‘Show me the letter, Roger.’
‘I have it right here, sir.’
‘When was it delivered?’
‘It arrived post haste this morning.’
Roger Godolphin, Earl of Chichester, now held daily meetings with the inner circle of his party. The Earl of Banbury was the first to be given sight of the missive which had been sent from Hardwick Hall by its formidable owner, the Countess of Shrewsbury. Grandmother to the next Queen of England, she was doing her duty with admirable thoroughness.
My good Lord, I am much troubled to think that wicked and mischievous practices may be devised to entrap my poor Arabella and to rob her of her inheritance. Your warnings on this account have been observed to the letter. I will not have any unknown or suspected person to come to my house. Upon the least suspicion that may happen here, any way, I shall give advertisement to your lordship. Arabella walks not late; at such time as she shall take the air, it shall be near the house, and well attended on. She goes not to any other dwelling at all. I see her almost every hour of the day. She lies in my bedchamber. If I can be more precise than I have been, I will be. I am bound in nature to be careful for Arabella, and I find her loving and dutiful towards me. She understands our hopes for her future and will do all that you may ask of her through me. Doubt not that this business will have a joyous conclusion from which both we and the whole kingdom will draw benefit …
The Earl of Banbury returned the letter and nodded.
‘This could not bring more content,’ he said smugly.
‘If only Bess would not harp on about herself.’
‘We must give the old mare her head.’
‘The filly is our concern,’ said Chichester with a wry chuckle. ‘Queen she may well be but virgin she will not stay. We must find a husband for her bed in good time.’
‘The Duke of Parma offered his son.’
‘The young man died with fear.’
‘There are other dukes with other sons.’
‘Italian? French?’
‘Spanish even.’ He pondered. ‘No, not Spain.’
‘Should we look to Holland or Germany?’
‘There are possibilities enough on our own soil, Roger.’
‘Then that is our way,’ said Chichester, standing to attention with military suddenness. ‘Arabella will try one and try all till she find the man most fitted for her lusty purposes. She can roll through the bedchambers of Europe.’
Banbury grinned. ‘Royal business indeed!’
‘Let her marry four of them like her grandmother!’
‘Observe some decorum here, sir. You talk of the future Queen of England.’
‘Elizabeth has her favourites — why not Arabella?’
‘Would you turn our sovereign into a species of whore?’
‘Why not?’ said Chichester with a hint of soldierly coarseness. ‘I believe that every woman should mix a little lunacy with her loving.’
Banbury was amused. ‘A roving monarch in search of a mate. Bedding the noblest youth in all Europe.’
‘Arabella Stuart — Queen of England!’
‘A mad courtesan!’
Chapter Nine
Alexander Marwood was a self-appointed martyr. A man who was terrified of women married one of the most fearsome members of the breed. A person who hated responsibility and loathed riotous behaviour owned the largest and most volatile inn along Gracechurch Street. A creature who detested all plays and players found himself host to one of the best theatre companies in London. A natural recluse with an abiding contempt for mankind was daily surrounded by hundreds of abominable faces. A reluctant father spent much of his waking hours guarding the virginity of a nubile daughter. An already seriously balding individual presented himself with regular excuses to tear out the remaining tufts from his unlovely scalp. Marwood’s life was death by crucifixion.
He felt another nail being driven through his palm.
‘A prudent landlord should always look for profit.’
‘I have enough manure at the Queen’s Head, sir.’
‘We offer your patrons a delight, Master Marwood.’
‘Not on these premises.’
‘But this yard is ideal for our purposes.’
‘We have all the dancing nags we require.’
‘Nimbus is a king among horses.’
‘Crown him elsewhere.’
Cornelius Gant was meeting stiff opposition from the emaciated landlord. The more that Marwood was pressed, the more he retreated into a twitching hostility. Cavernous eyes glared. Lids fluttered violently like agitated butterflies. His slight, angular body arched and shuddered its refusal. Gant tempered his argument with rank flattery.
‘You are highly regarded, sir,’ he lied extravagantly. ‘Many say that the Queen’s Head is without a peer. Your ale is much praised and your hospitality commended. When people think of Mine Host, they think of Alexander Marwood.’
‘Away with these jests!’
‘Your inn is always full, your patrons always happy.’
‘Do not spoil my trade with your low tricks.’
‘Nimbus and I seek only to increase it.’ Gant applied some real persuasion. ‘Six hostelries have already given us licence and each one has begged us to return. We have put money in their purses, Master Marwood, and added a lustre to their name. Ask of us at The Feathers in Eastcheap. Go to the Brazen Serpent. Seek a report from the Antelope. They and three others will attest our merit.’
Marwood stole a glance at Nimbus then studied the owner again with unabated suspicion. Something told him that he would be widening the scope of his martyrdom if he acceded to this strange request. His twitch took up residence on his left ear and made it vibrate like the wing of a hummingbird.
Gant tried once more. ‘Do you not stage plays here?’
‘Against my better judgement.’
‘And do they not put money into your coffers?’
‘Not enough!’ wailed Marwood. ‘They will never yield enough to pay for the tortures I undergo in housing them.’
‘Westfield’s Men must give you a sizeable rent.’
‘Only when I hound them for it.’
‘Let me offer mine in advance, sir …’
Marwood was speechless. The uncouth old man in the garb of a long-discharged soldier was holding out a bag of coins. He was actually willing to buy the right to put his horse through its paces in the yard. Whatever happened during the performance, the landlord could not lose. He trapped the hummingbird ear with one hand then appraised Nimbus afresh. Cornelius Gant jingled the coins. The deal was struck.
There was no delay. Gant produced a trumpet and blew a wild alarum to gain the attention of all who lounged within earshot of the yard. When his musicianship expressed itself in the beating of a small drum, he drew dozens more out into the open air and sent Nimbus prancing in a circle on its hind legs. By the time that Gant had finished pounding and Nimbus had finished prancing, over two hundred people had formed a circle around them and more were drawn in from the street outside. The real performance could begin.
It was unerring. The precision of the dancing and the brilliance of the counting display astounded all present but their open-mouthed wonder was relieved at intervals by some inspired clowning. Cornelius Gant allowed himself to be nudged, tripped, butted, bitten, trodden upon and buffeted in a dozen different ways. At one point, Nimbus even rested his front hooves on its master’s shoulders to draw him into a comic dance. When Gant took his bow, the same hooves struck his buttocks with such force that he was propelled forward into a double somersault. Turning from foe to friend, the horse gripped the old man’s collar to drag him upright once more. And so it went on.
The performers had their audience enthralled. Gant felt the familiar surge of power. Repelled by the animal-baiting he had witnessed at Paris Garden, he was yet ready to inflict pain on himself but not on his horse. It was the audience who felt the quiet gnash of his teeth and the gentle flick of his whip. They were his. He controlled their pleasure and dictated their response. Delaying their laughter with some elaborate comic business, he could introduce discomfort. Keeping them in awe for extended periods, he could separate them from the relief of applause. The men, women and children who watched the act might be joyfully absorbed but they were also drained by the cruel suspense, taxed by the multiple unpredictabilities and punished by a cunning sadist.