The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

  ‘So do we all, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Yes,’ added Gill. ‘I have scaled the heights of my art on the stage in that yard and I will do so again and again.’

  ‘Thanks to Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Come, lads. To the taproom. We have so much to celebrate. Marwood has been routed once again. Nothing can shift us from here now. Westfield’s Men are safe for another whole year.’

  Alexander Marwood’s misery was compounded by the sight of the commotion in the taproom. Rowdiness was threatening to tip over into a certain affray and his wife was not there to quell the riotous behaviour. Shaking off the pursuing lawyer, he ran on spindly legs through the entire inn until he eventually found Sybil. She was in her daughter’s bedchamber, standing over the tearful girl with an expression that combined sorrow, apprehension and a naked lust for revenge.

  When Marwood burst in, his wife silenced him with an icy glare and the landlord became a standing statue.

  Sybil closed and locked the door before she spoke.

  ‘Have you signed that contract yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘Tear it up!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tear the contract to pieces!’

  ‘But it is a legal document.’

  ‘I do not care it is a royal proclamation,’ growled his wife, giving full vent to her rage. ‘I’ll not have Westfield’s Men trespassing on our property a moment longer. Destroy the contract, Alexander. Throw them out. They have ruined us.’

  ‘How, Sybil?’

  His eye fell on his weeping daughter and his heart missed a beat. Rose looked up at him with a mixture of penitence and despair. Her father’s worst fear was finally confirmed. His wife hissed in his ear with the force of the West Wind.

  ‘Get them out of our inn – today!’

  Chapter Two

  Lucius Kindell was mystified by the amiable clamour in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘It is perverse,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’ asked Owen Elias.

  ‘This merriment. This unwonted revelry. How can they possibly laugh so after such a dark tragedy?’

  ‘It is the laughter of relief,’ said the Welshman before emptying the remains of his ale in one loud gulp. ‘Confronted with so much death in The Insatiate Duke, they want to remind themselves that they are still alive.’

  Kindell was unconvinced. ‘Unless it be that our play had no real hold on the audience. It amused them for a couple of hours then they shrugged it off like a garment for which they no longer have any use.’

  ‘It held them, Lucius,’ said Elias. ‘By the throat.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Sylvester Pryde earnestly. ‘This jollity is no criticism of your play but a tribute to it.’

  ‘I would like to think so,’ said Kindell.

  ‘You heard that applause,’ said Pryde. ‘You saw how both play and players were hailed. Our audience recognises quality. That is what The Insatiate Duke had in abundance. It is a tragedy with considerable power, is it not, Owen?’

  ‘Indeed, it is, Sylvester.’

  ‘Power and depth of feeling. It provokes thought.’

  ‘And the urge to get drunk,’ said a smiling Kindell.

  ‘That is human nature.’

  Sylvester Pryde gave him a friendly pat on the back and the young playwright was reassured. The two men had lifted his spirits, which, having soared to such heights during the performance, were bound to plunge somewhat in its wake. Owen Elias was an established member of the company and a sound judge of new plays yet it was Pryde’s commendation which Kindell valued most even though the former was a relative newcomer to Westfield’s Men. There was a supreme poise and confidence about the man which invested all he said with an instant veracity.

  Westfield’s Men had taken time to appreciate Sylvester Pryde’s good qualities. When he first became a sharer with the company, he aroused both envy and hostility. Actors of far greater talent and experience were jealous of a man who was straightway elevated above them by dint of his financial investment and his fellow sharers resented what they saw as his easy arrogance, but, with a combination of industry and persuasion, Pryde soon brought both parties around to a more favourable view of him. Elias, one of his sternest critics at first, was now his closest friend in the company. The Welshman was cheerfully resigned to the fact that the handsome Pryde enjoyed far more success among the ladies than he himself.

  Lucius Kindell was dazzled by the new sharer. It was not just the man’s wit and intelligence which appealed to him. He was also impressed by Pryde’s aristocratic mien and by the whiff of audacity which hung about him. Tall, slim and elegant, Sylvester Pryde was a traveller and a talker, a free spirit, a roving adventurer. His deficiencies as an actor were offset by a striking appearance which enabled him to decorate the stage superbly and by an irresistible charm. The cost and cut of his apparel suggested private wealth and this had estranged some of his colleagues at the outset until they saw how generous he was with his money. It won him universal acceptance.

  Stroking a neatly trimmed beard, Pryde winked at Kindell.

  ‘Are you content, Lucius?’

  ‘Very content.’

  ‘You are crowned with laurels today.’

  ‘The play owes more to Edmund than to me.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Elias. ‘It is Edmund who is beholden to you, Lucius. Had you not created the role of Cardinal Boccherini, we would not have known what a brilliant actor Edmund really is. And, fine playwright though he may be, I am not sure that he would have tackled a theme as serious and weighty as this without your collaboration.’

