Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Lucius Kindell walked up and down outside the Queen’s Head and tried to pluck up enough courage to go in. An inn which had offered him so much joy and friendship now seemed to be sealed off from him by an invisible barrier. Guilt jostled with necessity. Ashamed to show himself, Kindell knew that he must do so if there was any hope of reconciliation. He licked his lips, bunched his fists, straightened his back and summoned up every ounce of resolution. Then he went in through the gate.

Westfield’s Men had just broken off from their morning rehearsal. They were in a jovial mood. Their sense of unity was forbidding to the exile. He was afraid that they would shun him as one, if not drive him away with blows and harsh words. His steps became slower and more tentative. It was Edmund Hoode who saw him first and the young playwright could detect none of the apparent friendliness Hoode showed at their last meeting. Others glowered at him, a few turned away. When he collected a searing glare from Lawrence Firethorn, the newcomer lost all heart. He began to slink off.

Nicholas Bracewell went quickly after him.

‘Wait, Lucius!’ he called. ‘I crave a word.’

‘I fear that it will come with a blow,’ said the other, pausing at the gate and raising a protective arm. ‘You must think me the worst species of traitor.’

‘No, Lucius. You were practised upon.’

‘I was, I was. Master Kitely beguiled me.’

‘If you have realised that, you are already halfway to redemption.’ Nicholas smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. ‘Have you heard the glad tidings?’

‘It was the reason that I came.’

‘The Privy Council has spoken. They were so impressed by all three companies who performed at Court that they will not debar any of them. Westfield’s Men have been reprieved. And there is better news yet,’ he said. ‘We hear that they will also renounce their plan to close the inn yard theatres. The Queen’s Head may yet resound to our pandemonium.’

‘Until you move to The Angel,’ noted Kindell. ‘That is what vexes Havelock’s Men. To have another playhouse so close to The Rose in Bankside. What will happen to this inn when Westfield’s Men leave?’

Nicholas shook his head in doubt then looked shrewdly at the visitor. Kindell’s arrival might yet be providential.

‘Why did you come, Lucius?’ he asked.

‘To make my apologies.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘but I am perplexed. I made a great mistake and I will pay dearly for it.’

‘In what way?’

‘When Master Kitely commissioned a new play from me, I was flattered. I thought it would take me from my fledgling role. In my vanity, I dreamt of being the Edmund Hoode of The Rose.’ He gave a shrug. ‘It will not come. Though I beat at my brains day and night, the new play will not come easily onto the page. What I have written only saddens me and it will appal Master Kitely when he reads it. The truth is … I am not yet ready to fly on my own. I need another’s feathers to buoy me up in the air.’

‘Honestly spoken, Lucius!’

‘Do not mock me.’

‘I pity you,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I also admire you for admitting the error of your ways and recognising that you still have limitations.’

‘Hideous limitations! My play is doomed.’

‘What does Rupert Kitely say?’

‘If it will not suit, it will be rejected outright.’

‘Has he not tried to help you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kindell, ‘but only to shape his own role into prominence. He is no craftsman like Edmund Hoode. He does not work at the carpentry of the whole piece.’

Nicholas let him unburden his woes. He was struck by the other’s candour and by his genuine remorse. Kindell had been naive rather than treacherous. His crime was forgivable.

‘Would you like to come back to us, Lucius?’ he said.

‘I dream of nothing else.’

‘It may take time.’

‘I will wait patiently.’

‘Then do the company a service as proof of your loyalty.’

‘I will do anything !’ vowed the boy.

‘How often does their patron visit Havelock’s Men?’

‘The Viscount attends almost every performance.’

‘Then deliver this to him,’ said Nicholas, taking a letter from inside his jerkin. ‘Be sure that you put it into his hands yourself.’

‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kindell, holding the missive and staring at its large seal. ‘That it was given to me by Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘No,’ said the book holder. ‘Tell him the truth. That it comes from a beautiful lady who desired you to deliver it in person. I was there when the lady in question penned this letter so I can vouch for her. Say nothing more than that, Lucius. It is enough.’

‘He will press for the lady’s name.’

‘If you do not know it, you cannot speak it.’

‘How will I describe her?’

‘As I have. Beautiful and gracious.’

He rehearsed Kindell in his role as messenger then sent him on his way. Firethorn came sauntering across to him.

‘I hope that you chastised him roundly, Nick.’

‘There was no need.’

‘Lucius Kindell is a villain.’

‘He is a foolish young man as we once were ourselves.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘In some senses, I still am. But why were you so civil to that traitor?’ he said, scowling again. ‘He is in the pay of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘That is exactly why I courted him.’

‘But Rupert Kitely is as base a man as Giles Randolph. Between the two of them, they do not amount to one complete actor. As for their patron at The Rose, he made my blood boil when I saw him at Court, smiling at us as if he already knew we would be disbanded. I loathe that devious Viscount, Nick. Do you know what I will do?’

‘What?’

‘Ask Edmund to put him in a play, to bring the whole city’s ridicule upon his head. If it is done cunningly enough, he will not sue for libel. Yes,’ he said warming to the notion. ‘That is a role I long to play. Lawrence Firethorn in the guise of Viscount Havelock.’

Nicholas suppressed the urge to burst into laughter.

Persistent rain turned the streets of London into a sea of mud but Viscount Havelock was not deterred by inclement weather. The invitation had been so enticing that he would have kept the assignation if the city had been swept by a blizzard. His carriage squelched its way along a wide thoroughfare before turning into a street. The rain drummed ceaselessly above his head. When they reached the designated house, the Viscount took out the letter once more, inhaled its fragrance and read its honeyed words by the light of the lantern.

It had been delivered to him by Lucius Kindell who was patently ignorant of the identity of the sender. The lady’s anonymity lent a piquance to the whole evening. Viscount Havelock could not wait to meet her and to solve a mystery which so intrigued him. Alighting from the coach, he picked his way through the mud and went in through the already open door of a large house. The maid who admitted him curtseyed but was too shy to raise her eyes to him. She conducted him upstairs and into an antechamber. The Viscount was left alone in a pleasant room with branched candelabra throwing a shadowy light. When he saw the wine in readiness on the table, he rubbed his hands in delight.

Noises from the adjoining bedchamber told him that she was there and he tried to construct her appearance in his mind. He was still adding the finishing touches to his portrait when he heard the door open. Keeping his back to it, he waited until she had time to enter the room then turned to survey his latest conquest. Her beauty was striking, her attire wondrous and her perfume alluring but Viscount Havelock was proof against all of her attractions.