The Vagabond Clown (4 page)

‘Sing to us of Wild Meg again.’

‘Aye, or of the Sweet Maid of Romsey.’

‘Dance, Giddy. We’ve not had a jig today.’

‘Up on the table and dance!’

Giddy Mussett raised both palms to still the outburst of requests. He was a short, angular man in his early forties with an ease of movement that made light of his age. His exaggerated features gave him a striking appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his hooked nose unusually large and his chin pronounced. With the shock of red hair on his head, he looked in profile like a giant cockerel and he certainly had something of the bird’s arrogant strut. Mussett bared his uneven teeth in a grin.

‘My legs are tired today, my friends,’ he said. ‘If you would have them dance, they will need to be revived with a drink of ale or a pipe of tobacco.’

‘You’ve taken every penny we have,’ complained one man.

‘Then there’ll be no jigs this morning.’

‘We’ll not be cheated out of our entertainment,’ said another man, tossing a coin to the clown. ‘There, Giddy. That will buy us your legs again.’

Mussett winked. ‘It’ll buy you no other part of my body, Ned, I tell you that.’

Raucous laughter filled the cell. There were ten of them,
crammed together in a narrow cell with a long table at its centre. Sleeping arrangements were primitive and the only ones who managed anything approaching a peaceful night were those strong enough to fight for the best places in the filthy straw. A compound of revolting smells filled the room. Sun streamed in through a window high in the wall to illumine a scene of utter degradation. Most of the men were in rags and the two ancient women wore equally tattered garments. The stench of poverty intensified the pervading reek. The only thing that helped them to forget their dire predicament was a performance by their very own clown. But they were to be deprived of even that today.

A key scraped in the lock and the iron door groaned on its hinges. Putting his head into the cell, a brawny man with a greying beard fixed Mussett with a stare.

‘Follow me!’ he ordered.

‘But we want our jig,’ protested the man who had parted with the coin.

‘Then we’ll let you dance at the end of a rope,’ said the jailer with a snarl. ‘Did you hear me, Giddy? Follow me.’

‘I’ll not be long, my friends,’ promised Mussett, waving cheerily to the others. ‘I charge you all to stay where you are until I get back.’

He followed the jailer out of the room then waited while the door was locked again. A minute later, he was conducted into the prison sergeant’s office and left alone with a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Wearing a leather jerkin, the visitor had fair hair and beard. Mussett studied him for a moment.

‘I believe I know you, sir,’ he said.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ returned the other, ‘and I’m the book holder with Westfield’s Men.’

‘Ha!’ sneered Mussett, spitting on the floor with disgust. ‘Then you are a friend of that vile toad called Barnaby Gill.’

‘I’m pleased to number him among my fellows.’

Mussett was combative. ‘Then we have nothing to say to each other. I despise him. Has he sent you here to mock my condition? Is that your purpose, sir? Do you treat the King’s Bench Prison like another Bedlam where you may gain your pleasure by viewing the mad and the unfortunate? I am neither, Master Bracewell,’ he went on, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘Tell that to your crawling worm of a friend.’

‘I would rather speak to you,’ said Nicholas calmly, ‘and if you have sense enough to listen, you may hear something to your advantage.’

‘Not if it’s coupled with the foul name of Barnaby Gill.’

‘You deceive yourself. However, since you clearly prefer life behind bars to an early release from your detention, I’ll trouble you no more and simply apologise for interrupting your leisure.’ Nicholas turned on his heel. ‘Farewell.’

‘Hold there, sir,’ said Mussett, grabbing his arm. ‘Do you speak of
release
?’

‘Only to someone who has the courtesy to listen to me.’

‘A thousand pardons. Life in this sewer has robbed me of what few manners I possessed. Courtesy in not in request here.’ He gave an obsequious smile. ‘Tell me what has brought you here. I’ll hang on every syllable.’

‘Even if I mention the name of a man you detest?’

Mussett gritted his teeth. ‘Even then, sir.’

‘Thus it stands,’ said Nicholas. ‘During an affray at the Queen’s Head, so much damage was caused that we have to depart on a tour of Kent while renovations take place. Master Gill was badly injured in the course of the commotion. A broken leg keeps him off the stage for months.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Mussett under his breath.

