The Wanton Angel (23 page)

The young man gave his horse to a waiting servant then took Nicholas into the house and into the parlour. The Countess was waiting, seated in a window to keep watch for them. She did not rise when Nicholas doffed his cap and greeted her. The gallant lingered until she dismissed him with a light laugh. Nicholas noted the strained look which passed between them.

‘Your friend was reluctant to leave,’ he commented.

‘It is his house. He feels dispossessed.’

‘I see.’

‘The property is convenient,’ she said smoothly. ‘I make use of it on occasion.’

‘Your friend came to Sylvester’s funeral with you.’

‘I needed an arm to rest upon.’

‘It was good of you to attend, my lady.’

‘Sylvester was a special friend.’

But he was not, Nicholas surmised, her only lover.
The young gallant was peeved to be ejected from the room in which he felt entitled to stay for reasons beyond his ownership of the house. With no sense of shame, the Countess went to the funeral of one lover on the arm of another. Mourning one man clearly did not prevent her from offering her favours to a second.

‘You were difficult to find, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I have been to Shoreditch.’

‘I am glad that you are here at last. Lord Westfield was at Court today. We talked at length about the company. What emerged from that conversation made me seek out you.’

‘Is there any news from the Master of the Revels?’

‘Just this. The order of performance at Court has been set. Westfield’s Men will be the last in line.’

‘That helps us,’ said Nicholas keenly.

‘I thought the same but your patron disagreed. He felt that it reflected the Privy Council’s judgement on the troupe. Third, last and therefore destined for extinction.’

‘Lord Westfield inclines to gloom at times.’

‘I am glad to hear you sound a more cheering note.’

‘Master Firethorn will be delighted by this.’

‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will come to Lawrence Firethorn in a moment. My question is this. And bear in mind how much money I have loaned you because I believe that it entitles me to an answer. Has Lord Westfield ever talked before about ceding his interest in the company?’

‘He has
talked
about it, my lady, but we are used to such moans. They amount to nothing in the end.’

‘Supposing that they did?’ she asked. ‘Supposing that
Westfield’s Men were forced to part with Lord Westfield?’

‘Forced?’

‘Circumstances change.’

‘Our patron would never leave us.’

‘He might, Nicholas. Inducements could be made. Lord Westfield is laden with debt and further burdened with the cares of his theatre company. Such things take their toll.’

‘The burdens will ease when our future is certain.’

‘Your patron did not think so. He was despondent.’

‘Well, we are not,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘Master Firethorn ensures that. Under his leadership, we are brimming with confidence and what I saw of Banbury’s Men at The Curtain this afternoon has only strengthened that confidence.’

‘I share it, Nicholas, believe me.’

He was cautious. ‘Do I hear you aright?’

‘I think you catch my meaning.’

‘
You
would wish to become our patron?’

‘Is that so strange a wish?’ she said airily. ‘Dartford’s Men rolls off the tongue as sweetly as Westfield’s and I would give you more support than ever the noble lord has managed. He will take much persuasion yet,’ she admitted, ‘but I saw him waver when I asked if he would yield up his troupe.’

Nicholas was too shocked to say anything. The thought of losing their patron was unnerving and he could find no enthusiasm for the notional replacement. What little he knew of the Countess led him to suspect that she would want to control and interfere in the company far more than Lord Westfield had done. His silence plainly irritated her.

‘What is your problem, Nicholas?’ she challenged. ‘Can you not stomach the idea of a woman as patron? It is my husband’s name that would be used for Dartford’s Men but a woman’s hand which would guide your fortunes. Your precious patron is not as enamoured with his troupe as you imagine. If his debts were settled as part of the bargain, I’ll wager that he would snatch gratefully at the hand of someone who would rid him of his company.’

‘That may be so, my lady,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it would be a very sad day for us if we lost the noble lord who brought us into being in the first place.’

‘Would you oppose me, then?’

‘It is not my place to support or oppose.’

‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘I know what weight you carry inside the company. Sylvester instructed me well. Win you over and I have a powerful advocate. Win Lawrence Firethorn over and the game is settled.’

Nicholas was hurt. ‘I am sorry that you see this as a game, my lady. We do not. It is our livelihood.’

‘I appreciate that,’ she returned coolly, ‘but you must appreciate my position. I have advanced several hundred pounds of my own money to safeguard your livelihoods. Westfield’s Men were quick enough to take it.’

‘And gratefully, my lady.’

