The Wanton Angel

Chapter Eight

When he reached the site with his little band of helpers, Nicholas Bracewell was pleased to see that work had continued throughout the day. Overcoming the shock of finding a murder victim underneath their timbers, Thomas Bradd and his men had cleared the site, burnt most of the debris and begun to dig the foundations. The builder was delighted to have fresh labour at his disposal and he set them to work at once. They included Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, George Dart, the puniest but most willing of them, and Owen Elias, who did not think his position as a sharer with the company absolved him from hard work and who handled his spade with muscular assurance.

Nicholas watched them with a mixture of pride and affection. He had intended to put his own considerable strength at Bradd’s service but another priority now existed. Their benefactor had to be traced, informed of Sylvester Pryde’s death and persuaded to leave the loan intact. It was an onerous assignment, made all the more difficult by the veil of secrecy which was drawn across the whole transaction. He was not quite sure where to begin. Waving a farewell to his friends, he walked swiftly back in the direction of London Bridge, considering all the possibilities and wondering why Pryde had gone to such lengths to shield his own privacy.

He was halfway across the bridge when he was met by an extraordinary sight. Mounted on a horse, and having the greatest trouble in controlling the animal, was Leonard, sweating profusely and trying to find a way through the milling crowd and trundling carts which blocked the narrow thoroughfare between the shops and stalls. A poor rider, he looked profoundly embarrassed to be in the saddle of such a fine horse, feeling unworthy of the status it conferred on him. When he saw Nicholas, his face lit up with relief and he tugged at the reins before dismounting clumsily.

It was only when Nicholas reached him that he realised that his friend was not alone. Leonard’s bulk had masked a second rider, a dignified man in a livery which seemed vaguely familiar. Nicholas also saw that the spirited animal which Leonard had been unable to master was Lawrence Firethorn’s stallion. His friend ran the back of his hand across his forehead then gabbled his message.

‘This gentleman came in search of you,’ he explained with a gesture towards the other rider. ‘He says that it is a matter of the greatest urgency. Master Firethorn knew where you had gone and loaned me his horse so that we could get to you fast.’ He thrust the reins at Nicholas. ‘You are to take him now to speed your own travel.’

‘Where must I go?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Follow me,’ said the other rider.

‘Who are you, sir?’

‘The steward of a household where a mutual friend of ours was known. Your presence is requested there immediately. I am not empowered to say any more.’

Nicholas had heard enough. When a steward was sent to deliver a message which could easily have been entrusted to a mere servant, then a matter of some importance was involved. The reference to a mutual friend was conclusive. Leonard was too obtuse to understand it but Nicholas knew at once to whom it pertained. It was his first piece of good fortune. Instead of having to follow a tortuous trail to their benefactor, he sensed that he might get to meet their guardian angel by a more direct route.

‘Shall we go?’ said the steward curtly.

‘Lead on.’

Nicholas mounted the horse, thanked Leonard, then followed his guide over the bridge. His companion rode in silence and shrugged off every question that was put to him. Nicholas soon abandoned his interrogation. He was grateful for the loan of the horse and controlled it without effort as they headed up Gracechurch Street before turning left into Eastcheap. His guide towed him at a brisk trot along Watling Street, past the daunting grandeur of St Paul’s Cathedral and on out through Ludgate. Fleet Street allowed them to break into a gentle canter and they were soon passing Temple Bar.

Stretching along the Strand was a row of some of the finest houses in London, stately mansions belonging to peers, bishops and men of wealth, coveted properties which gave their owners great kudos and an uninterrupted view of the Thames. Glad to be free of the city’s stench, Nicholas inhaled fresh air into his lungs. The steward raised an arm to warn him that they would soon be leaving the road. Nicholas rode beside him down a wide track towards their destination.

