The Wanton Angel

by Edward Marston

  Notwithstanding their fears, Westfield’s Men were resolved to give a good account of themselves. While keeping up their regular performances in the inn yard, they also found time to rehearse and refine The Italian Tragedy. Edmund Hoode was instructed to write a new prologue and to insert new speeches in certain scenes in order to freshen the play. Nor was The Angel neglected. A team of volunteers from the Queen’s Head went there every day and Thomas Bradd employed them well. With the site cleared once more, timbers were delivered by barge and hauled up the muddy bank to the foundations. Bricks were laid, posts were sunk and the walls slowly began to rise.

  Their work did not end at sunset. Nicholas Bracewell organised a team of men to guard the site until midnight when they were relieved by night watchmen from the company. He was eager to take his turn on patrol and spent a first night, armed and ready, sitting in the drizzle on the edge of the Thames. No attack was made on the site and no incidents of any kind were reported but it was a necessary safeguard, even if it did introduce more yawns into their afternoon performances than were set down in the play by the author.

  Nicholas was proud of the way that the company was reacting to the challenge which confronted them but he was tormented by guilt at having to hold back information from them which would rapidly change their attitude. If they knew that their benefactor was really an ambitious countess who wished to take over the company, they might not work with such conviction, and if they realised that she had designs on their actor-manager into the bargain, they would have quailed. A patron was there to lend the protection and kudos of a name and not to exert control over their activities. The worst of it was that the company still thought of their benefactor as an example of divine intervention.

  George Dart shared in the common illusion.

  ‘Will he be able to come to The Angel?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Our saviour.’

  ‘I expect so, George.’

  ‘He must come. He is our guardian angel and we named the playhouse after him. On our first day there, he must come to share in the excitement.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Nicholas evasively.

  ‘It was one of the many good things Sylvester brought to this company. He had such loyal friends. Someone must have loved him dearly to advance so much money to us solely on his word.’

  ‘Yes, George.’

  ‘And will it be enough?’ asked the assistant stagekeeper.

  ‘Enough to help us survive? I do not know.’

  ‘But they must take us more seriously if we have our own playhouse. That is the biggest single bar against us.’ He saw Thomas Skillen coming into the inn yard. ‘I must go before I get my ears boxed again. But please thank him on my behalf.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Tell our benefactor that we worship him.’

  Nicholas gave a smile but his stomach was churning. He hated having to lie to his fellows. The simple faith of George Dart would be shattered when he learnt the truth about the source of the loan and his trust in Nicholas would also be broken. It was morning at the Queen’s Head and Dart went off to get his first orders of the day from the old stagekeeper. Actors were starting to arrive to rehearse some scenes for the afternoon’s offering. Alexander Marwood drifted across the yard with his customary scowl. Leonard was filling wooden buckets from the well. A dark sky threatened rain.

  Yet a sudden upsurge of affection seized Nicholas. With all its imperfections, he loved the Queen’s Head. A playhouse of their own would offer untold benefits but only if they were free to enjoy those benefits. An inn yard theatre with a glowering landlord was preferable to a new playhouse under the domination of the Countess of Dartford. Nicholas could not bear to view the uncertain future. He threw himself into his work by way of distraction. Minutes later, he was hauled away from it as a stallion came prancing into the yard.

  One glance at Lawrence Firethorn showed that he had heard.

  ‘Nick!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here!’

  ‘What is amiss?’

  ‘This!’ said Firethorn, pulling a letter from inside his doublet and handing it over. ‘An act of treachery worthy of a Spaniard. Nay, a scheming Italian. We are lost, Nick.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said the other calmly.

  ‘Read the missive.’

  ‘I do not need to. It is from Master Gill, I believe.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Telling you that he wishes to leave the company.’

  ‘Worse than that!’ growled Firethorn. ‘Leave us and go to them. To that pack of wolves in Shoreditch. Wolves? Foxes, I should say, for they have tricked him with their cunning. I cannot believe that Barnaby would do this to us. But two days before we play at Court!’

