Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘Lord Westfield insults me!’ he snarled.

‘No man admires you more,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll not take it!’

‘Our patron chose you as his manager.’

‘Then why does he treat me as a hired man who must play as cast?’ Firethorn worked himself up into a fury. ‘I’ll not be bullied, I’ll not be forced, I’ll not dance to the tune of Lord Westfield or any other man in London! Let him put up his playbills for Love’s Sacrifice. It will not be staged.’

‘It will, sir.’

‘Without me ?’

‘With or without you, Master Firethorn.’

Nicholas Bracewell allowed an interval of silence so that his irate companion could calm down slightly. Having come out through Bishopsgate, they were now walking together in the direction of Shoreditch. Rehearsal and performance had gone well because Lawrence Firethorn had acted with Beatrice Capaldi’s second missive next to his heart. It would have been unwise to tackle him at the Queen’s Head where his raised voice abolished walls and made privacy quite impossible. Nicholas therefore waited until the two of them were well clear of the city walls before he touched once more on the delicate topic. Firethorn was leading his horse by the reins. The three of them passed Bedlam.

‘Consider one more time,’ pleaded Nicholas.

‘It is too late.’

‘Renounce this lady, sir.’

‘I am too far gone in to turn back now, Nick,’ said the other with sudden passion. ‘This is no mere conquest that I pursue here. Beatrice is my own true love. I worship her with every fibre of my being. I would do anything to show her that I am in earnest. I fret, I sigh, I long for her. Did I but know where she dwells, I would lie before her threshold all night and sleep in contented adoration.’

Nicholas steeled himself to disillusion his master.

‘Mistress Capaldi lives beside the river,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I tracked her to Blackfriars one night.’

‘ Why ?’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What reason had you to spy on her? You followed my love without telling me ? What kind of treachery is this?’

‘It was on your account that I went.’

‘Behind my back!’

‘I had no other means of helping you.’

‘Helping me! You have lost my friendship for ever!’

‘It grieves me to tell you any more …’

‘Then let us part now.’

‘No, Master Firethorn,’ said Nicholas, detaining him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘When I went past Mistress Capaldi’s home, a visitor left. It was her shrewd stage manager.’

‘I hope he was shrewder and more honest than mine.’

‘It was Giles Randolph.’

‘Never!’

‘He has rehearsed this whole play, sir,’ argued Nicholas bravely. ‘He sent Mistress Capaldi to The Rose and he was there himself to witness her performance and its effect on you. That is how he came to see Owen Elias. Love’s Sacrifice would not have brought him to the playhouse any more than the work of Banbury’s Men would take you to The Curtain. Master Randolph was there with Beatrice Capaldi. They are trying to kill our company by cutting off its head.’

‘ENOUGH!’

Lawrence Firethorn’s anguish echoed for a mile and sent his horse into a panic. The man he trusted most of all had betrayed him and his love in the most comprehensive way. Controlling his steed, he mounted with a leap, then glared down at Nicholas with a loathing he never suspected he could ever feel for him. No more words were necessary. In his now seething rage, Firethorn believed that Nicholas was trying to discredit Beatrice Capaldi on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Partnership with his book holder was over, fidelity to his patron a thing of the past, commitment to his company a trifling irrelevance.

Sharp heels dug into the horse’s flanks. It reared up on its hind legs then took its rider homewards at a gallop. Nicholas Bracewell sighed deeply at his failure then walked on swiftly. He still had business in Shoreditch.

Andrew Carrick gazed through the window of his cell with a glow of satisfaction in his soul. His daughter, Marion, had told him of the apprehension of the murderer in Clerkenwell and, though her account fell short of the full truth, the lawyer was able to shed a father’s tears of contentment. Sebastian’s death had been paid for in full and he could now rest in peace. Carrick longed for the moment when he could extract more details from Nicholas Bracewell whom he knew was the chief architect of events in Turnmill Street. In relating the tale to the bereaved sister, the book holder played down his own part in the affair but the acute father could see behind this show of modesty.

The lawyer was overcome with delight, therefore, when Nicholas actually appeared below in the yard but he was not alone on this visit. Five others marched with him. Lord Westfield led the way with a purposeful figure in the robes of a bishop and a black-garbed clerk who carried writing materials in his satchel. Two soldiers from the Palace guard flanked the deputation. Nicholas Bracewell excused himself to slip into the Beauchamp Tower and Carrick ran to his door to listen for the sound of his footsteps on the stone steps. It seemed like an hour before his gaoler unlocked the door to admit the visitor. Carrick embraced him, thanked him and asked for a complete account of what had transpired outside the Pickt-hatch. Nicholas first took him to the window and pointed at the five men who were now going into the building across the yard with firm footsteps.

‘Did you see them, Master Carrick?’ he asked.

‘I recognised Lord Westfield.’

‘He is prosecuting this matter.’

‘Who was the noble churchman?’

Nicholas was impassive. ‘John Aylmer, Bishop of London. With him was his clerk. And two soldiers to enforce the gravity of their embassy.’

The truth dawned. ‘They visit Harry Fellowes?’

‘The Clerk of Ordnance is being interviewed. Your information was of immense help, sir, and Lord Westfield has used his wide circle of friends to make further enquiry.’

‘Harry has embezzled,’ said Carrick unequivocally. ‘There can be no doubt of his guilt. But proving it is quite another matter. A man who has defrauded the Crown so long and so cunningly will be able to wriggle out of any charge.’

‘That is why I sought the power of the Church.’

‘John Aylmer?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Fellowes is a rogue but he is also a priest. He will not be able to withstand the pressure that the Bishop of London may bring upon him.’ His face was still impassive but his eyes twinkled. ‘Our scheming Clerk will never have met a man quite like this John Aylmer.’

The Bishop of London glowered under bushy eyebrows and put the crackle of authority into his voice. Harry Fellowes swallowed hard and backed away slightly. He was seated at his desk when his room was invaded by the five menacing figures. The Clerk of Ordnance was caught offguard.

‘Remember!’ intoned John Aylmer, ‘that you speak under oath. Do not perjure yourself before your Maker or He will call you to account for it on the Day of Judgement. Speak the truth before us here and we may be inclined to mercy. Lie, deceive or prevaricate and the full majesty of the law will descend upon you.’ A finger of doom pointed. ‘One thing more, Master Fellowes. Though you have neglected your flock this long while, you are still an ordained priest. It was my predecessor as Bishop of London, Edmund Grindal, who brought you into the clergy. That revered Churchman, who went on to become His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, looks down on you from Heaven at this moment and implores you to hold faith with him. Confess your sins to him, to us and to God.’