Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

The highwaymen did not delay any longer. Spurring their horses into action, they closed on the stallion and one of them gathered up its reins as they passed. As three sets of hooves clacked on the hard surface of the track, a yell of utter horror went up from behind the bushes. The robbers laughed aloud at what they took to be the bare-arsed abuse that pursued them until they were out of earshot but the hapless wayfarer was now letting his own mirth show. With breeches now up again, he sat in the shade of an elm and pulled out an apple from inside his doublet. He took a first bite and chewed away happily in the confident knowledge that he would not have long to wait.

When they had put a mile or more between themselves and their victim, the two men paused in a clearing in the wood to assess their takings. The stolen horse was even more of a prize than they had imagined and its saddle was a work of art. They dismounted at speed and ran to clutch at the leather pouches but it was a mistake that they would rue for a long while because the stallion reared up on its hind legs and kicked out savagely. Taken completely by surprise, they fell to the ground in mortal terror. Instead of trampling them while it could, however, the animal emitted a high neigh that produced an answering call from the other horses. Before the men could do anything to stop them, all three went galloping off in the direction from which they had come.

Cornelius Gant had almost finished his apple by the time that Nimbus brought its two companions up to him. The old man gave him a slap of thanks then fed him the core as a further sign of congratulation. It was the work of minutes to search the other two horses for booty. Small sacks that hung from pommels yielded up food, money and other stolen items. When he had transferred the provender to Nimbus, he gave each of the other beasts a slap on the rump that sent it careering wildly off into the undergrowth. Cornelius Gant and Nimbus continued briskly on their way towards Banbury.

It was proving to be an eventful journey.

Marriage and Mischief was a perennial favourite which brought a large and vocal audience to the yard of the Queen’s Head and they were not disappointed by the latest rendering of the piece. The comedy was driven along at a cracking pace with a control that never faltered. As the spectators howled with glee or shook with mirth, they never suspected for a moment that the real drama had occurred backstage and jeopardised their entertainment completely. Sebastian Carrick’s failure to appear had forced eleventh-hour changes on the company which had sapped its morale and sent it out on the stage with some trepidation, but it found itself both equal to the emergency and able to disguise it from the onlookers. Owen Elias was given instant promotion and he seized his opportunity with relish, playing his rival’s part as if he had been rehearsing it all his life. He fumed and foamed as a jealous husband who wrongly suspects his wife of infidelity, giving a performance that was at once more comic and incisive than that of the actor he had replaced. Elias’s freewheeling confidence was a tonic to his fellows and they responded accordingly. As Lawrence Firethorn led his troupe out to acknowledge the ovation at the end of the play, he knew that they had given as good an account of Marriage and Mischief as they had ever done.

Standing in his accustomed place, Nicholas Bracewell gave his full concentration to the task of prompting, giving cues, issuing advice and generally controlling the swirling chaos behind the scenes. He was able to relax slightly now and to address the problem of Sebastian Carrick’s absence. It was as distressing as it was untypical. An actor who prided himself on his work and his punctuality had committed the unforgivable sin of leaving the company in the lurch. He had not even sent a word of warning that he was indisposed. Was he ill? Had he been deliberately led astray? Could he still be sleeping off a night of debauchery? Nicholas had grave doubts on all three accounts. A more grim explanation suggested itself and the book holder felt a sharp pang of apprehension.

It was not eased when he looked across at Owen Elias who was now bowing low and drinking in the applause as if he had played the leading part. When asked to step into the breach at such short notice, the Welshman showed neither surprise nor alarm but simply grabbed the book to study the new part. While the actor conned his lines, Hugh Wegges helped him into his costume and used a deft needle to make the adjustments that were necessary. Owen Elias was supremely relaxed. It was almost as if he knew that he would be required to cover for an erring colleague and he did so with impressive skill. Much as he liked his friend, Nicholas was bound to wonder if he was in some way connected with the convenient disappearance of Sebastian Carrick.

As the applause began to fade, Lawrence Firethorn took one last flamboyant bow before bringing the cast back into the tiring-house. Beaming actor became outraged employer.

‘Where the devil is he, Nick?’ snarled Firethorn.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Nicholas.

‘He will be dismissed from the company!’

‘Do not be too hasty, master. Sebastian may not be at fault here. Something must have prevented him. He is too loyal an actor to betray us deliberately.’

‘We faced disaster on that stage!’

‘Yet you created a triumph.’

Firethorn preened himself. ‘I thrive on adversity.’

‘Owen Elias was our hero this afternoon,’ said Barnaby Gill, seeing the chance to needle the actor-manager. ‘I hope you will now see how foolish it would be to elect Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer. His conduct is unforgivable. The Welshman is made of truer steel. His performance today had something of your genius, Lawrence.’

‘It sufficed,’ said Firethorn.

‘It saved us, man.’

Barnaby Gill praised every aspect of a portrayal which he knew could pose a distant threat to the actor-manager. Firethorn’s main objection to Owen Elias was the latter’s weird similarity to him in appearance and technique. Elias might never have the towering capacities of his employer but he could handle a speech with something of the same attack and make a profound impact when given the chance. Lawrence Firethorn was less threatened when the Welshman was kept languishing down among the small parts. Gill — whose lustre and position were not touched by Elias — could acclaim him freely and cause maximum discomfort to his colleague.

‘Where is your precious Sebastian?’ he teased.

‘Would that I knew, sir!’

Gill gave a brittle laugh. ‘This is the man you staked your life upon, Lawrence. Prepare yourself for death.’

He laughed again and sauntered off. Firethorn wheeled round to confront Nicholas and bark an order at him.

‘Find Sebastian!’

‘I will go as soon as I am finished here.’

‘Find him at once!’

‘It may not be an easy task.’

‘Find him and bring him to me.’

‘I fear for his safety.’

‘You have good cause, sir,’ said Firethorn with feeling. ‘When I see the villain, I’ll break his traitorous head open for him!’

Thick bandages had been wrapped around the skull to restore some semblance of normality but they were quite inadequate. Instead of binding the wound up, they simply made it look even more grotesque with its blood-soaked dressing and its awesome finality. The body was naked on its slab beneath a dirty white shroud. Sightless eyes stared upward and the mouth was still wide open. Caked blood disfigured the sad face below the red bandaging. Other corpses lay at peace all around, accepting their fate and awaiting burial in a spirit of Christian resignation. But Sebastian Carrick was still troubled. During his last, cruel, fleeting moment on earth, he had asked a question that pursued him into the mortuary and continued to exercise his vacant mind. In the cold silence of death, his hideous visage was a bellowing enquiry.