The Wanton Angel (5 page)

‘Is
that
what this is all about, Nick?’

‘I believe so.’

‘No wonder he was so furious.’

‘That fury will abate in our absence.’

‘But he still has no cause to abuse the whole company.’

‘I will tax him with that argument.’

‘Shall I go with you?’

‘Delicate negotiations may be needed,’ said Nicholas. ‘The less people involved, the better.’ Firethorn gave a nod of assent. ‘And please do not spread our suspicion freely among the others. We may yet be wrong.’

‘And if we are not?’

‘Then we take the appropriate action.’

‘What is that?’

‘I will not know until the full facts are at my disposal.’

‘We must retain the Queen’s Head,’ said Firethorn with an edge of desperation. ‘We belong there, Nick. Our tenancy has not been without turmoil but that makeshift stage of ours is still my favourite theatre.’

‘And mine.’

‘Can this rift be mended?’

Nicholas Bracewell looked across at the members of the company, robbed of their security in the twinkling of an
eye and experiencing once more the cruel precariousness of their profession. Good humour was slowly returning and the first jest was cracked by Owen Elias but they were still nursing their wounded pride. Entitled to celebrate the success of their performance, they had instead been ignominiously turned out into the street. On their behalf, Nicholas was profoundly shocked and saddened.

‘Can it, Nick?’ pressed Firethorn.

‘I hope so.’

Ezekiel Stonnard needed all his patience to cope with his garrulous client. Seated in a private room with writing materials before him, he waited for facts which could be recorded but they took time to emerge from the landlord’s cloudburst of vituperation. It was only when the storm had blown itself out that he could probe for detail. Alexander Marwood crossed to the window and drooped in front of it, staring out despondently at the yard where the troupe had so recently enthralled yet another audience. Stonnard rose to join him at the window.

‘I am hampered by a shortage of information,’ he said.

‘And I have too much to bear.’

‘Then unburden it to me, Master Marwood.’

‘I cannot bring myself to do so.’

‘You must. I am your lawyer and, I like to believe, your good friend. You may entrust any intelligence to me. A lawyer is a species of priest, taking confession.’

‘You are more likely to administer last rites here.’

‘But why? That is what I do not yet grasp. Why?’

Marwood was about to answer when his eye alighted on a figure who had just entered the inn yard. The sight of Nicholas Bracewell was like a dagger through the landlord’s heart. He let out a cry, grabbed at his chest and fell backwards into the lawyer’s arms. Stonnard disentangled himself.

‘What ails you, sir?’

‘A member of that accursed company has returned.’

‘Let me see.’

Stonnard was just in time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas before the latter came into the building. His response was in sharp contrast to that of his client.

‘This is an accident that heaven provides,’ he said with an oleaginous grin. ‘They have sent an emissary. This matter can be resolved before Westfield’s Men engage their own lawyer to take the case to litigation.’

‘Could they do that, Master Stonnard?’

‘All too easily. You signed that contract.’

‘Before I knew the ugly truth.’

‘That does not matter. You are legally bound to observe the terms of that contract. Now, sir,’ he said, leading Marwood to a chair and lowering him into it. ‘Acquaint me with the full facts, then I will summon Nicholas Bracewell to discuss the situation in an amicable atmosphere.

‘Amicable!’

‘Free from harsh language.’

‘I am undone,’ said Marwood, sagging forward. ‘You ask me to make peace with my vilest enemy.’

‘I ask you to instruct your attorney, sir.’

The story eventually began to dribble out. Torn between anger and self-pity, the landlord gave a rambling account of the marital interchange in his daughter’s bedchamber. Ezekiel Stonnard listened without interruption. When Marwood came to the end of his sorry tale, he put his head in his hands and sobbed bitterly. Stonnard gave him token comfort before urging him to compose himself.

‘Their ambassador must be seen,’ he insisted. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is a sound man, untouched by the vanity of the players and straightforward in his dealings. Did you not tell me that you have always found him so?’

