The Bawdy Basket (28 page)

‘What will you do, Nick?’

‘Look for some other means to achieve my end.’

‘Sir Eliard so rarely leaves his house,’ she said anxiously. ‘His wife tells me that he spends every day in his counting house, working to increase his wealth and extend his power. Master Paramore is often there with him.’

‘We must find some other way to lure them out.’

‘That still leaves the problem of how you gain entry.’

‘I was hoping that you might be able to help me there, Anne.’

‘Me?’

‘Who better?’ he said. ‘You’ve been to the house a number of times. And though your dealings were with Lady Slaney, you must have seen the other occupants of the house. How many servants do they keep?’

‘Six. Two men and four women.’

‘One of those men must drive Sir Eliard’s coach. Get
his master out of the house, and we lose him as well. That means we only have one man to contend with.’

‘He is the cook and stays in the kitchen.’

‘That’s cheering news. How much of the house have you seen?’

‘The better part of it, Nick,’ she said. ‘Lady Slaney could not resist showing it off to me. I have even been into their bedchamber.’

‘What about the counting house?’

‘That has always been closed to me.’

‘But you know exactly where it is?’

‘Yes, it is upstairs.’

‘Could you draw me a plan of the house?’ he asked. ‘I know how deftly you hold a pen while you design a hat for your customers. Will you put it to some other use?’

‘Gladly, if it will help.’

‘It may be our salvation.’

‘Before I do so, Nick, there is something that you should know.’

‘Go on.’

‘Sir Eliard is a cautious man,’ she explained. ‘Having made so much money, he makes sure that he keeps it. Whenever he is away from his counting house, the room is kept locked. Lady Slaney made a point of telling me that.’

‘I expected no less, Anne. It is a problem but we’ll surmount it somehow.’

She was about to move off. ‘I’ll fetch pen and paper.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, rising to kiss her. ‘Edmund might
let me down but you are always there to offer support. Would that he had your constancy!’

‘Is there no hope that he may change his mind?’

‘None, alas.’

‘Petition him when he is alone, Nick.’

‘That will not serve our turn,’ he said. ‘Edmund is never on his own. Even when he is apart from her, Mistress Radley occupies his mind. She has given her orders and he has obeyed them. There’s no more to be said. Edmund, alas, is gone.’

Crouched over the table in his lodging, Edmund Hoode worked by the light of a candle. Though it was well past midnight, he was determined not to give up until he had written another sonnet to Avice Radley. It would be filled with love and tinged with contrition, fourteen closely-woven lines that embodied everything he felt about her and regretted the upset he had caused by offering to go to the aid of Westfield’s Men. He told himself that she was right. If a break with his past had to be made, it should be complete. Hoode had worn himself out in the service of the company. It was unfair of them to expect any more from him. As he read through the halting lines on the page, he knew that this was the direction in which he would turn his talents. Mellifluous poetry was of more account than the verse drama that he habitually produced. A sonnet to Avice Radley was worth more than a five-act play that appealed to more vulgar palates.

Yet his brain deceived him. Knowing full well what he
wanted to say, he could not find the words that expressed his desire nor the rhymes and rhythms that gave the poem its shape. Six pages, covered in abandoned attempts, had already been cast aside. When he scanned the seventh, it too failed to inspire him. The sonnet was dull and insipid. Instead of praising his beloved, it demeaned her with its blatant inadequacy. Tossing the parchment aside, he found a fresh piece so that he could start anew, intending to celebrate his love in high-flown language that would melt her heart. But something else appeared on the blank page before him. It was the face of Nicholas Bracewell, hurt, sad and uncomprehending. Behind him were the others with whom he had shared such joy and success in the past. Lawrence Firethorn looked deeply wounded, Barnaby Gill was overcome with grief, Owen Elias was pulsing with anger, James Ingram was puzzled and all the other members of Westfield’s Men – down to the hapless George Dart – wore expressions that ranged from fury to utter astonishment.

