The Bawdy Basket (14 page)

‘You have my apology, Sir Eliard,’ he muttered.

‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Millburne.

‘Act like men,’ insisted Sir Eliard, ‘and not like terrified women. Take hold on yourself, Bevis. If one of us stumbles, he brings the rest of us down.’

Sir Eliard went to the table to pour three glasses of wine. When it was handed to him, Millburne took a long sip from his glass. His hands were shaking visibly. Paramore had regained his composure. He had more faith in his host. There had been other storms to weather in the past. They would doubtless survive this new squall. A sip of wine put more confidence into him.

‘All that we have to do is to defy this bawdy basket,’ he said airily. ‘What value will a judge place on her word when it is ranged against that of respectable citizens like Bevis and myself? Her evidence will be laughed out of court.’

‘Not if it is supported by others,’ said Sir Eliard.

‘Others?’

‘Yes, Cyril. The girl was
seen
with Gerard Quilter on the day in question. According to Adam Haygarth, she can call
on two or three who will vouch for the fact. Travellers, like herself. They’ll be here for the fair.’

Millburne was aghast. ‘Are we to be brought down by the sweepings of the streets? I’ll not endure it, Sir Eliard.’

‘You will not have to, Bevis.’

‘We may still brazen it out,’ said Paramore. ‘A dozen bawdy baskets and their kind could not discredit our evidence.’

‘The case must never come to court,’ urged Millburne. ‘Buy the creature off.’

‘That was my first instinct,’ admitted Sir Eliard, drinking his own wine. ‘But our helpful magistrate tells me that she is beyond the reach of a bribe. Moll Comfrey did not visit Adam Haygarth’s house alone. She went with Francis Quilter.’

‘The son! Then are we all damned.’

‘Be silent, Bevis.’

‘With his support, the girl is a more credible witness.’

‘We’ll not buy Quilter’s son off,’ said Paramore anxiously. ‘He’ll want the family name cleansed of its stain. There’s danger here, Sir Eliard.’

‘Grave danger. We sent an innocent man to his death and now we’ll pay for it.’

‘He was
not
innocent,’ retorted Sir Eliard, eyes blazing. ‘Gerard Quilter had the gall to cross me and no man does that with impunity. He deserved his fate and I’m proud that I contrived it. I’d do the same again. Bear that in mind,’ he warned, looking from one man to the other. ‘I’ll brook no opposition. I did not achieve my position by being kind to my enemies. I simply destroy them. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore meekly.

‘Bevis?’

Millburne nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Eliard,’ he whispered.

‘Do as I tell you and none of us need fear. One solitary person stands between us and our peace of mind. A bawdy basket called Moll Comfrey.’ He gave a sneer. ‘Are we going to let some roadside punk defeat us?’

‘No, Sir Eliard,’ said Paramore.

‘Never!’ added Millburne.

Sir Eliard gave a cold smile. ‘Then this is what must be done.’

Anne Hendrik was waiting for him when he returned to Bankside that night. Seated at the table in the parlour, she was examining some drawings she had made of new hats. She rose to give him a welcome kiss. Nicholas Bracewell squeezed her affectionately.

‘It is good to see a face that bears a smile,’ he said, ‘especially when the face happens to be yours, Anne. I saw precious few smiles at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Is the company so distressed about what happened to Gerard Quilter?’

‘What issued from it has hardly cheered them. They have lost the services of a fine actor and opinion is divided as to whether they should have him back. Frank did himself no favours by his surly behaviour towards them this evening. He pretended that his fellows were not even there.’

‘Is that what removed the smiles from their faces?’ she asked.

‘No, Anne,’ he said, sitting down. ‘They hardly noticed
that Frank was with me. It’s another departure that vexes Westfield’s Men. They fear to lose Edmund.’

‘Edmund Hoode?’

‘He has elected to go.’

‘Surely not, Nick.’

‘I did not believe it myself at first.’

‘What possible cause could make him quit the company?’

