Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘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.’