Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘I’ve half a mind to kill you myself,’ he said. ‘But for you, we’d never have been caught. My only regret is that the interfering milliner is not here to die with you. Say your prayers, sir, for you will never see the lady again.’

Nicholas had, however, seen someone over the man’s shoulder. He alerted Quilter with a nudge then took a step towards Sir Eliard. His voice was calm.

‘You wrong us, Sir Eliard,’ he said. ‘We have learnt from your example. We, too, have someone at our back. Here he comes.’

Sir Eliard and his men turned their heads to see an extraordinary sight. Hurtling towards them out of the bushes was a man who was executing a series of such rapid somersaults that it was impossible to separate his head from his feet. The prisoners took full advantage of the diversion. Nicholas quickly disarmed one of the men then felled him with a blow from the musket. Quilter wrestled with the other man until the weapon discharged its ball harmlessly into the air. Lightfoot, meanwhile, completed his performance with the most effective trick of all. When he reached the group, he put extra spring into a final somersault and kicked Sir Eliard full in the face, splitting open his nose and knocking him backwards. Nicholas was on the moneylender in a flash to snatch the sword from his hand and hold it to his throat. Having subdued the servant, Quilter recovered the loaded musket to point it at the moneylender. The long and destructive career of Sir Eliard Slaney was finally at an end. Dazed and bloodied, he could do nothing but groan with pain.

Lightfoot spread his arms to bask in applause that did not come.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked in disappointment. ‘Did nobody enjoy my tumbling?’

‘ I enjoyed it, Lightfoot,’ said Quilter.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘So did I. And I can promise you one thing. Sir Eliard will remember it for the rest of his days.’

Lightfoot gave his audience a mock bow.

A new play by Edmund Hoode was always an occasion of note but the premiere of The Duke of Verona gave particular cause for celebration. The fear of extinction had been lifted from Westfield’s Men, enabling a revivified Lawrence Firethorn to blossom in the title role and encouraging Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias to shine brilliantly in supporting parts. United once more with his fellows, the playwright himself caught the eye in the small but telling role of a Turkish ambassador. Another deserter had returned. Now that his father had been exonerated and given a posthumous pardon, Francis Quilter was restored to the company and acted with a new passion. The rest of the actors were unaware of how close they had come to disaster but they followed where the leading players led. Nicholas Bracewell controlled everything with unhurried ease.

The Duke of Verona might not be a masterpiece but it was a stirring drama, containing moments of high tragedy that were offset by scenes of comic genius, and touching on themes of loyalty and betrayal. The audience at the Queen’s Head was spellbound for two hours in the afternoon sun. Anne Hendrik and Preben van Loew watched in wonderment. Lightfoot was an even more delighted spectator. Avice Radley was a wistful onlooker, admiring the quality of the play yet having grave reservations about its author. But the person who enjoyed the performance most was Lord Westfield himself, resplendent in a new suit and surrounded by an entourage that was even larger and more decadent than usual. Lord Westfield was back in his element. The closing lines of the play had a special significance for him.

‘All troubles now are gone, all dangers fled,

The noble Duke with bravery has led

The fight against his foes without surcease,

To triumph as the patron saint of peace.’

Spurred on by the words in the Epilogue, he was at his most saintly and patronising when he welcomed the members of the company to a feast in a private room at the Queen’s Head. It was a rare treat for Westfield’s Men. Their patron supported his troupe from his habitual seat in the gallery but he never mingled with them, still less did he offer them a treat of any kind. They fell on the banquet with relish. As he bit into a leg of chicken, Firethorn turned to his book holder.

‘This is all your doing, Nick,’ he said gratefully.

‘Frank Quilter started it all,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Had it not been for his burning faith in his father, I would never have ventured on this business.’

‘I am glad that you did. But you must take all the credit for Edmund’s return. Your appeal not only rescued him from Mistress Radley,’ Firethorn pointed out, ‘it gave Edmund the urge to finish the new play. You saw the result this afternoon.’

‘Another success for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Our patron revels in it. And there’s more bounty yet.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, sipping his wine. ‘We actually coaxed a smile out of that ghoulish landlord. When I told him that Lord Westfield would be gracing us with his presence at a feast, Alexander Marwood all but kissed me.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Nicholas, looking along a table that was laden with delicious food and expensive drink. ‘This celebration of ours will put a lot of money into the landlord’s purse.’

‘That is the only thing that worries me, Nick.’

‘What is?’

Firethorn waved an arm. ‘How on earth can Lord Westfield pay for all of this?’

‘With ease,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our patron will borrow the money.’

They joined in the general laughter.