‘Ned Robinson?’
‘The murderer.’
‘Forget him, Ellen,’ urged her husband. ‘He got away in the crowd and will be in another county by now. Ned was unlucky but we gain profit from his misfortune.’
She brightened. ‘You are right, Israel. We are still free and together. That is all that matters in the end. Yet it was such a shame about Ned.’
‘Why?’
‘It spoilt the play. I enjoyed it so much until then.’
‘The Happy Malcontent was it called?’
‘A merry piece. The whole town laughed so.’
‘Westfield’s Men served us in this business. They brought in the purses and Ned Robinson stole them. People who are full of mirth are easy prey.’
‘Lawrence Firethorn is the greatest actor alive,’ she said with frank admiration. ‘Were I not married to you, I would be happy to share his bed. And half the women in Marlborough would say the same as me.’
‘I think not, my love.’
‘How so?’
‘Because I have snatched delight from his arms yet again.’ He began to cackle. ‘Lawrence Firethorn will make no conquest in this town, Ellen. I give you my word on that.’
‘I’ll not stand for this, sir! You abuse my hospitality!’
‘Hear me out.’
‘I would rather see you out and say good riddance.’
‘But we have a performance to give this afternoon.’
‘Yes, Master Firethorn! You wish to usurp my role and do my office between the sheets.’
‘That is not true, sir.’
‘Then why did you send a letter to my wife?’
‘I did not!’
‘Why do you woo her with warm words?’
‘I have never even met your good lady.’
‘Why do you inflame her passion?’
‘Nothing is further from my desires.’
‘Take your lascivious wishes out of Marlborough!’
‘You are misinformed here.’
‘Hawk your pizzle to another town!’
The mayor worked himself up into such a rage that his beetroot cheeks were fit to burst. His eyes smouldered, his body twitched and his little hands clutched at his gold chain like a drowning man clinging for the rope that might save him. Lawrence Firethorn wanted to laugh at such absurd antics but the status of his visitor and the accompanying presence of a town constable enforced more control on him. The mayor and his wife had sat in the front row during the performance of The Happy Malcontent but the actor-manager had spared her no more than a cursory glance. The Guildhall had been packed with far more comely sights than that afforded by a pink-faced middle-aged woman with a breathy giggle. She was too starved a subject for Firethorn’s lust.
They were in a private room at the White Hart. When the mayor came storming in to see him that morning, Firethorn had assumed that he bore the communal congratulations of the town. Instead of hearing his performance praised, the actor was being accused of trying to seduce the mayor’s wife.
‘Fornicator!’ yelled the mayor.
‘Lower your voice, sir.’
‘Liar and adulterer!’
‘I deny the charges!’
‘Traitor!’
‘Call your wife and she will proclaim my innocence.’
‘Aghhhhh!’
The mayor let out a cry of anguish and twisted his chain so tightly around his neck that he was in danger of asphyxiating himself. Women were vile creatures and love was a two-edged sword. The Happy Malcontent brought tears in the wake of its laughter. The mayor’s wife had been completely carried away by the force of the play and the sensual power of Lawrence Firethorn’s performance. Roused to a pitch she had not achieved for many years, she fell on her husband with such fervour in the privacy of their four-poster that he had time to do no more than tear off his breeches and pull down his hose. Consummation was instant and what pleased him more than anything else was that this uncommon event had occurred while he was still wearing his chain of office. Mayoralty and manhood had coalesced in a night of madness. But it was all a wicked delusion. His wife’s ardour had been excited by Lawrence Firethorn and it was he who was the true object of her newfound appetite.
‘Where is this letter?’ asked Firethorn.
‘It is couched in filth and flattery.’
‘Show it me, good sir.’
‘What have you brought into my town!’ wailed the mayor.
‘A feast of theatre.’
‘One man murdered, one woman about to be defiled!’
‘Hold there and show me this false document.’
‘We will drive Westfield’s Men out!’ The mayor took the letter from his belt and thrust it at Firethorn. ‘Take your foul proposals back, sir! My wife’s favours are not for you.’
Lawrence Firethorn read the missive, recoiled from the bluntness of its carnality and scrunched it up in an angry hand. He held it up inside his bunched fist.
‘Hell and damnation! I’ll not endure this!’
‘Did you not write it, Master Firethorn?’
‘Write it? No, sir. Send it? Never, sir. Wish it? Not in a thousand years, sir. This is a trick practised on us to set the one against the other. You have a dear and loving wife. Do not let some villain turn her into a whore.’
‘How can I believe you?’ stuttered the mayor. ‘This letter carries your name upon it.’
‘My name but written by another hand. Fetch me pen and ink and I will show you my true signature. Compare the two and you will see the falsehood here. Besides, sir,’ he said with a consoling smile, ‘what fornicator, liar or adulterer would be so foolish as to reveal himself to the husband of a woman he is trying to lead astray? If you entreated a lady to bestow her favours upon you, would the letter bear your name and title?’
The mayor was persuaded. Lawrence Firethorn and his wife were not, after all, secret lovers. He might yet enjoy again unbridled passion in his chain of office. Relief and remorse seized him, but before he could bury the wrongly accused actor beneath a mound of thanks and apologies, there was a knock at the door and the landlord entered.
‘The chamberlain is here, Master Firethorn,’ he said.
‘Let him wait.’
‘He will not. Some letter has put him to choler.’
‘Not another!’ snarled Firethorn.
‘The town clerk also attends with impatience.’
‘Here’s a third ordeal!’
‘He curses your name on account of his wife.’
‘God’s blood!’
Lawrence Firethorn mastered the urge to take the first letter and force it down the throat of the landlord. It was important to separate message and messenger. The landlord was not responsible for the news that he brought. Firethorn was evidently the butt of some mischievous pen and he needed to identify the correspondent without delay. Unfolding the paper, he studied the uncouth hand that had dared to impersonate his own. Who could seek to embarrass him in this way? He thought of a bewitching young woman at the Fighting Cocks, of a dispute in her bedchamber with a supposed rival and of a pillaged capcase. He thought of an old shepherd on the road out of Oxford. He thought of the biggest villain in Christendom and he named his man at last.
‘Israel Gunby!’
Nicholas Bracewell had a much happier morning than his employer. The shining success of The Happy Malcontent had been besmirched by the murder of one of its spectators, and this had obliged him to give a sworn statement to the magistrate about how he had found the dead body. Nicholas disclosed that the victim was an accomplice of Israel Gunby, but he made no mention of the likely killer. Westfield’s Men were absolved of all involvement in the crime and he wished to distance it from them as much as possible. The assassin was a personal problem for Nicholas Bracewell and he was keen to deal with it himself. Nothing could be gained by speculations to the local representatives of law and order. After joining the company in the now-muted celebrations at the White Hart, he went off to spend a watchful night in his bedchamber.
Morning brought comfort, pleasure and qualified delight. Comfort came from the fact that he had, for once, spent a night outside London without being the subject of an attack. Pleasure was assured by the news that Edmund Hoode was now so caught up with The Merchant of Calais that he was locked in his chamber and writing furiously. With his creative juices flowing freely once more, the playwright would soon complete the new play and add it to their repertoire. Nicholas still had qualms about his own contribution to the work, but common sense now told him that it could not be as central as he feared. Edmund Hoode had been working on the new drama for several weeks now and the main lines of plot and character had already been laid down. Nicholas had merely added depth and reality to the scenes of mercantile life. The merchant of Calais would not be Robert Bracewell.