‘Yes,’ conceded the other.

‘I will fetch him.’

‘But he is one of
them
.’

‘All the more reason to meet with him. Westfield’s Men must be appeased or this quarrel will catch fire and we all may be burnt by its flames.’ He introduced the argument which would have the most influence on his client. ‘This could be costly, sir.’

‘Costly?’ gasped the other.

‘Extremely costly.’

Marwood finally capitulated and Stonnard left the room at once. When he returned, he was towing Nicholas Bracewell in his wake, alternately patronising and apologising to him. They came into the room and closed the door behind them. The landlord refused even to meet the newcomer’s eyes. Nicholas addressed him with studied politeness.

‘I am sorry that we have caused you such distress,’ he said. ‘It was not intended.’

Marwood remained silent. Ezekiel Stonnard took over.

‘Do you know the cause of that distress, sir?’

‘I think so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Well?’

‘Mistress Rose is with child.’

Her father went off into a paroxysm of coughing. They waited until the fit had passed before continuing.

‘Who told you?’ asked Stonnard.

‘It is the only explanation,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it was hinted at by Master Marwood when he assailed us as lechers.’ He turned to the landlord. ‘Name the man responsible for this and he will be roundly chastised before being made to honour his obligations.’

Marwood looked up. ‘Name him?’

‘We hoped that
you
might do that,’ said Stonnard to Nicholas. ‘Identify the villain.’

‘Has he not boasted to you of his conquest?’ sneered the landlord. ‘My daughter would not yield up his loathsome name. All she would admit was that he was one of the players. Rose described him as a tall, handsome, loving man.’

‘Did she say no more than that?’ asked Nicholas.

Stonnard shook his head. ‘By all accounts, it was a trial to get that much out of the girl. She is deeply confused. Two facts, however, are certain. The poor creature is, alas, with child. And the father is a member of your company. We look to you to root him out so that he can be held to account.’

‘I will help in any way I can,’ volunteered Nicholas, ‘but the faults of one man must not be allowed to poison your view of the entire company. Westfield’s Men have signed a contract and we expect Master Marwood to abide by it.’

‘He will do so,’ soothed Stonnard. ‘In time.’

‘When the rogue has been unmasked,’ croaked Marwood. He glared at Nicholas. ‘I daresay that you may already guess at his name. A tall, handsome, loving man! Which is another way of saying that he is a vile seducer who takes advantage of a virtuous and God-fearing maid behind her father’s back. Who is he?’ he demanded querulously. ‘You have an insatiate duke among your fellows, sir. Tell me his foul name.’

‘When I learn it,’ promised Nicholas, ‘I will.’

Nobody saw him leave. Sylvester Pryde was roistering with his fellows at the Crossed Keys for an hour or more before he slid quietly off into the shadows. They would not miss him. Drink and exhilaration were powerful allies. They would soon obliterate all memory of Sylvester Pryde as Westfield’s Men lurched happily on towards the stupor which would bring an end to their madcap celebrations.

The actor flitted swiftly through a maze of streets until he came to a large house on a corner. Unlike its timber-framed neighbours, which were all thatched, the house was tiled and had recently been given a fresh coat of paint. It was patently owned by someone with moderate wealth and a pride in his home. The visitor was grateful that the householder was travelling to Norwich on business, blithely unaware of the
fact that his beautiful young wife might entertain a guest in his absence.

Sylvester Pryde lurked in a doorway and watched the window of the bedchamber at the front of the house. It was only a matter of minutes before a candle was lit to signal that the coast was clear. He allowed himself a smile of anticipation before letting himself in through the unlocked front door. She was ready for him and it was an article of faith with him that he never kept a lady waiting.

Nicholas Bracewell rose early next morning at the house where he lodged in Bankside. Anne Hendrik, his landlady, had already been up an hour and she had breakfast waiting for him. As they sat on either side of the table, it was their first opportunity to discuss the events of the previous day.

‘You arrived home late last night,’ she observed.

‘I was delayed at the Cross Keys Inn.’

