The Wanton Angel (17 page)

‘I resent that,’ said Gill over the laughter.

‘Why?’ mocked Elias. ‘Did Lucius reject you as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, joining in the fun at Gill’s expense, ‘he sold his buttocks to Rupert Kitely instead. Barnaby will have to run off to Havelock’s Men if he wishes have an assignation with our deserter.’

Gill fell silent and looked away guiltily. Firethorn and Elias continued to bait him but for once he did not rise to the taunts. Nicholas Bracewell noted his lack of response and was concerned. It accorded with Gill’s reaction to the news that the loan to Westfield’s Men would be paid in spite of the death of their intermediary. While the rest of the company had been thrilled by the reassurance which Nicholas was able to give them, Gill had sulked in a corner. It was almost as if he did not want Westfield’s Men to have their own playhouse.

The company broke up to go their separate ways. A fresh detachment of volunteers went off to work at the site of The Angel for a few hours, relieving those who had laboured there to good effect on the previous day. When his chores were complete, Nicholas had intended to join the work party himself but Firethorn summoned him to a meeting with their patron.

They found Lord Westfield in his accustomed room, sipping a glass of wine and talking with some of his entourage. He dismissed the others so that he could be alone with the two newcomers. Anxiety flooded his face.

‘What is this I hear about a murder in our ranks?’

‘All too true, my lord,’ said Firethorn sadly. ‘Sylvester Pryde was crushed to death beneath some timbers on the site of our new playhouse.’

‘Poor soul!’

‘Nicholas was there when they found the body.’

Picking up his cue, Nicholas gave a concise account of what had happened. Their patron was deeply sympathetic. He needed no evidence to name the culprit.

‘One of Banbury’s Men,’ he decided.

‘We do not know that,’ cautioned Nicholas.

‘We know they envy us and we know that they will stop at nothing to disable us. Especially now that the Master of the Revels has spoken.’

‘Has he?’ said Firethorn with interest.

‘Yes, Lawrence. That is what I came to tell you. I was at Court this morning when Sir Edmund Tilney confided in me the latest decision. It seems a just way to proceed.’

‘How so?’

‘The Privy Council have postponed their verdict,’ said Lord Westfield fussily. ‘They are masters of postponement because they can never make up their minds. Tilney feels that they need some help to come to judgement.’

‘What does he recommend?’ asked Nicholas.

‘That the three major theatre companies be viewed alongside each other. This is his plan. Westfield’s Men, Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men play at Court in turn. Other companies are not even in the reckoning.’

‘I like this news,’ said Firethorn.

Nicholas sounded a warning note. ‘It may not favour us,’ he said. ‘If everything is to be decided on one performance, the slightest error might tell against us.’

‘There will be no errors, Nick!’

‘That is easier to say than to enforce. The importance of the occasion will make the company nervous and that is when unfortunate mistakes creep in.’

‘It is so with the other companies,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have no fears. We will always outshine Havelock’s Men.’

‘And Banbury’s Men,’ added Lord Westfield truculently. ‘They are nothing but a pack of murderers.’

Nicholas let the two of them enthuse about the plan. He kept his reservations to himself. Though delighted that they would have the honour of another performance at Court, he was deeply worried that the Privy Council’s decision would take no account of their sustained excellence. Judged on their whole season, Westfield’s Men could rightly claim supremacy over their rivals. When they were given only one
chance to impress, they entered the realms of doubt.

There was another problem. Westfield’s Men were a diminished force. When
The Insatiate Duke
was first staged, it was the headiest triumph they had enjoyed for a long time. Since then one of its co-authors had left, the other was profoundly depressed as a result, a sharer had been brutally killed and the company’s resident clown was restless. He wondered how many more depletions there would be before the stipulated appearance at Court.

Firethorn’s optimism knew no bounds. Striking a pose, he began to pluck plays out of the repertoire, nominating those in which he took the leading part and ignoring the contribution that others might make.

‘
Hector of Troy
,’ he concluded. ‘That is our choice.’

‘We should discuss this at greater length,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘The other sharers will want their say.’

‘They will follow my lead, Nick.’

The book holder stifled his reply. He knew how outraged Barnaby Gill would be at the choice of
Hector of Troy
. Not only did it allow Firethorn to dominate the stage for the whole five acts, it confined Gill to two short scenes and one dance. The surest way to drive their clown out of Westfield’s Men was to select a play which blunted his rich talents.

‘What of this new playhouse?’ asked Lord Westfield.

‘It grows by the hour, my lord,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘Our fellows are taking it in turns to put their strong arms at the disposal of the builder. The Angel theatre will soon be a towering landmark on the riverbank.’

‘And the loan?’ said their patron.

‘It is safe.’

‘But was not Sylvester Pryde your intermediary?’

‘That office has been taken over by Nick here.’

