The Wanton Angel

Chapter Eleven

The funeral was held at the Parish Church of St Leonard’s, a place where more than one member of Westfield’s Men had already been laid to rest. As a mark of respect to Sylvester Pryde, the day’s performance was cancelled and the whole company filed into the nave of the church for the service. It was short but moving. An ancient priest who could never be expected wholeheartedly to approve of the wayward life of an actor nevertheless praised a man he had barely known in words that brought great comfort and many nods of agreement. Nicholas Bracewell was pleased that he had spoken to the priest about the deceased beforehand and he was interested to hear some of his own phrases coming back to him from the pulpit in such a sonorous tone.

Nicholas was too absorbed in his own grief to notice everyone around him and even when he acted as one of the pall bearers and helped to bear the coffin back down the aisle, he did not see the hooded figure who sat with a companion at the rear of the nave. It was only when they moved out to the cemetery and lowered the body of Sylvester Pryde into his grave that Nicholas was able to take stock of those around him. His fellows were overcome with emotion. Several were weeping, some were praying, others remained in a contemplative silence. George Dart was so distraught that he needed the physical support of Thomas Skillen.

Anne Hendrik was there and Marjory Firethorn accompanied her husband. What touched Nicholas was the fact that several people from the Queen’s Head also came to pay their respects. Leonard was among them, his big face awash with tears, his mind trying in vain to grasp the meaning of such a violent and untimely death. Even Alexander Marwood turned up, prompted by the thought that the burial of one actor symbolised the imminent death of the entire company. It was a form of leave-taking and he was surprised how painful he found it. Having wished to expel the company so often in the past, he now felt strangely bereft.

Nicholas was gratified to see such a large congregation coming to the funeral of a man who had no family members to mourn him. It was a tribute to Pryde’s capacity for making friends. Nicholas finally saw her when the burial service was over and people were beginning to disperse. Wearing a dark cloak with a hood pulled up to cover her face, she stood on the fringe with a young gallant in attendance on her. Before she left, she walked to the grave and tossed a valedictory flower into it. Nicholas guessed at once who she must be and he caught a whiff of her fragrance as she swept past on her way out. Alone of Westfield’s Men, he knew that their benefactor had come to bid a sad farewell to a lover.

Lawrence Firethorn came across to him with his wife.

‘Will you dine with us, Nick?’ he invited.

‘He must,’ insisted Marjory. ‘We can raise a glass to the memory of dear Sylvester. I invited Anne to join us but she has to get back to Bankside.’

‘That is so, alas,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne has a business to run but she wanted to pay her last respects to Sylvester. She was very fond of him.’

‘Every woman was fond of him, Nick,’ said Marjory with a wan smile. ‘And the pity of it is that many of those whose favours he enjoyed will not even know that he is dead. When they find out the awful truth, there will be a lot of damp pillows in London. I wept a torrent myself.’

‘Do not remind me!’ sighed Firethorn. ‘But will you join us, Nick? There is much to discuss. We have yet to choose the play we offer at Court and I would value your opinion in private before I argue with the others. Come to Shoreditch.’

‘He will not dare to refuse,’ said Marjory with a mock warning in her voice. ‘Will you, Nick?’

‘No,’ he said with a smile. ‘It is a kind invitation and I accept it with pleasure.’

She kissed him on the cheek and led the way out of the cemetery. Marjory was mother to the whole company and it grieved her to lose one of her children, however recent an addition to the shifting family that was Westfield’s Men. They were the last to leave and threw a final, sad glance over their shoulders. Firethorn was indignant.

‘I would have thought he might be here,’ he complained.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our benefactor. Sylvester died on the site of The Angel theatre. I am grateful that his friend advanced us the loan to build it but I think it a poor reflection on the name of friendship that he could not even turn up to see Sylvester laid to rest. Is our benefactor so heartless?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is not the case at all.’

Doubt was a restless bedfellow. It kept Rose Marwood awake for most of the night as she thought of vows which were made and ambitions which were discussed with her beloved. Morning found her still twisting and turning on her bed. As the hours went painfully by, she could find scant relief for her anxieties. Had he forsaken her? When he was unaware of her condition, she could not blame him for keeping his distance as they agreed. But being apart was only a prelude to the closeness of marriage. Their union was blessed with a child and lacked only the sanction of the church. She would not be the first bride who went to the altar with child. He promised to come back and he promised to make her his. Where was he?

