The Wanton Angel

Chapter Two

Lucius Kindell was mystified by the amiable clamour in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. He shook his head in disbelief.

‘It is perverse,’ he said.

‘What is?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘This merriment. This unwonted revelry. How can they possibly laugh so after such a dark tragedy?’

‘It is the laughter of relief,’ said the Welshman before emptying the remains of his ale in one loud gulp. ‘Confronted with so much death in The Insatiate Duke, they want to remind themselves that they are still alive.’

Kindell was unconvinced. ‘Unless it be that our play had no real hold on the audience. It amused them for a couple of hours then they shrugged it off like a garment for which they no longer have any use.’

‘It held them, Lucius,’ said Elias. ‘By the throat.’

‘Yes,’ added Sylvester Pryde earnestly. ‘This jollity is no criticism of your play but a tribute to it.’

‘I would like to think so,’ said Kindell.

‘You heard that applause,’ said Pryde. ‘You saw how both play and players were hailed. Our audience recognises quality. That is what The Insatiate Duke had in abundance. It is a tragedy with considerable power, is it not, Owen?’

‘Indeed, it is, Sylvester.’

‘Power and depth of feeling. It provokes thought.’

‘And the urge to get drunk,’ said a smiling Kindell.

‘That is human nature.’

Sylvester Pryde gave him a friendly pat on the back and the young playwright was reassured. The two men had lifted his spirits, which, having soared to such heights during the performance, were bound to plunge somewhat in its wake. Owen Elias was an established member of the company and a sound judge of new plays yet it was Pryde’s commendation which Kindell valued most even though the former was a relative newcomer to Westfield’s Men. There was a supreme poise and confidence about the man which invested all he said with an instant veracity.

Westfield’s Men had taken time to appreciate Sylvester Pryde’s good qualities. When he first became a sharer with the company, he aroused both envy and hostility. Actors of far greater talent and experience were jealous of a man who was straightway elevated above them by dint of his financial investment and his fellow sharers resented what they saw as his easy arrogance, but, with a combination of industry and persuasion, Pryde soon brought both parties around to a more favourable view of him. Elias, one of his sternest critics at first, was now his closest friend in the company. The Welshman was cheerfully resigned to the fact that the handsome Pryde enjoyed far more success among the ladies than he himself.

Lucius Kindell was dazzled by the new sharer. It was not just the man’s wit and intelligence which appealed to him. He was also impressed by Pryde’s aristocratic mien and by the whiff of audacity which hung about him. Tall, slim and elegant, Sylvester Pryde was a traveller and a talker, a free spirit, a roving adventurer. His deficiencies as an actor were offset by a striking appearance which enabled him to decorate the stage superbly and by an irresistible charm. The cost and cut of his apparel suggested private wealth and this had estranged some of his colleagues at the outset until they saw how generous he was with his money. It won him universal acceptance.

Stroking a neatly trimmed beard, Pryde winked at Kindell.

‘Are you content, Lucius?’

‘Very content.’

‘You are crowned with laurels today.’

‘The play owes more to Edmund than to me.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Elias. ‘It is Edmund who is beholden to you, Lucius. Had you not created the role of Cardinal Boccherini, we would not have known what a brilliant actor Edmund really is. And, fine playwright though he may be, I am not sure that he would have tackled a theme as serious and weighty as this without your collaboration.’

‘Enjoy your success,’ advised Pryde.

‘Savour each second of it, Lucius.’

‘That is what I am doing,’ said the playwright. ‘This is truly the happiest day of my life.’

‘Greater triumphs lie ahead,’ predicted Elias.

‘Far greater,’ said Pryde with beaming certainty. ‘A glittering career stands before you, my friend. We have chosen well, Lucius, you and I. Westfield’s Men is the finest company in London and hence in the whole of Europe. My own poor skills as an actor have improved with each day I have spent in the company and your genius has found a true home.’

‘I know, Sylvester,’ said Kindell. ‘Truly, I have been blessed. Westfield’s Men are supreme.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ asked Elias.

‘Yes, Owen!’

‘Then buy us more ale and we will toast the company!’ He let out a guffaw which rose above the tumult around him. The arrival of a familiar figure jerked him up from his bench. ‘At last, Edmund! Where have you been? We have had to fight to keep you a place at the table. Sit here with us, man.’

‘I am not sure that I may,’ said Hoode nervously.