The house was situated just beyond the Savoy Palace, now converted into a hospital but still possessing a degree of splendour. It was a smaller property than most in the Strand but it lacked nothing in elegance. Studying the impressive facade, Nicholas surmised that only a rich man could afford to buy such a home. Servants were waiting to take charge of their horses and the front door was opened for them. The steward conducted his visitor across the hall and into a large, low room with oak-panelled walls and exquisitely carved oak furniture.

Nicholas was left alone for a few minutes and occupied the time in looking at the portraits which were ranged around the room. The largest of them captured his attention. Against a background of leather-bound books, the face of an old, proud, resolute, white-haired man stared out from the canvas. There was nobility in his features and a hint of defiance in his expression. Notwithstanding the library setting, Nicholas felt that he was looking at a military man. He also thought that he detected a faint resemblance to a certain Sylvester Pryde.

The door opened and the steward came into the room.

‘The Countess of Dartford,’ he announced solemnly.

The woman who swept in had such striking beauty and wore such costly attire that Nicholas blinked in astonishment. Removing his cap, he held it before him and gave a courteous bow. The steward withdrew and closed the door behind him. While Nicholas stood in the middle of the room, the lady of the house walked around him in a circle to take a full inventory of him, giving off a fragrance that was quite bewitching. A faint smile of admiration touched her lips but she took care not to let her visitor see it. Lowering herself onto a chair, she adjusted her dress then looked up at him.

‘You are Nicholas Bracewell?’ she asked.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Thank you for answering the summons.’

Now that he could study her properly, he could see a slight puffiness around her eyes as if she had been crying but it did not detract from the sculptured loveliness of her features. It was difficult to put a precise age on her. Her clear skin was that of a young woman but there was an air of maturity about her which hinted at more years than were apparent.

‘Can you be trusted, Nicholas?’ she asked.

‘Trusted, my lady?’

‘Sylvester told me that you could. He said that you were honest and reliable. A good friend who knew how to respect a confidence. Is that true?’

‘I believe so, my lady.’

‘He also told me how modest you are.’

‘Did he?’ said Nicholas.

‘Modest men have no need to boast. They can hold their tongues.’ She appraised him again. ‘I begin to think that he may have been right about you. Sylvester was a sound judge of character. He will be sorely missed.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for what might be an ordeal. The Countess of Dartford folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she whispered.

‘Happened?’

‘To Sylvester. How was he killed?’

Nicholas was astounded. ‘You know, my lady?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘But how?’

‘Just tell me what happened,’ she said, hands tightening their grasp on each other. ‘You were there when he was found, Nicholas. You saw the body. Tell me about it.’

‘I will, my lady.’

‘Tell me everything.’

Edmund Hoode was racked with self-disgust. Having honoured a friend with his fine performance in Black Antonio, he had dishonoured himself by following his colleagues eagerly into the taproom in search of the oblivion of drink. Hoode had wallowed freely in sentimentality with the rest of them, recalling fond memories of Sylvester Pryde for the general ear then sighing afresh as others produced their own stories about him. It was only when he was about to drift off into a haze that he realised how disgracefully he was behaving. Others were praying for their dear departed friend or making practical efforts to build the theatre which Pryde had helped to initiate whereas Hoode was simply taking refuge in a drunken stupor.

Before it was too late, he stopped himself abruptly. While the others continued with their meandering recollections, he hauled himself up from the table and staggered out of the Queen’s Head, anxious to make amends, to mark the passing of a good friend in a more seemly way. He was in no fit state to help on the site alongside the others and work on The Angel would in any case soon be abandoned for the day, but there was something which he could to do commemorate a fallen colleague. He could compose some verses in praise of Sylvester Pryde or write an epitaph for him.

Having made the decision, Hoode walked slowly towards his lodging through the evening air. By sheer force of will, he began to clear his mind of its wooliness and to frame the opening lines of his poetry. He was still deep in the throes of creation when he came to the street where he lived and did not even see the figure who stood outside his lodging.