‘We need a substitute and the name of Gideon Mussett came into the reckoning. There is, of course, a bar to your employment,’ observed Nicholas, glancing around. ‘You are imprisoned for debt and likely to remain here for some time.’

‘For ever, Master Bracewell. How can I ever discharge the debt when I am in no position to earn money? What little I can scrape together is quickly spent on necessary items here in the prison.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘My case is no worse than most of those who share that stinking cell with me. One man, Ned Lavery, incurred a debt of two hundred crowns and is like to spend the rest of his life under lock and key. The poor devil is so desperate for food, I caught him eating his own breeches yesterday.’

‘Your own debt is much less than two hundred crowns.’

‘A paltry six pounds, borrowed of a rogue I thought a friend.’

‘I know the amount. I’ve spoken with the sergeant.’

‘What did he say?’

‘If the debt is discharged,’ replied Nicholas, ‘he has no
right to hold you here. Though, from what I hear, he will be sorry to let you go.’

‘I earn a crust of bread by making the old walrus laugh.’

‘How would you like to earn more than a crust of bread?’

Mussett put a hand over his heart. ‘Teach me how, sir, and I’ll be your most obedient servant. If I breathe this fetid air any longer, it will kill me.’

‘You’d need to agree to a contract.’

‘State your terms and I’ll abide by them to the letter.’

‘Then, first,’ stipulated Nicholas, ‘understand this. We do not discharge your debt by means of a gift. It is money on loan and we expect you to pay it back to us, by degrees, out of your wage.’

‘I’d insist on doing that.’

‘Next, we come to your reputation.’

Mussett sighed. ‘Do I still
have
one worthy of the word?’

‘Drunkenness and truculence are always linked to your name.’

‘Not any more, I assure you. A month in this antechamber of Hell has made me see the error of my ways. You’ll have no trouble from me, Master Bracewell.’

‘If I do,’ warned Nicholas, ‘you’ll answer to me.’

‘I give you a solemn vow.’

‘You are to do as you’re bidden without complaint or hesitation.’

‘All this, I accept willingly.’

‘Then let me add one thing more. I’ll hear no carping with regard to Master Gill. We hold him in high esteem.
You merely fill his place until his leg has mended. You gain from his misfortune,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘That should make you thankful.’

‘Oh, it does,’ said Mussett solemnly. ‘I’ll even mention his name in my prayers. By all, this is wonderful! I never thought to get the chance to work with Westfield’s Men,’ he continued with growing excitement. ‘They are the finest troupe in London. Lawrence Firethorn is a titan among actors and there’s no better playwright alive than Edmund Hoode. Truly, it’s an honour to be invited to join you.’

Nicholas was stern. ‘Do not abuse that honour.’

‘I’d not dream of it.’

‘My eyes will be on you at all times, remember.’

‘They’ll see nothing untoward.’

‘One more thing. Not all the members of the company share my faith in Giddy Mussett,’ said Nicholas. ‘They know your history too well. Prove them wrong. Show them that you can give of your best on stage and behave like a gentleman off it.’

‘Have no doubts on that score,’ urged Mussett, taking his hands to squeeze them. Tears welled in his eyes. ‘You are my deliverer, good sir. I never thought to see an open road again, leave alone ride along it as one of Westfield’s Men. This news restores my faith in God for it can be nothing less than Divine intervention. I swear to you that you’ll have no cause to rue the day that you employed Giddy Mussett. I’ll touch neither drink nor women and, whenever I meet provocation, I’ll turn the other cheek. Will this content you?’

‘Indeed, it will,’ said Nicholas, taking him by the shoulders. ‘Welcome to the company, Giddy. I’ll need to conduct some business with the prison sergeant then we’ll have you out of here for good.’

Tears of gratitude rolled down Mussett’s cheeks and he adopted a pose of total submission. After giving him a warm smile, Nicholas let himself out of the room. The moment his visitor left, Mussett’s expression changed. The tears gave way to a sly smile and the ingratiating manner to a surging confidence.

‘Give up drink and lechery?’ he said with distaste. ‘Never!’