He knew. Rose could no longer make any excuses for him. He knew yet he neither came nor sent a message. She was desolate until she remembered once again the solitary flower. That was his message. That was a seal of his love. When he heard that he had fathered a child, he did not run in panic or turn away in disgust. He reached out to her. He found a way to leave the rose on her window sill at a time when she was so weak that she could hardly walk across the bedchamber to retrieve it. He knew, he loved, he sent a token. He was hers. Rose chided herself for losing faith in him and reached under the pillow once more to take out the rose and fondle it gently.

She was still entranced by it when there was a tap on the door. Rose sat up and hastily hid the flower away again. She tried to brush away the tears. There was a second tap on the door before it opened slightly.

‘Are you there, Rose?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘May I come in?’

She did so without invitation and closed the door behind her. Nan was a scrawny old woman who worked in the kitchen at the inn and whose arched eyebrows gave her gaunt face a permanent look of surprise. Carrying a bowl of cherries, she bared her few remaining teeth and nodded excitedly.

‘I brought these for you, Rose,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Nan.’

‘I picked them myself. I was afraid to bring them before but your mother has gone to market and your father went to the funeral.’ She gave an almost girlish giggle. ‘So I came.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘Take them,’ said the visitor, thrusting the bowl at Rose. ‘You must keep your strength up. You’re eating for two now.’

Rose blushed but consented to take the cherries from her. Peering more closely, Nan clicked her tongue in sympathy.

‘Have you been crying?’

‘No, no,’ lied Rose.

‘I know you must be worried. I was myself. I had my first child when I was about your age. A little girl. Nobody told me what to expect. It was a shock.’ A nostalgic smile touched the haggard features. ‘But my daughter soon made me forget the pain. She was my little jewel, Rose. The most precious thing in my life. Until she died.’

‘How old was she?’

‘Barely two. None of my children lived beyond five. But they were all a great joy to me while they were alive.’

Rose felt more unsettled than ever. Nan was a friend and she had gone to some trouble to get the cherries for her but the last thing that Rose wanted to hear about were the pangs of childbirth and the woes of motherhood.

‘You had better go, Nan. Mother may come back.’

‘Yes, I don’t want her to catch me here. But Leonard told me that you were allowed out now.’

‘From time to time.’

‘He was so pleased when you thanked him.’

‘I had to, Nan. Leonard helped me.’

‘Well, I hope that bowl of cherries is a help as well. You deserve them.’ She giggled again and hunched her shoulders to pass on her gossip. ‘Have you heard about Leonard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘We think that he is in love.’

Rose was astonished. ‘Leonard?’

‘It is absurd, I know. A man that size. A man as witless as poor Leonard. But I saw it in his face when he asked me.’

‘Saw what?’

‘That look,’ said Nan.

‘What was it that he asked you?’

‘To pick one for him from the garden.’

‘Pick one?’

‘A flower,’ said Nan, letting her eyebrows soar even higher. ‘Those hands of his are far too big to snap a stem without damaging the flower itself and he was afraid he would be seen in the garden and mocked. But that’s what he asked me to do for him.’

‘To pick him a flower?’

‘A red rose.’

‘A rose,’ gulped the other.

‘Yes! Would you believe it? Leonard!’

Still giggling, she scurried out of the room and left Rose to absorb the shock. She was in great distress. Her cheeks were on fire and her breath was coming in short gasps. She felt as if she were about to choke with despair. The flower beneath her pillow was not a token from her beloved at all. He had failed her. She had drawn false succour from the rose. Leaping up, she backed frantically against the wall and stared in horror at her bed as if it had been defiled.

Marjory Firethorn knew when to leave them alone. She had always been exceptionally fond of Nicholas Bracewell, admiring his personal qualities as much as his invaluable service to her husband’s company. It was a delight to her whenever he visited her home because he was invariably courteous to her and wholly free from the melancholy which plagued Hoode and the tantrums which Barnaby Gill often displayed. She cooked them a delicious meal and all three of them washed it down with a cup of wine. Having cooed over Nicholas’s injuries once more, she then called the servant to clear the table and withdrew with her into the kitchen. Theatre was men’s work.

Lawrence Firethorn had his first question ready.

‘What shall we play at Court, Nick?’

