Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘I hope so, Nick,’ said the other gloomily. ‘Or we are done for. Marwood will not need to drive us out. We will lose our audience and be deprived of an occupation.’

‘There is no chance of that,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘We have suffered far more serious reverses than this and always come through them. Today was a minor blemish on our reputation. It will soon be erased and Westfield’s Men will resume its position as the leading troupe of the day.’

Firethorn was reassured. ‘Yes,’ he said, gritting his teeth and thrusting out his jaw. ‘We will fight back hard and win through to glory once more. What is one bad performance in a long catalogue of triumph? We are invincible. That is what we must always remember. Nothing can halt the majestic progress of Westfield’s Men.’

At that moment, a stranger came into the tiring-house. They recognised his distinctive livery at once. The servant came over to them and gave a slight bow.

‘Master Lawrence Firethorn?’ he enquired politely.

‘I am he,’ confirmed Firethorn.

‘I was asked to deliver this to you, sir.’

Firethorn took the letter from him and quailed inwardly.

While one theatre company suffered, another was at the height of its powers. Banbury’s Men were the resident company at The Curtain. It was one of the two playhouses built in Shoreditch outside City jurisdiction and therefore free from the petty legislation which hampered work at the inn yard theatres such as the Queen’s Head. The Curtain also provided its actors with a far more imposing stage than the makeshift arrangement on barrels which was used by Westfield’s Men and enabled them to use a whole range of technical effects denied their inn yard competitors. Giles Randolph was the acknowledged star of Banbury’s Men, a tall, slim and slightly sinister individual who shone in roles which allowed him to hatch evil plots and to ooze villainy. The Spanish Contract was tailored perfectly to his skills and he led his company superbly that afternoon, earning such a thunderous ovation that it was five minutes before he was allowed to quit the stage at the end of the performance. Randolph bowed long and low, tossing out smiles of gratitude and drinking in the applause.

He was particularly pleased to notice his patron in attendance, giving only a token clap from his position in the upper gallery but evidently delighted with the reception accorded his company. The Earl of Banbury was not a regular playgoer, preferring to lend the company his noble name instead of gracing it with his presence, but The Spanish Contract had enticed him to The Curtain and he could not have chosen a more auspicious time to come. Giles Randolph made sure that the lowest and most obsequious bow was directed at their patron. The Earl’s vanity had to be propitiated.

Having congratulated his actors and reminded them of the time of rehearsal on the morrow, Randolph dismissed them and shed the regal attire of a Spanish king for his own apparel. He was soon climbing the stairs to a private room at the rear of the upper gallery. The Earl of Banbury was alone with a couple of court beauties whom he had brought along as his guests, flirting outrageously with them and ignoring the huge gap which existed between his age and theirs. When Randolph joined them, their giggles turned to sighs of awe as they were introduced to the actor and whimpers of delight followed as he kissed their hands in greeting.

The niceties were soon concluded. A servant was summoned to conduct the ladies to the earl’s waiting carriage while he himself stayed behind to speak with Randolph.

‘You were superlative, Giles,’ said the Earl.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘My guests were overwhelmed by your performance.’

‘That is very gratifying.’

‘You carried the whole play on your shoulders.’

‘The role was expressly written for me.’

‘That was clear,’ said the Earl. ‘Praise was unstinting. Some dolts choose to argue about who is the finest actor in London — Lawrence Firethorn or Rupert Kitely. Had they been at The Curtain, they would have seen that neither of those actors can hold a candle to you. Giles Randolph is incomparable.’

‘You are too kind, my lord.’

‘Where is the kindness in honesty? I speak but truth.’

‘I endeavour to live up to your high expectations.’

‘You do, Giles.’ The Earl gave a cackle of pleasure and beckoned him closer with a crook of his finger. ‘But I have brought some interesting tidings for you.’

‘I long to hear them.’

‘Mere rumours at this stage but ones with substance.’

‘Tell me more, my lord.’

‘First answer this. Who are our most dangerous rivals?’

‘Westfield’s Men, no question of that.’

‘Not Havelock’s Men?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Randolph firmly. ‘They have a fine actor in Rupert Kitely and a tolerable stock of plays but they offer no serious threat to us. Lawrence Firethorn does. His company has strength in abundance and far too many playwrights first take their new work to Westfield’s Men.’ A supercilious note crept in. ‘Firethorn has a meagre talent which is, alas, mistaken for something of grander proportion but he lacks true character, he is wanting in those qualities which make for greatness.’

‘In short, he is no Giles Randolph.’

‘By his own account, he is far superior.’

‘Lord Westfield never stops boasting about him,’ said the other with a sigh. ‘He worships Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Then he worships a false god.’

The Earl of Banbury enjoyed the tart comment so much that he gave a brittle laugh and treasured the remark for use against Lord Westfield himself. He plucked at his goatee beard and peered at Randolph through narrowed lids.

‘Do you hate them enough, Giles?’ he wondered.

‘Hate them?’

‘Westfield’s Men.’

‘I utterly despise them, my lord.’

‘What of Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘A contemptible man, not fit to lead a company.’

‘Then you would like to see him humbled, I think?’

‘Humbled and humiliated.’

‘Both may be possible,’ said the other with a snigger. ‘But much depends on you, Giles. It is time to harness your hatred and strike at Westfield’s Men. You have many old scores to settle with them, I know, and many slights to avenge. Now then, sir,’ he hissed. ‘How far would you go?’

‘All the way, my lord.’

‘No holding back?’

‘Not an inch.’

‘And the company would support you?’

‘To a man.’

‘Then hear the news that I bear,’ said the Earl, clapping his palms gleefully together. ‘If my informers are to be believed — and they have never failed me before — fortune has smiled on us at last. It is time to take decisive action but it must be carefully considered beforehand. Once embarked upon, there is no turning back. You understand me?’

‘Very well, my lord.’

‘Good. I knew that I could rely on your loyalty, Giles.’ He licked his lips. ‘Serve me faithfully and Westfield’s Men may not only be humbled and humiliated. They will be destroyed!’

Lord Westfield drank the first glass of wine in a single desperate gulp and filled his cup again from the jug. He was in a private room at the Queen’s Head, so often a place for a discreet assignation before a performance or for joyous celebration after it, but now a cold and cheerless chamber which served to intensify his dejection. He sat at the little table and buried his head in both hands. Lord Westfield was not mourning the untimely demise of Mirth and Madness in front of its audience that afternoon. The performance had scarcely impinged upon his consciousness. Deeper matters agitated him.