The Vagabond Clown (6 page)

Lawrence Firethorn rode at the head of his troupe like the captain of an army, chatting to Owen Elias, who rode beside him, about the first performance on their tour and wishing that they were not hampered by the presence of Barnaby Gill. Both men wore swords to deter any highwaymen from attack. Bringing up the rear was Edmund Hoode, a lone figure on a donkey, looking less
like a member of a theatre company than a pilgrim on his way to a distant shrine. While others studied the changing landscape around them, Hoode’s mind was elsewhere, grappling with a scene in the new play that he was writing and wondering when and how he would find the time to commit his thoughts to paper.

Giddy Mussett again diverted the occupants of the first wagon with his jests and anecdotes, endearing himself even more and winning their confidence completely. He then plied them with questions about the company, wanting to know as much detail as he could about the affray at the Queen’s Head. They had been trundling along for an hour when he moved to sit on the driver’s seat beside Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Let me take a turn with the reins, Nick,’ he volunteered.

‘Have you handled two horses before?’

‘Two and four, Nick. Here, let me show you.’

Nicholas gave him the reins, happy to have a rest from keeping the wagon on a fairly straight line while avoiding as many potholes as he could. Mussett was as good as his word. He was an experienced coachman who handled the horses well. Nicholas was able to relax. He was also glad of the opportunity to speak to Mussett alone.

‘Who did play that trick on Master Gill last night?’ he asked.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘I hope that you were not involved, Giddy.’

‘How could I be?’ asked Mussett. ‘You saw me fast asleep.’

‘I saw what I
thought
was you but the room was fairly dark.’

‘It was me, Nick, I dare swear it. I was too tired to pester Barnaby though I would love to shake the hand of the man who did lock him in the privy.’

‘It was nobody in the company. Fear would hold them back.’

‘Fear of being caught?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and fear of facing me afterwards. They know what I would say. We are bound together in this enterprise. Good fellowship is the only thing that will carry us through. Fall out with each other and we are doomed.’

‘I’ve never fallen out with anyone in my life,’ attested Mussett.

‘What about Conway’s Men?’

‘Ah, that was different, Nick. They fell out with me.’

Nicholas smiled but he still had nagging doubts about the clown. Though he had settled into the company with apparent ease, Mussett needed to be watched. There was an unpredictability about him that was worrying. It stopped Nicholas from trusting him too much. Mussett tugged on the reins to guide the horses around a large dip ahead of them then he threw a glance at his companion.

‘Dick Honeydew was telling me of the affray,’ he said.

‘It robbed us of ten days at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Was there no way to quell it?’

‘None,’ said Nick. ‘It caught us unawares.’

‘I’ve been on stage myself when fighting broke out and I always used it to my advantage. The last time it happened,’ recalled Mussett, ‘I tossed a bucket of water over the
men who were brawling and dampened their spirits. It amused the other spectators and brought to fight to an end. Laughter is the best way to control wayward lads. Could not Barnaby have contrived it somehow?’

‘He had no chance, Giddy. They mounted the stage and assaulted him.’

Mussett smirked. ‘Was his performance
that
bad?’

‘No,’ chided Nicholas, ‘and you know it only too well, Giddy. The fault lay not with him nor anyone else in the company. We were up against a dozen or so, paid to halt our play and drilled in the best way to do it. They caused such a disturbance that the whole yard was in turmoil. We were lost.’

‘Dick mentioned a spectator who was killed.’

‘Murdered where he sat.’

‘Who was the poor man?’

‘Part of Lord Westfield’s circle. A harmless fellow, by all accounts.’

‘Dick Honeydew did not know his name.’

‘There’s no reason why he should,’ said Nicholas, dropping his voice so that the apprentices behind could not hear him. ‘The lads were shaken enough, as it is. I saw no point in upsetting them again with details of a killing.’