‘First, know what our rivals are offering,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that may determine our own choice. Banbury’s Men will play Richard Crookback.’

Firethorn coloured. ‘What! Will Giles Randolph try to ape me in the role of the hunchback? Such arrogance! I have made the part my own in our play about the same king. Those who saw Lawrence Firethorn as Richard III will laugh in derision at this pretender.’

‘Nevertheless, that is their choice.’

‘And Havelock’s Men?’

‘A Looking Glass for London.’

‘I do not know the play.’

‘How could you?’ said Nicholas. ‘It has not yet been performed. They are saving its novelty for the Court. It is written by Timothy Argus, always their most reliable author.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Firethorn, wincing slightly. ‘A new play gives them freshness that we others lack. But no matter,’ he continued, flicking their rivals aside. ‘How can those pigmies hope to tower over a giant like me? Whatever they play, they will barely reach my kneecaps.’

Nicholas was more cautious. ‘We must give them some respect,’ he advised. ‘They may have nobody to compare with you but their companies are replete with talent. Expect them to give a good account of themselves or we are lost.’

‘I will sweep them from the boards like dust!’

‘The play we choose must suit our whole company.’

‘Then it must be Hector of Troy!’

‘Too long and wordy for an occasion like this.’

‘Vincentio’s Revenge? I shine equally in that.’

‘It grows stale with overuse, I think.’

‘Then it has to be The Knights of Malta. I will make the palace walls quake when I thunder as Jean de Valette.’

‘It would not be my first suggestion,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You soar to the heights in all three but none allows the whole company to show its true mettle. Banbury’s Men present a history while Havelock’s Men lean on comedy as their crutch. We should choose a tragedy to show our serious intent. The pity of it is that the best play for our purposes is no longer available to us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it is called The Insatiate Duke.’

‘I spurn it, Nick!’ yelled Firethorn with a gesture of disgust. ‘We will not play it again until we have taken a knife to it and cut away everything that appertains to Lucius Kindell.’

‘Then you cut away the very soul of it.’

‘So be it. That vile traitor will not live to see me declaiming his verse again. Forget his work. It is past.’

Nicholas was not so ready to condemn Kindell, nor consign him to the company’s history, but he did not defend him. There was no point in infuriating his host when he was manoeuvring him carefully towards a critical decision. After waving a few other titles in front of him, Nicholas came to the play which was his selection but he let Firethorn enthuse about it until the latter believed that he had chosen it himself.

‘The Italian Tragedy! I have hit the mark, Nick!’

‘I think you have.’

‘What better piece to set before a Court than a tragedy of Court intrigue? By Jove, we’ll do it! The play has been off the stage too long. We’ll put it back where it belongs.’

‘With help from Edmund.’

‘But it is not his play.’

‘He is contracted to repair as well as to create,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let him mend a few holes in its apparel and fashion a prologue by way of a new ruff. Edmund’s wit is quicksilver. He will use the prologue to score off our rivals.’

‘Done, sir! The Italian Tragedy it shall be!’

‘A happy inspiration of yours.’

‘When Marjory serves beef, my brain always whirrs.’

There were several other things to discuss, including the financial state of the company, but the main problem had been solved. When Nicholas had guided his host into some more important decisions, he took his leave.

‘Will you walk back to the Queen’s Head?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘Having come to Shoreditch, I’ll make a virtue of necessity and visit The Curtain.’

Firethorn goggled. ‘Watch our rivals?’ he howled.

‘It is needful. I want to see the present strength of their company. The more we know about our rivals, the easier it will be to match them.’

‘Match them and mar them!’

‘I go to observe and not to enjoy.’

Firethorn’s anger vanished and he embraced his friend warmly. Marjory came bustling out of the kitchen to collect compliments on her cooking and a farewell kiss. The couple waved him off down Old Street. Shoreditch’s two theatres brought playgoers streaming out of the city and crowds were already gathering for the afternoon’s entertainment. Nicholas made for The Curtain and paid to sit in the gallery. Instead of finding a place on a bench, however, he lurked near the door, confident that he would not be the only member of Westfield’s Men who would appear. The gallery was filling up before his expected guest arrived. Concealing himself behind a post, Nicholas let the man choose his place before he moved across to sit beside him.

‘Well-met, Master Gill!’ he said.

‘Nicholas!’ Barnaby Gill paled. ‘What on earth are you doing here at The Curtain?’

