Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Giles Randolph was patently annoyed by the news.

‘Their own playhouse?’ he said. ‘That is impossible.’

‘They do not think so.’

‘How could they raise the money for such a venture? Lord Westfield is more penurious than our own patron and Lawrence Firethorn’s credit will not extend that far.’

‘They have secured a loan, Giles.’

‘From whom?’

‘I cannot say but I know who has been their broker.’

‘Who?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Their new sharer?’

‘He has wealthy friends.’

‘So it seems, Henry,’ said the other, ‘and that wealth might make Banbury’s Men poor indeed. As long as Westfield’s Men play at the Queen’s Head, we are in no danger. Inn yard theatres will be closed down in due course. Give them their own playhouse, however, and it is a different story.’

‘Only if it is built here in Shoreditch.’

‘North or south of the river, it is a threat.’

‘Not to us,’ said Quine. ‘If they choose a site in Bankside, it is Havelock’s Men who will suffer from their proximity. We will be safe here at The Curtain.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘Two theatres only are to stand. One north and one south of the Thames. That is the promised edict.’

‘Promised but not delivered, Henry,’ said Randolph with a sneer. ‘The Privy Council is capricious. According to our patron, they have put off a final decision for some weeks. That gives Westfield’s Men time to find a site and start to build. Security of tenure is almost certain to go to Havelock’s Men. The Viscount’s uncle sits on the Council. But what if the work of Westfield’s Men is judged superior to our own? Such is the perversity of the Privy Council that they may even change their decree and permit both surviving playhouses to stand in Bankside.’

‘That is highly unlikely, Giles.’

‘It is a possibility we have to consider.’

‘How do we counter it?’

‘With cunning, Henry. We must disable them.’

‘Tell me how and it will be done.’

Randolph smiled. ‘You have been a loyal servant to us,’ he said, pouring more wine into his friend’s cup. ‘The day when Henry Quine joined our company was indeed an auspicious one. You have tied yourself to Banbury’s Men and will do anything to advance our cause.’

‘Anything!’ repeated Quine.

‘Being made a sharer will be a just reward.’

‘I long to have that honour.’

‘It will come, Henry. It will come.’

‘When?’

‘When our own future is certain and when Westfield’s Men are doomed. They are sides of the same coin.’ He leant in closer. ‘Sound out Barnaby Gill. He is a gem that must be stolen. Take him away and their company totters. Master Gill and Lawrence Firethorn are uneasy bedfellows. Let us drive a wedge between them.’ He raised a finger. ‘But do it carefully, Henry. Dangle promises before his eyes.’

‘I will study how best to do that.’

‘Be quick about it. Ours is not the only company which will try to take captives. Havelock’s Men will do the same.’

‘They have already struck.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Or so it is rumoured,’ said Quine. ‘One Lucius Kindell, a young playwright whom Edmund Hoode has taken under his wing — a sure sign of promise in itself — has been wooed and won over by Rupert Kitely.’

‘Then we have no time to waste,’ said Randolph irritably. ‘Get to Barnaby Gill before Havelock’s Men start to pour honey into his ear. Offer whatever you have to, Henry. Greedy men will lap up any lies.’

‘Master Gill is greedier than most.’

They shared a laugh, then drained their cups of wine.

Randolph became serious. ‘Will this damnable playhouse of theirs ever be built, do you think?’

‘Yes, Giles. They are resolved and already have a name.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Angel theatre.’

‘The Angel!’ said the other contemptuously. ‘This angel could displace Banbury’s Men from our place in heaven. We must act swiftly. Who is the man who secured their loan?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Can we corrupt him?’

‘I doubt that, Giles.’

‘But he is the key to their good fortune.’ He stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Tell me about him, Henry. Tell me all about this Sylvester Pryde.’

Sybil Marwood did not loosen her grip on her daughter until they reached their destination in Clerkenwell. Hustled along through an endless succession of streets, lanes and alleyways, Rose was in great discomfort. When her mother finally released the girl from her grasp, Rose rubbed her sore wrist. Before she had time even to look up at the dilapidated little house, she was helped inside it by a firm maternal palm.

As soon as they opened the door, the smell invaded their nostrils. It was a strong, rich, but not unpleasant aroma and Rose thought at first that someone was cooking a meal in the kitchen. They were in a dark, featureless room with only a few stools and a table by way of furniture. A ragged piece of cloth hung over the doorframe opposite and it was pulled back to reveal the gaunt face of an old woman with straggly grey hair trailing down from her mop cap. Rose recoiled slightly but Sybil seemed to know the crone.

‘We are here at the appointed time,’ she said.

‘I am ready for you,’ said the old woman, pushing the cloth aside to step into the room and scrutinise Rose. ‘So this is your daughter, is it? A pretty girl without question and not like most of those who come to me for help. They have the mark of wickedness upon them but Rose does not.’

‘Yet wicked she has been,’ grunted Sybil.

‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ decided the old woman, giving Rose a gap-toothed grin of reassurance. ‘A man is to blame here. She was led astray. Rose is only the victim of another’s wickedness.’ She indicated a stool. ‘Sit there, girl.’

She bustled out of the room and Rose hesitated.

‘Do as she bids you,’ ordered her mother.

‘Who is she?’

‘Mary Hogg. A wise woman of Clerkenwell.’

‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘She will medicine you. Now sit down.’

Sybil used both hands to ease her onto the stool. Rose was in a mild panic, sensing that she was in danger without quite knowing what that danger might be. When Mary Hogg reappeared, she was carrying a cup that was filled with a steaming liquid. Setting it down on the table, she turned to Sybil and snapped her fingers. Money was passed between them and the old woman counted it before slipping it into the pocket of her filthy apron.

Mary Hogg turned her full attention upon Rose.

‘Do not be alarmed, Rose,’ she soothed. ‘I will help you as I have helped so many others in the past. I am a wise woman and know the art of saving a girl’s reputation.’

‘Reputation?’ murmured Rose.

‘This child comes before its time. You are unwed.’

‘And no husband in sight,’ added Sybil.

‘Do you know what would happen if this baby were born?’ continued the old woman. ‘It would be condemned to a life of misery and you with it. Bastard offspring are spurned by one and all, Rose. You would be the mother of an outcast. It would be a cruelty to bring such a child into the world. A cruelty and a sin. For you have been sinful.’

‘I have prayed for forgiveness,’ said Rose.

‘Prayer is part of my remedy,’ explained the other. ‘And the old religion furnishes us with the best supplication. Do not be afraid to make use of what would be forbidden in a church. God will bless you for it. When I have given you my cure, you must say five Paternosters, five Aves and a Creed for nine consecutive nights, taking herbs in holy water at the same time. Only at the end of nine days will we know if the cure has been effective.’