Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Lawrence Firethorn smouldered, Edmund Hoode puzzled, Lucius Kindell was dismayed, Owen Elias was outraged and Sylvester Pryde was highly annoyed. Predictably, it was Barnaby Gill who led the chorus of protest, rounding on Nicholas Bracewell and wagging an accusing finger at him.

‘This is your doing,’ he spluttered.

‘I simply advised caution, Master Gill.’

‘You forced us to quit the premises.’

‘That is not true,’ said Nicholas.

‘At the instigation of the landlord, you threw us out of the Queen’s Head as if we were drunk and disorderly.’

Nicholas was patient. ‘All I did was to try to take the heat out of this altercation, and that could only be done by getting out of his sight. Alexander Marwood was implacable. Why stay there to enrage him with our presence? It is much more sensible to withdraw awhile in order to allow his lawyer time and space in which to calm him down.’

‘ I’ll calm him down!’ said Firethorn. ‘With my dagger.’

‘That would be too quick a death for him,’ added Elias. ‘I’d rather roast him over a slow fire and cool him down from time to time by dipping him in a barrel of his own beer.’

‘You’d contaminate the liquid,’ said Firethorn.

‘This landlord contaminates us all,’ said Gill, throwing a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. ‘Instead of hurling me out, he should be grovelling on his knees in gratitude to me for deigning to display my talents on his premises. I’ll not endure this, Nicholas. I have left the Queen’s Head for ever.’

‘We have a contract,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘Then why does the rogue not honour it?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You spoke with him. You must have some idea.’

Nicholas made no reply. He had already guessed the reason for Marwood’s rash behaviour but he did not want to voice it abroad until he had confirmation. It was essentially a matter to be discussed in private rather than a subject for ribald comment in the street. Gill continued to press him but the book holder would not be drawn. His immediate concern was to get his company into the taproom of the Cross Keys where fresh wine and ale would assuage their hurt feelings. The mood of celebration would soon return and most of his fellows would quickly forget that Alexander Marwood even existed as they revelled on into the night.

When they reached the inn, Owen Elias led the way through its yard and into its welcoming interior. Like the Queen’s Head, it was a regular venue for the performance of plays though no company had been in residence that afternoon. The landlord was delighted to see a large bevy of thirsty patrons surging into his taproom to fill his empty tables. Brisk business was transacted with the servingmen. Westfield’s Men still grumbled but their recriminations lost some bitterness when they supped their first drinks.

Firethorn took Nicholas aside for private conference.

‘What is happening, Nick?’ he said.

‘That is what I will endeavour to find out.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I have seen the company settled in here, I’ll return to the Queen’s Head to speak with Master Stonnard. He will be able to cast some light on this unfortunate incident.’

‘Unfortunate! It is an insult to us!’

‘Bear it with dignity.’

‘How can I be dignified when we are so disgraced?’

‘There is no disgrace in withdrawing of our own volition. The Queen’s Head was too crowded for once with little enough room for our fellows to stretch in any comfort. Here they have space and comfort.’

‘And a landlord who knows how to smile.’

‘That, too. The crisis is over.’

‘But what brought it about in the first place?’

‘Can you not guess?’

There was a long pause. For the first time since the confrontation with their testy landlord, Firethorn put aside his own anger and applied some thought to the situation. Instead of glowering, his face became a study in wonderment. Eyebrows slowly arched, eyes glinted, jaw dropped. He stepped in close to speak in an undertone.

‘Is that what this is all about, Nick?’

‘I believe so.’

‘No wonder he was so furious.’

‘That fury will abate in our absence.’

‘But he still has no cause to abuse the whole company.’

‘I will tax him with that argument.’

‘Shall I go with you?’

‘Delicate negotiations may be needed,’ said Nicholas. ‘The less people involved, the better.’ Firethorn gave a nod of assent. ‘And please do not spread our suspicion freely among the others. We may yet be wrong.’

‘And if we are not?’

‘Then we take the appropriate action.’

‘What is that?’

‘I will not know until the full facts are at my disposal.’

‘We must retain the Queen’s Head,’ said Firethorn with an edge of desperation. ‘We belong there, Nick. Our tenancy has not been without turmoil but that makeshift stage of ours is still my favourite theatre.’

‘And mine.’

‘Can this rift be mended?’

Nicholas Bracewell looked across at the members of the company, robbed of their security in the twinkling of an eye and experiencing once more the cruel precariousness of their profession. Good humour was slowly returning and the first jest was cracked by Owen Elias but they were still nursing their wounded pride. Entitled to celebrate the success of their performance, they had instead been ignominiously turned out into the street. On their behalf, Nicholas was profoundly shocked and saddened.

‘Can it, Nick?’ pressed Firethorn.

‘I hope so.’

Ezekiel Stonnard needed all his patience to cope with his garrulous client. Seated in a private room with writing materials before him, he waited for facts which could be recorded but they took time to emerge from the landlord’s cloudburst of vituperation. It was only when the storm had blown itself out that he could probe for detail. Alexander Marwood crossed to the window and drooped in front of it, staring out despondently at the yard where the troupe had so recently enthralled yet another audience. Stonnard rose to join him at the window.

‘I am hampered by a shortage of information,’ he said.

‘And I have too much to bear.’

‘Then unburden it to me, Master Marwood.’

‘I cannot bring myself to do so.’

‘You must. I am your lawyer and, I like to believe, your good friend. You may entrust any intelligence to me. A lawyer is a species of priest, taking confession.’

‘You are more likely to administer last rites here.’

‘But why? That is what I do not yet grasp. Why?’

Marwood was about to answer when his eye alighted on a figure who had just entered the inn yard. The sight of Nicholas Bracewell was like a dagger through the landlord’s heart. He let out a cry, grabbed at his chest and fell backwards into the lawyer’s arms. Stonnard disentangled himself.

‘What ails you, sir?’

‘A member of that accursed company has returned.’

‘Let me see.’

Stonnard was just in time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas before the latter came into the building. His response was in sharp contrast to that of his client.

‘This is an accident that heaven provides,’ he said with an oleaginous grin. ‘They have sent an emissary. This matter can be resolved before Westfield’s Men engage their own lawyer to take the case to litigation.’

‘Could they do that, Master Stonnard?’

‘All too easily. You signed that contract.’

‘Before I knew the ugly truth.’

‘That does not matter. You are legally bound to observe the terms of that contract. Now, sir,’ he said, leading Marwood to a chair and lowering him into it. ‘Acquaint me with the full facts, then I will summon Nicholas Bracewell to discuss the situation in an amicable atmosphere.