Lucius Kindell came tentatively forward to meet him.

‘Good even to you, Edmund,’ he said.

Hoode gaped at him. ‘Lucius!’

‘I was hoping to catch you.’

‘Why?’ snapped Hoode, trying to pass him. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’

Kindell blocked his path. ‘But I have something to say to you,’ he murmured. ‘I have come to apologise.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘I know that you must feel let down.’

‘I feel betrayed, Lucius. Cruelly betrayed.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘You have cut Westfield’s Men to the quick.’

‘It is the last thing in the world that I wanted to do,’ said Kindell, close to tears. ‘I have been troubled by guilt ever since. But I had no future with the company.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No new play was commissioned from me.’

‘It would have been. In time.’

‘Only if Westfield’s Men survived.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Hoode. ‘We come to that, do we?’

‘It is something I have to consider,’ said the other defensively. ‘Master Kitely explained it to me. He told me that I had to find another company to stage my plays and convinced me that that company was Havelock’s Men. They are safe from the Privy Council’s threat.’

‘Do not be so sure, Lucius.’

‘Viscount Havelock has influence at Court.’

‘So does Lord Westfield,’ retorted Hoode. ‘But the crucial factor will be the quality of performance and we take all the laurels there. Rupert Kitely should look to his own survival. When The Angel theatre is built, it will put The Rose in the shade and turn it into a sorry flower that sheds its petals.’

‘That is not what Master Kitely thinks.’

‘I am not interested in him.’

‘He gave me a solemn assurance that your playhouse will never be completed. When I asked him why he was so certain, he would not say but he was adamant, Edmund. You will fail.’

‘We, too, are adamant.’

‘That is what I always admired about Westfield’s Men.’

‘Indeed,’ said Hoode with uncharacteristic irony. ‘It is a pity that your admiration did not induce a degree of loyalty in your ungrateful breast. Once thrown away so callously, friendship can never be regained.’

‘That is why I came to your lodging,’ admitted Kindell. ‘I was too ashamed to seek you at the Queen’s Head. Too ashamed and far too afraid.’

‘With good cause. Lawrence Firethorn would have eaten you alive, Lucius. He has no time for traitors.’

‘Do not call me that.’

‘You are a renegade, Lucius.’

‘No!’

‘A deserter, a rogue, a craven coward!’

‘It is not true!’ pleaded the other. ‘I hoped that you at least would understand my decision.’

‘All that I understood was the feel of the knife between my shoulder blades. You pushed it in so deep.’

Kindell burst into tears of contrition and it was some time before he recovered his composure. Hoode’s anger slowly mellowed. He could see the dilemma in which his apprentice was caught and he remembered the start of his own career in the theatre when he, too, was subjected to the pull of rival companies. But that did not excuse what Kindell had done.

‘I miss you, Edmund,’ he said with a hopeless shrug.

‘We are well rid of you.’

‘I miss you all. Master Firethorn, Master Gill, Nicholas Bracewell, Owen Elias, Sylvester Pryde and every last member of Westfield’s Men down to little George Dart. They will have a very low opinion of me now.’

‘And rightly so,’ said Hoode, ‘but you have clearly not heard the worst news. Sylvester is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Kindell was appalled. ‘Sylvester Pryde?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘This is hideous intelligence!’

‘I am surprised that you did not hear it from the mouth of Rupert Kitely.’

‘Master Kitely?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Perhaps that is why he told you that our playhouse would never be built. Because he knew that Sylvester had been crushed to death on the site of The Angel and thought that it would stop us. Well, you may give him a message from us. Every member of Westfield’s Men will have to be killed to stop our playhouse rising up in Bankside.’

Kindell was horrified. ‘Are you saying that Master Kitely was somehow implicated in the killing?’

‘Ask yourself this. Cui bono?’

‘But he would never stoop to murder.’

‘He would stoop to anything, Lucius. Mark him well.’

