Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘I wish to speak to Martin,’ said Nicholas.

‘Who?’

‘Martin. One of your drawers.’

‘We have no Martin here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I know who I pay, sir, believe me,’ said the man firmly. ‘And I have never parted with a penny to any Martin.’

‘Has he left your employment, then?’

‘He never came to the Brown Bear in the first place.’

The landlord was so certain and his manner so uncouth that Nicholas allowed him to be called away by another customer. Hoode had overheard the exchange.

‘Who is this Martin you seek?’ he said.

‘He worked at the Queen’s Head for a while.’

‘I do not recall him.’

‘No more do I,’ said Nicholas, ‘but Leonard spoke so warmly of him that I feel that I should have. Our landlord is the problem. He treats his servants so badly that they rarely stay for long. Martin came and went with the others.’

Hoode was annoyed. ‘And he is the reason you brought me to this filthy hole? Some skulking menial whose face you cannot even remember?’

‘Leonard told me that he sometimes called in at the Queen’s Head to pick up news. Why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘And why choose Leonard as the man to tell it him?’

‘I do not follow you.’

‘Leonard is the most stout-hearted fellow alive. I love him as a friend and brought him to the inn because I knew he would give sterling service. But his brain is not the quickest thing about him, Edmund. He is easily gulled. I think that this Martin picked him out because Leonard would not suspect that he was being used.’ Nicholas looked around. ‘When I heard that Martin worked at the Brown Bear, I was surprised. You see it. A place of last resort. Beside this inn, the Queen’s Head is a paradise even with Alexander Marwood in charge. No sane man would move from Gracechurch Street to splash about in this vile puddle.’

‘We did!’ protested Hoode. ‘And for what reason?’

‘To satisfy a whim of mine.’

‘That blow to the head has unfixed your brain.’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas. ‘I found exactly what I expected to find. Martin does not work here. He is a liar who befriended the one man at the Queen’s Head who would believe his lies without question.’

Hoode was still confused. ‘So? Martin is dishonest. Was that wondrous discovery enough to make us endure the Brown Bear? London is full of liars.’

‘But they do not all work at an inn which houses a troupe of players,’ argued Nicholas. ‘And they do not slink back to hear the latest news of the company from one who adores them so much that he watches them whenever he can steal a free moment. All I can plead here is instinct, Edmund, but that instinct tells me that we have been spied upon.’

‘By Martin?’

‘Who else?’

‘But neither of us can even remember the fellow.’

‘Exactly! When he was at the Queen’s Head, he made sure that none of us got to know him properly. He kept in the background and held his peace.’

Hoode was unconvinced. ‘This is folly on your part, Nick. I, too, can plead instinct and it urges me to get out of this evil place before I become infected. Let us go.’

‘We must wait until Owen arrives.’

‘Can we not do so in the street?’

Nicholas smiled. The boisterousness was too intimidating for his friend. Arm around his shoulder, he led Hoode back out into Eastcheap and away from the Brown Bear. A stentorian voice rang down the thoroughfare.

‘I am coming!’ bellowed Elias. ‘Do not leave!’

They paused until he came puffing up to them.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ he growled. ‘I have been all the way to Shoreditch and back. Though a friendly farmer bounced my bum a part of the way, my feet still took a pounding.’

‘To good effect?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Alas, yes. Barnaby is entwined with Giles Randolph.’

‘Never!’ denied Hoode.

‘I saw it with my own eyes, Edmund. Heard them exchange words of friendship. What more do you need? A sighting of the contract which makes Barnaby Gill a sharer with Banbury’s Men,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘Rest here while I go back to Shoreditch to fetch it for you.’

‘What else did you learn, Owen?’ said Nicholas.

‘That my old legs do not like so much walking. I had forgotten how far it was, Nick. I tell you, I do not relish the idea of a daily walk to Bankside either. The city has its faults but I prefer to lodge here.’

‘So do I,’ said Hoode.

‘To lodge and to work here,’ continued Elias. ‘I would not dare to say this to Lawrence now that we are so far gone with The Angel theatre, but the truth is that the prospect no longer thrills me as it once did.’

‘Why not?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I like the Queen’s Head,’ said the other. ‘We have played at The Curtain and at The Rose. Both have their virtues but I have to admit that I would choose the Queen’s Head over them. Even if it were peopled with a hundred Alexander Marwoods.’

‘I think I agree with you, Owen,’ decided Hoode. ‘My best work has been staged there. It inspires me.’

‘It inspires us all,’ said Nicholas sadly, ‘but the Privy Council is like to turn us out. To stay here in London, we must have a playhouse of our own. The Angel answers that need.’

Owen was cynical. ‘Barnaby does not think so. He would sooner throw in his lot with Banbury’s Men than stay with us and risk all. They even talked of having him play at Court with them. In Richard Crookback .’

‘Is that their choice?’ Nicholas heaved a sigh. ‘Report has it that Richard Crookback is their best achievement of this year. A new play from Havelock’s Men and a fine one from Banbury’s Men. We will have strong competition at Court. Tell us more about your findings, Owen?’

‘May I do so with some ale in my hand, Nick? I need to sit down and search for solace in a tankard. Let us step back into the Brown Bear.’

‘No!’ shouted Hoode. ‘It is a stinking pit! The only reason that Nick enticed me in there was to look for someone whom he knew we could not find. An arrant liar called Martin who once worked at the Queen’s Head.’

The light of discovery came into Elias’s eyes.

‘What was that name again?’ he asked. ‘Martin?’

The funeral was held at the Parish Church of St Leonard’s, a place where more than one member of Westfield’s Men had already been laid to rest. As a mark of respect to Sylvester Pryde, the day’s performance was cancelled and the whole company filed into the nave of the church for the service. It was short but moving. An ancient priest who could never be expected wholeheartedly to approve of the wayward life of an actor nevertheless praised a man he had barely known in words that brought great comfort and many nods of agreement. Nicholas Bracewell was pleased that he had spoken to the priest about the deceased beforehand and he was interested to hear some of his own phrases coming back to him from the pulpit in such a sonorous tone.

Nicholas was too absorbed in his own grief to notice everyone around him and even when he acted as one of the pall bearers and helped to bear the coffin back down the aisle, he did not see the hooded figure who sat with a companion at the rear of the nave. It was only when they moved out to the cemetery and lowered the body of Sylvester Pryde into his grave that Nicholas was able to take stock of those around him. His fellows were overcome with emotion. Several were weeping, some were praying, others remained in a contemplative silence. George Dart was so distraught that he needed the physical support of Thomas Skillen.

Anne Hendrik was there and Marjory Firethorn accompanied her husband. What touched Nicholas was the fact that several people from the Queen’s Head also came to pay their respects. Leonard was among them, his big face awash with tears, his mind trying in vain to grasp the meaning of such a violent and untimely death. Even Alexander Marwood turned up, prompted by the thought that the burial of one actor symbolised the imminent death of the entire company. It was a form of leave-taking and he was surprised how painful he found it. Having wished to expel the company so often in the past, he now felt strangely bereft.