Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘Of course, Master Hoode,’ she said penitently. ‘Forgive me, sir, I beg you.’

Backing out of the room, she closed the door behind her as silently as she could. He was sorry that he had had to chide her but The Duke of Verona had prior claims. Tossing the letter aside, he bent over his table once more, intending to resume at the point where he had stopped. But the spell had been broken. Instead of streaming from his pen, words came out haltingly. They lacked fluency and bite. Soaring poetry was now reduced to dull prose. Witty repartee was replaced by stale humour.

Hoode was too kind a man to blame it solely on his landlady. She had only done what the messenger had requested and the letter might, after all, be important. As long as it lay unopened, it would be an irritating distraction, something that lay at the back of his mind to impede his creative endeavour. Once read, it could be cast aside. Hoode picked it up, glanced at the seal then inhaled the bewitching aroma of perfume that rose from the letter. When he opened it out, he found himself looking at neat calligraphy. The contents were startling. His eyes widened in surprise as he read the missive. It brought him to the verge of a blush. A beatific smile settled on his face. When he read it through for the second time, his heart began to beat audibly. Hoode let out an involuntary laugh. The third reading was slower and more indulgent, giving him time to relish the honeyed phrases.

He reached for his pen but it was not to continue work on the play. He was drafting a reply to the letter. The Duke of Verona was completely forgotten now.

Anne Hendrik knew him well enough to be able to gauge his moods with some precision. When he fell silent for long periods, she sensed that Nicholas Bracewell was nursing a private sorrow. If he broke that silence with inconsequential chatter, she realised that he was grieving on behalf of someone else. She had learnt from experience not to probe for details. Nicholas would only yield them up when he was ready to do so. Over a frugal breakfast at her house in Bankside, he talked intermittently about the weather, the rising cost of crossing the Thames by boat and the approach of Bartholomew Fair. She decided that he was introducing trivial subjects as a prelude to more serious conversation. Anne bided her time. The attractive widow of a Dutch hatmaker, she now ran the business, in the adjoining premises, that Jacob Hendrik had started when he first came to London as an exile. In the early days, she had taken in a lodger to defray her expenses and found in Nicholas Bracewell the soundest investment she had ever made. Their friendship had matured into something as close as marriage without any of the legal complications or drawbacks associated with holy matrimony. Mutual love and understanding made for a deep but unspoken commitment.

Nicholas finished his meal and pushed his platter away. He sought for the words to explain his behaviour in recent days. Anne waited patiently.

‘I feel that I owe you an apology,’ he said at length.

‘Why?’

‘My manner has been somewhat abstracted.’

‘So has mine, Nick,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I have been so immersed in my work of late that I have been less attentive to you. If an apology is called for, it should surely come from me.’

‘No, Anne. Mine is the graver fault.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Hear me out,’ he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand. ‘Something has been troubling me but I have been unable to confide in you because I was sworn to secrecy. The events of this afternoon absolve me of that oath.’

‘This afternoon? Westfield’s Men perform Mirth and Madness , do they not?’

‘Indeed, they do — but I will not be at the Queen’s Head to help them.’

Anne was astonished. ‘Where will you be?’

‘At a more tragic performance. No mirth of any kind is involved, though there is a degree of judicial madness. I’ll be at Smithfield to witness a public execution.’

‘An execution? What could possibly take you there?’

‘Loyalty to a friend. I go but to lend support to poor Frank Quilter.’

‘But he should be acting onstage in Gracechurch Street.’

‘Not when his father plays the title role in Smithfield.’

She was horrified. ‘His father is to be executed ? For what crime?’

‘That of murder,’ he replied solemnly, ‘though Frank is convinced of his innocence. He believes that his father has been falsely accused. Having heard the evidence, I am inclined to take the same view.’

‘Who was the victim?’

‘A man called Vincent Webbe. He and Frank’s father, Gerard Quilter, were old and bitter enemies, it seems. At a chance encounter, their tempers got the better of their common sense and a brawl resulted. Gerard Quilter confesses as much. What he denies is that he killed Vincent Webbe during that brawl. His defence is simple. The victim was stabbed to death yet Gerard Quilter carried no weapon about him.’

‘How, then, was he convicted?’

‘On the word of two men who claim to have witnessed the brawl.’

‘Did they see Master Quilter wield a dagger?’

‘So they avouch.’

‘What manner of man is Frank’s father?’

‘I’ve never met him, Anne,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but if he is anything like his son, I take him to be honest and industrious. Gerard Quilter was a mercer in the city before he retired to the country. That argues wealth and position. Why throw it all away with the thrust of a dagger?’

‘Yet he does concede that he took part in the brawl?’

‘Only to protect himself. It was Vincent Webbe who struck first.’

Anne now understood. Nicholas took the responsibilities of friendship seriously and there was a double obligation in this case. Frank Quilter and he were fellows in the same company, bound together by professional ties. In helping the young actor through the ordeal of the execution, Nicholas was providing the moral support that he would have offered to any member of Westfield’s Men.

‘How will they cope without you, Nick?’ she asked.

‘Indifferently, I hope,’ he said with a grin, ‘for then they will know my true worth.’ His face clouded. ‘But it’s no time for levity. The company will manage because they have done so before. Necessity is a wise teacher. Lawrence Firethorn was not happy to release either of us. He only did so because Mirth and Madness is a play we have staged so often that it is proof against any disaster — even with George Dart holding the book in my stead.’

‘George Dart? I spy danger there.’

‘Give the lad his due, Anne. It is only when he ventures onstage that George is a menace. Behind the scenes, he is keen and conscientious. He’ll not let us down.’

‘What of Frank Quilter?’

‘Ask me when this afternoon’s trial is over.’

‘Would it not be better for him to avoid the distress by staying away?’

‘I suggested that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he felt that it would be a betrayal of his father. Frank believes that there ought to be one person in the crowd who is aware of the condemned man’s innocence.’

‘Two, if you include yourself.’

‘I do, Anne. I am not merely aiding a friend at a time of crisis. My thoughts are with Westfield’s Men. Frank Quilter is a brilliant young actor. We need his talent to shine for us, and it will not do that if he is fretting about his father. That’s my embassy,’ he explained. ‘To take him back to the company in the right state of mind. It’s a most difficult assignment and I’m not sure that I shall succeed.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘If anyone can succeed, Nick, you can.’