Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘The Welshman for me,’ said Gill, puffing at his pipe. ‘He has been with us longer and learnt more eagerly. Owen has a temper, I know, but this elevation might curtail it and turn him into a gentleman.’

‘Sebastian already is a gentleman,’ said Hoode. ‘He can grace the stage where Owen can only occupy it. I do not deny that Wales has given us the finer actor here. Owen Elias has qualities that Sebastian could never match. He has a voice and presence to rival Lawrence himself but he also has a wayward streak that goes ill with responsibility. As a hired man, he is an asset to the company: as a sharer, he might turn out to be a liability.’

‘I side with you, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘Sebastian has the better disposition. Sebastian Carrick it is.’

‘Owen Elias,’ insisted Gill.

‘Carrick.’

‘He gets my vote, too,’ said Hoode. ‘He is our sharer.’

‘Then where will he find his proportion?’ Gill puffed hard then exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Sebastian has to buy his share. He is reckless with his own money and even more reckless with borrowed coin. Owen Elias is conscientious and frugal. Sebastian is too fond of his pleasures.’

‘No man can be blamed for that,’ said Firethorn easily, ‘or none of us would escape whipping. But you raise a fair question, Barnaby, and it must be answered. How will Sebastian furnish us with his investment?’

‘He has many rich friends,’ said Hoode.

Gill grimaced. ‘They are poorer for his acquaintance.’

‘He will find the money somehow. He longs to be a true member of the company. Stay with him, Lawrence.’

‘A doubt begins to form,’ admitted Firethorn.

‘We have the means to still it,’ said Hoode. ‘Let us not commit ourselves too soon. We will put Sebastian to the test by offering him a half-share in the company. Should he come through that trial, he takes up Old Cuthbert’s place. Is this not the best way?’

Lawrence Firethorn stroked his dark, pointed beard as he pondered. Barnaby Gill tapped out his pipe on the edge of the table and sniffed noisily. After long consideration, both men nodded their agreement. Sebastian Carrick would be put on probation. It remained only to determine the length of that probation and the scale of his financial contribution.

Gill foresaw a possible difficulty.

‘How can we persuade him that a half-share is a form of distinction rather than a humiliation?’

‘I’ll make light of that task,’ said Firethorn airily.

‘Sebastian will see it as one step towards full glory,’ said Hoode. ‘He will understand our caution.’

Gill snorted. ‘It is more than caution in my case.’

‘Throw aside all objection,’ urged the playwright.

‘Yes,’ reinforced Firethorn. ‘To win his confidence, we must show him ours. Have no fears about Sebastian Carrick. He will prove a fortunate choice. I’d stake my life on it.’

Turnmill Street was the most notorious thoroughfare in the whole of Clerkenwell, a long, dark, dangerous, disease-ridden strip of sin that ran parallel with the River Fleet before bending round to thrust itself into Cow Cross with bestial familiarity. In its fetid lanes and alleys, in its narrow courts and yards, in its filthy taverns and tenements, all manner of lewd delight was bought and sold. Turnmill punks were the wildest and most willing in London and they made nightly assignations with courtiers and commoners, soldiers and sailors, merchants and men of law, gapers from the country and gallants from the town. At the sign of the Cock, the Fleur de Lys, the Blue Axe, the Red Lattice, the Rose and other bold outrages against decency, a lustful client could send his soul to eternal damnation and purchase the pox in exchange. Turnmill Street was a warren of infamy. Stews and gambling dens, inns and ordinaries, courtesans and catamites knew but one landlord. He dwelt in Hell itself.

Of all the houses of resort, none was more popular than the Pickt-hatch, so-called because its upper half-door was surrounded with spikes for security. The Pickt-hatch was a common name and sign for brothels but the establishment in Turnmill Street outstretched its rivals in venery. It was run by a wobbling mound of flesh named Bess Bidgood and its reputation brought in ample custom for the large stable of whores whom the motherly hostess kept beneath her wicked roof. Quality and quantity were on tap at the Pickt-hatch.

The young man who lay naked on the bed in a state of joyous near-exhaustion had opted for quality and he had not been disappointed. When Bess Bidgood had lined up her ladies for him to choose at his own discretion, his practised eye had picked out the leanest of them. Frances was not the plump and eager wench in red taffeta that most men coveted but a thin, watchful, feline creature with a carnal charm that was all her own. He wanted an angry lover and none could have been more feral than this wildcat. She bit and fought him every inch of the way and left her own special trademark on his back as she raked it from shoulder to buttock with searing fingernails, pain and pleasure intermingling so closely that they became one. He was in ecstasy.

Frances was content. Here was no sweating husband who talked of his wife, no crude swaggerer who pumped mindlessly into her, no drunken fool whose manhood failed them both and who snored on top of her. She had found a real lover for once, a handsome swain who sensed her needs and matched them with his own. As she ran a hand down the vivid red furrows on his back, she admired the sleek muscularity of his body and relished the feel of his soft beard between her breasts. In a squalid room whose dank walls were covered in painted cloth, they shared a mild sensation of love. It was soon over, however. He rose and dressed while she waited for payment, combing her long black hair with languid movements and resigning herself to more brutish passion from her next client.

His smile was warm and grateful. Dropping some crowns into the goblet on the floor, he slipped an arm around her to give her one last, long kiss then he opened the door and went swiftly out. Frances reached instinctively for the goblet and found it empty. His farewell embrace had been a cruel trick to recover his money and she was left with nothing but a sour memory. Grabbing the knife beneath her pillow, she raced out into the murky passageway but he was already vanishing down the steps. She went quickly back to her bedroom window and flung it open, waiting until her deceitful lover came out into the street before giving a signal with the knife. She then turned back into the room and flung the weapon with such force at the door that it sunk two inches into the wood and vibrated almost as angrily as she did.

The young man, meanwhile, ambled happily along and told himself that the gift of his body was reward enough for any woman and that — by rights — Frances should have paid him. He laughed aloud as he imagined her horror at finding the goblet raided by his sly hand and congratulated himself on getting so much out of the Pickt-hatch for so little. It had been a most pleasant night.

‘Stay, sir!’ called a voice behind him.

‘Why so?’

He turned to ask the last question of his life and got the answer in the shape of a hand-axe that came out of the darkness with vengeful power to cleave his head open and put an extra inch between his staring eyes. Blood drenched him in an instant and the open mouth filled with gore. Before he hit the ground and lay in the offal, he was dead.

Sebastian Carrick had paid for his pleasure after all.

Theatre companies were like families, haphazard groups of people who were bonded temporarily together by a shared home and a common objective. Filial affection was spontaneous and intimacies flourished. Loyalty was deep. Idiosyncrasies were tolerated in the capacious bosom of the family. Blood was thicker than water. If actors fell idle, they were friendless vagabonds cast out into the wilderness: hired again, they got instant access to the comforts of hearth and home. The lonely exile became the prodigal son.