The Wanton Angel (11 page)

‘I have more trust in Sylvester,’ said Nicholas.

Gill snorted. ‘Then it is misplaced.’

‘He loved this company.’

‘Until he discovered that there is no longer a company to love. He has gone. Such men are rovers. They never stay long in one place.’ Gill sniffed at his pomander. ‘I wager that we never set eyes again on Sylvester Pryde.’

Nothing more could be said. They went off to the taproom to seek refreshment before the afternoon’s performance. No mention was made of the missing actor but he was clearly on the mind of the whole company. Their sharer had deserted them and the projected playhouse lay in ruins. Everyone sensed it. There was no way that the company itself could raise such a substantial loan on their own. They had tried and failed many times. Their patron, Lord Westfield, was even less likely to come to their aid. Crippled by debts, he was more concerned with seeking loans for his own purse than for any building plans conceived by his troupe. Their plight was hopeless.

Yet they did not surrender to despair. The prospect of dissolution seemed instead to fill them with determination to give a good account of themselves in what might be one of a series of valedictory performances. Westfield’s Men were determined to be remembered, to write their signature boldly and vividly on the memories of London playgoers.

When they returned to the tiring-house, there was
a mood of resolution. Firethorn strengthened it with another rousing speech but it was Nicholas who perceived another side to the new sense of purpose. While keen to serve Westfield’s Men to the best of their ability, they also wanted to attract the attention of their rivals. Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men were the favoured survivors of the Privy Council’s edict and they would divide the spoils of Westfield’s Men. That being the case, it was highly likely that both companies would have someone in the audience to study the company and select the most likely recruits. Westfield’s Men were auditioning for their individual survival.

The yard was full, the galleries bursting and the actors straining at the leash.
The Loyal Subject
was a fine play, first performed at Court during the Christmas festivities and a reminder that the company had been favoured with royal patronage. With a mere ten minutes to go before the drama started, the tension was broken in the most unexpected way.

‘I am sorry to keep you all waiting, lads!’

Sylvester Pryde strode cheerfully into the tiring-house to be met by a tidal wave of questions. He raised both hands to silence the company then motioned them in close to him.

‘I went in search of money,’ he explained. ‘That meant an hour’s ride out of London. I left a message with my surly landlord but I see from your faces that he never delivered it. The rogue was too angry at my sudden departure to oblige me. No matter, friends. I am here now and so is our saviour.’

‘Our saviour?’ said Firethorn. ‘Who is he?’

‘That must remain a secret,’ warned Pryde, ‘but this I
can tell you. The loan is all but secured but nobody can be expected to advance so much money without some proof of your genuine quality. I brought him to the Queen’s Head to watch you this afternoon. Your saviour sits up in the gallery. My part is done,’ he said with a grin. ‘The money is there but you must show yourselves worthy of it.’

‘God’s tits!’ said Firethorn with a laugh. ‘We’ll dazzle like sunlight. You heard him, lads. It is up to us now. Seize this opportunity with both hands. Follow me!’

Owen Elias and James Ingram gladly relinquished the roles they had taken over from Pryde and the latter quickly changed into his costume for the first scene. Determination now shaded into euphoria. At the eleventh hour, they believed, they had been rescued by the man whom they had all foolishly suspected of deserting them. When the performance commenced, they hurled themselves into it as if their lives depended on the outcome.

It was a sensation. Inspired by Lawrence Firethorn, the whole company shone brilliantly, bringing out every facet of
The Loyal Subject
and attesting once again their supremacy on the London stage. The audience was alternately harrowed and amused as tragic events were interleaved with comic diversion. Somewhere in one of the galleries was the person whose money could reprieve them and they directed their performance at their invisible saviour. At the end of the play’s final dramatic scene, they were given an ovation which set their blood coursing.

While the rest of the company went off to the taproom to celebrate, Sylvester Pryde slipped quietly away to seek
out their benefactor. They were kept waiting for a long time before he appeared again. When he finally did so, his face was clouded, his shoulders hunched and his gait halting. His every motion signalled rejection. Profound disappointment fell on the company. Pryde dispelled it with a wicked grin.

‘The loan is secured!’ he announced.

‘Did he enjoy our performance?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Our saviour exulted in it. The money is ours.’

‘The man is our guardian angel!’

