Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

While the rest of the company went off to the taproom to celebrate, Sylvester Pryde slipped quietly away to seek out their benefactor. They were kept waiting for a long time before he appeared again. When he finally did so, his face was clouded, his shoulders hunched and his gait halting. His every motion signalled rejection. Profound disappointment fell on the company. Pryde dispelled it with a wicked grin.

‘The loan is secured!’ he announced.

‘Did he enjoy our performance?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Our saviour exulted in it. The money is ours.’

‘The man is our guardian angel!’

‘We will have our playhouse after all,’ said Hoode with a giggle of pleasure. ‘But what shall it be called?’

Suggestions came thick and fast and Nicholas Bracewell waited until the separate imaginations had run dry. He then stepped into the middle of the group.

‘Master Firethorn has already named it,’ he said.

‘Have I?’ asked a bemused Firethorn.

‘You described our benefactor as a guardian angel. That must surely be the name we choose. The Angel theatre.’

Firethorn beamed. ‘The Angel.’

A roar of acclamation went up. The christening was over.

Rose Marwood felt like a prisoner in her own home. It was a frustrating situation. She shared a hostelry with dozens of other people yet she was not allowed to see any of them apart from her mother. Even her father was denied access to her, though that was in the nature of a gain rather than a loss. Having been shouted at and cursed by him in the most robust language, she was glad to be spared his ire and his whining self-pity. Neither of her parents seemed to be able to think about anything but the effect of her pregnancy upon them. She detected no real sympathy for her and it was what she most needed at that delicate time.

The ordeal which lay ahead was made far worse by her ignorance of the full implications of childbirth. Terrible fears assailed her. She remembered all of the blood-curdling tales she had overheard passing between older women. She thought of all the gravestones she had seen in the church cemetery, pathetic monuments to young brides who had died while trying to bring a child into the world. Would that also be her fate? Would they allow her to lie in consecrated ground? And what of the child itself? Would it survive or go with its mother to the grave? Whenever she contemplated the moment of birth itself, she was terrified.

Yet it was his. That thought anchored her terror. The child was conceived in love with a man on whom she doted and it was a great consolation. There was still hope for her. If Rose could get word to him of her condition, she was sure that he would come to her rescue and carry her away from a home she had come to detest. A God-fearing girl, she knew that she should be more obedient to her parents but they had virtually disowned her since she confessed her secret. Forced into a choice between them and her lover, she wanted him.

Wonderful memories washed over her and soothed her anguished mind. Until she had met him, she did not know what happiness was. Only when she was lying in his arms did she realise how much pleasure had been denied to her by watchful parents who kept her on an invisible chain. Her lover had snapped that chain for her and she would be eternally grateful to him for that. Whatever horrors might be inflicted upon her, Rose knew that she could bear them for his sake and she was convinced that he would one day bring her travail to an end. All that she had to do was somehow to make contact with him but that was impossible when she was entombed in her bedchamber. If he came in search of her at the Queen’s Head, he would not be allowed anywhere near her.

Grief claimed her again and she flung herself down on the bed, sobbing quietly and whispering his name to herself over and over again. A sharp tapping sound made her sit up and look around but the source of the noise was a mystery. After a brief pause, she heard the sound again and realised that it came from the window. Crossing quickly to it, she peered out and saw the massive figure of Leonard below in the street. Leonard was an affable giant of a man who worked at the inn. Kind, willing but slow-witted, he had a brute strength which was held in check by a gentle disposition. He sent a warm smile of greeting up to her.

After wiping a hand on his leather apron, he slipped it inside his shirt to bring out a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. He gestured for her to open the window so that he could throw the food up to her. Rose was touched. Leonard was taking a risk in trying to comfort her. Servants had been forbidden to speak with her and faced instant dismissal if they disobeyed. In his own shambling way, Leonard had ignored the order and sought her out. Rose was no longer wholly alone. She had a friend.

She opened the window and popped her head out.

‘Thank you, Leonard,’ she said.

‘This is all that I could find,’ he said, holding up the food. ‘But I’ll bring more another time.’

‘I am not hungry. I have victuals enough.’

‘Oh!’

‘But I thank you for your kindness.’

He shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘I wanted to help.’

‘I know. I am very grateful.’

An idea began to form in her mind but she had no time to discuss it with him. The sound of a key in the lock brought the conversation to an abrupt close.

‘Someone is coming,’ she called. ‘Go at once!’

‘I will,’ he said, backing away.

‘But Leonard …’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you come again?’

He nodded enthusiastically before vanishing around the corner. Rose shut the window but her mother had already come into the room and sensed a breach in her security. Rushing to the window, she flung it open and glared out but the street was now empty apart from a few stray dogs. Sybil rounded smartly on her daughter.

‘Who were you talking to?’ she demanded.

‘Nobody, mother.’

‘Do not lie, girl. I heard your voice.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

‘Was it him ?’

‘Alas, no,’ said Rose, head bowed.

‘Then there was someone. I knew it.’ She pulled the window shut. ‘I’ll have a lock put on this. That will stop you.’ She flicked a hand. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Why, mother?’

‘Do as you are told. We are going out.’

‘Where to?’

‘You will soon find out. Now dress yourself.’

While her daughter shed her night attire, Sybil kept vigil at the window. Rose dressed as quickly as she could, fearful that Leonard would return and be discovered. He was the one faint hope she had of getting a message to her beloved and she did not want him thrown out of his employment at the inn. That would be a cruel reward for the kindness he had shown her.

‘I am ready, mother,’ she said at length.

‘Then let us go.’

Sybil took her firmly by the wrist and almost dragged her out of the room. They were soon leaving by a rear exit and plunging into the labyrinth that was London.

‘Their own playhouse?’ Giles Randolph was aghast. ‘Westfield’s Men intend to build their own playhouse?’

‘That is what I have heard, Giles.’

‘Where will it be?’

‘The site has not yet been found.’

‘Surely not here in Shoreditch? We have to contend with The Theatre as it is. A new playhouse could put our own position in jeopardy.’

‘That is why I brought the tidings to you at once.’

‘You did well, Henry.’

‘I know where my loyalties lie.’

Henry Quine gave a fawning smirk then raised the glass of canary wine to his lips. He was a slim, young man of medium height with dark hair which curled attractively around his ears and a vestigial beard. If his eyes had not been so close together and his nose so long, Quine might have been accounted a handsome man but he had a smile which redeemed his features and a deep, melodious voice which stroked the ear. The two colleagues were supping at a tavern in Shoreditch.