‘So what was he called?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Simple curiosity,’ said Mussett. ‘I’m grateful to him. His death helped to give me life. If it had not been for the riot at the Queen’s Head, I’d still be in that torture chamber of a prison. I’ll not forget it in a hurry, Nick. While Barnaby and this other fellow suffered, I was the benefactor.’

‘The name will mean nothing to you.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because even our patron could tell us little about it. Master Hope had not been in London long enough to win a place among Lord Westfield’s closest friends.’

‘Master Hope?’ asked Mussett, his interest quickening.

‘Yes, Giddy.’

‘Would that be Fortunatus Hope, by any chance?’

Nicholas was surprised. ‘The very same. You’ve heard of him?’

‘Heard of him and met him, Nick.’

‘When?’

‘Less than a year ago.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘More than Lord Westfield, I suspect.’

‘And you actually
met
Master Hope?’

‘Three or four times,’ said Mussett. ‘It must be the same man because there cannot be two with that name. Besides, nothing pleased him more than to watch a play. That’s when our paths crossed, you see. During my time with Conway’s Men.’

Maidstone was the shire town, built at an attractive point on the River Medway and containing something close to two and a half thousand inhabitants. Its bustling market drew in people from a wide area, swelling its population and bringing a noise and vibrancy to the heart of the community. Its long main street consisted largely of inns, shops and houses, all well maintained and giving the
impression of neatness and civic pride. As Westfield’s Men came down the hill towards High Town, the first sight that greeted them was the prison, where the quarters of some traitors were set up on poles to act as a warning. Giddy Mussett looked over his shoulder at the apprentices.

‘Mark them well, lads,’ he said. ‘Those belong to actors who gave a bad performance and were executed for it. You’ll have to be on your mettle.’

Following Lawrence Firethorn, who now led the way alone, he drove the first wagon along the High Street until they came to the Star Inn, a large and commodious hostelry with more than a faint resemblance to their home in London. It had the same shape and disposition as the Queen’s Head with each storey jutting out above the one below and with its shutters daubed with the same paint. What set it apart from the inn that they had left was that this one had no melancholy landlord with an intense dislike of actors. Jonathan Jowlett, their host, a beaming barrel of a man in his fifties, came into the yard to give them a cordial welcome. Alive to the benefits of having a theatre company in town, he was also fond of plays and had an almost reverential attitude towards those who presented them. Jowlett identified the leading actor at once.

‘You can be none other than Lawrence Firethorn, sir,’ he said.

‘I answer to that name,’ replied Firethorn grandly.

‘Your reputation precedes you.’

‘Is that why you have locked your womenfolk away?’ asked Owen Elias.

Jowlett rubbed his flabby hands nervously together. ‘The Star is at your disposal, sir. Let us know your needs and they will be satisfied at once.’

‘Thank you,’ said Firethorn.

Ostlers and servants were summoned to take care of the horses and to help to unload the wagons. The visitors were glad to stretch their legs. It was only mid-afternoon but they seemed to have been travelling for days. Having lain in the same position for hours, Barnaby Gill was especially stiff and it made him fractious. George Dart had to endure constant criticism as he tried to assist the older man out of his wagon. Nicholas Bracewell made sure that Mussett was kept well away from his rival. When he saw how Gill hopped across the yard, Jowlett showed his compassion.

‘Can he put no weight on the other leg?’ he asked.

‘Not for some weeks,’ said Firethorn.

‘Then it would be a cruelty to give him a bedchamber at the top of the inn. Here’s my suggestion, Master Firethorn. We have a room on the ground floor that we use for storage. It could easily be cleared so that your friend could lay his head there.’

‘Barnaby would be most grateful.’

‘The room is small, I fear, not fit for more than one person.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘This gets better and better,’ he said. ‘None of us will have to put up with his bad temper and his snoring.’

‘My wife has a cure for snoring, sir,’ confided Jowlett.

‘Does she?’

‘Every time I snore, she tips me out of bed. Nan would soon cure your friend.’

‘Barnaby has a complaint that no woman can remedy,’ said Firethorn, winking at Nicholas. ‘Let’s go inside and inspect the rest of the accommodation.’

