The Mad Courtesan Read Online Free PDF Page B

fleeting moment on earth, he had asked a question that pursued him into the mortuary and continued to exercise his vacant mind. In the cold silence of death, his hideous visage was a bellowing enquiry.
    Who
did
it?
     
    Giles Randolph was not as yet the most outstanding actor in London but he intended to win that accolade at all costs. As the resident star of Banbury’s Men, he chose his parts with the utmost care and played them with great panache. Large audiences flocked to see him and his company was feted but Randolph was not satisfied. Amid the loudest cheers, he could still hear whispers of doubt about his art. He had yet to prove and sustain his superiority over Lawrence Firethorn, a man for whom he reserved a grudging respect that was all but smothered beneath an implacable hatred. Since Banbury’s Men had found a permanent home at The Curtain – one of the few custom-built theatres in London – they held the whiphand over their rivals at the Queen’s Head but they could not always make that advantage tell. Whenever the ambitiousGiles Randolph created a new role with which to dazzle his public, Lawrence Firethorn somehow found a means to outshine him once more. That state of affairs could not be allowed to continue. The company’s illustrious patron was disturbed.
    ‘The rogue does have a modicum of talent,’ said the earl with casual disgust. ‘But not enough to account for their success. Wherein lies their secret?’
    ‘Outrageous good fortune, my lord.’
    ‘There is more behind it than that.’
    ‘Edmund Hoode is a tolerable playwright.’
    ‘His work holds the stage better than our dramas.’
    ‘Barnaby Gill can always scrape a few laughs.’
    ‘He is as popular a clown as any in London,’ said the earl contemptuously. ‘But these explanations still fall short of the full truth. Firethorn, Hoode and Gill are not in themselves sufficient cause for the damnable fame of Lord Westfield’s damnable company.’
    They were in a private room at the Bull and Butcher, the sprawling inn that stood near The Curtain in Shoreditch. It was early evening and they had repaired to the hostelry after yet another stirring performance by Banbury’s Men at their theatre. Giles Randolph was a tall, thin, stately man with an Italianate cast of feature that gave him a faintly sinister air. His voice was a superb instrument for poetry but he was too aware of this fact. Even in conversation he tended to pose and project. In the company of his patron, he knew how to fawn and flatter. The Earl of Banbury was a lascivious old man with a goatee beard that he continuallyscratched with ring-laden fingers. Though he had a sincere and long-standing interest in the promotion of the arts, he wanted more than his due reward of gratitude. His theatre company was there to advance his own interests and to help him eclipse the rising sun of Westfield’s Men.
    A venal, corseted dandy untouched by finer feeling, the Earl of Banbury detested Lord Westfield as much as Giles Randolph detested Lawrence Firethorn. With the two contending patrons, however, there was a political dimension. In a court that was rife with intrigue and aspiration, the two men wore their companies around their necks like chains of office. What happened on a stage at The Curtain or the Queen’s Head thus had a bearing on an aristocratic duel which had been fought out for many years now.
    The earl drained his silver goblet of wine.
    ‘Banbury’s Men must take first place forthwith.’
    ‘They shall, my lord,’ said Randolph deferentially. ‘We will blaze across the heavens like a comet.’
    ‘I would have you wipe the name of Westfield from the sky. It offends my sight.’
    ‘Plans have been already set in motion.’
    ‘Show no mercy to the wretches.’
    Giles Randolph sat back and gave a thin smile.
    ‘They will be wounded where they hurt most.’
     
    By the time he inspected the corpse, the caked blood had been washed off the face but it was still