The Wanton Angel (25 page)

George Dart was so moved that he started to clap his hands in spontaneous applause until cuffed into silence by Thomas Skillen. They were in their tiring-house, a room off the Great Chamber, where
The Italian Tragedy
would be performed. Scenery from their rivals’ play had been removed and their own scenic devices were waiting to be carried out. Sharing the occasion with a rival company, they had little time to rehearse on the stage itself and that induced a general nervousness but it was largely dispelled by Firethorn’s speech. Westfield’s Men knew what was at stake. They had to act for their livelihoods.

Nicholas Bracewell moved among his fellows to check their costumes and issue reminders about cues to be taken and properties to be used. He paid particular attention to the apprentices, young boys who would profit most from his reassuring presence and whose dresses and farthingales, head-tire and fans would come under the intense scrutiny of the very court ladies whom the apprentices were counterfeiting. Every detail had to be right, every move and gesture so convincing that the audience would not even realise that they were looking at four boys in female attire.

They could hear the heavy murmur of anticipation in the Great Chamber. The room was filling up. Wooden tiers of seats covered in green baize had been erected against all four walls. A canopied throne was set for the Queen on a carpeted podium in front of a high stand at the head of the
Chamber. Red velvet cushions had been set out on the floor in readiness for selected ladies to lounge and pose. The stage itself was a rectangle in the middle of the hall, some twenty feet wide and not much above twenty-five feet long. Since the play would be viewed from all sides of the arena, scenery had to be used to decorate without obscuring any part of the action.

The floor was made of polished wood, ideal for dancing and much more solid than the quaking boards on which they acted at the Queen’s Head. Instead of open sky above an inn yard, they would be acting beneath an ornamented and fretted ceiling of hard plaster. Instead of competing with the bells and street clamour of London, their voices would be clarified by the tapestried walls and the solid ceiling. Hundreds of branched candles, hung on wires, stretched across the room.

Most of the audience were in position but the throne and all the scaffolds in the upper part of the room were empty, guarded by yeoman with halberds. The Gentleman Usher sounded a warning, then twelve trumpets announced the approach of the Queen and her train. Everyone in the Chamber rose to their feet and the actors in the tiring-house felt a surge of pride which was tempered with a dryness in the mouth. They were almost there. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, had come to witness their performance.

They could hear the exact moment of her entry into the Great Chamber. It was a long procession. The trumpeters came first, then the heralds in their coats of arms, then the nobles and Knights of the Garter. Distinguished foreign
visitors to the palace were also included, led by the Lord Chamberlain with a white staff which he used to marshal the fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, who acted as the Nearest Guard, and who, bearing gilt poleaxes, formed a hedge on either side. The Earl of Banbury was given the honour of bearing the crimson-sheathed Sword and the Lord Keeper carried the Great Seal. Then came the Queen herself, arrayed in all her finery, sweeping majestically into the Chamber with Ladies of Honour in her wake. Only when she was escorted to her throne by the Lord Chamberlain and lowered herself into it did anyone else dare to seat themselves.

To the waiting actors, it seemed like an eternity before they were given their signal. When it came, George Dart and the other assistants swiftly carried out the scenery and stage properties. After bowing to the Queen, they set them in position then bowed again and withdrew. There was a murmur of approval at the brightly painted scenic devices. The play opened in the Great Hall of a castle. At a glance, the audience could tell exactly where they were.

The Chamberlain used his staff to beat on the floor.

‘Sound, trumpets!’ he ordered. ‘Sound out!’

The ringing fanfare was their cue. With Firethorn at their head, the company walked bravely into the Chamber and bowed three times before distributing themselves around the stage. Those who did not appear in the first scene sat on green rushes at the edge of the stage. Book in hand, Nicholas sat among them to watch and control. Peter Digby and his consort took up their positions to
the side of the stage, their instruments tuned. The Lord Chamberlain raised his staff again and boomed over the hubbub.

‘Peace! Ha’ peace! Let the play commence.’

Silence slowly fell on the banked audience and the music started. Owen Elias stepped out to deliver the Prologue, bowing to the Queen, before declaiming the words which Edmund Hoode had penned during the long hours of the previous night.

The first burst of applause broke and the spirits of the whole company were lifted. Even their patron was encouraged. Angered at the sight of his hated rival, bearing
in the Sword with such dignity, he smiled at the mention of Banburian paint and laughed aloud at the play on Viscount Havelock’s name. He was also reminded what a fine, clear-voiced actor Owen Elias was. Seated beside him, the Countess of Dartford did not let her gaze linger on the Welshman. It was Lawrence Firethorn who commanded her full attention. Magnificently attired as the Duke of Milan, he moved around the stage with an authority and grace which was breathtaking.

The Italian Tragedy
proved a happy choice. It was a brilliant study of political duplicity and, since it involved Court spies from France, Spain and Holland, it enabled the audience to laugh at four different nationalities while realising at the same time that they were watching eternal traits of human nature which they themselves possessed. Firethorn was inspired as the villainous Duke, plotting, seducing, betraying, stabbing and poisoning his way through five acts of heady drama. Richard Honeydew was so moving as his hapless victim that even the Queen herself had to brush away a tear. Edmund Hoode was elevated to papal status and reinforced the Protestant prejudices of his audience with a display of scheming and manipulation. Owen Elias was the valiant hero who finally vanquished the tyrannical Duke.

It was Barnaby Gill, however, who gleaned the most applause. Relieved to be back with the company and smarting at his folly in considering defection, he was determined to atone for his mistake and pushed himself to the outer limits of his art. His timing was perfect,
his gestures vivid, his facial contortions a delight and his dances a source of pure joy. The comic songs which Hoode had inserted into the play for him were greeted with thunderous clapping and the Queen’s hand patted the arm of her throne in acknowledgement. Those who had laughed at
A Looking Glass for London
discovered what real laughter was.

