Gillian Bagwell - The Darling Strumpet

“Let’s go,” she pleaded. They threaded their way out of the seething mob. Nell fought down a rising sense of panic, and by the time they reached the edge of the crowd, her breath was coming in ragged gulps and her heart was pounding.

She sank to the ground and hugged her knees to her chest, trying to stop her shivering. Rose squatted and peered at her.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Nell gasped. “I don’t want to see it. I’m afraid. Do you mind?”

“No,” Rose shrugged. “I’ve no great desire to watch anyone being butchered.”

There was a roar from the crowd. The condemned men must be arriving. It would begin soon. Nell struggled to her feet.

“Let’s get away now.”

MADAM ROSS’S ESTABLISHMENT WAS FULL TO BURSTING THAT EVENING, and Nell had her first taste of the phenomenon of men who have felt the brush of violent death wanting to deaden the resultant chill by immersing themselves in warm flesh. The men she took to her bed that night were sodden with drink and unusually somber, brutal, or even tearful. All wanted to erase the sights and sounds of the day and to remind themselves that they still lived and breathed.

Jimmy Cade and some of his officer friends came late in the evening, and after he had spent he lay with Nell, stroking her hair and face with unwonted tenderness.

“It had to be done,” he said. “There must be severe punishment for a crime as foul as the murder of a king. But it’s not a spectacle I’d want to see again. You can’t help but feel the blade in your own gut as you watch it going into the poor bastards, imagine your own innards being wound out before your eyes, seeing your own blood sluicing over the scaffold.”

“Horrible.” Nell shuddered.

“And somehow it seemed to me that even worse than the pain was the loneliness.”

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, it was the look in Harrison’s eyes.” Cade paused, remembering. “In the middle of a crowd that stretched as far as you could see. But not a friendly face among them. Voices shouting for his death, the slower the better. And he knew what he was in for. It seemed he tried not to cry out, not to give them the satisfaction.”

“But did he cry out?” Nell asked.

“Oh, yes,” Cade said. “The fires of hell would have been a mercy after that death.”

Two more regicides were put to death a day or two later, and another ten within the next few days. The savagery of the executions seemed to have unleashed a wild mood in London.

“Death to all traitors,” Nell heard Jack snarl to one of his cronies. “Too bad they didn’t keep them another fortnight and do them on the Fifth of November.” The other man cackled his agreement.

The next afternoon Nell sat with Ned the barman and Harry Killigrew. It was too early for much business, and though it was freezing cold outside, the taproom was cozy, the flames in the fireplace chasing away the shadows in the corners and reflecting in the dark panes of the windows.

“What’s the Fifth of November?” Nell asked Ned.

“Why, it’s Guy Fawkes Day,” he said. “Sure you’ve heard of him? A Papist. Tried to blow up King James and all the lords in the House of Parliament, he did. When was it, Harry?”

“Sixteen hundred and five,” Harry said. “But they discovered the plot. ‘Fawkes at midnight, and by torchlight there was found,’” he quoted. “ ‘With long matches and devices, underground.’ ”

“So the king and all were saved,” Ned continued, “and Fawkes and the others that had intrigued with him were put to death. It used to be kept as a great holiday, but then you’re too young to remember that. In the old days, it was a right party. A great rout of people in the streets, fireworks everywhere. And of course we young ’uns would always build a Guy to burn.”

“But not before we got our penny,” Harry chimed in. Ned laughed at Nell’s blank expression.

“The Guy was a dummy, do you see, meant to be like Guy Fawkes. We would parade it through the streets, crying out ‘A penny for the Guy!’ And then the Guy would be put into a bonfire. Fires all over London, there were, in them days.”

“I’ll warrant there’ll be a Guy or two this year again,” Harry said.

HARRY WAS RIGHT, AND ON THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER BONFIRES LIT the night sky and Guys of wood and straw and cloth blazed at the center of baying crowds. It was a busy night in Lewkenor’s Lane, and Harry swaggered into the taproom in company with several other young men, whooping and in high spirits.

“We’ve done it!” he crowed to the room. “We put the final nail in old Nol Cromwell’s coffin tonight!”

“Aye,” laughed one of his mates. “We’ve just given a show at the old Red Bull, with the blessing of the king himself! The theater is back again, and no mistaking.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a better day for it than Bonfire Night!” Ned called from behind the bar. “Death to killjoys and traitors, and up with merriment!”

Cheers greeted this remark, and the lads were welcomed with slaps on the back and drink all around as they drew up stools and benches around a table. Their jubilation was contagious, and Nell worked her way through the admiring crowd that gathered around Harry and his crew. Rose and Jane had joined them, and Rose made room for Nell on the bench next to her.

“Here’s to the King’s Men!” Harry raised his tankard and all joined in the toast.

One of the company, a hulking man in his thirties with one squinted eye somewhat lower and larger than the other, who might have looked threatening were it not for the grin that split his face, banged his fist on the table for quiet.

“Here’s to His Majesty, who brought us back. And may tonight be the first of many shows to come!” Voices joined in from all over the room. “To His Majesty!”

Ned fought his way through the crowd and set a great jug of ale on the table before the squint-eyed man.

“Walter Clun!” he cried. “I saw you play at the old Blackfriars when I was but a boy. I remember it still-I laughed ’til I came near to piss myself.”

“Aye, that’s me,” Clun chortled. “Not a dry seat in the house.”

“Wat!” Harry called across the table to him. “Where are the others? I thought Charlie Hart was coming?”

Wat Clun threw up his hands and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Now there you have me, lad. I told Charlie not to be such a stick-in-the-mud, and to shepherd the old men here on this our night of triumph. But will he now? That is the question!”

“And here’s me all this time thinking the question was ‘To be or not to be’!”

The voice boomed from the door, and Wat surged to his feet, roaring with laughter.

“Charlie! My own true heart! You’ve come after all!”

The dark-haired newcomer enveloped Wat in a bear hug and kissed him loudly on both cheeks.

“Aye, I’ve come, and the other old men with me!”

Hart was indeed accompanied by several men who were noticeably grayer than the lads at the table, but there was nothing old about him, Nell thought. He was about thirty, tall and well built, and the grace and energy with which he moved made her think of the rope dancer she had seen at Bartholomew Fair. His dark eyes shone with happiness as he returned cries of greeting from all sides.

“Who’s that?” Nell whispered to Rose and Jane.

“Charles Hart,” Rose answered. “He’s Mr. Killigrew’s leading actor. Mighty fine, isn’t he?”

“Fine as a fivepence,” Nell agreed.

Tables, stools, and benches were shuffled until all the actors were seated. Nell noticed that the younger men made way for the older, their deference tinged with admiration and affection. Wat Clun turned to Hart.