‘May and must,’ insisted the Welshman. ‘Here is Lucius Kindell, your co-conspirator in brilliant invention, flushed with triumph and anxious to have you beside him to share in his joy. Sit, drink and surrender yourself.’

‘I wish that I could.’

‘Why, what is there to stop you?’

‘A wailing landlord.’

‘That maggoty Marwood?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting a fearsome blow to fall. ‘He has cast a black shadow over our celebrations.’

‘From what I hear,’ said Pryde, ‘that is nothing new. This hangdog landlord is the sworn enemy of pleasure. That hideous face of his was fashioned for Doomsday. Ignore him, Edmund.’

‘If only I could.’

‘What is his complaint against us now?’ asked Kindell.

‘I do not know, Lucius but I am sore troubled.’

Elias was baffled. When they left the stage after the performance, Edmund Hoode was glowing with joy and with a sense of fulfilment. They had never seen him so elated. A changed man now stood before them. Gone was the wide grin, the shining face and the sparkling eyes. Hoode was now in the grip of a melancholy of almost Marwoodian depth.

‘Did you not renew our contract?’ said Elias.

‘Yes,’ replied Hoode.

‘And will we not play here for another six months?’

‘A year, Owen.’

‘Then why this moon-faced moping?’

‘It was the ambush.’

‘Ambush?’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode, flicking another apprehensive glance over his shoulder. ‘Our landlord has changed his mind, it seems. No sooner had we bought wine to celebrate our triumph than he jumps out of the crowd and informs us that the contract is void and that we must quit the Queen’s Head at once.’

‘This does not make sense,’ observed Pryde. ‘The landlord needs the company here. It adds lustre and draws in custom. How many of these people would be here if they had not just witnessed a play in the yard?’

‘Very few,’ decided Elias. ‘This is some jest, Edmund. Practised on you by that misery-monger, Alexander Marwood.’

‘He is incapable of a jest.’

‘What, then, does this portend?’ said a worried Kindell.

Hoode rolled his eyes in despair and sighed dramatically.

‘Disaster,’ he concluded. ‘It was bound to come sooner or later. I knew that my happiness could not last. I knew that I would have to pay dearly for the folly of imagining that fortune had at last smiled on me. It has happened. I sense disaster in the wind. Brace yourselves, lads. Unless I am greatly mistaken, we are about to be struck by a veritable thunderbolt.’

‘Out, out, out!’ demanded Alexander Marwood, stamping a foot.

‘We will not budge an inch,’ said Firethorn defiantly. ‘We have every right to be here and here we will remain.’

‘Then I will summon officers to have you evicted.’

‘On what grounds?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Trespass!’

‘This is a public hostelry, Master Marwood.’

‘I may turn away interlopers if I choose.’

‘Interlopers!’ exclaimed Firethorn. ‘You dare to call us interlopers when we have filled your coffers and kept your customers entertained all these years without a word of thanks from you or your wife? Interlopers, indeed!’

‘Aye,’ said Marwood. ‘Interlopers and lechers!’

‘Silence!’

Lawrence Firethorn’s command was like the blast of a cannon and it left Marwood’s ears ringing. Nicholas stepped between actor and landlord before the former began to rain blows down on the latter’s head. They were in the yard of the Queen’s Head and the stage was still being dismantled behind them. The book holder was as befuddled as Firethorn by the unexpected turn of events. Why had Marwood pounced on them so vengefully? Nicholas was grateful that he had brought the argument out into the fresh air. An unseemly row in the middle of the taproom would have advantaged nobody. Even in the yard the raised voices were arousing immense curiosity.

‘Let us discuss the matter calmly,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘How can I be calm in front of this death’s head?’ said Firethorn, jabbing a finger at the landlord. ‘The very sight of him puts me to choler. Away, you walking pestilence!’

‘It is you who must leave, sir!’ insisted Marwood.

‘Make us!’

‘Constables will do the office for me.’

‘But why?’ asked Nicholas reasonably.

‘Because I want you off my property.’

‘For what reason?’

‘The worst kind, Master Bracewell.’

‘We are still none the wiser.’

‘I am too ashamed even to speak the words.’

‘Then at least give us some hint of how we have caused you such displeasure. Not ten minutes ago, we were agreeing terms and parting as friends. What killed that friendship so soon?’

‘Ask among your fellows,’ said Marwood darkly.

