His work inevitably suffered. During the performance of The Two Maids of Milchester on the following afternoon, he was so subdued that Barnaby Gill was able to wrest scene after scene from him. Firethorn did not even seem to notice the indignity, let alone to care. His mind was on higher things. When the play was over and a disgruntled audience had filed out of the Queen’s Head, the actor turned to the one man in the company who might yet save him.
‘Advise me, Nick!’ he begged.
‘My advice is to forget this lady,’ said Nicholas.
‘She spurned me. No woman has ever done that before. Am I not Lawrence Firethorn? Am I not King Gondar and Tarquin and Black Antonio and Pompey the Great and Richard the Lionheart and all the other giants of the London stage?’
‘You are indeed, sir.’
‘Yet she spurns me. She spurns every one of me!’
‘It may be for the best.’
‘When it murders my very soul!’
Firethorn’s howl shook the timbers of the private room where they conversed. Nicholas Bracewell had to balance honesty against diplomacy. He was thankful that Mistress Beatrice Capaldi had turned down the invitation from his employer but he would not dare to say that to an infatuated man of legendary temper. Besides, he had come to understand the nature of that infatuation now that he had seen the lady herself at close range. Beatrice Capaldi was a cut above the conventional beauties who idolised the famous actor and who flung themselves at his feet. They were all victims of his charm and his arrogant manliness. Beatrice Capaldi would never join their number. She liked victims of her own.
‘Why does she dare to scorn me?’ demanded Firethorn.
‘The lady may be fast married, sir.’
‘That is no barrier. I have borrowed a wife from many a husband before now and will do so again. Besides, she brought no Master Capaldi to watch me perform. When you gave her my letter, you said she was attended by two manservants.’
‘It is true, sir.’
‘Then her husband is of no account,’ decided Firethorn with a snap of his fingers. ‘If he exists, it is my bounden duty to cuckold the rogue. If not, let’s waste no more breath upon him. Beatrice came to me alone. I cling to that.’
‘Consider her name,’ suggested Nicholas, making one last attempt to deter his employer. ‘Mistress Capaldi.’
‘I consider it every minute of the day, Nick.’
‘The lady is of Italian extraction.’
‘It is the essence of her beauty.’
‘She may also be wed to an Italian gentleman.’
‘Your conclusion?’
‘Beatrice Capaldi is a Roman Catholic.’
‘Love is without denomination!’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘Were she Protestant, Jew or Presbyterian, I could worship her no less. Were she a godless child of an African heathen, it would not alter my heart. Were she got between two Druids in some pagan rite, I would not stay my hand here. I love her!’
‘That is plain, sir.’
‘Then help me, Nick!’
‘I am yours to command.’
‘What game does she play with me?’
Beatrice Capaldi stood bolt upright while her dressmaker made a few final adjustments to his latest creation. With an ingratiating bow, he then backed away so that she could inspect the result in the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated one wall of her bedchamber. The dress was a work of art in white and silver. Simple and heavily padded, it had a close-fitting bodice with a long-fronted stomacher that dipped in a deep point to the stiffened basque of the French farthingale. The basque was made of the same material as the flounced bell-shaped skirt and concealed the hard line of the wheeled farthingale. Trunk sleeves were full at the top and tapered to the wrists, giving the demi-cannon effect that was now in fashion. Beatrice Capaldi examined each detail with care until she was entirely satisfied. She then walked around the room to get the feel of her new dress and to enjoy the sensual swish of its skirt. When she had had her fill, she repaid her dressmaker with an indulgent smile. He bowed frantically then backed out with servile gratitude. Left alone in front of the mirror, she toyed with the low square décolletage across the front of the dress so that she could display a more generous area of her full breasts. There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered with writing materials on a tray. Beatrice Capaldi crossed to sit at the little table and the paper was put in front of her. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, she wrote a single line.
‘True love requires a true sacrifice.’
The letter was sealed but not signed and the name of Master Lawrence Firethorn was added with a flourish. She handed the missive to the manservant with a curt order.
‘See it delivered to the Queen’s Head directly.’
Nimbus was equal to the occasion. The London debut of Cornelius Gant and His Amazing Horse was a comprehensive success. It took place in the yard at The Feathers where fifty or more casual bystanders were transformed into a rapt audience. The performers showed enough of their skills to dazzle the spectators while holding back their principal tricks for use before larger gatherings at a later date. Dancing and counting were the basis of their act. While the versatile Gant played on a pipe, Nimbus went through a whole series of dances, beginning with a coranto and ending with a sprightly galliard. But it was the money trick which tricked money out of purses.
‘Place your coins in this hat, sirs,’ invited Gant as he held it out. ‘You’ll get it back with interest, I warrant.’ When the spectators hesitated, Nimbus grabbed the hat in grinning teeth to take it around. Twenty or more coins were tossed laughingly into the receptacle which was then taken back to Cornelius Gant. Taking hold of the hat, he pulled out a gold coin and held it up.
‘Who gave you this, Nimbus?’
The horse picked out the donor at once and nudged him. Gant indicated another man and asked how much he had contributed. Nimbus promptly tapped his foot three times and three coins were returned to their astonished owner. And so it went on. The animal was able to identify both the giver and the amount given until the hat was completely empty. The applause was vigorous and coins came back more plentifully. By way of an encore, Gant let his partner tip the takings onto the ground so that they could be added up with a tapped hoof. Nimbus was a precise accountant whose nimble work brought forth another hail of money.
It was a gratifying response to an unusual act but it was not only his full purse that pleased Gant. He took more satisfaction from the impact they had had upon the watching patrons. Those men would spread the word throughout and beyond Eastcheap. The seeds of reputation would be sown and future audiences would be primed and set up.
Cornelius Gant and Nimbus had arrived.
The influence of Lord Westfield opened doors for Nicholas Bracewell once again. He visited Andrew Carrick in the cell in the Beauchamp Tower and gave him an account both of the funeral and of his nocturnal investigations in Clerkenwell. The lawyer thanked him profusely for all that he had done but warned him against taking too many risks. Nicholas had now removed the bandaging from his head to reveal a dark bruise and an ugly scar. He insisted that he was willing to collect more wounds if they would take him closer to the murderer of Sebastian Carrick. The father was touched.
Grief pressed down upon him. Having lost a son, he was anxious to console his daughter but he was kept in the Tower because his sovereign had a fit of pique. While the Queen was ill, all hope of release had vanished. Andrew Carrick was surprisingly well informed about the progress of events.
‘Her Majesty fades quietly away,’ he said, ‘and her courtiers rush around to find themselves a successor who will favour them. Several names have been mentioned and each has its party and its parasites.’