‘We will have our playhouse after all,’ said Hoode with a giggle of pleasure. ‘But what shall it be called?’

Suggestions came thick and fast and Nicholas Bracewell waited until the separate imaginations had run dry. He then stepped into the middle of the group.

‘Master Firethorn has already named it,’ he said.

‘Have I?’ asked a bemused Firethorn.

‘You described our benefactor as a guardian angel. That must surely be the name we choose. The Angel theatre.’

Firethorn beamed. ‘The Angel.’

A roar of acclamation went up. The christening was over.

Rose Marwood felt like a prisoner in her own home. It was a frustrating situation. She shared a hostelry with dozens of other people yet she was not allowed to see any of them apart from her mother. Even her father was denied access to her, though that was in the nature of a gain rather than a loss. Having been shouted at and cursed by him in the most robust language, she was glad to be spared his ire and his whining self-pity. Neither of her parents seemed to be able to think about anything but the effect of her pregnancy upon them. She detected no real sympathy for her and it was what she most needed at that delicate time.

The ordeal which lay ahead was made far worse by her ignorance of the full implications of childbirth. Terrible fears assailed her. She remembered all of the blood-curdling tales she had overheard passing between older women. She thought of all the gravestones she had seen in the church cemetery, pathetic monuments to young brides who had
died while trying to bring a child into the world. Would that also be her fate? Would they allow her to lie in consecrated ground? And what of the child itself? Would it survive or go with its mother to the grave? Whenever she contemplated the moment of birth itself, she was terrified.

Yet it was his. That thought anchored her terror. The child was conceived in love with a man on whom she doted and it was a great consolation. There was still hope for her. If Rose could get word to him of her condition, she was sure that he would come to her rescue and carry her away from a home she had come to detest. A God-fearing girl, she knew that she should be more obedient to her parents but they had virtually disowned her since she confessed her secret. Forced into a choice between them and her lover, she wanted him.

Wonderful memories washed over her and soothed her anguished mind. Until she had met him, she did not know what happiness was. Only when she was lying in his arms did she realise how much pleasure had been denied to her by watchful parents who kept her on an invisible chain. Her lover had snapped that chain for her and she would be eternally grateful to him for that. Whatever horrors might be inflicted upon her, Rose knew that she could bear them for his sake and she was convinced that he would one day bring her travail to an end. All that she had to do was somehow to make contact with him but that was impossible when she was entombed in her bedchamber. If he came in search of her at the Queen’s Head, he would not be allowed anywhere near her.

Grief claimed her again and she flung herself down on the bed, sobbing quietly and whispering his name to herself over and over again. A sharp tapping sound made her sit up and look around but the source of the noise was a mystery. After a brief pause, she heard the sound again and realised that it came from the window. Crossing quickly to it, she peered out and saw the massive figure of Leonard below in the street. Leonard was an affable giant of a man who worked at the inn. Kind, willing but slow-witted, he had a brute strength which was held in check by a gentle disposition. He sent a warm smile of greeting up to her.

After wiping a hand on his leather apron, he slipped it inside his shirt to bring out a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. He gestured for her to open the window so that he could throw the food up to her. Rose was touched. Leonard was taking a risk in trying to comfort her. Servants had been forbidden to speak with her and faced instant dismissal if they disobeyed. In his own shambling way, Leonard had ignored the order and sought her out. Rose was no longer wholly alone. She had a friend.

She opened the window and popped her head out.

‘Thank you, Leonard,’ she said.

‘This is all that I could find,’ he said, holding up the food. ‘But I’ll bring more another time.’

‘I am not hungry. I have victuals enough.’

‘Oh!’

‘But I thank you for your kindness.’

He shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘I wanted to help.’

‘I know. I am very grateful.’

An idea began to form in her mind but she had no time to discuss it with him. The sound of a key in the lock brought the conversation to an abrupt close.

‘Someone is coming,’ she called. ‘Go at once!’

‘I will,’ he said, backing away.

‘But Leonard …’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you come again?’

He nodded enthusiastically before vanishing around the corner. Rose shut the window but her mother had already come into the room and sensed a breach in her security. Rushing to the window, she flung it open and glared out but the street was now empty apart from a few stray dogs. Sybil rounded smartly on her daughter.

‘Who were you talking to?’ she demanded.