‘Follow me, good sirs.’

Jowlett guided them into the building and along a narrow, twisting passageway until they came to the taproom. The welcoming smell of strong ale lifted the spirits of the newcomers. Several customers were enjoying a drink and there was an atmosphere of jollity. Mussett looked round in wonder as if he had just stumbled on his spiritual home. Firethorn was more interested in the buxom wench who was carrying a tray of food across the room. Gill was too busy complaining at Dart for trying to hustle him along too fast. It was left to Nicholas to discuss prices with the landlord. Rooms were then chosen and Nicholas selected the groups who would occupy them, ensuring that Mussett and the apprentices shared their accommodation with him.

When the actors went upstairs to leave baggage in their respective rooms, Nicholas and the landlord escorted Gill to a tiny chamber at the rear of the premises. An assortment of small barrels stood on the floor while poultry hung in hooks from the low ceiling. Gill was not enamoured of his temporary home.

‘God have mercy!’ he cried. ‘I’ll not sleep in a storeroom.’

‘It will be emptied at once,’ promised Jowlett.

‘What am I supposed to do – lie on the floor or hang from a hook like a dead duck? A pox on the place! I’ll have none of it.’

‘A mattress can easily be brought in, sir,’ said the landlord.

‘Save yourself the trouble.’

‘Would you rather climb three flights of stairs to the attic?’ asked Nicholas. ‘This spares you that labour. Most of us would relish the notion of a room alone. It would be a rare treat. And something else should recommend it to you.’

‘The stink of beer?’ said Gill sardonically.

‘An open window will soon dispel that. No,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the door. ‘There is a stout bolt. That will keep out any unwelcome visitor.’

It was an argument that weighed heavily with Gill. In his present condition, he was a sitting target for Mussett and feared an outrage like the one that had been perpetrated at the Shepherd and Shepherdess. He still believed that the other clown was somehow involved in his earlier incarceration. Safety was paramount.

‘If the rascal so much as shows his face in here, I’ll crown him with my crutch.’

‘You’ll take the room, then, sir?’ asked Jowlett hopefully.

‘Empty and clean it first before I decide.’

‘Yes, yes. At once.’

Gill hopped off with the aid of his crutch and left the two men alone. Nicholas felt obliged to apologise for the ill-tempered behaviour of his colleague.

‘Forgive him, sir,’ he said. ‘The broken leg has taken his good humour away.’

‘We’ll do our best to recover it for him.’

‘That may be beyond both of us. Let me repair Master Gill’s omission and thank you for offering this room for his use. It solves more problems than you can know.’

‘Then I’m pleased to give it to you.’ Jowlett broke off to call for a servant before turning back to Nicholas. ‘Yours is a larger company than we have had here in the past.’

‘We tour with as many players as we can afford.’

‘Our last troupe was barely half the size of yours.’

‘When did they stay here?’

‘No more than ten days ago. Unlike you, they have no home in London and no chance to play before large audiences. They are on the road throughout the year. It was a source of great regret. They spoke with such envy of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Did they?’

‘Envy and bitterness.’

‘I am sorry that we provoke bitterness,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who were they?’

‘Conway’s Men.’

Westfield’s Men settled quickly into the Star Inn. Most adjourned to the taproom to sample the ale, others decided to snatch an hour’s sleep after the rigors of their journey, a few chose to explore Maidstone on foot and Edmund Hoode found a quiet corner in which to work on a scene in his new play. Giddy Mussett spent an improving hour with Lawrence Firethorn, being patiently instructed in the roles he would play. Nicholas Bracewell was dispatched on an important errand. Before the company could perform in the town, a licence had to be obtained and that task invariably fell to the book holder. He set off towards the town hall, glad that they had arrived safely and certain that Maidstone would prove a rewarding place to visit.

