Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘You are not leaving this house tonight.’

‘He must be told about this setback, Anne.’

‘Then tell him from the comfort of that chair,’ she said, easing him back into his seat. ‘I will send a servant to fetch him. When he hears of your injuries, he will come post-haste.’

‘That might be the best way,’ he conceded. ‘I still feel giddy when I stand. Master Bradd will be as angry as I am by this latest attack on us and I am sure that he will want us to mount patrols at night.’

‘Must you be part of them?’

‘I will insist.’

‘Then I will join you.’

‘Anne!’

‘If you are to stand there in the darkness, I will bring food and drink to succour you. I may not be strong enough to fight off intruders but I can at least keep you all well-fed.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, kissing her hand affectionately. ‘Your offer is appreciated but I would feel happier if I knew that you were warm and safe in bed here. Bankside at night is no place for a lady. Besides, Anne, I will not have to be there all the time. We will take it in turns.’

‘You have done your share already, Nick.’

‘I have a responsibility. I will not shirk it.’

‘You are too dutiful.’

She gave him a hug then sat down opposite him, worried at the state he was in but relieved that she had been able to tend his wounds. The blows to the head had opened up deep gashes and he was badly bruised but no bones were broken. Anne knew from experience that he would not let his injuries slow him down. Nicholas Bracewell had shown his resilience on many occasions. A beating which would have cowed other men only put more steel into his resolve.

‘I will find him,’ he said quietly.

‘Him?’

‘The man who instigated this raid. I think he will be the same person who murdered Sylvester. That gives me an even larger score to settle.’

‘Who could commit such hideous crimes?’

‘Someone who is determined to ruin us.’

‘Someone from The Rose?’

‘Or from Shoreditch,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Banbury’s Men have equal reason to want us silenced for ever.’

‘What of your loan?’

‘Our loan?’

‘Your benefactor gave you that money in good faith to build a new theatre,’ she said, ‘but all that it has produced so far is murder and arson. The whole project is smeared in blood. How will your guardian angel react to that?’

Nicholas made no reply but he was profoundly worried.

Lord Westfield arrived at the Palace of Whitehall with a new spring in his step. Word of the impending performances at Court by the three rival companies had been voiced abroad and it brought in support for his faction from some unexpected quarters. He firmly believed that his was no longer a theatre troupe with the mark of death upon it. It enabled him to meet the smirking Earl of Banbury and the smiling Viscount Havelock with equanimity. He could look both of them in the eye.

When he saw one of his allies, he detached himself from his entourage to steal a moment alone with her. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, looked as gorgeous as usual but there was a faint air of sadness about her which even her vivacity could not entirely dispel.

‘What is amiss, dear lady?’ he asked courteously.

‘Nothing, my lord. I am well.’

‘You seem a trifle distracted.’

‘My mind was elsewhere,’ she said, shrugging off her melancholy at once. ‘But I am delighted to see you. How fares your campaign?’

‘Exceeding well.’

‘Have you been gathering your forces?’

‘Yes, Cordelia,’ he said, ‘and with encouraging results.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘I have had pledges of support from all quarters and Sir Patrick Skelton has hinted that he may be able to exert some influence over the Privy Council.’

‘That is heartening,’ she said. ‘I am a mere woman but I am committed to your cause. What I can achieve on your behalf with my wiles, I certainly shall.’

He chuckled merrily. ‘Then is the battle already won. No man alive can resist your wiles, Cordelia. I dare swear that you could win over the testy Earl and the handsome Viscount, if you put your mind to it.’

The Countess of Dartford hid her irritation behind a smile. Any mention of Viscount Havelock in her presence was tactless even if it was only in jest. Sensing that he might have offended her, Lord Westfield went off into a flurry of apologies but she waved them away.

‘All that I want is the survival of your troupe.’

‘That is assured, Cordelia,’ he said airily. ‘Now that the three rivals will play here side by side at Court, our future is certain. Westfield’s Men will tower above the others.’

‘I expect no less,’ she said quietly. ‘Winning is paramount with me, my lord. I will not lend my support to a losing faction.’

‘You have not done so.’

After issuing a dozen further assurances, he excused himself to move off to the Presence Chamber. His place was quickly taken by the immaculate Sir Patrick Skelton who eased himself alongside her to exchange niceties.

‘Good morrow, my lady!’

‘I am pleased to see you, Sir Patrick.’

‘How do I find you?’

‘In good spirits.’

‘And your dear husband?’

‘He is in poor health still,’ she sighed, ‘and likely to remain so. His physicians have no remedy for old age, alas. My husband will have to stay in the country.’

‘At least we have the pleasure of your company here.’

‘I crave excitement, Sir Patrick. I like to be involved. That is why I came back to our London house myself. And it seems that I arrived in time for some amusement.’

‘Amusement, my lady?’

‘This trial of strength between the theatre companies.’

‘It is in earnest.’

‘That is what makes it so interesting.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You and I are of the same party, I believe. That is reassuring. When as politic a man as you takes sides, I know that you will choose the right one.’

He gave her an urbane smile by way of a reply then fell in beside her as they strolled towards the Presence Chamber. She saw Viscount Havelock trying to catch her eye but studiously ignored him. It was another theatre patron who intrigued her.

‘Westfield’s Men are building a playhouse, I hear.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Is that an expensive undertaking?’

‘Very expensive, I should imagine.’

‘And has Lord Westfield advanced the money?’ she said artlessly. ‘It is an act of wondrous generosity on his part.’

‘It would be,’ said Skelton, ‘if it ever happened. But it did not. Lord Westfield is hounded by his creditors. He is in no position to lend his company one penny. If Westfield’s Men depended on capital from him, they would long ago have vanished into oblivion.’

She absorbed the news with great interest. Her face was impassive but she was smiling inwardly as an idea formed.

The sight of Nicholas Bracewell’s injuries caused fear and consternation among Westfield’s Men. Their book holder had always seemed so solid and indestructible. If he could be reduced to the sorry figure they saw before them, there was little hope for the company. Nicholas’s strength and courage were taken for granted as much as the control he exerted over their performances. To see their warrior so battered was a huge blow to their morale and their self-belief.

Nicholas countered the general misery with some stirring words of defiance then took up his book for the rehearsal and exerted even more authority over the proceedings than usual. He knew how important it was to take their minds off the assault he had suffered and to get them working hard at their craft. When the rehearsal was over, he lingered in the yard with Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias. George Dart, torn between sympathy and horror, lurked on the fringe of the discussion in the hope of offering a word of comfort to his one true friend in the company but Nicholas moved him gently away before Dart collected a more abusive dismissal from the rumbling Firethorn.