The Wanton Angel (22 page)

Firethorn goggled. ‘Watch our rivals?’ he howled.

‘It is needful. I want to see the present strength of their company. The more we know about our rivals, the easier it will be to match them.’

‘Match them and mar them!’

‘I go to observe and not to enjoy.’

Firethorn’s anger vanished and he embraced his friend warmly. Marjory came bustling out of the kitchen to collect compliments on her cooking and a farewell kiss. The couple waved him off down Old Street. Shoreditch’s two theatres brought playgoers streaming out of the city and crowds were already gathering for the afternoon’s entertainment. Nicholas made for The Curtain and paid to sit in the gallery. Instead of finding a place on a bench, however, he lurked near the door, confident that he would not be the only member of Westfield’s Men who would appear. The gallery was filling up before his expected guest arrived. Concealing himself behind a post, Nicholas let the man choose his place before he moved across to sit beside him.

‘Well-met, Master Gill!’ he said.

‘Nicholas!’ Barnaby Gill paled. ‘What on earth are you doing here at The Curtain?’

‘I came to see a play.’

‘Why, so did I.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, whispering in his ear. ‘You came to see a company you plan to join. Do not deny it, Master Gill,’ he warned as his companion flared up. ‘You were seen last night in the company of Giles Randolph. Seen and heard. If Master Firethorn knew of that meeting, he would not have been so civil to you at the funeral.’

Gill squirmed. He knew exactly how Firethorn would have reacted which was why his dealings with Banbury’s Men had been conducted in secret. The time to announce that he was leaving the Queen’s Head was when he had already quit the premises and not when he was still within
reach of an actor-manager with a vengeful temperament and the strength of a bull. Gill’s exit was suddenly blocked by Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Do not breathe a word of this to Lawrence,’ he said. ‘I have not yet committed myself to Banbury’s Men. I merely heard their overtures as any sensible man was bound to do.’

‘Is it sensible to betray your colleagues?’

‘They are already betrayed by the Privy Council.’

‘Their decree has yet to be enacted.’

‘Westfield’s Men will wither away,’ prophesied Gill. ‘This Angel Theatre is a cruel illusion. It will not save you. We will all have to find a new company. I merely lead where others will surely follow.’

‘I will tell that to Master Firethorn.’

‘No! I beg you!’

‘His good wife, Marjory, will also have an opinion to give to you. She will censure you as much as he.’

‘Keep the pair of them off me, Nicholas.’

‘Then do not give me cause.’

‘What else am I to do?’ wailed Gill. ‘Would you have me stay at the Queen’s Head to watch the company sink into oblivion? Audiences love me. It is my duty to stay before them. And I can only do that by moving to The Curtain.’

‘No,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘That is not the only remedy. There is another, if you are bold enough to take it. And it gives you a chance to make amends for this contemplated flight.’

‘Another remedy?’

‘It may answer all.’

‘Pray, what is it, Nicholas?’

The flag was being hauled up its pole and the musicians were poised to begin. Nicholas chose deliberately to make his companion wait.

‘The play commences. I’ll tell you later.’

Lord Westfield was scurrying along a corridor at the Palace of Whitehall when someone glided out from an alcove to intercept him. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, had shed her cloak and her expression of mourning, containing her grief inwardly while showing her old outward gaiety. Lord Westfield stopped at once to give her a vestigial bow of courtesy.

‘Good morrow, Cordelia,’ he said.

‘My lord.’

‘How does the day find you?’

‘Tolerably well.’

‘I hope to see your dear husband back at Court before too long. We have missed his wisdom and experience.’

‘You will have to miss them even longer, I fear,’ she said, ‘and so will I. Charles weakens by the day. His physician begins to have serious doubts of his recovery. If there is no sign of improvement soon, I may have to return to the country to minister to him.’

‘I pray that that will not be necessary,’ he said with concern. ‘The earl is a soldier and will fight this sickness with a soldier’s courage. Besides, we should hate to lose you as well, Cordelia. I had counted on your being here when the three plays are presented at Court.’

‘Nothing short of my husband’s death would induce me to miss those, my lord. That is the time when I can be
most useful to Westfield’s Men. Mingling with the others to trumpet their virtues, making sure my opinions reach the Privy Council.’