‘The Cross Keys? Why not the Queen’s Head?’

‘That is a tale of some length, Anne,’ he sighed.

‘Am I to be told it?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘In detail.’

When he recounted what had happened, Anne was delighted to hear of the success of
The Insatiate Duke
but alarmed at what occurred after it. She could imagine all too readily the state of hysteria into which their fretful landlord had whipped himself. However, while sympathising with the plight of Westfield’s Men, her main concern was for
Rose Marwood whom she knew from her own regular visits to the inn yard theatre.

‘What will become of the poor girl?’ she asked.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Who knows? She does not, alas, have the most understanding parents. They will reproach her bitterly at a time when she most needs tenderness and reassurance.’

‘Rose was such an innocent creature. I used to marvel at her. She was no typical serving wench with a coarse tongue and a roving eye. There was a touching purity about Rose Marwood which somehow kept men at bay.’

‘Until now.’

‘Yes, Nick,’ she said ruefully. ‘But I will not believe that the girl yielded herself lightly. Rose would need to be deeply and hopelessly in love before she considered sharing a bed with a man and even then, I suspect, a promise of betrothal would be needed.’

‘There is no mention of betrothal now.’

‘Has the father deserted her?’

‘So it appears.’

‘Is he aware of her condition?’

‘We will not know until we identify him.’

‘Can you not guess who he might be?’

‘I believe so, Anne.’

‘Well?’

‘His was the first name which sprang to my mind.’

‘Owen Elias?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘though Owen obviously had to be taken into account as well. He has always had a special
fondness for tavern wenches and loses no chance to prove his virility. But he is not the indifferent father. I questioned him bluntly and Owen swore that this was not his doing.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Though he did add that he wished that it had been. The thought of seducing Rose Marwood and enraging her father had a double appeal for him.’

‘Rose would not look at a man like Owen Elias.’

‘Many women have, Anne.’

‘I am sure. He is extremely affable and has a vitality about him which is very attractive.’

‘Do
you
find it attractive?’

‘I did,’ she confessed, ‘until I got to know him better. But he poses no threat to me, if that is what you are asking.’ She smiled warmly. ‘I am already spoken for, Nick.’

He met her gaze and returned her smile. Anne was the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker. When her husband died, she took over his business and ran it with a flair and efficiency that nobody realised she possessed. With its bear-baiting arenas and its brothels, its mean tenements and its populous low-life, Bankside was not the safest part of London in which to live and Anne soon felt the need of a man in the house to lend a sense of security. Nicholas Bracewell turned out to be the ideal lodger and they were gradually drawn into a close friendship. While not letting it dictate their lives, it was something on which both set great value.

‘Who
is
the father of Rose’s child?’ she asked.

‘It has yet to be confirmed, Anne.’

‘But you have a strong suspicion.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and it was strengthened even more when
I returned to the Cross Keys last night and questioned every man in the company in turn.’

She was surprised. ‘Every man?’

‘With the exception of George Dart and Barnaby Gill. The one is too shy even to look at a woman and the other spurns the entire sex. No,’ continued Nicholas, ‘I heard what I expected to hear from all of them. Stout denial.’

‘Who, then, is left?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Surely not!’

‘He is the only person unaccounted for, Anne. When I got back to the others, Sylvester had left.’

‘When you were celebrating a triumph?’ she said in astonishment. ‘His place was surely with his fellows. What could possibly have lured him away at such a time?’

‘The latest Rose Marwood, perhaps?’

‘No, Nick. I refuse to believe it.’

‘Sylvester is the most handsome man in the company,’ he argued, ‘and well-used to reaping the fruits of his good looks. Rose would not have been his first conquest.’

‘I still think him an unlikely culprit.’

‘Why?’

‘Sylvester Pryde has moved in high circles, Nick. He has consorted with lords and ladies. My guess is that it is among those same ladies that his conquests have been made, not in the taverns of London.’ She pursed her lips as she pondered. ‘I mean no disrespect to Rose Marwood. She is a comely enough girl but could she really attract such a worldly individual as Sylvester Pryde?’

