The Vagabond Clown (20 page)

‘Where were they headed?’

‘Nobody seemed to know.’

The Three Tuns was a commodious inn that looked particularly inviting after the trials of their journey from Faversham. Once they had settled in, Westfield’s Men took advantage of the light evening to explore the city while they could. Conscious of possible danger, the actors went off in small groups so that nobody was isolated. George Dart, however, much to his disgust, was given the unenviable task of remaining at the inn to stand guard over Barnaby Gill, who refused to venture out. Nicholas Bracewell was in charge of the four apprentices. Firethorn and Hoode walked with them in the direction of the cathedral. As they strolled along, Nicholas took the opportunity to detach Stephen Judd so that he could have a private word with the lad. He scolded him for even thinking that Gill’s death would have been preferable to that of Giddy Mussett and impressed upon him how much Westfield’s Men owed to the talents of their clown. By the time that the book holder had finished with him, Judd was duly cowed and penitent. Nicholas was pleased to see that, when they entered the cathedral, the
boy went off to kneel down and beg forgiveness.

The visitors spent an hour admiring the magnificent interior of the building and reading the inscriptions on the various tombstones. It was when they came back out through Christ Church Gate that Nicholas was seized by an impulse. Sending the others on ahead of him, he walked across to the Crown, the small inn that Giddy Mussett had recommended for its ale. Nicholas was not there in search of drink but in the faint hope that a certain person might still be there. A cursory glance around the busy taproom told him that he was wasting his time and he was about to leave. Then he caught sight of a dishevelled individual, sitting alone in a corner and staring into an empty tankard, half-hidden by three customers who stood directly in front of him. Nicholas felt the thrill of recognition. It was Martin Ling, the discontented book holder from Conway’s Men.

After buying two tankards of ale, Nicholas went over to Ling and sat down.

‘Have a drink with me, my friend,’ said Nicholas.

Ling looked up. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘I’ve heard of you. Giddy Mussett mentioned your name. You hold the book for Westfield’s Men. God bless you for this!’ he said, lifting the tankard to sip from it. ‘It comes when I most need it.’ He regarded Nicholas through watery eyes. ‘So you have reached Canterbury, have you? Why did you not bring Giddy with you?’

‘He’s no longer with us, alas.’

‘Fallen out with you already?’

‘Fallen out with everything,’ said Nicholas sadly, taking a first sip of his own ale. ‘Giddy is dead. He was murdered at the inn where we stayed in Faversham.’

Ling was so shocked by the news that he had to take a long drink before he could even speak. Nicholas gave him a brief account of what had happened, making no mention of the other attacks on the company. Ling’s haggard face was creased into folds of sympathy.

‘Who could have done such a thing?’ he asked, shaking his head with incredulity.

‘I wish we knew.’

‘Giddy made enemies as easily as friends but I can’t believe that anyone hated him enough to want him dead. These are dreadful tidings.’

‘Why did he leave Conway’s Men?’

‘For the same reason that I did,’ said Ling with rancour. ‘He could not stomach Master Fitzgeoffrey. The fellow is mean-spirited and vindictive. I only stayed with him for the sake of the others but he pushed me beyond my limit. Tobias Fitzgeoffrey abused me once too often,’ he went on, baring a row of blackened teeth. ‘When they set off this morning, I stayed behind. Let him find another book holder.’

‘You say that he’s vindictive?’

‘He’ll harbour a grudge for a decade.’

‘Did he have any grudges against Giddy?’

‘Dozens.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘The chief one was the most obvious,’ said Ling. ‘Giddy stole his thunder during a play. Master Fitzgeoffrey would
not allow that. He cut the clown’s lines and took out two songs to bring Giddy to heel.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘It made no difference. The next time we staged that play, Giddy put in a jig that he invented and won the love of the audience. But he got no love from Tobias Fitzgeoffrey.’

‘Where is the company now?’

‘Searching for a book holder and wishing that they still had me.’

‘What’s their next port of call?’

‘Walmer.’

‘I know it,’ said Nicholas, noting that Conway’s Men would not be far from Dover. ‘How long will they stay there?’

‘Walmer is too small to provide them with an audience,’ explained Ling. ‘They are to perform at a house nearby that’s owned by a friend of our patron.’ He pulled a face. ‘
Our
patron, do I say? He’s mine no longer, thank heaven!’

