The Wanton Angel (18 page)

‘When will we have Barnaby Gill in our grasp?’ he asked.

‘That will be soon, Giles.’

‘The day that it happens, I will have a contract drawn up for you, Henry. You will have the same privileges as all the other sharers. You will have your due proportion of the profits.’

‘I yearn for that precious moment.’

‘Nobody has earned it more than you,’ said Randolph. ‘You are accomplished in your art. When you have the opportunity to give full vent to your skills on stage, I will have to look to my own laurels.’

‘No compliment could be higher than that, Giles.’

Henry Quine basked in the approval of his master.

‘This was a fearful assault, Nick. You might have been killed.’

‘No, Anne.’

‘This wound is deep.’

‘They could easily have murdered me if they had wished.’

‘You should not have gone there alone.’

‘I wanted to visit the site.’

‘Hold still,’ she said as he tried to turn his head. ‘I have all but finished.’

Anne Hendrik was tending his wounds in the kitchen of her house. Having bathed his head with water, she was putting a bandage around it to stem the last of the bleeding. When that was done, she turned her attention to the bruises on his face and the grazes on his knuckles. Nicholas Bracewell endured the throbbing pain in his head without complaint.

‘How do you feel now?’ she asked.

‘Much better after your ministrations, Anne.’

‘You were in such a state when you staggered in here. I thought you had been set on by a dozen men and left for dead.’

‘They wanted me alive.’

‘And is the fire quite put out?’

‘By the grace of God, it is,’ he said sadly. ‘But not before it had done its worst. Most of our timber went up in smoke. The site is derelict.’

Fire was an ever-present danger in Bankside where it could spread quickly through the rows of tenements with their timber frames and thatched roofs. When the blaze roared into life, dozens of people in the vicinity had streamed out of their dwellings in fear. To save their own property, and under the guidance of Nicholas Bracewell, they fought the fire with buckets and pans. The proximity of the river was the deciding factor, giving them a ready supply of water and helping them in time to douse the flames. It was only then that Nicholas felt able to lurch home to his lodging.

‘I am almost done,’ she said, bathing his hand.

He managed a smile. ‘That is a pity. Your gentle touch blocks out the memory of the beating I took.’

‘Promise me that you will not go to the site alone again.’

‘Not alone, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I will certainly return. I may well have to spend a night or two there.’

She was aghast. ‘A night! Whatever for, Nick?’

‘The site will need protection.’

‘But there is nothing left to protect.’

‘We still own the land. Once it has been cleared, we will have to buy fresh timber and start the work again.’ He tried
to rise. ‘I must get word to Thomas Bradd.’

‘You are not leaving this house tonight.’

‘He must be told about this setback, Anne.’

‘Then tell him from the comfort of that chair,’ she said, easing him back into his seat. ‘I will send a servant to fetch him. When he hears of your injuries, he will come post-haste.’

‘That might be the best way,’ he conceded. ‘I still feel giddy when I stand. Master Bradd will be as angry as I am by this latest attack on us and I am sure that he will want us to mount patrols at night.’

‘Must you be part of them?’

‘I will insist.’

‘Then I will join you.’

‘Anne!’

‘If you are to stand there in the darkness, I will bring food and drink to succour you. I may not be strong enough to fight off intruders but I can at least keep you all well-fed.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, kissing her hand affectionately. ‘Your offer is appreciated but I would feel happier if I knew that you were warm and safe in bed here. Bankside at night is no place for a lady. Besides, Anne, I will not have to be there all the time. We will take it in turns.’

‘You have done your share already, Nick.’

‘I have a responsibility. I will not shirk it.’

‘You are too dutiful.’

She gave him a hug then sat down opposite him, worried at the state he was in but relieved that she had been able to tend his wounds. The blows to the head had opened up deep gashes and he was badly bruised but no bones were
broken. Anne knew from experience that he would not let his injuries slow him down. Nicholas Bracewell had shown his resilience on many occasions. A beating which would have cowed other men only put more steel into his resolve.

‘I will find him,’ he said quietly.

‘Him?’

‘The man who instigated this raid. I think he will be the same person who murdered Sylvester. That gives me an even larger score to settle.’