Hoode brushed past him and went into his lodging. Lucius Kindell stood outside in the street for a long time with his brain spinning uncomfortably.

She was a brave woman. The Countess of Dartford insisted on hearing details which would have unsettled more squeamish listeners but she did not flinch for a second. She remained calm and poised. Nicholas sensed her grief but saw no outward evidence of it. Her self-control was extraordinary.

‘Thank you,’ she said when he finished.

‘That is all I can tell you, my lady.’

‘It is enough for now, Nicholas.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘The only other thing I would like to hear is that his killer has been apprehended.’

‘He will be,’ promised Nicholas.

‘You are a good friend to him.’

‘He was our fellow.’

‘You spoke with such affection of him. Sylvester was a rare man. He knew how to win everyone’s good opinion. He made people love him.’ She suppressed a sigh. ‘What will happen now, Nicholas?’

‘Happen, my lady?’

‘To your playhouse?’

‘We will continue to build it,’ he affirmed. ‘That is what Sylvester would have wanted us to do. Members of the company worked on site this very day and I will take my turn there when time permits. No, my lady,’ he said, ‘as long as our loan is forthcoming, we will press on.’

‘What if it were withdrawn?’

‘We have written promise, my lady.’

‘A promise may be revoked.’

‘True.’

‘Sylvester was your intermediary, was he not?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Without his persuasion, your benefactor would not have parted with a single penny. What reason does that benefactor have to pay the loan now that Sylvester is no longer involved with Westfield’s Men?’

‘But he is, my lady,’ said Nicholas with sudden passion. ‘He is part of our history. We will always revere his memory The Angel theatre will keep that memory alive in the most visible way. He died in its service. It must be built.’

‘You are almost as persuasive as he was.’

‘We need that loan, my lady.’

‘And if it vanishes?’

‘We would have to find the money elsewhere.’

‘That will not be easy,’ she pointed out. ‘People are superstitious. They would take a foul murder on the very site of the playhouse as a bad omen.’

‘We prefer to see it as a sign to carry on.’

‘I admire your courage.’

‘It will be needed in the weeks ahead, my lady.’

She sat back pensively in her chair and subjected him to a careful scrutiny. Nicholas was discomfited. She seemed to know a great deal about him and the company while yielding up little about herself. Sensing his uneasiness, she waved him to an oak bench against the opposite wall.

‘You have been standing too long, Nicholas.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, sitting down.

‘But I was not quite sure if you would be staying,’ she explained. ‘I had to test you first. I think that you can be trusted. You were honest with me.’

‘I tried to be, my lady.’

‘Sylvester held you in high esteem.’

‘I am flattered.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘As well as anyone else in the company,’ he said, ‘but that is no large claim to make, my lady. The truth is that none us really knew Sylvester. We saw him as a friend and as a valuable member of the company but we had no notion where he came from or what career he had pursued until he joined Westfield’s Men. He talked little about himself, nor did we press him on the subject. It is not unusual, my lady.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Actors are strange creatures. It is not only vanity which makes them strut upon a stage. Many other motives impel them. Sylvester Pryde was not alone in using the theatre as a kind of refuge, a place where he could hide his true self and be someone else for an afternoon.’

‘And what was that true self, Nicholas?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Hazard a guess,’ she encouraged. ‘You have been here long enough to make observations and to pass a judgement What have you decided?’ She smiled at his obvious reluctance. ‘Do not be afraid to speak your mind. I will not be offended.’

‘Very well, my lady,’ he said, plunging in. ‘I believe that Sylvester secured that loan from a member of his family. We have long felt that he came of aristocratic stock and noted a prosperity about him which could not be bought with his share of our takings. In short, I think that the money for our playhouse came from someone in this room.’ He turned to indicate the largest portrait. ‘From his father.’

The Countess of Dartford fought hard to contain her mirth. She rose from her seat and walked away from him so that he could not see the smile on her face. When she recovered her poise, she came back to rest a hand on the back of her chair.