‘I expect more than gratitude in return, Nicholas. I had thought that Sylvester’s friendship would be reward enough but his death has changed that.’ A mischievous gleam came into her eye. ‘Arrange a meeting for me with Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘You wish to reveal your identity to him?’

‘No,’ she stressed. ‘He must not know my name or my connection with the company. Tell him that I am an ardent admirer. Give him a flattering description of me.’

‘There is no such thing, my lady,’ said Nicholas gallantly.

‘Then say as much to him,’ she said, acknowledging his compliment with a smile. ‘I know his reputation. He will come running. When Lawrence Firethorn and I are alone together, I will be able to appraise him properly.’

Nicholas was stunned. Her request put him in an even more ambiguous position. It was an effort to conceal from his fellows the name of their benefactor but a more onerous charge was laid upon him now. He had to contrive a meeting between her and Firethorn by dint of lying to the actor. The Countess of Dartford would exploit the situation to her own advantage and Firethorn would hardly resist. Nicholas ran through them in his mind. Earl of Dartford, Viscount Havelock, Sylvester Pryde, the young man who owned the house and no doubt others besides. Now she had decided to add Lawrence Firethorn to her list of conquests, engaging Nicholas to act as her pandar.

Westfield’s Men had looked upon their benefactor as a visitor from heaven. Nicholas alone knew the truth. The loan which helped them might also enslave them to the Countess of Dartford. They would be in the grasp of a wanton angel.

As the hour of decision drew nearer, Westfield’s Men grew increasingly nervous. It worried them that their whole future might turn on a single performance at Court and what should have been welcomed as a signal honour came to seem more like a trial.
The Italian Tragedy
was a popular choice of play but they secretly feared that Havelock’s Men would have a clear advantage with a new work. If only one company were licensed south of the river, The Rose was the real threat to The Angel and the fact that Viscount Havelock’s uncle sat on the Privy Council sent tremors running through Westfield’s Men. Their patron was working strenuously to expand his faction at Court but he was up against some skilful politicians.

Notwithstanding their fears, Westfield’s Men were resolved to give a good account of themselves. While keeping up their regular performances in the inn yard, they
also found time to rehearse and refine
The Italian Tragedy
. Edmund Hoode was instructed to write a new prologue and to insert new speeches in certain scenes in order to freshen the play. Nor was The Angel neglected. A team of volunteers from the Queen’s Head went there every day and Thomas Bradd employed them well. With the site cleared once more, timbers were delivered by barge and hauled up the muddy bank to the foundations. Bricks were laid, posts were sunk and the walls slowly began to rise.

Their work did not end at sunset. Nicholas Bracewell organised a team of men to guard the site until midnight when they were relieved by night watchmen from the company. He was eager to take his turn on patrol and spent a first night, armed and ready, sitting in the drizzle on the edge of the Thames. No attack was made on the site and no incidents of any kind were reported but it was a necessary safeguard, even if it did introduce more yawns into their afternoon performances than were set down in the play by the author.

Nicholas was proud of the way that the company was reacting to the challenge which confronted them but he was tormented by guilt at having to hold back information from them which would rapidly change their attitude. If they knew that their benefactor was really an ambitious countess who wished to take over the company, they might not work with such conviction, and if they realised that she had designs on their actor-manager into the bargain, they would have quailed. A patron was there to lend the protection and kudos of a name and not to exert control
over their activities. The worst of it was that the company still thought of their benefactor as an example of divine intervention.

George Dart shared in the common illusion.

‘Will he be able to come to The Angel?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our saviour.’

‘I expect so, George.’

‘He must come. He is our guardian angel and we named the playhouse after him. On our first day there, he must come to share in the excitement.’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas evasively.

‘It was one of the many good things Sylvester brought to this company. He had such loyal friends. Someone must have loved him dearly to advance so much money to us solely on his word.’

‘Yes, George.’

‘And will it be enough?’ asked the assistant stagekeeper.

‘Enough to help us survive? I do not know.’

‘But they must take us more seriously if we have our own playhouse. That is the biggest single bar against us.’ He saw Thomas Skillen coming into the inn yard. ‘I must go before I get my ears boxed again. But please thank him on my behalf.’

‘I will.’

‘Tell our benefactor that we worship him.’