‘I came to see a play.’

‘Why, so did I.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, whispering in his ear. ‘You came to see a company you plan to join. Do not deny it, Master Gill,’ he warned as his companion flared up. ‘You were seen last night in the company of Giles Randolph. Seen and heard. If Master Firethorn knew of that meeting, he would not have been so civil to you at the funeral.’

Gill squirmed. He knew exactly how Firethorn would have reacted which was why his dealings with Banbury’s Men had been conducted in secret. The time to announce that he was leaving the Queen’s Head was when he had already quit the premises and not when he was still within reach of an actor-manager with a vengeful temperament and the strength of a bull. Gill’s exit was suddenly blocked by Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Do not breathe a word of this to Lawrence,’ he said. ‘I have not yet committed myself to Banbury’s Men. I merely heard their overtures as any sensible man was bound to do.’

‘Is it sensible to betray your colleagues?’

‘They are already betrayed by the Privy Council.’

‘Their decree has yet to be enacted.’

‘Westfield’s Men will wither away,’ prophesied Gill. ‘This Angel Theatre is a cruel illusion. It will not save you. We will all have to find a new company. I merely lead where others will surely follow.’

‘I will tell that to Master Firethorn.’

‘No! I beg you!’

‘His good wife, Marjory, will also have an opinion to give to you. She will censure you as much as he.’

‘Keep the pair of them off me, Nicholas.’

‘Then do not give me cause.’

‘What else am I to do?’ wailed Gill. ‘Would you have me stay at the Queen’s Head to watch the company sink into oblivion? Audiences love me. It is my duty to stay before them. And I can only do that by moving to The Curtain.’

‘No,’ asserted Nicholas. ‘That is not the only remedy. There is another, if you are bold enough to take it. And it gives you a chance to make amends for this contemplated flight.’

‘Another remedy?’

‘It may answer all.’

‘Pray, what is it, Nicholas?’

The flag was being hauled up its pole and the musicians were poised to begin. Nicholas chose deliberately to make his companion wait.

‘The play commences. I’ll tell you later.’

Lord Westfield was scurrying along a corridor at the Palace of Whitehall when someone glided out from an alcove to intercept him. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, had shed her cloak and her expression of mourning, containing her grief inwardly while showing her old outward gaiety. Lord Westfield stopped at once to give her a vestigial bow of courtesy.

‘Good morrow, Cordelia,’ he said.

‘My lord.’

‘How does the day find you?’

‘Tolerably well.’

‘I hope to see your dear husband back at Court before too long. We have missed his wisdom and experience.’

‘You will have to miss them even longer, I fear,’ she said, ‘and so will I. Charles weakens by the day. His physician begins to have serious doubts of his recovery. If there is no sign of improvement soon, I may have to return to the country to minister to him.’

‘I pray that that will not be necessary,’ he said with concern. ‘The earl is a soldier and will fight this sickness with a soldier’s courage. Besides, we should hate to lose you as well, Cordelia. I had counted on your being here when the three plays are presented at Court.’

‘Nothing short of my husband’s death would induce me to miss those, my lord. That is the time when I can be most useful to Westfield’s Men. Mingling with the others to trumpet their virtues, making sure my opinions reach the Privy Council.’

‘I will do the same.’

‘Has your company chosen the play it will stage?’

‘If they have,’ he said, ‘I do not know what it is. But I have tidings from the Master of the Revels.’

‘What are they?’

‘Westfield’s Men will be last in order.’

‘That gives them a clear advantage,’ she said, thinking it through. ‘Coming after the others, they will be fresh in the minds of the Privy Council when they withdraw to consider which companies will survive. This is a tasty morsel of news, my lord. It must have pleased you.’

‘No, Cordelia,’ he admitted, ‘it causes me concern.’

‘How so?’

‘I believe that the decision has already been made. Look at the order in which the plays will be staged. Havelock’s Men are first, then Banbury’s Men, with my company last.’ He sucked in air through his teeth and grimaced. ‘That is clearly how we are viewed. Third and lowest in their estimation.’

‘That is not so,’ she argued. ‘If a final decision has already been made, why invite the companies to Court in the first place? What happens here must affect the Privy Council’s thinking. Do not be so downcast, my lord.’

‘It preys upon my mind.’

