The Wanton Angel (21 page)

Someone jostled Hoode’s arm and made him spill his drink. When he turned to complain, he found himself staring into the hirsute face of a sailor who was much taller and vastly broader than him. The man glowered at him. Hoode gave him a sheepish grin and leant across to Nicholas.

‘Why did you ask me to meet you here, Nick?’

‘It was close to Lucius’s lodging and saves you the walk back to the Queen’s Head.’

‘I would rather have walked ten miles than come here. The Brown Bear is nothing but a den of vice. When I first came in, one of the serving wenches groped me familiarly.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘She remembered you.’

‘I am no pox-hunter! That lady would have fitted me out with a suit of French velvet as soon as I unbuttoned. I have learnt the value of a celibate life, Nick,’ he said. ‘No pox, no peril and no pain. The Brown Bear offers all three.’

‘I came here for a purpose, Edmund,’ explained the other. ‘Bear with me a moment while I satisfy my curiosity.’

Nicholas hailed the landlord, a big, bearded, slovenly man with a bald head that was running with sweat and a face with more warts than space for them to occupy. He hobbled across and glared at Nicholas.

‘What is your pleasure, sir?’ he grunted.

‘I wish to speak to Martin,’ said Nicholas.

‘Who?’

‘Martin. One of your drawers.’

‘We have no Martin here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I know who I pay, sir, believe me,’ said the man firmly. ‘And I have never parted with a penny to any Martin.’

‘Has he left your employment, then?’

‘He never came to the Brown Bear in the first place.’

The landlord was so certain and his manner so uncouth that Nicholas allowed him to be called away by another customer. Hoode had overheard the exchange.

‘Who is this Martin you seek?’ he said.

‘He worked at the Queen’s Head for a while.’

‘I do not recall him.’

‘No more do I,’ said Nicholas, ‘but Leonard spoke so warmly of him that I feel that I should have. Our landlord is the problem. He treats his servants so badly that they rarely stay for long. Martin came and went with the others.’

Hoode was annoyed. ‘And
he
is the reason you brought me to this filthy hole? Some skulking menial whose face you cannot even remember?’

‘Leonard told me that he sometimes called in at the Queen’s Head to pick up news. Why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And why choose Leonard as the man to tell it him?’

‘I do not follow you.’

‘Leonard is the most stout-hearted fellow alive. I love him as a friend and brought him to the inn because I knew he would give sterling service. But his brain is not the quickest thing about him, Edmund. He is easily gulled. I think that this Martin picked him out because Leonard would not suspect that he was being used.’ Nicholas looked around. ‘When I heard that Martin worked at the Brown Bear, I was surprised. You see it. A place of last resort. Beside this inn, the Queen’s Head is a paradise even with Alexander Marwood in charge. No sane man would move from Gracechurch Street to splash about in this vile puddle.’

‘We did!’ protested Hoode. ‘And for what reason?’

‘To satisfy a whim of mine.’

‘That blow to the head has unfixed your brain.’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas. ‘I found exactly what I
expected to find. Martin does not work here. He is a liar who befriended the one man at the Queen’s Head who would believe his lies without question.’

Hoode was still confused. ‘So? Martin is dishonest. Was that wondrous discovery enough to make us endure the Brown Bear? London is full of liars.’

‘But they do not all work at an inn which houses a troupe of players,’ argued Nicholas. ‘And they do not slink back to hear the latest news of the company from one who adores them so much that he watches them whenever he can steal a free moment. All I can plead here is instinct, Edmund, but that instinct tells me that we have been spied upon.’

‘By Martin?’

‘Who else?’

‘But neither of us can even remember the fellow.’

‘Exactly! When he was at the Queen’s Head, he made sure that none of us got to know him properly. He kept in the background and held his peace.’

Hoode was unconvinced. ‘This is folly on your part, Nick. I, too, can plead instinct and it urges me to get out of this evil place before I become infected. Let us go.’

‘We must wait until Owen arrives.’

‘Can we not do so in the street?’

Nicholas smiled. The boisterousness was too intimidating for his friend. Arm around his shoulder, he led Hoode back out into Eastcheap and away from the Brown Bear. A stentorian voice rang down the thoroughfare.

‘I am coming!’ bellowed Elias. ‘Do not leave!’

They paused until he came puffing up to them.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ he growled. ‘I have been all the way to Shoreditch and back. Though a friendly farmer bounced my bum a part of the way, my feet still took a pounding.’

‘To good effect?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Alas, yes. Barnaby is entwined with Giles Randolph.’

‘Never!’ denied Hoode.

