Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Good morrow, Cordelia,’ he said.

‘My lord.’

‘How does the day find you?’

‘Tolerably well.’

‘I hope to see your dear husband back at Court before too long. We have missed his wisdom and experience.’

‘You will have to miss them even longer, I fear,’ she said, ‘and so will I. Charles weakens by the day. His physician begins to have serious doubts of his recovery. If there is no sign of improvement soon, I may have to return to the country to minister to him.’

‘I pray that that will not be necessary,’ he said with concern. ‘The earl is a soldier and will fight this sickness with a soldier’s courage. Besides, we should hate to lose you as well, Cordelia. I had counted on your being here when the three plays are presented at Court.’

‘Nothing short of my husband’s death would induce me to miss those, my lord. That is the time when I can be most useful to Westfield’s Men. Mingling with the others to trumpet their virtues, making sure my opinions reach the Privy Council.’

‘I will do the same.’

‘Has your company chosen the play it will stage?’

‘If they have,’ he said, ‘I do not know what it is. But I have tidings from the Master of the Revels.’

‘What are they?’

‘Westfield’s Men will be last in order.’

‘That gives them a clear advantage,’ she said, thinking it through. ‘Coming after the others, they will be fresh in the minds of the Privy Council when they withdraw to consider which companies will survive. This is a tasty morsel of news, my lord. It must have pleased you.’

‘No, Cordelia,’ he admitted, ‘it causes me concern.’

‘How so?’

‘I believe that the decision has already been made. Look at the order in which the plays will be staged. Havelock’s Men are first, then Banbury’s Men, with my company last.’ He sucked in air through his teeth and grimaced. ‘That is clearly how we are viewed. Third and lowest in their estimation.’

‘That is not so,’ she argued. ‘If a final decision has already been made, why invite the companies to Court in the first place? What happens here must affect the Privy Council’s thinking. Do not be so downcast, my lord.’

‘It preys upon my mind.’

‘Westfield’s Men have no peer. I have seen all three companies at work and admire them all, but your troupe will always seize the laurels. The others have brilliance,’ she conceded, ‘but you have Lawrence Firethorn and he exceeds all superlatives. How can you lose faith with such a man to lead your company?’

‘He is my chiefest weapon, it is true.’

‘A cannon matched against pistols.’

‘Upon the stage, perhaps, Cordelia,’ he said gloomily. ‘But this war has not only been fought there. We have been sorely oppressed. One of my players was murdered.’

‘I know it well,’ she said, wincing at the reminder.

‘Our book holder, Nicholas Bracewell, was attacked. And then the timbers for our new playhouse, The Angel, were set alight.’ He shook his head worriedly. ‘Our rivals have some terrible weapons of their own.’

‘Do you have evidence that they were involved?’

‘No evidence, Cordelia, but a deep certainty.’

‘Well,’ she said evenly, ‘if that certainty can become firm proof, you are saved. The Privy Council will surely debar a company which uses such methods against a rival.’

‘It is not the first time we have been abused.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Our rivals bite constantly at our heels,’ he confided. ‘I love my troupe but Westfield’s Men have aggravated me beyond measure. Each day seems to bring a new source of anxiety. I will do all that I may to beat off our rivals and ensure our survival but I tell you this, Cordelia.’ He glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard him. ‘There are moments when the affairs of Westfield’s Men trouble me so much that I would almost wish to be rid of the burden.’

The Countess of Dartford sounded calm and detached but her mind was already grappling with a bold new possibility.

‘Would you yield the company to another patron?’

They were good. Nicholas Bracewell had always been willing to admit that. The Fatal Dowry was not the best play in their repertoire but Banbury’s Men turned it into a stirring piece of theatre. Giles Randolph was in commanding form, marshalling his company around him with skill but rising above them without discernible effort. Lawrence Firethorn might scorn his rival but Nicholas took a more dispassionate view. Randolph was an actor to be admired and feared.

Barnaby Gill took less interest in him. What he saw was an actor of consummate skill who lacked the sheer animal power and charisma of Firethorn. Gill’s attention was fixed on the comic characters in the play and they were disappointing. While Nicholas was murmuring with pleasure at taut dramatic moments, Gill was clicking his tongue irritably at the shortcomings of the clowns. He could see why Randolph was so keen to lure him to the company. Gill’s comic expertise would enrich every play and make him the perfect foil for the actor-manager. As he watched, however, Gill was less convinced of the wisdom of a move to Shoreditch. The company was sound but it lacked the all-round excellence of Westfield’s Men.

The play was well-advanced when Nicholas saw him. Taking the role of a spy, he wore a wide-brimmed hat which concealed much of his face to those in the gallery and there was nothing distinctive in his voice to disclose his identity at first. When the hat was removed, however, and when Nicholas was able to take a proper look at the close-set eyes and protuberant nose, he was in no doubt. The actor who now strutted so boldly at The Curtain had once been employed in a more menial capacity at the Queen’s Head. Nicholas turned to Gill.

‘Do you know the name of that fellow?’

‘Which one?’

‘Bellisandro, the spy.’

‘Yes,’ said Gill. ‘That is Henry Quine.’

Leonard gazed around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head with misgivings. Horses were coming and going, ostlers were flitting to and fro and a cart was rumbling in through the gate to deliver casks of wine. Yet the place looked strangely bare. Without the stage and the players who went through their intricate paces upon it every day, the yard seemed deserted. Leonard felt an emptiness in himself. Westfield’s Men not only fascinated him with their work, they became good friends of his. When they were driven away, Alexander Marwood would be losing a source of income but Leonard would be deprived of the only family he knew. It was heart-rending.

As he helped to unload the wine from the cart, he tried to put his own anxieties aside. Rose Marwood was in a far worse predicament than he. Although her parents now allowed her a degree of freedom, they were still roaming the inn in search of the anonymous father and fulminating against him. They were poor support for a girl as frightened as Rose must be. There was little that Leonard could do beyond showing sympathy for the girl but she appreciated his gesture. He wondered if there was some more practical way in which he could help.

When his work was done, he made his way to the lane at the side of the inn and reached a spot below the window of her bedchamber. It was still open and he sensed that she was inside. The last time he visited the spot, he brought a ladder with him and clambered up it to leave a token on her sill. Only a stone could reach the window now and attract her attention. He bent down to gather a few missiles from the ground then froze in horror. Lying forlornly in the mud, its petals crushed and its stem broken, was the rose he had gone to such trouble to procure for her. His gesture of friendship had been summarily rejected.