The Wanton Angel (4 page)

Visits to the Palace of Whitehall were usually events to relish. Surrounded by his own friends, he preened himself shamelessly, exchanged brittle gossip, paid fulsome compliments to the court ladies in their bright plumage, received, in turn, praise for his theatre company from all objective observers, rubbed shoulders with men of influence and was generally given such a sense of his own importance that he could sneer openly at his detractors. From time to time, he was even favoured with a few words from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. It was an idle but wholly satisfying existence. Lord Westfield luxuriated in it.

Today, however, it was very different. Almost none of his intimate friends were at Court and persons of consequence seemed strangely uninterested in conversing with him. When her Grace made her accustomed flamboyant entrance and swept across to the throne, seizing attention with sovereign assurance, Lord Westfield felt oddly out of place, a foreigner making his first bemused appearance in London, an outsider, a newcomer, an exile. It was a paradox. In the
place where he was most at home, he was now an unwanted intruder. It made him furtive.

There was no opportunity to get within five yards of the Queen. Ringed by her favourites, she flirted gaily and indulged in badinage until the Portuguese ambassador was admitted to the Chamber with his train and a less sportive note was introduced. Pleasantries passed between the two countries but Lord Westfield did not even try to listen to them. His gaze was fixed on the hated Earl of Banbury, an unrepentant old sybarite with a goatee beard and such costly apparel that it stood out even in such a glorious wardrobe as the English Court. What was his rival up to this time? It was a question which tormented Lord Westfield for hours.

Only when the Queen departed could he begin to seek an answer to his question. As they streamed out of the Presence Chamber in chattering groups, Lord Westfield tried first to engage the Master of the Revels in conversation but the latter excused himself rather brusquely and strode off. Even more disturbed than before, Lord Westfield now fell in beside Sir Patrick Skelton, a short, stocky man in his forties with the distinctive strut of a seasoned courtier. Skelton had such an affable manner that no rebuff could be feared from him and, though he was a deeply political animal, he also had a rare capacity for honesty in a world where dissembling was the more common currency. When the moment served, Lord Westfield took him by the elbow and guided him into a quiet corner.

‘A word, Sir Patrick,’ he said.

‘As many as you like, my lord,’ came the obliging reply.

‘Her Majesty was in fine fettle today.’

‘When is she not? Even the sprightliest of us is put to shame by her vivacity.’ He gave a benign smile. ‘But that is not what you drew me aside to talk about, my lord, is it?’

‘No, Sir Patrick.’

There was a long pause as Lord Westfield searched for the right words to broach an awkward topic. Skelton tried to help him out of his difficulty.

‘You wish to ask me about affairs of state,’ he prompted.

‘Yes.’

‘Then do not be diffident. It does not become you and it sits ill with your reputation for plain speaking.’

Lord Westfield cleared his throat. ‘You are trusted and respected,’ he began, ‘as a man of complete integrity. Though you hear every whisper that flies around inside these ancient walls, you are careful to separate idle speculation from hard fact. You never spread wild rumours or pass on any of the scurrilous tales which daily reach your ears.’

‘Spare me this flattery, my lord. It is not needed.’

‘I merely wished to show you the high esteem in which I hold you, Sir Patrick.’

‘Your praise is gratefully accepted. Now speak out.’

‘What is going on?’

‘Going on, my lord?’

‘Something is in the wind concerning my theatre company and I have a strong feeling that Westfield’s Men will suffer as a result. I would like some warning of what exact form the threat takes.’

‘How do you know that there
is
a threat?’

‘Because of the way the Earl of Banbury looked at me.’

‘That is all the evidence you have?’

‘It is enough in itself.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Then add to it the fact that his friends were clearly in on the conspiracy and enjoying themselves at my expense.’

‘Conspiracy? Too strong a word, surely?’

‘I think not. The Master of the Revels is involved in it.’

‘Why,’ said the other softly, ‘what is Sir Edmund Tilney’s crime against you? Has he, too, been guilty of looking at you in a certain way?’

‘He ignored me, Sir Patrick.’

‘That is unlikely in so courteous a gentleman.’