Lawrence Firethorn had always flattered himself that he had the loudest voice in London so he was both surprised and disconcerted when there was such a strong challenge to his primacy. In volume and intensity, Barnaby Gill’s exclamation was truly impressive.

‘Giddy Mussett!’ he roared.

‘Calm down, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury.’

‘I’ll do Mussett an injury if he dares to usurp me. I’ll tear that miserable impostor limb from limb then set his head upon a spike for all to see. How can you even
think
of such a stratagem, Lawrence?’ he demanded. ‘I’d never yield my place to him.’

‘You’re in no position to hold it yourself.’

‘Then promote someone from within the company.’

‘Who?’

‘James Ingram, Rowland Carr, even Owen here.’

‘None of us can hold a candle to you, Barnaby,’ said Elias.

‘I’d sooner George Dart acted as my shadow than let Giddy Musett within a mile of any role I call my own. God’s blood!’ howled Gill, unwisely smacking his injured leg for emphasis and producing a spasm of pain. ‘Why treat me so barbarously?’

Firethorn looked across at Elias but said nothing. The two men had called at Gill’s lodging to enquire after his health and explain that they would be leaving on tour the following day. They kept the mention of Mussett’s name until the end. It was received with frothing disbelief.

‘It’s a veritable nightmare,’ said Gill, staring ahead with widened eyes. ‘There is only one man in the world whom I detest utterly and you choose him to supplant me.’

‘He merely helps us out of a dilemma,’ said Firethorn.

‘And what about
me
?’

‘We hoped that this news might please you, Barnaby.’

‘Please me!’ spluttered Gill. ‘Nothing is more certain to displease me. Imagine how you would feel if we replaced Lawrence Firethorn with Alexander Marwood.’

‘Heaven forbid!’

‘This is far more than a mere insult. It’s a betrayal of everything that I have done for Westfield’s Men. Do you not understand that?’

‘What we understand,’ said Firethorn with a soothing smile, ‘is that we are about to take the wonder of our work to various parts of Kent. Our reputation goes before us,
Barnaby, and it rests just as much on our comic skills as upon anything else. How can we keep that reputation if we have no clown?’

‘By finding someone else,’ said Gill, ‘but it does not have to be Giddy Mussett.’

‘I fear that it does.’

‘Nobody else is available,’ explained Elias. ‘Clowns of your quality are in short supply, Barnaby. And plays such as
Mirth and Madness, Love’s Sacrifice
or even
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
would have been impossible without a capable substitute for you. We scratched our heads for ages until Nick Bracewell came up with the answer.’

Gill was rancorous. ‘Yes, I thought this might be Nick’s doing.’

‘He was the person who tracked Giddy Mussett down for us.’

‘In which leaping house did he find him?’

‘None, Barnaby. Giddy was keeping his art in repair by entertaining the other prisoners in King’s Bench Prison. An unpaid debt led to his arrest.’

‘Then how is he able to take up your invitation?’ When both visitors looked uneasy, Gill’s ire reached a new peak. ‘You discharged his debt?’ he asked with incredulity. ‘When that mangy cur is finally locked in his rightful kennel, you actually pay money to get him out again? This beggars belief! Do the other sharers know that you plundered our limited funds in order to bring about this outrage? That you dared to replace me with a fornicating drunkard who’ll brawl his way across Kent with you?’

Firethorn was shamefaced. He had anticipated a hostile response when he broke the news to Gill and he had taken Elias with him in order to deflect some of the anger that would be inevitably produced. What he had not expected was the white-faced rage that greeted his announcement. Propped up on his bed, Gill seemed to forget that he was an invalid and waved his arms violently whenever he spoke. In the confined space of the room, the clown’s fury was markedly increased and he seemed beyond the reach of any reason. Firethorn sought to check the verbal assault by changing the subject.

‘His name was Fortunatus Hope,’ he said.

‘Whose name?’ grunted Gill.

‘The man who was stabbed to death at the Queen’s Head. Nick spoke to our patron about him though he got precious little help. Lord Westfield showed scant sympathy for his friend. He was more concerned about his own skin.’

‘Be fair, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘Master Hope was a newcomer to his circle. Lord Westfield did promise to find out more about the fellow. Nick is due to see our patron again to learn what information has come to light.’

