Bartholomew Fair was an annual event, held on the broad acres of Smithfield, and mixing commerce with entertainment so skilfully that visitors came flocking from far afield. It had been founded almost five hundred years earlier by Rahere, jester to King Henry I. The story went that Rahere had been taken ill during a pilgrimage to Rome, reflected on the errors of his ways and became determined to amend his character. Accordingly, he founded a priory and hospice dedicated to St Bartholomew. The fair that was
held for three days from the eve of St Bartholomew’s Day, late in August, was the greatest cloth fair in England. Even when he became Prior, the reformed jester, Rahere, still acted as Lord of the Fair and frequently performed his juggling tricks for the amusement of the crowd. The influence of the Church over the event had long since declined but the spirit of Rahere survived. Jugglers, dancers, clowns, acrobats, puppeteers, wrestlers, strong men, freaks and performing bears were just as much a part of the fair as the hundreds of stall holders who came to sell their wares.
Though there were still two days to go, some of the participants had already started to converge on London and a number of booths were being erected. Among the early arrivals was Moll Comfrey, a pert young peddler whose large basket was filled to the brim with pins, needles, combs, brushes, assorted trinkets and rolls of material of every kind and colour. Hanging from the basket were sundry ballads and pinned to her skirt were dozens of other bits of material that could be used to patch clothing. Her frail appearance belied her robust health. Moll walked long distances between fairs and markets, in all weathers, and carried her heavy basket with practised ease. Her occupation had given her a strength and tenacity that were not visible. What people saw on first acquaintance was a pretty girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen years with fair curls poking out from beneath her bonnet. There was an air of battered innocence about her that made her stand out in a crowd.
Moll was talking to one of the stall holders when a voice rang out behind her.
‘Is that you, Moll?’ asked the man.
‘Lightfoot!’ she exclaimed with a laugh, as she turned to see the figure who was somersaulting towards her over the grass. He came to a halt in front of her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I was hoping to find you here today.’
‘We’ve found each other.’
‘You look wondrous well.’
‘I keep myself in fine fettle,’ he said. ‘Watch!’
Lightfoot did a series of cartwheels that took him in a complete circle. When he bounced upright again, he was standing directly in front of his friend. The acrobat was a cheerful man in his late twenties, slim, short and lithe. Gaudily dressed in a red doublet that sprouted a small forest of blue and yellow ribbons, he wore bright green hose that showed off the neat proportions of his legs. During his energetic display, his pink cap with its white feather somehow stayed on his head. Lightfoot had an ugly face that became instantly more appealing when he smiled.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing to the carts that were trundling towards them. ‘Three more booths to be set up. Half the fair will be up before tomorrow morning. When did you reach London?’
‘Within the hour.’
‘Thank heaven you did not come yesterday.’
‘Why?’
‘Smithfield was not a happy place to be, Moll.’
‘Not happy?’
‘Public executions were held here. A man and a woman.’
‘Then I am glad I came no earlier,’ she said with a
shudder. ‘But I thought they hanged murderers at Tyburn now. I saw three dangling from the gallows when I was last in the city. The sight turned my stomach for days.’
‘Had you been here yesterday, you’d not have eaten for a week. They burnt a witch over there,’ he said, indicating the spot with an outstretched hand. ‘You can still see the ash. They tell me that people danced around the blaze for hours.’
Moll grimaced. ‘I wish you’d not told me that, Lightfoot.’
‘The woman is dead now.’
‘Yes, but her curse will remain. I felt something strange when I first stepped upon this grass,’ she said, eyes darting nervously. ‘It was like a cold wind yet the day is hot and sunny. I think it was an omen, Lightfoot. That witch has put a spell on the place.’
‘These are childish thoughts,’ he said amiably, patting her on the arm. ‘Bartholomew Fair is at hand. Three days of riot and enjoyment lie ahead. The Devil himself could not spoil our fair, let alone a dead witch.’
‘I hope that it is so.’
‘It is so, Moll. Come, let’s find a place to eat.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, brightening at once. ‘I am so glad to see you again.’
‘Then let me carry your basket for you.’
