Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

The sight of Gill’s horse destroyed all hope. He would have only one reason to enter an inn which was the established haunt of Banbury’s Men. Elias could never bring himself wholly to like the irascible Gill but he had great respect for his talent and a mocking fondness for the man himself. To lose him would be a severe blow to Westfield’s Men but to have him stolen by their fiercest rivals would be a catastrophe. He crept towards The Elephant with his heart pounding.

The taproom was full and half-hidden beneath a fug of tobacco smoke. When Elias peered in through the window, he had difficulty making out anyone at first and reasoned that Giles Randolph would choose somewhere more private for such a sensitive transaction. Elias made his way around the outside of the building, peeping through each window while taking care not to be seen. Too many people in the company knew him. He never believed that he would actually manage to eavesdrop on a conversation between Gill and the actor-manager of Banbury’s Men but the sight of them together would be positive proof of Gill’s treachery.

It came much sooner than he expected. Three men suddenly stepped out of the rear exit of the inn, forcing Elias to dive behind a bush for concealment. He could hear Gill’s voice without being able to make out exactly what he was saying. Had the betrayal taken so little time? Gill would hardly have ridden all the way to Shoreditch to turn down a seductive offer. Was he shaking hands on the deal? Elias inched forward to peer around the edge of the bush. Gill was mounting his horse and seemed to be in good humour. Giles Randolph was laughing softly. Raised in farewell, his colleague’s voice did reach Elias this time.

‘Adieu, sir! I thank you for your forbearance.’

‘I am a patient man, Barnaby,’ said Randolph, ‘but I do need a final decision from you.’

‘You shall have it very soon, I swear.’

‘Do not disappoint us.’

‘I have gone too far in this business to do that.’

‘Play with Banbury’s Men at Court in Richard Crookback .’

‘The notion entices me.’

‘Farewell! How will we hear from you?’

‘I will send word!’ said Gill as he rode away.

‘Farewell, sir!’ called a third voice.

Elias was about to pull back behind the bush again when he noticed the man who was with Randolph. Hisface was oddly familiar yet his name completely evaded the Welshman. There was something about the close-set eyes and the prominent nose which jogged his memory. Had he really met the man before or was he mistaken? Before he was able to make up his mind, the two friends went happily back into the inn, leaving him to ponder. Who was Randolph’s companion?

The question teased him all the way back to the city.

The Brown Bear was a large, low, sprawling inn with overhead beams which obliged the patrons to duck and flagstones which had been liberally stained with hot blood and strong ale in equal proportions. It was the favoured resort of sailors, discharged soldiers and masterless men and the pert tavern wenches who swung their hips between the tables were willing to provide much more than drink. Edmund Hoode was deafened by its noise and unsettled by its sense of danger. The taproom at the Queen’s Head could be rowdy but the Brown Bear seemed to be trembling continuously on the edge of violence.

He was glad when Nicholas Bracewell finally arrived.

‘This place unnerves me, Nick,’ he confessed.

‘Strange,’ said Nicholas with a grin. ‘With my broken head and bruised face, I feel quite at home here.’

They bought drinks and found a corner where they could converse without having to shout over the din. Nicholas told him of his visit to their benefactor but said nothing beyond the fact that their loan was still intact. For the first time since he had sworn to maintain secrecy, he felt that it might have advantages. The Countess of Dartford was the sort of titled lady who should never be allowed near the playwright. His capacity for falling in love with unattainable beauties was alarming. Nicholas would at least be spared the discomfort of watching his friend endure yet another ordeal of unrequited passion.

‘What of Lucius Kindell?’ he asked. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I did, Nick.’

‘And?’

‘I gave a performance which Lawrence could not better.’

‘Tell me all.’

‘Lucius was at his lodging,’ said Hoode, ‘striving to put a scene together in a play they have commissioned. Think of that, Nick. Havelock’s Men believe he has outgrown me. He is to pen a tragedy entirely on his own.’

‘Is he capable of such a feat?’

‘They think so but Lucius does not.’

‘Lack of confidence was always his weakness, Edmund. That is where you helped him most. By instilling some self-belief in him.’ Nicholas sipped his ale. ‘Does he struggle?’

‘Woefully.’

‘He misses your guiding hand.’

‘Lucius almost had it at his throat,’ admitted Hoode, ‘but I stayed it. I told him that I was no longer angry with him and that he was right to go to Havelock’s Men. He was all tears. The only way I could stop them was to ask about his play and why it was becalmed.’

‘Were you able to help him?’

‘Listening was the greatest help I gave, Nick.’

‘And was he grateful?’

‘Thoroughly. He showered me with thanks and sought to justify his move to Bankside. Lucius is young but very observant. He has learnt much about Havelock’s Men.’

‘Does he know what play they will stage at Court?’

‘ A Looking Glass for London ,’ said Hoode. ‘A new comedy from the pen of Timothy Argus. They let Lucius read an act or two and he was very excited by it.’

‘I do not like the sound of that. Argus is gifted. He has written all of their best plays in recent years. If they have a new play to offer at Court, that gives them a hold over us for we have none.’ He gave a smile. ‘Even Edmund Hoode cannot conjure up five acts of wonder in so short a time. Tell me about A Looking Glass for London .’

Hoode repeated what he had heard from Kindell and added all the other information he had gleaned from his quondam apprentice. Even though his friend professed to loathe the young playwright, there was an affection in his tone which belied his hatred. The reunion had not merely shown Lucius Kindell how much he needed Hoode to advise him. It had reminded the latter of the happiness they had experienced when collaborating on two plays.

Someone jostled Hoode’s arm and made him spill his drink. When he turned to complain, he found himself staring into the hirsute face of a sailor who was much taller and vastly broader than him. The man glowered at him. Hoode gave him a sheepish grin and leant across to Nicholas.

‘Why did you ask me to meet you here, Nick?’

‘It was close to Lucius’s lodging and saves you the walk back to the Queen’s Head.’

‘I would rather have walked ten miles than come here. The Brown Bear is nothing but a den of vice. When I first came in, one of the serving wenches groped me familiarly.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘She remembered you.’

‘I am no pox-hunter! That lady would have fitted me out with a suit of French velvet as soon as I unbuttoned. I have learnt the value of a celibate life, Nick,’ he said. ‘No pox, no peril and no pain. The Brown Bear offers all three.’

‘I came here for a purpose, Edmund,’ explained the other. ‘Bear with me a moment while I satisfy my curiosity.’

Nicholas hailed the landlord, a big, bearded, slovenly man with a bald head that was running with sweat and a face with more warts than space for them to occupy. He hobbled across and glared at Nicholas.

‘What is your pleasure, sir?’ he grunted.