The Wanton Angel

Edmund Hoode was shouldering his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street when it happened. The realisation took him completely by surprise and brought him to a sudden halt. He did not even notice that he was standing in a puddle of water or that his shoes were attracting the sniffing nostrils of a stray dog. Truth hit him like a shaft of sunlight breaking through the dark clouds above. He was happy. Gloriously and seriously happy. For the first time in several years, he was unaccountably filled with a pure contentment. It was a small miracle. On a dull, cold, wind-blown morning, amid the jostling elbows and deafening noise of a bustling London thoroughfare, he experienced a quiet joy which took his breath away.

It was baffling. Hoode was no stranger to the exhilaration of lust, still less to the pulsing delights of love, but here was ecstasy of a wholly different order. It was no
brief flame of passion which would burn itself out and leave him in the pit of depression which was his normal abode. Indeed, romantic entanglement was, for once, markedly absent from his life and had no bearing on the feelings which surged within him. What he now basked in was a deep and satisfying inner glow. Edmund Hoode, the loyal, hapless, overworked, teased and tormented playwright with Westfield’s Men, was enjoying a peace of mind that blocked out all else.

It took a sharp nudge in the ribs to bring him out of his reverie. The old woman whose basket of fruit had struck him so hard and so carelessly apologised gruffly, but Hoode waved her away with a forgiving smile. Nothing could dent his sense of pleasure. As his legs began to move again in the direction of the Queen’s Head, he tried to piece together in his mind the constituent elements of his happiness. How had he managed to stumble into this rare condition?

More to the point, how long would it last?

‘Well-met, Edmund!’

‘Good morrow, Lucius!’

‘You are an early bird today.’

‘I could say the same of you, my friend.’

‘I take instruction from my master. In this, as in all other things, he sets a good example for me to follow.’

There was no irony in his voice. Lucius Kindell was a model of sincerity. Young, keen and fresh-faced, he openly acknowledged Hoode as his inspiration and was a most willing apprentice. Hoode was at once touched and flattered. Kindell was a talented poet, a University wit whose
brilliance at Oxford had earned him a wide reputation and whose fledgling dramas had enormous promise. Under the guidance of a veteran playwright, that promise was already bearing fruit.

When Lucius Kindell was first introduced to him, Hoode had been wary and defensive. Oxford and Cambridge graduates tended to be wilful and arrogant, reluctant to accept criticism of their plays and quick to mock those, like Hoode himself, who lacked a University education. Expecting to build a huge instant reputation, they were not prepared to put in the years of patient toil on the stage as they mastered their craft. Lucius Kindell, by contrast, was a modest, unassuming and conscientious pupil who was anxious to learn all that he could from a superior playwright. He had a streak of mischief in him and was a gifted satirist but he had none of the intellectual bumptiousness which so often marred the characters of self-styled University wits.

Hoode’s reservations about him soon fled away. Kindell was not only a skilful dramatist and a congenial collaborator, but he brought the best out of his teacher. Hoode’s own work actually improved, partly because he set about it with new enthusiasm and partly because he wanted to impress his young charge even more. Lucius Kindell’s arrival on the scene was without doubt a contributory cause of the other’s happiness. Though far from old himself, Hoode found himself taking a paternal interest in the latest addition to the company’s playwrights. Kindell was the son he seemed doomed never to father.

‘I had a sleepless night,’ admitted Kindell.

‘That is only to be expected,’ said Hoode, reassuringly. ‘Every true poet is justifiably nervous on the eve of the performance of his play.’

‘Our play, Edmund.
Our
play.’

‘You conceived the drama. I merely acted as a kind of midwife to bring it squealing into the world.’

‘You did far more than that,’ said Kindell with a glint of admiration in his eyes. ‘You transformed it. What I provided were some clever ideas in a shapeless tragedy. You fashioned it into a real drama. Any virtues it possesses were put there by Edmund Hoode.’

‘Thank you, Lucius.’

‘You are my mentor.’

‘That role has brought me intense pride.’

‘I sit at your feet.’

Kindell somehow managed to sound grateful without being obsequious. Hoode was delighted that someone appreciated him but he was also conscious of the debt he owed to his young friend. Kindell had concentrated his mind on subjects which he normally avoided. Known for his rumbustious comedies, Hoode had worked with his collaborator on two dark tragedies, both of which explored the power of religion to save and also to pervert. Their first play had been a modest success, their second joint offering,
The Insatiate Duke
, was due to receive its premiere at the Queen’s Head that afternoon.

