Читать книгу The Darling Strumpet - Gillian Bagwell - Страница 12

THE NEXT MORNING, NELL WOKE TO FIND THAT THE INSIDES OF HER thighs were streaked with blood, and she threw a fervent thank-you heavenward upon discovering that Rose had also started her monthly courses, and so they would both be excused from work and free to watch the King’s Men rehearse.

Shortly before ten o’clock, they arrived at what had formerly been Gibbons’s Tennis Court in Vere Street, only a few minutes’ walk from Lewkenor’s Lane. Nell had heard that the place, just off the southwestern corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, had been for some time a resort of the gentry and nobility, offering not only tennis and bowls but the highest quality victuals and drink, sheltered gardens, and a large coach house.

Nell looked around excitedly as Harry welcomed them into the new playhouse. The high-ceilinged room was flooded with sunlight from the rows of windows at the backs of the galleries that lined the two long walls of the building. Knots of men and boys huddled and bustled in preparation for the morning’s work, and with a thrill Nell recognised many of the actors she’d seen the previous evening.

“It will be the finest theatre that London has seen,” Harry said. “Much better than the Red Bull.”

“Why?” Nell asked.

“It’s a proper building, not just a yard open to the wind and rain. Less than fifty feet from the stage to the back of the house, so the actors will not have to shout to make themselves heard. It’ll be more like playing at court in the old days.”

“Very fine,” Rose agreed.

“You’re looking fine yourself this morning,” Harry said with a wink. “Come, let’s have a closer look.” He pulled her into the shadows under the gallery at the back of the theatre, and Nell took the opportunity to wander closer to the stage, where Wat Clun was in conference with one of the younger actors. He grinned as Nell approached.

“Well, I see you’ve come to join us. What do you think of the place?”

“It’s grand,” Nell beamed. A raised stage at one end of the room sloped down a little from the darkly panelled back wall with its two doors, to within a few feet of the first row of green-upholstered benches. Candles in many-armed brackets were mounted along the galleries at the sides of the stage, reminding Nell of the light that had blazed forth from the Banqueting House on the night of the king’s return.

“Come,” Harry called. “It’s about time.” A handful of people were seated on the benches in the pit before the stage, but Harry led Nell and Rose up narrow steps to the upper gallery at the back of the theater.

“Boxes for gentlemen,” he said. “Much more comfortable than below.”

“To your beginners, please.” Nell looked down to where a man with a sheaf of papers before him on a table was calling to the actors. They disappeared through the doors at the back of the stage, and silence fell. Harry pulled Rose onto his lap and she giggled. Nell wondered how they could think of anything else when the play was about to begin.

A group of actors swept onto the stage with an air of regal gravity. They seemed to be wearing their own clothes, but had bits and pieces of what Nell thought must be their costumes. A grey-haired actor that she recognised from the previous night wore a heavy robe of red velvet and a crown, so he must be the king. Some of the others wore capes or had swords hanging at their sides.

The king glanced around at the men surrounding him, and spoke.

“So shaken as we are, so wan with care,

Find we a time for frighted peace to pant

And breathe short-winded accents of new broils

To be commenced in strands afar remote ….”

Nell was enthralled by the majestic words, and strove to understand them. To her relief the next scene was much easier to follow, and funny. Wat lumbered onto the stage, a huge tankard in his paw, stretched luxuriously, scratched his arse, and demanded of the fair-haired young actor who followed him, “‘Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?’”

“‘What a devil hast thou to do with the time of day?’” the youth cried. “‘Unless the blessed sun himself was a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of day!’”

Nell thought she had never seen anything so funny as the picture of virtuous outrage on Wat’s face.

“Look at him,” she chortled to Rose and Harry. “Like a great round baby caught with stolen sweetmeats.”

Her heart skipped a beat when Charles Hart strode onto the stage in the next scene, his dark eyes full of snapping fire, and she feared for his safety when he raged at the king, his deep voice seeming to shake the walls as he cried, “‘My liege, I did deny no prisoners!’”

When Harry Percy, in the person of Charles Hart, made ready to depart for the war and took tender leave of his wife, played by a young man, as true-to-the-life a woman as any that Nell had ever seen, she felt her own soul ache for his going.