  ‘Banbury’s Men have worked on him for some time.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had him followed to Shoreditch. Owen saw him talking closely with Giles Randolph.’

  ‘Why was I not told?’

  ‘I favoured another strategy.’

  ‘The only strategy Barnaby deserves is a foot of naked steel between the ribs. Sweet Jesus! I’ll cut him into shreds and hang them up to dry! I’ll boil him in oil! I’ll turn him on a spit over a slow fire.’ He dropped down from the saddle. ‘This will be the death of us, Nick.’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘How can you be so cool at such dreaded tidings?’

  ‘Because I helped him to frame the letter.’

  Firethorn quivered. ‘You were his confederate? You stood by and let him sell his miserable skin to Banbury’s Men?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and if you hear me out, you will find that he is not the villain you take him for. And neither,’ he added quickly, smothering Firethorn’s retort with a raised palm, ‘am I. The reason I helped with the letter was that he wished to show it to Giles Randolph before it was sent as proof that he was in earnest.’

  ‘Then he is not?’

  ‘Not since I talked to him of loyalty.’

  ‘What does he know of the word?’

  ‘A great deal. Do not despair of him. He will return.’

  ‘My sword will be ready.’

  ‘Were you a king, you would use it to knight him for his services to you.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘They wooed him hard to get him to Shoreditch and he has gone. But he may not fulfil their high expectations.’

  Barnaby Gill arrived early at The Curtain to meet his new fellows and to rehearse the scenes in Richard Crookback in which his comic gifts would be given full rein. A beaming Giles Randolph gave him a formal welcome before introducing him to the others. Henry Quine was delighted to see him there, patting him like a favourite dog, and most of the sharers were honoured to have such a celebrated actor in their ranks but there were some who resented his promotion over their heads and who felt that his links with their rivals was a form of contamination. To bring him in at short notice for such an important performance was a risk but Randolph took it without a second thought. Gill learnt fast and had a tenacious memory. But the core of his art was inspired improvisation.

  ‘Clear the stage!’ said Randolph. ‘We will begin.’

  ‘I am ready,’ said Gill.

  ‘Are you happy with your role?’

  ‘Very happy, Giles.’

  ‘The play needed more comedy to brighten its darkness. You will be the silver lining on a dark cloud, Barnaby.’

  ‘I will strive to please you.’

  ‘Stand by with the book!’ called Randolph.

  But nobody expected that a prompt would be needed by two such experienced players. Randolph had taken the title role many times in the past and could perform it without thinking. Gill had been given a few days to study the scenes in which he featured and would already have mastered his role. It was the first time that two outstanding actors had shared the stage and the rest of the company watched with interest, conscious that they might be witnessing a historic moment.

  Richard Crookback began
with the coronation of its central character, who had schemed his way to the throne and rejoiced in his villainy while doing so. It was in the second scene of the play that the jester made his appearance. Summoned to entertain the king and his entourage at their banquet, the jester amused the assembly with his antics before engaging with the king in a long argument. Like so many authors, the playwright put wise words into the mouth of a fool but they were disregarded by the impatient Richard who did not wish to be told that his reign would be short.

  Trestle tables were set out for the banquet and a few cups placed on them. Richard III and his guests took their place at the banquet and indulged in witty badinage. Gill, lurking behind the arras, awaited his cue. When it came, he made a bold entrance but deliberately hooked his dagger in The Curtain so that he dragged part of it with him. Several of the actors onstage laughed involuntarily but their laughter changed to cries of surprise when Gill appeared to stumble and knocked their table to the ground, sending the wine cups rolling noisily across the boards. Executing a little dance, the jester bowed low before the king and broke wind with such rasping authority that he drowned out his master’s first line and produced some more unscheduled hilarity.