Gill curled a lip. ‘Nick Bracewell
has
been busy,’ he sneered. ‘Searching the prisons of London for Giddy Mussett and poking his nose into a murder that is of no concern at all to him.’

‘It’s of concern to him and to all of us,’ asserted Firethorn.

‘I’ll not lose sleep over it.’

‘You should, Barnaby.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you were directly involved in the crime.’

‘How could I be, Lawrence? I was myself a victim.’

‘We all were,’ said Firethorn. ‘I did not realise it until Nick Bracewell pointed it out to me. The affray was not simply a means of wrecking our performance. It caused a commotion that served to hide a foul murder. The villain who killed Fortunatus Hope was in league with the devils who ruined our play.’

‘Ruined our play,’ repeated Gill morosely, ‘and broke my leg.’

‘Master Hope’s fate was far worse than yours,’ said Elias. ‘Remember that. Which would you prefer – a broken leg or a dagger in your back?’

‘Oh, I’d choose the dagger every time, Owen. At least, it would have saved me from the indignities you pile upon me. To be replaced by Giddy Mussett is a living death. Give me oblivion instead,’ declared Gill. ‘I’d suffer no pain and disgrace in the grave.’

Anne Hendrik was not looking forward to the morning. A night of shared tenderness in the arms of Nicholas Bracewell had left her feeling vulnerable. She always missed him sorely when he was away from London and this time his absence promised to be longer than usual. Knowing that he would only be in Kent, she had toyed with the notion of travelling to the county herself to watch one or more of the performances but the demands of her work were too pressing. Anne was the widow of a Dutch hatmaker, who developed a business in Southwark because the
guilds prevented him, along with other immigrants, from operating within the city boundaries. When Jacob Hendrik died, his English wife not only took over from him, she discovered skills that she did not know she possessed. In the early stages, however, before her prudent management led to increased prosperity, she took in a lodger to defray expenses. Nicholas Bracewell soon became much more than a man who slept under her own roof yet he never threatened her independence or forfeited his own. It was an ideal relationship for both of them.

‘Will you be sorry to leave?’ she asked him.

‘I’m always sad to leave you, Anne,’ he replied, slipping an arm around her, ‘but there’s no remedy for it. The Queen’s Head is closed to us and we have no other playhouse in London. We are fortunate to have invitations that take us to Kent.’

She snuggled up against him. ‘You have an invitation here as well.’

‘True, but I could hardly share that with the whole company.’ Anne laughed and he kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘There is, I confess, another reason that makes me want to tarry.’

‘Am I not reason enough?’ she said with mock annoyance.

‘You are the best reason I ever met in my life, Anne.’

‘Then I’m content to let you go.’

Nicholas became serious. ‘What irks me as well is that I’ll be unable to look more closely into the murder that took place. For the sake of Westfield’s Men, it’s a crime I would dearly love to solve.’

‘But the victim has no link with the company.’

‘Master Hope was a friend of our patron.’

‘From what you told me, he sounds more like an acquaintance. Someone who was on the very fringe of Lord’s Westfield’s entourage.’

‘It matters not,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was murdered during our performance.’

‘That does not mean you have to be involved in finding the killer, Nick.’

‘I believe that it does. We are implicated here. I’m certain that the riot and the murder were linked,’ he went on, sitting up in bed.
‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
was not merely interrupted to provide cover for a sly murder. It was stopped with a purpose. Someone wanted to inflict harm on us as well as on Fortunatus Hope.’

‘How do you reach that conclusion?’

‘Look at the situation, Anne,’ he suggested. ‘Master Hope is singled out an enemy who means to kill him. Why choose to do the deed in broad daylight at the Queen’s Head? It would have been so much easier to dispatch him quietly in some dark alley or while he slept at night. Do you follow my reasoning?’

‘I think so.’

‘Why go to the trouble of setting up that array? Those lads who started it were no doubt paid well for their work. Why take on such an expense unless there was a double intent?’

‘To strike at Westfield’s Men as well.’

