Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

He was the guest of one John Ransome, a friend from his Oxford days who was now at the Inns of Court. A young man of independent wealth, Ransome had a passionate interest in the theatre and wanted to know all that Kindell could tell him about Westfield’s Men. The company’s apprentice dramatist was so inebriated with the wine and so intoxicated with the heady conversation that he did not notice the third person who joined them at their table. It was only when Ransome excused himself and departed that Kindell could take stock of the newcomer, a short, slight and rather anonymous figure.

‘My name is Rupert,’ said the stranger.

‘Well-met, sir!’

‘You are a friend of John Ransome, I hear. He speaks highly of you and that is commendation enough for me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How do you like it here?’

‘Very much.’

‘You must come here again, Lucius.’

‘I could not afford to do that too often, sir.’

‘That situation may change,’ said the other levelly.

Kindell leant forward to peer at his companion through the fug of tobacco smoke. He had seen the man before though in a dozen different guises. His heart began to pound. Was he really seated at the same table as the leading actor from Havelock’s Men?

‘Your name is Rupert?’ he asked.

‘It is.’

‘Would that be Rupert Kitely, by any chance?’

‘Chance is not involved, Lucius,’ said the other, honestly. ‘I am indeed the man you take me to be and I came here, with John Ransome’s connivance, in order to meet and befriend you.’

‘I am duly honoured, sir. I have seen you play at The Rose a dozen times or more. Each time you have astonished me.’

Kitely smiled. ‘I seem to have done so again.’

‘I cannot believe that you should wish to meet me.’

‘Why not?’

‘You are an established player and I am a mere beginner.’

‘Even the best of us has to start somewhere,’ said Kitely, ‘and I will freely admit that my own introduction to the stage brought nothing like the success which has attended you. I stumbled where you have walked sure-footedly.’

‘But all that I have done is to collaborate on two plays with Edmund Hoode. He is my mentor.’

‘You could not have chosen better, Lucius. Master Hoode will teach you well until the time comes when you outgrow his tutelage. That time, I suspect, is not too far distant.’

‘You think not?’

‘I hear wondrous reports of The Insatiate Duke .’

‘It was a collaboration.’

‘But who set it in motion?’ asked Kitely. ‘Did you not tell John Ransome that you devised the plot and provided the title? Come, Lucius. No modesty here. Take due credit.’

‘If you say so, Master Kitely.’

‘Rupert,’ said the other softly.

He poured more wine into Kindell’s cup and more flattery into his ear, slowly winning his confidence and breaking down his defences. The inn was slowly filling and the prevailing mood of jollity spilt over into raucous noise. Kindell was too fascinated by his companion to hear any of it. That someone as distinguished as the actor should show such a keen interest in him was an overwhelming compliment. It never occurred to Kindell to wonder what lay behind it.

‘What is your favourite tavern, Lucius?’ said Kitely.

‘The Queen’s Head,’ returned the playwright.

‘What others do you frequent?’

‘None, sir. I have been to the Red Bull and the Dolphin. And we gathered at the Cross Keys Inn yesterday. But I do not know the taverns of London well enough to have many favourites among them.’

‘Have you not heard the famous poem?’

‘Poem?’

‘It will serve as a useful guide to you.’

Rupert Kitely sat upright and began to declaim the lines in a melodious voice, turning banal verse into something that was at once amusing and lyrical.

‘The ladies will dine at the Feathers,

The Globe no captain will scorn:

The huntsmen will go to the Greyhound below,

And some townsmen to the Horn.

The plummer will dine at the Fountain,

The cooks at the Holy Lamb:

The drunkards at noon to the Man in the Moon

and the cuckolds to the Ram.

The rovers will dine at the Lyon,

The watermen at the Old Swan:

The bawds will to the Negro go

And the whores to the Naked Man.

The keepers will to the White Hart

the mariners unto the Ship:

The beggars they must take their way

to the Eg-shell and the Whip.

The Taylors will dine at the Sheers,

The shoo-makers will to the Boot:

The Welshmen will take their way

And dine at the sign of the Goat.’

Kindell burst into laughter and the other broke off.

‘You know a Welshman, I think.’

‘Yes, Rupert. His name is Owen Elias.’

‘By report, a fine actor.’

‘But he also has a goatish disposition,’ said Kindell. ‘The rest of the company jest about it. Whenever a new wench serves at the tavern, Owen is the first to accost her. The man who penned that verse must have had Owen Elias in mind.’

‘Tell me about him,’ coaxed the other.

‘A wonderful man and a good friend.’

‘But what of his talent? Is this goatish Welshman really as gifted as some say? There are even those who call him a second Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Nobody could aspire to that title,’ said Kindell. ‘There is only one Lawrence Firethorn. He has no peer. But Owen does have rare gifts and would shine in any company.’

‘I am pleased to hear it. Tell me why?’

Lucius Kindell talked at great length about his friends, quite unaware of the fact that he was being expertly pumped by the actor. Wine and wooing conspired to lower his defences. His naivety was subtly exploited. When it was all over and Rupert Kitely had been given a detailed insight into the membership and activities of Westfield’s Men, he rose from his chair and helped Kindell up after him.

‘Come, my friend,’ he said. ‘Let us walk to the river.’

‘The river?’

‘We can take a boat across the Thames.’

‘To what end, sir?’

‘I wish to show you our playhouse, Lucius.’

‘But I have seen The Rose many times.’

‘Only through the eyes of a spectator. Never as a prospective member of Havelock’s Men. Here,’ he said as Kindell tottered, ‘lean on me, Lucius.’

When they came out into the street, the cold air hit Kindell with the force of a slap and he recoiled slightly. His companion supported him and they made their way unsteadily towards the river. The young playwright was still too flattered by Rupert Kitely’s attentions to probe their true meaning. He glanced over his shoulder.

‘There was no mention of the Devil in your poem.’

‘Was there not?’ said Kitely. ‘We can soon amend that.’

‘There is a verse about the tavern?’

‘Yes but I choose to improve it a little.’

‘Improve it?’

‘The weavers will dine at the Shuttle,

The bellmen go straight to the Bell;

The hounds of hell to the Devil repair

With Kitely and Lucius Kindell.’

Their laughter mingled and echoed along the street.

They were all there. The eight sharers were crammed into the parlour of Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch to discuss the latest crisis which had befallen Westfield’s Men. For once in his life, Barnaby Gill did not object to the presence of Nicholas Bracewell, sensing that the hired man might be the one person who could affect their survival. Refreshment had been provided by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, who closed the door on the debate and scattered the apprentices who were trying to eavesdrop outside it. Many important meetings had been held at short notice in her home but Margery knew that none had greater significance than this one. Westfield’s Men were engaged in a battle against extinction.