Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘There is one more amendment …’

‘I await your command,’ said Hoode.

‘That closing epitaph …’

‘The music of truth,’ complimented Gill with unwonted gravity. ‘You have never brought a piece to such a beautiful conclusion, Edmund.’

‘I thank you for that, Barnaby.’

‘It has a quiet magnificence to it, sir.’

‘As did the man who delivered the speech.’

‘Owen Elias surpassed himself.’

‘I could not wish for a finer Benvolio.’

‘That speech alone will seal his fame.’

The remark served to reinforce Firethorn’s decision.

‘Cut the lines, Edmund.’

‘Cut them!’

‘Completely, sir.’

‘It is the most affecting speech in the play.’

‘I care not for that,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘It is a distraction from the death of two tragic figures. We need no words to carry us to the grave.’

Gill disagreed vehemently. ‘Cut those lines and you geld the whole play, Lawrence.’

‘ I am the stallion in this drama, Barnaby.’

‘But I am the author,’ said Hoode.

‘Commissioned by me. Do you flout my authority, sir?’

‘Be reasonable, Lawrence.’

‘Trim your play, sir.’

‘This is the greatest sacrifice yet!’

‘Put your company first for once.’

‘I say the same to you!’ shouted the playwright. ‘Think what harm you do to Owen Elias if you remove that speech.’

‘That is Lawrence’s earnest intention,’ said Gill.

‘I will resist him on this!’

‘I will support you, Edmund.’

‘My words are sacred!’

‘Indeed, they are,’ said Firethorn softly, ‘and I would fight to retain each one. But the piece is over-long, Edmund. We can spare twenty meagre lines spoken by a rogue who has words enough in the rest of the play. Do as I bid, sir. It will give a rounder ending to your drama. Believe it well.’

Argument ceased. The speech was cut.

The offer was far too good to refuse. They were in a small village to the south of Oxford when they were accosted by the farmer. Cornelius Gant was reclining against the trunk of a chestnut tree and counting his booty from a full day in the university town. Nimbus cropped the grass nearby then ambled across to the pond to stare at its own reflection for a few moments before dipping its muzzle into the cool water. The heavy wagon came to a creaking halt and the farmer got down to the ground. He was a big, broad, red-faced man in his forties whose manner and clothing suggested moderate wealth. He came straight to the point.

‘That is a fine animal you have, my friend,’ he noted. ‘I would like to buy him from you.’

‘Oh, sir, I could not sell him,’ said Gant.

‘Is there no price that would tempt you?’

‘He is worth more than you could possibly offer.’

‘Do not doubt the strength of my purse,’ said the farmer, walking over to Nimbus to appraise him at close quarters. ‘I am as good a judge of horse-flesh as any in Oxfordshire. When I watched the blacksmith shoe this sturdy fellow, I could see the horse’s mettle. Come, sir. I have great need of such a beast. Let us talk terms.’

Gant pulled himself lazily to his feet and glanced at the dappled carthorse between the shafts. The dark stripes along its back and loins showed that the farmer was fond of his whip. Gant strolled over to Nimbus and stroked the sleek coat with calculating affection.

‘He is no jade, sir. I would not have him beaten.’

‘Nor shall he be,’ assured the other. ‘I have beasts enough in my stable for the drudgery. This fellow here would be kept in style for my personal use.’

‘Where is your land, sir?’

‘Some five miles hence.’

‘And you would care for him?’

‘Like a father with a child.’

Gant knew that the farmer was lying but went along with the deceit to drive a hard bargain. When a bag of crowns was tipped into his hands, he reluctantly agreed to the sale. He gave Nimbus a farewell pat on the neck.

‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said with evident sadness. ‘I am sorry to part with you but you go to a good master. Spare me further suffering and leave quickly. I will turn my back and rest beside this tree.’

Nimbus gave a forlorn neigh then turned obediently to the farmer who instantly hitched his reins to the back of the waggon and drove off. Cornelius Gant waited until they were out of earshot before he cackled with delight. It was the second time in a week that he had sold Nimbus for such a handsome profit. He sauntered across to the inn and ordered the best meal that they could provide. By the time he had washed it down with ale, some two hours had passed. Gant paid the reckoning and went back to the chestnut tree near the pond to find Nimbus contentedly grazing once more. Five miles away, an irate farmer was examining his bruises and cursing the horse which had so unexpectedly thrown him from the saddle. He vowed revenge but it was a vain boast.

Nimbus was already galloping out of his reach.

‘On, on!’ urged Gant happily. ‘We go to see the Queen!’

London buzzed with rumour and speculation. The enforced absence from court of an ageing sovereign put a new zest into a languid nobility. Royal physicians and ladies-in-waiting were offered large bribes to reveal the true facts of the situation but they were proof against all enquiry. Queen Elizabeth was wrapped in a blanket of silence that only seemed to confirm the worst diagnoses. Since there was no official denial that she was fading away, it came to be generally accepted by those who stood to gain or lose most by a change of monarch. No heir existed, no successor had been named. Factions hardened. Solemn conclaves were held to discuss the various claimants to the throne.

One such gathering could be found at Croxley Hall in the Strand, the palatial London home of Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester. This distinguished old soldier with silver hair and beard encroaching upon a face of wrinkled parchment still retained the habit of command. As one name came firmly into favour, his fist pounded the table and his voice rose above the babble with peremptory authority.

‘It is decided,’ he announced. ‘About it, sirs.’

His confederates streamed from the room to implement their scheme in a dozen different ways and places. The political dice had been cast and they had to move fast to ensure that they would pick up the winnings from the game. Two senior men in the enterprise were left alone together. The Earl of Banbury was at the other end of the long table.

‘Well, Roger?’

‘Our plan of campaign is sound,’ said his host.

‘It will mean a heavy investment.’

‘Handsome rewards await us.’

‘We must spend money in order to make it,’ reminded the other. ‘Do you have funds at your disposal?’

‘None!’ said the old soldier with a shrug. ‘You?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘Then must we find some capital.’

‘Where?’

The Earl of Chichester considered the matter with a furrowed brow then he gave a brittle laugh. As Master of the Ordnance, he was supremely aware of the importance of having plenty of ammunition in store for an encounter. His coach was soon carrying him towards the Tower of London.

A long and tiring day became even longer and more tiring in its closing hours. Nicholas Bracewell had hardly stopped since dawn. After the visit to Andrew Carrick, he had set the funeral arrangements in motion, returned to Southwark to see the manager of The Rose about the forthcoming presentation of Love’s Sacrifice , reported back to Lawrence Firethorn at the Queen’s Head, discussed the play’s requirements with its jaundiced author, placated the ever-grumbling landlord of the inn and tried to reconcile Owen Elias to the loss of the finest verse ever written for him. A further session with Firethorn had been followed by long debates with two crucial members of the company, Hugh Wegges, the tireman, and Nathan Curtis, the master carpenter. Both were being called upon to make a major contribution to a new play that was being staged at London’s newest theatre.