Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

He was on his third glass of wine when there was a tap on the door. The servant entered, bowed, then stood aside to admit Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell before bowing once more and withdrawing from the room. The newcomers inclined their heads politely and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. Their patron did not rise from his chair.

‘Your letter summoned me, my lord,’ said Firethorn.

‘It did.’

‘I took the liberty of inviting Nicholas Bracewell along. If this concerns the company, there is nobody more well-versed in its inner workings.’

‘Then he is welcome,’ said their patron. ‘I know what a valuable member of Westfield’s Men he has become.’ He waved a hand. ‘Pray take a seat, gentlemen. This news is too heavy to bear standing up.’

Nicholas and Firethorn lowered themselves onto the bench on the opposite side of the room. Fearing criticism, the actor-manager elected to defend himself before the attack came.

‘A thousand apologies, my lord,’ he said effusively. ‘I know that the company fell far short of their best this afternoon but there are reasons for it. The problem will be addressed and solved, I give you my word. At our performance tomorrow, we will be worthy of your name once again.’

Lord Westfield was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘ Mirth and Madness .’

‘I have never heard of it.’

‘Did you not watch it being played today?’

‘I watched something but my mind was far away.’

‘Then you have not come to censure us, my lord?’ said Firethorn with relief. ‘This is heartening.’

‘You may not think so when you have listened to the intelligence I have gathered,’ said the other. ‘Westfield’s Men are in grave danger. There could be a serious threat to the company’s very existence.’

Firethorn blenched. ‘You will surely not withdraw your patronage?’ he pleaded.

‘Never, Lawrence. I take pride in my company.’

‘Then where does this threat come from, my lord?’ asked Nicholas. ‘You said that it could exist. Does that mean there is an element of doubt?’

‘Only a small one, Nicholas.’

‘Who is after us this time?’ said Firethorn pugnaciously. ‘We will beat them off, whoever they may be. We have done it before and we will do it again now.’

‘That may be not be possible,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘Why?’

‘We are up against the Privy Council.’

Nicholas and Firethorn exchanged an anxious glance.

‘Are you certain of this, my lord?’ asked Nicholas.

‘The signs were infallible.’

‘What signs?’

‘Those little indications of how the wind blows which I have learnt to pick up,’ said their patron. ‘The Earl of Banbury was at Court yesterday and looked at me as if I were about to be led to the block for his amusement. Others did the same and so I turned to Sir Patrick Skelton for confirmation of my fears. He lied to me.’ His cheeks coloured with anger. ‘A man in whom I put complete trust actually lied to me. That was the most infallible sign of all.’

‘Of what, my lord?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘The menace that confronts us. It so disturbed my slumbers in the night that I resolved to know the worst. This morning, I sought a meeting with Sir Edmund Tilney.’

‘The Master of the Revels?’ said Firethorn.

‘The same. A man of power and influence in these matters. And one not given to deviousness or dishonesty. When I confided my worries, he was only too candid.’

‘About what, my lord?’ said Nicholas. ‘Is the Privy Council displeased with our work? Do they wish to shackle us even more? Have the Puritans finally managed to persuade them that playhouses are dens of evil and places of corruption?’

Lord Westfield shook his head. ‘I do not know how or why they have come to their brutal decision, Nicholas. Sir Edmund Tilney was not at liberty to divulge the full details to me.’

Firethorn gaped. ‘Brutal decision, you say?’

‘Brutal, savage and quite unnecessary.’

‘What is the Privy Council’s decree?’

‘It has yet to be finalised,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘so there is a faint ray of hope that it may yet be softened but it seems unlikely. This is their edict. Believing that London has too many theatres, they are planning to close down all but two playhouses, one north and one south of the Thames. Other companies will be summarily disbanded.’

‘This is barbarous!’ howled Firethorn.

‘What is the reasoning behind it?’ asked Nicholas.

‘They claim a superfluity of players when most of them, as you well know, lack proper employment. The Privy Council also sides with the City authorities in wanting to close down all the inn yard theatres because — a specious argument, this — they draw people away from their work and are likely to promote violent affray.’

‘We have never had a violent affray at the Queen’s Head!’ roared Firethorn, reining in his ire at once. ‘I am sorry to shout in your presence, my lord, but this has cut me to the quick. Close us down! It is unthinkable.’

Nicholas pondered. ‘Something more is behind this,’ he said. ‘Why only two playhouses? That means one in Shoreditch and one in Bankside.’

‘No,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘it means one in Shoreditch and The Rose. Havelock’s Men are safe, of that we may be sure. The Viscount’s uncle sits on the Privy Council. He would hardly condone a decision which would dispossess his nephew. That leaves only one other company to escape the rigour of this decree.’

‘Westfield’s Men!’ affirmed Firethorn.

‘Not if they close down the Queen’s Head,’ said Nicholas. ‘A company with no place to perform would never win the approval of the Privy Council. They would choose one of the playhouses in Shoreditch and we know which one that would be.’

‘The Curtain,’ sighed their patron. ‘Banbury’s Men.’

‘Over my dead body!’ growled Firethorn.

‘We will have to battle for our survival, Lawrence.’

‘With every sinew in our bodies, my lord.’

‘These are bleak tidings.’

‘The bleakest possible.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘They make our dispute with the landlord and a shabby performance of Mirth and Madness seem trivial by comparison.’ Firethorn sagged visibly. ‘The end of Westfield’s Men? At one fell swoop?’

‘It may come to that,’ said their patron.

‘What are we to do, Nick?’ whispered Firethorn.

Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘First of all,’ he suggested, ‘we learn the true facts of the situation. This edict is not yet declared and may assume a different shape when it has been framed. The second thing we must do is to shore up our defences.’

‘Defences?’ said Firethorn.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and hastily. What Lord Westfield has learnt is news already in the possession of our rivals. That is apparent. Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men will each want to strengthen their own positions and the best way to do that is to take captives from Westfield’s Men.’

‘Nobody would desert us, Nick, surely?’

‘I fear that they may. Think of the temptation. Given the choice between work with a new company or certain unemployment with an old one, there may well be those who might defect. We must speak to each of them in turn,’ advised Nicholas, ‘at the earliest possible opportunity and appeal to their loyalty. We must close ranks. If our actors start leaving us now, we will bleed to death long before the day of our execution.’

The Devil Tavern near Temple Bar served delicious food and fine wine to its patrons. Lucius Kindell rarely dined in such style. His brave decision to support himself as a poet and playwright had not endeared him to his father who, having paid for his education at Oxford, had expected him to join one of the learned professions and carve out an impressive career. Now virtually disinherited, Kindell eked out a living of sorts but it contained more excitement for the mind than sustenance for the body. To be invited to the Devil Tavern, and to be plied with as much food and drink as he could reasonably consume, was a treat to be savoured.