King’s Bench Prison, however, was not entirely lacking in jollity. Since he had been incarcerated there, Gideon Mussett had done his best to brighten up the lives of his fellow prisoners. He was not impelled by any unselfish concern for their welfare. His songs and dances were never offered freely in order to distract people from the misery of their situation. Mussett was engaged in a battle for survival. He performed for reward. The money that he earned from grateful spectators was spent on drink, tobacco and edible food. Imprisonment for someone as poor as him would otherwise have been a species of torture. Only those with something in their purse could stave off the hunger and despair that claimed so many victims.
Whenever he raised the spirits of his companions with some rousing songs or with a comical dance, he had an appreciative audience.
‘More, Giddy. Please give us more.’
‘Sing to us of Wild Meg again.’
‘Aye, or of the Sweet Maid of Romsey.’
‘Dance, Giddy. We’ve not had a jig today.’
‘Up on the table and dance!’
Giddy Mussett raised both palms to still the outburst of requests. He was a short, angular man in his early forties with an ease of movement that made light of his age. His exaggerated features gave him a striking appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his hooked nose unusually large and his chin pronounced. With the shock of red hair on his head, he looked in profile like a giant cockerel and he certainly had something of the bird’s arrogant strut. Mussett bared his uneven teeth in a grin.
‘My legs are tired today, my friends,’ he said. ‘If you would have them dance, they will need to be revived with a drink of ale or a pipe of tobacco.’
‘You’ve taken every penny we have,’ complained one man.
‘Then there’ll be no jigs this morning.’
‘We’ll not be cheated out of our entertainment,’ said another man, tossing a coin to the clown. ‘There, Giddy. That will buy us your legs again.’
Mussett winked. ‘It’ll buy you no other part of my body, Ned, I tell you that.’
Raucous laughter filled the cell. There were ten of them, crammed together in a narrow cell with a long table at its centre. Sleeping arrangements were primitive and the only ones who managed anything approaching a peaceful night were those strong enough to fight for the best places in the filthy straw. A compound of revolting smells filled the room. Sun streamed in through a window high in the wall to illumine a scene of utter degradation. Most of the men were in rags and the two ancient women wore equally tattered garments. The stench of poverty intensified the pervading reek. The only thing that helped them to forget their dire predicament was a performance by their very own clown. But they were to be deprived of even that today.
A key scraped in the lock and the iron door groaned on its hinges. Putting his head into the cell, a brawny man with a greying beard fixed Mussett with a stare.
‘Follow me!’ he ordered.
‘But we want our jig,’ protested the man who had parted with the coin.
‘Then we’ll let you dance at the end of a rope,’ said the jailer with a snarl. ‘Did you hear me, Giddy? Follow me.’
‘I’ll not be long, my friends,’ promised Mussett, waving cheerily to the others. ‘I charge you all to stay where you are until I get back.’
He followed the jailer out of the room then waited while the door was locked again. A minute later, he was conducted into the prison sergeant’s office and left alone with a tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Wearing a leather jerkin, the visitor had fair hair and beard. Mussett studied him for a moment.
‘I believe I know you, sir,’ he said.
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell,’ returned the other, ‘and I’m the book holder with Westfield’s Men.’
‘Ha!’ sneered Mussett, spitting on the floor with disgust. ‘Then you are a friend of that vile toad called Barnaby Gill.’
‘I’m pleased to number him among my fellows.’
Mussett was combative. ‘Then we have nothing to say to each other. I despise him. Has he sent you here to mock my condition? Is that your purpose, sir? Do you treat the King’s Bench Prison like another Bedlam where you may gain your pleasure by viewing the mad and the unfortunate? I am neither, Master Bracewell,’ he went on, pulling himself up to his full height. ‘Tell that to your crawling worm of a friend.’
‘I would rather speak to you,’ said Nicholas calmly, ‘and if you have sense enough to listen, you may hear something to your advantage.’
‘Not if it’s coupled with the foul name of Barnaby Gill.’
‘You deceive yourself. However, since you clearly prefer life behind bars to an early release from your detention, I’ll trouble you no more and simply apologise for interrupting your leisure.’ Nicholas turned on his heel. ‘Farewell.’
‘Hold there, sir,’ said Mussett, grabbing his arm. ‘Do you speak of release?’
‘Only to someone who has the courtesy to listen to me.’
‘A thousand pardons. Life in this sewer has robbed me of what few manners I possessed. Courtesy in not in request here.’ He gave an obsequious smile. ‘Tell me what has brought you here. I’ll hang on every syllable.’
‘Even if I mention the name of a man you detest?’
Mussett gritted his teeth. ‘Even then, sir.’
‘Thus it stands,’ said Nicholas. ‘During an affray at the Queen’s Head, so much damage was caused that we have to depart on a tour of Kent while renovations take place. Master Gill was badly injured in the course of the commotion. A broken leg keeps him off the stage for months.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Mussett under his breath.
‘We need a substitute and the name of Gideon Mussett came into the reckoning. There is, of course, a bar to your employment,’ observed Nicholas, glancing around. ‘You are imprisoned for debt and likely to remain here for some time.’
‘For ever, Master Bracewell. How can I ever discharge the debt when I am in no position to earn money? What little I can scrape together is quickly spent on necessary items here in the prison.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘My case is no worse than most of those who share that stinking cell with me. One man, Ned Lavery, incurred a debt of two hundred crowns and is like to spend the rest of his life under lock and key. The poor devil is so desperate for food, I caught him eating his own breeches yesterday.’
‘Your own debt is much less than two hundred crowns.’
‘A paltry six pounds, borrowed of a rogue I thought a friend.’
‘I know the amount. I’ve spoken with the sergeant.’
‘What did he say?’
‘If the debt is discharged,’ replied Nicholas, ‘he has no right to hold you here. Though, from what I hear, he will be sorry to let you go.’
‘I earn a crust of bread by making the old walrus laugh.’
‘How would you like to earn more than a crust of bread?’
Mussett put a hand over his heart. ‘Teach me how, sir, and I’ll be your most obedient servant. If I breathe this fetid air any longer, it will kill me.’
‘You’d need to agree to a contract.’
‘State your terms and I’ll abide by them to the letter.’
‘Then, first,’ stipulated Nicholas, ‘understand this. We do not discharge your debt by means of a gift. It is money on loan and we expect you to pay it back to us, by degrees, out of your wage.’
‘I’d insist on doing that.’
‘Next, we come to your reputation.’
Mussett sighed. ‘Do I still have one worthy of the word?’
‘Drunkenness and truculence are always linked to your name.’