She dropped a mock curtsey. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’
They fell in beside each other and set off. Moll was delighted to meet Lightfoot so soon. He was more than simply a friend. Travelling the highway for a living exposed her to all manner of dangers and Lightfoot had rescued her
on more than one occasion. Whenever she was with him, she felt safe. He was a clever acrobat. Though she had seen his tricks many times, Moll never tired of watching them. Lightfoot had another virtue. He picked up news faster than anyone else she knew. If they arrived at a new fair, he would always have the latest tidings to report.
‘What was the woman’s name?’ she asked. ‘This witch that they burnt.’
‘Jane Gullet.’
‘And you say a man died with her?’
‘A murderer, hanged for his crime.’
‘Who was his victim?’
‘One Vincent Webbe, stabbed cruelly to death.’
‘Then the killer deserved to hang,’ she said. ‘What was his name?’
‘You are so full of questions today, Moll,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Only because I know that you will have the answers.’
‘It will cost you a kiss to hear the man’s name.’
‘Most men pay for my kisses.’
‘I pay with information.’
She giggled and nodded. ‘As you wish.’
‘Then first, my kiss.’
‘That must wait, Lightfoot. I want a name before you claim your reward.’
‘So be it. His name was Gerard Quilter.’
Moll stopped dead in her tracks. Her face turned white, her eyes widened in fear and she began to tremble violently. She grabbed him by the arm.
‘No!’ she protested vehemently. ‘You are mistook. Whatever it was, it could not have been that name.’
‘I heard it loud and clear.’
‘Never!’
‘The murderer was Master Gerard Quilter.’
‘Then there must be two men with the same name. Do you know anything else about him, Lightfoot? Was he old, young, tall or short? Where did he dwell? What occupation did he follow?’
‘As to his age and size,’ he replied, ‘I can tell you nothing, but I do know that he lived in the country. Before that, Gerard Quilter was a respected mercer here in the city.’ He grinned hopefully. ‘I’ve given you a name, Moll. Where is my kiss?’
But she was in no position to give it to him. After letting out a sigh of distress, she promptly fainted and ended up in a heap on the ground.
Nicholas Bracewell waited until the performance was over before he made his move. Having failed to make any headway themselves, Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill had pleaded with him to speak to their resident playwright in order to persuade him to renounce his decision to leave. Nicholas was as disturbed as they were to hear the news of Edmund Hoode’s impending departure but he did not wish to tackle him until
Love’s Sacrifice
was over and his duties as a book holder had been discharged. Before his friend could slip away after the performance, Nicholas took him into the little room where the properties and costumes were stored.
‘You distinguished yourself yet again, Edmund,’ he observed.
‘Thank you, Nick. I felt inspired today.’
‘Your play brought out the best in everyone.’
‘Nothing I have written is closer to my heart,’ said Hoode dreamily. ‘There are lines in the piece that turned out to foretell my own future.’
‘That is what I wish to touch upon,’ said Nicholas gently. ‘There seems to be some doubt about your future with the company.’
‘No doubt at all, Nick. I am to withdraw.’
‘When you have the success you gained the afternoon?’
‘Applause soon dies away. What is left in its wake?’
‘Satisfaction,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and the feeling that you have served the play and your fellows as best you may. Since you are the author of the piece, you had a double triumph onstage today. Does it mean nothing to you?’
‘It gave me a brief pleasure, I grant you.’
‘You said that you felt inspired.’
‘Why, yes,’ replied Hoode, ‘but not by a play we’ve given a dozen times before. Parts of it begin to stale already. What lifted my spirits was the thought that I was acting in front of my redeemer. She was
there
, Nick.’
‘So I understand.’
‘And before you utter another syllable, let me warn you that I am deaf to all entreaty. I know that Lawrence has set you on to me but to no avail. I am adamant.’ He tried to move off. ‘And I must not keep a lady waiting.’
‘Hold still,’ said Nicholas, blocking his path. ‘I’d hoped
our friendship earned me more than minute of your time.’
‘It does, Nick, it does. You have been a rock to which I have clung many times and I’ll not forget that. When I leave Westfield’s Men, I mean to keep Nick Bracewell’s friendship.’