Nicholas gave a smile but his stomach was churning. He hated having to lie to his fellows. The simple faith of George Dart would be shattered when he learnt the truth
about the source of the loan and his trust in Nicholas would also be broken. It was morning at the Queen’s Head and Dart went off to get his first orders of the day from the old stagekeeper. Actors were starting to arrive to rehearse some scenes for the afternoon’s offering. Alexander Marwood drifted across the yard with his customary scowl. Leonard was filling wooden buckets from the well. A dark sky threatened rain.

Yet a sudden upsurge of affection seized Nicholas. With all its imperfections, he loved the Queen’s Head. A playhouse of their own would offer untold benefits but only if they were free to enjoy those benefits. An inn yard theatre with a glowering landlord was preferable to a new playhouse under the domination of the Countess of Dartford. Nicholas could not bear to view the uncertain future. He threw himself into his work by way of distraction. Minutes later, he was hauled away from it as a stallion came prancing into the yard.

One glance at Lawrence Firethorn showed that he had heard.

‘Nick!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here!’

‘What is amiss?’

‘This!’ said Firethorn, pulling a letter from inside his doublet and handing it over. ‘An act of treachery worthy of a Spaniard. Nay, a scheming Italian. We are lost, Nick.’

‘I do not think so,’ said the other calmly.

‘Read the missive.’

‘I do not need to. It is from Master Gill, I believe.’

‘Yes!’

‘Telling you that he wishes to leave the company.’

‘Worse than that!’ growled Firethorn. ‘Leave us and go to them. To that pack of wolves in Shoreditch. Wolves? Foxes, I should say, for they have tricked him with their cunning. I cannot believe that Barnaby would do this to us. But two days before we play at Court!’

‘Banbury’s Men have worked on him for some time.’

‘You
knew
?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had him followed to Shoreditch. Owen saw him talking closely with Giles Randolph.’

‘Why was I not told?’

‘I favoured another strategy.’

‘The only strategy Barnaby deserves is a foot of naked steel between the ribs. Sweet Jesus! I’ll cut him into shreds and hang them up to dry! I’ll boil him in oil! I’ll turn him on a spit over a slow fire.’ He dropped down from the saddle. ‘This will be the death of us, Nick.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘How can you be so cool at such dreaded tidings?’

‘Because I helped him to frame the letter.’

Firethorn quivered. ‘
You
were his confederate? You stood by and let him sell his miserable skin to Banbury’s Men?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and if you hear me out, you will find that he is not the villain you take him for. And neither,’ he added quickly, smothering Firethorn’s retort with a raised palm, ‘am I. The reason I helped with the letter was that he wished to show it to Giles Randolph before it was sent as proof that he was in earnest.’

‘Then he is not?’

‘Not since I talked to him of loyalty.’

‘What does he know of the word?’

‘A great deal. Do not despair of him. He will return.’

‘My sword will be ready.’

‘Were you a king, you would use it to knight him for his services to you.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘They wooed him hard to get him to Shoreditch and he has gone. But he may not fulfil their high expectations.’

Barnaby Gill arrived early at The Curtain to meet his new fellows and to rehearse the scenes in
Richard Crookback
in which his comic gifts would be given full rein. A beaming Giles Randolph gave him a formal welcome before introducing him to the others. Henry Quine was delighted to see him there, patting him like a favourite dog, and most of the sharers were honoured to have such a celebrated actor in their ranks but there were some who resented his promotion over their heads and who felt that his links with their rivals was a form of contamination. To bring him in at short notice for such an important performance was a risk but Randolph took it without a second thought. Gill learnt fast and had a tenacious memory. But the core of his art was inspired improvisation.

‘Clear the stage!’ said Randolph. ‘We will begin.’

‘I am ready,’ said Gill.

‘Are you happy with your role?’

‘Very happy, Giles.’

‘The play needed more comedy to brighten its darkness.
You will be the silver lining on a dark cloud, Barnaby.’

‘I will strive to please you.’

‘Stand by with the book!’ called Randolph.

But nobody expected that a prompt would be needed by two such experienced players. Randolph had taken the title role many times in the past and could perform it without thinking. Gill had been given a few days to study the scenes in which he featured and would already have mastered his role. It was the first time that two outstanding actors had shared the stage and the rest of the company watched with interest, conscious that they might be witnessing a historic moment.

Richard Crookback
began with the coronation of its central character, who had schemed his way to the throne and rejoiced in his villainy while doing so. It was in the second scene of the play that the jester made his appearance. Summoned to entertain the king and his entourage at their banquet, the jester amused the assembly with his antics before engaging with the king in a long argument. Like so many authors, the playwright put wise words into the mouth of a fool but they were disregarded by the impatient Richard who did not wish to be told that his reign would be short.

