Glanville gave her sensible advice. He told her to make sure that the new master was busy elsewhere before she entered his bedchamber. He urged her to leave doors and windows open while she was busy at her work. In the event of any further attack, her screams would be heard and help would soon come. Jane Skinner listened to it all with solemn concentration. She did exactly what the steward told her and the problem soon vanished. There was never a chance of her being caught by Francis Jordan in his bedchamber. She was circumspect.
Her anxieties eased and her confidence slowly returned. She was less furtive in her duties. What happened before could be put down to the new master's visit to the cellars. Too much wine had put lechery in his mind and lust in his loins. It would not occur again. Jane Skinner talked herself into believing it. She was making the bed in a chamber on the top storey when that belief was fractured. The door shut behind her and she turned to see Francis Jordan resting his back against it.
'Oh!' she said. 'You startled me!'
'I came to find you, Jane.'
'How did you know I was here, master?'
'I saw you from below,' he explained. 'I was in the garden when you opened the window up here. It was an opportunity I could not miss.'
He smiled broadly and took a few steps towards her. Jane backed away and pulled up a sheet in front of her chest as if trying to ward him off. Shaking with fear, she squealed her protest.
'Do not come any closer, please!'
'If that is what you wish,' he said, stopping.
'I will scream if you touch me, sir.'
'But I came here to apologise.'
'Did you?'
'Why else? Do you take me for such a complete ogre?'
'No, master,' she said cautiously.
'Put down your sheet, Jane,' he told her. 'You are in no danger here, girl. I am sorry for what took place the other day. I was hot with wine and my behaviour was ungentlemanly. Will you accept my apology?'
'Well…yes, sir.'
'It is honestly given. As you see, I am quite sober now."
She nodded. 'May I go, master?'
'I am not stopping you,' he said, crossing to open the door wide. 'It is not my purpose to disturb you when you have duties to perform. I know that you are a conscientious girl.'
'I try to be, master.'
‘Then carry on with your work. Goodbye.'
'Oh’
His departure was as abrupt as his arrival. He marched out of the room and left her bewildered. Instead of a second assault, she had been accorded respect and even kindness. It soothed her instantly and she went back to the bed. She was just finishing her task when Jordan sauntered up to the door again and tapped on it with his knuckles.
'May I come in, Jane?'
'If you wish, master.'
The chambermaid was surprised but not intimidated this time.
'I forgot to tell you something,' he said.
'Yes, sir?'
'It was wrong of me to jump on you like that because ir was an insult to you. I see that now. You're a fine-looking girl, Jane Skinner. You deserve more than a brief tumble like that.'
'Thank you, sir,' she said, misunderstanding him.
'A young woman like you should get her full due.'
'Should I, master?'
'Come to me for a whole night.'
His casual manner reinforced the impact of his order. Jane Skinner reeled as if from a heavy blow. To be grabbed and groped by him was ordeal enough but this was far worse. Her heart constricted as she viewed the prospect ahead of her. Francis Jordan was the master of Parkbrook House. His word was law within its walls. If she did not comply, she would be dismissed from his service.
Appraising her frankly, he gave her a thin smile.
'I will send for you some time in the near future, Jane. I'll expect you to answer my summons.'
She bit her lip in distress and her mind was a furnace.
'This is a matter between the two of us,' he said. 'I would not have it discussed elsewhere. Besides, there is nobody to whom you can turn. My word is everything at Parkbrook.'
He strolled across to her and lifted her chin with his finger. Jane was petrified. His touch was like a red-hot needle. He ran his eyes over her once more then nodded his approval. Turning on his heel, he went slowly out of the room.
The chambermaid was horror-stricken. She was caught like an animal in a trap and could see no means of escape. Life at Parkbrook had held no such fears under the old master but those days had clearly gone. To defy Francis Jordan seemed impossible yet to obey him would be to surrender everything she valued in her life. It was unthinkable. As a deep panic coursed through her, she felt the need to turn to somebody. Glanville would offer her sympathy even if he could not actually save her. With a little cry of anguish, Jane ran off to find him. She felt hurt, molested and thoroughly abused.
