Free The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston Page B

drew you into the profession?’ he asked.
    ‘A deep interest.’
    ‘So it was with Sebastian.’
    ‘He was a natural actor. I am not.’
    ‘Did your father approve, Master Bracewell?’
    ‘No, sir. He wished me to be a merchant like himself.’
    ‘You have no regrets in the matter?’
    ‘None, Master Carrick. And I am bound to observe …’
    ‘Go on. I value your opinion.’
    ‘Sebastian himself had no regrets.’
    The grieving father accepted the judgement and thanked his visitor profusely for conveying the bad news with such tact and promptness. He talked fondly of his son, recalling childhood incidents that were early signs of the wildness and impetuosity that made him abandon a career in the law for the ambiguous freedom of an actor’s life. Nicholas learnt a great deal about his erstwhile friend and he was interested to hear that Sebastian had a younger sister. His compassion reached out to her. Witha mother long dead and a father imprisoned in the Tower, she was unfortunate enough without having to bear this additional horror. Nicholas wished that there was some way to minimise the distress that now stalked Mistress Marion Carrick.
    ‘What of the funeral?’ said the lawyer.
    ‘It will be delayed now that we have traced Sebastian’s family. You have the right to make all decisions here.’
    ‘Not while I am a common prisoner.’
    ‘Her Majesty must take account of your predicament.’
    ‘She has placed me in it.’
    ‘We will see what Lord Westfield may do to help.’
    ‘You earn my gratitude once more.’
    Andrew Carrick shook him warmly by the hand. There were tears of remorse in his eyes now and his sense of loss drew an odd confession out of him.
    ‘I wish I had seen Sebastian upon the stage.’
    ‘He adorned it even in the smallest part.’
    ‘My anger got the better of my curiosity. I should have relented. Now, alas, it is too late.’
    ‘He will be well remembered by his fellows.’
    The lawyer pondered briefly then gave a wistful smile.
    ‘That thought brings me some comfort.’
     
    Comfort was singularly lacking at the Queen’s Head where the company met for its first rehearsal of the new play. Before they could even begin, there was a sudden cloudburst and the inn yard was awash within minutes. Soaked by the rain and saddened by the news about theircolleague, Westfield’s Men retreated into the room that they used as their tiring-house and continued their work in a dispirited mood. It was an inauspicious start for
Love’s Sacrifice
and its author was plunged into the kind of despair that he usually reserved for failed romances. Edmund Hoode lounged somnolently in a corner, dividing himself between anguish at the death of a friend and morbid predictions about the future of his new work. Lines which had sprung joyously from his brain to dance on the page now seemed dull and lifeless. Characters whom he had fleshed out with care now appeared skeletal. A plot which drove forward in a rising trajectory now limped along without purpose.
    Lawrence Firethorn tried to lift the general gloom with a booming attack on the leading role but he made no headway. Even in the hands of such a gifted clown as Barnaby Gill, the comic moments sounded tedious. The only performance which cut through the torpor to excite and uplift was that given by Owen Elias in the inherited role of Benvolio. He did not so much play the part as ambush it with greedy enthusiasm, so much so that it might have been written purely as a vehicle for his talents. It was an altogether exuberant reading that brought Sebastian Carrick to mind only to dismiss his claim to this particular role. Owen Elias proved beyond doubt what many had argued for some time. He was the better actor. When he declaimed his final speech over the entwined bodies of the dead lovers, he was deeply moving.
    Moistened eyes and dry throats broke out in all parts ofthe room. Edmund Hoode was coaxed back from dejection to the belief that his latest play might