The Wanton Angel (24 page)

‘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.

‘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.’