The long journey down to the ground floor left her breathless and she had to pause for a while to gather her strength. Then she was off again, searching every room and corridor with panting urgency, asking anyone she met if they knew where Glanville was. But there was no sign of the steward. At a time when she needed him most, he was simply not there. Despair gnawed at her. It was one of the carpenters at work in the Great Hall who gave her a faint hope.
'I think he be up in his room, mistress.'
She gabbled her thanks and took to her heels again.
Joseph Glanville had apartments on the first floor in the west wing. The correct way to approach them was to go up the main staircase and along the landings. But the steward also had a private staircase, a narrow, circular affair that corkscrewed upwards at the extreme end of the west wing. It was a mark of status and nobody else was allowed to use it except Glanville but the chambermaid forgot about that rule. Needing the quickest route to a source of help, she dashed along the corridor and clambered up the oak treads of the private staircase. Her shoes echoed and her breathing became more laboured.
When she reached the door, she pounded on it with both fists.
'Master Glanville! Master Glanville!' Who is it?' called a stern voice from within.
'Jane Skinner, sir.'
A bolt was drawn back, a key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. Jane had no opportunity to blurt out her story. The steward glared down at her with smouldering eyes.
'Did you come up that staircase?' he demanded.
'Yes, sir. I wanted to see you about-'
‘It is for my personal use! You have no right, Jane Skinner.'
'No, sir.'
'How dare you flout my privilege!'
'But I needed to-'
'It is quite inexcusable,' he said angrily. 'You have no business coming to my apartments. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait until I am available. You must never come here again, Jane. Do you understand that?
'Yes, master.'
'And you must never use that staircase again. I forbid it!'
Glanville withdrew and closed the door in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock. Jane was totally shattered. A man who had always shown her consideration in the past was now openly hostile. The one person who might stand between her and Francis Jordan had let her down in the most signal way. Her position was worse than ever.
*
The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.
Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.
He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out.
Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.
Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield’s Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.
'I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.'
'It happens, sir.'
'Is foul play suspected?'
'Roper Blundell was poisoned,' said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. 'He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.'
'I have never had a complaint before!' said Marwood defensively.
'Your victims keel over before they can make it.'
'You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.'
'That is my pleasure, sir.'
'My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.'
'A sure sign of drunkenness.'
'They speak well of its taste and potency.
'Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.'
Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else's amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.
'The Queens Head has a fine reputation.'
'You may put that down to Westfield's Men, sir.'
'And to our own endeavours.' He became businesslike. 'I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.'
'It will be paid at the end of the performance.'
'You still owe me money from last week, sir.'
'An unfortunate oversight.'
'It is one of your habits.'
'Do not pass remarks on my character,' warned Firethorn. 'All accounts will be paid in full.'
'I am glad to hear it.'
Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.
'I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.'
'We play Love and Fortune,' said Firethorn grandly. 'It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.'
‘Good,' said Marwood. 'I want no corpses at my inn.'
'Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you'll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!'
Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn's ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield's Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queens Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.
Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.
'You should have let me handle him, master.'
'The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!'
'He needs much reassurance.'
'He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.' Firethorn inhaled deeply. 'I'll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I'll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!'
'Master Marwood does not love the theatre,' said Nicholas.
'Nor does the theatre love him, sir!'
The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.
'Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?'
'What, master?'
'That he did not want a dead body at the Queen's Head. Zounds! That Marwood is a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He's a posthumous oaf!’
'Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?'
'No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!'
'Did you tell him the cause of death?'
'I turned it into a joke against his drink.'
'We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.'
'Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.'
'Not in my opinion, master.'
'You heard Doctor Mordrake.'
'He was mistaken.'
'Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.'
'If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.'
'The two go together,' said Firethorn. 'The Devil chose to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.'
'Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.'
'He's the root cause of all our misfortunes.'
'But he was sad when he learned of Roper's end.'
'That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby but lie has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest or Hell has done?'
'What, sir?'
'Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.'
'He is employed by one of our rivals?'
'Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury's Men.'
Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.
*
Alchemy was an irresistible temptation for the rogue and charlatan. So little was known of the science and so much claimed for it that fake alchemists set up all over London and found a ready supply of credulous gulls. Greed and folly activated most of the people who visited the new breed of magicians. They came in search of unlimited wealth and unlimited life, hoping to turn base metal into gold and yearning to find an elixir of youth. Notwithstanding the large sums they invested in their ambition, they failed to achieve either objective. Success somehow eluded them, as did the confidence tricksters themselves when their ruses were finally exposed. In the high-sounding name of alchemy, the public was seduced daily and exploited unmercifully.
Doctor John Mordrake was one of the few scientists whose record was blameless. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, he never tried to mislead or bamboozle his clients. Indeed, he often bent his extraordinary energies to unmasking fraudulent practices among his rival magicians. He never made extravagant claims for what alchemy might do, only for what it could do.
His furnace was kept on the ground floor of his house in Knightrider Street and its fumes were often seeking out the nostrils of an}' passers-by. As he stood beside it now, Mordrake watched his assistant stoke up the fire to increase the heat. The customer, an obese man in brown satin, rubbed his hands with glee.
'When will my gold be ready, Doctor Mordrake?'
'Do not be hasty, sir," warned the other. 'There are twelve stages in the alchemical process and none of them can be rushed. The first six are devoted to the making of the White Stone.'
'And then? And then?' asked the man eagerly.
'Six more long and careful stages.'
The assistant raked the coals again and sparks filled the room. While the customer stepped back in alarm, Mordrake held his ground and let the fiery atoms of light fall around him.
'How does it work?' said the customer.
"We are not sure that it will, sir.'
'But if my metal is refined into gold…'
Mordrake tossed his silver locks and gave a lecture.
'All substances are composed of four elements,' he began. 'By which, I mean earth, air, fire and water. In most things, those elements are not equally balanced. It is only in gold that they may be found in their perfect proportion. That is why we prize gold above all else. It is eternal, it is indestructible.'
'It is the source of true wealth,' noted the customer.
'My friend, my friend,' said Mordrake sadly. 'Do not be moved by a sordid desire for gain. Learn from Cicero-O fallacem hominem spem! Oh how deceitful is the hope of man! Remember Seneca-Magna servitus est magna fortuna. A great fortune is a great slavery. I do not work to satisfy the greed of men. That is ignoble and not the true end of alchemical inquiry. I seek perfection.'
'Does that not involve gold?'
'Only in the initial stage of the search.' He indicated the furnace with a blue-veined hand. 'In my raging fire here, I try to bring metals to their highest state, which is gold, but I would learn the science of applying the same principle to everything in life and-yes, sir-to life itself. Do you comprehend?'
'No,' said the man dully.
'I want to clothe all creation in perfection!'; There was a long pause as the visitor assimilated the idea.
Can we make a start with my gold?'
Mordrake patted him on the shoulder then led him to the front door. When he had shown the man out, he padded upstairs to return to his work. As the old man entered the room, an elegant figure looked up from the massive book over which he was poring.
'Have you found what you were after, sir?' asked Mordrake.
'Indeed.'
'I would not show Malleus Maleficarum to many eyes.'
'That is why I am so grateful to you, Doctor Mordrake.'
'We’ll set a price on that gratitude later,' said the other with a scholarly grin. 'Did the book enlighten you?'
"Wonderfully, sir. It made me think.'
' Vivere est cogitare.'
'To live is to think. We learned that tag at Cambridge.'
'From whom?
'Horace.'
'Cicero,' said Mordrake. You should have gone to Oxford.'