‘Who could commit such hideous crimes?’

‘Someone who is determined to ruin us.’

‘Someone from The Rose?’

‘Or from Shoreditch,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Banbury’s Men have equal reason to want us silenced for ever.’

‘What of your loan?’

‘Our loan?’

‘Your benefactor gave you that money in good faith to build a new theatre,’ she said, ‘but all that it has produced so far is murder and arson. The whole project is smeared in blood. How will your guardian angel react to that?’

Nicholas made no reply but he was profoundly worried.

Lord Westfield arrived at the Palace of Whitehall with a new spring in his step. Word of the impending performances at Court by the three rival companies had been voiced abroad and it brought in support for his faction from some unexpected quarters. He firmly believed that his was no longer a theatre troupe with the mark of death upon it. It enabled him to meet the smirking Earl of Banbury and the
smiling Viscount Havelock with equanimity. He could look both of them in the eye.

When he saw one of his allies, he detached himself from his entourage to steal a moment alone with her. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, looked as gorgeous as usual but there was a faint air of sadness about her which even her vivacity could not entirely dispel.

‘What is amiss, dear lady?’ he asked courteously.

‘Nothing, my lord. I am well.’

‘You seem a trifle distracted.’

‘My mind was elsewhere,’ she said, shrugging off her melancholy at once. ‘But I am delighted to see you. How fares your campaign?’

‘Exceeding well.’

‘Have you been gathering your forces?’

‘Yes, Cordelia,’ he said, ‘and with encouraging results.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘I have had pledges of support from all quarters and Sir Patrick Skelton has hinted that he may be able to exert some influence over the Privy Council.’

‘That is heartening,’ she said. ‘I am a mere woman but I am committed to your cause. What I can achieve on your behalf with my wiles, I certainly shall.’

He chuckled merrily. ‘Then is the battle already won. No man alive can resist your wiles, Cordelia. I dare swear that you could win over the testy Earl and the handsome Viscount, if you put your mind to it.’

The Countess of Dartford hid her irritation behind a smile. Any mention of Viscount Havelock in her presence
was tactless even if it was only in jest. Sensing that he might have offended her, Lord Westfield went off into a flurry of apologies but she waved them away.

‘All that I want is the survival of your troupe.’

‘That is assured, Cordelia,’ he said airily. ‘Now that the three rivals will play here side by side at Court, our future is certain. Westfield’s Men will tower above the others.’

‘I expect no less,’ she said quietly. ‘Winning is paramount with me, my lord. I will not lend my support to a losing faction.’

‘You have not done so.’

After issuing a dozen further assurances, he excused himself to move off to the Presence Chamber. His place was quickly taken by the immaculate Sir Patrick Skelton who eased himself alongside her to exchange niceties.

‘Good morrow, my lady!’

‘I am pleased to see you, Sir Patrick.’

‘How do I find you?’

‘In good spirits.’

‘And your dear husband?’

‘He is in poor health still,’ she sighed, ‘and likely to remain so. His physicians have no remedy for old age, alas. My husband will have to stay in the country.’

‘At least we have the pleasure of your company here.’

‘I crave excitement, Sir Patrick. I like to be involved. That is why I came back to our London house myself. And it seems that I arrived in time for some amusement.’

‘Amusement, my lady?’

‘This trial of strength between the theatre companies.’

‘It is in earnest.’

‘That is what makes it so interesting.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You and I are of the same party, I believe. That is reassuring. When as politic a man as you takes sides, I know that you will choose the right one.’

He gave her an urbane smile by way of a reply then fell in beside her as they strolled towards the Presence Chamber. She saw Viscount Havelock trying to catch her eye but studiously ignored him. It was another theatre patron who intrigued her.

‘Westfield’s Men are building a playhouse, I hear.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Is that an expensive undertaking?’

‘Very expensive, I should imagine.’

‘And has Lord Westfield advanced the money?’ she said artlessly. ‘It is an act of wondrous generosity on his part.’

‘It would be,’ said Skelton, ‘if it ever happened. But it did not. Lord Westfield is hounded by his creditors. He is in no position to lend his company one penny. If Westfield’s Men depended on capital from him, they would long ago have vanished into oblivion.’