‘Westfield’s Men have no peer. I have seen all three companies at work and admire them all, but your troupe will always seize the laurels. The others have brilliance,’ she conceded, ‘but you have Lawrence Firethorn and he exceeds all superlatives. How can you lose faith with such a man to lead your company?’

‘He is my chiefest weapon, it is true.’

‘A cannon matched against pistols.’

‘Upon the stage, perhaps, Cordelia,’ he said gloomily. ‘But this war has not only been fought there. We have been sorely oppressed. One of my players was murdered.’

‘I know it well,’ she said, wincing at the reminder.

‘Our book holder, Nicholas Bracewell, was attacked. And then the timbers for our new playhouse, The Angel, were set alight.’ He shook his head worriedly. ‘Our rivals have some terrible weapons of their own.’

‘Do you have evidence that they were involved?’

‘No evidence, Cordelia, but a deep certainty.’

‘Well,’ she said evenly, ‘if that certainty can become firm proof, you are saved. The Privy Council will surely debar a company which uses such methods against a rival.’

‘It is not the first time we have been abused.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Our rivals bite constantly at our heels,’ he confided. ‘I love my troupe but Westfield’s Men have aggravated me beyond measure. Each day seems to bring a new source of anxiety. I will do all that I may to beat off our rivals and ensure our survival but I tell you this, Cordelia.’ He glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard him. ‘There are moments when the affairs of Westfield’s Men trouble me so much that I would almost wish to be rid of the burden.’

The Countess of Dartford sounded calm and detached but her mind was already grappling with a bold new possibility.

‘Would you yield the company to another patron?’

They were good. Nicholas Bracewell had always been willing to admit that. The Fatal Dowry was not the best play in their repertoire but Banbury’s Men turned it into a stirring piece of theatre. Giles Randolph was in commanding form, marshalling his company around him with skill but rising above them without discernible effort. Lawrence Firethorn might scorn his rival but Nicholas took a more dispassionate view. Randolph was an actor to be admired and feared.

Barnaby Gill took less interest in him. What he saw was an actor of consummate skill who lacked the sheer animal power and charisma of Firethorn. Gill’s attention was fixed on the comic characters in the play and they were disappointing. While Nicholas was murmuring with pleasure at taut dramatic moments, Gill was clicking his tongue irritably at the shortcomings of the clowns. He could see why Randolph was so keen to lure him to the company. Gill’s comic expertise would enrich every play and make him the perfect foil for the actor-manager. As he watched, however, Gill was less convinced of the wisdom of a move to Shoreditch. The company was sound but it lacked the all-round excellence of Westfield’s Men.

The play was well-advanced when Nicholas saw him. Taking the role of a spy, he wore a wide-brimmed hat which concealed much of his face to those in the gallery and there was nothing distinctive in his voice to disclose his identity at first. When the hat was removed, however, and when Nicholas was able to take a proper look at the close-set eyes and protuberant nose, he was in no doubt. The actor who now strutted so boldly at The Curtain had once been employed in a more menial capacity at the Queen’s Head. Nicholas turned to Gill.

‘Do you know the name of that fellow?’

‘Which one?’

‘Bellisandro, the spy.’

‘Yes,’ said Gill. ‘That is Henry Quine.’

Leonard gazed around the inn yard at the Queen’s Head with misgivings. Horses were coming and going, ostlers were flitting to and fro and a cart was rumbling in through the gate to deliver casks of wine. Yet the place looked strangely bare. Without the stage and the players who went through their intricate paces upon it every day, the yard seemed deserted. Leonard felt an emptiness in himself. Westfield’s Men not only fascinated him with their work, they became good friends of his. When they were driven away, Alexander Marwood would be losing a source of income but Leonard would be deprived of the only family he knew. It was heart-rending.

As he helped to unload the wine from the cart, he tried to put his own anxieties aside. Rose Marwood was in a far worse predicament than he. Although her parents now allowed her a degree of freedom, they were still roaming the inn in search of the anonymous father and fulminating against him. They were poor support for a girl as frightened as Rose must be. There was little that Leonard could do beyond showing sympathy for the girl but she appreciated his gesture. He wondered if there was some more practical way in which he could help.