The young playwright had brought a spiritual dimension into the life of Edmund Hoode which had been woefully missing. Instead of penning yet another rustic farce with
romantic subplots, Hoode was responding to the deeper challenge of tragedy and confronting far more serious issues. Significantly, his resort to prayer had been more willing, his attendance at church more regular. Writing about the struggle between Christianity and its detractors had brought him substantially closer to his Maker. Hoode was uplifted. He felt cleansed.

Lucius Kindell was apprehensive about the performance.

‘How will
The Insatiate Duke
be received, do you think?’ he wondered. ‘Will they approve of its theme?’

‘They must,’ said Hoode. ‘It is a fine play.’

‘And if they do not?’

‘Put that thought out of your mind, Lucius.’

‘Master Firethorn speaks well of the piece,’ said the other, trying to instil confidence into himself. ‘So does Master Gill – since you put in those additional songs for him. And the most reliable judgement of all is that of Nicholas Bracewell. He has nothing but praise for my work.’

‘And so do I. Fear not.’

‘My whole body trembles.’

‘Applause will soon still you.’

‘If the play merits applause.’

‘It does,’ insisted Hoode. ‘Trust me, Lucius.’

‘I do. Implicitly.’

Hoode put an affectionate arm around him and guided his friend into the inn yard. Hurrying towards them with head down, a buxom figure in a flurry of skirts all but collided with them and forced the couple to break apart. Rose Marwood stopped, looked up, blushed, dropped a
vestigial curtsey and stammered an apology.

‘The fault is entirely on our side,’ said Hoode with beaming gallantry. ‘We are sorry to block your path.’

‘Thank you, Master Hoode,’ she muttered.

‘Do not let us detain you.’

‘That would be too unmannerly,’ added Kindell.

They stepped aside to allow Rose Marwood to scurry on past them and lose herself in the crowd. The landlord’s daughter was a pretty wench with a shining face and long dark hair which streamed out beneath her cap. She had a bloom on her which habitually turned the heads of the company and Kindell was not immune to her nubile charms. He gazed after her with the fondness of rising curiosity.

‘What a splendid creature she is!’ he mused.

‘Who?’

‘Why, Rose Marwood, of course.’

‘A pleasant enough girl, to be sure.’

‘She is a young woman in her prime,’ said Kindell. ‘I never see her but I think what a blessing it is that she does not resemble either of her parents. They are ogres whereas their daughter is a portrait of delight.’

Hoode was surprised. ‘Is she?’

‘Surely, you must have noticed.’

‘Rose Marwood?’

‘Who else? Low-born, perhaps, but quite lovely.’

‘My God!’

Edmund Hoode had mild convulsions as another revelation hit him. Rose Marwood had been inches away from him yet he had been untroubled either by desire or
guilt. Her shapely body usually aroused at least a distant lust in him and he was forever haunted by the memory of a time when he had rashly bestowed his affections on her to the point of writing a sonnet in praise of her. Rose Marwood’s inability to read had rescued him from real embarrassment and he never met her without being reminded of his earlier folly.

Until now, that is. Proximity to those deliciously full ruby lips, those gleaming white teeth, those dimpled cheeks, those sparkling eyes and all the other attributes of her urgent femininity no longer unsettled him. Edmund Hoode was impervious to her and, by extension, to the seductive presence of women in general. He had finally conquered his demons. The hideous perils of romantic passion were a thing of the past. That was the insight he now gained. Unencumbered by his disastrous involvement with the fairer sex, his life at last had meaning, direction and dignity.

Happiness was celibacy.

The Insatiate Duke
presented a similar argument in dramatic terms. Debauchery was the road to despair. Virtue lay in monastic solitude. The rewards of virginity outweighed all of the temporary pleasures of concupiscence. It was not the most endearing message to thrust upon an audience which had come in search of rousing entertainment and which contained a fair scattering of prostitutes, courtesans, wayward wives and lecherous gallants, but it was offered in such a cunning and persuasive way as to sweep all resistance aside. Dark, powerful and harrowing,
The Insatiate Duke 
was nevertheless shot through with moments of wild comedy. Laughter was mixed liberally with sorrow.

