The Vagabond Clown Read Online Free PDF Page B

dwells at present,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’ll be more than ready to leave his present abode. I’d stake my life on it. Giddy Mussett is languishing in prison.’
     
    King’s Bench Prison stood on the main road south out of London, close to the Marshalsea, another of the city’s many jails. Stretching down through Southwark, the thoroughfare was noted for the number and size of its inns. There seemed to be a continuous line of hostelries with barely a few shops and houses to separate them. It meant that wretched prisoners were living cheek by jowl with places where pleasure and entertainment were in good supply. While they endured squalid conditions and meagre rations, customers nearby were celebrating their freedom by enjoying the comforts of the Bear, the George, the White Hart and all the other happy taverns that lined the route. Throughout the whole day, sounds of merriment drifted into the ears of the condemned and the convicted, reminding them of what they had lost and making their ordeal all the more difficult to bear.
    King’s Bench Prison, however, was not entirely lacking in jollity. Since he had been incarcerated there, Gideon Mussett had done his best to brighten up the lives of his fellow prisoners. He was not impelled by any unselfish concern for their welfare. His songs and dances were never offered freely in order to distract people from the misery of their situation. Mussett was engaged in a battle for survival. He performed for reward. The money that he earned from grateful spectators was spent on drink, tobacco and edible food. Imprisonment for someone as poor as him would otherwise have been a species of torture. Only those with something in their purse could stave off the hunger and despair that claimed so many victims.
    Whenever he raised the spirits of his companions with some rousing songs or with a comical dance, he had an appreciative audience.
    ‘More, Giddy. Please give us more.’
    ‘Sing to us of Wild Meg again.’
    ‘Aye, or of the Sweet Maid of Romsey.’
    ‘Dance, Giddy. We’ve not had a jig today.’
    ‘Up on the table and dance!’
    Giddy Mussett raised both palms to still the outburst of requests. He was a short, angular man in his early forties with an ease of movement that made light of his age. His exaggerated features gave him a striking appearance. His cheeks were gaunt, his hooked nose unusually large and his chin pronounced. With the shock of red hair on his head, he looked in profile like a giant cockerel and he certainly had something of the bird’s arrogant strut. Mussett bared his uneven teeth in a grin.
    ‘My legs are tired today, my friends,’ he said. ‘If you would have them dance, they will need to be revived with a drink of ale or a pipe of tobacco.’
    ‘You’ve taken every penny we have,’ complained one man.
    ‘Then there’ll be no jigs this morning.’
    ‘We’ll not be cheated out of our entertainment,’ said another man, tossing a coin to the clown. ‘There, Giddy. That will buy us your legs again.’
    Mussett winked. ‘It’ll buy you no other part of my body, Ned, I tell you that.’
    Raucous laughter filled the cell. There were ten of them,crammed together in a narrow cell with a long table at its centre. Sleeping arrangements were primitive and the only ones who managed anything approaching a peaceful night were those strong enough to fight for the best places in the filthy straw. A compound of revolting smells filled the room. Sun streamed in through a window high in the wall to illumine a scene of utter degradation. Most of the men were in rags and the two ancient women wore equally tattered garments. The stench of poverty intensified the pervading reek. The only thing that helped them to forget their dire predicament was a performance by their very own clown. But they were to be deprived of even that today.
    A key scraped in the lock and the iron door groaned on its hinges. Putting his head into the cell, a brawny man with a greying