When the rehearsal was done, Nell sat still for a few moments, not wanting to let go of what she had experienced. She felt drained and yet exhilarated, and as if she was changed in some way. In the course of the three hours she had felt herself consumed with the passions of the king, the prince, of Harry Percy and his wife, of fat Sir John Falstaff and all the rest, had felt as though she herself had lived through all their griefs, their rages, and their joys. She did not want to leave the charmed atmosphere of the playhouse. She lingered to watch as the actors gathered on the benches below, and was overjoyed when Wat Clun waved at her. Dragging Rose after her, she bounded down to where he stood and beamed up at him.

“Well, sweeting, and what did you think of your first play?” he asked.

“It was a wonder! You were so funny!”

Clun grinned.

“Come to see Beggars’ Bush tomorrow afternoon. It’ll be our last show at the Bull.”

“Truly?” Nell cried. “Can we, Rose?”

“Aye,” Rose nodded. “We’ll not miss such a kind offer.”

ON THE WAY HOME, NELL CAPERED BESIDE ROSE, HOPPING ON ONE leg in circles around her sister and then coming alongside.

“I thought the prince was wondrous,” she mused. “Why should his father be displeased with him?”

“Why, for his mad freaks and rogueries with ruffians and low company such as Falstaff and the others. Bowsing, stealing, wenching.”

“But once the old king was dead could not Hal do as he pleased?”

“I suppose he could.”

“And why was Harry Percy so angry?”

“Lord, I don’t know. I couldn’t follow it all, in truth.”

“And why—”

“’Fore God, Nell, you wear me out!” Rose cried in exasperation. “Save your questions for Harry or the actors.”

Nell did not understand how Rose could not share her burning curiosity to know everything about the play, the players, and the theatre. She held her tongue, but her mind seethed with questions. Though she didn’t have to work that night, she haunted the taproom, hoping that the actors might come in, and when Harry Killigrew strode in followed by two of the younger actors, she raced over to them.

“How can you remember all those words? What play did you play this afternoon? Where do the plays come from?”

Harry laughed. “You’d best sit down if you’ve got so many questions.” Nell plopped herself on a bench facing the fair-haired young actor who had played Prince Hal.

“How many plays are there?” she demanded.

“What, how many plays in the world?” he laughed. “That I cannot tell, but I can tell you what we’ve played over the past weeks, and what we’ll give again. The Traitor, Wit Without Money, The Silent Woman, Othello, Bartholomew Fair—”

“Where do they come from?” Nell interrupted. “And how can there be so many plays if there have been none for so long?”

“The two companies divided the plays from the old days,” said Harry. “And my father got the best of those, as he did with the actors.”

“Is it all lads and men?” Nell asked. “Are there no women players?”

“Up ’til now,” Harry said, “it’s always been boys acting the women’s parts. But that’s soon to change. His Majesty saw women on the stage in Frankfurt and thought it a charming innovation.”

“Mr. Killigrew says he’s going to try putting a woman on the stage in a few weeks,” the youngest of the lads said. “My dad says it will cause rioting in the streets, either from outrage or from lust.”

Nell joined in the laughter, but was intrigued.

“Who are they, these women? Where do they come from?”

“Oh, they’re pretty, likely-looking wenches my father has found somewhere,” Harry shrugged. “Girls with a quick wit who are like to be able to learn their words.”

“Not married. And orphans, likely,” said the fair-haired actor. “For who would want their wife or daughter on the stage?”

“Sir William Davenant at the Duke’s Company has a couple of girls about your age in his care,” Harry said. “Betty Barry and Moll Davis. Perhaps he’ll make something of them.”

“But that’s all to come,” said the fair-haired lad. “Mr. Killigrew will not risk putting women on just yet. Certainly not when we play at court in a fortnight’s time.”

“Is there a playhouse there?” Nell asked.

“There is,” Harry answered. “The Cockpit. It’s fallen into a sad state. But it’ll soon be right again, eh, Marmaduke?”