  Giles Randolph took his role too seriously to find any humour in the mishaps and quelled his company with a regal glare before repeating his line again.

  ‘Where have you been, my mad Gurney?’

  ‘Gurney?’ queried Gill.

  ‘That is your name.’

  ‘It is a strange one for a clown.’

  ‘No matter. Let us proceed.’

  ‘But I do not like the name of Gurney.’

  ‘We will talk of it later.’

  ‘I would rather settle this argument now, Giles, for the name makes me uneasy. Must I Gurney myself for two whole hours in Court? It is a foul name for a fine character.’

  ‘Nobody has complained before.’

  ‘I do not complain. I ask merely as a favour.’

  ‘It will be changed, Barnaby.’

  ‘Now or later?’

  ‘At the end of the scene.’

  ‘But I have the name hurled at me a dozen times or more. Gurneys will come at me from every direction to offend my ears and distract me from my lines. Give me no Gurneys, sir.’

  ‘What name would you prefer to be called?’

  ‘Anything you wish, Giles,’ said Gill with an ingratiating smile. ‘I am happy to oblige you.’

  ‘Morton?’ suggested Randolph.

  ‘Too upright a name for a clown.’

  ‘Bernard?’

  ‘Too French for the jester of an English king.’

  ‘Call him Will,’ said the other with exasperation, ‘or Arthur, Tom or Robert. Call him what you choose, Barnaby, but let us get on with the rehearsal.’

  ‘I am deeply sorry,’ said Gill with a show of penitence.

  ‘What, then, will the jester be called?’

  ‘Gurney.’

  ‘But that is the name which annoyed you.’

  ‘It annoys me less than the others I was offered. Let me be Gurney until the end of the scene then we can baptise the jester afresh. Will that suit?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Randolph through gritted teeth.

  ‘Shall we continue or start again?’

  ‘We will start again, Barnaby.’

  ‘I am Gurney now, remember.’

  ‘Let us start again!’

  Gill bowed apologetically and withdrew behind the arras again. Controlling his irritation, the king began the scene again with a speech to his subjects, only to be interrupted by the jester who popped his head around The Curtain and smirked.

  ‘Give me instruction, please.’

  ‘Well?’ said Randolph, breaking off from his speech.

  ‘When I bow in front of you?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you prefer one fart or two, your Grace?’

  The intensity of her anguish finally exhausted Rose Marwood and she fell into a deep sleep. Martin had deserted her. It was impossible to reach any other conclusion. The man she had loved so completely that she surrendered her heart, soul and body to him was not the kind and trustworthy person he had pretended to be. Instead of carrying the child of a man whom she adored, Rose was now saddled with the unwanted offspring of a hateful deceiver. A future which once looked so bright now seemed bleak and terrifying. The enormity of her misjudgement made her fear for her sanity.

  It happened in the dark, so quickly and silently that she was not even aware of it at first. Nature, in its wisdom, took a decision which Sybil Marwood had tried to bring about by more inconsiderate means. A distant pain brought Rose awake to discover herself in a clammy and uncomfortable bed. When she learnt the reason for it, she shed her drowsiness at once and let out such a cry of fear that half-a-dozen people came running to her bedchamber.

  Sybil got there first, holding a candle in one hand while beating away the servants with the flailing palm of the other. She ordered her husband to guard the door while she went in.

  ‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’ screamed Rose.

  ‘What ails you, girl?’

  ‘I am hurting so.’

  ‘Where is the pain?’

  As soon as the flame cast its flickering light on the bed, Sybil knew what had happened. Sympathy welled up in her and she enfolded the girl in her arms.

  ‘Do not cry, Rose. It is God’s will.’

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Rose in the panic of ignorance. ‘Is it all over?’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘Has my child been born?’

  ‘No, Rose,’ said Sybil softly. ‘It will never be born now.’

  ‘What do you mean, mother?’

  ‘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 t
hat 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.