Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘No, Lawrence,’ he replied. ‘I must away.’

‘That’s dedication indeed! I’ll not try to keep you from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Once it is finished, the whole company will be the beneficiaries. Then they will understand why you’ve scurried off alone each day.’ He nudged Hoode. ‘How goes it?’

‘Very well.’

‘Are you pleased with the results?’

‘Extremely pleased.’

‘When do we get to view this masterpiece?’

‘I’ve had not had that privilege myself yet, Lawrence.’

Firethorn gaped. ‘But you have been slaving at it for several weeks now.’

‘Have I?’

‘You know that you have, Edmund. You have devoted every waking hour to it. Though we missed your company, we admired your sense of purpose. So,’ he said, whispering into Hoode’s ear. ‘Where is it?’

‘What?’

‘The work of art you are rushing off to finish. The new play, man, the new play!’

Hoode stared at him with blank incomprehension.

‘Play?’ he said at length. ‘What play?’

Entertainment of a different kind was on offer at Smithfield that afternoon and it drew a more ghoulish audience. Spectators at the city’s playhouses had gone to be moved by counterfeit deaths and fake horrors. Those who congregated at Smithfield wanted no deceit. They came in search of the real thing. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were part of a milling crowd. Renowned for centuries for its horse-market, the grassy acres that comprised ‘Smoothfield’, as it had been called, were redolent of a grim history. It had been a place of public execution for over four hundred years. Countless villains had been put to death before the eyes of the commonalty. Most were hanged from the gallows that stood between the horse-pool and the wells, but, in the reign of Henry VIII, Tyburn became the regular site for executions. Smithfield, however, was not wholly discarded. At the command of Mary Tudor, over two hundred martyrs were burnt at the stake there and it continued to be used on certain occasions. Gerard Quilter was unfortunate enough to be singled out for one of those occasions.

Nicholas was there in a supportive capacity. His presence was vital. Quilter was so tense and queasy that he seemed about to keel over at any moment. Both men tried to shut their ears to the foul language and gruesome anticipation they could hear all around them. When his friend rocked slightly, Nicholas steadied with him a hand.

‘You did not need to put yourself through this, Frank,’ he said.

‘My ordeal is nothing beside that of my father.’

‘Remember him as he was, not as you will see him today.’

‘He will expect me to be here, Nick.’

‘Yet he will never observe you in this crowd.’

‘Father will know ,’ asserted Quilter. ‘If there were ten times this number here, he would be keenly aware of my absence. I’ll not let him down in his hour of need.’ He forced a smile of gratitude. ‘I know what it cost you to be here with me today, Nick. It’s a favour I’ll not easily forget.’

‘It was the least I could do, Frank.’

‘Nobody else in the company volunteered to take on the office.’

‘Westfield’s Men had a play to stage.’

‘So did you.’

‘Your need was greater.’

‘The others did not think so.’

‘There was a lot of sympathy for you, Frank.’

‘But much more resentment, I’ll warrant. Is it not so? I bear the name of a brutal killer, that is what they believe. They’ll want no part of Frank Quilter after this. And who can blame them? In their eyes, I’m stained with the blood of the victim.’

‘Only because they do not know the truth.’

‘How can we persuade them?’

Nicholas’s reply was lost beneath a roar of approval as the crowd welcomed the condemned prisoners. Gerard Quilter would not die alone. Flanked by armed riders, two carts were pulled along by sweating horses through the mass of people. Cruel jeers and vile taunts filled the air. Arms opinioned, Gerard Quilter was in the first of the carts, standing up with the hangman’s assistant beside him. Nicholas saw the family likeness at once. The father had the son’s handsome face and dignified bearing. Even in his dire distress, Gerard Quilter contrived to keep his back straight and his chin up. He was coping with the grisly situation by drawing on his faith, praying to God to help him through the ordeal that lay ahead and asking that his reputation would one day be vindicated. That was his only source of comfort. Frank, his only son, would be there to witness his humiliation. His father was ashamed to be seen by him in such a condition. All that he could hope was that his son was so revolted by the hideous spectacle that he would not rest until the family name was cleansed.

Nicholas was impressed by the way that Gerard Quilter held himself. There was no hint of dignity in the following cart. Jane Gullet, a snarling virago, was hurling abuse at the crowd and ducking to avoid the ripe fruit that was thrown at her from all sides. Convicted of witchcraft, she was sentenced to burn for using her black arts against her husband, an old man who had died, it was alleged, as a result of a spell put upon him. The poison she put in his food was the more likely cause of his death but the crowd would not be deprived of their witch. What they saw was no rebellious wife. Instead, they viewed a venomous hag with a vicious tongue from which a stream of imprecations flowed. The only fit place for her was among the flames. Had Gerard Quilter been hanged alone, he would have been taken to the gallows at Tyburn. Since he shared the day of execution with Jane Gullet, it was decided to dispatch both of them at the same venue. It was an added humiliation for him. As a condemned murderer, Quilter was attracting enough opprobrium. Partnered with the feral old woman, he looked as if he was her confederate, an accessory to the poisoning of her husband and a willing participant in the evils of witchcraft.

As the carts trundled towards the gallows, some of the spectators were not satisfied with flinging taunts or tossing missiles. One man clambered up beside the prisoner in the first cart and tried to belabour him. Nicholas had to restrain Quilter from trying to go to his father’s assistance. It was, in any case, a futile urge. Quilter would never have barged his way through the press. Besides, his father’s attacker was quickly overpowered and hustled away. Quilter was shaking with anger.

‘Why do they goad him so?’ he asked. ‘Is he not suffering enough?’

‘Turn your head away,’ advised Nicholas.

‘From my own father? I would not do that even if they tear him to pieces with their bare hands. I want to see everything, Nick. Each remembered detail will fire my need for vengeance,’

‘Against whom?’

A second question went unanswered as a fresh roar went up. Hauled from her cart, Jane Gullet was dragged towards a pile of faggots and tied to the post that stood in the middle of them. As the crowd spat and yelled, she replied with curses and dark laughter. On the gallows nearby was a more controlled spectacle. Helped up the steps by the hangman’s assistant, Gerard Quilter was met by a chaplain who asked him to repent his crime. Nicholas did not hear the reply in the tumult but he guessed its nature by the way that the prisoner bore himself. There was no admission of guilt, no sense of final capitulation. Head held high, Gerard Quilter was a visible symbol of the innocence that he professed. His son was duly proud of him.

Nicholas did not watch the burning or the hanging. Public executions were anathema to him. They brought back unhappy memories of his time at sea, sailing with Drake on his circumnavigation of the world. Nameless cruelties had been inflicted during the voyage. Nicholas recalled only too well the occasions when he was forced to witness executions aboard the Golden Hind . Even if men were guilty of terrible crimes, he took no pleasure in the sight of their death. When a man was innocent — as he believed Gerard Quilter to be — he could not bear to look. Alone in the crowd, he averted his eyes. Others watched avidly, cheering as the noose was put around one prisoner’s neck and whipping themselves into a frenzy when the faggots were lighted beneath the other.