'But I am needed here,' argued the other.
'Someone else will hold the book in your absence, dear fellow. You are called to a higher duty.'
Firethorn took a letter from beneath his doublet and planted a resounding kiss on it before handing it over.
'See it delivered.'
‘Yes, master.'
‘Wait for an answer.'
'I will.’
The actor adopted the pose which the vicar of St Leonard's had favoured in the pulpit on the previous day, and he spoke with holy resonance.
''Behold, I send my messenger before thy face…''
Breaking into irreverent laughter, he clapped Nicholas on the back and went off into the tiring-house to spread his feeling of joy more liberally among the company.
Samuel Ruff stepped forward with raised eyebrows.
'Am I right in guessing who the lady is?' he said.
'Yes, Sam.'
'Does Master Firethorn know her reputation?'
'It is one of the snares that leads him on.'
'He might be less enthralled by her, if he knew what I do, Nick. Lady Rosamund Varley has been very free with her favors.''
'That is no secret.'
'This may be,' suggested Ruff, lowering his voice. 'Is he aware that she was once the mistress of Lord Banbury?'
*
Cheapside was the largest and noisiest of the London markets with scores of country people standing shoulder to shoulder behind their trestle tables, exhibiting their wares in baskets on the ground or holding them up in their hands. Opened early in the morning by the tolling of a bell, the market was a swirling mass of humanity in a cauldron of sound and smell. The best poultry and milk was sold in Leadenhall Street, and those in search offish would go to Fish Street Hill or to the quays of Queenshythe and Billingsgate, but it was Cheapside that offered the widest choice and brought in the greatest crowds.
As he made his way past the endless stalls, Nicholas Bracewell had much to occupy his mind. He was uncomfortable about his role as an intermediary between Lawrence Firethorn and his latest inamorata. Apart from his fondness for the actor's wife, he was never happy when he was brought in to help stage manage Firethorn's private life. A new and disturbing element had now been added. If Lady Rosamund Varley had had such an intimate relationship with Lord Banbury, it was conceivable that she was being used by him as a way of attacking a rival company. By distracting Lawrence Firethorn, she could do a lot of harm to Westfield's Men.
Nicholas walked on towards the Gothic bulk of St Paul's. Even though lightning had deprived it of its tower, the building still dominated the skyline and acted as a magnet for the citizens or London. Houses and shops crowded the precinct walls, and an army of criminals found their richest pickings both inside and outside the cathedral. Absorbed as he was in thought, Nicholas kept a careful watch for nips and foists who might try to take his purse.
By the time he reached Ludgate, he was having deep misgivings about his part in promoting an amour which might damage the whole company. The sight of the Bel Savage Inn nearby stirred Nicholas. It figured prominently in his life because it was there hat he first fell in love with the mystique of the theatre during an exhilarating outdoor performance given by the Queen's Men. On a cold afternoon in April, the Bel Savage had determined his future and directed him to Lord Westfield's Men. With all its glaring faults, he loved the company and was ready to defend it from any threat. As he gazed affectionately at the inn, he came to a decision. He would somehow scupper the new romance. In the interests of the company, Lawrence Firethorn had to be saved from the consequences of his rising lust.
Nicholas hurried out past the City walls and along Fleet Street to The Strand. When he reached the looming opulence of Varley House, he delivered the letter but was told by a maid-in-waiting that her mistress was not at home. He was glad that there was no reply to carry back with him.
As he set off towards the City again, his mind turned once more to his quest. Will Fowler had begged him to pursue the murderer and not a day had passed when Nicholas did not renew his pledge. Redbeard would be found.
He was striding along Fleet Street when an idea brought him to a dead halt. The battered girl at the Hope and Anchor had talked about the raw wounds on her client's back, and Nicholas had wondered if the man had been dragged through the streets at a cart's tail and whipped for some minor offence. He now realized that Redbeard may have gained his scars elsewhere.
Swinging off to the right, he headed at speed in the direction of Bridewell. Built as a royal palace by Henry VIII on the banks of the Fleet River, it was a huge, rambling structure of dark red brick set around three courtyards. Members of the royal family had lived there, visiting dignitaries from abroad had stayed there, and the place had been leased to the French Ambassador for some eight years. Since the time of Edward, however, its inhabitants had been of more common stock.
Bridewell was a hospital and a prison.
Orphans, vagrants, petty offenders and disorderly women now stayed at the former palace and its regimen was strict. When Nicholas reached the building, he was given a vivid demonstration of its methods of discipline. A crowd of vagrants had just arrived at Bridewell and they were being whipped in public by the City beadles. The adults were each given a dozen strokes of the whip while the younger ones received half a dozen. With their backs bare, they whined and howled as the savage punishment was enforced.
Several onlookers had gathered to enjoy the spectacle of human suffering, but Nicholas had to turn away. It gave him no pleasure to see flesh sliced open and blood spurt out. During his time at sea, he had been forced to witness many floggings and the cruelty of it all had always turned his stomach. The short, wiry man standing beside Nicholas did not share his qualms. He roared on the beadles and cheered as each stroke landed.
'They should give a taste of the whip to them as well,' he averred. 'A hundred lashes for each one!'
'Who do you mean, sir?' asked Nicholas.
'Them!' retorted the man. 'The Spanish prisoners. Captives from the Armada. They should be flogged every morning!'
'Why, sir?'
'For speaking such a scurvy tongue!'
The man emitted a harsh cackle before turning back to his sport. He was soon reviling the victims again, exhorting the beadles to strike harder and revelling in each cry of anguish that was beaten from the shredded bodies. Nicholas despised him with all his soul yet he was grateful to him. The man had reminded him that Bridewell was being used to house captured Spaniards and Catholic prisoners.
Without quite knowing why, Nicholas Bracewell felt that he had just made an important discovery.
He walked away with growing excitement.
Chapter Twelve
Firmness of purpose had always been Margery Firethorn's hallmark. When she committed herself to a course of action, she held to it with single-minded determination. Her husband did everything in his power to coax and soften her but his most cunning wiles yielded no fruit. He was treated with such cold disdain, then lashed with such a hot tongue, that his domestic life seemed to consist entirely of fire and ice. Margery would not relent until he confessed the truth to her and there was no way that he could bring himself to do that. Stalemate therefore prevailed at the house in Shoreditch.
'Good morning to you, my angel.'
'Be silent, sir.'