‘What manner of man is Lord Conway?’

‘As full of spite as Master Fitzgeoffrey. They are twin fangs of malice.’

‘One last question,’ said Nicholas.

Ling smiled. ‘Buy me more ale and you can ask all the questions you wish.’

‘Did you ever meet a man called Fortunatus Hope?’

‘Why, yes. A number of times. He was Lord Conway’s nephew.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Ling, scratching his chin. ‘He was an amiable fellow, that I do remember, and a
generous one as well. Once, when we played in Hythe, he bought us all a meal to celebrate the performance.’

‘A wealthy man, then?’

‘More free with money than his uncle, I know that.’

‘Why did the two of them quarrel?’

‘You said there was only one more question,’ complained the other.

‘Here,’ said Nicholas, putting some coins on the table. ‘How many answers will that purchase?’

‘As many as you ask,’ said Ling, scooping up the money gratefully. ‘But, first, let
me
pose a question. Why are you here?’

‘I’m trying to track down the man who killed Giddy Mussett.’

‘It was not Master Hope, I can assure you of that.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘He, too, was stabbed in the back.’

Ling gaped at him. ‘He’s
dead
?’

‘Felled, I believe, by the same hand that killed Giddy.’

‘They were both such friendly souls.’

‘When did you last see Master Hope?’

‘It must have been some months ago,’ said Ling, noisily draining his tankard. ‘We were touring in Essex, walking at the cart’s arse from town to town. Lord Conway came to see us play in Colchester and Master Hope was part of his circle. Something happened to drive the two men apart but I know not what it was. All I can remember is that our patron was seething with rage.’

‘How close is he to Master Fitzgeoffrey?’

‘They are two yoke-devils.’

‘That is what I imagined,’ said Nicholas, about to rise. ‘Well, thank you, my friend. You have given me food for thought.’

Ling grabbed his arm. ‘Do not leave now,’ he pleaded. ‘We’ve so much to talk about. Book holders like us should stick together.’ He grinned obsequiously. ‘Dare I ask if you have room in your company for another hired man?’

‘Alas, no. We had to shed some of our fellows before we even set out.’

‘It was ever thus. Touring is a means of torture.’

‘We’ve had our share of that,’ admitted Nicholas. He removed Ling’s hand and got up from the table. ‘Pray excuse me. They’ll be wondering where I am.’

‘You’ve barely touched your ale.’

‘Drink it for me. I think you’ve earned it.’

‘But I haven’t told you about Master Fitzgeoffrey yet.’

‘Told me what?’

‘It’s only just popped into my mind,’ said Ling, pulling the other tankard across to him. ‘He heard that Giddy had come to see me here in Canterbury. He was not pleased about that. Then he told me something that I thought strange at the time.’

‘And what was that?’

‘He said that I’d never see Giddy Mussett again.’

Finding the man at the Crown had been a stroke of good fortune but Nicholas felt that he deserved one after all the reverses he had suffered. Martin Ling was a pathetic
character, working for a man he loathed until he could no longer bear his insults, then abandoning the company for an uncertain future. Even if there had been a vacant place among Westfield’s Men, Nicholas would not have advised anyone to offer it to Ling. Iron had entered the man’s soul and drink had corrupted his judgement. He was an example of a man who had been broken on the wheel of his profession. Nevertheless, he had been able to give Nicholas some valuable information. When he left the Crown, he had plenty to reflect upon during the walk back.

Even allowing for Ling’s prejudices, Tobias Fitzgeoffrey sounded like a nasty and objectionable man but that was not conclusive proof that he was capable of murder. His presence at the Queen’s Head on the fateful afternoon of the affray was something that Nicholas thought highly significant. Why else would the man be there if not to relish the confusion into which a rival company was thrown? Fitzgeoffrey would hardly have been in the audience by chance. To get to London, he had left his company languishing in Kent, unable to perform without him. When money was in such short supply for Conway’s Men, why had their manager passed up the opportunity of a performance in favour of a visit to the capital? More surprisingly, why, on his return, was a man who was reputed to be stingy with money, suddenly overtaken by a spirit of generosity?