'Neither place could help me fulfil my destiny,' said the young man wistfully. 'I was born to serve other imperatives.'
'I am pleased that the book has been a help to you.'
'Much more than a help, sir. It has pointed out my way for me.'
*
Edmund Hoode was transported by delight. His performance in Love and Fortune had won plaudits from Grace Napier that thrilled him and congratulations from Isobel Drewry that he did not even hear. The play had been well-received by an audience who knew it for one of the staples of the company's repertoire. There had been nothing to dim the pleasure of the afternoon. Though everyone was on the alert for trouble, none came and none even threatened. Hoode's cup of joy overflowed when Grace acceded to his request.
'Yes, sir, I would like to dine with you.'
'We'll arrange a place and time to suit your convenience.'
‘It will have to be after my return from the country.'
‘You are leaving London?' His stomach revolved.
'At the end of the week,' she explained. 'But I will not be away for long, Master Hoode, and then we shall certainly dine together.'
‘I will count the hours until that blessed time.'
‘Do not wave me off so soon,' she chided with a smile. 'I do not leave for a few days yet. I will be here at the Queen's Head again tomorrow to watch Vincentio's Revenge.'
‘And so will I,' piped Isobel.
Hoode shifted his feet. 'I am not well-cast in this tragedy.'
'It is no matter, sir,' said Grace pleasantly. 'I would watch you if you played but the meanest servant. It is Edmund Hoode that I come to see and not the part he plays.'
He kissed her hand on impulse. Isobel giggled inappropriately.
When the two of them left, he shuttled between happiness and misery. Grace Napier had agreed to dine with him but she had first to go away. Before he could be really close to her, they would have to be far apart. The thought that she might stir outside London filled him with dread. He wanted her to be in the same city as himself, if not in the same ward, the same house, the same chamber, the same bed and the same love affair. After full consideration, he dismissed the pangs of remorse and decided that he was entitled to feel triumphant. He had got his response at last. His plays, his performances and his poems had won a promise from his beloved.
It was a triumph that merited a small celebration.
*
'More ale, Nick?'
'I have had my fill, I think.'
'A cup of wine to see you on your way?' It would detain me in this chair all night.'
They were sitting together in Hoode's lodging. Desperate to tell of his good fortune, the playwright had pressed his friend to come back for an hour that had somehow matured into four. Nicholas Bracewell drank, listened, nodded at intervals and threw in words of encouragement whenever a small gap appeared in the narrative. He tried to leave more than once but was restrained by his host. Grace Napier was the centre of Hoode's world and he went round and round her with repetitious zeal.
Nicholas eventually got to his feet and contrived a farewell. Another burst of memoirs held him on the doorstep for five minutes then he broke free. Hoode went back inside to marvel at his luck and to pen another sonnet to its source. If Grace could tolerate him as a venal Duke in Vincentio's Revenge, she must indeed be smitten.
It was a fine night. Nicholas ambled along a street with a sense of having done an important favour to his friend. It did not hurt him to listen to the amorous outpourings of Edmund Hoode and his presence had clearly meant so much to his host. The playwright would do as much for Nicholas. Not that he would ever lend himself to such a situation. Affairs of the heart were matters of discretion to him and no man had ever heard him boast or sigh. It was one of the qualities in him that most attracted Anne Hendrik.
The incessant talk of Grace Napier turned his mind to his landlady. Most of the things that Hoode praised in his beloved were traits that she shared with Anne. In thinking about one woman, Nicholas gained some insight into his relationship with another. For that alone, it was worth keeping a babbling playwright company. Nicholas sauntered on in a mood of quiet satisfaction. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.
It was only then that he realised just how much he had drunk. His reactions were far too slow. By the time he swung round, the first blow had already caught him on the side of his head. He tightened his fists and crouched to defend himself. There were two of them, burly figures with broad shoulders and thick necks. When both of them charged him, he was knocked back against a wall and his head struck the hard stone. His assailants began to pummel him.