‘It is not impossible.’

‘But is it likely?’

‘I fear that it is,’ said Nicholas. ‘Almost as soon as Sylvester joined the company, Rose was smitten with him. I lost count of the number of times I caught her watching us at rehearsal when Sylvester was on the stage. When she was in the taproom, he was always the first to be served.’

‘That does not make them lovers, Nick.’

‘No. But it singles the name of Sylvester Pryde out.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Tax him with the charge,’ he said. ‘That is why I rose so early this morning. So that I could reach his lodging before he left. It is a conversation I would rather have in private. If Sylvester
is
the father of this child, there will be severe consequences. It would be unseemly to let him rehearse with us at the Queen’s Head as if nothing had happened.’

‘At least, you
can
rehearse there again.’

‘Yes, Anne. I wrenched that concession from our landlord.’

‘You have a contractual right to play at the inn.’

‘The only contract which Alexander Marwood can talk about is a contract of marriage. Lacking that, his daughter has been locked away and treated as if she were a criminal.’

‘My heart goes out to her.’

‘And mine.’

They finished their breakfast in thoughtful silence. He put his plate aside and rested his arms on the table, reaching out to take her hands between his.

‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘It was a simple enough meal.’

‘I am grateful for the breakfast as well,’ he said, ‘but I was really thanking you for hearing me out. I am sorry to burden you with the problems of Westfield’s Men when you have plenty of your own.’

‘That is certainly true, Nick!’

‘Share them with me.’

‘Another time,’ she said. ‘I will not hold you up.’

‘But you have not told me what
you
did yesterday.’

‘I am not sure that I should.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might provoke jealousy.’

‘Jealousy?’

‘I went on impulse,’ she said, defensively. ‘It was not planned at all. But I was delivering a hat to Mistress Payne and she suggested that we go together. She would not dare to go on her own and was so pleased with the hat that she was eager to wear it. In a moment of weakness, I agreed.’

‘To what?’

‘An afternoon at The Rose.’

‘Anne!’ he said with mock outrage.

‘It was a disappointing play but well-acted for all that and Mistress Payne was delighted that we went. My hat won her several compliments.’

‘You went to The Rose theatre?’ he teased.

‘Only to oblige an important customer.’

‘Supporting the work of a rival company?’

‘They pale in comparison with Westfield’s Men,’ she said, loyally. ‘There is only one player among them who is
fit to have his name mentioned alongside that of Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Rupert Kitely.’

‘Yes, Nick. He towered above the others.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ he said. ‘Rupert Kitely is the mainstay of Havelock’s Men. They have a number of talented actors – including one or two deserters from our company – but it is Kitely who is their principal asset. Such a man would be most welcome in our own ranks.’

‘What hope is there of his joining you?’

‘None whatsoever. He is a sharer with Havelock’s Men and tied by contract to the Viscount’s service. Besides,’ said Nicholas, rising from the table. ‘I am not sure that there is a stage big enough to accommodate both Lawrence Firethorn and Rupert Kitely. Each needs his own arena.’

‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked.

‘For what?’

‘Spending time and money on your rivals?’

‘You are entitled to go to The Rose theatre,’ he said, helping her up from her seat. ‘It is almost on your doorstep. And it is good to have a pair of eyes on Havelock’s Men so that we keep our rivals under surveillance. When I return this evening, I would like to hear more about the performance.’

‘Not if you come back at the same hour as yesternight.’

‘My apologies for that, Anne. You were already abed.’

‘Fast asleep.’

‘I know. I peeped into your bedchamber.’

‘Then why did you not join me?’ she scolded softly.

‘I was afraid that I might wake you.’

Anne stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.

‘I was afraid that you would not.’

A night of passion which would have exhausted most men only served to invigorate Sylvester Pryde. When he dressed next morning, he felt a fresh energy pulsing through him and giving his whole body an agreeable tingle. His lover had fared less well. Hair tousled and limbs pleasantly fatigued, she lay amid the scattered bed linen and fought to open her eyes.

