Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Nicholas Bracewell did much to foster the spirit of kinship among Westfield’s Men so that each time it changed its face, the smile remained the same. Continuity of style and purpose was essential. Nobody was more attuned to the different moods and personalities of the company members and he helped to blend them into a single clan. While Lawrence Firethorn was the stern father of the family — and Barnaby Gill the clucking mother hen — Nicholas brought an avuncular concern to his role and cared profoundly for all his nephews. It did not take him long to learn their habits.

‘Good morning, Master Bracewell.’

‘Good morning, Thomas.’

‘What do we play today?’

‘ Marriage and Mischief. ’

‘Bushes and benches.’

‘As you say, Thomas. Bushes and benches.’

It was early morning and Nicholas had, as usual, arrived first at the Queen’s Head. He knew the precise order in which his colleagues would make their appearance. Leading the procession was Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, a man whose forty years in the theatre enabled him to reduce all plays to one telling phrase. Marriage and Mischief was a lively comedy of misunderstanding which made great use of eavesdropping in a garden. It was a glorious romp with colourful characters and a complicated plot but the old man had summed it up perfectly. Something to hide behind and something to sit on. Bushes and benches.

A youth raced up to them. ‘Good morning, masters.’

‘You are late, George,’ grumbled the stagekeeper.

‘You are in good time, lad,’ said Nicholas warmly. ‘Now stand still and catch your breath.’

‘I have been running.’

‘Rise earlier and walk to your employment,’ said Skillen.

‘You are sweating like a pig on a spit.’

George Dart was the smallest, youngest and most abused member of the company. He was a convenient whipping boy and not even the friendship of the book holder could protect him from the lash. As an assistant stagekeeper, he was always given the most menial chores and he had already resigned himself to a day of moving the prickliest bushes and the heaviest benches on and offstage. Thomas Skillen might be gnarled with age but he could still clip an ear of his underlings with effect. Marriage and Mischief would bring the customary round of prods and pushes for George Dart who would find an odd kind of reassurance in them. They proved that he was accepted by the company. Pain was home.

Nathan Curtis was the next to stride into the yard at the Queen’s Head. As the company’s master carpenter, he was always in demand, making new properties and scenery or restoring old ones. Hard on his heels came Peter Digby, the leader of the musicians, a thin, ascetic man of nervous disposition, who liked to be there well before he was needed. When the first of the actors joined them, Nicholas did not even need to turn around to see who it was. As soon as he heard the approach of footsteps behind him, he believed that he could identify the newcomer.

‘Good morrow, Sebastian.’

‘You insult me,’ said a Welsh voice.

Nicholas swung round in surprise. ‘Owen!’

‘Even he.’

‘I had expected …’

‘For once, I am first in line.’

The book holder gave him a proper welcome and talked about Owen Elias’s role in the forthcoming drama, showing a genuine interest in his colleague’s performance and making some useful suggestions. As they conversed, however, he kept one eye on the main entrance to the yard as he awaited the imminent arrival of Sebastian Carrick. The latter might have the inclinations of a dissolute but he was also a committed professional who put his acting before anything else. Even after a long night of indulgence, he would be the first of the hired actors to report to the Queen’s Head; indeed, it was this unquenchable enthusiasm for his work — carefully hidden beneath an easy-going disdain — which made him a potential sharer with Westfield’s Men. Lateness was almost unknown to Carrick so his continued absence was worrying.

Nicholas kept watch but there was no sign of him. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was the next to show up, followed by the skipping eagerness of Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the boy apprentices. New faces came in twos and threes until the majority of the company was assembled in the yard but Sebastian Carrick still refused to come. As the stragglers drifted in, Nicholas’s anxiety was fringed with alarm. Only the most serious mishap could detain the actor from a rehearsal, especially one of a play in which he had an important supporting role.

Lawrence Firethorn, predictably, was the last to turn up so that he could make a dramatic entry on his horse. As he rode into a yard that was now humming with activity, he surveyed his fellows with a lordly air then raised his hat in acknowledgement of the greetings he attracted. When an ostler came to take his horse, the actor-manager dismounted and summoned his book holder.

‘Nick, dear heart! A word, sir.’

‘As many as you wish,’ said the other.

‘Let’s stand aside.’ Firethorn whisked him into a quiet corner. ‘We had private conference yesterday to settle on the choice of a new sharer. Sebastian Carrick was preferred to Owen Elias. Does that win your good opinion?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both men are worthy, in their several ways, but Owen Elias has the greater ability and range of experience.’

‘Other reasons spoke against him.’

‘Sebastian has defects, too.’

‘We have decided to overlook them and offer advancement to him. I want you to impart the glad tidings.’

‘He is not here to receive them.’

‘Not here? Our early bird still abed for once?’

‘I hope that is the case.’

‘What else?’ said Firethorn. ‘He will be here anon. I will warm his ears for being laggard then you can soothe them with this timely news.’ He saw the disquiet on the other’s brow and clapped him familiarly on the shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Nick. No harm has befallen him. Sebastian can walk the darkest streets of the city with safety. Be assured of it. He will not fall among thieves.’

When the rider appeared on the horizon, the two men could not believe their luck. Travel through open country was always a hazardous business. Rogues, vagabonds, outlaws, robbers, beggars and masterless men were a constant threat to the unwary and the unguarded. Occasional bands of gypsies posed a further threat to the solitary traveller. Most people sought company when they moved between towns and long journeys were rarely undertaken without adequate convoy. Yet here was a man completely on his own, well dressed, as far as they could judge at that distance, and mounted on a sturdy black stallion that moved along the rough track at a steady canter. The closer the rider came, the more convinced were the two men that Fortune was indeed favouring them. Sitting astride their own horses, they lurked in the shelter of a copse as their prey descended the hill towards them with an obliging readiness. A glance between them sealed his fate and they drew their swords for the ambush.

But the attack was not even necessary. When the man was no more than forty yards away, he suddenly reined in his mount beside some gorse bushes and slipped from the saddle. Fiddling with his breeches, he went behind the bushes with the obvious purpose of relieving himself and his spectators grinned. They would not even need their weapons for this work. The horse was their target, as fine an animal as they had seen in a long time with good conformation, a sleek coat and a touch of real breeding that made their own flea-bitten nags look like the tired jades they were. Black all over, it had a white blaze that ran from ear to nostril like a flash of lightning exploding from a mass of black cloud. Horse and saddle were rich enough bounty in themselves but the pouches that were slung across its loins — embroidered leather that bulged with promise — could bring greater reward yet. During those two fateful minutes behind a gorse bush, the rider would be relieved of more than his discomfort.