Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Then what is he doing at The Rose?’

‘We will soon find out.’

‘I nurtured him,’ said Hoode sadly. ‘I taught him all that I knew about my craft. It would have been impossible to find an apprentice playwright more eager to learn and willing to work. And no pupil could have been more grateful to his master than Lucius Kindell.’ His voice hardened into a bark. ‘Until this happened. I have been stabbed in the back.’

‘It is worrying news, certainly.’

‘A tragedy, Nick. And only the beginning.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the other. ‘I said that we had to shore up our defences. Our rivals are predators. They will swoop down and seize whoever they can in their beaks.’

Hoode ran a despairing eye over the rest of the company.

‘Lucius is our first loss,’ he said. ‘Who is next?’

At that moment, Lawrence Firethorn came clattering into the yard on his horse to take control. Sensing at once the mood of despondency, he tried to dispel it by issuing crisp orders to all and sundry. Response was immediate. The assistant stagekeepers built the stage with more urgency, the carpenter hammered with more enthusiasm, the tireman picked up his needle and thread, the musicians began to practise and the hired men who had been standing around in disconsolate groups now made their way swiftly to the tiring-house. Leaping down from the saddle, Firethorn handed the reins of his horse to a waiting ostler and crossed to his friends.

‘Good morrow!’ he said cheerily.

‘I see no goodness in it, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘That is because you spent the night in a cold and lonely bed, Edmund. Had you shared the hours of darkness with a wife as warm as Marjory, you would have been up with the lark and throbbing with energy to greet the new day.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Marriage has many pains but its pleasures are truly beyond compare.’

Hoode grimaced. ‘How can you talk of pleasure at such a time? Westfield’s Men have no future ahead of them.’

‘We have a far more glorious future ahead.’

‘If we all work together for it,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘Unity is our strength. Let them all come at us. The company will triumph. Ah, what a sublime difference a night of bliss can make to a man! I retired to bed as the manager of a troupe which might soon become defunct and I awoke as the leader of a happy band of lads who may soon have their own playhouse.’

‘You will not find much happiness here, Lawrence,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘Most of our fellows do not share your optimism.’

‘Then it will have to be beaten into them. Eh, Nick?’

‘A good performance is the best remedy.’

‘Then we will have it,’ vowed Firethorn, punching the air with a clenched fist. ‘By heaven! We’ll set the stage alight with our skills. Mirth and Madness was a travesty. We owe our audience a superlative performance to atone for yesterday’s disgrace. And what better play to offer them this afternoon than The Loyal Subject by a certain Edmund Hoode?’

‘What better play?’ echoed Hoode. ‘ The Insatiate Duke .’

‘They’ll have that again, too, before the week is out.’

‘They may have the play, Lawrence, but not the author.’

‘You are the author, Edmund.’

‘I am one of them. The other was Lucius Kindell.’

‘Well?’

‘He has turned traitor.’

‘That is not so,’ said Nicholas, jumping in to prevent Hoode from reciting his mournful news. ‘Lucius is a rising talent who is bound to be courted by our rivals. But he will always choose Westfield’s Men over them, especially when he hears that we are to have our own playhouse.’

‘Will that miracle ever come to pass?’ said Hoode.

‘Yes!’ affirmed Nicholas.

‘No question but that it will,’ added Firethorn. ‘I will strain every fibre of my being to bring it about.’

‘Everybody will do the same,’ said Nicholas. ‘When they see that we have a choice between survival or disappearance, the whole company will rise to the challenge.’

‘That may be so, Nick,’ said Hoode, ‘and you will not find me wanting. But I have grave doubts about our ability to raise the necessary money.’

‘Sylvester Pryde will find most of what we need.’

‘He will not let us down,’ said Firethorn confidently.

‘Then where is he?’ asked Hoode.

‘What?’

‘Sylvester is not here, Lawrence. I was the first to arrive this morning and I can assure you that he has not come in through that gate.’ Hoode shrugged. ‘Nobody likes Sylvester more than I. He is a cheerful companion and a generous friend. But he does too often try to seize attention and ingratiate himself. What if his offer was no more than an idle boast to gain a momentary lustre?’

‘It was made in good faith,’ insisted Nicholas.

‘Then where is he?’

‘Sylvester will be here any moment.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn airily, ‘and he will expect to rehearse The Loyal Subject . Let us begin, gentlemen. Nick, gather the whole company into the tiring-house. I’ll put some heart into them and assure them that Westfield’s Men are not destined for the grave.’

Firethorn stalked off but Hoode’s scepticism remained.

‘Where is Sylvester?’ he said.

‘He will be here,’ replied Nicholas.

‘I thought that about Lucius.’

He walked forlornly away. Nicholas went after him and collected all the members of the company into the room at the rear of the stage which was used as the tiring-house. Everyone but Sylvester Pryde was there and his absence was worrying. In his short time with Westfield’s Men, he had been unfailingly punctual. At such a critical time in the company’s fortunes, it was vital for him to be there.

Firethorn spoke to them like a warrior king addressing his army on the eve of battle. There was pure steel in his voice. When he told them about the project to secure a playhouse of their own, heads lifted and frowns vanished. They were also reminded of their shameful performance on the previous day and they resolved to make amends. By the time Firethorn had finished, even the wilting Edmund Hoode and the cynical Barnaby Gill were enthused. They donned their costumes with alacrity.

Yet there was still no sign of Sylvester Pryde. Hiding his concern behind a broad smile, Firethorn took Nicholas aside.

‘Where is the fellow?’ he whispered.

‘I do not know.’

‘Can he be sick?’

‘I think it unlikely.’

‘Still lying in the arms of some woman?’

‘Sylvester has never let anyone distract him before.’

‘Then why is he doing so now?’

‘I have sent George Dart to his lodging in search of him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Meanwhile, I would suggest that we reassign Sylvester’s roles to other members of the company for the rehearsal. Owen Elias and James Ingram can most easily take over those roles and both are experienced at doubling.’

‘Instruct them to that effect, Nick.’

‘I will.’

‘And pray that Sylvester turns up,’ said Firethorn. ‘He must not desert us in our hour of need.’

‘There is no possibility of that.’

Nicholas’s reassurance sounded hollow. Both men were now having serious doubts about Pryde and they knew how important it was to start the rehearsal before those doubts spread throughout the entire company. Busy actors would have no time to brood. When the musicians were in position, therefore, Nicholas gave the signal and the fanfare sounded. Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue to a couple of ostlers and four curious horses.

They were well into Act Two before a breathless George Dart came staggering into the tiring-house. Nicholas gave the cue for the Queen and her train to make an entry then he beckoned the diminutive figure across to him. The perspiration was running in rivulets down Dart’s face.