Nicholas fought back as best he could. Evidently, the men were not the thieves he had at first assumed them to be. If they were after his purse, they would have used a cudgel to knock him unconscious or a knife to stab his back. Though he was taking punishment, he managed to retaliate strongly. When his fist made contact with a craggy face, it came back spattered with blood. Bringing his knee up sharply, he hit one of the men in the groin then pushed him away as he bent double in agony. The second man grappled with Nicholas.
The attackers were strong but they were not skilled fighters. Had Nicholas not been slowed by drink and dazed by the blow on his head, he could have handled them with ease. They were not after his money or his life. They had another purpose and he soon learned what it was.
'There he is, officers!' Seize the fellow!'
Come, sirs!' :
Stop in the name of the law!'
A young man ran along the street with two members of the watch. Before he knew what was happening, Nicholas found the two constables holding his arms. He protested his innocence and told how he had been attacked but they would not listen to him.
'This gentleman here witnessed the affray, sir.'
'Indeed, I did,' said the young man, stepping forward. 'You attacked that person with the beard and this other gentleman came to his aid.' He pointed to the man who was still doubled up in pain. 'Do you see, officers, how violent the assault must have been?'
'Leave this to us, sir,' said one of the constables.
Nicholas felt a sledgehammer inside his skull but his brain was still clear enough to work out that the three men were accomplices. With all his experience in the theatre, he could recognise stage management. They had set him up for arrest. When he tried to explain this, he was ignored. Nicholas did not cut an impressive figure with his bruised face, his torn jerkin and his slurred speech. The constables preferred to accept the word of the young man with an air of wealth about him.
Feeling drowsier by the minute, Nicholas did not hear what his two assailants were saying but they were obviously telling a prepared story. It was backed up by the young man. At one point, this individual stepped close to the lantern held by one of the constables. Nicholas had a fleeting glimpse and noticed two things. Though the book holder had never actually met the young man before, the latter's profile was somehow familiar, and on his right hand he wore a ring that gave a clue as to his identity because gold initials were embossed on black jet.
Nicholas wondered who GN could possibly be.
Having heard the statements, the constables became officious. Honest and just men, they lacked any real education and did their job as well as their meagre abilities allowed. They belonged to a profession that was much-mocked and much-maligned. London watchmen were notoriously inept and inefficient, as likely to aid a felon's escape through their stupidity as to bring him to book through their promptness. The two constables were well aware of their low reputation and they resented it strongly. Given the opportunity of such an easy apprehension of an offender, they made the most of it. One of them confronted Nicholas.
'I arrest you for assault and battery at the suit of Master Walter Grice.'
'But it was they who attacked me, officer,' said Nicholas.
'Come your way, sir,' said the constable.
Nicholas faced his assailants and fired a last question.
'Which one of you is Walter Grice?'
The larger of the two thrust his face in beside the lantern. There was a long cut above his right eye where Nicholas had split open his skin. Blood oozed freely down his cheek but he was not perturbed by it. Nor did he seem to bear Nicholas any ill will for the injury.
'I am Walter Grice,' he said. Sleep well tonight.'
The two constables took the prisoner off down the street.
*
It was midnight when she retired to her bed and he had not returned. When he was still absent after a further hour, Anne Hendrik became worried. Her lodger worked long and variable hours but he was usually home in time for supper. If he was going to be late, or stay away for the night, he always warned her in advance. It was most unlike him to be so late. Anne got up and went across to his bedchamber. By the light of her candle, she saw that the place was still empty. There was nothing which indicated where he might be.
She went back to her own room and climbed into bed once more, rehearsing the possibilities in her mind. Nicholas might have been asked back to the home of one of the players. That sometimes happened. Lawrence Firethorn liked to involve the book holder in any business discussions and Edmund Hoode often used him as a shoulder to cry on. Had he been to either place, he must certainly be back by now.