‘Her name is Mistress Avice Radley.’

‘Ah,’ she sighed, understanding the situation. ‘Of course. It had to be a woman’s hand who tries to pull him away.’

‘She may accomplish what a team of horses could not do, Anne, for they would not make him budge an inch from the Queen’s Head.’

‘Who is the lady?’

‘A wealthy widow,’ he said, ‘with enough money to support them both and sufficient greed, it seems, to want Edmund all to herself. He is besotted with her.’

‘He is always besotted with some woman or other.’

‘This one is set quite apart from the others, Anne.’

‘In what way?’

‘No stalking was involved here, no futile pursuit of his prey. Mistress Radley came to him. Edmund says that she descended out of heaven on a white cloud. You can see that he still sees her through the eyes of a poet.’

‘How long will that last?’

‘In perpetuity, he claims.’

‘His loss would be a bitter blow to the company.’

‘Crippling, Anne,’ he agreed. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is tearing out his hair.’

‘Can he not persuade Edmund to stay?’

‘I fear not. No more can I,’ he admitted, ‘though not for want of trying. I can usually reason with Edmund but he would hear none. His decision has been made. He vows that it will not be changed.’

‘Who made the decision? Edmund or Mistress Radley?’

‘He swears the compact is mutual.’

‘Then Westfield’s Man are truly under threat,’ she concluded, sitting at the table. ‘To lose an actor like Frank Quilter is handicap enough. To be deprived of the author of your best work will make you weak indeed. Your rivals will prosper at your expense.’

‘That is what the company fears. It has touched them all. Even Barnaby Gill has been forced to acknowledge how important Edmund is to our success.’ His eye twinkled. ‘You can imagine his derision when he learnt that a woman was the cause of it all.’

Anne smiled. ‘At least Barnaby will not be led astray by a wealthy widow.’

‘He lives for the theatre, Anne. So, I believed, did Edmund.’

‘Is this Mistress Radley such a paragon of virtues that she can lure him away?’

‘None of us have met the lady.’

‘Someone should do so,’ she advised. ‘On the company’s behalf, I mean. You are the man for that task, Nick. Edmund may be impervious to reason but his inamorata may not be. Why not approach her direct?’

‘That would be unfair to him.’

‘Seek his permission first.’

‘He is unlikely to grant it,’ said Nicholas. ‘This lady is like no other whom Edmund has met. He is shielding her from us.’ He grinned. ‘Lawrence Firethorn cannot understand why she did not pick out him instead.’

‘His vanity knows no bounds.’ She gathered up the drawings. ‘But how did you find Frank Quilter this evening? Is he still weighed down with grief?’

‘He was heartened by what we learnt today.’

‘So he should be, Nick. This young peddler whom you met has the power to proclaim his father’s innocence. Even though her occupation does embarrass Frank.’

‘Moll Comfrey did not choose her occupation.’

‘Where is the girl now?’

‘She stays at Smithfield in the booth of some friends.’

‘What happens when the fair breaks up?’

‘That is where we encounter trouble,’ he confessed. ‘Justice Haygarth insisted that she stay in London until she is called to give her evidence in open court. That may take time. I hope to use my position at the Queen’s Head to find her a bed there.’

‘Would she be safe at an inn like that, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘If I was there to keep an eye on her.’

‘We could both do that, if Moll Comfrey chose to come here instead.’

‘Here?’

‘There’s room in the attic for her and her basket,’ she said. ‘It is important that she remains in London, you say. Why did you not invite her to Bankside?’

‘Without your permission, I did not feel able to do so.’

‘Well, now you have it.’

‘Thank you, Anne,’ he said, getting up to kiss her. ‘I am most grateful. It is the best solution of all. You will like Moll. She is a charming girl.’

‘Yet her charms do not seem to work on Frank Quilter.’

‘He will come to like her in the end. Moll Comfrey is his saviour.’