“With not a penny spared,” the fair-haired young man agreed. “My brother’s a plasterer and he says there’s night work as well as daytime labour. The king’s in a tear to get the job finished, and when it’s done, it’ll be mighty fine.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, NELL AND ROSE MADE THEIR WAY UP ST. JOHN Street to where the Red Bull stood near Clerkenwell Green. There was already a crowd at the door to the playhouse, and Nell was seized with fear that there would be no room for them. But when Rose told their names to the man with the box for the money, he nodded and waved them in with a smile.

The square yard was open to the winter sky, with enclosed galleries along three sides and a stage across the fourth. Despite the chill breeze, the benches in the galleries were quite full, and even the ground before the stage was crowded with men, women, and children, all eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. In the middle of this seething crowd, Nell could not even see the stage. Rose grasped her hand and they worked their way forward. The stage stood some five feet high from the ground, so that those standing at the back of the pit could see as well as those at the front, but its height meant that Nell had to look almost straight up to see it.

The play began and Nell was pleased to see Wat Clun, Charles Hart, and other actors from the previous day’s rehearsal. The story rocked merrily along—everyone, it seemed, was in disguise, and at the end of the play all were revealed as their true selves. Charles Hart turned out to be a nobleman, and not only was he reunited with the girl he had been forced to forsake, but she proved to be the daughter of a duke, so all ended happily, if improbably.

Dusk was coming on when the play finished, with rain clouds lowering overhead, and Nell was shivering despite the heavy cloak she clasped around herself and tired from standing for two hours. Yet she didn’t want to go. The play had transported her, made her forget about Madam Ross’s place. She had been in two playhouses now, and different though they were, they had both seemed to hold magic within them, to make her thrill with an excitement she had felt only once before—while watching the king’s return to London.

THE OLDER ACTORS DID NOT RETURN TO MADAM ROSS’S IN THE weeks after the King’s Company moved to the Vere Street theater, but Harry and the younger actors were frequent visitors. When Harry went upstairs it was with Rose, and, as Jane had said, Tom Killigrew had retained her services for his lads. Nell was happy that matters had fallen out so. She desperately wanted to be thought well of by her new acquaintances, and though they must know she was part of Madam Ross’s covey, she felt on more solid ground with them than she would have if she had to take them to her bed. When they came in of an evening, she always wanted to hear the particulars of the day’s performance and begged them for news of the doings at the playhouse.

“Well,” said Marmaduke Watson one night in early December, “Sir William Davenant has been training his women players, we hear, though they’ll not be fit to send onstage for some time.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “We’ll beat him in that race, for we’re putting a woman on the stage in a few days’ time.”

“Who?” Nell asked. “What will she play?”

“Anne Marshall,” Harry said. “She’s to play Desdemona in Othello.”

“And after that,” Ned Kynaston said glumly, “who knows? Two weeks ago I played Arthiope in The Bloody Brother. But old Killigrew has told me that when we put it on again in a fortnight, I’m to play Otto instead, and Charlie Hart’ll have a woman to his lover.”

A few days later Nell besieged the actors with questions about how the first performance by a woman had succeeded.

“Well, they didn’t riot,” young Theo Bird said.

“Hardly,” Marmaduke put in. “They ate it up.”

“I’d have been better,” said Kynaston. “And prettier, too.” The lads laughed, but Marmaduke shook his head and winked at Nell.

“Can you not keep playing women’s roles, too?” she asked. Kynaston stared into his tankard and didn’t answer.

“No,” said Harry. “Neddie’s good, but when you put him next to the real thing, they’re as different as chalk and cheese. Actresses. That’s the future.”

Another question was on Nell’s lips, but the words froze unspoken. Madam Ross’s man Jack was making his way toward the table, scowling, his eyes fixed on her. She couldn’t stand the thought of him bullying her before the actors, and she mumbled something to them as she scrambled off the bench and towards another table of men. Jack’s big hand closed hard on her upper arm, and he yanked her to face him.

“You’re not paid to take your ease,” he growled.

“I was just talking,” she answered, her throat constricted by fear and shame, knowing that the actors were surely watching.

“Less talking, and more time on your back or your knees.” Jack’s fingers tightened around her arm. Obviously enjoying her discomfort, he reached his other hand under her skirt, and shoved his fingers hard inside her.