  ‘Enjoy your success,’ advised Pryde.

  ‘Savour each second of it, Lucius.’

  ‘That is what I am doing,’ said the playwright. ‘This is truly the happiest day of my life.’

  ‘Greater triumphs lie ahead,’ predicted Elias.

  ‘Far greater,’ said Pryde with beaming certainty. ‘A glittering career stands before you, my friend. We have chosen well, Lucius, you and I. Westfield’s Men is the finest company in London and hence in the whole of Europe. My own poor skills as an actor have improved with each day I have spent in the company and your genius has found a true home.’

  ‘I know, Sylvester,’ said Kindell. ‘Truly, I have been blessed. Westfield’s Men are supreme.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ asked Elias.

  ‘Yes, Owen!’

  ‘Then buy us more ale and we will toast the company!’ He let out a guffaw which rose above the tumult around him. The arrival of a familiar figure jerked him up from his bench. ‘At last, Edmund! Where have you been? We have had to fight to keep you a place at the table. Sit here with us, man.’

  ‘I am not sure that I may,’ said Hoode nervously.

  ‘May and must,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘Here is Lucius Kindell, your co-conspirator in brilliant invention, flushed with triumph and anxious to have you beside him to share in his joy. Sit, drink and surrender yourself.’

  ‘I wish that I could.’

  ‘Why, what is there to stop you?’

  ‘A wailing landlord.’

  ‘That maggoty Marwood?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hoode, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting a fearsome blow to fall. ‘He has cast a black shadow over our celebrations.’

  ‘From what I hear,’ said Pryde, ‘that is nothing new. This hangdog landlord is the sworn enemy of pleasure. That hideous face of his was fashioned for Doomsday. Ignore him, Edmund.’

  ‘If only I could.’

  ‘What is his complaint against us now?’ asked Kindell.

  ‘I do not know, Lucius but I am sore troubled.’

  Elias was baffled. When they left the stage after the performance, Edmund Hoode was glowing with joy and with a sense of fulfilment. They had never seen him so elated. A changed man now stood before them. Gone was the wide grin, the shining face and the sparkling eyes.
Hoode was now in the grip of a melancholy of almost Marwoodian depth.

  ‘Did you not renew our contract?’ said Elias.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hoode.

  ‘And will we not play here for another six months?’

  ‘A year, Owen.’

  ‘Then why this moon-faced moping?’

  ‘It was the ambush.’

  ‘Ambush?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hoode, flicking another apprehensive glance over his shoulder. ‘Our landlord has changed his mind, it seems. No sooner had we bought wine to celebrate our triumph than he jumps out of the crowd and informs us that the contract is void and that we must quit the Queen’s Head at once.’

  ‘This does not make sense,’ observed Pryde. ‘The landlord needs the company here. It adds lustre and draws in custom. How many of these people would be here if they had not just witnessed a play in the yard?’

  ‘Very few,’ decided Elias. ‘This is some jest, Edmund. Practised on you by that misery-monger, Alexander Marwood.’

  ‘He is incapable of a jest.’

  ‘What, then, does this portend?’ said a worried Kindell.

  Hoode rolled his eyes in despair and sighed dramatically.

  ‘Disaster,’ he concluded. ‘It was bound to come sooner or later. I knew that my happiness could not last. I knew that I would have to pay dearly for the folly of imagining that fortune had at last smiled on me. It has happened. I sense disaster in the wind. Brace yourselves, lads. Unless I am greatly mistaken, we are about to be struck by a veritable thunderbolt.’

  ‘Out, out, out!’ demanded Alexander Marwood, stamping a foot.

  ‘We will not budge an inch,’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘We have every right to be here and here we will remain.’

  ‘Then I will summon officers to have you evicted.’

  ‘On what grounds?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘Trespass!’

  ‘This is a public hostelry, Master Marwood.’

  ‘I may turn away interlopers if I choose.’

  ‘Interlopers!’ exclaimed Firethorn. ‘You dare to call us interlopers when we have filled your coffers and kept your customers entertained all these years without a word of thanks from you or your wife? Interlopers, indeed!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Marwood. ‘Interlopers and lechers!’

  ‘Silence!’

  Lawrence Firethorn’s command was like the blast of a cannon and it left Marwood’s ears ringing. Nicholas stepped between actor and landlord before the former began to rain blows down on the latter’s head. They were in the yard of the Queen’s Head and the stage was still being dismantled behind them. The book holder was as befuddled as Firethorn by the unexpected turn of events. Why had Marwood pounced on them so vengefully? Nicholas was grateful that he had brought the argument out into the fresh air. An unseemly row in the middle of the taproom would have advantaged nobody. Even in the yard the raised voices were arousing immense curiosity.

  ‘Let us discuss the matter calmly,’ suggested Nicholas.