Smithfield was still alive as midnight approached. Hundreds of people had now arrived in readiness for the fair. Booths, tents, and stalls had been set up in favoured positions. Those who would sell, perform or otherwise seek payment at Bartholomew Fair were united in common fellowship. Old friends met up to exchange news and gossip. Whole families sat out in the warm night air to speculate on what weather they might expect for the fair and what effect it would have on the crowds. Fires had been lit to cook food and dozens still sat around them to talk, argue, complain, reminisce or simply stare into the embers. The lights of the city might be going out but the sturdier souls at Smithfield needed less sleep. It would be hours before the heavy murmur of conversation died away.

Moll Comfrey was oblivious to it all. While her hosts were still out under the stars, she had long since crept into their booth and found the corner allocated to her. She lay on a piece of sacking on the bare earth, curled up beside her basket. Fatigue had taken her to the booth but heartache prevented her from falling asleep. Her mind was filled too
vividly with shifting images of Gerard Quilter, a man she had come to love as much as anyone in the world. The meeting with his son had been both salutary and upsetting. Francis Quilter looked so much like his father that he revived fond memories of her time with the older man, while simultaneously reminding her of his dreadful fate. The son had the same features, the same voice, the same gestures and the same way of holding his head at a slight angle. Francis Quilter also had the same integrity, the same fundamental decency and consideration for others that would never allow him to stoop to murder. His father had been the victim of false witnesses. Moll was dedicated to the notion of clearing his name. Her hand tightened around a small gift that the older man had once given her. Its aroma always helped to sweeten her sleep.

When exhaustion finally got the better of her grief, she dozed off but she did not desert her dearest friend. He followed her into her dream, walking beside a river with her, talking with her, showing his concern and affection, offering her money to help her through any difficult times ahead. Time spent with Gerard Quilter was a haven of peace in an otherwise fraught existence. When they arranged to meet at Bartholomew Fair, she was delighted. The thought that she would soon see him again would steady her through any troubles she might encounter. As they parted beside the river, he kissed her gently on the forehead, pressed some money into her palm then vanished from her sight.

He returned to her almost at once but the scene had changed. Bartholomew Fair was at its height, turning
Smithfield into a cauldron of noise and merriment. Lightfoot was turning his somersaults, a performing dog was prancing on its back legs, a man was swallowing fire, a champion wrestler was taking on all-comers. Enormous crowds were swirling around the booths. Moll was selling her wares when she saw her friend emerging out of the crowd. Quilter gave her a cordial welcome. Buying some ribbons from her, he tied them neatly in her hair. She felt elated and danced around with joy. Then he suddenly disappeared again and she could not find him. Moll was desolate. She ran wildly here and there, searching with increasing desperation, until she bumped hard into a gallows and looked up to see Gerard Quilter’s body dangling above her.

It brought her awake with a silent cry. Before she could even realise where she was, she saw a figure moving towards her in the gloom. Had her friend come back for her, after all? Had he escaped the cruel death she had seen in her dream? Was he there to take her away from the hardship of her life? Longing to be reunited with Gerard Quilter, she sat up with open arms to beckon him forward. Her wish was granted.

Moll Comfrey soon joined her friend in an untimely grave.

Lawrence Firethorn had more reason than any actor in the company to be grateful for the talents of Edmund Hoode. The playwright had furnished him with most of his finest roles. The imperious Pompey the Great and the courageous Henry V were recreated magnificently from life, but the heroes of
The Loyal Subject, Death and Darkness, The Corrupt Bargain
and a dozen other plays sprang up like vigorous new shoots from Hoode’s fertile brain. The dramatist was equally at home with history, comedy or tragedy, allowing the actor-manager to exhibit the full range of his incomparable abilities. Even when Hoode was merely a co-author of a piece – as with
The Merry Devils
or
The Insatiate Duke
– his contribution was distinctive. When he thought of the countless old plays by other hands that Hoode had repaired or substantially improved, Firethorn was reminded how valuable a member of Westfield’s Men
his friend really was. Given his abilities, the playwright was remarkably self-effacing. There were occasions, it was true, when he wrote eye-catching parts specifically for himself to play but that was a permissible indulgence. In his own way, Firethorn came to see, Edmund Hoode would be an even more terrible loss than Nicholas Bracewell.

