Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Lawrence Firethorn stood in the middle of the room as if he were at the centre of the stage at the Queen’s Head. He ran his eye over the visitors.

‘You all know why we are here,’ he said solemnly. ‘The Privy Council is poised to strike us down. We must decide how best to protect ourselves from its blow.’

‘There is no protection,’ moaned Edmund Hoode. ‘How can we resist an edict of the Privy Council? It is the supreme power in the land. We are defeated.’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Owen Elias truculently. ‘Never talk of defeat while there is breath in our bodies to fight.’

‘Against whom?’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘The Privy Council? I side with Edmund here. We are minnows against a giant whale. We will be gobbled up at the first bite.’

‘You might be, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, ‘but I’ll not. Nor will Westfield’s Men. Should they try to gobble us up, we’ll cause such havoc in their mouth that they will be forced to spit us out again.’

‘How do we do that?’ challenged Gill.

‘That is what we are met to decide.’

‘The decision has already been made for us, Lawrence.’

‘That is not quite true,’ Nicholas Bracewell reminded them. ‘All that we have been given by Lord Westfield is a timely warning. No decree has yet been issued by the Privy Council and our patron has sworn to use what influence he has to prevent that decree from ever seeing the light of day. Whether or not he will succeed, we do not know, but he may at the very least put in an eloquent plea for Westfield’s Men.’

‘The most eloquent plea comes from our audience,’ said Sylvester Pryde, looking around the room. ‘I am new to this company, gentleman, and feel a natural diffidence in speaking out on its behalf but I do have one advantage. Until recently, I was a complete outsider, able to observe and enjoy every theatre company in London before choosing to tie my future to this one. None of your rivals has such a large and faithful following as Westfield’s Men. Popularity must surely be a touchstone here. The Privy Council would not dare to put to death the most loved and respected troupe in London.’

Hoode rolled his eyes. ‘They would and they will.’

‘Why?’

‘That, Sylvester,’ said Nicholas, ‘is what Lord Westfield is endeavouring to find out for us. If we learn the motives behind this edict, we will have a clearer idea of where we stand and how we may best respond.’

‘We stand in the shadow of the gallows,’ sighed Hoode.

‘There is nothing new in that,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have inhabited that shadow for a long time and always managed to cheat the headsman in the past.’

‘How can we do so again?’ asked Elias.

The lively debate was tempered with a general sadness. Hoode and Gill were already resigned to their fate and James Ingram, one of the younger sharers, shared their pessimism. Firethorn tried to inject some hope, Elias lent his usual jovial belligerence and Pryde supported their readiness to struggle by any means at their disposal to rescue Westfield’s Men from the threat of the axe, but their arguments did not carry real conviction. Behind their bold assertions lay a recognition of cold reality. If the edict were passed, their chances of survival were perilously slim. An air of melancholy hung over the whole room. There was a long, painful silence during which they all reflected on their doom.

It was Nicholas Bracewell who finally spoke up.

‘There is a solution,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It is no guarantee of our survival but it would enhance our position greatly. We are fettered here. Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men hold the whip hand over us because they have playhouses where we have an inn yard.’

‘Owned by a lunatic landlord!’ snorted Firethorn.

‘And soon to be closed to us,’ noted Hoode.

‘Let’s hear Nick,’ said Pryde, his interest aroused. ‘I know that look on his face. I believe that he has a plan.’

‘A burial service would be more appropriate,’ said Gill.

‘Speak up, Nick,’ urged Firethorn. ‘Tell us what to do.’

‘It is only a suggestion,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I know that it is fraught with all kinds of difficulties but it would at least put us on an equal footing with our rivals. In my opinion, there is only one way to compete with Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men.’

‘Aye,’ said Elias. ‘Murder the whole pack of them!’

‘No, Owen. We meet them on their own terms.’

‘And how do we do that, Nick?’

Nicholas gazed around his drooping companions.

‘We build a playhouse of our own,’ he said quietly.

‘If only we could!’ said Firethorn.

Gill was dismissive. ‘A preposterous notion!’

‘Is it?’ rejoined Nicholas. ‘Consider it well.’

‘We have, Nick,’ said Hoode wearily. ‘Many times.’

‘Always without success,’ said Elias.

‘Nothing would please me more than to have our own playhouse,’ announced Firethorn dramatically. ‘And it would gladden the heart of our patron as well. But we might as well wish for a palace of pure gold. We have no site, Nick. We have no builder. We have no money.’

Nicholas was undeterred. ‘A site can be found,’ he argued, ‘and a builder engaged. And there must be ways to raise the money that would be needed.’

‘Do you know how much the enterprise would cost?’ asked Firethorn sadly. ‘Far more than we could ever muster.’

‘I still believe that we can do it,’ said Nicholas. ‘With a playhouse of our own, we could mount a challenge against any company in London and compel the Privy Council to grant us a reprieve. I know full well what cost would be entailed and how much the company would be able to put towards it from the profits. The rest can be sought from elsewhere. We simply need to secure a loan.’

‘Out of the question, Nick,’ said Firethorn with a shrug. ‘Who on earth would lend an impecunious theatre company that amount of money?’

Sylvester Pryde rose to his feet and shared a warm smile among them. He spoke in a tone of ringing confidence.

‘Tell me how much you need and I will find it for you.’

Alexander Marwood was a soul in torment. Clad in his night attire but fearing that he would never again know the joys of slumber, he paced relentlessly up and down, his face so animated by nervous twitches that it changed its shape and expression with every second. His wife, Sybil, was propped up in bed in a state of ruminative anger, her features set in stone but her eyes gently smouldering. Marwood travelled aimlessly on. A bedchamber which had long been an instrument of torture to him now inflicted further refinements of pain. The agony reached the point where it burst out of him in a piercing yell.

‘Arghhhhh!’

‘What ails you, sir?’ asked Sybil.

‘Everything,’ he moaned. ‘My debts, my troubles, my misery. The whole of my life ails me! I am in Purgatory.’

‘No,’ she scolded. ‘You are in a bedchamber with your wife. Do you think that is Purgatory?’

Marwood bit back an affirmative retort.

‘Look at my situation,’ he wailed. ‘A daughter who has brought shame and ignominy down on me. An actor who was responsible for her condition yet whom I am powerless to evict. And now this latest threat to my sanity. A rumoured decision of the Privy Council to close all inn yard theatres.’

‘I would have thought you would welcome that decision.’

‘Welcome it, Sybil!’

‘It achieves what you and that costly lawyer, Ezekiel Stonnard, have failed to do. It throws Westfield’s Men out of the Queen’s Head and rids us of the father of Rose’s child.’

‘Yes, my love, and I would give it my blessing if it did not also deprive us of such a large part of our income. I long to sever my contract with Westfield’s Men but only in order to replace them with another company, much more trustworthy and amenable.’