The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

  The light of discovery came into Elias’s eyes.

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

  Chapter Eleven

  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 p
leased 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.’

  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.’