‘That is not his father, Nicholas, I do assure you.’

‘Then I am mistaken.’

‘Gravely,’ she said, turning to the portrait. ‘That gentleman has no children nor is he likely to produce any. He is well over sixty years of age and in extremely poor health. You are looking at Charles Bartram, Earl of Dartford,’ she said levelly. ‘He is my husband.’

‘I do apologise, my lady.’

‘Charles would be flattered by the compliment.’

‘I spoke in ignorance.’

‘Only because I urged you on, Nicholas. Let it pass.’ She resumed her seat and became earnest. ‘I will tell you about Sylvester Pryde,’ she volunteered, ‘but I must first extract a promise from you. Whatever I tell you must remain a secret between us. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘I will have to trust to your discretion.’

‘You will not find it wanting,’ he asseverated.

‘I know.’ She collected her thoughts before continuing. ‘Sylvester hailed from Lincolnshire. His father, Sir Reginald Pryde, had his estate there and hoped that his only son would take it over after him. It was not to be. Sylvester was too free a spirit to spend the rest of his life in Lincolnshire. He and his father fell out. Sir Reginald settled a sum of money on him but left the estate itself to a nephew.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You can imagine what Sylvester did with his inheritance.’

‘He enjoyed spending it, my lady.’

‘On others as much as on himself,’ she stressed. ‘He was the most generous person I have ever met and not only with money. Sylvester was a beautiful man. It was a joy to know him. As to what he did before he joined your company, I am not entirely certain myself. He dallied with the law. He even toyed with the notion of becoming a Member of Parliament. And there were doubtless other professions that held his attention for a short time. Only the theatre satisfied him,’ she said. ‘He found his true home with Westfield’s Men.’

‘We felt that, my lady.’

‘Though he was never destined for real glory there.’

‘He was a competent actor,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘Short of the genius which makes a Lawrence Firethorn but an asset to any company. He worked at his trade.’

‘That was a revelation to him,’ she said. ‘It was the only thing he ever dedicated himself to and it gave him rewards of the heart he had never imagined. That was why he was so eager to transact a loan for Westfield’s Men. It was partly a repayment for all the pleasure and excitement you gave him.’

‘He gave us pleasure and excitement in return.’

‘Then you will not forget him?’

‘Never!’ vowed Nicholas.

She was content. She rose from her chair in a manner which indicated that the interview was over. Nicholas stood up and moved towards the door with her. In close proximity, he found her perfume even more alluring. She paused at the door.

‘The loan will be paid.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Tell Master Firethorn that The Angel can be built.’

‘I will.’

‘But that is all you tell him, Nicholas. There is no need for anyone else but you to know that I provided that money. I have many reasons for maintaining my secrecy.’

‘They are no business of ours, my lady,’ he said, glad that their benefactor had finally been identified. ‘Your kindness is appreciated and your wishes will be respected. But there is one thing I would like to ask before I leave.’

‘What is it?’

‘How did you know that Sylvester had been killed?’

‘One of my servants made enquiries of the coroner.’

‘But what made you send him to the coroner?’

The Countess of Dartford looked him full in the face.

‘Instinct,’ she said simply. ‘Sylvester did not come back here last night. Only death could have kept him away.’

This time she could not hold back the tears.

Rose Marwood’s fever broke in the night. A combination of the doctor’s potion, her mother’s nursing and the anguished prayers of her father eventually worked. Sybil sat beside the bed all night to tend her, trying desperately to atone for the pain and disease she believed she had inflicted on Rose by taking her to Clerkenwell. The doctor’s reproaches had shattered her faith in Mary Hogg and she berated herself for her folly in trusting such a dangerous woman. Alexander Marwood had been given the task of destroying the Roman Catholic Prayer Book and he burnt it on the fire, wishing, as he stared into the yellow flames, that he could consign his daughter’s lover to the same fate.