‘That depends on the manner in which you depart.’
‘I go for love – what better reason is there?’
‘Set it against the loyalty you owe to the company.’
‘That is what I have done.’
‘On the strength of two days’ acquaintance with a lady?’
‘You sound like Lawrence,’ said Hoode with a chuckle. ‘That rampant satyr had the gall to lecture me on the folly of falling in love so swiftly when he has done so twice a week at times. We’ve both seen him pursue a woman within the very hour that they first meet. At least, I cannot lay that charge at Barnaby’s feet.’ He smiled discreetly. ‘Only a pretty boy with a winsome smile can take his fancy.’
‘We are talking about you, Edmund, not them. Their private lives do not threaten the future of Westfield’s Men. Yours, however, does. All that I ask is that you reflect on your decision before it is too late.’
‘What blandishments has Lawrence told you to offer?’
‘None,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I speak on my own account. It would distress me greatly to lose you as a friend and as a fellow. If you have found true love, I wish you every happiness. No man deserves it more. But must it sever your bonds with us? If you flourish onstage when your beloved is in the audience, why not continue to delight her and the other spectators?’
‘Because there is a world elsewhere.’
‘You once thought Westfield’s Men was your whole universe.’
‘It was,’ replied Hoode earnestly. ‘And I leave it with much regret. But I have achieved all that I can within the company. A new life beckons me, with new challenges and fresh delights.’ He looked sad. ‘I see that you censure me, Nick.’
‘You can hardly expect my blessing.’
‘Wherein lies my crime?’
‘You leave us at a time when we most need your talents.’
‘That argument did not carry much weight for you, as I recall.’
‘What?’ said Nicholas, taken aback.
‘It was only yesterday that you threatened to leave the company as well.’
‘Circumstances differed, Edmund.’
‘Did they? I think not. You put loyalty to a friend before your obligations to Westfield’s Men. I have done the same, Nick. The only difference is that
my
friend also chances to be my future wife.’
‘That is an unfair comparison,’ complained Nicholas.
‘Not in my eyes,’ said Hoode. ‘Lawrence may have thought that you could win me over but he sent the wrong ambassador. We are too alike. Both of us are ready to quit the company in the cause of a greater commitment. Westfield’s Men rely on you just as much as on me, Nick. If treachery is afoot, we are both guilty of it.’
Nicholas had no answer. There was a grain of truth in
Hoode’s argument and it left him speechless. He stood aside so that the other man could leave. Nicholas was upset that his persuasive tongue had made no impact on his friend. Hoode had made impulsive decisions before but he could usually be talked out of them. This time, Nicholas sensed, the playwright was beyond the reach of cold reason. He was still brooding on his failure when Lawrence Firethorn came bustling in.
‘I’ve just seen Edmund leave,’ he said. ‘Did you change his mind?’
‘Not entirely,’ admitted Nicholas.
‘But you are our last hope. Did you wrest no concession from him?’
‘Edmund would give none.’
‘Does he still purpose to leave the company?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘I’ll speak to him again. This was not the time or place.’
‘Where and when better?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Edmund has just given a stirring performance in one of his own plays. He has experienced those unparalleled joys that drew him to the theatre in the first place. It should have left him ripe for conversion.’
‘His mind was set against it, I fear.’
‘It is not his mind that Mistress Avice Radley works upon, Nick, but his body. Let him fall into her arms again and Lord Westfield himself could not pull him safely out.’
‘We’ll need to be more subtle in our argument.’
‘No,’ decreed Firethorn. ‘Our survival is at stake. We need to be more brutal.’
Francis Quilter hardly moved from his chosen position throughout the day. Having stationed himself close to the river, he watched a whole array of vessels come and go. None hailed from France and nobody could give him confirmation that the
Speedfast
, the expected ship, would arrive at all that day. Contrary tides might have held it up across the Channel, other problems might have delayed its departure. Quilter grew increasingly frustrated. As afternoon declined towards evening, his spirits were ebbing slowly away. The arrival of Nicholas Bracewell revived him at once.
‘What news, Frank?’ asked the newcomer.
‘I am heartily sick of looking at the Thames. That is all the news I can offer.’