Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘This was a secret marriage?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrick. ‘I took charge of arrangements. The Queen’s anger turned upon the noble groom and upon myself. We are held here at her pleasure while the bride weeps nightly in an empty bed. It is a poor wedding present.’

Andrew Carrick was not the first man to feel the weight of his sovereign’s outrage in the matter of an unlicensed wedding. Queen Elizabeth demanded total obedience and unswerving loyalty from those chosen to attend upon her. In this respect, Blanche Parry was the archetype, a studious woman who had served with tireless devotion for over thirty years and who had a clear-sighted view of her duties even though she was now blind. The example of Blanche Parry was held up to all. She was a first gentlewoman of irreproachable virtue. Others fell short of her high standards and allowed themselves to be led astray by covert passion. More than one attendant had requested the Queen’s permission to marry only to be summarily rejected. Those who dared to put love before royal service were given stern rebuke. When a secret wedding came to light, Elizabeth always found just cause and impediment why those two persons should not be joined together.

Six weeks of incarceration had given Andrew Carrick ample time in which to meditate upon the patent injustice of it all. In witnessing the happiness of one noble lady, he had provoked the ire of another. In helping a friend, he had made the worst possible enemy. A law-abiding lawyer, he was being treated like the vilest outlaw.

Nicholas probed gently for more information.

‘Sebastian never talked of his family, sir.’

‘No, sir,’ said Carrick sadly. ‘We were a hindrance to him. He was bound to outgrow his family and his career.’

‘Career?’

‘Sebastian was a lawyer of some promise, sir. He studied at Oxford before coming to London to join the Middle Temple. It was there that he first encountered temptation.’

‘In what disguise?’

‘Your own, sir.’

‘He was distracted by the theatre?’

‘Intoxicated with it,’ said the other harshly. ‘When he saw plays performed at the Middle Temple, they were not just idle amusement for a working lawyer. They offered another way of life that was palpably free from the restraints of his father’s calling. In short, sir, he turned his back on an honourable profession to embrace the tawdry delights of the theatre.’ He grew conciliatory. ‘I do not mean to impugn your choice of occupation, Master Bracewell, but it lacks the security of the law. And it has led my son to his death.’

‘I dispute that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had he still been at the Middle Temple, he might have met the same fate. Lawyers seek pleasure in the stews as well as actors. It is unfair to lay the blame squarely on the theatre.’

Andrew Carrick accepted the point with a nod but he was still troubled by a residual resentment against the theatre. He studied his visitor closely.

‘What drew you into the profession?’ he asked.

‘A deep interest.’

‘So it was with Sebastian.’

‘He was a natural actor. I am not.’

‘Did your father approve, Master Bracewell?’

‘No, sir. He wished me to be a merchant like himself.’

‘You have no regrets in the matter?’

‘None, Master Carrick. And I am bound to observe …’

‘Go on. I value your opinion.’

‘Sebastian himself had no regrets.’

The grieving father accepted the judgement and thanked his visitor profusely for conveying the bad news with such tact and promptness. He talked fondly of his son, recalling childhood incidents that were early signs of the wildness and impetuosity that made him abandon a career in the law for the ambiguous freedom of an actor’s life. Nicholas learnt a great deal about his erstwhile friend and he was interested to hear that Sebastian had a younger sister. His compassion reached out to her. With a mother long dead and a father imprisoned in the Tower, she was unfortunate enough without having to bear this additional horror. Nicholas wished that there was some way to minimise the distress that now stalked Mistress Marion Carrick.

‘What of the funeral?’ said the lawyer.

‘It will be delayed now that we have traced Sebastian’s family. You have the right to make all decisions here.’

‘Not while I am a common prisoner.’

‘Her Majesty must take account of your predicament.’

‘She has placed me in it.’

‘We will see what Lord Westfield may do to help.’

‘You earn my gratitude once more.’

Andrew Carrick shook him warmly by the hand. There were tears of remorse in his eyes now and his sense of loss drew an odd confession out of him.

‘I wish I had seen Sebastian upon the stage.’

‘He adorned it even in the smallest part.’

‘My anger got the better of my curiosity. I should have relented. Now, alas, it is too late.’

‘He will be well remembered by his fellows.’

The lawyer pondered briefly then gave a wistful smile.

‘That thought brings me some comfort.’

Comfort was singularly lacking at the Queen’s Head where the company met for its first rehearsal of the new play. Before they could even begin, there was a sudden cloudburst and the inn yard was awash within minutes. Soaked by the rain and saddened by the news about their colleague, Westfield’s Men retreated into the room that they used as their tiring-house and continued their work in a dispirited mood. It was an inauspicious start for Love’s Sacrifice and its author was plunged into the kind of despair that he usually reserved for failed romances. Edmund Hoode lounged somnolently in a corner, dividing himself between anguish at the death of a friend and morbid predictions about the future of his new work. Lines which had sprung joyously from his brain to dance on the page now seemed dull and lifeless. Characters whom he had fleshed out with care now appeared skeletal. A plot which drove forward in a rising trajectory now limped along without purpose.

Lawrence Firethorn tried to lift the general gloom with a booming attack on the leading role but he made no headway. Even in the hands of such a gifted clown as Barnaby Gill, the comic moments sounded tedious. The only performance which cut through the torpor to excite and uplift was that given by Owen Elias in the inherited role of Benvolio. He did not so much play the part as ambush it with greedy enthusiasm, so much so that it might have been written purely as a vehicle for his talents. It was an altogether exuberant reading that brought Sebastian Carrick to mind only to dismiss his claim to this particular role. Owen Elias proved beyond doubt what many had argued for some time. He was the better actor. When he declaimed his final speech over the entwined bodies of the dead lovers, he was deeply moving.

Moistened eyes and dry throats broke out in all parts of the room. Edmund Hoode was coaxed back from dejection to the belief that his latest play might — against all the odds — be redeemed.

Lawrence Firethorn tampered with that belief.

‘I require a few changes, Edmund,’ he said.

‘You were always a man of habit.’

‘Give me a longer speech at the end of Act Two and a shorter one at the start of Act Four. Let me dally less, let me suffer more. I would have a song to lighten my final hour on earth. Make it play upon the heartstrings.’

‘All this will be done, Lawrence.’

The two men had repaired to the taproom with Barnaby Gill to lubricate their sorrow and to analyse the morning’s work. No play was ever accepted without reservation by the actor-manager and Hoode was braced to add refinements to order. Gill, too, invariably suggested improvements in his own role and an extra dance was conceded to him yet again so that he could offset a dark tragedy with his comic antics. Firethorn was not yet finished.