When Rose awoke next morning, she had visibly improved.

‘How do you feel now?’ asked Sybil solicitously.

‘The pain has gone, mother.’

‘Thank heaven!’

‘I feel hungry.’

‘That is a good sign.’

‘I have been dreaming of food.’

‘You shall have whatever you want.’

Rose felt a cool breeze stroking her cheek. ‘The window is open,’ she said in surprise. ‘I thought you had it bolted.’

‘It will stay open now to let in fresh air.’

‘Thank you, mother.’

Sybil felt her daughter’s brow then took both of her hands between her own. Apology never came easily to her and it cost her a tremendous effort of will.

‘We were unkind to you, Rose,’ she admitted.

‘You frightened me.’

‘Only because we were frightened ourselves. But I was wrong to take you to Clerkenwell. That was sinful. I see that now. I cannot find it in my heart to welcome this child but I should not have tried to get rid of it in that cruel way.’

‘It is his, mother,’ murmured the girl.

‘Whose?’

‘His.’

Sybil pulled herself back from further questioning. During her long hours of recrimination, she had come to see that she could never bludgeon the name out of her daughter. Only by winning back the girl’s love and confidence would she have any hope of being told who the child’s father was. Nursing Rose through her illness had been an important first step but there were several others to take.

‘What food will I fetch you?’ she offered.

‘Anything,’ said Rose. ‘I am so famished.’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘Thank you, mother.’

‘What else will I bring?’

‘Something to drink, please. And mother?’

‘Yes?’

‘Could you open the window a little wider?’ said Rose softly. ‘The sun will shine onto the bed.’

Sybil was only too happy to oblige, opening the window as wide as she could then going back to the bed to place on kiss on Rose’s forehead. When she went out, she left the door slightly ajar to signal that the prison regime was at an end. Rose struggled to sit up and look around her bedchamber. She was still weak but the fever and the continual ache had faded away. For the first time since she had taken to her bed, she felt a degree of hope. That was a medicine in itself.

A scraping noise took her eyes to the window. Expecting to find a bird perched there, she was astonished to see something quite different. Lying just inside the window, as if placed there from outside, was a tiny red flower. Rose was overjoyed. Struggling to get out of bed, she supported herself with a hand on the wall as she made her way to the window to collect the flower. It was more eloquent than any message and she was certain that it came from him. He knew. He wanted to help. He was offering his love and support.

There was nobody outside the window but her disappointment was allayed by the flower. She inhaled its fragrance before making her way back to the bed, clambering into it with relief and holding the flower against her cheek. It was only when she heard her mother returning that she put the red rose hastily under the pillow. Sybil entered with a tray of food.

‘You look so much better, Rose,’ she said with a sigh of gratitude. ‘You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks.’

The second performance of The Insatiate Duke had nothing like the success of the first. The acting was good, the effects startling and the stage management as smooth as ever but a key element was missing. Edmund Hoode no longer believed in the piece. Where he had been a moving Cardinal Boccherini on the first outing, he was now a rather sinister figure and it upset the whole balance of the drama. The audience was very appreciative but Westfield’s Men knew that they were being given short measure at the Queen’s Head that afternoon.

Nobody was more disappointed than Lucius Kindell, the estranged co-author of the tragedy. Too embarrassed to make himself known to the company, he sneaked into the yard and found a seat in the upper gallery. Given his involvement with a rival company, he had anticipated that his play would be dropped by way of retaliation but Westfield’s Men were honouring their pledge to stage it again and that served to deepen his guilt. They were showing much more faith in his work than he had in theirs. The performance made him squirm in his seat, partly because it lacked any genuine passion and suffering, but chiefly because he could see what an ordeal it was for Hoode. A play on which the two of them had worked so hard for so long had turned sour for his co-author.

Lawrence Firethorn left the stage in a mild fury.

‘We were abysmal, sirs!’ he roared.

