Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Nicholas was hurt. ‘I am sorry that you see this as a game, my lady. We do not. It is our livelihood.’

‘I appreciate that,’ she returned coolly, ‘but you must appreciate my position. I have advanced several hundred pounds of my own money to safeguard your livelihoods. Westfield’s Men were quick enough to take it.’

‘And gratefully, my lady.’

‘I expect more than gratitude in return, Nicholas. I had thought that Sylvester’s friendship would be reward enough but his death has changed that.’ A mischievous gleam came into her eye. ‘Arrange a meeting for me with Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘You wish to reveal your identity to him?’

‘No,’ she stressed. ‘He must not know my name or my connection with the company. Tell him that I am an ardent admirer. Give him a flattering description of me.’

‘There is no such thing, my lady,’ said Nicholas gallantly.

‘Then say as much to him,’ she said, acknowledging his compliment with a smile. ‘I know his reputation. He will come running. When Lawrence Firethorn and I are alone together, I will be able to appraise him properly.’

Nicholas was stunned. Her request put him in an even more ambiguous position. It was an effort to conceal from his fellows the name of their benefactor but a more onerous charge was laid upon him now. He had to contrive a meeting between her and Firethorn by dint of lying to the actor. The Countess of Dartford would exploit the situation to her own advantage and Firethorn would hardly resist. Nicholas ran through them in his mind. Earl of Dartford, Viscount Havelock, Sylvester Pryde, the young man who owned the house and no doubt others besides. Now she had decided to add Lawrence Firethorn to her list of conquests, engaging Nicholas to act as her pandar.

Westfield’s Men had looked upon their benefactor as a visitor from heaven. Nicholas alone knew the truth. The loan which helped them might also enslave them to the Countess of Dartford. They would be in the grasp of a wanton angel.

As the hour of decision drew nearer, Westfield’s Men grew increasingly nervous. It worried them that their whole future might turn on a single performance at Court and what should have been welcomed as a signal honour came to seem more like a trial. The Italian Tragedy was a popular choice of play but they secretly feared that Havelock’s Men would have a clear advantage with a new work. If only one company were licensed south of the river, The Rose was the real threat to The Angel and the fact that Viscount Havelock’s uncle sat on the Privy Council sent tremors running through Westfield’s Men. Their patron was working strenuously to expand his faction at Court but he was up against some skilful politicians.

Notwithstanding their fears, Westfield’s Men were resolved to give a good account of themselves. While keeping up their regular performances in the inn yard, they also found time to rehearse and refine The Italian Tragedy . Edmund Hoode was instructed to write a new prologue and to insert new speeches in certain scenes in order to freshen the play. Nor was The Angel neglected. A team of volunteers from the Queen’s Head went there every day and Thomas Bradd employed them well. With the site cleared once more, timbers were delivered by barge and hauled up the muddy bank to the foundations. Bricks were laid, posts were sunk and the walls slowly began to rise.

Their work did not end at sunset. Nicholas Bracewell organised a team of men to guard the site until midnight when they were relieved by night watchmen from the company. He was eager to take his turn on patrol and spent a first night, armed and ready, sitting in the drizzle on the edge of the Thames. No attack was made on the site and no incidents of any kind were reported but it was a necessary safeguard, even if it did introduce more yawns into their afternoon performances than were set down in the play by the author.

Nicholas was proud of the way that the company was reacting to the challenge which confronted them but he was tormented by guilt at having to hold back information from them which would rapidly change their attitude. If they knew that their benefactor was really an ambitious countess who wished to take over the company, they might not work with such conviction, and if they realised that she had designs on their actor-manager into the bargain, they would have quailed. A patron was there to lend the protection and kudos of a name and not to exert control over their activities. The worst of it was that the company still thought of their benefactor as an example of divine intervention.

George Dart shared in the common illusion.

‘Will he be able to come to The Angel?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our saviour.’

‘I expect so, George.’

‘He must come. He is our guardian angel and we named the playhouse after him. On our first day there, he must come to share in the excitement.’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas evasively.

‘It was one of the many good things Sylvester brought to this company. He had such loyal friends. Someone must have loved him dearly to advance so much money to us solely on his word.’

‘Yes, George.’

‘And will it be enough?’ asked the assistant stagekeeper.

‘Enough to help us survive? I do not know.’

‘But they must take us more seriously if we have our own playhouse. That is the biggest single bar against us.’ He saw Thomas Skillen coming into the inn yard. ‘I must go before I get my ears boxed again. But please thank him on my behalf.’

‘I will.’

‘Tell our benefactor that we worship him.’

Nicholas gave a smile but his stomach was churning. He hated having to lie to his fellows. The simple faith of George Dart would be shattered when he learnt the truth about the source of the loan and his trust in Nicholas would also be broken. It was morning at the Queen’s Head and Dart went off to get his first orders of the day from the old stagekeeper. Actors were starting to arrive to rehearse some scenes for the afternoon’s offering. Alexander Marwood drifted across the yard with his customary scowl. Leonard was filling wooden buckets from the well. A dark sky threatened rain.

Yet a sudden upsurge of affection seized Nicholas. With all its imperfections, he loved the Queen’s Head. A playhouse of their own would offer untold benefits but only if they were free to enjoy those benefits. An inn yard theatre with a glowering landlord was preferable to a new playhouse under the domination of the Countess of Dartford. Nicholas could not bear to view the uncertain future. He threw himself into his work by way of distraction. Minutes later, he was hauled away from it as a stallion came prancing into the yard.

One glance at Lawrence Firethorn showed that he had heard.

‘Nick!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here!’

‘What is amiss?’

‘This!’ said Firethorn, pulling a letter from inside his doublet and handing it over. ‘An act of treachery worthy of a Spaniard. Nay, a scheming Italian. We are lost, Nick.’

‘I do not think so,’ said the other calmly.

‘Read the missive.’

‘I do not need to. It is from Master Gill, I believe.’

‘Yes!’

‘Telling you that he wishes to leave the company.’

‘Worse than that!’ growled Firethorn. ‘Leave us and go to them. To that pack of wolves in Shoreditch. Wolves? Foxes, I should say, for they have tricked him with their cunning. I cannot believe that Barnaby would do this to us. But two days before we play at Court!’

‘Banbury’s Men have worked on him for some time.’

‘You knew ?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had him followed to Shoreditch. Owen saw him talking closely with Giles Randolph.’