‘Must you leave so soon?’ she said drowsily.

‘Yes, my love.’

‘Stay another hour.’

‘Nothing would delight me more,’ said Pryde, crossing to bestow a kiss on her forehead. ‘But I am expected elsewhere.’

‘By whom, sir?’

‘A very special lady.’

‘You swore last night that I was a very special lady,’ she complained, sitting up and pouting. ‘Was that a wicked lie?’

‘No, my sweet.’

‘Then why will you not linger?’

‘Truly, I may not. I have another assignation.’

She bristled. ‘You cast me aside for another?’

‘Only during the day. I will return again tonight.’

‘Not if you have been cavorting with a rival,’ she said tartly. ‘My door will be closed to you, Sylvester. I will not share you with anyone.’

‘Not even with the Queen of England?’

‘Her Majesty?’ she said, blinking in wonderment.

‘Yes,’ he explained with a grin. ‘I will pay homage to her Grace when I pass beneath her portrait on the inn sign. There is my assignation. At the Queen’s Head with the other players. Be ruled by me,’ he said, giving her another peck. ‘You have no flesh and blood rival. Only a painted monarch who swings to and fro in the wind in Gracechurch Street.’

‘I wronged you,’ she admitted.

‘Only because I misled you. But I must away.’

Pryde took a last, long, searching kiss before slipping out through the door. To avoid the prying eyes of neighbours, he left discreetly by the rear exit and came out into a narrow lane. Striding purposefully along into a stiff breeze, he reflected on his nocturnal pleasures and wondered how long he would sustain this particular romance. The lady was a willing but very inexperienced lover and he was not sure whether her husband’s occasional departures from London would give him enough time to teach her all the refinements she needed to master in order to hold his interest.

When he swung into Gracechurch Street, he dismissed her from his mind and turned his attention to Westfield’s Men, recalling their embarrassing departure from the Queen’s Head and speculating on the possibility that they might henceforth be banished from their place of work. This eventuality was far more worrying than the fumbling caresses and lunging urgency of his latest conquest. Being a privileged member of such an illustrious troupe as Westfield’s Men gave Sylvester Pryde immense satisfaction.
On the stage in the inn yard, he enjoyed a sense of fulfilment such as he had never known before and the notion that it might be taken away from him by a volatile landlord produced a severe jolt.

The crowd was thick but he threaded his way through it with ease until he reached the Queen’s Head. His worst fears were confirmed by the sight of Nicholas Bracewell, standing outside the inn, presumably to turn the players away. He closed quickly on the book holder.

‘Good morrow, Nick!’

‘I have been waiting for you,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I called at your lodging, they told me you had spent the night elsewhere.’

‘That is so. I was called away.’

‘It must have been a pressing summons if you left in the middle of our celebrations at the Cross Keys Inn. But that is your business and does not concern me here.’ He was having difficulty being heard above the noise. ‘This street is too busy. Let us seek a quieter place to talk.’

Taking Pryde by the arm, he guided him down the first turning then swung into an alleyway which gave them a modicum of privacy and a respite from the continual din.

‘Are we barred from the Queen’s Head?’ said Pryde.

‘The company is not but one member of it may be.’

‘One member?’

‘Let me explain, Sylvester,’ said Nicholas, taking care to adopt a neutral tone. ‘Thus it stands. The landlord’s daughter is with child. Suspecting one of us to be the father, he rails against the whole company and would have cast us
out into the wilderness had we not just signed a contract with him.’

‘Suspecting one of us?’ echoed Pryde. ‘Does he have no proof? Has the girl not volunteered his name?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘No. Whether out of loyalty or folly, I cannot say, but Rose will not part with it. This argues much for her strength of feeling about the man. Her parents have been stern interrogators but they failed to prise a name out of her. All that she will concede is that he was an actor. And she offered the briefest description of him.’