A desperate situation called for desperate measures. With that in mind, Firethorn arose even earlier than usual and ate a hasty breakfast before either his children or the apprentices had even been turned out of bed by a clamorous summons from his wife. Margery gave him a kiss before he took his leave.

‘Tell him from me that he must never desert Westfield’s Men,’ she said.

‘I do not intend to speak to Edmund as yet, my love.’

‘Then why set off so early for his lodging?’

‘To watch and wait,’ replied Firethorn.

‘For what?’

‘Guidance.’

‘You must surely speak with him to get that.’

‘He will not even know that I am there.’

‘Then why bother to go?’

‘I am acting on instinct.’

‘How will that help to keep a renegade playwright in the company?’

‘You will see, Margery.’

‘Give him time and he may come to his senses.’

Firethorn was bitter. ‘We do not
have
time,’ he said. ‘The longer we delay, the more firmly this witch will have
Edmund under her spell. It must be broken soon.’

‘How, Lawrence?’

‘That is what I am going to find out.’

‘Why not take Nicholas with you?’

‘He has tried and failed. Diplomacy has made no ground at all. Rougher methods must be called into play. Nick is not the man to employ them.’ He embraced her warmly. ‘I must away, my love.’

Margery was puzzled. ‘Rougher methods?’

‘Farewell.’

He was soon riding out of Shoreditch at a steady canter, vowing to use whatever means it took to retain Hoode’s services for Westfield’s Men. Unlike his book holder, he was completely unscrupulous and would devote all his energies to the removal of Avice Radley from the playwright’s life. Before he could achieve that end, he needed to know more about the lady who threatened to undermine the stability of the company that he led so proudly. In order to do that, he required unwitting assistance from Hoode. When he entered the city through Bishopsgate, he turned his horse in the direction of his friend’s lodging, clattering along thoroughfares that had been baked hard by the hot summer. London was already wide awake, streets crowded, markets teeming with customers, but Hoode would not rise until it was time to leave for the morning’s rehearsal at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn reached the house, saw that the shutters on his window were still locked, and dismounted. He had timed his arrival well. A narrow lane, some thirty yards away, provided an ideal hiding place from which to watch the house.

Edmund Hoode was a creature of habit. Whenever he was in love – a not uncommon situation for someone so full of random affection – he would spend half the night sighing outside his lady’s bedchamber, then return in the morning to blow a kiss up to her window on his way to Gracechurch Street. It had happened so many times before that a pattern had been established. All that Firethorn had to do was to follow. It irked him that he had been kept in the dark about Avice Radley. Hoode had divulged nothing about her apart from her name and her determination to rescue him from the squalor of London and the precariousness of his profession so that they could live together in rural bliss. He had been very careful to give no indication of where she lived and, in spite of Nicholas Bracewell’s efforts at persuasion, had fled so swiftly after the performance of
Love’s Sacrifice
that nobody had been able to see where he went. Firethorn was taking a first important step in the campaign against Avice Radley.

‘Know thy enemy,’ he said to himself. ‘Track her to her lair.’

Firethorn did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after he took up his position, he saw Hoode’s face appear at the open window as the shutters were flung back. Smiling happily, the playwright inhaled the fetid air of the city as if it were the scent from a flower garden. He soon descended to the ground floor to let himself out of the house and saunter along the road. Firethorn led his horse by the rein in the wake of his friend. He had no fears that Hoode would turn round to see him. The man had eyes for no
one but his beloved and it was an image of her that floated entrancingly before him. It was clear from the start that he was taking no direct route to the Queen’s Head. After snaking his way through a warren of back streets, Hoode came out into a wide road with a ribbon of houses along both sides. Firethorn trailed him until he stopped outside one of the largest dwellings and gazed up.

