in awe, still dazzled by the wonder of his performance.

‘Did you enjoy the play?’ Nicholas asked them.

‘Oh, we did,’ said David Frant. ‘We’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘What about you, Sebastian?’

‘You know my opinion of Westfield’s Men,’ said Frant affably. ‘They are the King Midas among theatre companies. Whatever they touch, they turn to gold.’

Firethorn gave a token bow. ‘Thank you, Sebastian.’

‘Do you agree with your father?’ asked Nicholas, turning to Thomasina.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘You have seen us twice now. Which of the plays did you prefer?’

‘
Cupid’s Folly
, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘I liked its merriment.’

‘But there was merriment in
The Foolish Friar
,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and a sharper edge to its plot. Did you not approve of the play?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Thomasina brightly.

‘I sense a reservation.’

‘There is none. It was truly wonderful.’

Though she spoke with enthusiasm, Nicholas somehow did not believe her.

The funeral of Giddy Mussett was held on the following morning. After the heady success of the previous afternoon, the actors were brought back down to earth again, reminded that their substitute clown had been killed by an assassin and that they themselves might now be under threat. As they
gathered at the little church, they were racked by anguish and troubled by superstition. Every member of the company attended, including Barnaby Gill, who made some gracious comments about his former rival. It seemed a fitting end for a vagabond like Mussett that his bones should be laid to rest during a tour of a county far removed from the place in which he had been born. When the earth was tossed upon the coffin, the actors bade farewell to a remarkable man who would leave a trail of vivid memories behind him.

Kate Humble was among the mourners, holding back tears until the moment when they all moved away from the graveside. When he observed her slipping behind some yew trees to weep in privacy, Nicholas went after her to offer some consolation. As soon as she saw him, she went gratefully into his arms. He waited until her sobbing ended.

‘I have something for you, Kate,’ he said, releasing her.

‘You’ve already let me choose a keepsake from Giddy’s belongings.’

‘This is not a keepsake.’

‘Then what is it?’

Nicholas put money into her hand. ‘His wages.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll not take his money.’

‘Giddy would have wanted you to have it.’

‘But he told me that he had to repay a debt to you for getting him out of prison.’

‘That debt was settled by his death. Take the money.’

Kate stared at the coins. ‘This is more than I can earn in a month.’

‘Then use it to buy something that will remind you of Giddy.’

‘Oh, I will, sir. I will. Thank you.’

‘Thank
you
, Kate. In telling me the truth about what happened at the Blue Anchor, you were a great help to me. It was good to know that it was Giddy who set Master Gill adrift in the creek.’

‘I told a lie,’ she confessed. ‘Master Gill will be furious with me.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘That incident was buried with Giddy. I’ve said nothing to Master Gill or to anyone else. There is no reason for them to know.’

After heaving a sigh of relief, she leant forward to kiss him on the cheek before hurrying off on her own. Nicholas rejoined the others as they walked back to the Blue Anchor. Wheeled along by George Dart, Gill was explaining to all who would listen why Mussett was such a worthy rival of his. The untimely death allowed Gill to speak of him with a measure of respect and even a degree of affection. Nicholas did not wish to change that benign view of the dead man by telling Gill who had been responsible for the three cruel jests at his expense.

When they got back to the inn, they found Sebastian Frant waiting to wave them off. Firethorn was disappointed to see that Thomasina was not with him.

‘Where’s that divine creature you call a daughter?’ he asked.

‘Thomasina is at the cottage with her uncle and aunt.’

‘I was hoping for a farewell kiss.’

‘Then do not expect it from me, Lawrence,’ said Frant with a smile. He looked around the sad faces. ‘Was the funeral distressing?’

‘Very distressing,’ confided Firethorn. ‘Giddy was a rare fellow. I’ve not known anyone make such a lasting impression in such a short time.’

‘He certainly made an impression in
Cupid’s Folly
.’

‘He’d have done so in any play, Sebastian. He’s a huge loss.’

‘But it was swiftly repaired when Barnaby came to your aid.’

‘That was Nick’s invention. Like most things of consequence in this company.’

‘He even pressed me into service again.’

‘You can be our scrivener at any time you choose.’

‘A tempting offer,’ said Frant, holding up a palm, ‘but one that I must refuse. I am retired, Lawrence. I’m learning the joys of not having to work for a living any more.’

Firethorn grimaced. ‘If only
I
could do that, Sebastian,’ he sighed. ‘But there’s no release for me. I must go on and on until I expire on stage.’

‘That will never happen. You will act for all eternity.’

‘Save me from that –
please
!’

After shaking his hand, Frant went off to say goodbye to his other friends in the company. Gill, Hoode and Elias were especially sorry to take their leave of him. They appreciated the value of a meticulous scrivener. The last in line was Nicholas Bracewell. There was a warm handshake.

‘When do you set off, Nick?’ asked Frant.

‘Within the hour.’

‘Glad to shake the dust of Faversham from your feet, I daresay.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘There were happier memories along with the one that has cast a shadow over today. We had our success with
The Foolish Friar
.’