‘They struck with cruel accuracy,’ noted Nicholas. ‘Our
performance was abandoned, our property damaged, our actors injured. Hundreds of spectators were demanding their money back. And to add to our woes, the landlord expelled us from his inn and vowed that we’d never play there again.’

‘He has done that before, Nick, on more than one occasion.’

‘My argument holds. Someone was definitely trying to wound us.’

‘A rival, perhaps?’

‘We shall never know until we find the motive behind Master Hope’s death.’

‘I thought that Lord Westfield offered to help you there.’

‘He did,’ said Nicholas. ‘He undertook to speak to someone who might give us more detail about the dead man. But all he learnt was that Fortunatus Hope had a wife and family in Oxford, whom he neglected shamefully in order to pursue his pleasures in London. Master Hope, it seems, was a pleasant individual, popular with friends and agreeable to strangers. Since he went out of his way to avoid an argument, it’s difficult to see how he could have upset someone enough to make them contemplate murder.’ Church bells nearby began to chime the hour. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Six o’clock in the morning and all I can talk about is the stabbing of a playgoer. What kind of conversation is that with which to depart?’

‘You do not have to go just yet, Nick.’

‘I’ll not stay abed much longer.’

‘Long enough to answer me this,’ said Anne with a smile.
‘Remind me of the play that was so brutally foreshortened. I have forgotten its title.’

‘A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady.’

‘Do you know of such a trick?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Why? Is there a chaste lady at hand?’

‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘The play is a comedy.’

‘I’ll not object to laughter.’

‘What
will
you object to, Anne?’ he asked, taking her in his arms.

‘Only your departure.’

And she kissed him on the lips as evidence of her sincerity.

On previous occasions when they were about to quit the city, Westfield’s Men assembled as a rule at the Queen’s Head but that was an inappropriate meeting place this time. Evicted from their home in Gracechurch Street, they instead gathered across the river in Southwark, choosing the White Hart as their point of departure. Wives, children, friends, relatives, mistresses and, in some cases, even parents, came to send them off. Three wagons had been hired to transport the company and some, like Lawrence Firethorn, brought their own horses. The fine weather over the preceding week meant that they could expect hard, dry, rutted roads that would bruise a few buttocks as they rumbled along, but which was far preferable to being at the mercy of driving rain on muddy tracks. The omens were good.

Having walked with Anne Hendrik the short distance from her house, Nicholas Bracewell was touched to see that
the small crowd included some of the hired men who would not even be taking part in the tour yet who had come to wish their fellows well on the journey. It had been the book holder’s task to inform the actors of their fate and it was a sombre experience. Talented men had been left behind because economies had to be made. Reduced in size, the company would be discarding some who would not work again until Westfield’s Men returned to the capital. Actors were not lone victims. Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was too old and frail to cope with the exigencies of travel and there was no place either for such loyal souls as Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, and Hugh Wegges, the tireman. Their functions would fall to other, less practised, hands.

Margery Firethorn had made the long trip from Shoreditch so that her husband would have a wife and children to wave him off. Her face was set in an expression of quiet resignation but she brightened as soon as she saw Nicholas approaching. After rushing across to hug him, she kissed Anne in greeting and nudged her playfully.

‘You have chosen the handsomest man in the company,’ she said.

Anne smiled. ‘We chose each other, Margery.’

‘That’s how it should be. You are blessed in her, Nick.’

‘I’m in no danger of forgetting that,’ he assured her. ‘Anne reminded me of it only this morning. But you must excuse me,’ he said, as new faces arrived. ‘I must make an inventory of who is here and who is yet to come.’

Margery watched him go then stood close enough to Anne to whisper to her.

‘I’m surprised that you two have never wed,’ she confided.

‘How do you know that we have not?’ teased Anne.

‘Because I would see it in your face. If he were mine, I’d drag him to the altar.’

‘Nick is not a person to be dragged anywhere.’

‘He dotes on you, Anne.’

‘Would marriage secure or spoil his devotion?’

‘An apt question,’ conceded Margery, glancing at her husband. ‘Lawrence’s passion has never waned but I can only count on it when we share our bed. Let him venture outside London and he becomes a lusty bachelor. You’ll have no cause to doubt Nick but I’ll not be able to show a like trust in my husband.’