‘I will do the same.’

‘Has your company chosen the play it will stage?’

‘If they have,’ he said, ‘I do not know what it is. But I have tidings from the Master of the Revels.’

‘What are they?’

‘Westfield’s Men will be last in order.’

‘That gives them a clear advantage,’ she said, thinking it through. ‘Coming after the others, they will be fresh in the minds of the Privy Council when they withdraw to consider which companies will survive. This is a tasty morsel of news, my lord. It must have pleased you.’

‘No, Cordelia,’ he admitted, ‘it causes me concern.’

‘How so?’

‘I believe that the decision has already been made. Look at the order in which the plays will be staged. Havelock’s Men are first, then Banbury’s Men, with my company last.’ He sucked in air through his teeth and grimaced. ‘That is clearly how we are viewed. Third and lowest in their estimation.’

‘That is not so,’ she argued. ‘If a final decision has already been made, why invite the companies to Court in the first place? What happens here must affect the Privy Council’s thinking. Do not be so downcast, my lord.’

‘It preys upon my mind.’

‘Westfield’s Men have no peer. I have seen all three companies at work and admire them all, but your troupe will always seize the laurels. The others have brilliance,’
she conceded, ‘but you have Lawrence Firethorn and he exceeds all superlatives. How can you lose faith with such a man to lead your company?’

‘He is my chiefest weapon, it is true.’

‘A cannon matched against pistols.’

‘Upon the stage, perhaps, Cordelia,’ he said gloomily. ‘But this war has not only been fought there. We have been sorely oppressed. One of my players was murdered.’

‘I know it well,’ she said, wincing at the reminder.

‘Our book holder, Nicholas Bracewell, was attacked. And then the timbers for our new playhouse, The Angel, were set alight.’ He shook his head worriedly. ‘Our rivals have some terrible weapons of their own.’

‘Do you have evidence that they were involved?’

‘No evidence, Cordelia, but a deep certainty.’

‘Well,’ she said evenly, ‘if that certainty can become firm proof, you are saved. The Privy Council will surely debar a company which uses such methods against a rival.’

‘It is not the first time we have been abused.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Our rivals bite constantly at our heels,’ he confided. ‘I love my troupe but Westfield’s Men have aggravated me beyond measure. Each day seems to bring a new source of anxiety. I will do all that I may to beat off our rivals and ensure our survival but I tell you this, Cordelia.’ He glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard him. ‘There are moments when the affairs of Westfield’s Men trouble me so much that I would almost wish to be rid of the burden.’

The Countess of Dartford sounded calm and detached but her mind was already grappling with a bold new possibility.

‘Would you yield the company to another patron?’

They were good. Nicholas Bracewell had always been willing to admit that.
The Fatal Dowry
was not the best play in their repertoire but Banbury’s Men turned it into a stirring piece of theatre. Giles Randolph was in commanding form, marshalling his company around him with skill but rising above them without discernible effort. Lawrence Firethorn might scorn his rival but Nicholas took a more dispassionate view. Randolph was an actor to be admired and feared.

Barnaby Gill took less interest in him. What he saw was an actor of consummate skill who lacked the sheer animal power and charisma of Firethorn. Gill’s attention was fixed on the comic characters in the play and they were disappointing. While Nicholas was murmuring with pleasure at taut dramatic moments, Gill was clicking his tongue irritably at the shortcomings of the clowns. He could see why Randolph was so keen to lure him to the company. Gill’s comic expertise would enrich every play and make him the perfect foil for the actor-manager. As he watched, however, Gill was less convinced of the wisdom of a move to Shoreditch. The company was sound but it lacked the all-round excellence of Westfield’s Men.

The play was well-advanced when Nicholas saw him. Taking the role of a spy, he wore a wide-brimmed hat which concealed
much of his face to those in the gallery and there was nothing distinctive in his voice to disclose his identity at first. When the hat was removed, however, and when Nicholas was able to take a proper look at the close-set eyes and protuberant nose, he was in no doubt. The actor who now strutted so boldly at The Curtain had once been employed in a more menial capacity at the Queen’s Head. Nicholas turned to Gill.