There were two other possibilities, neither of which was palatable to her. Nicholas had been led astray. Actors were a law unto themselves. They led strange, anarchic lives and took their pleasures along the way as and when they found them. Something of that spirit must have rubbed off on Nicholas and it was conceivable that female company had diverted him for once. Some of the company went roistering in taverns almost every night. Had Nicholas been persuaded to join them? He liked women and he was very attractive to them. What was there to stop him? Jealousy flared up and quickly turned to disgust. If he could cast her aside so easily for a casual fling, it said little for the depth of their friendship.
Anne Hendrik then remembered their blissful night together. He had been so tender and loving. No man could change so completely in such a short time. Besides, Nicholas was exceptionally honest. He was secretive but he never deceived her. If there was another woman in his life, he would be candid about it. Anne reprimanded herself for even suspecting him of infidelity. When she thought of the person she knew, with his sterling qualities and his fine values, she realised that he would not go astray easily.
That left only one option and it was fearful to contemplate. I le must have met with some accident or misadventure. Violence stalked the streets of London. Even as big and powerful a man as Nicholas Bracewell could not cope with every situation which a tl. uk night might throw up. He had been attacked, he was hurt, he was lying wounded somewhere. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. Nicholas was in serious trouble. She longed to be there to help him.
Where was he?
*
'Wake up, sir! Wake up! You'll have time enough for sleep inside!'
'What?' You've come to the Counter, sir, to take your ease.'
'How did I get here?'
'By personal invitation of our constables.'
The prison sergeant laughed harshly and showed blackened teeth. His beard was still flecked with the soup he had eaten earlier. He was a big, muscular, unprepossessing man with the reflex cruelty that went with his trade. While the constables gave their report, he scrutinised Nicholas with a cold and unforgiving stare. He had no difficulty in believing that such a man could commit such a crime.
Nicholas shook his head to focus his thoughts. His memory was playing tricks on him. He recalled the face of Walter Grice then there was a blank. Now he was standing inside the grim walls of the Counter in Wood Street, one of the many prisons in London and among the worst. He was forced to give his name and address then divulge his occupation. Mention of the playhouse brought a sneer from the sergeant.
'You'll play no scenes nor hold no book here, sir!'
'Sergeant, I have done nothing illegal.'
'That's what they all say.'
The law was slow and ridiculous but it punished those that it caught very severely. Nicholas had no illusions about what lay ahead. The privations of a long voyage had given him some knowledge of how men could degenerate. Locked away in the Counter was the detritus of society, creatures whose long voyage was made in some foul cell and who would never see the light of day again. Nicholas had no legal redress unless he could enlist the aid of friends. Only one thing mattered inside the prison.
'Where will you be lodged, sir?' asked the sergeant roughly.
'Lodged?'
'Our guests here choose their favourite chambers." Another harsh laugh rang out. 'There's fourteen prisons in London and we're the best, sir, if you have the garnish for it.'
'Garnish?'
As soon as he spoke the word, Nicholas understood its meaning. The Counter ran on bribery. It was not the nature of his offence or the severity of his sentence which determined a prisoner's accommodation. It was his ability to pay. Those with a long purse could buy almost anything but their freedom.
'We have three grades of lodging here,' said the sergeant.
'What are they, sir?'
'First, there's the Master's Side. That's where you’ll find the most comfortable quarters, sir. There’ll be fresh straw in your cell and sheets that are almost clean.'
'How much will that cost?' asked Nicholas.
'I'll have to put your name in the Black Book,' said the sergeant, opening the tome in front of him. 'That will need a couple of shillings from you. And at each doorway you pass through on your way, the turnkey will expect no less.'
Nicholas made a quick calculation. His money was limited and he had to try to make it last. It was common knowledge that to be poor in prison was to be buried alive. He had to hold out until he could get help from outside.
'What is the next grade of lodging, sergeant?' he said.
'That would be the Knight's Side, sir.'
'How much is that?'