Trestle tables were set out for the banquet and a few cups placed on them. Richard III and his guests took their place at the banquet and indulged in witty badinage. Gill, lurking behind the arras, awaited his cue. When it came, he made a bold entrance but deliberately hooked his dagger in The Curtain so that he dragged part of it with him. Several of
the actors onstage laughed involuntarily but their laughter changed to cries of surprise when Gill appeared to stumble and knocked their table to the ground, sending the wine cups rolling noisily across the boards. Executing a little dance, the jester bowed low before the king and broke wind with such rasping authority that he drowned out his master’s first line and produced some more unscheduled hilarity.

Giles Randolph took his role too seriously to find any humour in the mishaps and quelled his company with a regal glare before repeating his line again.

‘Where have you been, my mad Gurney?’

‘Gurney?’ queried Gill.

‘That is your name.’

‘It is a strange one for a clown.’

‘No matter. Let us proceed.’

‘But I do not like the name of Gurney.’

‘We will talk of it later.’

‘I would rather settle this argument now, Giles, for the name makes me uneasy. Must I Gurney myself for two whole hours in Court? It is a foul name for a fine character.’

‘Nobody has complained before.’

‘I do not complain. I ask merely as a favour.’

‘It will be changed, Barnaby.’

‘Now or later?’

‘At the end of the scene.’

‘But I have the name hurled at me a dozen times or more. Gurneys will come at me from every direction to offend my ears and distract me from my lines. Give me no Gurneys, sir.’

‘What name would you prefer to be called?’

‘Anything you wish, Giles,’ said Gill with an ingratiating smile. ‘I am happy to oblige you.’

‘Morton?’ suggested Randolph.

‘Too upright a name for a clown.’

‘Bernard?’

‘Too French for the jester of an English king.’

‘Call him Will,’ said the other with exasperation, ‘or Arthur, Tom or Robert. Call him what you choose, Barnaby, but let us get on with the rehearsal.’

‘I am deeply sorry,’ said Gill with a show of penitence.

‘What, then, will the jester be called?’

‘Gurney.’

‘But that is the name which annoyed you.’

‘It annoys me less than the others I was offered. Let me be Gurney until the end of the scene then we can baptise the jester afresh. Will that suit?’

‘Yes,’ said Randolph through gritted teeth.

‘Shall we continue or start again?’

‘We will start again, Barnaby.’

‘I am Gurney now, remember.’

‘Let us start again!’

Gill bowed apologetically and withdrew behind the arras again. Controlling his irritation, the king began the scene again with a speech to his subjects, only to be interrupted by the jester who popped his head around The Curtain and smirked.

‘Give me instruction, please.’

‘Well?’ said Randolph, breaking off from his speech.

‘When I bow in front of you?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you prefer one fart or two, your Grace?’

The intensity of her anguish finally exhausted Rose Marwood and she fell into a deep sleep. Martin had deserted her. It was impossible to reach any other conclusion. The man she had loved so completely that she surrendered her heart, soul and body to him was not the kind and trustworthy person he had pretended to be. Instead of carrying the child of a man whom she adored, Rose was now saddled with the unwanted offspring of a hateful deceiver. A future which once looked so bright now seemed bleak and terrifying. The enormity of her misjudgement made her fear for her sanity.

It happened in the dark, so quickly and silently that she was not even aware of it at first. Nature, in its wisdom, took a decision which Sybil Marwood had tried to bring about by more inconsiderate means. A distant pain brought Rose awake to discover herself in a clammy and uncomfortable bed. When she learnt the reason for it, she shed her drowsiness at once and let out such a cry of fear that half-a-dozen people came running to her bedchamber.

Sybil got there first, holding a candle in one hand while beating away the servants with the flailing palm of the other. She ordered her husband to guard the door while she went in.

‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’ screamed Rose.

‘What ails you, girl?’

‘I am hurting so.’

‘Where is the pain?’

As soon as the flame cast its flickering light on the bed, Sybil knew what had happened. Sympathy welled up in her and she enfolded the girl in her arms.

‘Do not cry, Rose. It is God’s will.’

‘What has happened?’ asked Rose in the panic of ignorance. ‘Is it all over?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘Has my child been born?’

‘No, Rose,’ said Sybil softly. ‘It will never be born now.’

‘What do you mean, mother?’