“That’s your worth,” he said, his breath hot on her face, thrusting deeper into her. “That and only that. Don’t get above yourself, or I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget.”

He gave a last vicious twist of his hand before letting Nell go, and she ran from the room, too mortified to face Harry and the other lads and too terrified to remain in Jack’s presence.

AFTER THAT, NELL NO LONGER SAT WITH THE ACTORS UNLESS JACK was absent. When he was present, she kept quiet and out of his way, anxious not to give him any excuse to shame her further. She thought with longing of the theatre and begged Jane to tell her any news of the actors, but Jane had little interest in what the players did when they were not at Madam Ross’s.

In late December, Jack disappeared without explanation. Madam Ross made herself scarce as well, disappearing into her rooms on the top floor of the house, and the girls whispered their conjectures about what had happened. On the second day of Jack’s absence, Nell dared to hope that he had gone for good. The establishment was a much happier place with only Ned there to mind the shop.

Nell was overjoyed when Harry Killigrew came into the taproom one quiet afternoon a few days before Christmas. He ambled over to the table where Ned sat with Rose, and Nell joined them, happy at her unaccustomed freedom and the holiday mood that prevailed. Christmas under Cromwell had been kept as a day of fasting and atonement, but this year was different. Harry had been at court, where preparations for the festivities had been going on for days.

“You should see the palace,” Harry said. “Holly and ivy everywhere, and a great Yule log. The king’s mother and two sisters are visiting, and the king will keep the twelve days of Christmas as in old times, with masques, mummers, and banquets every day. We gave a show at the Cockpit last night, and the wine was flowing like water.”

Nell thought of what she had been doing the previous night. It had been a particularly unpleasant evening. The fat and revolting Mr. Cooper had fumbled with his limp prick, and struck her when even her sucking failed to rouse him. And then there had been a party of soldiers who were drunk and brutal. She had cried herself to sleep, despairing at the thought that she had no way out.

“Tell me more about the king and the court,” she begged.

“It’s like a fairy land,” Harry said. “There’s music and dancing every night. The king has a consort of twenty-four violins, and musicians of every other kind as well. He outdances all the court and sings when he can dance no more.”

In her room alone that night, Nell wondered what the music of twenty-four violins would sound like, and tried to picture the king and his courtiers dancing, their finery sparkling in the gleam of a thousand candles. She thought of the king’s mistress Barbara Palmer, radiant at his side. She drew herself up straight, trying to feel the weight of a gown heavy with jewels, and danced, imagining herself partnered by the king, and watched by a host of onlookers at a great Christmas feast.

But on Christmas Eve, Nell heard that the king’s sister Mary had died of the smallpox, and instead of revelry, Whitehall was sombre and still, the court dressed in purple mourning clothes instead of jewelled finery. Nell felt herself in mourning, too, as Jack returned to Lewkenor’s Lane and resumed his rule.

The New Year of 1661 dawned cold and icy. The Thames froze, and Nell and Rose delighted in the frost fair that sprang up, with booths selling food and drink, and entertainments presented to joyous crowds. They ran and slid on the snow-covered ice, enjoying the novel view of London from the middle of the frozen river, then warmed themselves with hot wassail.

In February, coins bearing the king’s face were minted and began to replace the old currency. The king’s likeness was noted elsewhere, too, as Barbara Palmer bore a daughter that was rumoured to be Charles’s child.

On St. George’s Day, the twenty-third of April, the king’s coronation brought celebratory throngs to the streets once more. The royal barge sailed down the river from Whitehall to the Tower, followed by a flotilla of craft bearing dignitaries, and then a flood of sightseers crammed onto any vessel that would float. The night sky blazed with fireworks, and London revelled until dawn.

ONE EVENING IN EARLY JULY NELL ENTERED THE TAPROOM TO FIND Harry, Marmaduke, and young Theo Bird slumped around a corner table, uncharacteristically subdued and glum.

“What’s amiss?” she asked.

“We’ve been playing to scant houses all the week, and each day it gets worse,” Theo said. “Davenant has opened his new playhouse, and everyone and his wife is going to see his opera.”

