The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

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.

&n
bsp; 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.

  The young man gave his horse to a waiting servant then took Nicholas into the house and into the parlour. The Countess was waiting, seated in a window to keep watch for them. She did not rise when Nicholas doffed his cap and greeted her. The gallant lingered until she dismissed him with a light laugh. Nicholas noted the strained look which passed between them.

  ‘Your friend was reluctant to leave,’ he commented.

  ‘It is his house. He feels dispossessed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The property is convenient,’ she said smoothly. ‘I make use of it on occasion.’

  ‘Your friend came to Sylvester’s funeral with you.’

  ‘I needed an arm to rest upon.’

  ‘It was good of you to attend, my lady.’

  ‘Sylvester was a special friend.’

  But he was not, Nicholas surmised, her only lover. The young gallant was peeved to be ejected from the room in which he felt entitled to stay for reasons beyond his ownership of the house. With no sense of shame, the Countess went to the funeral of one lover on the arm of another. Mourning one man clearly did not prevent her from offering her favours to a second.

  ‘You were difficult to find, Nicholas,’ she said.

  ‘I have been to Shoreditch.’

  ‘I am glad that you are here at last. Lord Westfield was at Court today. We talked at length about the company. What emerged from that conversation made me seek out you.’

  ‘Is there any news from the Master of the Revels?’

  ‘Just this. The order of performance at Court has been set. Westfield’s Men will be the last in line.’

  ‘That helps us,’ said Nicholas keenly.

  ‘I thought the same but your patron disagreed. He felt that it reflected the Privy Council’s judgement on the troupe. Third, last and therefore destined for extinction.’

  ‘Lord Westfield inclines to gloom at times.’

  ‘I am glad to hear you sound a more cheering note.’

  ‘Master Firethorn will be delighted by this.’

  ‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will come to Lawrence Firethorn in a moment. My question is this. And bear in mind how much money I have loaned you because I believe that it entitles me to an answer. Has Lord Westfield ever talked before about ceding his interest in the company?’

  ‘He has talked about it, my lady, but we are used to such moans. They amount to nothing in the end.’

  ‘Supposing that they did?’ she asked. ‘Supposing that Westfield’s Men were forced to part with Lord Westfield?’

  ‘Forced?’

  ‘Circumstances change.’

  ‘Our patron would never leave us.’

  ‘He might, Nicholas. Inducements could be made. Lord Westfield is laden with debt and further burdened with the cares of his theatre company. Such things take their toll.’

  ‘The burdens will ease when our future is certain.’

  ‘Your patron did not think so. He was despondent.’

  ‘Well, we are not,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘Master Firethorn ensures that. Under his leadership, we are brimming with confidence and what I saw of Banbury’s Men at The Curtain this afternoon has only strengthened that confidence.’

  ‘I share it, Nicholas, believe me.’

  He was cautious. ‘Do I hear you aright?’

  ‘I think you catch my meaning.’

  ‘You would wish to become our patron?’

  ‘Is that so strange a wish?’ she said airily. ‘Dartford’s Men rolls off the tongue as sweetly as Westfield’s and I would give you more support than ever the noble lord has managed. He will take much persuasion yet,’ she admitted, ‘but I saw him waver when I asked if he would yield up his troupe.’

  Nicholas was too shocked to say anything. The thought of losing their patron was unnerving and he could find no enthusiasm for the notional replacement. What little he knew of the Countess led him to suspect that she would want to control and interfere in the company far more than Lord Westfield had done. His silence plainly irritated her.

  ‘What is your problem, Nicholas?’ she challenged. ‘Can you not stomach the idea of a woman as patron? It is my husband’s name that would be used for Dartford’s Men but a woman’s hand which would guide your fortunes. Your precious patron is not as enamoured with his troupe as you imagine. If his debts were settled as part of the bargain, I’ll wager that he would snatch gratefully at the hand of someone who would rid him of his company.’

  ‘That may be so, my lady,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it would be a very sad day for us if we lost the noble lord who brought us into being in the first place.’

  ‘Would you oppose me, then?’

  ‘It is not my place to support or oppose.’

  ‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘I know what weight you carry inside the company. Sylvester instructed me well. Win you over and I have a powerful advocate. Win Lawrence Firethorn over and the game is settled.’

  Nicholas was hurt. ‘I am sorry that you see this as a game, my lady. We do not. It is our livelihood.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ she returned coolly, ‘but you must appreciate my position. I have advanced several hundred pounds of my own money to safeguard your livelihoods. Westfield’s Men were quick enou
gh to take it.’

  ‘And gratefully, my lady.’

  ‘I expect more than gratitude in return, Nicholas. I had thought that Sylvester’s friendship would be reward enough but his death has changed that.’ A mischievous gleam came into her eye. ‘Arrange a meeting for me with Lawrence Firethorn.’

  ‘You wish to reveal your identity to him?’

  ‘No,’ she stressed. ‘He must not know my name or my connection with the company. Tell him that I am an ardent admirer. Give him a flattering description of me.’

  ‘There is no such thing, my lady,’ said Nicholas gallantly.

  ‘Then say as much to him,’ she said, acknowledging his compliment with a smile. ‘I know his reputation. He will come running. When Lawrence Firethorn and I are alone together, I will be able to appraise him properly.’

  Nicholas was stunned. Her request put him in an even more ambiguous position. It was an effort to conceal from his fellows the name of their benefactor but a more onerous charge was laid upon him now. He had to contrive a meeting between her and Firethorn by dint of lying to the actor. The Countess of Dartford would exploit the situation to her own advantage and Firethorn would hardly resist. Nicholas ran through them in his mind. Earl of Dartford, Viscount Havelock, Sylvester Pryde, the young man who owned the house and no doubt others besides. Now she had decided to add Lawrence Firethorn to her list of conquests, engaging Nicholas to act as her pandar.

  Westfield’s Men had looked upon their benefactor as a visitor from heaven. Nicholas alone knew the truth. The loan which helped them might also enslave them to the Countess of Dartford. They would be in the grasp of a wanton angel.

  Chapter Twelve

  As the hour of decision drew nearer, Westfield’s Men grew increasingly nervous. It worried them that their whole future might turn on a single performance at Court and what should have been welcomed as a signal honour came to seem more like a trial. The Italian Tragedy was a popular choice of play but they secretly feared that Havelock’s Men would have a clear advantage with a new work. If only one company were licensed south of the river, The Rose was the real threat to The Angel and the fact that Viscount Havelock’s uncle sat on the Privy Council sent tremors running through Westfield’s Men. Their patron was working strenuously to expand his faction at Court but he was up against some skilful politicians.