‘Speak for yourself, Lawrence,’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘I will not hear a word against my performance. You saw those laughing faces. You heard that applause.’

‘The Insatiate Duke was a shadow of itself.’

‘Blame that on the insatiate duke.’

‘We are all to blame,’ insisted Firethorn.

‘It is true,’ agreed Hoode. ‘This play is not for us. Give it to Nicholas to lock away in his box. It may stay there in perpetuity for all that I am concerned.’

They understood his rancour. Since his partnership with Lucius Kindell had been ruptured, he had become disenchanted with both the plays they had written together. Owen Elias sought to extract a jest from the situation.

‘You are a changed man, Edmund,’ he teased. ‘We are used to seeing you moping over a woman who will not requite your love. Now you are weeping over the loss of a young boy. Take care you do not turn into a second Barnaby.’

‘I resent that,’ said Gill over the laughter.

‘Why?’ mocked Elias. ‘Did Lucius reject you as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, joining in the fun at Gill’s expense, ‘he sold his buttocks to Rupert Kitely instead. Barnaby will have to run off to Havelock’s Men if he wishes have an assignation with our deserter.’

Gill fell silent and looked away guiltily. Firethorn and Elias continued to bait him but for once he did not rise to the taunts. Nicholas Bracewell noted his lack of response and was concerned. It accorded with Gill’s reaction to the news that the loan to Westfield’s Men would be paid in spite of the death of their intermediary. While the rest of the company had been thrilled by the reassurance which Nicholas was able to give them, Gill had sulked in a corner. It was almost as if he did not want Westfield’s Men to have their own playhouse.

The company broke up to go their separate ways. A fresh detachment of volunteers went off to work at the site of The Angel for a few hours, relieving those who had laboured there to good effect on the previous day. When his chores were complete, Nicholas had intended to join the work party himself but Firethorn summoned him to a meeting with their patron.

They found Lord Westfield in his accustomed room, sipping a glass of wine and talking with some of his entourage. He dismissed the others so that he could be alone with the two newcomers. Anxiety flooded his face.

‘What is this I hear about a murder in our ranks?’

‘All too true, my lord,’ said Firethorn sadly. ‘Sylvester Pryde was crushed to death beneath some timbers on the site of our new playhouse.’

‘Poor soul!’

‘Nicholas was there when they found the body.’

Picking up his cue, Nicholas gave a concise account of what had happened. Their patron was deeply sympathetic. He needed no evidence to name the culprit.

‘One of Banbury’s Men,’ he decided.

‘We do not know that,’ cautioned Nicholas.

‘We know they envy us and we know that they will stop at nothing to disable us. Especially now that the Master of the Revels has spoken.’

‘Has he?’ said Firethorn with interest.

‘Yes, Lawrence. That is what I came to tell you. I was at Court this morning when Sir Edmund Tilney confided in me the latest decision. It seems a just way to proceed.’

‘How so?’

‘The Privy Council have postponed their verdict,’ said Lord Westfield fussily. ‘They are masters of postponement because they can never make up their minds. Tilney feels that they need some help to come to judgement.’

‘What does he recommend?’ asked Nicholas.

‘That the three major theatre companies be viewed alongside each other. This is his plan. Westfield’s Men, Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men play at Court in turn. Other companies are not even in the reckoning.’

‘I like this news,’ said Firethorn.

Nicholas sounded a warning note. ‘It may not favour us,’ he said. ‘If everything is to be decided on one performance, the slightest error might tell against us.’

‘There will be no errors, Nick!’

‘That is easier to say than to enforce. The importance of the occasion will make the company nervous and that is when unfortunate mistakes creep in.’

‘It is so with the other companies,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have no fears. We will always outshine Havelock’s Men.’

‘And Banbury’s Men,’ added Lord Westfield truculently. ‘They are nothing but a pack of murderers.’