When his work was done, he made his way to the lane at the side of the inn and reached a spot below the window of her bedchamber. It was still open and he sensed that she was inside. The last time he visited the spot, he brought a ladder with him and clambered up it to leave a token on her sill. Only a stone could reach the window now and attract her attention. He bent down to gather a few missiles from the ground then froze in horror. Lying forlornly in the mud, its petals crushed and its stem broken, was the rose he had gone to such trouble to procure for her. His gesture of friendship had been summarily rejected.

Leonard walked sadly away to return to his chores.

Nicholas Bracewell was glad that he visited The Curtain that afternoon. His bandaged head and facial wounds earned him many inquisitive looks but he shrugged those off. The Fatal Dowry was a revelation. The performance also enabled him to accost Barnaby Gill and remind him of the virtue of loyalty. He was particularly interested to learn that it was Henry Quine who first approached Gill on behalf of Banbury’s Men and who was a party to the negotiations with him. Nicholas realised why Gill did not recognise the actor from his role as Martin at the Queen’s Head. Quine lacked the boyish charm which might have aroused curiosity in Gill who, in any case, frequented the taproom far less than any of his fellows and who treated the drawers and servingmen with lofty condescension.

Banbury’s Men picked the right target. Any other member of the company might have remembered Martin. Owen Elias had done so when the name was spoken. Gill was safe to court and the most liable to respond. Nicholas was certain that in his time at the Queen’s Head, Martin had watched them closely and searched for signs of weakness. Barnaby Gill’s fluctuating loyalty was that weakness. Giles Randolph had cast his man well. Whether as Martin or as Bellisandro in the play, Henry Quine had been a most effective spy.

After the performance, Nicholas parted with Gill and made his way back to the city. Still suffering the aches and pains of his beating, he found the walk uncomfortable and called to mind what Elias had said about his preference for the Queen’s Head. Most of the players, he suspected, would agree with the Welshman. The Angel theatre might help to secure their future but it would subject most of the players to a long daily walk. Nicholas made that journey every day and knew how tedious it could sometimes be.

He came through Bishopsgate and made his way along Gracechurch Street. Nicholas was in sight of the Queen’s Head when a horseman came trotting towards him. It was the young gallant who had accompanied the Countess to the funeral.

‘I have a message for you,’ said the stranger.

‘From whom, sir?’

‘A noble lady whom we both know. She is most anxious to speak with Nicholas Bracewell. I have been waiting at the inn for you above an hour.’

‘Must I visit her in the Strand?’

‘No,’ said the other. ‘She stays nearby at the house of a friend. I will conduct you there.’

He nudged the horse and it loped off through the crowd with Nicholas behind it. The young man’s manner was curt and patronising and Nicholas resented having to follow the rolling rump of his horse but an urgent summons from the Countess of Dartford could not be ignored and he was at least spared the ride to her property in the Strand. They reached the house in a matter of minutes. It was a sizeable dwelling set on a corner of two quiet streets but it had nothing of the grandeur which Cordelia Bartram favoured.

The young man gave his horse to a waiting servant then took Nicholas into the house and into the parlour. The Countess was waiting, seated in a window to keep watch for them. She did not rise when Nicholas doffed his cap and greeted her. The gallant lingered until she dismissed him with a light laugh. Nicholas noted the strained look which passed between them.

‘Your friend was reluctant to leave,’ he commented.

‘It is his house. He feels dispossessed.’

‘I see.’

‘The property is convenient,’ she said smoothly. ‘I make use of it on occasion.’

‘Your friend came to Sylvester’s funeral with you.’

‘I needed an arm to rest upon.’

‘It was good of you to attend, my lady.’

‘Sylvester was a special friend.’

But he was not, Nicholas surmised, her only lover. The young gallant was peeved to be ejected from the room in which he felt entitled to stay for reasons beyond his ownership of the house. With no sense of shame, the Countess went to the funeral of one lover on the arm of another. Mourning one man clearly did not prevent her from offering her favours to a second.

‘You were difficult to find, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I have been to Shoreditch.’

‘I am glad that you are here at last. Lord Westfield was at Court today. We talked at length about the company. What emerged from that conversation made me seek out you.’

‘Is there any news from the Master of the Revels?’

‘Just this. The order of performance at Court has been set. Westfield’s Men will be the last in line.’

‘That helps us,’ said Nicholas keenly.

‘I thought the same but your patron disagreed. He felt that it reflected the Privy Council’s judgement on the troupe. Third, last and therefore destined for extinction.’

