Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Lawrence Firethorn had his first question ready.

‘What shall we play at Court, Nick?’

‘First, know what our rivals are offering,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that may determine our own choice. Banbury’s Men will play Richard Crookback .’

Firethorn coloured. ‘What! Will Giles Randolph try to ape me in the role of the hunchback? Such arrogance! I have made the part my own in our play about the same king. Those who saw Lawrence Firethorn as Richard III will laugh in derision at this pretender.’

‘Nevertheless, that is their choice.’

‘And Havelock’s Men?’

‘A Looking Glass for London.’

‘I do not know the play.’

‘How could you?’ said Nicholas. ‘It has not yet been performed. They are saving its novelty for the Court. It is written by Timothy Argus, always their most reliable author.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Firethorn, wincing slightly. ‘A new play gives them freshness that we others lack. But no matter,’ he continued, flicking their rivals aside. ‘How can those pigmies hope to tower over a giant like me? Whatever they play, they will barely reach my kneecaps.’

Nicholas was more cautious. ‘We must give them some respect,’ he advised. ‘They may have nobody to compare with you but their companies are replete with talent. Expect them to give a good account of themselves or we are lost.’

‘I will sweep them from the boards like dust!’

‘The play we choose must suit our whole company.’

‘Then it must be Hector of Troy !’

‘Too long and wordy for an occasion like this.’

‘ Vincentio’s Revenge? I shine equally in that.’

‘It grows stale with overuse, I think.’

‘Then it has to be The Knights of Malta . I will make the palace walls quake when I thunder as Jean de Valette.’

‘It would not be my first suggestion,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You soar to the heights in all three but none allows the whole company to show its true mettle. Banbury’s Men present a history while Havelock’s Men lean on comedy as their crutch. We should choose a tragedy to show our serious intent. The pity of it is that the best play for our purposes is no longer available to us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it is called The Insatiate Duke .’

‘I spurn it, Nick!’ yelled Firethorn with a gesture of disgust. ‘We will not play it again until we have taken a knife to it and cut away everything that appertains to Lucius Kindell.’

‘Then you cut away the very soul of it.’

‘So be it. That vile traitor will not live to see me declaiming his verse again. Forget his work. It is past.’

Nicholas was not so ready to condemn Kindell, nor consign him to the company’s history, but he did not defend him. There was no point in infuriating his host when he was manoeuvring him carefully towards a critical decision. After waving a few other titles in front of him, Nicholas came to the play which was his selection but he let Firethorn enthuse about it until the latter believed that he had chosen it himself.

‘ The Italian Tragedy! I have hit the mark, Nick!’

‘I think you have.’

‘What better piece to set before a Court than a tragedy of Court intrigue? By Jove, we’ll do it! The play has been off the stage too long. We’ll put it back where it belongs.’

‘With help from Edmund.’

‘But it is not his play.’

‘He is contracted to repair as well as to create,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let him mend a few holes in its apparel and fashion a prologue by way of a new ruff. Edmund’s wit is quicksilver. He will use the prologue to score off our rivals.’

‘Done, sir! The Italian Tragedy it shall be!’

‘A happy inspiration of yours.’

‘When Marjory serves beef, my brain always whirrs.’

There were several other things to discuss, including the financial state of the company, but the main problem had been solved. When Nicholas had guided his host into some more important decisions, he took his leave.

‘Will you walk back to the Queen’s Head?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having come to Shoreditch, I’ll make a virtue of necessity and visit The Curtain.’

Firethorn goggled. ‘Watch our rivals?’ he howled.

‘It is needful. I want to see the present strength of their company. The more we know about our rivals, the easier it will be to match them.’

‘Match them and mar them!’

‘I go to observe and not to enjoy.’

Firethorn’s anger vanished and he embraced his friend warmly. Marjory came bustling out of the kitchen to collect compliments on her cooking and a farewell kiss. The couple waved him off down Old Street. Shoreditch’s two theatres brought playgoers streaming out of the city and crowds were already gathering for the afternoon’s entertainment. Nicholas made for The Curtain and paid to sit in the gallery. Instead of finding a place on a bench, however, he lurked near the door, confident that he would not be the only member of Westfield’s Men who would appear. The gallery was filling up before his expected guest arrived. Concealing himself behind a post, Nicholas let the man choose his place before he moved across to sit beside him.

‘Well-met, Master Gill!’ he said.

‘Nicholas!’ Barnaby Gill paled. ‘What on earth are you doing here at The Curtain?’

‘I came to see a play.’

‘Why, so did I.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, whispering in his ear. ‘You came to see a company you plan to join. Do not deny it, Master Gill,’ he warned as his companion flared up. ‘You were seen last night in the company of Giles Randolph. Seen and heard. If Master Firethorn knew of that meeting, he would not have been so civil to you at the funeral.’

Gill squirmed. He knew exactly how Firethorn would have reacted which was why his dealings with Banbury’s Men had been conducted in secret. The time to announce that he was leaving the Queen’s Head was when he had already quit the premises and not when he was still within reach of an actor-manager with a vengeful temperament and the strength of a bull. Gill’s exit was suddenly blocked by Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Do not breathe a word of this to Lawrence,’ he said. ‘I have not yet committed myself to Banbury’s Men. I merely heard their overtures as any sensible man was bound to do.’

‘Is it sensible to betray your colleagues?’

‘They are already betrayed by the Privy Council.’

‘Their decree has yet to be enacted.’

‘Westfield’s Men will wither away,’ prophesied Gill. ‘This Angel Theatre is a cruel illusion. It will not save you. We will all have to find a new company. I merely lead where others will surely follow.’

‘I will tell that to Master Firethorn.’

‘No! I beg you!’

‘His good wife, Marjory, will also have an opinion to give to you. She will censure you as much as he.’

‘Keep the pair of them off me, Nicholas.’

‘Then do not give me cause.’

‘What else am I to do?’ wailed Gill. ‘Would you have me stay at the Queen’s Head to watch the company sink into oblivion? Audiences love me. It is my duty to stay before them. And I can only do that by moving to The Curtain.’

‘No,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘That is not the only remedy. There is another, if you are bold enough to take it. And it gives you a chance to make amends for this contemplated flight.’

‘Another remedy?’

‘It may answer all.’

‘Pray, what is it, Nicholas?’

The flag was being hauled up its pole and the musicians were poised to begin. Nicholas chose deliberately to make his companion wait.

‘The play commences. I’ll tell you later.’

Lord Westfield was scurrying along a corridor at the Palace of Whitehall when someone glided out from an alcove to intercept him. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, had shed her cloak and her expression of mourning, containing her grief inwardly while showing her old outward gaiety. Lord Westfield stopped at once to give her a vestigial bow of courtesy.