‘When I tried to speak with him, he mumbled an excuse and walked away. That was scarcely an act of courtesy.’

‘The Master of the Revels is a busy man with extremely wide responsibilities. It was not rudeness which made him behave thus but pressure of work. I happen to know that, at this very moment, he has a private audience with her Grace. He was no doubt hurrying off to attend her.’

‘What is the subject of their discussion?’

Skelton shrugged. ‘I can only hazard a guess.’

‘My guess is that it touches on Westfield’s Men.’

‘Perhaps, my lord, but then again, perhaps not. And even if your troupe does come into the conversation, it may not be a cause for apprehension. The only time I heard her Grace mention Westfield’s Men by name was to praise the quality of their performances.’

‘Is that true?’ said the other, snatching up the crumb of
comfort. ‘When was this? What were her precise words? Did her Grace mention
me
?’

‘You and your company earned favourable comment. That is all I can remember, my lord. And Sir Edmund Tilney is even more aware of your pre-eminence. The Master of the Revels reads every new play you intend to perform to ensure that it is fit to receive his licence. He knows the high standards to which your players have always adhered.’

‘Then why does he ignore me?’

‘Her Majesty, the Queen, had prior claims, alas.’

‘That still leaves the Earl of Banbury.’

‘And, if I may remind you, Viscount Havelock.’

‘He has no part in this.’

‘But he does, my lord,’ said Skelton. ‘Banbury’s Men are your closest rivals, it is true, but your company also has to compete with Havelock’s Men. Viscount Havelock is as much a sworn foe of yours as the good Earl. Did you receive hostile glances from the Viscount?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Did he spurn you in any way?’

‘Far from it,’ admitted the other. ‘He smiled civilly at me and exchanged a polite word. Viscount Havelock is a man of true breeding – unlike a certain Earl.’

‘Does not one rival cancel out another?’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Courtesy from one balances conspiracy from the other. Take heart from that, my lord. Viscount Havelock is far closer to the centre of power than the Earl. His uncle sits
on the Privy Council. The Viscount would be the first to learn of anything which adversely affected Westfield’s Men and, by implication, which advantaged his own company.’ Skelton gave another shrug. ‘You are chasing moonbeams here. You have invented a conspiracy which may not even exist.’

‘I know the Earl of Banbury.’

‘He was merely trying to slight you.’

‘He was
gloating
, Sir Patrick.’

‘Over what?’

‘I dread to think.’

‘But calm thought is exactly what is required here,’ said the other. ‘Your imagination has got the better of you, my lord. Apply cool reason. The Earl may have been savouring a personal triumph which has nothing whatsoever to do with his theatre company. A new mistress, perhaps? A banquet he is due to attend? An inheritance which will help to defray the massive debts he faces? Some small sign of favour from her Grace? The possibilities are endless.’

‘I am somehow involved.’

‘Only if you let yourself be, my lord.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a mere game. You and the earl have played it for years. There have been many times when you have been able to score off him and you savoured those occasions. I have been in Court to witness them. Might he not simply have been trying to get some small revenge today? Seeking to unsettle you out of sheer mischief. Come, my lord,’ he
said with a smile. ‘It is not like you to be so needlessly upset by your rival. Do not give him the pleasure of ruffling your feathers.’

‘Nor will I,’ vowed Lord Westfield.

‘Hold fast to that resolve.’

‘I defy the earl and his ragged band of players.’

‘He is envious of the success of Westfield’s Men.’

‘With justice.’

‘Then no more of these phantom fears.’

‘They are banished forthwith,’ said Lord Westfield firmly but he immediately succumbed to another tremble of fright. ‘Just tell me this, Sir Patrick, for I know you will be blunt and candid. It is the last question with which I will plague you, I promise.’

‘Then ask it, sir.’

‘Have you heard anything from the chambers of power that will be to the detriment of Westfield’s Men?’

Sir Patrick Skelton gave an easy smile.

‘No, my lord,’ he said confidently.

The courtier excused himself and slipped away to join the stragglers. Lord Westfield was glad that he had sought his information from such a dependable source but he was worried that he did not feel more reassured. As he made his way out of the Palace of Westminster, it was the gloating Earl rather than the comforting courtier who stayed uppermost in his mind. When he came out into the early evening sunshine, Lord Westfield was suddenly struck by another thought.