‘Lord Westfield inclines to gloom at times.’

‘I am glad to hear you sound a more cheering note.’

‘Master Firethorn will be delighted by this.’

‘Good,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will come to Lawrence Firethorn in a moment. My question is this. And bear in mind how much money I have loaned you because I believe that it entitles me to an answer. Has Lord Westfield ever talked before about ceding his interest in the company?’

‘He has talked about it, my lady, but we are used to such moans. They amount to nothing in the end.’

‘Supposing that they did?’ she asked. ‘Supposing that Westfield’s Men were forced to part with Lord Westfield?’

‘Forced?’

‘Circumstances change.’

‘Our patron would never leave us.’

‘He might, Nicholas. Inducements could be made. Lord Westfield is laden with debt and further burdened with the cares of his theatre company. Such things take their toll.’

‘The burdens will ease when our future is certain.’

‘Your patron did not think so. He was despondent.’

‘Well, we are not,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘Master Firethorn ensures that. Under his leadership, we are brimming with confidence and what I saw of Banbury’s Men at The Curtain this afternoon has only strengthened that confidence.’

‘I share it, Nicholas, believe me.’

He was cautious. ‘Do I hear you aright?’

‘I think you catch my meaning.’

‘You would wish to become our patron?’

‘Is that so strange a wish?’ she said airily. ‘Dartford’s Men rolls off the tongue as sweetly as Westfield’s and I would give you more support than ever the noble lord has managed. He will take much persuasion yet,’ she admitted, ‘but I saw him waver when I asked if he would yield up his troupe.’

Nicholas was too shocked to say anything. The thought of losing their patron was unnerving and he could find no enthusiasm for the notional replacement. What little he knew of the Countess led him to suspect that she would want to control and interfere in the company far more than Lord Westfield had done. His silence plainly irritated her.

‘What is your problem, Nicholas?’ she challenged. ‘Can you not stomach the idea of a woman as patron? It is my husband’s name that would be used for Dartford’s Men but a woman’s hand which would guide your fortunes. Your precious patron is not as enamoured with his troupe as you imagine. If his debts were settled as part of the bargain, I’ll wager that he would snatch gratefully at the hand of someone who would rid him of his company.’

‘That may be so, my lady,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it would be a very sad day for us if we lost the noble lord who brought us into being in the first place.’

‘Would you oppose me, then?’

‘It is not my place to support or oppose.’

‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘I know what weight you carry inside the company. Sylvester instructed me well. Win you over and I have a powerful advocate. Win Lawrence Firethorn over and the game is settled.’

Nicholas was hurt. ‘I am sorry that you see this as a game, my lady. We do not. It is our livelihood.’

‘I appreciate that,’ she returned coolly, ‘but you must appreciate my position. I have advanced several hundred pounds of my own money to safeguard your livelihoods. Westfield’s Men were quick enough to take it.’

‘And gratefully, my lady.’

‘I expect more than gratitude in return, Nicholas. I had thought that Sylvester’s friendship would be reward enough but his death has changed that.’ A mischievous gleam came into her eye. ‘Arrange a meeting for me with Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘You wish to reveal your identity to him?’

‘No,’ she stressed. ‘He must not know my name or my connection with the company. Tell him that I am an ardent admirer. Give him a flattering description of me.’

‘There is no such thing, my lady,’ said Nicholas gallantly.

‘Then say as much to him,’ she said, acknowledging his compliment with a smile. ‘I know his reputation. He will come running. When Lawrence Firethorn and I are alone together, I will be able to appraise him properly.’

Nicholas was stunned. Her request put him in an even more ambiguous position. It was an effort to conceal from his fellows the name of their benefactor but a more onerous charge was laid upon him now. He had to contrive a meeting between her and Firethorn by dint of lying to the actor. The Countess of Dartford would exploit the situation to her own advantage and Firethorn would hardly resist. Nicholas ran through them in his mind. Earl of Dartford, Viscount Havelock, Sylvester Pryde, the young man who owned the house and no doubt others besides. Now she had decided to add Lawrence Firethorn to her list of conquests, engaging Nicholas to act as her pandar.

Westfield’s Men had looked upon their benefactor as a visitor from heaven. Nicholas alone knew the truth. The loan which helped them might also enslave them to the Countess of Dartford. They would be in the grasp of a wanton angel.