Hoode had betrayed them in the most signal way. It was one thing to resign his place in the company. To walk away when he was in a position to secure their continued existence was quite another. Avice Radley might admire from the gallery what she had seen of Westfield’s Men but she knew nothing of the inner working of a theatre company. During the rehearsal and performance of a play, hearts were bonded and minds were linked in perpetuity. The playhouse bred a comradeship that was unlike any other. A week earlier, he would have died for men like
Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn, knowing that they would willingly have made the supreme sacrifice for him. Yet he could not even bring himself to make a few changes to a play that might never have been finished had it not been for the help of the book holder. Hoode writhed with guilt.

When his thoughts turned to Avice Radley again, the remorse faded. In pursuit of her, he believed, everything was permissible. A new and better life beckoned. The sooner he shuffled off the old one, the better. He decided to say as much in the opening line of the sonnet. Dipping his quill into the ink, he wrote the first thing that sprang to mind then paused to admire it. Hoode could not believe his eyes. Having thought of nothing but his beloved, he had somehow committed to paper four words that had no bearing on her.

The Merchant of Calais.

‘This must be some mistake Cyril,’ he said angrily. ‘They would not dare to attack me.’

‘I heard it voiced abroad this very morning, Sir Eliard.’

‘There is to be a satire on
me
?’

‘Westfield’s Men are striking back at you.’

‘I’ll take out an action for seditious libel.’

‘You may still be held up to ridicule,’ said Cyril Paramore. ‘Laughter is a cruel weapon. It leaves wounds that last a long time.’

Paramore called at the house in Bishopsgate to report what he had heard. He found his master in his counting
house, estimating how much he had gained from his latest seizure of property. The smile of satisfaction was soon rubbed from Sir Eliard’s face. He smacked the table with a palm.

‘This must be stopped!’

‘On what grounds, Sir Eliard?’

‘The ones that you have just given me. I am to be held up for mockery.’

‘So it is rumoured,’ said Paramore, ‘but we have no proof.’

‘Go to the Queen’s Head and secure it. Then we’ll prevent this scurrilous play from ever being presented.’

‘But it is not scurrilous, Sir Eliard.
The Merchant of Calais
has been licensed by the Master of the Revels and performed with success before. I have seen the piece and could recommend it warmly.’

Sir Eliard glared at him. ‘You’d recommend a play that attacks your employer?’

‘No, no. That is not what I said.’

‘Then what do you say?’

‘We can only be sure that libel takes place if we see the performance tomorrow.’

‘Am I to sit there and suffer the gibes of the audience?’

‘Send me on your behalf, Sir Eliard.’

‘But you have already seen the play.’

‘I am given to understand that parts of it have been rewritten,’ said Paramore, ‘so there will be enough novelty to retain my interest.’

‘Is that all this defamation of me will do?’ asked Sir
Eliard, eyes aflame. ‘Retain your interest? You should be as outraged as I. Nobody works as closely with me as you, Cyril. An assault on my reputation is an assault on you as well.’

‘I know that, Sir Eliard. And I apologise.’

‘Tell me about this play.’

‘It concerns an English merchant, late of Calais.’

‘Is there a moneylender in the story?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Paramore, searching his memory. ‘I believe there is but his part in the action is quite small. He is a villainous Frenchman.’

‘Is this the character who will counterfeit me?’

Paramore shrugged. ‘There is only one way to find out, Sir Eliard. Shall I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow? I’ll give you a full account of what happens.’

Sir Eliard Slaney pondered, his ire mingling with a strange curiosity.

‘We’ll go together in disguise,’ he decided. ‘I want to see this play for myself. If they have the audacity to put me on the stage, Westfield’s Men will turn to dust sooner than they imagine.’

On the third day, Bartholomew Fair was as vibrant as ever. Additional visitors poured into London from the surrounding areas and those who had already tasted the delights of Smithfield returned there once more. There was always something new to buy or see. Horse trading was especially busy but no part of the fair lacked its surging crowd. The performing bear was at his best, the Strongest
Man in England did feats of wonder before his paying audience and the extraordinary Hermat drew the longest queues of all. Nicholas Bracewell and Francis Quilter were among the mass of visitors late afternoon. Dodging some scavenging dogs, they made their way to the ring and singled out Lightfoot for a quiet word.

‘Your time has come,’ Nicholas told him.

‘You need my help?’ asked the tumbler eagerly.

‘Your help and your agility.’