She absorbed the news with great interest. Her face was impassive but she was smiling inwardly as an idea formed.

The sight of Nicholas Bracewell’s injuries caused fear and consternation among Westfield’s Men. Their book holder had always seemed so solid and indestructible. If he could be reduced to the sorry figure they saw before them, there was little hope for the company. Nicholas’s strength and courage
were taken for granted as much as the control he exerted over their performances. To see their warrior so battered was a huge blow to their morale and their self-belief.

Nicholas countered the general misery with some stirring words of defiance then took up his book for the rehearsal and exerted even more authority over the proceedings than usual. He knew how important it was to take their minds off the assault he had suffered and to get them working hard at their craft. When the rehearsal was over, he lingered in the yard with Lawrence Firethorn, Edmund Hoode, Barnaby Gill and Owen Elias. George Dart, torn between sympathy and horror, lurked on the fringe of the discussion in the hope of offering a word of comfort to his one true friend in the company but Nicholas moved him gently away before Dart collected a more abusive dismissal from the rumbling Firethorn.

The actor-manager worked himself up into a fierce rage.

‘This outrage will not be borne!’ he vowed.

‘You are not the one who has to bear it, Lawrence,’ said Elias. ‘That is poor Nick’s lot.’

‘He suffered those wounds while trying to defend our new playhouse. Our timber was destroyed, Owen. We all suffer that agony. Someone is determined to stop The Angel theatre ever coming into being.’

‘I spy the work of Havelock’s Men,’ said Hoode.

‘We have no proof of that,’ said Nicholas.

‘You carry it upon your head, Nick. Who most stands to lose if The Angel is built and prospers? The company at The Rose.’

‘Edmund is right,’ agreed Firethorn.

‘Yes,’ said Elias, adding his endorsement. ‘Who else could it be? And men who commit arson will also lower themselves to murder. One of them probably killed Sylvester.’

‘I wonder,’ said Nicholas. ‘His assassin followed him across the river before doing his work. That could mean that he lives here in the city and is familiar with the Queen’s Head, where he must have lurked in wait for Sylvester. Most of Havelock’s Men live in Southwark. One of them might have been dispatched here,’ he continued, ‘or some hired killer might have been engaged. But there are two further possibilities we must examine.’

‘What are they, Nick?’ asked Hoode.

‘First, that the assassin hailed from Shoreditch.’

‘Banbury’s Men?’

‘Several of them live cheek by jowl with us in the city. They know our territory and our habits. Their company even contains a few deserters from our own.’

Barnaby Gill looked distinctly uneasy. Silent so far, he felt impelled to enter the discussion. He waved a fussy hand.

‘This is wild speculation,’ he said. ‘We should not accuse anybody without proper evidence. The Angel theatre is clearly a stricken enterprise. We should accept that it will never be built and look elsewhere for our salvation.’

‘It
will
be built,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘If I have to put every brick and piece of timber in place myself, I will have that new playhouse.’

Gill was waspish. ‘What use will a playhouse be if the
Privy Council’s decision favours The Rose? You will be left with an empty shell on your hands.’

‘Stop this talk of defeat, Barnaby!’

‘I am merely facing the inevitable.’

‘This is a time to be steadfast.’

‘Is it?’ said Gill sardonically. ‘Look at Nicholas. He was steadfast and we can all see the result. Murder and arson have already taken place on that site. What will come next?’

‘The burial of Barnaby Gill under its foundations!’ roared Firethorn. ‘Ye gods! This is treasonable talk. I want men around me who will fight to defend their livelihood.’

‘Let us come back to Nick,’ suggested Hoode, interceding in the quarrel before it distracted them completely. ‘He said that we should examine two further possibilities.’ He turned to the book holder. ‘What is the second?’

‘That the person or persons we seek have no connection whatsoever with any of our rivals,’ said Nicholas. ‘Indeed, they may not be involved in the theatre in any way.’

‘What, then, is their motive?’ wondered Elias.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Spite, malice, revenge. Who knows? We all assumed that Sylvester was killed in order to deter us from building The Angel theatre. But the scene of the crime might have been chosen at random by an assailant who took the opportunity when it arose.’