‘Nobody, mother.’

‘Do not lie, girl. I heard your voice.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

‘Was it
him
?’

‘Alas, no,’ said Rose, head bowed.

‘Then there was someone. I knew it.’ She pulled the window shut. ‘I’ll have a lock put on this. That will stop you.’ She flicked a hand. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Why, mother?’

‘Do as you are told. We are going out.’

‘Where to?’

‘You will soon find out. Now dress yourself.’

While her daughter shed her night attire, Sybil kept vigil at the window. Rose dressed as quickly as she could, fearful
that Leonard would return and be discovered. He was the one faint hope she had of getting a message to her beloved and she did not want him thrown out of his employment at the inn. That would be a cruel reward for the kindness he had shown her.

‘I am ready, mother,’ she said at length.

‘Then let us go.’

Sybil took her firmly by the wrist and almost dragged her out of the room. They were soon leaving by a rear exit and plunging into the labyrinth that was London.

‘Their own playhouse?’ Giles Randolph was aghast. ‘Westfield’s Men intend to build their own playhouse?’

‘That is what I have heard, Giles.’

‘Where will it be?’

‘The site has not yet been found.’

‘Surely not here in Shoreditch? We have to contend with The Theatre as it is. A new playhouse could put our own position in jeopardy.’

‘That is why I brought the tidings to you at once.’

‘You did well, Henry.’

‘I know where my loyalties lie.’

Henry Quine gave a fawning smirk then raised the glass of canary wine to his lips. He was a slim, young man of medium height with dark hair which curled attractively around his ears and a vestigial beard. If his eyes had not been so close together and his nose so long, Quine might have been accounted a handsome man but he had a smile which redeemed his features and a deep, melodious voice
which stroked the ear. The two colleagues were supping at a tavern in Shoreditch.

Giles Randolph was patently annoyed by the news.

‘Their own playhouse?’ he said. ‘That is impossible.’

‘They do not think so.’

‘How could they raise the money for such a venture? Lord Westfield is more penurious than our own patron and Lawrence Firethorn’s credit will not extend that far.’

‘They have secured a loan, Giles.’

‘From whom?’

‘I cannot say but I know who has been their broker.’

‘Who?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Their new sharer?’

‘He has wealthy friends.’

‘So it seems, Henry,’ said the other, ‘and that wealth might make Banbury’s Men poor indeed. As long as Westfield’s Men play at the Queen’s Head, we are in no danger. Inn yard theatres will be closed down in due course. Give them their own playhouse, however, and it is a different story.’

‘Only if it is built here in Shoreditch.’

‘North or south of the river, it is a threat.’

‘Not to us,’ said Quine. ‘If they choose a site in Bankside, it is Havelock’s Men who will suffer from their proximity. We will be safe here at The Curtain.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘Two theatres only are to stand. One north and one south of the Thames. That is the promised edict.’

‘Promised but not delivered, Henry,’ said Randolph
with a sneer. ‘The Privy Council is capricious. According to our patron, they have put off a final decision for some weeks. That gives Westfield’s Men time to find a site and start to build. Security of tenure is almost certain to go to Havelock’s Men. The Viscount’s uncle sits on the Council. But what if the work of Westfield’s Men is judged superior to our own? Such is the perversity of the Privy Council that they may even change their decree and permit both surviving playhouses to stand in Bankside.’

‘That is highly unlikely, Giles.’

‘It is a possibility we have to consider.’

‘How do we counter it?’

‘With cunning, Henry. We must disable them.’

‘Tell me how and it will be done.’

Randolph smiled. ‘You have been a loyal servant to us,’ he said, pouring more wine into his friend’s cup. ‘The day when Henry Quine joined our company was indeed an auspicious one. You have tied yourself to Banbury’s Men and will do anything to advance our cause.’

‘Anything!’ repeated Quine.

‘Being made a sharer will be a just reward.’

‘I long to have that honour.’

‘It will come, Henry. It will come.’

‘When?’

‘When our own future is certain and when Westfield’s Men are doomed. They are sides of the same coin.’ He leant in closer. ‘Sound out Barnaby Gill. He is a gem that must be stolen. Take him away and their company totters. Master Gill and Lawrence Firethorn are uneasy bedfellows. Let us
drive a wedge between them.’ He raised a finger. ‘But do it carefully, Henry. Dangle promises before his eyes.’