After the teeming streets of London, the town seemed curiously empty and Nicholas found that a welcome relief. It enabled him to saunter along and appraise their
new home at his leisure. He soon passed a sight that was very familiar in the capital. Seated in the stocks, a forlorn individual was raising both arms to protect himself from the rotten fruit and clods of earth being thrown at him by mocking children. Set out in front of the malefactor were some loaves of unwholesome bread and Nicholas realised that he was looking at a baker who had sold mouldy produce and who was being punished accordingly.

When he got to the town hall and introduced himself, he was immediately shown in to meet the mayor, a tall, stooping man with an alarming battery of warts on his face. Lucas Broome was surprised to hear that the troupe had already arrived in town.

‘We did not expect you for a matter of weeks,’ he said.

‘Our hand was forced,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We had to quit London sooner than planned. I hope that we are still able to find an audience here.’

‘No question but that you will, my friend. I’ve been waiting a long time to see so illustrious a company as yours visit Maidstone. Whenever I’ve been in London, I’ve made the effort to call at the Queen’s Head.’

‘What have you seen of ours?’

‘Nothing that failed to delight me. The last time it was
Mirth and Madness
. Before that it was
Vincentio’s Revenge.
Another play that I remember,’ said Broome, exposing a row of small, uneven teeth, ‘is
Cupid’s Folly
. It made me laugh so.’

‘We expect to offer it again during our tour.’

‘Your clown was worth the price of entry on his own.’ He scratched his head. ‘Now, what was his name?’

‘Barnaby Gill.’

‘That was him,’ said Broome, snapping his fingers. ‘Barnaby Gill. I trust that you have brought him to Maidstone with you?’

‘Master Gill is with us,’ said Nicholas, ‘but unable to take an active part in our work. A broken leg makes him a spectator on our tour. But have no fear,’ he went on, seeing the disappointment in the mayor’s face. ‘His substitute is just as skilled in the arts of comedy. They are two of a kind and you will not tell the difference between them.’

‘I long to see the fellow.’

‘Grant us a licence and you will do so.’

‘Westfield’s Men are welcome at any time.’ Nicholas reached inside his jerkin to take out some documents but Broome waved a dismissive hand. ‘No need to prove who you are, my friend. I know and respect your patron. Those who wear his livery stand high in my esteem.’

‘Do you not wish to see our licence to travel?’

‘The quality of your work gives you that. My wife has oftentimes heard me talk of my visits to the Queen’s Head. Now she can enjoy the same pleasure herself.’

‘When and where shall we play?’ asked Nicholas, slipping the documents back inside his jerkin.

‘The Lower Courthouse will be yours for one performance,’ decided Broome, ‘and it will be filled to the rafters. Of that I can assure you, my friend. However, you will have to wait a couple of days until the assizes come to an end.’

‘That will suit us well, sir. We will need that time to
rehearse our new clown into his roles. You have a liking for
Cupid’s Folly
, you say?’

‘Why, yes, but I’ll not prescribe your choice. Give me something that I have never seen before and I’ll be equally pleased. Meanwhile, we’ll voice it abroad that you have come to town and bring in a wider audience for you.’

‘The landlord wishes us to play at the Star Inn as well.’

‘Then so you shall. That will give us two chances to savour your art.’

‘We are indebted to you, sir.’

‘And we to Westfield’s Men.’

Nicholas was thrilled with his reception at the town hall. Having been on tour before, he knew that other towns were not always so welcoming and other mayors not so fond of theatre that they sought it out in London. Lucas Broome was a keen admirer of their work. He and his wife would assuredly be there with other civic dignitaries to watch the first performance. Before he left, Nicholas asked if he might have a brief glance at the Lower Courthouse to see how best it could be adapted to their needs. Broome conducted him there in person and they soon found themselves in a long, low, rectangular room with light flooding in from windows along both sides. Two doors in the far wall made that the obvious place where the stage could be set. Having taken note of the proportions of the room, Nicholas thanked his guide.

‘Is this where Conway’s Men performed?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Broome, ‘and they made good use of it. They gave but one performance in the town and fortune decreed that it took place here.’