“Even the king has been,” added Marmaduke.

“But why?” Nell asked.

“Because he’s built a much grander theater,” Marmaduke said. “It’s got painted scenery that moves, and machines—angels and gods coming down from the heavens and so on. Pageantry. Singing.”

“Don’t forget Hester Davenport,” Theo said.

“Who’s she?” Nell asked.

“One of Davenant’s actresses,” Harry said. “Toothsome. Bonnie and buxom. She’s taken the fancy of everyone from the tom turd men to the Earl of Oxford.”

“And there are two parts to the poxed thing,” Marmaduke lamented. “So everyone has to go twice.”

“The Siege of Rhodes,” Harry snorted. “More like the siege of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“But things are bound to get better,” said Nell. “People tire of a new thing soon enough, is what Rose always says.”

“Not this,” said Harry. “We’ll have to keep up with the Duke’s Company or we’re sunk.”

Not long after, Nell heard from the lads that Tom Killigrew had leased a plot of land off Drury Lane and would build a fine new theatre that would accommodate the new fashion for moving scenery and machinery and would outshine Davenant’s playhouse in style and grandeur. It was to be called the Theatre Royal.

SOON AFTER NELL LEARNED OF KILLIGREW’S PLANS FOR A NEW theatre, Harry became a page of honour to the king, as his father had been to the previous King Charles, and took up residence at Whitehall. He still came to see Rose, but not as frequently. Marmaduke Watson, Ned Kynaston, and the other younger actors of the King’s Company continued to drink in the taproom, but when Jack was around, Nell avoided their company. She still ached with shame at their having witnessed Jack’s humiliation of her, and wanted to be sure she gave him no reason to repeat the performance.

She longed to take part in the players’ banter and jokes, but disciplined herself instead to cultivate regular customers and keep them happy. The more of them she had, the less she would be available for just any brute who might come in the door. One of her favorites was a young man by the name of Robbie Duncan, who seemed to seek her out for her company as much as for pleasure in bed. He worked with his brothers in their father’s cloth exporting business, and on only his third visit he had brought her a length of soft brown wool that would serve to make a new cloak for the winter. And Jimmy Cade visited her frequently, always tipping her a few coins.

WHEN HARRY KILLIGREW DID VISIT LEWKENOR’S LANE, HE BROUGHT word of each story and scandal at Whitehall. In Nell’s second autumn at Madam Ross’s, London buzzed with the news that King Charles had ennobled Roger Palmer, the husband of his mistress, bestowing on him the titles of Baron Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine—with the shocking provision that the titles were to pass only to any children born by Barbara Palmer.

“In other words,” Harry explained, “the king is granting titles to any bastards he should father on Mistress Palmer, and Roger Palmer is to stand by without complaint.”

THE FOLLOWING SPRING, NELL SAW PEOPLE PUSHING CLOSE TO THE ballad singer near the Maypole in the Strand, shoving to buy his broadsheets.

“What’s the news?” she asked a tired-looking woman with a small child in tow.

“The king is to marry! A princess from Portugal.”

Catherine of Braganza arrived in May, and Nell and Rose listened as Harry related the latest news from court.

“Barbara Palmer is seven months gone with child, and she’ll not be budged from Hampton Court, queen or no queen, and has even been made a lady of the queen’s bedchamber. I’m glad I won’t be in the king’s shoes when those two ladies meet.”

In August, Nell joined the throngs watching the water pageant in honour of the royal marriage. Standing on a barrel, she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the new queen and wondered what she must think about sharing her residence with the king’s mistress and children.

The taproom was busy that night, and the patrons were more drunk and disorderly than usual. Jack broke up a fight, cudgelling the instigator into bloody insensibility before throwing him into the street. The tables were packed with drinkers and the girls didn’t even bother to leave their rooms when they had done with one man, but took the next from the lines outside their doors.

It was well into the wee hours when the last man left Nell’s room and no other appeared. She was exhausted, but put her head out the door of her room to be sure that no one was waiting. Jack was coming down the hallway, steady on his feet despite the half-empty bottle in his hand. His face was flushed and his eyes glinted dangerously as he bore down on Nell.