Nicholas was proud of them all. He could rely on the more experienced actors to rise to the occasion but the younger ones and the apprentices also distinguished themselves. Even the error-prone George Dart came through unscathed. When the company brought the play to its bloody climax, the ovation turned the Great Chamber into a cauldron of noise. Nicholas stole a glance at Lord Westfield, who was smiling with joy. When the book holder looked at their patron’s companion, however, he was reminded of another threat which still hung over the company. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, surveyed the players with a glint of ownership and it was on Firethorn that her gaze rested. Even if they survived one crisis, the company would soon be confronted by another and only Nicholas could see it coming.

Lucius Kindell walked up and down outside the Queen’s Head and tried to pluck up enough courage to go in. An inn which had offered him so much joy and friendship now seemed to be sealed off from him by an invisible barrier. Guilt jostled with necessity. Ashamed to show himself, Kindell knew that he must do so if there was any hope
of reconciliation. He licked his lips, bunched his fists, straightened his back and summoned up every ounce of resolution. Then he went in through the gate.

Westfield’s Men had just broken off from their morning rehearsal. They were in a jovial mood. Their sense of unity was forbidding to the exile. He was afraid that they would shun him as one, if not drive him away with blows and harsh words. His steps became slower and more tentative. It was Edmund Hoode who saw him first and the young playwright could detect none of the apparent friendliness Hoode showed at their last meeting. Others glowered at him, a few turned away. When he collected a searing glare from Lawrence Firethorn, the newcomer lost all heart. He began to slink off.

Nicholas Bracewell went quickly after him.

‘Wait, Lucius!’ he called. ‘I crave a word.’

‘I fear that it will come with a blow,’ said the other, pausing at the gate and raising a protective arm. ‘You must think me the worst species of traitor.’

‘No, Lucius. You were practised upon.’

‘I was, I was. Master Kitely beguiled me.’

‘If you have realised that, you are already halfway to redemption.’ Nicholas smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. ‘Have you heard the glad tidings?’

‘It was the reason that I came.’

‘The Privy Council has spoken. They were so impressed by all three companies who performed at Court that they will not debar any of them. Westfield’s Men have been reprieved. And there is better news yet,’ he said. ‘We hear
that they will also renounce their plan to close the inn yard theatres. The Queen’s Head may yet resound to our pandemonium.’

‘Until you move to The Angel,’ noted Kindell. ‘That is what vexes Havelock’s Men. To have another playhouse so close to The Rose in Bankside. What will happen to this inn when Westfield’s Men leave?’

Nicholas shook his head in doubt then looked shrewdly at the visitor. Kindell’s arrival might yet be providential.

‘Why did you come, Lucius?’ he asked.

‘To make my apologies.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘but I am perplexed. I made a great mistake and I will pay dearly for it.’

‘In what way?’

‘When Master Kitely commissioned a new play from me, I was flattered. I thought it would take me from my fledgling role. In my vanity, I dreamt of being the Edmund Hoode of The Rose.’ He gave a shrug. ‘It will not come. Though I beat at my brains day and night, the new play will not come easily onto the page. What I have written only saddens me and it will appal Master Kitely when he reads it. The truth is … I am not yet ready to fly on my own. I need another’s feathers to buoy me up in the air.’

‘Honestly spoken, Lucius!’

‘Do not mock me.’

‘I pity you,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I also admire you for admitting the error of your ways and recognising that you still have limitations.’

‘Hideous limitations! My play is doomed.’

‘What does Rupert Kitely say?’

‘If it will not suit, it will be rejected outright.’

‘Has he not tried to help you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kindell, ‘but only to shape his own role into prominence. He is no craftsman like Edmund Hoode. He does not work at the carpentry of the whole piece.’

Nicholas let him unburden his woes. He was struck by the other’s candour and by his genuine remorse. Kindell had been naive rather than treacherous. His crime was forgivable.

‘Would you like to come back to us, Lucius?’ he said.

‘I dream of nothing else.’

‘It may take time.’

‘I will wait patiently.’

‘Then do the company a service as proof of your loyalty.’

‘I will do
anything
!’ vowed the boy.

‘How often does their patron visit Havelock’s Men?’

‘The Viscount attends almost every performance.’

‘Then deliver this to him,’ said Nicholas, taking a letter from inside his jerkin. ‘Be sure that you put it into his hands yourself.’

‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kindell, holding the missive and staring at its large seal. ‘That it was given to me by Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘No,’ said the book holder. ‘Tell him the truth. That it comes from a beautiful lady who desired you to deliver it in person. I was there when the lady in question penned this letter so I can vouch for her. Say nothing more than that, Lucius. It is enough.’

‘He will press for the lady’s name.’

‘If you do not know it, you cannot speak it.’

‘How will I describe her?’

‘As I have. Beautiful and gracious.’

He rehearsed Kindell in his role as messenger then sent him on his way. Firethorn came sauntering across to him.

‘I hope that you chastised him roundly, Nick.’

‘There was no need.’

‘Lucius Kindell is a villain.’

‘He is a foolish young man as we once were ourselves.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘In some senses, I still am. But why were you so civil to that traitor?’ he said, scowling again. ‘He is in the pay of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘That is exactly why I courted him.’

‘But Rupert Kitely is as base a man as Giles Randolph. Between the two of them, they do not amount to one complete actor. As for their patron at The Rose, he made my blood boil when I saw him at Court, smiling at us as if he already knew we would be disbanded. I loathe that devious Viscount, Nick. Do you know what I will do?’