Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

The sound of footsteps made him turn and he saw a burly figure hurtling towards him. Nicholas lowered his shoulder and struck his assailant so hard in the chest that the man was knocked off his feet. Nicholas pulled out his dagger but a second man struck his arm with a staff and forced him to drop it on the ground. He swung round to face the new adversary. Before Nicholas could even grapple with him, however, he was attacked from behind by a third man. All three now set on him, Nicholas resisted manfully, punching hard and drawing blood, using all his power to shake one of his attackers off and to wind a second with a blow to the stomach. But it was only a temporary respite and they came back at him with renewed ferocity.

Nicholas was outnumbered. As the brawl continued, the staff was used to club him to the ground. He tried to put his hands up to protect his head but his arms were drained of strength. A final blow knocked him unconscious. The men did not delay. Leaving him there, they set about their work with increased speed, kicking down the preliminary wall of the theatre then using ropes to drag and manoeuvre the heavy timbers into a pile in the middle of the site. Hessian soaked in oil was stuffed under the pile along with kindling. The bonfire was lit and the men retreated into the night.

By the time that Nicholas began to recover consciousness, the blaze was well-established. He opened a bleary eye to find that The Angel theatre was now a small inferno.

Giles Randolph was in a mood of unassailable smugness. His performance in the title role of Richard Crookback that afternoon had been hailed, the takings had been excellent, his patron had been indulgent and his favourite mistress had sent word that she was awaiting him. Only one source of pleasure was missing. He raised the topic with Henry Quine when the two of them met at The Elephant Inn in Shoreditch.

‘You have done well, Henry,’ he congratulated.

‘Thank you,’ said Quine.

‘How did you charm Barnaby Gill so cunningly? I do not think that you did it at the Queen’s Head under the very noses of his colleagues.’

‘That would have been too dangerous.’

‘Then how did you reach him? At his lodging?’

‘No, Giles,’ said Quine with a grin. ‘Master Gill is not like us. He takes no pleasure from the society of women. His interests lie elsewhere and he frequents those haunts where he can pursue those interests. I met him at one of those secret gatherings.’

Randolph smiled. ‘Did you turn apprentice and put on woman’s apparel? Were you a practised coquette?’

‘I simply approached him when he was in his cups and off guard. Flattery was my most potent ally. I showered praise on his work and told him what a tragedy it would be if his genius was swept off the London stage.’

‘What was his reply?’

‘The very notion mortified him.’

‘So you whispered the name of Banbury’s Men in his ear.’

‘Yes, Giles,’ said Quine, ‘but that is all I whispered. I gave him plenty of time to think it over before I went to him again. Too much eagerness at first would have aroused his suspicion and frighted him away. Persuasion could not be rushed. Barnaby Gill has been with Westfield’s Men a long time and deep loyalties still exist.’

‘You found a way to defeat them, Henry, and I am most grateful to you for that. Well,’ he said happily, ‘he came. Master Gill’s curiosity was such that he came here and met me. I told him all that he was hoping to hear.’

‘You were masterly, Giles.’

‘It seems that I could take lessons from you.’

‘We won him over together.’

‘Not quite, sir,’ the other reminded him. ‘We brought the horse to water but we have yet to make him drink.’

‘He is ours.’

‘That would be a twin joy, Henry. We would gain the finest clown in London and wound Lawrence Firethorn deeply. All hope would vanish for him. Westfield’s Men would surely perish.’

‘Even with their clown, they would not survive.’

‘Can we be certain?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Quine with a smirk. ‘Absolutely certain.’

‘Our patron asked me recently how far we would go to preserve the company and subdue our rivals.’

‘What was your answer?’

‘All the way.’

‘That is mine, too. When war is declared, we must not be afraid to inflict casualties.’

Laughter at a nearby table made Quine look up. Some of the sharers from Banbury’s Men were celebrating the triumph of Richard Crookback and savouring their forthcoming appearance at Court. Henry Quine felt a surge of ambition. It was only a matter of time before he became a sharer himself and joined the exclusive ranks of his profession. He turned to frame a question to which Randolph already had the answer.

‘When will we have Barnaby Gill in our grasp?’ he asked.

‘That will be soon, Giles.’

‘The day that it happens, I will have a contract drawn up for you, Henry. You will have the same privileges as all the other sharers. You will have your due proportion of the profits.’

‘I yearn for that precious moment.’

‘Nobody has earned it more than you,’ said Randolph. ‘You are accomplished in your art. When you have the opportunity to give full vent to your skills on stage, I will have to look to my own laurels.’

‘No compliment could be higher than that, Giles.’

Henry Quine basked in the approval of his master.

‘This was a fearful assault, Nick. You might have been killed.’

‘No, Anne.’

‘This wound is deep.’

‘They could easily have murdered me if they had wished.’

‘You should not have gone there alone.’

‘I wanted to visit the site.’

‘Hold still,’ she said as he tried to turn his head. ‘I have all but finished.’

Anne Hendrik was tending his wounds in the kitchen of her house. Having bathed his head with water, she was putting a bandage around it to stem the last of the bleeding. When that was done, she turned her attention to the bruises on his face and the grazes on his knuckles. Nicholas Bracewell endured the throbbing pain in his head without complaint.

‘How do you feel now?’ she asked.

‘Much better after your ministrations, Anne.’

‘You were in such a state when you staggered in here. I thought you had been set on by a dozen men and left for dead.’

‘They wanted me alive.’

‘And is the fire quite put out?’

‘By the grace of God, it is,’ he said sadly. ‘But not before it had done its worst. Most of our timber went up in smoke. The site is derelict.’

Fire was an ever-present danger in Bankside where it could spread quickly through the rows of tenements with their timber frames and thatched roofs. When the blaze roared into life, dozens of people in the vicinity had streamed out of their dwellings in fear. To save their own property, and under the guidance of Nicholas Bracewell, they fought the fire with buckets and pans. The proximity of the river was the deciding factor, giving them a ready supply of water and helping them in time to douse the flames. It was only then that Nicholas felt able to lurch home to his lodging.

‘I am almost done,’ she said, bathing his hand.

He managed a smile. ‘That is a pity. Your gentle touch blocks out the memory of the beating I took.’

‘Promise me that you will not go to the site alone again.’

‘Not alone, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I will certainly return. I may well have to spend a night or two there.’

She was aghast. ‘A night! Whatever for, Nick?’

‘The site will need protection.’

‘But there is nothing left to protect.’

‘We still own the land. Once it has been cleared, we will have to buy fresh timber and start the work again.’ He tried to rise. ‘I must get word to Thomas Bradd.’