She ducked backwards but he blocked the door as she tried to close it. She retreated as he entered the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He reached her in two strides and pulled her by her hair onto her knees in front of him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He took a long pull from his bottle, set it on the floor, unbuttoned his breeches, and shoved himself into her mouth.

He smelled of piss and sweat and brandy, and Nell gagged as his flesh hit the back of her throat. She struggled against him, but he yanked her head up and down, his cock choking her. She pushed at him, desperate to draw a breath, but his iron grip would not release. She felt that she would faint or die unless she could free herself. Without thinking, she clamped her teeth down.

Jack gave a roar of rage and pain and let go of her. She scrabbled away from him, but he lifted her by her hair and smashed her across the face so hard she went sprawling face-first onto the bed, and he was on her before she could move, kneeing her legs apart. Nell heard him spit, and screamed as he forced himself into her arse. A filthy hand smelling of brandy was clamped over her mouth, stifling her cries. Another hand clutched her throat, fingers digging into her flesh.

It seemed to go on forever. Nell had never felt such searing pain. She sobbed into Jack’s hand, her tears running down to mingle with snot as he slammed into her. At last he spent, giving a final deep thrust that Nell thought would split her. He left without a word, and Nell lay shivering and whimpering. After a time she crept into Rose’s room, and Rose started awake at the sound of Nell’s sobbing.

“Lord, what’s happened?”

“Jack,” Nell whispered. “He came for me and I didn’t mean to, but I bit him. So he hurt me.”

“He hit you?” Rose pulled Nell into her arms.

“More than that. He—” Nell couldn’t make herself say the words, but Rose understood her gesture.

“Let me see, honey.” Rose gently examined Nell. “You’re not bleeding, that’s a mercy. Here, this will help.” Tears streaked Rose’s face as she applied salve to Nell’s battered flesh.

“Oh, Nell,” she whispered, “truly I don’t know what to do. It will do you no good to speak to the missus. And if you try to say him nay, it will only make him more determined to have what he wants. Let me see can I think of something.”

THE NEXT DAY WHEN NELL WENT INTO THE TAPROOM, JACK RAKED her with a look of triumph that made her sick to her stomach. She was powerless to stop him, and he knew it. That night he again forced his way into her room and brutalised her, enjoying her fear and pain.

Over the next weeks Nell avoided being on her own and tried not to cross Jack’s path, but there were times when he appeared seemingly from thin air, and she had nowhere to run.

WITH THE CELEBRATIONS OF THE KING’S BIRTHDAY ON THE TWENTY-NINTH of May, Nell was amazed to realise that it had been two years since she had run away and embarked on her new life. She had gained freedom from her mother, as she had set out to do. She was better fed and clothed and she had several regulars whose money she could count on. But she did not like having to submit herself to the use of strangers, and Jack’s visits were now almost nightly. She was always frightened, and despaired of finding a way out of the hell her days and nights had become.

As it happened, an escape presented itself that Nell could not have anticipated. Robbie Duncan noticed the bruises on her arms and throat and the livid blue-yellow patches on the insides of her thighs.

“What happened there?” he asked, his face darkening. “Come, tell me,” he said gently when she didn’t answer.

“It’s Jack,” she whispered, clutching the sheet around her. “Madam’s man. He—he comes to me sometimes, and …” She could not finish the sentence, and could not bring herself to look at him. He squatted on his haunches before her.

“He hurts you? He means to hurt you?”

She nodded.

“He cannot do this to you. I will not allow it,” Robbie exclaimed, springing to his feet, but Nell knew that his slender frame was no match for Jack’s sinewy muscularity.

She shrugged. “But he can. There is nought I can do to stop him.”

Robbie paced and seethed, and finally stood before Nell.

“Come and live with me. He cannot come to you there. I will take care of you.”

Nell was astonished at the proposal, but Robbie was likeable enough and, given the choice, she would rather bed one man than many.

So, with a payment from Robbie to Madam Ross for the loss of one of her stable, Nell became his. She packed her few belongings in a sack and moved to Robbie’s room at the Cock and Pie Tavern, at the top of Maypole Alley, only a few streets from the only homes she had known.