Free The Vagabond Clown by Edward Marston Page A

needed to be watched. There was an unpredictability about him that was worrying. It stopped Nicholas from trusting him too much. Mussett tugged on the reins to guide the horses around a large dip ahead of them then he threw a glance at his companion.
    ‘Dick Honeydew was telling me of the affray,’ he said.
    ‘It robbed us of ten days at the Queen’s Head.’
    ‘Was there no way to quell it?’
    ‘None,’ said Nick. ‘It caught us unawares.’
    ‘I’ve been on stage myself when fighting broke out and I always used it to my advantage. The last time it happened,’ recalled Mussett, ‘I tossed a bucket of water over themen who were brawling and dampened their spirits. It amused the other spectators and brought to fight to an end. Laughter is the best way to control wayward lads. Could not Barnaby have contrived it somehow?’
    ‘He had no chance, Giddy. They mounted the stage and assaulted him.’
    Mussett smirked. ‘Was his performance
that
bad?’
    ‘No,’ chided Nicholas, ‘and you know it only too well, Giddy. The fault lay not with him nor anyone else in the company. We were up against a dozen or so, paid to halt our play and drilled in the best way to do it. They caused such a disturbance that the whole yard was in turmoil. We were lost.’
    ‘Dick mentioned a spectator who was killed.’
    ‘Murdered where he sat.’
    ‘Who was the poor man?’
    ‘Part of Lord Westfield’s circle. A harmless fellow, by all accounts.’
    ‘Dick Honeydew did not know his name.’
    ‘There’s no reason why he should,’ said Nicholas, dropping his voice so that the apprentices behind could not hear him. ‘The lads were shaken enough, as it is. I saw no point in upsetting them again with details of a killing.’
    ‘So what was he called?’
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Simple curiosity,’ said Mussett. ‘I’m grateful to him. His death helped to give me life. If it had not been for the riot at the Queen’s Head, I’d still be in that torture chamber of a prison. I’ll not forget it in a hurry, Nick. While Barnaby and this other fellow suffered, I was the benefactor.’
    ‘The name will mean nothing to you.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Because even our patron could tell us little about it. Master Hope had not been in London long enough to win a place among Lord Westfield’s closest friends.’
    ‘Master Hope?’ asked Mussett, his interest quickening.
    ‘Yes, Giddy.’
    ‘Would that be Fortunatus Hope, by any chance?’
    Nicholas was surprised. ‘The very same. You’ve heard of him?’
    ‘Heard of him and met him, Nick.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Less than a year ago.’
    ‘What can you tell me about him?’
    ‘More than Lord Westfield, I suspect.’
    ‘And you actually
met
Master Hope?’
    ‘Three or four times,’ said Mussett. ‘It must be the same man because there cannot be two with that name. Besides, nothing pleased him more than to watch a play. That’s when our paths crossed, you see. During my time with Conway’s Men.’
     
    Maidstone was the shire town, built at an attractive point on the River Medway and containing something close to two and a half thousand inhabitants. Its bustling market drew in people from a wide area, swelling its population and bringing a noise and vibrancy to the heart of the community. Its long main street consisted largely of inns, shops and houses, all well maintained and giving theimpression of neatness and civic pride. As Westfield’s Men came down the hill towards High Town, the first sight that greeted them was the prison, where the quarters of some traitors were set up on poles to act as a warning. Giddy Mussett looked over his shoulder at the apprentices.
    ‘Mark them well, lads,’ he said. ‘Those belong to actors who gave a bad performance and were executed for it. You’ll have to be on your mettle.’
    Following Lawrence Firethorn, who now led the way alone, he drove the first wagon along the High Street until they came to the Star Inn, a large and