The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston Page B

emerge. He glared at the ostler and broke wind.
    ‘Fetch our breakfast, boy!’ he ordered.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Hay for Nimbus. Ale and bread for me.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Do not stand there shivering like that. About it.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ The ostler moved away then turned to look back in wonderment at Gant. ‘You spent the night here, sir?’
    ‘Nimbus and I are never parted.’
    ‘But you kept the whole inn amazed with your tricks. I have handled many horses in my time but none like this of yours. He is without compare. You were showered with coins for your performance and rightly so. Why sleep in a stable when you could afford the finest room at the inn?’
    Gant chuckled. ‘The bed was too small, boy.’
    ‘Too small?’
    ‘It would not hold me
and
Nimbus.’
    The horse raised its head and gave a manic laugh.
     
    Lawrence Firethorn played the farewell scene with his wife as if it were the climax of a drama. His arms flapped in protest, his lips kissed at random, his tongue poured out a stream of pious nonsense about how he would pine and wilt in her absence. Onlookers were convinced that the couple would be parted for ever instead of simply endure with a mere fortnight’s separation. Margery shifted between romance and reality with practised smoothness, baskingin the effusive compliments while at the same time issuing orders about the running of the house. The beautiful damsel torn away from her handsome prince wanted to make sure that her children were properly looked after and her servants kept in line. When it was time for the travellers to depart, Firethorn embraced her once then helped her into the saddle of her horse. Believing there was safety in numbers, she set off on the road to Cambridge with a sizeable company.
    Her husband waved his hat after her until she was out of sight then his expression changed completely. A sense of liberation coursed through him and he gave a ripe chuckle. Fame brought him a large following. Lovely ladies threw themselves at his feet all over London. For the first time in years, he would be able to bend down and pick them up at will without having to look over his shoulder. Marriage brought many blessings but none, he now decided, as sweet as the occasional release from its chafing yoke. Pulling on his hat and slapping his thigh with joy, he strode back towards his own horse but his euphoria was short-lived. Nicholas Bracewell came hurrying towards him.
    ‘Nick, dear heart!’
    ‘Good day, sir.’
    ‘What brings you to Shoreditch this early, man?’
    ‘Heavy news.’
    ‘I’ll hear none today. I feel as light as a feather.’
    ‘It concerns Sebastian.’
    ‘You found the rogue?’
    ‘Alas, I did.’
    ‘Bring him to me. I’ll roast the rascal alive!’
    ‘Sebastian is beyond recall.’
    They were standing in the street so Nicholas moved him into the doorway of a shop to gain some privacy. He then told his tale briefly and calmly. Stunned at first, Firethorn shaded quickly into irritation and then into a black rage. He wanted the murderer brought to justice so that he could take revenge on him with his own hands but these feelings did not arise out of any sense of loss at the death of a loved one. What Firethorn could not forgive was the damage which had been done to his company. The killer of Sebastian Carrick would be called to account for the cruel injury he had inflicted on Westfield’s Men.
    ‘What am I to do, Nick?’ he said with both arms flailing away. ‘This heavy news of yours flattens me to a wafer. I named Sebastian Carrick as our new sharer and the fool gets himself axed to death in a squalid brawl.’
    ‘That is not what happened,’ said Nicholas firmly.
    ‘No matter for the details, man. I have to live with the consequences. At one fell stroke, I have lost my sharer, my reputation for good judgement and my hopes of happiness. I have also lost a fine actor who was about to shine in a new play. Who is
doing
all this to me?’
    Nicholas kept a