‘You
know
who our mysterious benefactor is?’ said Lord Westfield excitedly. ‘Do tell us, Nicholas.’

‘I am not at liberty to do so, my lord.’

‘You may trust me. I am as close as the grave.’

‘I have sworn an oath, my lord, and may not break it.’

‘There’s an end to it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick would not even confide in me. He is too honourable. What does it matter where the money comes from as long as we have it? This loan breathes new life back into Westfield’s Men.’

‘Yes,’ said their patron wearily, ‘but it is not only the company which is in need of a loan. Is our benefactor so wealthy that he can loan six hundred pounds to us at such a favourable rate of interest? Such a man is to be wooed, Nicholas. Cultivate him. Ask him if he would consider making a personal loan to a very dear friend of yours.’

‘I think it unlikely, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘But for Sylvester Pryde, we would not have secured this loan. He was the pathway to our benefactor and Sylvester is dead.’

‘Try, Nicholas. Even a small amount would be acceptable.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Meanwhile, I will continue to work away on your behalf at Court. The factions are already forming. Viscount Havelock has the largest but the Earl of Banbury is busy gathering his forces.’ He gave a grin of self-congratulation. ‘I, too, have
assembled friends around me. Sir Patrick Skelton has been won over to our side and several others besides.’

‘These are cheerful tidings,’ said Firethorn.

‘They are, Lawrence. And it is not openly among the men that I have recruited support. Several ladies have indicated a preference for Westfield’s Men. Cordelia Bartram among them.’

Nicholas was taken aback. ‘Cordelia Bartram, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘The Countess of Dartford.’

‘Is she not a fabled beauty?’ asked Firethorn.

‘And rightly so, Lawrence. She is wasted on that old fool of a husband she married. No,’ said Lord Westfield with a knowing chuckle, ‘I was not at all surprised when Cordelia threw her weight behind us. It is one sure way to strike back at Viscount Havelock.’

‘Why should she wish to do that?’ said Nicholas.

‘Revenge,’ said the other. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned. Before she was married, it is rumoured, Cordelia was his mistress until he cast her aside. The Countess of Dartford would love to see Havelock’s Men perish.’

Viscount Havelock lived in a style which was the envy of his friends and foes alike. His house in Bishopsgate was palatial, surpassing in extravagance, though not in size, the neighbouring Crosby Place. The Viscount was a man of considerable wealth and a passion for displaying it. His theatre company were not simply a reflection of his devotion to the arts. They were a public statement of his importance, an expression of his vanity and a glittering jewel which he could wear to impress the rest of London. Viscount Havelock never resisted any opportunity to polish that jewel.

‘Well, Rupert?’ he enquired.

‘All things proceed to our advantage,’ said Kitely.

‘I am delighted to hear it.’

‘This latest device of Sir Edmund Tilney’s makes our position ever more secure. We are to play at Court in sequence with Banbury’s Men and Westfield’s Men so that we may be judged side by side. Choice of the fare we select
will be critical, my lord, and fortune favours us.’

‘How so?’

‘We have a play, fresh and new-minted, the sprightliest comedy which has come our way in years.’

‘What is it called?’

‘
A Looking Glass for London
.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘You will like it even more when you see it, my lord,’ said Kitely with pride. ‘It was to have been staged at The Rose on Monday but we will save it for Court.
A Looking Glass for London
is the ideal piece to set before Her Grace. Our rivals, meanwhile, will have no new offering ready in time. They will have to ferret through their old playbooks to find something fit. Our work will be fresh and lively against their dull, stale, careworn dramas.’

‘This serves us well, Rupert.’

They were at the house in Bishopsgate and Kitely was extremely flattered to be invited there. At the same time, he was reminded of his position as the servant of his patron by being kept waiting when he first arrived then by being made to stand while his host lounged in a chair. They were in a small but well-appointed antechamber and Kitely could hear the sound of busy preparations in the adjoining dining room. The noble Viscount Havelock would never deign to invite the actor to his table. Though the theatre troupe brought them close, and even permitted a degree of friendship, the social distance between them remained vast.

‘What of Westfield’s Men?’ asked the patron.

‘They are beset by problems,’ said the other complacently.

‘And we will create more to vex them.’

‘Have you been able to raid the company?’

‘We have taken one prisoner so far, my lord. Their young playwright, Lucius Kindell. You saw his work at the Queen’s Head recently.’

‘Saw it and admired it,’ recalled the Viscount. ‘This fellow has talent. But I would sooner you had poached Edmund Hoode from their pantry. They feed chiefly off him.’

‘Hoode will come in time, my lord,’ said the actor. ‘And Lucius will help to bring him there. My calculation was that Hoode would be desolate at the loss of his young apprentice. And so it has proved. Westfield’s Men are a lesser company when their playwright is dejected.’