‘Why? Was the weather unkind?’

‘A torrent of rain fell throughout the whole day. Had they tried to play at the Star, they’d have been washed away.’

‘We’ll pray for sunshine when we take over their yard.’

‘I’ll join you in your prayers.’

Nicholas took his leave. Instead of returning directly to the inn, he had a second errand to run and it was of a more personal nature. Anne Hendrik had given him a letter to deliver to a cousin of her late husband’s. Well over a hundred immigrants had come to the town, driven from the Netherlands by persecution and bringing to Maidstone their skills in the manufacture of cloth, Spanish leather, pottery, tile, brick, paper, armour and gunpowder. Pieter Hendrik was one of them and he had hired a house in Mill Street where he had set up two looms. Nicholas found the place without difficulty. Hendrik was a big, hulking man in his forties with a head that seemed too small for the massive body. Both of the large wooden looms were in use inside the house and the noise made conversation difficult so he took Nicholas into the garden at the rear of the property. Hendrik’s mastery of English was not yet complete.

‘A frient of Anne’s, you are?’ he said, peering at Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, handing him the letter. ‘Anne sent this for you.’

‘Thenk you, thenk you. Please to excuss me, ha?’

He opened the letter and slowly read its contents, a fond smile on his lips as he did so. When he had finished, he let out a throaty chuckle.

‘Anne speak fery vill of you, Niklaus.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘The work, it is fery gut.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne has carried on where her husband left off. They never lack for customers. People from all over London wear hats made by one of her men. Preben van Loew is a master at his trade.’

‘Preben, I know,’ said Hendrik, folding up the letter. ‘A gut man. I not sin him since Jacob’s funeral. Jacob, my cussin, I miss. Togither, we grow up. Loffly man.’

‘Anne has told me all about him.’

‘She write nice litter. You tek what I write bek?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll be in the town for a few days yet. If you want to reply, I’ll carry the letter with me though it may be some time before I can put it into Anne’s hands. She’ll be delighted to hear from you.’

‘Gut, gut.’ He looked quizzically at Nicholas. ‘So why you to Medstun come?’

‘I travel with a theatre company called Westfield’s Men. We stay at the Star Inn and mean to perform two plays in the town. I hope that you will come to see us.’

Hendrik’s face clouded. ‘Mebbe, Niklaus, we see.’

‘Do you object to plays?’

‘No, no. That not risson.’

‘I know that some of your countrymen do.’

‘Not me. I like.’

‘Then why were you so uneasy when I mentioned the theatre company?’

‘It nothing. No fault from you.’

‘Fault?’

‘I haf little trouble, that all.’

‘With a theatre company?’

‘Yis.’

‘Then it must have been Conway’s Men,’ said Nicholas, his curiosity aroused. ‘They were here not long ago, were they not?’

Hendrik nodded. ‘Conway’s Men,’ he said ruefully. ‘They here.’

‘Did you see them play?’

‘Yis. Fery gut. I laugh a lot.’

‘Then why are you so wary of theatre companies?’

‘I deal with menegar. You know the fillow?’

‘Only by reputation. His name is Tobias Fitzgeoffrey.’

‘That him.’

‘What kind of dealings did you have with Master Fitzgeoffrey?’

‘Bad ones, Niklaus.’

‘Oh?’

‘We mek fustian, grogram and other cloth. Best in Medstun. This man, Fissjiffry, he come to buy from us.’

‘He probably wanted it to make new costumes or repair old ones.’

‘This what he say.’

‘How much did he have from you?’

‘Lot, Nicklaus. But no money. Fissjiffry, he say he pay me nixt day. When I call at Star Inn for money, they gone. It no mistake. They liff at dawn with my cloth. No pay,’ said Hendrik, wounded by the memory, ‘Conway’s Men, thieves.’

‘It sounds a fine play,’ said Giddy Mussett with admiration. ‘Yet another worthy piece from Edmund Hoode?’

