Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

Another spasm of pain shot through him as he realised the truthful answer to the question. The house, like everything in it, was not his at all. It had been borrowed from a friend to whom he had promised to pay a rent that never actually appeared. The servant was still hovering. Lord Westfield glared at him.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said with a token bow. ‘I’ll send Master Firethorn away.’

Interest was sparked. ‘Master Firethorn? You say that Lawrence Firethorn is here? Why did you not tell me so, man?’

‘Is he to come or go, my lord?’

‘Send him in, but warn him of my condition.’

‘I will.’

The man gave another token bow and withdrew. Lord Westfield sat up in his chair and tried to adjust his gown. When his visitor was shown in, the old man even contrived a weary smile of welcome. Firethorn practised his most obsequious bow.

‘My lord,’ he said.

‘You find me in torment, Master Firethorn.’

‘Is there anything that I may do to relieve it?’

‘Nothing, sir. If my foot does not hurt, my stomach does. When that pain abates, my head begins to split. Mostly, however, all three afflictions plague me at once.’ He peered at his visitor. ‘I am a poor host.’

‘Not at all, my lord.’

‘And an even poorer patron. Poverty-stricken, in fact.’

‘That is what I have come to discuss,’ said Firethorn.

‘Has the company been informed?’

‘Not yet, my lord. I have only confided in certain of the sharers. Tidings like that would dampen the most ardent spirits. I spared my fellows the shock.’

‘The longer it is delayed, the worse it will be.’

‘That is one way of looking at it.’

‘It is the only way, Master Firethorn.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘No more of Westfield’s Men? That’s like saying there’s to be no more fine wine or pretty ladies. A precious adornment is about to vanish and my name will vanish with it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Do you know why I wanted my own theatre company?’

‘You’ve told me many times,’ said Firethorn tactfully.

‘It can bear repetition,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to bring some harmless pleasure to the capital. I wanted Westfield’s Men to be a cipher for joyous entertainment.’

‘And so it has been, my lord.’

‘Until now. All that will go. And I’ll be quite forgotten as a patron.’

‘Never,’ said Firethorn. ‘You’ll live on forever in our hearts.’

‘Hearts, alas, cannot contrive to pay bills.’

‘They can if they are stout enough.’ Firethorn beamed. ‘Let me explain, my lord. I’m no physician but I may at least be able to medicine your mind. Your plight is not as desperate as you fear.’

‘But it is,’ croaked the old man. ‘Sir Eliard Slaney demands a settlement of all my debts within a calendar month. If he gave me a decade, I could not settle them. Not without borrowing heavily from someone else.’

‘That loan is forthcoming.’

‘How? The players could never raise such a sum.’

‘It will not have to be raised. Thus it stands.’

Firethorn gave him a summary of recent events surrounding the company. When he explained why the moneylender had turned with such venom on them, he gave his patron an insight into just how corrupt and vindictive the man was. Lord Westfield was entranced. The pain in his foot gradually eased, the ache in his stomach faded away and the pounding in his head became a gentle throb. Firethorn’s news lifted his spirits completely. He smacked his palms together in appreciation.

‘Heaven forfend! This book holder of yours is a hero.’

‘Nick Bracewell sets a high value on friendship, my lord,’ said Firethorn. ‘That is why he risked his life to help Frank Quilter in his extremity. Their efforts have been richly rewarded — and you will reap some of those rewards.’

‘Is it true? Sir Eliard Slaney put to flight?’

‘Ignominiously.’

‘What of his loans?’

‘He is in no position to call them in.’

‘This grows better and better.’

‘His papers have been confiscated by order of the Lord Chief Justice and all his dealings suspended. In short, my lord,’ continued Firethorn, rubbing his hands, ‘you are released from your debts and Westfield’s Men are reprieved from their death sentence.’

‘These are wondrous tidings,’ shouted the patron, unwisely trying to stand on his tender foot. He winced at the pain then shrugged it off. ‘Sir Eliard routed and his vile confederates jailed? I could not have wished for more.’

‘Nor I, my lord.’

‘Except, of course, the capture of the rogue himself.’

‘That will soon take place.’

‘But you told me that he had sailed out of the country.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘Nick Bracewell has gone after him,’ he said.

‘What — across the sea ?’

‘Nick is something of a sailor himself. They have hired a boat. He and Frank Quilter will not let Sir Eliard get away.’

Lady Rebecca Slaney was unrecognisable from the woman who had presided over the splendid house in Bishopsgate. Deprived of her wardrobe, separated from her collection of hats, hustled out of her home and forced to run like a fugitive, she had endured a testing voyage to France. Three lonely days on the coast had followed while they waited for a vessel to take them to their destination. The strain of it all transformed her appearance. Her attire was stained by travel, her hair dishevelled and her face lined with fatigue. No matter how much she pleaded with her husband, she was given only a partial explanation of why they had had to leave London so suddenly. When they finally secured a passage from France, she tried to question him once more. They were standing on deck as the ship scudded across a calm sea. Lady Slaney was dispirited.

‘Are we never to go back to England?’ she said with consternation.

‘It was time for us to leave, Rebecca.’

‘What of the property that we left behind?’

‘Think no more of that,’ he said. ‘It belongs to another life.’

She was desolate. ‘Have I lost everything ?’

‘Be brave, my love. We have more than enough.’ He patted the strongbox that had never left his side. ‘This will buy us contentment for the rest of our lives.’

‘But contentment comes from our position in society and we have none. A week ago, you promised me that we would be presented at Court. Yet now we are hiding like wanted felons.’

‘That’s not true, Rebecca,’ he rejoined. ‘Wait until we get to the house. It was ever your favourite of all the properties we owned.’

‘Only because we could come and go as we pleased,’ she argued. ‘This time, it seems, we come to stay with no prospect of escape.’

‘Bear with me.’

‘How can I when you will not be honest with your wife?’

‘Look,’ said Sir Eliard, pointing. ‘There is a sight to gladden your heart.’

But it failed to arouse any gladness in his jaded companion. As a rule, Lady Slaney was thrilled when she got her first glimpse of Jersey. It was a place that always inspired her. This time, however, she barely gave it a glance. Instead of gazing with pleasure at the magnificent Elizabeth Castle that dominated the bay of Saint Helier from its high eminence, she averted her eyes. The beautiful island with its mild climate and its rich soil had lost its appeal for her. Their house was no longer one of her prized possessions. It was a place of refuge. In England, they had lived in exquisite style. On Jersey, they would be in exile.

Rocks, reefs and currents made navigation difficult around the island. It seemed an age before the helmsman steered them safely into the harbour. Further humiliation awaited Lady Slaney. When she disembarked in London, a coach would be waiting to take them home. Here, because no letter of warning had been sent ahead, there was nobody to welcome them or to drive them in comfort to their house. They had to make do with a horse and cart that rattled noisily along and seemed intent on exploring the deepest potholes on the road. The passengers were bounced and bumped for almost a mile until they turned into the drive of their splendid residence. Sheltered by trees, the house was set at the heart of an estate of thirty acres. It was an imposing mansion with a superfluity of glass that made it dazzle in the sunlight. Sir Eliard emitted a laugh of relief and his wife rallied for the first time.