‘You are a wise politician, sir.’

‘I need to be in my profession.’

‘And Banbury’s Men?’

‘They are of no account, my lord.’

‘Do not dismiss them lightly, Rupert.’

‘You know the terms of the edict better than I, my lord. One playhouse to stand north of the river and one south. Banbury’s Men cannot hurt us while they are in Shoreditch.’

‘But they must also have designs on Westfield’s Men.’

‘Indeed,’ said Kitely, ‘they have set themselves the task of stealing Barnaby Gill away.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Such information can be bought, my lord.’

‘A spy in their camp?’

‘He warns me of all that happens at The Curtain,’ said Kitely with a thin smile. ‘One Henry Quine, an actor with
the company, was used to see if Gill could be tempted. It seems that he can be. Gill has met with Giles Randolph.’

‘I would sooner he met with Rupert Kitely.’

‘That, too, will come in time, my lord,’ promised the other. ‘For the moment, I choose to let Banbury’s Men work on our behalf. If they take Barnaby Gill from the Queen’s Head, they disable the company badly and that serves our purpose. It is The Angel which threatens The Rose. Our rivals will help to clip its wings.’

Viscount Havelock rose to his feet to deliver his command.

‘I want this new playhouse strangled in its cradle.’

‘It will be, my lord.’

‘The Rose must have no rival in Bankside.’

‘Nor will it,’ pledged the other. ‘Havelock’s Men will be unchallenged. The Angel theatre is the doomed project of a company which will soon be disbanded. Your company will reign supreme, my lord.’

‘That will please me mightily.’

Viscount Havelock rose from his chair with a smile of satisfaction then gave his visitor a nod of dismissal before going off to join his guests. He would have something to boast to them about now.

Nicholas Bracewell was deeply troubled. His walk home from the Queen’s Head was a series of recriminations. A casual remark from their patron had made him see their situation in an entirely different light. When he left the house in the Strand, he firmly believed that their benefactor was advancing
a loan to the company out of fondness for Sylvester Pryde but it now transpired that she might have another motive. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, had struck him as a beautiful woman who was grieving over the death of a close friend and Nicholas had sensed that the friendship might well have been of the most intimate nature. He passed no moral judgement on that. It was not his place to do so.

If, however, the lady really was the discarded mistress of Viscount Havelock, and if she was using Westfield’s Men as a weapon against him, then the company’s position was precarious. They were mere pawns in a private quarrel between estranged lovers. When they had served their purpose and brought about the demise of the rival company, the scheming Countess might have no further use for them and the loan which she had so readily supplied might be recalled or laden with crippling additional interest payments. Instead of ensuring their salvation, Sylvester Pryde might unwittingly have loaded them with an intolerable burden.

What made his predicament worse was that Nicholas was unable to discuss it with anyone. Having given his solemn word, he was duty bound to stand by it and that meant holding back from his fellows any knowledge of the threat which their benefactor posed. He could now see all too well why the Countess of Dartford insisted on her anonymity. She did not wish Viscount Havelock to know that she was funding a campaign against his theatre company, nor, Nicholas suspected, did she want her husband to become aware of how she disposed of her money or how she spent her time away from him. Judging by his portrait, the Earl of Dartford was a
proud, haughty man with a possessive nature. Had he realised that his wife had been entertaining a young lover at their London home, he would have been justifiably roused.

The more Nicholas reflected on the situation, the more complicated it became. Lord Westfield had his faults but he was a supportive patron. He could be weak, erratic and prone to interfere at times yet he never failed them in a real crisis. Nicholas could imagine how outraged he would be if he knew that one of the people he had recruited to his Court faction was secretly providing the money to build the new playhouse. If her identity were ever revealed, then Nicholas himself would come in for severe criticism from a patron who would not be above demanding his removal from the company. He was shaken by the thought that a vow given to the Countess of Dartford might turn out to be an act of professional suicide.

His meditations carried him all the way down to the river and he engaged a waterman to row him across. As they rode on the choppy water in the falling light, Nicholas recalled that Sylvester Pryde had made a similar journey to Bankside on the night of his murder. He could well understand the emotions which had surged through his friend. To be able to effect the survival of his company would have been deeply gratifying but it was the notion of the new playhouse which had fired him. The Angel theatre would not just be a marvel which Pryde had helped to bring into being. For a rootless actor, an outcast from his family, a wandering soul, a man who had finally discovered his true path in life, it was a spiritual home.

The boat landed him a hundred yards downstream of The
Angel but Nicholas felt a sudden urge to view the site himself. Little would be visible in the gloom but he knew that it would impart the same thrill of anticipation which Pryde had sought on his fatal visit. Instead of returning to his lodging, therefore, he walked briskly past the tenements which fringed the riverbank. When a gap in the buildings appeared, Nicholas thought for a moment that he saw figures moving about on the site and he came to a cautionary halt. No work could be done without torches and Thomas Bradd had dismissed his men some hours before. Who then could be trespassing?