‘
A Trick To Catch A Chaste Lady
did not come from Edmund’s pen,’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘It’s the work of a younger playwright, Lucius Kindell.’

‘I do not know the name.’

‘You soon will, Giddy. He gets better with each play. Lucius came to us to write tragedies but he tried his hand at comedy as well.’

‘And a clever hand, it is. If the other scenes are as rich as the ones in which I appear, then the play is a certain success.’

‘It worked well at the Queen’s Head until this last performance. The piece was never allowed to run its course then. When we reached the point where the clown does his jig, the hounds of hell were unleashed upon us.’

‘We’ll not have that vexation again.’

‘I hope so, Giddy. With all my heart, I do.’

The two men were in an upstairs room that overlooked the yard of the Star Inn. Firethorn was taking his new clown through the plays that they would perform in Maidstone, explaining the plot of both in detail so that Mussett had some grasp of how his part related to the whole drama. It was when he handed the clown a scene to read aloud that Firethorn encountered an unexpected problem. Mussett was almost illiterate. He pleaded poor eyesight but it was evident that he could make out only one word in four and he could hardly get his tongue around that. To his credit, however, he had a quick and retentive brain. When
Firethorn read the lines out to him, Mussett memorised a number of them instantly. At one point, he repeated an eight-line speech without a fault.

‘Which play do we stage first?’ asked Mussett.

‘That depends on where we perform it,’ explained Firethorn. ‘If it is to be here, then
Cupid’s Folly
is the better choice. If we play indoors, then we’ll introduce them to the chaste lady. We must wait for Nick to come back.’ He looked down through the open window and saw the book holder entering the yard. ‘Talk of the devil! There he is.’

‘Nick promised to school me in my roles.’

‘And he’ll do it better than me, Giddy.’

‘Am I free to go now?’

‘As long as you do not join the others in the taproom,’ warned Firethorn sternly. ‘Remember your contract. No drunkenness, no women, no fighting.’

‘Would you have me become a monk?’

‘I would have you aim higher than that – at sainthood.’

Mussett cackled. ‘My hopes of that have already been lost,’ he said. ‘But I’ll not go astray. You have my word on that. I mean to take a walk to remind myself what sort of town Maidstone is.’

‘You’ve been here before, then?’

‘Some years ago, when I was with the Earl of Rutland’s Men.’

‘Why did you part with them?’

‘To become a holy anchorite.’

Mussett cackled again and let himself out of the room. Watching him go, Firethorn gave an indulgent smile. It was
hard to dislike a man so relentlessly cheerful as the clown. He might lack Barnaby Gill’s education but he had other gifts to bring to his work. Firethorn turned to the window again and noticed that Nicholas Bracewell was looking at something through the door to the stables.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ called Firethorn.

Nicholas saw him at the window. ‘All is well,’ he said, waving a hand.

‘Wait there until I come down.’

Firethorn went through the door and down a rickety staircase. When he came out into the yard, he saw that Nicholas was still peeping into the stables. Firethorn strode quickly across to him.

‘What have you found, Nick?’

‘Something that may turn out to be a blessing.’

‘Where’s the blessing in horse dung?’ asked Firethorn, seeing the manure that was piled in a corner. ‘Is that what caught your attention?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, pointing. ‘Look there.’

Firethorn’s gaze fell on a wooden wheelbarrow that had been dumped against the side of a stall. Its wheel was missing and one of its handles had been snapped off. The timber was stained by years of usage. Firethorn was bewildered.

‘I think that I’d rather look at the horse dung,’ he said.

‘The wheelbarrow has been abandoned.’

‘It deserves to be, Nick. It’s outlived its time.’

‘Not if it’s repaired with care,’ said Nicholas.

‘And why should anyone bother to do that? The only
use is has now is to serve as firewood. I’m surprised it has not already gone up in smoke.’

‘That may be to our advantage. Find a new wheel, make a new handle, wash it out thoroughly and we bring it back to life.’

‘To what possible end?’

‘A certain person might be able to move about with less pain.’