'Half as much but less than half as cosy. You'll get straw on the Knight's Side but you have to shake the rats from it first. You'll have a sheet but you'll have to fight for it with the others. There's meat and claret to wash it down, if you've the garnish, and tobacco to take away the stink of your habitation.'
'You said there were three grades, sergeant.'
The harsh laugh grated on the prisoner's ear again.
'Shall I tell you what we call it, sir?'
'What?'
'The Hole.'
'Why?'
'You'll soon find out, sir,' said the sergeant. 'There's some as likes to lie in their own soil and feed off beetles. There's some as prefers four walls with never a window in them. There's some as would rather starve to death down there than pay a penny to an honest gaoler .' He crooked his finger to beckon Nicholas forward. 'I'll tell you this much, Master Bracewell. We puts more in the Hole than ever we takes out.'
'I'll choose the Knight's Side,' said the prisoner.
'Not the Master's?'
'No, sir.'
'Very well.'
The sergeant put his name in the black prison register then charged him for the effort. He was about to motion up an officer who stood at the back of the room when Nicholas interrupted him.
'I must send a message to someone.'
'Oh, now that could be expensive, sir.'
'How much?'
'It's against the regulations for us to take messages out of here. We'd need a lot to sweeten us on that score. It would depend on how long the message was and how far it had to go.'
Nicholas haggled for a few minutes then struck a bargain. He borrowed the quill to scribble some words on the parchment then he rolled it up, flattened it out, and appended the name and address. It cost him five shillings, over half of his weekly wage. As he watched his message disappearing into the sergeant's pocket, he wondered if it would ever be delivered.
'It's late, sir. You'll be taken to the Knight's Side.'
'Thank you.'
The officer came forward to escort Nicholas through a series of locked doors. Each time they stopped, the prisoner had to pay the turnkey to be let through. It was extortion but he had to submit to it. Eventually, he reached his quarters.
'Go on in, sir,' said the officer.
'Will I be alone?'
'Oh no, sir. You've lots of company there and you'll hear lots more.' He gave a chuckle. 'The cell is next to the jakes.'
He pushed Nicholas in and walked away.
It was a bad time to arrive. It was pitch dark in the cramped cell and the other prisoners were asleep. They stirred angrily when they sensed a newcomer. All the best places had been taken and there was nowhere for Nicholas to lie down properly. As he felt his way around in the gloom, he became aware of his bedfellows. One punched him, another bit his arm, a third shrank away in fear and a fourth cried out for some affection and tried to stroke his leg.
Nicholas found a space where he could sit against the wall with his knees up in front of him. There was no straw and no covering. It was warm, unwholesome and oppressive. If this was the quality of lodging offered in Knight's Side, he wondered how much more terrible it must be to get thrown into the Hole.
The officer had been right about the proximity of the privy. Prisoners shuffled in and out all night. Nicholas was kept awake by the noise and stench of their evacuations. It was like lying in a pig sty and he wondered how long he could survive it. Certainly, his purse would not gain him many privileges. Nearly all his money had gone already and he had no means of acquiring any more at short notice. As a hand groped across for his purse, lie saw that he would have a job to hold on to what he still had.
There was one tiny consolation. The squalor of his surroundings brought him fully awake and helped him to shake off the lingering effects of the bang on the head. Though he still could not remember what happened between his arrest and his arrival at the Counter, his brain was no longer swimming. Revolted by his situation, it was working madly to get him out of it.
He reconstructed his day in his mind. An early start after a nourishing breakfast at his lodgings. Rehearsal then performance of Love and fortune. The removal of one load of costumes, properties and scenic items followed by the organisation of another for the morrow. An evening with Edmund Hoode and too much drink. The walk home and the unexpected attack by three men with a firm purpose.
They had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Nicholas sat up stiffly as realisation dawned. He now saw why he had been the target of the assault and what the men hoped to achieve.
It was all part of a logical pattern.
He was next.