New facets of Edmund Hoode’s talents were on display. Even his closest friends in the company were astonished.

‘What
has
got into him?’ asked Lawrence Firethorn.

‘He excels himself,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.

‘I have never seen Edmund attack a part with such verve. The wonder of it is, he all but outshines me, Nick. Me, the appointed star in this particular firmament, the smiling villain, the insatiate and tyrannical Duke of Parma. Humbled by a creeping Cardinal, a pale-faced eunuch in a red robe.’

‘Edmund’s finest hour.’

‘In one of his best pieces.’

‘Lucius Kindell must take some credit for that,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘They collaborated on the play.’

‘True,’ agreed Firethorn, ‘but Edmund Hoode deserves all the plaudits for Cardinal Boccherini. It is the performance of his lifetime. The part fits him like a glove. Heavens, man, he actually stole a scene from me.’

‘He will steal another if you miss your entrance,’ warned Nicholas, one ear on the progress of the play. ‘Cardinal Boccherini has come to confront you.’

‘A worthy adversary, indeed!’

A fanfare sounded and Cosimo, Duke of Parma, strode out onto the stage with his entourage. He and the Cardinal were soon engaged in a long, heated debate about moral responsibility. Lawrence Firethorn was at his best in the leading role, sleek and sinister, unperturbed by the charges
levelled at him and justifying his villainy in the most shameless way. Edmund Hoode could not match his raw power but he brought a nobility and sincerity to his role which commanded attention.

The verbal duel between the two actors was a mixture of fury and eloquence. Italian cardinals rarely gained sympathy from a Protestant audience such as the one which filled the yard at the Queen’s Head that day but Cardinal Boccherini was an exception to the rule. Spectators were cheering him on. They were accustomed to watching brilliant performances from Lawrence Firethorn, the actor-manager with Westfield’s Men, but they had never seen Edmund Hoode, so often confined to a cameo role, reach such heights.

Nicholas Bracewell watched from behind the scenes. Owen Elias stood beside him and shook his head in wonderment. A swaggering actor of great versatility, the Welshman was quick to admire the abilities of his colleagues.

‘Has he been drinking, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Edmund?’

‘Is that ale we can hear or canary wine?’

‘Neither, Owen. He is as sober as you and I.’

‘Then something he has eaten has put that fight into him. Find out what it was and the whole company can dine off it henceforth. Let us all profit from this magical sustenance.’

‘Food and drink are not responsible,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then what?’

‘See for yourself.’

‘Witchcraft?’

‘No, Owen.’

‘Then he must be in love again.’

‘I think not.’

‘This shower of sparks is aimed at some pretty face up in the gallery, I wager. Edmund Hoode is ensnared once more.’

‘Only by his art.’

‘What say you?’

‘That is all we are witnessing,’ decided Nicholas with a quiet smile. ‘Sheer histrionic skill.’

‘Why have we never seen it in such abundance before?’

‘He lacks your confidence.’

‘Not any more, Nick. Listen to him. This cardinal has such a supple tongue that it could make me turn Roman Catholic and swear allegiance to the Pope.’

‘Stand by!’

With a wave of his arm, Nicholas motioned two soldiers in armour forward. On their cue, they marched onto the stage and laid violent hands upon Cardinal Boccherini. The audience let out a communal gasp of shock. As the prelate was hauled off to the dungeon, spectators began to hiss and protest at the cruel treatment meted out to him. The Duke of Parma revelled in their disapproval and gloried in his wickedness. He also took full advantage of his finest scene in the play.

In calling Duke Cosimo to account for his sinfulness, the fearless Cardinal had been trying to protect the virtue of the beauteous Emilia, a novice from the convent who had caught the Duke’s lascivious eye. Elected to be the
Duke’s latest victim, she was now defenceless. What Cosimo did not know, however, was that Emilia was in fact his own daughter, conceived in a moment of lust with a lady-in-waiting at the Milanese Court. When Emilia was summoned to the Duke’s bedchamber to serve his pleasure, a groan of horror went around the inn yard. Spectators were aware of the true relationship between the couple. Not only was a helpless virgin about to be defiled, she would be forced unwittingly to commit incest.