Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

‘Why?’ asked a crony.

‘For sport and for education.’

‘She took pleasure from all this?’

‘Yes,’ said Westfield. ‘It softened the pain of Blanche Parry’s death. The Queen has been playing her favourites against each other. She may be the greatest sovereign in Christendom but she is also a mad old courtesan!’

They drifted out of the chamber and along a corridor.

‘Will you go to court, my lord?’ said the crony.

‘Most assuredly. Then on to Gracechurch Street to watch a play. Love’s Sacrifice is an apter choice than ever now. It will celebrate the reign of an adorable Queen. I’ll have special lines written by Edmund Hoode to be worked into the speeches of King Gondar.’

‘What of The Spanish Jew? ’

‘Who will wish to see that now?’ said Westfield. ‘Her Majesty was not poisoned by Dr Lopez and the worst usurer in London is no Jew but that damnable Clerk of Ordnance.’

The entourage laughed appreciatively. Lord Westfield saw only one cloud on the horizon. Banbury’s Men had been vanquished but his own company was haunted by a disaster.

‘Lawrence Firethorn must be there!’ he said.

‘And if he is not …?’

Night was an unrelieved torment. Lawrence Firethorn twisted and turned in his empty bed as ugly thoughts skewered his brain. Love for Beatrice Capaldi intensified with each passing hour but so did his respect for Nicholas Bracewell. Though he galloped away from the book holder, he was soon overtaken by the horror of the information which Nicholas imparted. Beatrice unfaithful? Her invitation a device to separate him from his company? Their whole relationship a contrivance by Giles Randolph? He could accept none of the propositions and yet he could not deny them either. It was unlike Nicholas to make false accusations but this was a special case. Anxious to secure the actor-manager’s presence on Saturday afternoon, even a normally truthful man might bend the facts, especially if he were prompted by such a self-willed patron as Lord Westfield. There was salvation in sight yet. Firethorn was on the rack but only one person could release him and that was Beatrice Capaldi herself. Only if he honoured the tryst would he learn the truth.

He left Shoreditch early to ride into the city and stable his horse near the wharf where he was due to meet her barge. Hours stretched before him and he spent them in tense meandering along the river. As a nearby clock struck the hour, his guilt was stirred by the reminder that Westfield’s Men were now rehearsing Love’s Sacrifice without him. Some balm did soothe him. The news from Whitehall Palace ran through the city to make it crackle with joy. Firethorn was not betraying his patron at a critical time in a dispute over the succession and that reduced the severity of his guilt. He tried to concentrate on Beatrice and the magic of their love but the face of Giles Randolph kept leering over her shoulder. Italian passion was blighted by a Spanish Jew.

Lurching up into the narrow streets, he found himself part of an excited crowd that converged on St Paul’s. His mind might be obsessed with a dark lady but it was a black stallion which drew spectators to the cathedral. Firethorn was soon staring up at the roof with the thousands of others who had come to witness a miracle of biblical stature. The actor in him was outraged. A play with Lawrence Firethorn in it would never draw such a throng. Why had the whole city turned out? Resentment and envy made him bristle.

The choice of St Paul’s for such crude entertainment was natural. As well as being the focal point of worship in the capital, the great church with its cavernous interior, its walks and its busy courtyard, had served as the nexus for spectacular performances of all kinds. Sermons and masses were on offer but so were occasional bouts of wild audacity. Many still talked of the Spaniard who descended headfirst from battlements to ground by means of a taut rope that was stretched between the two points. Those who tried to emulate him fell to their death or to hideous mutilation. Another man committed suicide by tying a rope to a pinnacle before putting the noose around his neck and diving off. There was even an acrobatic cripple who once stole the weathercock of gilt-plated copper. Countless others had given the noble edifice the status of an occasional fairground.

Nimbus had been promised for noon and Cornelius Gant did not renege on that vow. As the great bell boomed out in the clocktower, the eyes of London scanned the Heavens for the latter-day Pegasus but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as they were losing patience, their vigilance was rewarded. Cornelius Gant used a rope in a way that was every bit as ingenious as the lithe Spaniard of yesteryear. It was threaded carefully through the handles of the baskets of birds so that each would be released at a sharp flick. The noonday clock chimed its fill and left its echo hanging in the air. Gant pulled hard on the rope. The lids of twenty baskets sprang open to send up thick clouds of birds who were quickly joined by the rest of the feathered community up on the roof. The suddenness of it all was breathtaking.

Viewed from below, it was indeed a miracle. Hundreds of birds burst out of the tower to fly up to heaven and there behind them, standing on hind legs so that all could see properly, was a black horse with black wings sprouting out of its shoulders. In that extraordinary moment of revelation, it seemed to all who watched that Nimbus had flown to the top of St Paul’s. Cornelius Gant stepped forward to wave his hat and to set off a veritable broadside of cheering. Nobody knew how he had done it but all accepted one thing. Nimbus was the finest horse in creation.

Lawrence Firethorn was angry with himself for having been momentarily carried away by the spectacle. A man whose life revolved around cleverly devised stage effects knew some deft handiwork when he saw it and he tried to work out exactly how it was all done. He was not helped by the rapturous ovation that was being accorded to his new rival for the public’s adoration.

Nimbus.

Beatrice Capaldi arrived in her barge at the wharf well before the appointed time. When the vessel was moored, the four oarsmen went ashore to stretch their legs. Beatrice remained under the rich canopy which covered the raised area in the stern of the boat. Lying back on cushions, she was protected from the prying eyes of the rougher sort who hung about the waterfront. Her lutenist sat on a stool nearby and played soft airs. Beatrice was at her most elegant in a dress of black and red that exactly matched the colours of her latest hat in the Spanish fashion. A silver fan could be used to cool or conceal, a pomander kept the odours of the river away from her nostrils.

The swift approach of a horse made her sit up. She did not expect Lawrence Firethorn to appear quite so early. His impatience was testimony to the fevered love which he bore her. She heard the horse being reigned in then urgent feet ran along the planking on the wharf. Her visitor came aboard without ceremony and she looked up to greet him. But it was not the over-eager Firethorn. It was Giles Randolph.

‘We must speak alone,’ he said pointedly.

‘As you wish.’ She dismissed the lutenist with a flick of her fan then delivered a mild reproach to her visitor. ‘This is most unseemly, sir.’

‘You have deceived me, Beatrice.’

‘That is a lie!’

‘Your promises were mere nothings.’

‘Have a care, Giles.’

‘You entertained a visitor at your house.’

‘I deny it.’

‘You swore to be true to me!’ he accused.

‘And so I have.’

‘I know the day, the time, the man.’ Randolph let his pain show through. ‘Beatrice, how could you consort with that disgusting old lecher?’