Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Lord Westfield turned on his heel and led the way back to his coach. The news was alarming enough in itself but its implications were even more disturbing. A wave of general sympathy would wash over the ailing Queen but her courtiers looked beyond it to a contingency that had to be faced.

If Elizabeth died, who would succeed her?

It was a question that was fraught with all kinds of possibilities and it transformed the stately waddle of Lord Westfield. For the first time in a decade, he broke into a breathless run, fervently wishing that his steps would take him in the right direction.

Giles Randolph expired with a vulpine screech that echoed around the hushed auditorium. As he sank slowly from sight through the trap door in the stage at The Curtain, the spectators genuinely believed that he was being lowered into a vat of boiling oil. Steam rose up from below to reinforce the illusion and Randolph’s screech hit a new note of horror before vanishing with gurgling suddenness. The Spanish Jew was the lurid tale of a villainous moneylender who rose to power through unscrupulous means then held the whole country to ransom before overreaching himself. There was a comic relish in his devilment that somehow endeared him to the onlookers and gave his fall a sad dimension. A man who had consistently lied, cheated, stolen, poisoned and stabbed his way to the top was now claiming frank sympathy. It was an astonishing achievement and a tribute to the skill with which Giles Randolph had played the title role.

The piece itself was a somewhat ramshackle affair but his performance had given it a drive and a unity that it did not really deserve. The Spanish Jew was blatant in its prejudices, attacking Spaniards, Jews, usury and other things with a coarse brutality which Randolph softened to some extent but which nevertheless produced a deal of derisive laughter at its intended victims. There was an abundance of action and comedy to delight the groundlings but those who looked beneath the surface of the play could see a real figure lurking there and this gave the drama its extra bite and relevance. Giles Randolph had been handed the sort of part in which he could exhibit the full range of his genius and he held nothing back for two wonderful hours.

Banbury’s Men came out to take their bow in the firm knowledge that they had at last found a winning play. With their actor-manager in the lead, The Spanish Jew would go on to thrill and move many an audience. Word of mouth was the best possible advertisement and the shouts of praise that now deafened their ears told them that their triumph would be voiced abroad in no time. Giles Randolph would die his terrible death many times at The Curtain and elevate their custom-built amphitheatre above all other venues.

Randolph was not troubled by even a hint of modesty. He took his ovation like a conquering hero on a procession through the streets of a grateful capital. Even his bow had a lordly condescension to it. The sustained clapping was not seen by him as pure gratitude. It was an act of homage to a superior being and he replied with an arrogant smile. Heady compliments fell from the galleries like warm snowflakes and he stretched both arms wide to catch them. Giles Randolph was still luxuriating in the prolonged adoration when a loud voice speared its way through to him.

‘Sublime, sir! Almost the equal of Master Firethorn!’

He stalked off the stage with high indignation.

The insult was far worse than the boiling oil.

Preoccupied as he was with the dramatic turn of events, Lord Westfield responded promptly to the request that was made of him. He always showed a proprietary affection towards his theatrical company and was stunned to learn of the murder of one of its number. He was anxious to do all that he could to further any enquiries into the crime. Word was duly passed along the line and a fulsome letter was written. Nicholas Bracewell was given right of access to the Tower of London.

‘These are mean quarters in which to receive visitors.’

‘No matter, sir.’

‘Yet the straw is fresh. I can vouch for that.’

‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘And the casement catches the sun at noon.’

‘I did not come to mock your lodging, Master Carrick.’

‘Nobler guests than I have sheltered here.’

‘I do believe it.’

‘Finer souls have breathed this noisome air.’

Nicholas let him ramble on. They were in the lawyer’s room in the massive Beauchamp Tower, a cold, bare, featureless apartment that looked down on Tower Green to give its tenant a privileged view of any executions that took place there. Andrew Carrick sensed the bad tidings as soon as his visitor introduced himself and he tried to keep them at bay with an inconsequential stream of chatter. Nicholas could see the family likeness at once. Carrick had his son’s cast of feature and his proud bearing. Imprisonment had bowed his shoulders slightly and lined his face with disillusion but it had not taxed his essential goodness. The book holder knew he was in the presence of a man of integrity.

Andrew Carrick eventually worked up enough courage to face the grim news that he feared. He sat on a stool and gestured towards Nicholas with a graceful hand.

‘Speak, sir. You have been very patient.’

‘I bring word of your son, Master Carrick.’

‘Do not hedge it about with consideration,’ said the other. ‘Tell me straight. Is Sebastian ill?’

‘Dead, sir.’

‘Dead?’

‘Murdered.’

The lawyer winced at the blow. It was minutes before he was able to resume. Fatherly love was tempered by a note of weary resignation. His sigh carried its own history.

‘I feared that it might come to this,’ he said. ‘My son had many virtues but his vices were too profuse.’

‘Sebastian was a fine man and a fine actor, sir.’

‘You speak like a friend, Master Bracewell.’

‘His death is a loss we must all bear.’

‘Present me with the details.’ He saw the hesitation. ‘Hold nothing back, sir. I doted on Sebastian but he brought me much pain while he was alive. I am prepared for the worst account. Your face tells me it was a heinous crime. Remember that I am a lawyer who would weigh the full facts of the case before I make a judgement. Speak on.’

Nicholas recited the tale without embellishment and the older man listened intently. A long silence ensued. It was broken by the hoarse voice of a distraught father.

‘The murderer must be brought to justice.’

‘He will be,’ said Nicholas.

‘The law must exact full payment.’

Andrew Carrick rose to his feet and paced the room with restless anxiety. At a time when he wanted to devote himself to the pursuit and arrest of his son’s killer, he was himself in custody. He paused to lean against a wall and to slap its cold stone with an open palm. Nicholas sympathised with his obvious frustration. Carrick gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ he said. ‘Your news has made this prison like the pit of hell. I would give anything to be out of its confines and free to avenge my son.’

‘Is there any prospect of that?’

‘In time, Master Bracewell. In time.’

‘May I ask why you are detained?’

‘By special order of Her Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’

Carrick bristled. ‘You would think there were traitors enough to fill these dungeons. You would imagine that London had no shortage of foul criminals and hired assassins to occupy this Tower. Felons abound yet I — an upholder of the law — am put under lock and key. It is barbarous, sir.’

‘What is your offence?’

‘Attendance at a wedding.’

‘You lose your liberty for that ?’

‘The bride was a gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber.’