Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

When he explained the situation to her, she cursed herself inwardly for imagining for one moment that he had been delayed by some roistering with his fellows in the taproom. Anne knew that she should have had more faith in her lodger. Only a serious crisis would have made Nicholas default on his promise and nothing could be more serious than threat of dissolution.

‘What does Lawrence Firethorn say?’ she asked.

‘I would not care to repeat his words in front of you.’

‘And the others?’

‘Most are resigned to their doom.’

‘Without even fighting for survival?’ she said with spirit. ‘That does not sound like Westfield’s Men. You have overcome plague, puritan attacks, disapproval by the City authorities, a fire at the Queen’s Head, even the imprisonment of Edmund Hoode for seditious libel. Your inn yard playhouse has been closed down before but it has always opened again.’

‘Not this time, Anne.’

‘Only two theatres to remain? It is a scandal.’

Nicholas pursed his lips and nodded. ‘There are those in the Privy Council who believe that theatre itself is a scandal,’ he said philosophically, ‘and they have strong support from the Church. We are up against the great and the good, Anne. They have the power to muzzle us completely.’

‘Is there no way out of this predicament?’

‘Only one and even that might not save us. But at least it would give us a fair chance against our rivals. They would think twice about ending the career of Westfield’s Men so abruptly if we had our own playhouse.’

Anne was incredulous. ‘Your own playhouse?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a wan smile, ‘I know it may sound like a wild dream but it is not outside the bounds of possibility. First, we need a site. Next, we must hire a builder. And then there is the small problem of paying for them both and buying the materials for construction.’

‘Can this be done, Nick?’

‘If we want it enough, it can.’

‘But where would your playhouse be?’

‘Here in Bankside, Anne.’

‘When we already have The Rose?’

‘But that is all you have,’ he said. ‘Shoreditch has two theatres close by each other. If we build a third there, we have to compete with both of the others.’

‘In Bankside you would be up against Havelock’s Men.’

‘True.’

‘And you told me even now that they had some influence with the Privy Council.’

‘Viscount Havelocks’ uncle is a member of it.’

‘Then your cause is lamed from the start.’

‘No, Anne,’ he reasoned. ‘One man does not make the final decision about which two companies survive. The whole Privy Council will sit in judgement and they will take the advice of the Master of the Revels. Sir Edmund Tilney admires our work greatly but deplores our inn yard. In their own playhouse, Westfield’s Men would shine like a jewel in a proper setting.’

‘You would certainly outshine Havelock’s Men.’

‘That is why we must come here.’

‘How was this idea received?’ she asked.

Nicholas grinned. ‘With utter disbelief at first,’ he admitted. ‘Edmund Hoode thought I had taken leave of my senses. Even Owen Elias was sceptical. Most of the others thought the project hopelessly beyond us until I listed some of the advantages with which we start.’

‘Advantages?’

‘We have a company of able-bodied men, Anne. With Nathan Curtis to teach us, we could all turn carpenter and help to build the structure ourselves. That would save us a great deal of money.’

‘You would still need to find a considerable sum.’

‘Sylvester Pryde came to our rescue there.’

‘Sylvester? He has that kind of wealth?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he is acquainted with many people who have. He swore to us that he could raise the bulk of the money for us. I believe him.’

‘Sylvester is the best advantage of all.’

‘Not quite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have another good friend on whom we may call.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Anne Hendrik.’

She was startled. ‘Me!’

‘Yes,’ he explained, ‘the labour is vital and the money imperative but something comes before both.’

‘Choosing the site.’

‘That will be your contribution.’

‘But I know nothing about the building of a playhouse.’

‘You know Bankside better than any of us, Anne. Your trade brings you into contact with people all over Southwark. You have an instinct for business and an eye for a bargain. I’d willingly put my trust in you.’

‘I would not know where to start, Nick.’

‘Here and now,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘I will tell you what features a site must have and you will be well-prepared to begin your search tomorrow. Speed is of the essence here, Anne. A project like this must quickly gather its own momentum or it is lost.’

‘It is certainly an exciting proposal,’ she said.

‘Exciting and inspiring.’

‘With one huge drawback.’

‘What is that?’

‘You might go to all the trouble and expense of building a playhouse, only to find that the Privy Council closes it down again and sends Westfield’s Men into the wilderness.’

Nicholas sat back in his chair and heaved a sigh.

‘That is a risk we will have to take, Anne.’

A pall seemed to hang over the Queen’s Head next morning. Word of their precarious position had seeped down to the lowest ranks of Westfield’s Men and robbed them of all spirit. George Dart walked around as if in a dream. Nathan Curtis wielded his hammer without purpose as he converted the high-backed chair which had been used in Mirth and Madness into a regal throne. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, wondered if it was worth mending costumes which might never be used again. Peter Digby and his musicians were matching portraits of dejection and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, a man who had weathered so many threats to his livelihood in his long career in the theatre, felt that he could at last hear the funeral bell.

Alexander Marwood added to the general melancholy, circling the inn yard like a mangy old dog moping over a dead master. His wife glared down on them from a window, a hovering vulture who waited to pick their bones. When they erected their stage, there was a queasy feeling that they might be doing so for the last time. Superstitious by nature, actors saw bad omens on every side. Nicholas Bracewell did what he could to raise their morale but all that he could conjure into being were pale smiles on the faces of corpses.

Edmund Hoode arrived in a state of gibbering terror.

‘It has started, Nick,’ he confided.

‘What has?’

‘The fight to the death with our rivals.’

‘In what way, Edmund?’

‘They have got at Lucius Kindell.’

‘They?’

‘Havelock’s Men,’ said Hoode with disgust. ‘Or, to speak more precisely, that scheming fiend they call Rupert Kitely. He has led poor Lucius astray.’

‘How do you know?’ said Nicholas in mild alarm.

‘They were seen together at the Devil Tavern last night and I doubt that Lucius had the wit to sup with a long spoon. When I called at his lodging this morning, I was told that he had gone to The Rose.’ Hoode looked betrayed. ‘What more proof do we need? They have seduced him away.’

‘Did he expect you to call this morning?’

‘Yes, Nick. It was arranged that he would watch the rehearsal of The Loyal Subject . Lucius has written a couple of speeches he wanted me to include in the play. There is no hope of that now. He has sold his soul to Havelock’s Men.’

‘We are not certain of that, Edmund.’

‘Why else consort with Rupert Kitely?’

‘Do not rush to condemn him,’ warned Nicholas. ‘There may yet be another explanation. Lucius is himself a loyal subject. He acknowledges the debt he owes to Westfield’s Men.’