Nicholas decided that the crucial relationship was the one between Fitzgeoffrey and his patron. Until he could meet one or both of them, he could not reach a firm verdict but evidence was slowly piling up against them. In causing
the affray, Nicholas reasoned, they hoped to bring to an end the occupation of Gracechurch Street by Westfield’s Men. When the company travelled to Kent, their new clown was first ambushed, then killed, as a means of bringing the tour to an end. But the troupe was too resilient to be quashed. Since it dared to soldier on, another attack was made on it during the journey to Canterbury. Firethorn’s prediction was true. They wanted more blood. The enemies of Westfield’s Men would not stop until they had halted the company in its tracks.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Nicholas strode through the streets alone without any fear for his own safety. It was only when he reached the door of the Three Tuns that he chose to look over his shoulder. A man dived quickly into the shadows. It was a sobering reminder. Nicholas had been followed.

Before they could set out next morning, repairs had to be made to the wagon that was damaged by the avalanche. A new wheel was bought to replace the one that Nicholas had mended sufficiently well to get them to Canterbury, and lengths of stout timber were used to strengthen the makeshift struts beneath the wagon. The local wheelwright employed to help was full of praise for the way that the rim had been put back on the other wheel and his comments fed Lawrence Firethorn’s vanity. The actor boasted aloud about his skills as a blacksmith. It was Barnaby Gill, reclining in his wheelbarrow, who pricked the bubble of his conceit.

‘You should have stayed in the trade, Lawrence,’ he said waspishly.

Firethorn blenched. ‘And deprive the stage of my genius?’

‘I think that your skills are more suited to the forge.’

‘At least, I
have
skills of some sort, Barnaby. Unlike you.’

‘You would have made an excellent blacksmith.’

‘Had you been my anvil, I’d have enjoyed the work.’

‘Barnaby
is
your anvil,’ said Edmund Hoode wearily. ‘You strike sparks off him whenever you meet.’

‘I’ve yet to see any spark in his acting,’ said Firethorn.

‘That is because you are too busy looking at yourself,’ countered Gill. ‘An audience is nothing more than a set of mirrors in which you preen yourself.’

‘
You
are the Narcissus in this troupe, Barnaby.’

‘I strive to look my best, that is all.’

‘And you do look your best in that wheelbarrow,’ teased Firethorn. ‘I’d be more than happy to tip you onto my garden to enrich the soil.’

‘Even with a broken leg, I can outrun you on stage.’

‘But you only go in circles.’

The rest of the company had gathered in the yard for departure but they were too accustomed to the banter between Firethorn and Gill to pay much attention to their latest squabble. When the baggage had been loaded, they climbed into their respective wagons. Owen Elias led his horse out of the stables and went over to the first wagon.

‘Are we ready to leave, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, checking the harness. ‘We must head for the Dover Road.’

‘I hope that we can have one journey without an ambush.’

‘I’m sure that we shall, Owen.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

‘Wait and see.’

Nicholas clambered up into his seat and took the reins. When Gill and his wheelbarrow had been lifted into the second wagon, it was time to go. They rolled out of the inn yard and into the busy streets of Canterbury. Firethorn rode ahead, as usual, and Elias brought up the rear with Hoode and his donkey for company. The procession made its way towards Ridingate. There was a distinct mood of apprehension. In view of the earlier attacks, Westfield’s Men were understandably nervous. Sensible precautions had been taken. Even the apprentices had been given daggers and taught how to defend themselves. Trained in the art of stage fights, the actors all knew how to handle weapons but there was a world of difference between rehearsed combat and fight for their lives with an enemy who could select the time, place and means of an attack. The moment they left the comparative safety of the city, they began to feel uneasy. Richard Honeydew gave an involuntary shiver. He climbed onto the seat beside Nicholas.

‘I wish that we could have stayed in Canterbury,’ he said.

‘The city was not ready for us, Dick.’

‘The open road frightens me.’

‘When you have all your friends around you?’

‘The others are as worried as me,’ said Honeydew. ‘You’ve given us daggers but what use are they against an avalanche?’

‘No use at all,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but we are unlikely to be attacked in that way again. If enemies still lurk in
wait, they will not use the same device because they know that we will be more circumspect. Besides, the avalanche inflicted no injuries. It merely delayed us for a few hours.’

‘Why do they
want
to injure us, Nick?’

‘I believe that envy is at work.’

‘Is that reason enough to kill?’

‘They seem to think so.’ He flicked a glance over his shoulder. ‘I spoke to Stephen yesterday. Has he said anything to you?’