‘Take me with you, sir.’

‘Tomorrow afternoon is when I’ll call on you, Lightfoot.’

‘You’ll find me waiting.’

‘Let me go with you, Nick,’ urged Quilter. ‘It was I who set you out on this trail and I who should be there at the finish.’

‘We are well short of any finish, Frank,’ said Nicholas. ‘If I am to be absent, you are needed at the Queen’s Head to do my office. Though your face may be recognised onstage, none but the players will see you behind the scenes.’

‘I’m no book holder.’

‘I’m no thief but necessity compels me to take up that occupation.’

‘Thievery?’ said Lightfoot. ‘Is that what we are about?’

‘Do you have any objection?’

The tumbler chortled. ‘None at all, sir. You’ve come to the right person. If I did not have a quick hand, I’d long ago have starved.’

‘We will not so much steal as borrow,’ explained Nicholas.

‘That’s the excuse I always give myself, sir.’

‘Do not forget the lock,’ prompted Quilter. ‘That is highly important.’

Nicholas gave a nod. ‘I know. It stands between us and success.’ He turned to Lightfoot. ‘Do you have any skill in picking locks, my friend?’

‘No, sir,’ said the tumbler. ‘I never mastered that art.’

‘Do you know anyone who has?’

‘Yes, sir. And so do you.’

‘Do we?’

‘Luke Furness the blacksmith is your man,’ replied Lightfoot. ‘He makes locks, keys, bolts and other means of safeguarding property. If you pay him enough,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘he’ll give you a key that will open almost any door.’

‘We’ll pay him
anything
,’ announced Quilter. ‘Let’s to him straight.’

There was a buzz of expectation in the yard at the Queen’s Head. It was a long time since
The Merchant of Calais
had been performed there and its reputation drew a large audience. Many of those who stood in the pit had never heard of Sir Eliard Slaney but it was a name that most people in the galleries knew and, in some cases, had learnt to dread. The rumour that the moneylender was about to be ridiculed onstage had spread quickly, adding a spice and promise to the occasion. Moneylenders were universally loathed, none more so than Sir Eliard. Usury was forbidden by law under a statute that had been in existence for over
twenty years, because the profession was declared to be against Christian precepts. Notwithstanding this, loans were still made openly with a maximum of ten per cent interest permitted. Sir Eliard Slaney was known to charge much more.

Dressed in the unfamiliar garb of a country gentleman, the moneylender was there to watch the play with Cyril Paramore, also in a disguise that hid his identity. When they took their seats in the gallery, they were unsettled to hear the name of Sir Eliard Slaney from so many sides. The rumours were true. Mockery was at hand. Their gaze was fixed so completely on the stage below that they did not notice the handsome woman who sat two rows in front of them. Avice Radley was there to enjoy her favourite play. It would be the last time that she would ever see it and she was going to savour every moment. When the moneylender’s name drifted into her ears, she did not take it seriously. Edmund Hoode had left his play untouched. Forced to make a critical choice, he had obeyed her instructions. She saw it as symbolic of a happy life together.

As the yard filled and the time of performance neared, a ripple of anticipatory delight went around the galleries. Avice Radley could not understand it but Sir Eliard and his companion feared that they did. They began to wish they were not there but they were trapped in the middle of a row and were compelled to remain. It was not long before the entertainment started. A fanfare rang out to silence the throng, a flag was raised above the inn and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. His
lilting Welsh voice reached every part of the yard with ease.

Nicholas Bracewell heard the first appreciative roar of laughter from the audience as he and Anne Hendrik approached the house. Sir Eliard Slaney had been unmasked. Nicholas went first to the quiet lane at the rear of the property to make sure that Lightfoot was in position below the designated window. Leaning idly against a wall with a rope over his shoulder, the tumbler gave him a signal to indicate that his task would not be difficult. Nicholas rejoined Anne at the front door. He, too, was in disguise, wearing the hat and sober garments of one of her Dutch employees and composing his features into an expression of timidity worthy of Preben van Loew. When a maidservant answered her knock, Anne first asked to see Sir Eliard in order to establish that he was not on the premises. Unable to speak to the master of the house, she then requested a meeting with Lady Slaney. The visitors were invited inside.