‘Good morning, Avice,’ said Hoode, blowing a kiss.

His arrival was not unexpected. At the very moment when he made his gesture of affection, shutters opened in the bedchamber at the front of the house and Avice Radley appeared in a long blue gown. Beaming graciously, she waved a greeting to Hoode that made him tremble with ecstasy. It was minutes before he could drag himself away to fulfil his obligations at the Queen’s Head. Firethorn did not immediately pursue him. Even after the woman had withdrawn, he stared up at the window in disbelief. Avice Radley had a statuesque beauty that took him quite by surprise. She was a woman of noble mien allied to considerable physical charms. She embodied all the qualities he found most attractive in the female sex, her widowhood suggesting an experience that tempted him even more. Firethorn no longer wondered how Avice Radley had ensnared his playwright. It was an upsurge of envy that now filled his breast.

‘Why choose Edmund,’ he murmured, ‘when you could be
mine
?’

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive at the Queen’s Head. By the time that Thomas Skillen and George Dart
rolled into the inn yard, the book holder had enquired after the landlord’s health, conversed affably with Sybil Marwood, swept some horse dung from the inn yard, wheeled out the barrels on which the stage was to be set and unlocked the room where they stored their scenery and properties. Westfield’s Men performed six days a week, their location within the city making it impossible for them to stage plays on Sunday because of an edict against such a practice. No such legal technicality hindered the two Shoreditch playhouses, the Theatre and the Curtain, nor the popular Rose in Bankside, all three being outside City jurisdiction. While their rivals at the Queen’s Head were forced to rest on the Sabbath, they could present their work to large audiences. Few plays had more than occasional consecutive performances at any of the London playhouses. Variety of fare was required and it was not unusual for Westfield’s Men to offer six entirely different dramas in a week. If high standards were to be maintained, daily rehearsals took on especial importance.

George Dart was still only half-awake when he trotted up to Nicholas.

‘What do we play today?’ he asked.

‘You should know that, George.’

‘I think it is
Love’s Sacrifice
.’

‘That was yesterday’s offering,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then it must be
Black
Antonio
.’

‘Not until tomorrow.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Dart, rubbing his eyes. ‘My brain is addled today.’

‘It is always addled,’ complained Skillen, cuffing him around the ear. ‘Get more sleep, lad. I’ll not have you confusing one play with another. Today, we rehearse a bright comedy for a bright afternoon.
Cupid’s Folly
will be seen here.’

Dart grinned. ‘I like the play. It makes me laugh so.’

‘Then you’ll know what scenery we need,’ said Nicholas.

‘Every last piece.’

‘Fetch it, George.’ Dart ran off and Nicholas turned to the old man. ‘You are too hard on him, Thomas. A word of praise would not come amiss.’

‘Let him deserve it first,’ said Skillen.

‘He held the book well in my place, remember. Did you commend him for it?’

Skillen chuckled. ‘In a way, Nick. I did not box his ears for the whole afternoon. That’s the highest praise I can offer to George Dart. To spare him punishment.’

The actors were beginning to drift in. Most of them were on foot but a few, such as Barnaby Gill, wearing one of his most lurid suits, were mounted. Nicholas noted the general lack of enthusiasm among the troupe. Owen Elias was sullen, James Ingram was dejected and Rowland Carr looked as if he was overcome with a secret sorrow. Even Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most able of the apprentices, a boy whose angelic features were almost invariably touched with a smile, seemed jaded. The person who had caused the pervading gloom was blithely unaware of the effect he was having on the others. Grinning broadly, Edmund Hoode bounded up to scatter greetings to all
and sundry. He was met with cold stares and muttered resentment. Nicholas alone gave him a warm welcome.

‘Have you had time to reflect on what I said, Edmund?’

‘When?’ asked Hoode.

‘Yesterday. After the performance, we had a brief talk.’