‘Yes, he mumbled an apology to me as we left the cathedral.’

‘There’s an end to it then. The others will learn from him.’

‘Stephen thinks the same as me now,’ said Honeydew. ‘We do not like Master Gill as much as Giddy, but we’d hate to lose him. Or to lose anyone else.’

‘We’ll take steps to make sure that it doesn’t happen.’

They had gone barely a mile along the Dover Road when Nicholas called a halt beside a winding track. Firethorn brought his horse alongside the leading wagon.

‘Why have we stopped, Nick?’

‘I think that we should turn down there,’ said Nicholas, pointing.

‘But this is the most direct way.’

‘That’s why they’ll be waiting for us somewhere along the route.’

Firethorn unsheathed his sword. ‘I’ll be ready for the rogues.’

‘They’ll not give you the courtesy of a fight. Their
strategy is to strike hard when we least expect them before fleeing at speed. They’ll not attack unless they can escape.’

‘Leave the main road and we add pointless miles to the journey.’

‘We also gain a degree of safety.’

‘You puzzle me,’ said Firethorn, sheathing his sword. ‘Last night, I heard you ask the landlord which road we should take to Dover and he named all the villages we’d pass on the way. Why bother to seek that information if it is of no consequence?’

‘But it was of consequence.’

‘In what way?’

‘It misled them,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When I walked back to the Three Tuns last night, I was followed by a man.’

Firethorn was disturbed. ‘Why did you not say?’

‘Because I did not wish to spread alarm. The chances were that he’d slip into the taproom at some point. It was so full with custom that we’d not have picked him out. The man who killed Giddy Mussett bided his time from inside the Blue Anchor, remember. Unbeknown to us, we rubbed shoulders with the assassin in Faversham and may have done so again last night at the Three Tuns.’

‘I’ll rub more than his shoulder!’ vowed Firethorn.

‘That’s why I questioned the landlord so openly.’

‘To throw anyone listening off the scent.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The conversation that nobody overheard was the one I had in the stables with the wheelwright. He taught me another way to Dover.’

‘Then let’s take it, Nick. Your judgement is sound.’ He
gave a chuckle. ‘If they
are
lying in wait for us on this road, what will they do when we fail to turn up?’

Nicholas smiled. ‘They may become angry.’

It was a perfect place for attack. The bushes that ran along the ridge gave them ample cover. The two men chose a spot that brought them closest to any traffic on the road below. As they lay in the undergrowth, both had loaded muskets at their side. The man with the beard was writhing with impatience.

‘They should have been here hours ago,’ he complained.

‘Perhaps they were delayed,’ said the brawny young man with the scarred face.

‘By what?’

‘Who knows? An accident?’

‘
We
are their accident,’ growled the bearded man. ‘We’ll stop them for good. Put a couple of musket balls into Nicholas Bracewell and Westfield’s Men will fall apart.’

‘You said that when you killed Giddy Mussett.’

‘Hold your noise!’

There was a long pause. ‘Shall I ride up the road to see if they’re coming?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be a waste of time.’ The bearded man hauled himself to his feet and picked up his musket. ‘A plague on them!’ he exclaimed. ‘They tricked us.’

The first thing that they noticed as they approached Dover was its massive fortress. Perched on the top of the hill,
it was like a town in itself, well fortified with high walls and solid towers, gazing out fearlessly across the English Channel. Having followed a serpentine route that twisted its way past countless hamlets and farms, Westfield’s Men entered the town from the north east, passing in the very shadow of the castle. From their high eminence, they had a good view of the sheltered harbour below, protected by the Pent, a massive wall built of cliff-chalk, forty feet wide at the top. Dozens of vessels lay in the harbour. A three-masted ship was just setting sail for France. Travellers were milling around a second vessel as they waited to board it.

The castle was an intimidating structure but the steep incline that now confronted them was equally breathtaking. With the sea to their left, they had to descend the long road that curved down to the town itself. Nicholas ordered them to lighten the load by walking down the hill. Only Gill remained in the rear of a wagon. Like the other two drivers, Nicholas led his horses by hand so that he had more control over them. Hoode walked beside him with his donkey braying in fear at the sight of the precipice nearby.

‘I hope they’ll let us play here, Nick,’ he said.

‘There’s no reason to suppose that they will not,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We know that we must perform at least once at the castle.’

