Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Leonard walked sadly away to return to his chores.

Nicholas Bracewell was glad that he visited The Curtain that afternoon. His bandaged head and facial wounds earned him many inquisitive looks but he shrugged those off. The Fatal Dowry was a revelation. The performance also enabled him to accost Barnaby Gill and remind him of the virtue of loyalty. He was particularly interested to learn that it was Henry Quine who first approached Gill on behalf of Banbury’s Men and who was a party to the negotiations with him. Nicholas realised why Gill did not recognise the actor from his role as Martin at the Queen’s Head. Quine lacked the boyish charm which might have aroused curiosity in Gill who, in any case, frequented the taproom far less than any of his fellows and who treated the drawers and servingmen with lofty condescension.

Banbury’s Men picked the right target. Any other member of the company might have remembered Martin. Owen Elias had done so when the name was spoken. Gill was safe to court and the most liable to respond. Nicholas was certain that in his time at the Queen’s Head, Martin had watched them closely and searched for signs of weakness. Barnaby Gill’s fluctuating loyalty was that weakness. Giles Randolph had cast his man well. Whether as Martin or as Bellisandro in the play, Henry Quine had been a most effective spy.

After the performance, Nicholas parted with Gill and made his way back to the city. Still suffering the aches and pains of his beating, he found the walk uncomfortable and called to mind what Elias had said about his preference for the Queen’s Head. Most of the players, he suspected, would agree with the Welshman. The Angel theatre might help to secure their future but it would subject most of the players to a long daily walk. Nicholas made that journey every day and knew how tedious it could sometimes be.

He came through Bishopsgate and made his way along Gracechurch Street. Nicholas was in sight of the Queen’s Head when a horseman came trotting towards him. It was the young gallant who had accompanied the Countess to the funeral.

‘I have a message for you,’ said the stranger.

‘From whom, sir?’

‘A noble lady whom we both know. She is most anxious to speak with Nicholas Bracewell. I have been waiting at the inn for you above an hour.’

‘Must I visit her in the Strand?’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘She stays nearby at the house of a friend. I will conduct you there.’

He nudged the horse and it loped off through the crowd with Nicholas behind it. The young man’s manner was curt and patronising and Nicholas resented having to follow the rolling rump of his horse but an urgent summons from the Countess of Dartford could not be ignored and he was at least spared the ride to her property in the Strand. They reached the house in a matter of minutes. It was a sizeable dwelling set on a corner of two quiet streets but it had nothing of the grandeur which Cordelia Bartram favoured.

The young man gave his horse to a waiting servant then took Nicholas into the house and into the parlour. The Countess was waiting, seated in a window to keep watch for them. She did not rise when Nicholas doffed his cap and greeted her. The gallant lingered until she dismissed him with a light laugh. Nicholas noted the strained look which passed between them.

‘Your friend was reluctant to leave,’ he commented.

‘It is his house. He feels dispossessed.’

‘I see.’

‘The property is convenient,’ she said smoothly. ‘I make use of it on occasion.’

‘Your friend came to Sylvester’s funeral with you.’

‘I needed an arm to rest upon.’

‘It was good of you to attend, my lady.’

‘Sylvester was a special friend.’

But he was not, Nicholas surmised, her only lover. The young gallant was peeved to be ejected from the room in which he felt entitled to stay for reasons beyond his ownership of the house. With no sense of shame, the Countess went to the funeral of one lover on the arm of another. Mourning one man clearly did not prevent her from offering her favours to a second.

‘You were difficult to find, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I have been to Shoreditch.’

‘I am glad that you are here at last. Lord Westfield was at Court today. We talked at length about the company. What emerged from that conversation made me seek out you.’

‘Is there any news from the Master of the Revels?’

‘Just this. The order of performance at Court has been set. Westfield’s Men will be the last in line.’

‘That helps us,’ said Nicholas keenly.

‘I thought the same but your patron disagreed. He felt that it reflected the Privy Council’s judgement on the troupe. Third, last and therefore destined for extinction.’

‘Lord Westfield inclines to gloom at times.’

‘I am glad to hear you sound a more cheering note.’

‘Master Firethorn will be delighted by this.’

‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will come to Lawrence Firethorn in a moment. My question is this. And bear in mind how much money I have loaned you because I believe that it entitles me to an answer. Has Lord Westfield ever talked before about ceding his interest in the company?’

‘He has talked about it, my lady, but we are used to such moans. They amount to nothing in the end.’

‘Supposing that they did?’ she asked. ‘Supposing that Westfield’s Men were forced to part with Lord Westfield?’

‘Forced?’

‘Circumstances change.’

‘Our patron would never leave us.’

‘He might, Nicholas. Inducements could be made. Lord Westfield is laden with debt and further burdened with the cares of his theatre company. Such things take their toll.’

‘The burdens will ease when our future is certain.’

‘Your patron did not think so. He was despondent.’

‘Well, we are not,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘Master Firethorn ensures that. Under his leadership, we are brimming with confidence and what I saw of Banbury’s Men at The Curtain this afternoon has only strengthened that confidence.’

‘I share it, Nicholas, believe me.’

He was cautious. ‘Do I hear you aright?’

‘I think you catch my meaning.’

‘ You would wish to become our patron?’

‘Is that so strange a wish?’ she said airily. ‘Dartford’s Men rolls off the tongue as sweetly as Westfield’s and I would give you more support than ever the noble lord has managed. He will take much persuasion yet,’ she admitted, ‘but I saw him waver when I asked if he would yield up his troupe.’

Nicholas was too shocked to say anything. The thought of losing their patron was unnerving and he could find no enthusiasm for the notional replacement. What little he knew of the Countess led him to suspect that she would want to control and interfere in the company far more than Lord Westfield had done. His silence plainly irritated her.

‘What is your problem, Nicholas?’ she challenged. ‘Can you not stomach the idea of a woman as patron? It is my husband’s name that would be used for Dartford’s Men but a woman’s hand which would guide your fortunes. Your precious patron is not as enamoured with his troupe as you imagine. If his debts were settled as part of the bargain, I’ll wager that he would snatch gratefully at the hand of someone who would rid him of his company.’

‘That may be so, my lady,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it would be a very sad day for us if we lost the noble lord who brought us into being in the first place.’

‘Would you oppose me, then?’

‘It is not my place to support or oppose.’

‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘I know what weight you carry inside the company. Sylvester instructed me well. Win you over and I have a powerful advocate. Win Lawrence Firethorn over and the game is settled.’