‘I saw it with my own eyes, Edmund. Heard them exchange words of friendship. What more do you need? A sighting of the contract which makes Barnaby Gill a sharer with Banbury’s Men,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘Rest here while I go back to Shoreditch to fetch it for you.’

‘What else did you learn, Owen?’ said Nicholas.

‘That my old legs do not like so much walking. I had forgotten how far it was, Nick. I tell you, I do not relish the idea of a daily walk to Bankside either. The city has its faults but I prefer to lodge here.’

‘So do I,’ said Hoode.

‘To lodge and to work here,’ continued Elias. ‘I would not dare to say this to Lawrence now that we are so far gone with The Angel theatre, but the truth is that the prospect no longer thrills me as it once did.’

‘Why not?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I like the Queen’s Head,’ said the other. ‘We have played at The Curtain and at The Rose. Both have their virtues but I have to admit that I would choose the Queen’s Head over them. Even if it were peopled with a hundred Alexander Marwoods.’

‘I think I agree with you, Owen,’ decided Hoode. ‘My best work has been staged there. It inspires me.’

‘It inspires us all,’ said Nicholas sadly, ‘but the Privy Council is like to turn us out. To stay here in London, we must have a playhouse of our own. The Angel answers that need.’

Owen was cynical. ‘Barnaby does not think so. He would sooner throw in his lot with Banbury’s Men than stay with us and risk all. They even talked of having him play at Court with them. In
Richard Crookback
.’

‘Is that their choice?’ Nicholas heaved a sigh. ‘Report has it that
Richard Crookback
is their best achievement of this year. A new play from Havelock’s Men and a fine one from Banbury’s Men. We will have strong competition at Court. Tell us more about your findings, Owen?’

‘May I do so with some ale in my hand, Nick? I need to sit down and search for solace in a tankard. Let us step back into the Brown Bear.’

‘No!’ shouted Hoode. ‘It is a stinking pit! The only reason that Nick enticed me in there was to look for someone whom he knew we could not find. An arrant liar called Martin who once worked at the Queen’s Head.’

The light of discovery came into Elias’s eyes.

‘What was that name again?’ he asked. ‘Martin?’

The funeral was held at the Parish Church of St Leonard’s, a place where more than one member of Westfield’s Men had already been laid to rest. As a mark of respect to Sylvester Pryde, the day’s performance was cancelled and the whole company filed into the nave of the church for the service. It was short but moving. An ancient priest who could never be expected wholeheartedly to approve of the wayward life of an actor nevertheless praised a man he had barely known in words that brought great comfort and many nods of agreement. Nicholas Bracewell was pleased that he had spoken to the priest about the deceased beforehand and he was interested to hear some of his own phrases coming back to him from the pulpit in such a sonorous tone.

Nicholas was too absorbed in his own grief to notice everyone around him and even when he acted as one of the pall bearers and helped to bear the coffin back down the aisle, he did not see the hooded figure who sat with a
companion at the rear of the nave. It was only when they moved out to the cemetery and lowered the body of Sylvester Pryde into his grave that Nicholas was able to take stock of those around him. His fellows were overcome with emotion. Several were weeping, some were praying, others remained in a contemplative silence. George Dart was so distraught that he needed the physical support of Thomas Skillen.

Anne Hendrik was there and Marjory Firethorn accompanied her husband. What touched Nicholas was the fact that several people from the Queen’s Head also came to pay their respects. Leonard was among them, his big face awash with tears, his mind trying in vain to grasp the meaning of such a violent and untimely death. Even Alexander Marwood turned up, prompted by the thought that the burial of one actor symbolised the imminent death of the entire company. It was a form of leave-taking and he was surprised how painful he found it. Having wished to expel the company so often in the past, he now felt strangely bereft.

Nicholas was gratified to see such a large congregation coming to the funeral of a man who had no family members to mourn him. It was a tribute to Pryde’s capacity for making friends. Nicholas finally saw her when the burial service was over and people were beginning to disperse. Wearing a dark cloak with a hood pulled up to cover her face, she stood on the fringe with a young gallant in attendance on her. Before she left, she walked to the grave and tossed a valedictory flower into it. Nicholas guessed at once who she must be and he caught a whiff of her fragrance as she swept past on her way out. Alone of Westfield’s Men, he knew that their
benefactor had come to bid a sad farewell to a lover.

Lawrence Firethorn came across to him with his wife.

‘Will you dine with us, Nick?’ he invited.

‘He must,’ insisted Marjory. ‘We can raise a glass to the memory of dear Sylvester. I invited Anne to join us but she has to get back to Bankside.’

‘That is so, alas,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne has a business to run but she wanted to pay her last respects to Sylvester. She was very fond of him.’

