The Vagabond Clown by Edward Marston

Bear, the George or the Tabard. This street is a very heaven for a thirsty man. Have you searched the taprooms yet?’
    ‘There’s no need of that. I warned him to avoid ale.’
    ‘Then he will drink sack or Canary wine instead.’
    ‘He’s no money to buy either,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s been bound to a contract that obliges him to curtail his pleasures. If he refuses to obey, he’ll end up back in the jail from which we plucked him.’ He pointed to prison buildings nearby. ‘That may be the answer, Edmund,’ he continued, his spirits reviving. ‘I should have used more care before I nominated the White Hart as our meeting place. What man would wish to return to the very shadow of the place where he was imprisoned? That’s why Giddy is not here. He’ll meet us further down the road where ugly memories are not so easily revived.’
    ‘
We
will be the ones with ugly memories, if he lets us down.’
    ‘That will not happen. He needs work.’
    ‘Perhaps he’s gone to seek it elsewhere.’
    ‘I put my trust in him, Edmund.’
    Hoode gave a nod. ‘Then I put my trust in your judgement.’
    No sooner had the playwright moved away than Firethorn strutted across. He was beaming regally at all and sundry but his eyes were darting nervously. Grabbing Nicholas by the arm, he took him aside.
    ‘What time did you tell the rogue to be here?’ he asked.
    ‘Upon the stroke of eight.’
    ‘It’s almost half an hour past that.’
    ‘Something has, perchance, delayed him.’
    Firethorn was scornful. ‘Some fat whore in red taffeta no doubt!’
    ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Giddy has not gone down that path. We must remember all those nights he spent in prison when he could barely snatch an hour’s sleep, and that in the greatest discomfort. If anything delays him, it’s pure fatigue.’
    ‘Where did he lodge?’
    ‘He said he would stay with a friend.’
    ‘What friend?’ demanded Firethorn. ‘Where does he live? Giddy Mussett is as slippery as a wet ferret. You should not have let him out of your sight, Nick.’
    ‘He swore to me that he’d be here.’
    ‘Then where, in God’s name, is the saucy rascal?’
    The answer came from behind him. Shutters opened on the window of an upstairs room in the White Hart and a startling figure was revealed. Giddy Mussett was dressed from head to foot in bright yellow garments and wore a blue hat that rose up in a point until it reached the tiny bell at its extremity. In case anyone was not aware of his sudden appearance, Mussett put a fist to his mouth and blew a token fanfare. All eyes turned to look up at him and he revelled in the attention.
    ‘Good morrow, friends!’ he called. ‘Giddy Mussett is sorry to keep you waiting. He had important business to complete within the tavern here but he is now ready to join you on your wondrous journey into Kent.’ He swayed slightly. ‘I’m privileged to be a member of Westfield’s Men and I hope you’ll welcome me with open hearts.’
    Nicholas was both pleased and alarmed to see him, reassured that the clown had actually turned up butdistressed by the way that he was slurring his words. Firethorn looked on with disgust.
    ‘The fellow’s drunk!’ he protested.
    ‘I think not.’
    ‘Look at the way he is swaying.’
    ‘He’s here and we should be grateful.’
    ‘Get him down, Nick.’
    It was a pointless command. Before Nicholas could even move towards the tavern, Mussett contrived his own dramatic exit from the establishment. After waving happily to the crowd below, he seemed to lose his balance and fall headfirst through the window. There was a gasp of horror from all those below. Had they lost their new clown at the very moment they had been introduced to him? Would his blood be spattered all over the ground? Their fears were unfounded. Turning a somersault in the air, Mussett landed on his feet with catlike certainty. He doffed the hat that had stayed miraculously on his head and grinned wickedly at his