Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘Did you get him, Nick?’

‘I got him.’

‘The other two are tied up with their own rope.’

‘Here’s a third that can be securely bound,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Henry Quine but we knew him as Martin. He is another actor who will not play at Court for Banbury’s Men. The rogue murdered Sylvester and I fancy he blighted the life of Rose Marwood as well. Give me a hand, Owen. We’ll lug him back to the others.’

‘But how is she now?’ asked Leonard with great concern.

‘Better,’ grunted the landlord. ‘And so she should be. The doctor charged a large enough fee.’

‘When we heard her cry out in the night, we thought that she was dying. What was wrong with poor Rose?’

‘Nothing, Leonard. It is all past.’

Alexander Marwood shuttled between relief at the loss of the child and sympathy for his daughter. Now that Rose had been treated by a doctor, she had some understanding of what happened to her and was far less afraid. It would take time for her to come to terms with the tragedy but it had brought her mother closer to her and that was a blessing. Marwood, by contrast, had been thrust further away from her by his wife. Such was her hostility towards him that he began to think that the nocturnal kiss which Sybil planted upon his cheek was a cruel figment of his imagination.

Leonard knew little about the mystery of childbirth. Rose was in distress and that was all that troubled him. He had lumbered into the church at dawn to pray for her. As he stood with his employer in the taproom, he tried to find a trace of guilt in Marwood.

‘You wronged them,’ he said quietly.

‘Who?’

‘Westfield’s Men. You swore that one of them had lain with Rose and tried to turn them out. It was not one of the players at all but Martin, who worked here for you.’

‘He was an actor with Banbury’s Men!’ snarled Marwood.

‘Not any more.’

‘He filled Rose’s head with tales of wonder.’

‘I thank God that she is free from the villain now.’

‘So am I.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘He will dangle at the end of a rope, Leonard. And I will be there to cheer on the hangman.’ He looked through the window at the empty inn yard. ‘As to Westfield’s Men, they are lost to me and soon may be to everyone else.’

‘Alas, yes!’ sighed Leonard.

‘Today they play at Court,’ said Marwood. ‘Tomorrow there may not even be a Westfield’s Men.’

‘It is unjust!’ said Lord Westfield angrily. ‘The advantage has already been handed to Havelock’s Men. They performed their play here yesterday in glorious isolation. We have to follow Banbury’s Men and perform The Italian Tragedy today.’

‘That may serve our purpose,’ said the Countess.

‘How?’

‘Banbury’s Men have been shaken to their roots by this news about Henry Quine. They did not know they harboured a killer in their midst. Giles Randolph will have difficulty holding his shattered company together,’ she argued. ‘ Richard Crookback will get a crookbacked performance at best.’

‘I saw the noble earl even now,’ said Sir Patrick Skelton. ‘He fretted with discontent. When the Earl of Banbury has no confidence in Banbury’s Men, we may take heart.’

‘I take none,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘You must,’ said the Countess. ‘When your troupe follows Banbury’s Men, they will look bright and fresh after the disarray which preceded them.’

The patron was still depressed. ‘Two plays in one afternoon is too great a burden to place on any audience. They will be jaded by drama and boredom will set in when The Italian Tragedy is only half-done.’

‘There’ll be no danger of boredom when Lawrence Firethorn takes the stage,’ she said. ‘He’ll wake the sleepers with a voice of doom and lead his company on to triumph.’

Lord Westfield was not convinced. He was standing in a corridor at the Palace of Whitehall, conferring with Sir Patrick Skelton and the Countess of Dartford. Now that the moment of truth was imminent, the patron was suffering a complete loss of faith. His discomfort increased when Viscount Havelock strolled past with his entourage and gave his rival a polite bow. Cordelia Bartram turned her back on her former lover but Lord Westfield looked him full in the face and saw the complacent smile.

‘He is safe!’ said Lord Westfield. ‘The Viscount knows that his company is secure. A Looking Glass for London has already been approved by the Privy Council. I see it in his face. I feel it in my blood.’

‘It was a sparkling comedy,’ conceded Skelton.

‘Played by a dull and unexciting company,’ said the Countess. ‘With such a romp in their hands, Westfield’s Men would have made the whole palace ring with laughter.’

‘But we do not have such a play!’ moaned the patron.

‘You have a better one,’ she argued.

‘Let me see what I can find out,’ volunteered Skelton. ‘I have a friend or two on the Privy Council. I’ll see how warmly they received this looking glass from The Rose. They are judicious men. I’m sure that no verdict will be made until all the evidence has been considered.’

Skelton gave a slight bow and took his leave. Lord Westfield was not reassured. The last time that his troupe performed at Court, he was able to bask in the praise of the Queen herself. This time they might unwittingly be giving their farewell performance. Perspiration broke out on his face.

‘Hold fast, my lord,’ urged the Countess. ‘Your troupe will want brave words and encouragement from you, not this portrait of defeat I see before me. You look as if you wish you did not have a theatre company at all.’

‘Then I look as I feel, Cordelia,’ he confessed. ‘This anxiety is sickening. If I could trade Westfield’s Men for money at this moment, I would take any offer and be happy.’

They were ready. Sylvester Pryde’s murderer had been caught and the men who had assaulted Nicholas Bracewell before wreaking destruction at the site of The Angel were also fettered in a prison cell. Of more immediate importance to the company, Barnaby Gill was back among them once more, having caused confusion and disorder at a rehearsal with their rivals. Banbury’s Men had now staged their play at Court and Giles Randolph had somehow wrested a creditable performance out of his troupe. Richard Crookback was a sound choice and there had been an ovation when the wicked usurper was crushed in battle by the Earl of Richmond, wearing a tunic that was emblazoned with the Tudor rose.

Lawrence Firethorn did not underestimate the challenge. Gathering his company around him, he spoke in quiet, persuasive tones to men more used to hearing his bawled abuse or rousing rhetoric. He surveyed each face in turn.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are here. Her Grace, the Queen, and all the peers of the realm are your audience today. We are truly honoured and we must show that we are worthy of that honour. Forget our rivals. They are done. It is our turn now and we have a chance to wipe all memory of Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men and any other company from the minds of our spectators. Let them see us at our best. Show them what they would lose if Westfield’s Men were to perish.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said at length in a coaxing whisper. ‘We have come through dangers and setbacks which would have daunted any other company. But we are here. Let us give a royal performance before this royal assembly and show them that Westfield’s Men are the finest troupe of actors in Christendom.’

George Dart was so moved that he started to clap his hands in spontaneous applause until cuffed into silence by Thomas Skillen. They were in their tiring-house, a room off the Great Chamber, where The Italian Tragedy would be performed. Scenery from their rivals’ play had been removed and their own scenic devices were waiting to be carried out. Sharing the occasion with a rival company, they had little time to rehearse on the stage itself and that induced a general nervousness but it was largely dispelled by Firethorn’s speech. Westfield’s Men knew what was at stake. They had to act for their livelihoods.