Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Nicholas Bracewell had to soothe many a troubled brow before his work was done for that day. Gill and Hoode were particularly agitated by the threatened betrayal. Though the comedian was looking forward to Cupid’s Folly on Saturday afternoon, he did not dare to fly in the face of their patron’s wishes. The playwright, too, wanted Love’s Sacrifice reinstated, if for different reasons. Nicholas told them that the decision had been taken right out of their hands by Lord Westfield who would accept no other work. It was Hoode’s latest play that would be advertised for performance.

‘ Love’s Sacrifice? ’ said Gill. ‘Without Lawrence?’

‘King Gondar will be there,’ assured Nicholas.

Hoode was pessimistic. ‘He has refused to appear.’

‘Much can happen before Saturday.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘We may lose our Queen, our company and our profession. Much may indeed happen.’

Nicholas said no more. When he left the inn, he turned left into Gracechurch Street and kept walking briskly until Bishopsgate loomed up ahead. Leaving the city through one of its great portals, he maintained a steady pace all the way to Shoreditch. The crowds had dispersed from The Curtain and The Theatre but the hostelries were still full of roistering gallants. Nicholas stopped at the sign of The Elephant and found a more pensive Owen Elias brooding alone on a bench outside the establishment. They exchanged greetings.

‘What ails you?’ said Nicholas.

Elias was evasive. ‘It is no matter.’

‘Did you play at The Curtain this afternoon?’

‘ The Tragical History of King John. ’

‘What role did you take?’

‘A small one,’ muttered the other. ‘I died at the end of Act One. It was like being back with Westfield’s Men.’

‘There will be no more small parts for you there.’

‘I will never go back to the Queen’s Head.’

‘You have signed the contract, then?’

‘No. Not exactly …’

‘When will Giles Randolph make you a sharer?’

‘On Saturday, he says.’

‘He says.’

‘Why should he go back on his word?’

‘Why are you so sad?’

Nicholas had touched a raw spot and his friend almost jumped up from the bench. Owen Elias had raised the question of his contract half an hour earlier in the taproom and he had been given the usual reassurances by Giles Randolph but somehow they lacked conviction this time. Whether it was guilt over his old company or disillusionment with his new one, he did not know, but the Welshman suddenly felt the ground shudder slightly beneath his feet. Banbury’s Men had given him a hero’s welcome but he sensed that it would not last indefinitely. He was also well placed to see that his new colleagues did not have the strength in depth of Westfield’s Men. Giles Randolph liked good actors around him but they were not allowed to compete with him. Lawrence Firethorn, by contrast, employed the finest talents he could muster because he knew that he could hold his own against them. Indeed, the more competition he was given, the higher the pitch of his own performance.

Elias’s preoccupation was written on his face and Nicholas read it with interest but without further comment. He had come to The Elephant for another reason.

‘It is time to help Sebastian,’ he said.

‘Now?’

‘If you are ready, Owen.’

‘Where do we go?’

‘Clerkenwell.’

‘I am with you, Nick.’

‘Are you armed?’

‘My dagger will protect me against anything.’

‘Not against an axe,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s call at your lodging for a sword. There may be a brawl.’

Owen Elias chuckled. ‘That cheers me up at once!’

They collected his weapon then proceeded on their way to Clerkenwell. It was a long walk and Nicholas had plenty of time to explain his plan in detail. The element of danger appealed to the actor whose solid frame had weathered many a tavern fight. Sebastian Carrick had died owing him money but he was still eager to avenge the murder. His rival had made possible the surge in his prospects.

Two other accessories were gathered along the way.

‘What would you have with us?’ asked Josiah Taplow.

‘We seek no trouble,’ said William Merryweather.

‘You come but as witnesses,’ said Nicholas.

He told them enough to draw them along but concealed the full story from them. The watchmen trailed in their wake and grumbled at the speed made by the two younger men but they managed to keep up. Nicholas stationed them at the end of Turnmill Street then went on more stealthily with Owen Elias. Light had faded now and they were simply two more shadowy figures in the half-darkness. Nicholas stopped well short of the Pickt-hatch and stepped into a doorway from which he could keep it under surveillance. Owen Elias walked on alone, warned of the perils but excited at the notion of taking the leading role for once. He knocked at the door and was admitted by Bess Bidgood. All that Nicholas could do was to watch, wait and beware of a man with an axe.

St Paul’s Cathedral was the dominating feature of the night skyline. It rose like a mountain above all around it and imposed itself on every view of the city. One of the largest churches in Christendom, it never faded to draw gasps of astonishment from visitors to the capital who saw in its Gothic exuberance and its intimidating sprawl the power of God made manifest. Its massive crossing tower had twice been capped with a spire of wood and lead that reached a height of almost five hundred feet, making it the tallest steeple ever built, but lightning had destroyed it on both occasions. The second disaster, at the start of Elizabeth’s reign, was more serious in that the fire spread from the steeple to the roof and even melted the bells. Though the damage had been patched up, there was no attempt to rebuild the spire and to risk a third calamity.

Seen against the clear night sky, St Paul’s was still the great act of worship it had always been but the darkness shrouded the deterioration to its fabric. It was showing its age. Battered by time and beaten by inclement weather, its stonework was pitted, its tracery mouldering, its pinnacles encrusted with filth and its buttresses scored. Smoke from sea coal had blackened parts of its exterior and there was an air of neglect about it.

Yet the cathedral still had the capacity to surprise and to overawe. Anyone who chanced to look up at its roof that night would have seen an extraordinary sight. A single flickering candle suddenly appeared at the very top of the tower and worked its way slowly around the perimeter like a guiding light to holy pilgrims. It was a benign presence but it startled the nesting swifts and swallows, it alarmed the perching ravens and jackdaws, it fluttered the roosting pigeons and it spread panic among the predatory kites who used the mighty roof as the vantage point from which they could swoop down upon the offal of London. The candle went a little higher, the flame burned brighter and there was a thunderous flapping of wings as hundreds of tenants quit their lodgings and took to the sky.

Cornelius Gant was pleased to have such an impact on his feathered audience. He had climbed to the top of the cathedral to take stock of it from above and to finalise his preparations for Saturday’s feat. The next time that he stood there, Nimbus would be beside him. As he surveyed the whole city from his lofty position, he felt once more that surge of power and ambition which had brought him to London.

He blew out his candle and laughed in the darkness.

Owen Elias was not a regular visitor to the stews. Like most actors, he took his pleasures where he could find them and so it was largely a succession of tavern wenches whom he numbered among his conquests. At the same time, however, he felt completely at ease in the Pickt-hatch. Its atmosphere of bawdy banter and tobacco smoke were second nature to him and he fitted into its snug sinfulness as well as any of the usual patrons. Various punks blandished him with their wiles and their wares but he bided his time until he found the one whom he sought. The slim and sensual Frances was indeed a different proposition. Her brand of carnality had a whiff of danger about it. Like Sebastian Carrick before him, Elias knew that an hour in her bed would be an experience not easily forgotten. When she fixed her eyes upon him, he felt the lick of her tongue and the scratch of her nails. He also saw the coffin of a murdered actor being lowered into the ground. This was the one.