‘I will study how best to do that.’

‘Be quick about it. Ours is not the only company which will try to take captives. Havelock’s Men will do the same.’

‘They have already struck.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Or so it is rumoured,’ said Quine. ‘One Lucius Kindell, a young playwright whom Edmund Hoode has taken under his wing – a sure sign of promise in itself – has been wooed and won over by Rupert Kitely.’

‘Then we have no time to waste,’ said Randolph irritably. ‘Get to Barnaby Gill before Havelock’s Men start to pour honey into his ear. Offer whatever you have to, Henry. Greedy men will lap up any lies.’

‘Master Gill is greedier than most.’

They shared a laugh, then drained their cups of wine.

Randolph became serious. ‘Will this damnable playhouse of theirs ever be built, do you think?’

‘Yes, Giles. They are resolved and already have a name.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Angel theatre.’

‘The Angel!’ said the other contemptuously. ‘This angel could displace Banbury’s Men from our place in heaven. We must act swiftly. Who is the man who secured their loan?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Can we corrupt him?’

‘I doubt that, Giles.’

‘But he is the key to their good fortune.’ He stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Tell me about him, Henry. Tell me all about this Sylvester Pryde.’

Sybil Marwood did not loosen her grip on her daughter until they reached their destination in Clerkenwell. Hustled along through an endless succession of streets, lanes and alleyways, Rose was in great discomfort. When her mother finally released the girl from her grasp, Rose rubbed her sore wrist. Before she had time even to look up at the dilapidated little house, she was helped inside it by a firm maternal palm.

As soon as they opened the door, the smell invaded their nostrils. It was a strong, rich, but not unpleasant aroma and Rose thought at first that someone was cooking a meal in the kitchen. They were in a dark, featureless room with only a few stools and a table by way of furniture. A ragged piece of cloth hung over the doorframe opposite and it was pulled back to reveal the gaunt face of an old woman with straggly grey hair trailing down from her mop cap. Rose recoiled slightly but Sybil seemed to know the crone.

‘We are here at the appointed time,’ she said.

‘I am ready for you,’ said the old woman, pushing the cloth aside to step into the room and scrutinise Rose. ‘So this is your daughter, is it? A pretty girl without question and not like most of those who come to me for help. They have the mark of wickedness upon them but Rose does not.’

‘Yet wicked she has been,’ grunted Sybil.

‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ decided the old woman, giving Rose a gap-toothed grin of reassurance. ‘A man is to
blame here. She was led astray. Rose is only the victim of another’s wickedness.’ She indicated a stool. ‘Sit there, girl.’

She bustled out of the room and Rose hesitated.

‘Do as she bids you,’ ordered her mother.

‘Who is she?’

‘Mary Hogg. A wise woman of Clerkenwell.’

‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘She will medicine you. Now sit down.’

Sybil used both hands to ease her onto the stool. Rose was in a mild panic, sensing that she was in danger without quite knowing what that danger might be. When Mary Hogg reappeared, she was carrying a cup that was filled with a steaming liquid. Setting it down on the table, she turned to Sybil and snapped her fingers. Money was passed between them and the old woman counted it before slipping it into the pocket of her filthy apron.

Mary Hogg turned her full attention upon Rose.

‘Do not be alarmed, Rose,’ she soothed. ‘I will help you as I have helped so many others in the past. I am a wise woman and know the art of saving a girl’s reputation.’

‘Reputation?’ murmured Rose.

‘This child comes before its time. You are unwed.’

‘And no husband in sight,’ added Sybil.

‘Do you know what would happen if this baby were born?’ continued the old woman. ‘It would be condemned to a life of misery and you with it. Bastard offspring are spurned by one and all, Rose. You would be the mother of an outcast. It would be a cruelty to bring such a child into the world. A cruelty and a sin. For you have been sinful.’

‘I have prayed for forgiveness,’ said Rose.

‘Prayer is part of my remedy,’ explained the other. ‘And the old religion furnishes us with the best supplication. Do not be afraid to make use of what would be forbidden in a church. God will bless you for it. When I have given you my cure, you must say five Paternosters, five Aves and a Creed for nine consecutive nights, taking herbs in holy water at the same time. Only at the end of nine days will we know if the cure has been effective.’