Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Andrew Carrick had admired its imposing exterior for many years until he was invited to sample its accommodation. His view of the Tower of London was more jaundiced now. It had robbed him of his freedom and kept him away from his family and his friends. In its cold and comfortless way, it had shut him out of life itself and forced him into an idleness that was a kind of death to him. Carrick was an able lawyer with eager clients awaiting his services. But the slim, poised, well-dressed man with an incisive mind was now a rather plump and indolent creature with a shabbiness to him that he detested. Imprisonment was irksome. There were, however, compensations.

‘Good morrow, sir.’

‘Good day, Master Carrick.’

‘How does the world find you?’

‘In excellent heart. And you, sir?’

‘I survive, I survive.’

‘Have faith, my friend.’

‘It goes hard with me, Master Fellowes.’

‘We pray for your release.’

‘You are most kind.’ Andrew Carrick made an effort to shake off his melancholy. ‘But what of life beyond these walls? Tell me all the news, sir. It is a week and more since we spoke last and I am starved of intelligence. Who rises? Who has fallen? What are the rumours? Give me some interest. Unlock my mind at least.’

‘I’ll try what keys I may …’

Harry Fellowes offered all the news he could and each morsel was snapped up greedily by the prisoner. Fellowes was a short, round, self-satisfied man whose inclination towards pomposity was held in check by his genuine sympathy for Andrew Carrick. Enemies of state deserved to be incarcerated in the Tower before their execution but the lawyer was no traitor. He was an honest, patriotic, God-fearing Englishman whose offence was slight if illjudged. Because he was so harmless a guest, Carrick was given licence to leave his cell and roam his tower for exercise. On one such walk he had been fortunate enough to meet and befriend Harry Fellowes. It was a relationship that kept the prisoner’s hope alive and sustained him through the long reaches of boredom. The Tower of London was a place of work to Fellowes. As Clerk of Ordnance, he was a regular visitor to the armoury and he always came equipped with a fund of stories about court and city. Carrick was sincerely grateful and his lone friend warmed to him.

‘That is all I have to tell you, sir.’

‘I cannot thank you enough, Master Fellowes.’

‘Does it bring relief to your plight?’

‘It does, sir,’ said Carrick with tattered dignity. ‘It does. Would that I could repay you in some way.’

Harry Fellowes appraised him shrewdly for a long time.

‘Haply, you may,’ he said. ‘Haply, you may.’

Nimbus spent the night in the largest stable and on the deepest bed of straw. As shafts of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the timber to fill the place with endless golden dots, the horse woke, raised itself up and looked around. It yawned a welcome to a new day then got to its feet in a gentle rustle. A flick of the head opened the top half of the stable door, a dextrous mouth pulled back the wooden bolt. Kicking the lower half of the door open, Nimbus went off in search of service and he soon found it. He was back less than a minute later with his teeth clamped on the collar of a terrified ostler who was virtually carried along by the horse. The dishevelled young man was thrown into what he thought was an empty stable. As he stumbled over a pile of blankets, however, he had his second shock of the morning. A human voice roared abusively. The blankets then opened like giant petals to allow a bleary-eyed Cornelius Gant to emerge. He glared at the ostler and broke wind.

‘Fetch our breakfast, boy!’ he ordered.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hay for Nimbus. Ale and bread for me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do not stand there shivering like that. About it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The ostler moved away then turned to look back in wonderment at Gant. ‘You spent the night here, sir?’

‘Nimbus and I are never parted.’

‘But you kept the whole inn amazed with your tricks. I have handled many horses in my time but none like this of yours. He is without compare. You were showered with coins for your performance and rightly so. Why sleep in a stable when you could afford the finest room at the inn?’

Gant chuckled. ‘The bed was too small, boy.’

‘Too small?’

‘It would not hold me and Nimbus.’

The horse raised its head and gave a manic laugh.

Lawrence Firethorn played the farewell scene with his wife as if it were the climax of a drama. His arms flapped in protest, his lips kissed at random, his tongue poured out a stream of pious nonsense about how he would pine and wilt in her absence. Onlookers were convinced that the couple would be parted for ever instead of simply endure with a mere fortnight’s separation. Margery shifted between romance and reality with practised smoothness, basking in the effusive compliments while at the same time issuing orders about the running of the house. The beautiful damsel torn away from her handsome prince wanted to make sure that her children were properly looked after and her servants kept in line. When it was time for the travellers to depart, Firethorn embraced her once then helped her into the saddle of her horse. Believing there was safety in numbers, she set off on the road to Cambridge with a sizeable company.

Her husband waved his hat after her until she was out of sight then his expression changed completely. A sense of liberation coursed through him and he gave a ripe chuckle. Fame brought him a large following. Lovely ladies threw themselves at his feet all over London. For the first time in years, he would be able to bend down and pick them up at will without having to look over his shoulder. Marriage brought many blessings but none, he now decided, as sweet as the occasional release from its chafing yoke. Pulling on his hat and slapping his thigh with joy, he strode back towards his own horse but his euphoria was short-lived. Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying towards him.

‘Nick, dear heart!’

‘Good day, sir.’

‘What brings you to Shoreditch this early, man?’

‘Heavy news.’

‘I’ll hear none today. I feel as light as a feather.’

‘It concerns Sebastian.’

‘You found the rogue?’

‘Alas, I did.’

‘Bring him to me. I’ll roast the rascal alive!’

‘Sebastian is beyond recall.’

They were standing in the street so Nicholas moved him into the doorway of a shop to gain some privacy. He then told his tale briefly and calmly. Stunned at first, Firethorn shaded quickly into irritation and then into a black rage. He wanted the murderer brought to justice so that he could take revenge on him with his own hands but these feelings did not arise out of any sense of loss at the death of a loved one. What Firethorn could not forgive was the damage which had been done to his company. The killer of Sebastian Carrick would be called to account for the cruel injury he had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.

‘What am I to do, Nick?’ he said with both arms flailing away. ‘This heavy news of yours flattens me to a wafer. I named Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer and the fool gets himself axed to death in a squalid brawl.’

‘That is not what happened,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘No matter for the details, man. I have to live with the consequences. At one fell stroke, I have lost my sharer, my reputation for good judgement and my hopes of happiness. I have also lost a fine actor who was about to shine in a new play. Who is doing all this to me?’

Nicholas kept a tactful silence while his employer vented his self-pity. They then strolled back together along Bishopsgate Street towards the city walls. Firethorn had been sobered. Instead of cantering in through Bishopsgate itself in search of his first conquest, he was leading his horse somnolently along and wondering how he would face the barbed gibes of Barnaby Gill. When his fury had blown itself out, he turned as ever to Nicholas for counsel. The latter argued that their first priority was to contact Andrew Carrick to inform him of the death of his son. Firethorn agreed at once and undertook to solicit the help of their patron, Lord Westfield, to gain admittance to the Tower. He offered to visit the prisoner with Nicholas but the book holder insisted on going alone. Out of consideration to the bereaved father, he would keep a vain actor away from him and save an already painful situation from becoming an agony.