‘Did we?’

‘It made little impact if you cannot even recall it,’ said Nicholas resignedly, ‘so my question answers itself. You have not given any thought to my argument.’

‘I did, Nick, but only to dismiss it once again.’

‘Can no appeal reach you?’

‘Not while I tread in Elysium.’

‘It is not in your character to be so indifferent to your fellows.’

‘I am not indifferent,’ said Hoode, distributing a smile around the others. ‘I love them all dearly but I am the happy prisoner of a greater love that has determined my whole future. Share my joy, Nick. Wish me well in my marriage.’

‘I’ll be the first to do so,’ promised Nicholas. ‘You will be a dutiful husband. But I am sorry that you have to divorce twenty people in order to wed one. Is there no means by which we may all keep our mutual vows?’

‘None, I fear. The die is cast.’

‘We’ll talk further, Edmund.’

‘To no avail.’

Hoode went off to speak to Barnaby Gill, who was even more morose than usual. Nicholas was left to supervise the construction of the stage and the disposition of the scenery for the beginning of
Cupid’s Folly.
Nathan Curtis, the
carpenter, was standing by in case his skills were needed to make a few repairs. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, was bringing the costumes out. Peter Digby and the other musicians were tuning their instruments in readiness. Every member of Westfield’s Men was there except its leader. When he finally made his entrance, Lawrence Firethorn was in no mood for delay. Something had put new spirit into him. Cantering into the yard, he reined in his horse, leapt down from the saddle, tossed the reins to George Dart and glared around at his discontented company.

‘Wherefore this Stygian gloom?’ he yelled. ‘Anybody would think that the landlord had recovered from his illness. We’ve work to do, my friends. Let’s about it straight. Come lads,’ he exhorted. ‘Strong hearts and honest endeavour are all that’s needed here. Show me what you can do.’

Firethorn’s vitality helped to lift the company out of its melancholy. Nicholas admired the way that he moved among them, soothing, encouraging and setting a positive example for the others to follow. Smiles reappeared and friendly badinage started once more. Firethorn was leading from the front. When the rehearsal began, he did not hold back in his customary way to save his full power for the audience that afternoon. Showing all his comic gifts, he committed himself totally to the play and released the deeper chords in
Cupid’s Folly
as well as its abiding humour. Everyone responded to his call. Barnaby Gill was supreme, dancing and clowning his way through the piece with effortless skill. Owen Elias, too, seemed to have been reborn as an actor, matching Firethorn himself for sheer volume and comic
intensity. James Ingram’s was another inspired performance and the apprentices brought a new sharpness to the female characters. Instead of dominating the play, Edmund Hoode was all but rendered invisible by the display around him. It was almost as if the company was getting its revenge on its disloyal playwright, consigning him to insignificance in a play whose title was an appropriate comment on his latest romance.

At the end of the rehearsal, the company dispersed in search of refreshment. Firethorn waited until Hoode had departed before he drifted across to Nicholas. The actor-manager grinned broadly and stroked his beard.

‘Our troubles may be over, Nick,’ he said.

‘You can convince Edmund to stay with us?’

‘I prefer to work on the lady herself.’

‘Mistress Radley?’

‘She holds our lovesick author in thrall. Persuade her and we free Edmund.’

‘Tread with care,’ advised Nicholas.

‘This romance throws us all into jeopardy. I’ll nip it in the bud.’

‘That may prove a hard task.’

‘Trust me, Nick,’ said Firethorn confidently. ‘I have a plan.’

Without elaborating on his scheme, Firethorn went off to join the others for a light meal before the performance that afternoon. Nicholas was mystified, wondering what had transformed the actor-manager’s mood. After giving some last orders to Skillen and Dart, he moved off to take a
short break himself. Before he could enter the inn, however, he was confronted by a curious figure in colourful attire. The newcomer’s face was lined with grief. Over his arm, he was carrying a large basket, filled to the brim with wares that Nicholas felt he recognised.