‘Do you know the name of that fellow?’

‘Which one?’

‘Bellisandro, the spy.’

‘Yes,’ said Gill. ‘That is Henry Quine.’

Leonard gazed around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head with misgivings. Horses were coming and going, ostlers were flitting to and fro and a cart was rumbling in through the gate to deliver casks of wine. Yet the place looked strangely bare. Without the stage and the players who went through their intricate paces upon it every day, the yard seemed deserted. Leonard felt an emptiness in himself. Westfield’s Men not only fascinated him with their work, they became good friends of his. When they were driven away, Alexander Marwood would be losing a source of income but Leonard would be deprived of the only family he knew. It was heart-rending.

As he helped to unload the wine from the cart, he tried to put his own anxieties aside. Rose Marwood was in a far worse predicament than he. Although her parents now allowed her a degree of freedom, they were still roaming the inn in search of the anonymous father and fulminating against him. They were poor support for a girl as frightened as Rose must be. There
was little that Leonard could do beyond showing sympathy for the girl but she appreciated his gesture. He wondered if there was some more practical way in which he could help.

When his work was done, he made his way to the lane at the side of the inn and reached a spot below the window of her bedchamber. It was still open and he sensed that she was inside. The last time he visited the spot, he brought a ladder with him and clambered up it to leave a token on her sill. Only a stone could reach the window now and attract her attention. He bent down to gather a few missiles from the ground then froze in horror. Lying forlornly in the mud, its petals crushed and its stem broken, was the rose he had gone to such trouble to procure for her. His gesture of friendship had been summarily rejected.

Leonard walked sadly away to return to his chores.

Nicholas Bracewell was glad that he visited The Curtain that afternoon. His bandaged head and facial wounds earned him many inquisitive looks but he shrugged those off.
The Fatal Dowry
was a revelation. The performance also enabled him to accost Barnaby Gill and remind him of the virtue of loyalty. He was particularly interested to learn that it was Henry Quine who first approached Gill on behalf of Banbury’s Men and who was a party to the negotiations with him. Nicholas realised why Gill did not recognise the actor from his role as Martin at the Queen’s Head. Quine lacked the boyish charm which might have aroused curiosity in Gill who, in any case, frequented the taproom far less than any of his fellows and who treated
the drawers and servingmen with lofty condescension.

Banbury’s Men picked the right target. Any other member of the company might have remembered Martin. Owen Elias had done so when the name was spoken. Gill was safe to court and the most liable to respond. Nicholas was certain that in his time at the Queen’s Head, Martin had watched them closely and searched for signs of weakness. Barnaby Gill’s fluctuating loyalty was that weakness. Giles Randolph had cast his man well. Whether as Martin or as Bellisandro in the play, Henry Quine had been a most effective spy.

After the performance, Nicholas parted with Gill and made his way back to the city. Still suffering the aches and pains of his beating, he found the walk uncomfortable and called to mind what Elias had said about his preference for the Queen’s Head. Most of the players, he suspected, would agree with the Welshman. The Angel theatre might help to secure their future but it would subject most of the players to a long daily walk. Nicholas made that journey every day and knew how tedious it could sometimes be.

He came through Bishopsgate and made his way along Gracechurch Street. Nicholas was in sight of the Queen’s Head when a horseman came trotting towards him. It was the young gallant who had accompanied the Countess to the funeral.

‘I have a message for you,’ said the stranger.

‘From whom, sir?’

‘A noble lady whom we both know. She is most anxious to speak with Nicholas Bracewell. I have been waiting at the inn for you above an hour.’

‘Must I visit her in the Strand?’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘She stays nearby at the house of a friend. I will conduct you there.’

He nudged the horse and it loped off through the crowd with Nicholas behind it. The young man’s manner was curt and patronising and Nicholas resented having to follow the rolling rump of his horse but an urgent summons from the Countess of Dartford could not be ignored and he was at least spared the ride to her property in the Strand. They reached the house in a matter of minutes. It was a sizeable dwelling set on a corner of two quiet streets but it had nothing of the grandeur which Cordelia Bartram favoured.