Nicholas let the two of them enthuse about the plan. He kept his reservations to himself. Though delighted that they would have the honour of another performance at Court, he was deeply worried that the Privy Council’s decision would take no account of their sustained excellence. Judged on their whole season, Westfield’s Men could rightly claim supremacy over their rivals. When they were given only one chance to impress, they entered the realms of doubt.

There was another problem. Westfield’s Men were a diminished force. When The Insatiate Duke was first staged, it was the headiest triumph they had enjoyed for a long time. Since then one of its co-authors had left, the other was profoundly depressed as a result, a sharer had been brutally killed and the company’s resident clown was restless. He wondered how many more depletions there would be before the stipulated appearance at Court.

Firethorn’s optimism knew no bounds. Striking a pose, he began to pluck plays out of the repertoire, nominating those in which he took the leading part and ignoring the contribution that others might make.

‘Hector of Troy,’ he concluded. ‘That is our choice.’

‘We should discuss this at greater length,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘The other sharers will want their say.’

‘They will follow my lead, Nick.’

The book holder stifled his reply. He knew how outraged Barnaby Gill would be at the choice of Hector of Troy. Not only did it allow Firethorn to dominate the stage for the whole five acts, it confined Gill to two short scenes and one dance. The surest way to drive their clown out of Westfield’s Men was to select a play which blunted his rich talents.

‘What of this new playhouse?’ asked Lord Westfield.

‘It grows by the hour, my lord,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘Our fellows are taking it in turns to put their strong arms at the disposal of the builder. The Angel theatre will soon be a towering landmark on the riverbank.’

‘And the loan?’ said their patron.

‘It is safe.’

‘But was not Sylvester Pryde your intermediary?’

‘That office has been taken over by Nick here.’

‘You know who our mysterious benefactor is?’ said Lord Westfield excitedly. ‘Do tell us, Nicholas.’

‘I am not at liberty to do so, my lord.’

‘You may trust me. I am as close as the grave.’

‘I have sworn an oath, my lord, and may not break it.’

‘There’s an end to it,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick would not even confide in me. He is too honourable. What does it matter where the money comes from as long as we have it? This loan breathes new life back into Westfield’s Men.’

‘Yes,’ said their patron wearily, ‘but it is not only the company which is in need of a loan. Is our benefactor so wealthy that he can loan six hundred pounds to us at such a favourable rate of interest? Such a man is to be wooed, Nicholas. Cultivate him. Ask him if he would consider making a personal loan to a very dear friend of yours.’

‘I think it unlikely, my lord,’ said Nicholas. ‘But for Sylvester Pryde, we would not have secured this loan. He was the pathway to our benefactor and Sylvester is dead.’

‘Try, Nicholas. Even a small amount would be acceptable.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Meanwhile, I will continue to work away on your behalf at Court. The factions are already forming. Viscount Havelock has the largest but the Earl of Banbury is busy gathering his forces.’ He gave a grin of self-congratulation. ‘I, too, have assembled friends around me. Sir Patrick Skelton has been won over to our side and several others besides.’

‘These are cheerful tidings,’ said Firethorn.

‘They are, Lawrence. And it is not openly among the men that I have recruited support. Several ladies have indicated a preference for Westfield’s Men. Cordelia Bartram among them.’

Nicholas was taken aback. ‘Cordelia Bartram, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘The Countess of Dartford.’

‘Is she not a fabled beauty?’ asked Firethorn.

‘And rightly so, Lawrence. She is wasted on that old fool of a husband she married. No,’ said Lord Westfield with a knowing chuckle, ‘I was not at all surprised when Cordelia threw her weight behind us. It is one sure way to strike back at Viscount Havelock.’

‘Why should she wish to do that?’ said Nicholas.

‘Revenge,’ said the other. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman spurned. Before she was married, it is rumoured, Cordelia was his mistress until he cast her aside. The Countess of Dartford would love to see Havelock’s Men perish.’