Though he strained his eyes against the half-dark, Nicholas could no longer see anyone among the timbers and the piles of bricks. He decided that he had either been mistaken or that his arrival had frightened away any intruders. When he moved forward, he still took the precaution of keeping a hand on his dagger but he did not expect to have to use it. The site of the playhouse seemed deserted. Foundations had been dug and one wall had already been started. When he stood in the centre of the plot, Nicholas could envisage the great, many-sided structure rising up all around him until it matched The Rose in the middle distance. It was an inspiring moment but he was not allowed to enjoy it for long.

The sound of footsteps made him turn and he saw a burly figure hurtling towards him. Nicholas lowered his shoulder and struck his assailant so hard in the chest that the man was knocked off his feet. Nicholas pulled out his dagger but a second man struck his arm with a staff and forced him to drop it on the ground. He swung round to
face the new adversary. Before Nicholas could even grapple with him, however, he was attacked from behind by a third man. All three now set on him, Nicholas resisted manfully, punching hard and drawing blood, using all his power to shake one of his attackers off and to wind a second with a blow to the stomach. But it was only a temporary respite and they came back at him with renewed ferocity.

Nicholas was outnumbered. As the brawl continued, the staff was used to club him to the ground. He tried to put his hands up to protect his head but his arms were drained of strength. A final blow knocked him unconscious. The men did not delay. Leaving him there, they set about their work with increased speed, kicking down the preliminary wall of the theatre then using ropes to drag and manoeuvre the heavy timbers into a pile in the middle of the site. Hessian soaked in oil was stuffed under the pile along with kindling. The bonfire was lit and the men retreated into the night.

By the time that Nicholas began to recover consciousness, the blaze was well-established. He opened a bleary eye to find that The Angel theatre was now a small inferno.

Giles Randolph was in a mood of unassailable smugness. His performance in the title role of
Richard Crookback
that afternoon had been hailed, the takings had been excellent, his patron had been indulgent and his favourite mistress had sent word that she was awaiting him. Only one source of pleasure was missing. He raised the topic with Henry Quine when the two of them met at The Elephant Inn in Shoreditch.

‘You have done well, Henry,’ he congratulated.

‘Thank you,’ said Quine.

‘How did you charm Barnaby Gill so cunningly? I do not think that you did it at the Queen’s Head under the very noses of his colleagues.’

‘That would have been too dangerous.’

‘Then how did you reach him? At his lodging?’

‘No, Giles,’ said Quine with a grin. ‘Master Gill is not like us. He takes no pleasure from the society of women. His interests lie elsewhere and he frequents those haunts where he can pursue those interests. I met him at one of those secret gatherings.’

Randolph smiled. ‘Did you turn apprentice and put on woman’s apparel? Were you a practised coquette?’

‘I simply approached him when he was in his cups and off guard. Flattery was my most potent ally. I showered praise on his work and told him what a tragedy it would be if his genius was swept off the London stage.’

‘What was his reply?’

‘The very notion mortified him.’

‘So you whispered the name of Banbury’s Men in his ear.’

‘Yes, Giles,’ said Quine, ‘but that is all I whispered. I gave him plenty of time to think it over before I went to him again. Too much eagerness at first would have aroused his suspicion and frighted him away. Persuasion could not be rushed. Barnaby Gill has been with Westfield’s Men a long time and deep loyalties still exist.’

‘You found a way to defeat them, Henry, and I am most grateful to you for that. Well,’ he said happily, ‘he came. Master Gill’s curiosity was such that he came here and met
me. I told him all that he was hoping to hear.’

‘You were masterly, Giles.’

‘It seems that I could take lessons from you.’

‘We won him over together.’

‘Not quite, sir,’ the other reminded him. ‘We brought the horse to water but we have yet to make him drink.’

‘He is ours.’

‘That would be a twin joy, Henry. We would gain the finest clown in London and wound Lawrence Firethorn deeply. All hope would vanish for him. Westfield’s Men would surely perish.’

‘Even with their clown, they would not survive.’

‘Can we be certain?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Quine with a smirk. ‘Absolutely certain.’

‘Our patron asked me recently how far we would go to preserve the company and subdue our rivals.’

‘What was your answer?’

‘All the way.’

‘That is mine, too. When war is declared, we must not be afraid to inflict casualties.’

Laughter at a nearby table made Quine look up. Some of the sharers from Banbury’s Men were celebrating the triumph of
Richard Crookback
and savouring their forthcoming appearance at Court. Henry Quine felt a surge of ambition. It was only a matter of time before he became a sharer himself and joined the exclusive ranks of his profession. He turned to frame a question to which Randolph already had the answer.