Edward Marston: The Wanton Angel

Sybil got there first, holding a candle in one hand while beating away the servants with the flailing palm of the other. She ordered her husband to guard the door while she went in.

‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’ screamed Rose.

‘What ails you, girl?’

‘I am hurting so.’

‘Where is the pain?’

As soon as the flame cast its flickering light on the bed, Sybil knew what had happened. Sympathy welled up in her and she enfolded the girl in her arms.

‘Do not cry, Rose. It is God’s will.’

‘What has happened?’ asked Rose in the panic of ignorance. ‘Is it all over?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘Has my child been born?’

‘No, Rose,’ said Sybil softly. ‘It will never be born now.’

‘What do you mean, mother?’

‘You have miscarried.’

The girl went off into such a fit of sobbing that her father came bursting in to investigate. Wearing a nightshirt, Alexander Marwood padded barefoot across the boards.

‘What is going on, Sybil?’

‘Rose has lost the baby.’

Honesty betrayed him. ‘But that is good news, surely?’

His daughter wept more bitterly and his wife looked with such rancour that her eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Her voice came out like a hiss of steam.

‘Fetch the doctor at once, Alexander!’

‘But that will be costly, my love.’

‘Fetch him! Our daughter needs help!’

Rain which had been falling intermittently for two days came in earnest after midnight. It turned the site into a quagmire and made the night watchmen think of their beds.

‘This is madness!’ said Owen Elias. ‘We will be nothing but three drowned rats by morning.’

‘I am drowned already,’ moaned Edmund Hoode.

‘Someone must be on duty,’ insisted Nicholas Bracewell. ‘The task fell to us tonight.’

‘Why not to someone else?’ argued Elias, stifling a sneeze. ‘Edmund and I play at Court tomorrow. We need sleep so that we may be fully refreshed for such an important event.’

‘Nick will do his share,’ Hoode reminded him. ‘All three of us should be abed. Do we really need to stay? Only a lunatic would be out in this foul weather.’

Elias nodded. ‘That is what we are. Three lunatics.’

They were huddled under a sheet of canvas which had been stretched over a few poles to form an impromptu tent. It kept out much of the rain but enough still dripped through to add to their discomfort in the darkness. Nicholas sought to cheer his companions up with a reminiscence.

‘Think of Banbury’s Men,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Their plan to steal our clown went seriously awry.’

‘That was your doing,’ noted Elias.

‘And yours, Owen. It was you who went to Shoreditch to get the proof we needed. Without that, I would not have dared to confront him.’

Hoode smiled. ‘Barnaby must have jumped out of his breeches when you accosted him at The Curtain, Nick. But he made amends for his folly. Schooled by you, he turned their rehearsal into such a farrago of errors that they were glad to see him go.’ He gave a laugh. ‘ Richard Crookback collapsed in ruins about them.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, ‘and the beauty of it was that they did not realise Barnaby’s mistakes were deliberate. They made so many allowances for him that a whole morning was wasted. He struck a shrewd blow for Westfield’s Men.’

‘And made his peace with us,’ observed Nicholas. ‘That was the important thing. We have him back in the fold.’

‘Where he belongs,’ said Elias. ‘Lawrence was so pleased to see him return that he wanted to kill the fatted calf. He even forgave Nick for not telling him how we learnt of Barnaby’s visit to Shoreditch.’

‘It was right to keep Lawrence ignorant,’ said Hoode. ‘He would have assaulted Barnaby and sent him racing off to the arms of Banbury’s Men. Nick’s device was much more cunning. It won us back our clown and left a company in disarray at The Curtain. Trust in Nick,’ he said, patting his friend. ‘He always knows what to tell Lawrence and what to hold back.’

The book holder felt a pang of guilt at the compliment.

Though the rain eased, their misery continued. Elias wanted to abandon the vigil, Nicholas volunteered to stay alone and Hoode dozed off to sleep on his shoulder.

An hour passed before the intruders came. Nicholas saw them first, ghostly figures emerging out of the gloom. Alerting Elias with a squeeze on his arm, he woke Hoode gently but kept a hand over his mouth to muffle any words. All three of them were soon crouched for action. Nicholas and Hoode each wore a dagger. Elias favoured a short knobbly club and he fingered it with damp hands, thrilled at the promise of action. There were three of them and they had brought ropes to move the timbers. Nicholas waited until they looped a rope over the first post in the wall before giving the signal.

Surprise was everything. The sudden attack from behind took the men completely unawares. Elias felled his man with the club, knocking him senseless with a series of blows. Nicholas kicked his man to the ground and held a sword point at his neck to hold him pinned there. Hoode was less effective. Though he jumped on his adversary and pummelled him with a fist, the man was strong and elusive. Throwing Hoode off, he scrambled to his feet and ran off along the riverbank.

Nicholas was after him like a flash, abandoning his own captive to Elias who stood over him with a raised club. Hoode got up and came to help his friend.

‘Get their rope!’ ordered Elias.

‘Shall we tie them up, Owen?’

‘I’d sooner hang the rogues! Come on, Edmund. We’ll truss the pair of them up like turkeys ready for market.’

‘Then what? Shall I go and help Nick?’

‘He will not need you.’

Anger was lending speed to Nicholas’s feet. He felt certain that the three intruders had been those who attacked him and he was determined to get his revenge. He closed on his man until the latter suddenly swung round and swished at him with a dagger. Nicholas halted and dodged out of reach.

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance!’ said the man, lunging at him again. ‘I should have sent you where I sent Sylvester Pryde.’

Nicholas recognised a voice he heard in Shoreditch. It served to sharpen his anger. He pulled out his own dagger and circled is adversary in search of the moment to strike.

‘What shall I call you?’ he said. ‘Martin or Henry Quine?’

‘Call me what you will for it will be the last word you speak.’ His jab sent the point of the dagger through the arm of Nicholas’s buff jerkin but the wound was slight. ‘Say your prayers, Master Bracewell.’

‘Is this how Giles Randolph instructs his players?’

‘He knows nothing of this,’ sneered Quine. ‘He is too tame for violence. His way to wreck your chances was simply to poach Barnaby Gill but I wanted to make sure.’

‘By murdering Sylvester and burning our timbers.’

‘There is a surer way still. By killing you.’

He feinted to jab but slashed his dagger through the air instead in a vicious semi-circle. Nicholas ducked beneath it, grabbed his wrist and twisted the weapon from his grasp. As they wrestled on the slippery bank, they lost their footing and slithered along the ground. Nicholas had a firm grip on him but Quine fought back hard. They rolled over and over until they fell with a loud splash into the river. The shock made Quine release his man to thresh about wildly with both arms and beg for help because he could not swim.

Nicholas overpowered and rescued him within minutes. He grabbed him by the throat with one hand and used the other to pound his face until there was neither sound nor resistance coming from him. Pulling his adversary by the hair, Nicholas dragged him out of the water and onto the bank. He was still panting for breath when Elias came hurrying over.