‘Every woman was fond of him, Nick,’ said Marjory with a wan smile. ‘And the pity of it is that many of those whose favours he enjoyed will not even know that he is dead. When they find out the awful truth, there will be a lot of damp pillows in London. I wept a torrent myself.’

‘Do not remind me!’ sighed Firethorn. ‘But will you join us, Nick? There is much to discuss. We have yet to choose the play we offer at Court and I would value your opinion in private before I argue with the others. Come to Shoreditch.’

‘He will not dare to refuse,’ said Marjory with a mock warning in her voice. ‘Will you, Nick?’

‘No,’ he said with a smile. ‘It is a kind invitation and I accept it with pleasure.’

She kissed him on the cheek and led the way out of the cemetery. Marjory was mother to the whole company and it grieved her to lose one of her children, however recent an addition to the shifting family that was Westfield’s Men. They were the last to leave and threw a final, sad glance over their shoulders. Firethorn was indignant.

‘I would have thought he might be here,’ he complained.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our benefactor. Sylvester died on the site of The Angel theatre. I am grateful that his friend advanced us the loan to build it but I think it a poor reflection on the name of friendship that he could not even turn up to see Sylvester laid to rest. Is our benefactor so heartless?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the case at all.’

Doubt was a restless bedfellow. It kept Rose Marwood awake for most of the night as she thought of vows which were made and ambitions which were discussed with her beloved. Morning found her still twisting and turning on her bed. As the hours went painfully by, she could find scant relief for her anxieties. Had he forsaken her? When he was unaware of her condition, she could not blame him for keeping his distance as they agreed. But being apart was only a prelude to the closeness of marriage. Their union was blessed with a child and lacked only the sanction of the church. She would not be the first bride who went to the altar with child. He promised to come back and he promised to make her his. Where
was
he?

He knew. Rose could no longer make any excuses for him. He knew yet he neither came nor sent a message. She was desolate until she remembered once again the solitary flower. That was his message. That was a seal of his love. When he heard that he had fathered a child, he did not run in panic or turn away in disgust. He reached out to her. He found a way to leave the rose on her window sill at a time when she was so weak that she could hardly walk across
the bedchamber to retrieve it. He knew, he loved, he sent a token. He was hers. Rose chided herself for losing faith in him and reached under the pillow once more to take out the rose and fondle it gently.

She was still entranced by it when there was a tap on the door. Rose sat up and hastily hid the flower away again. She tried to brush away the tears. There was a second tap on the door before it opened slightly.

‘Are you there, Rose?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘May I come in?’

She did so without invitation and closed the door behind her. Nan was a scrawny old woman who worked in the kitchen at the inn and whose arched eyebrows gave her gaunt face a permanent look of surprise. Carrying a bowl of cherries, she bared her few remaining teeth and nodded excitedly.

‘I brought these for you, Rose,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Nan.’

‘I picked them myself. I was afraid to bring them before but your mother has gone to market and your father went to the funeral.’ She gave an almost girlish giggle. ‘So I came.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘Take them,’ said the visitor, thrusting the bowl at Rose. ‘You must keep your strength up. You’re eating for two now.’

Rose blushed but consented to take the cherries from her. Peering more closely, Nan clicked her tongue in sympathy.

‘Have you been crying?’

‘No, no,’ lied Rose.

‘I know you must be worried. I was myself. I had my
first child when I was about your age. A little girl. Nobody told me what to expect. It was a shock.’ A nostalgic smile touched the haggard features. ‘But my daughter soon made me forget the pain. She was my little jewel, Rose. The most precious thing in my life. Until she died.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Barely two. None of my children lived beyond five. But they were all a great joy to me while they were alive.’

Rose felt more unsettled than ever. Nan was a friend and she had gone to some trouble to get the cherries for her but the last thing that Rose wanted to hear about were the pangs of childbirth and the woes of motherhood.

‘You had better go, Nan. Mother may come back.’

‘Yes, I don’t want her to catch me here. But Leonard told me that you were allowed out now.’

‘From time to time.’

‘He was so pleased when you thanked him.’

‘I had to, Nan. Leonard helped me.’

‘Well, I hope that bowl of cherries is a help as well. You deserve them.’ She giggled again and hunched her shoulders to pass on her gossip. ‘Have you heard about Leonard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘We think that he is in love.’

Rose was astonished. ‘Leonard?’

‘It is absurd, I know. A man that size. A man as witless as poor Leonard. But I saw it in his face when he asked me.’

‘Saw what?’

‘That look,’ said Nan.

‘What was it that he asked you?’

‘To pick one for him from the garden.’

‘Pick one?’