  ‘How can I be calm in front of this death’s head?’ said Firethorn, jabbing a finger at the landlord. ‘The very sight of him puts me to choler. Away, you walking pestilence!’

  ‘It is you who must leave, sir!’ insisted Marwood.

  ‘Make us!’

  ‘Constables will do the office for me.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Nicholas reasonably.

  ‘Because I want you off my property.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘The worst kind, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘We are still none the wiser.’

  ‘I am too ashamed even to speak the words.’

  ‘Then at least give us some hint of how we have caused you such displeasure. Not ten minutes ago, we were agreeing terms and parting as friends. What killed that friendship so soon?’

  ‘Ask among your fellows,’ said Marwood darkly.

  ‘My fellows?’

  ‘One of them will know.’

  ‘Know what, you map of woe?’ growled Firethorn.

  ‘The cause why I behave thus.’

  ‘Behave how you wish,’ said the other tartly, ‘it will not shift us from here. The law is the law. We have a contract.’

  ‘I will burn it to cinders.’

  ‘You signed it. In front of witnesses.’

  ‘I repent that now.’

  ‘Too late. The contract protects us.’

  ‘Contracts can be dissolved. And this one has been.’

  ‘On the whim of a lunatic?’

  ‘One moment,’ said Nicholas, quickly interrupting before Firethorn’s anger exceeded his control. ‘Let me ask this of Master Marwood. Have you discussed this with your lawyer?’

  ‘My lawyer?’ grunted the landlord.

  ‘Do you act on the advice of Ezekiel Stonnard?’

  ‘He would support me to the hilt!’

  ‘That is not quite true,’ said Stonnard, who had been hovering within earshot and who now trotted forward to join in the debate. ‘I would need to know all the facts before I made a considered judgement. What I have gleaned so far has left me in a state of some confusion.’

  ‘The law is on our side!’ asserted Firethorn.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Stonnard with a polite snigger. ‘Do not try to do our work for us, Master Firethorn, or you will be the loser, sir. Leave the law unto trained lawyers.’

  ‘We have a contract. You witnessed it.’

  ‘Indeed, I did. It is a legal document.’

  ‘Then it cannot be revoked by this twitching idiot.’

  ‘Not unless its terms have been broken.’

  ‘They have!’ moaned Marwood. ‘Cruelly broken.’

  ‘In what way?’ yelled Firethorn.

  Nicholas moved in again. ‘That is something which Master Marwood would prefer to discuss with his lawyer, I think,’ he said tactfully. ‘Let us withdraw so that he may do so. When Master Stonnard is in possession of all the facts, I am sure that he will communicate them to us.’

  ‘Rest assured that I will,’ said Stonnard.

  ‘I want them off my premises!’ howled Marwood.

  ‘We hold our ground!’ retorted Firethorn.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas, guessing at the cause of this sudden turn in their fortunes. ‘Perhaps we should quit the Queen’s Head for a while and take our celebrations elsewhere. There are inns enough nearby and the taproom is too full to admit of any real comfort. Let us withdraw,’ he said, taking Firethorn by the arm. ‘Not in any spirit of retreat but as a favour to Master Marwood so that we do not offend him any more than we obviously have.’

  ‘This is sage advice,’ said Stonnard.

  Marwood disagreed, crying out for them to be forcibly ejected, and Firethorn’s response was even more vehement but Nicholas’s guidance was followed. The lawyer placated the landlord and the actor allowed himself to be taken back into the inn by the book holder. Lunging forward, Marwood grabbed Stonnard by both hands.

  ‘Help me!’ he pleaded.

  ‘I will do all that I may, sir.’

  ‘Find a means to expel Westfield’s Men hence.’

  ‘That will not be easy, I fear.’

  ‘They must go. At whatever costs.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Stonnard, smirking at the mention of money. ‘While we are on the subject of cost, allow me to present you with my bill for services already rendered today.’ Detaching himself from Marwood, he handed him a scroll. ‘Now, sir. This is clearly a matter of weight and deserves close attention. Let us find a more private place to talk.’ Sensing that a large fee might be in the offing, he rubbed his palms together. ‘I long to hear what has prompted this change of heart.’

  ‘Sybil,’ murmured the other.

  ‘What is that you say?’

  ‘My wife, sir. She and I have been betrayed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Utterly.’

  Lord Westfield was perturbed. Though no words were spoken directly to him, and though he overheard not
hing which might occasion alarm, he saw the knowing glances, the subtle signals and the telltale nudges which passed between his enemies at Court. Something was afoot and he was deliberately excluded from it. The look which the Earl of Banbury shot him across the Presence Chamber was confirmation enough. A single mocking eyebrow, raised for no more than a few seconds by his deadliest rival, sent quiet tremors through Lord Westfield. Evidently, the earl and his cronies had devised some cunning plan. One thing was clear: Lord Westfield would be its victim rather than its beneficiary.

  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.