‘Yes, but only when Lord Westfield is present. He was adamant about that. We are days ahead of him. He’ll not expect us here this soon.’

‘Then we’ll have to send him word of our arrival.’

‘As soon as we may,’ said Hoode. ‘Where shall we stay?’

‘Sebastian Frant spoke well of the Lion. It has sixteen beds to offer.’

‘Not all may be available.’

‘Then we’ll have to make other arrangements,’ said Nicholas. ‘We’ve been spoilt so far, Edmund. Last time we toured, some of us slept in the stables.’

Dover was a flourishing community, its population swelled by the large numbers of travellers who came to and fro. Twenty sea-going ships made regular voyages to Calais and other ports on the Continent, giving employment to over four hundred sailors and providing the inns around the harbour with plenty of custom. The newcomers were impressed by the size of the crowds but they also noticed a slight air of decay about the town. A number of churches were in ruins and some of the civic buildings had seen better days. The once imposing St Martin Le Grande was so dilapidated that its stone was being pillaged for use in the construction of sea defences.

Westfield’s Men were back in their wagons by the time they turned into the yard at the Lion. The ruse advised by Nicholas had been successful. In choosing an alternative route to Dover, they had avoided any further incidents. It gave them a new confidence. They were delighted that the inn could accommodate them all. While they unloaded their belongings, it was left to Nicholas to obtain a licence to play in the town and to send word to their patron of their early arrival. By the time that the book holder returned, Firethorn was seated in the taproom with Hoode and Gill. None of them could read the expression on Nicholas’s face.

‘Well,’ said Firethorn. ‘Good tidings or bad?’

‘Good, for the most part,’ replied Nicholas. ‘We have a licence to play at the Guildhall in two days and there is a possibility that we may be able to give a second performance there.’

‘This is cheering news.’

‘Let me finish. Our fee, alas, is only thirteen shillings and fourpence.’

‘So little for such magnificent fare?’

‘It’s the same amount that Conway’s Men received.’

‘That’s even more insulting,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘Our fame surely entitles us to more than that undisciplined rabble.’

‘We’ve played for less in the past,’ Hoode reminded him.

‘Played for less and deserved much more.’

‘The fee has been accepted,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we could make more by a second performance. Even if we pay for the hire of the Guildhall, there should be a profit in the venture.’

‘What of the letter to our patron?’ said Gill. ‘When Lord Westfield reaches the town, we can look to a third performance with the largest audience yet.’

Nicholas gave a nod. ‘Fortune favours us. I told the mayor that I needed to send word to our patron and he offered his help. His own courier travels to London with a string of correspondence so our letter will be in his saddlebag as well.’

Firethorn was content. ‘Three performances in all. That augurs well.’

‘Provided that we choose the best plays, Lawrence,’ said Gill with an arrogant gesture of the hand. ‘One must surely be
The Foolish Friar
so that I can conquer yet another audience.’

‘Learn to conquer your outrageous pride instead.’

‘Who else could dominate the stage from a wheelbarrow?’

‘You did not even dominate the wheelbarrow itself, Barnaby.’

The two men started to argue about which plays should be performed, each nominating those in which he felt he would have the commanding role. Nicholas caught Hoode’s eye and a silent pact was made. Excusing themselves from the debate, they went out to inhale the fresh air of a fine evening.

‘Which plays would you suggest, Nick?’ asked Hoode.

‘Our choice is limited by that avalanche, Edmund. Some of our scenery was destroyed and several of our properties damaged. I do not have the time or the means to repair them all. However,’ he continued with a wry smile, ‘one thing that did survive was the executioner’s block so we can still offer
The Loyal Subject
.’

‘That would be on my list as well. Put it forward.’

‘Let’s wait until this latest skirmish between Lawrence and Barnaby is over. Until then, neither of them will listen to what we have to say.’

They decided to go for a walk and their steps took them in the direction of the harbour. It was no accident. The son of a West Country merchant, Nicholas had gone to sea at an early age and developed an abiding love for it. He could
not stay in a port like Dover without wanting to see what ships were moored there. Hoode was happy to bear him company, enjoying the stroll and the chance to be free of the others for a while. The smell of the sea soon invaded their nostrils. When they got close to the first of the ships, Nicholas stopped so that he could appraise it at his leisure.