‘A flower,’ said Nan, letting her eyebrows soar even higher. ‘Those hands of his are far too big to snap a stem without damaging the flower itself and he was afraid he would be seen in the garden and mocked. But that’s what he asked me to do for him.’

‘To pick him a flower?’

‘A red rose.’

‘A rose,’ gulped the other.

‘Yes! Would you believe it? Leonard!’

Still giggling, she scurried out of the room and left Rose to absorb the shock. She was in great distress. Her cheeks were on fire and her breath was coming in short gasps. She felt as if she were about to choke with despair. The flower beneath her pillow was not a token from her beloved at all. He had failed her. She had drawn false succour from the rose. Leaping up, she backed frantically against the wall and stared in horror at her bed as if it had been defiled.

Marjory Firethorn knew when to leave them alone. She had always been exceptionally fond of Nicholas Bracewell, admiring his personal qualities as much as his invaluable service to her husband’s company. It was a delight to her whenever he visited her home because he was invariably courteous to her and wholly free from the melancholy which plagued Hoode and the tantrums which Barnaby Gill often displayed. She cooked them a delicious meal and all three of them washed it down with a cup of wine. Having
cooed over Nicholas’s injuries once more, she then called the servant to clear the table and withdrew with her into the kitchen. Theatre was men’s work.

Lawrence Firethorn had his first question ready.

‘What shall we play at Court, Nick?’

‘First, know what our rivals are offering,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that may determine our own choice. Banbury’s Men will play
Richard Crookback
.’

Firethorn coloured. ‘What! Will Giles Randolph try to ape me in the role of the hunchback? Such arrogance! I have made the part my own in our play about the same king. Those who saw Lawrence Firethorn as Richard III will laugh in derision at this pretender.’

‘Nevertheless, that is their choice.’

‘And Havelock’s Men?’

‘A Looking Glass for London.’

‘I do not know the play.’

‘How could you?’ said Nicholas. ‘It has not yet been performed. They are saving its novelty for the Court. It is written by Timothy Argus, always their most reliable author.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Firethorn, wincing slightly. ‘A new play gives them freshness that we others lack. But no matter,’ he continued, flicking their rivals aside. ‘How can those pigmies hope to tower over a giant like me? Whatever they play, they will barely reach my kneecaps.’

Nicholas was more cautious. ‘We must give them some respect,’ he advised. ‘They may have nobody to compare with you but their companies are replete with talent. Expect them to give a good account of themselves or we are lost.’

‘I will sweep them from the boards like dust!’

‘The play we choose must suit our whole company.’

‘Then it must be
Hector of Troy
!’

‘Too long and wordy for an occasion like this.’

‘
Vincentio’s Revenge?
I shine equally in that.’

‘It grows stale with overuse, I think.’

‘Then it has to be
The Knights of Malta
. I will make the palace walls quake when I thunder as Jean de Valette.’

‘It would not be my first suggestion,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You soar to the heights in all three but none allows the whole company to show its true mettle. Banbury’s Men present a history while Havelock’s Men lean on comedy as their crutch. We should choose a tragedy to show our serious intent. The pity of it is that the best play for our purposes is no longer available to us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it is called
The Insatiate Duke
.’

‘I spurn it, Nick!’ yelled Firethorn with a gesture of disgust. ‘We will not play it again until we have taken a knife to it and cut away everything that appertains to Lucius Kindell.’

‘Then you cut away the very soul of it.’

‘So be it. That vile traitor will not live to see me declaiming his verse again. Forget his work. It is past.’

Nicholas was not so ready to condemn Kindell, nor consign him to the company’s history, but he did not defend him. There was no point in infuriating his host when he was manoeuvring him carefully towards a critical decision. After waving a few other titles in front of him, Nicholas came to
the play which was his selection but he let Firethorn enthuse about it until the latter believed that he had chosen it himself.

‘
The Italian Tragedy!
I have hit the mark, Nick!’

‘I think you have.’

‘What better piece to set before a Court than a tragedy of Court intrigue? By Jove, we’ll do it! The play has been off the stage too long. We’ll put it back where it belongs.’

‘With help from Edmund.’

‘But it is not his play.’

‘He is contracted to repair as well as to create,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let him mend a few holes in its apparel and fashion a prologue by way of a new ruff. Edmund’s wit is quicksilver. He will use the prologue to score off our rivals.’

‘Done, sir!
The Italian Tragedy
it shall be!’

‘A happy inspiration of yours.’

‘When Marjory serves beef, my brain always whirrs.’

There were several other things to discuss, including the financial state of the company, but the main problem had been solved. When Nicholas had guided his host into some more important decisions, he took his leave.

‘Will you walk back to the Queen’s Head?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having come to Shoreditch, I’ll make a virtue of necessity and visit The Curtain.’