Something did not ring true. Was it conceivable that Sir
Patrick Skelton had deliberately misled him? Could a man who was renowned for his frankness and moral probity have lied to him?

It was the most worrying development of all.

The Cross Keys Inn was less than fifty yards away from the Queen’s Head but the distance between the two establishments seemed more like a mile to the discontented refugees from the latter. Westfield’s Men wandered up Gracechurch Street in a daze, wondering what they had done to get themselves so swiftly evicted from their own theatre at the very moment when they had secured tenure of it for another year. It was both bewildering and humiliating.

Lawrence Firethorn smouldered, Edmund Hoode puzzled, Lucius Kindell was dismayed, Owen Elias was outraged and Sylvester Pryde was highly annoyed. Predictably, it was Barnaby Gill who led the chorus of protest, rounding on Nicholas Bracewell and wagging an accusing finger at him.

‘This is your doing,’ he spluttered.

‘I simply advised caution, Master Gill.’

‘You forced us to quit the premises.’

‘That is not true,’ said Nicholas.

‘At the instigation of the landlord, you threw us out of the Queen’s Head as if we were drunk and disorderly.’

Nicholas was patient. ‘All I did was to try to take the heat out of this altercation, and that could only be done by getting out of his sight. Alexander Marwood was implacable. Why stay there to enrage him with our
presence? It is much more sensible to withdraw awhile in order to allow his lawyer time and space in which to calm him down.’

‘
I’ll
calm him down!’ said Firethorn. ‘With my dagger.’

‘That would be too quick a death for him,’ added Elias. ‘I’d rather roast him over a slow fire and cool him down from time to time by dipping him in a barrel of his own beer.’

‘You’d contaminate the liquid,’ said Firethorn.

‘This landlord contaminates us all,’ said Gill, throwing a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. ‘Instead of hurling me out, he should be grovelling on his knees in gratitude to me for deigning to display my talents on his premises. I’ll not endure this, Nicholas. I have left the Queen’s Head for ever.’

‘We have a contract,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘Then why does the rogue not honour it?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You spoke with him. You must have some idea.’

Nicholas made no reply. He had already guessed the reason for Marwood’s rash behaviour but he did not want to voice it abroad until he had confirmation. It was essentially a matter to be discussed in private rather than a subject for ribald comment in the street. Gill continued to press him but the book holder would not be drawn. His immediate concern was to get his company into the taproom of the Cross Keys where fresh wine and ale would assuage their hurt feelings. The mood of celebration would soon return and most of his fellows would quickly forget that Alexander Marwood even
existed as they revelled on into the night.

When they reached the inn, Owen Elias led the way through its yard and into its welcoming interior. Like the Queen’s Head, it was a regular venue for the performance of plays though no company had been in residence that afternoon. The landlord was delighted to see a large bevy of thirsty patrons surging into his taproom to fill his empty tables. Brisk business was transacted with the servingmen. Westfield’s Men still grumbled but their recriminations lost some bitterness when they supped their first drinks.

Firethorn took Nicholas aside for private conference.

‘What is happening, Nick?’ he said.

‘That is what I will endeavour to find out.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I have seen the company settled in here, I’ll return to the Queen’s Head to speak with Master Stonnard. He will be able to cast some light on this unfortunate incident.’

‘Unfortunate! It is an insult to us!’

‘Bear it with dignity.’

‘How can I be dignified when we are so disgraced?’

‘There is no disgrace in withdrawing of our own volition. The Queen’s Head was too crowded for once with little enough room for our fellows to stretch in any comfort. Here they have space and comfort.’

‘And a landlord who knows how to smile.’

‘That, too. The crisis is over.’

‘But what brought it about in the first place?’

‘Can you not guess?’

There was a long pause. For the first time since the confrontation with their testy landlord, Firethorn put aside his own anger and applied some thought to the situation. Instead of glowering, his face became a study in wonderment. Eyebrows slowly arched, eyes glinted, jaw dropped. He stepped in close to speak in an undertone.