Edward Marston - The Vagabond Clown

Having walked with Anne Hendrik the short distance from her house, Nicholas Bracewell was touched to see that the small crowd included some of the hired men who would not even be taking part in the tour yet who had come to wish their fellows well on the journey. It had been the book holder’s task to inform the actors of their fate and it was a sombre experience. Talented men had been left behind because economies had to be made. Reduced in size, the company would be discarding some who would not work again until Westfield’s Men returned to the capital. Actors were not lone victims. Thomas Skillen, the stagekeeper, was too old and frail to cope with the exigencies of travel and there was no place either for such loyal souls as Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, and Hugh Wegges, the tireman. Their functions would fall to other, less practised, hands.

Margery Firethorn had made the long trip from Shoreditch so that her husband would have a wife and children to wave him off. Her face was set in an expression of quiet resignation but she brightened as soon as she saw Nicholas approaching. After rushing across to hug him, she kissed Anne in greeting and nudged her playfully.

‘You have chosen the handsomest man in the company,’ she said.

Anne smiled. ‘We chose each other, Margery.’

‘That’s how it should be. You are blessed in her, Nick.’

‘I’m in no danger of forgetting that,’ he assured her. ‘Anne reminded me of it only this morning. But you must excuse me,’ he said, as new faces arrived. ‘I must make an inventory of who is here and who is yet to come.’

Margery watched him go then stood close enough to Anne to whisper to her.

‘I’m surprised that you two have never wed,’ she confided.

‘How do you know that we have not?’ teased Anne.

‘Because I would see it in your face. If he were mine, I’d drag him to the altar.’

‘Nick is not a person to be dragged anywhere.’

‘He dotes on you, Anne.’

‘Would marriage secure or spoil his devotion?’

‘An apt question,’ conceded Margery, glancing at her husband. ‘Lawrence’s passion has never waned but I can only count on it when we share our bed. Let him venture outside London and he becomes a lusty bachelor. You’ll have no cause to doubt Nick but I’ll not be able to show a like trust in my husband.’

‘You should, Margery. Whenever they are abroad, Nick says, Lawrence never ceases to mention your name with fondness.’

‘Only when his guilt stirs.’

‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘he’s guilty at having to leave you behind.’

She looked across at Firethorn and saw him enjoying a few last moments of fatherhood. His two sons were sitting astride his horse while he chatted with them. Anne’s gaze moved to Edmund Hoode, who was talking earnestly with Owen Elias, then on to Nicholas. He had taken control with his usual efficiency. After counting heads, he was helping George Dart to check the list of scenery, properties and costumes that would be making the journey to Kent. Anne’s surge of pride was matched by her sense of loss. It was inspiring to see Nicholas at work with the troupe. He was in his element and everyone treated him with respect. When she remembered that she would not be seeing him for some weeks, a tremor ran through her. Margery’s hand went to her arm.

‘Be brave, Anne,’ she urged. ‘The first night is the worst.’

Nicholas himself was not looking that far ahead. He had a more immediate concern. When he was satisfied that the wagons had been correctly loaded, he turned to look for missing persons again. Three had been absent at the first count and he was relieved to see that both James Ingram and Rowland Carr had now appeared. However, he was disturbed when there was still no sign of the latest addition to the troupe. He was not alone in being worried about Gideon Mussett. Hoode came anxiously across to him.

‘Where is he, Nick?’ he asked.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Nicholas with conviction.

‘And if he does not come?’

‘Then I take the blame squarely on my shoulders, Edmund.’

‘I feared that this might happen.’

‘Have faith. He gave me his word.’

‘Only when he was sober,’ said Hoode, glancing around. ‘And how long will sobriety last when he has so many taverns in which to get drunk? If he is here, I suspect that he’s lying in a stupor in the Bear, the George or the Tabard. This street is a very heaven for a thirsty man. Have you searched the taprooms yet?’

‘There’s no need of that. I warned him to avoid ale.’

‘Then he will drink sack or Canary wine instead.’

‘He’s no money to buy either,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s been bound to a contract that obliges him to curtail his pleasures. If he refuses to obey, he’ll end up back in the jail from which we plucked him.’ He pointed to prison buildings nearby. ‘That may be the answer, Edmund,’ he continued, his spirits reviving. ‘I should have used more care before I nominated the White Hart as our meeting place. What man would wish to return to the very shadow of the place where he was imprisoned? That’s why Giddy is not here. He’ll meet us further down the road where ugly memories are not so easily revived.’

‘ We will be the ones with ugly memories, if he lets us down.’

‘That will not happen. He needs work.’

‘Perhaps he’s gone to seek it elsewhere.’

‘I put my trust in him, Edmund.’

Hoode gave a nod. ‘Then I put my trust in your judgement.’

No sooner had the playwright moved away than Firethorn strutted across. He was beaming regally at all and sundry but his eyes were darting nervously. Grabbing Nicholas by the arm, he took him aside.

‘What time did you tell the rogue to be here?’ he asked.

‘Upon the stroke of eight.’

‘It’s almost half an hour past that.’

‘Something has, perchance, delayed him.’

Firethorn was scornful. ‘Some fat whore in red taffeta no doubt!’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Giddy has not gone down that path. We must remember all those nights he spent in prison when he could barely snatch an hour’s sleep, and that in the greatest discomfort. If anything delays him, it’s pure fatigue.’

‘Where did he lodge?’

‘He said he would stay with a friend.’

‘What friend?’ demanded Firethorn. ‘Where does he live? Giddy Mussett is as slippery as a wet ferret. You should not have let him out of your sight, Nick.’

‘He swore to me that he’d be here.’

‘Then where, in God’s name, is the saucy rascal?’

The answer came from behind him. Shutters opened on the window of an upstairs room in the White Hart and a startling figure was revealed. Giddy Mussett was dressed from head to foot in bright yellow garments and wore a blue hat that rose up in a point until it reached the tiny bell at its extremity. In case anyone was not aware of his sudden appearance, Mussett put a fist to his mouth and blew a token fanfare. All eyes turned to look up at him and he revelled in the attention.

‘Good morrow, friends!’ he called. ‘Giddy Mussett is sorry to keep you waiting. He had important business to complete within the tavern here but he is now ready to join you on your wondrous journey into Kent.’ He swayed slightly. ‘I’m privileged to be a member of Westfield’s Men and I hope you’ll welcome me with open hearts.’

Nicholas was both pleased and alarmed to see him, reassured that the clown had actually turned up but distressed by the way that he was slurring his words. Firethorn looked on with disgust.

‘The fellow’s drunk!’ he protested.

‘I think not.’

‘Look at the way he is swaying.’

‘He’s here and we should be grateful.’