‘My fellows?’

‘One of them will know.’

‘Know what, you map of woe?’ growled Firethorn.

‘The cause why I behave thus.’

‘Behave how you wish,’ said the other tartly, ‘it will not shift us from here. The law is the law. We have a contract.’

‘I will burn it to cinders.’

‘You signed it. In front of witnesses.’

‘I repent that now.’

‘Too late. The contract protects us.’

‘Contracts can be dissolved. And this one has been.’

‘On the whim of a lunatic?’

‘One moment,’ said Nicholas, quickly interrupting before Firethorn’s anger exceeded his control. ‘Let me ask this of Master Marwood. Have you discussed this with your lawyer?’

‘My lawyer?’ grunted the landlord.

‘Do you act on the advice of Ezekiel Stonnard?’

‘He would support me to the hilt!’

‘That is not quite true,’ said Stonnard, who had been hovering within earshot and who now trotted forward to join in the debate. ‘I would need to know all the facts before I made a considered judgement. What I have gleaned so far has left me in a state of some confusion.’

‘The law is on our side!’ asserted Firethorn.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Stonnard with a polite snigger. ‘Do not try to do our work for us, Master Firethorn, or you will be the loser, sir. Leave the law unto trained lawyers.’

‘We have a contract. You witnessed it.’

‘Indeed, I did. It is a legal document.’

‘Then it cannot be revoked by this twitching idiot.’

‘Not unless its terms have been broken.’

‘They have!’ moaned Marwood. ‘Cruelly broken.’

‘In what way?’ yelled Firethorn.

Nicholas moved in again. ‘That is something which Master Marwood would prefer to discuss with his lawyer, I think,’ he said tactfully. ‘Let us withdraw so that he may do so. When Master Stonnard is in possession of all the facts, I am sure that he will communicate them to us.’

‘Rest assured that I will,’ said Stonnard.

‘I want them off my premises!’ howled Marwood.

‘We hold our ground!’ retorted Firethorn.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Nicholas, guessing at the cause of this sudden turn in their fortunes. ‘Perhaps we should quit the Queen’s Head for a while and take our celebrations elsewhere. There are inns enough nearby and the taproom is too full to admit of any real comfort. Let us withdraw,’ he said, taking Firethorn by the arm. ‘Not in any spirit of retreat but as a favour to Master Marwood so that we do not offend him any more than we obviously have.’

‘This is sage advice,’ said Stonnard.

Marwood disagreed, crying out for them to be forcibly ejected, and Firethorn’s response was even more vehement but Nicholas’s guidance was followed. The lawyer placated the landlord and the actor allowed himself to be taken back into the inn by the book holder. Lunging forward, Marwood grabbed Stonnard by both hands.

‘Help me!’ he pleaded.

‘I will do all that I may, sir.’

‘Find a means to expel Westfield’s Men hence.’

‘That will not be easy, I fear.’

‘They must go. At whatever costs.’

‘Ah,’ said Stonnard, smirking at the mention of money. ‘While we are on the subject of cost, allow me to present you with my bill for services already rendered today.’ Detaching himself from Marwood, he handed him a scroll. ‘Now, sir. This is clearly a matter of weight and deserves close attention. Let us find a more private place to talk.’ Sensing that a large fee might be in the offing, he rubbed his palms together. ‘I long to hear what has prompted this change of heart.’

‘Sybil,’ murmured the other.

‘What is that you say?’

‘My wife, sir. She and I have been betrayed.’

‘How?’

‘Utterly.’

Lord Westfield was perturbed. Though no words were spoken directly to him, and though he overheard nothing which might occasion alarm, he saw the knowing glances, the subtle signals and the telltale nudges which passed between his enemies at Court. Something was afoot and he was deliberately excluded from it. The look which the Earl of Banbury shot him across the Presence Chamber was confirmation enough. A single mocking eyebrow, raised for no more than a few seconds by his deadliest rival, sent quiet tremors through Lord Westfield. Evidently, the earl and his cronies had devised some cunning plan. One thing was clear: Lord Westfield would be its victim rather than its beneficiary.

Visits to the Palace of Whitehall were usually events to relish. Surrounded by his own friends, he preened himself shamelessly, exchanged brittle gossip, paid fulsome compliments to the court ladies in their bright plumage, received, in turn, praise for his theatre company from all objective observers, rubbed shoulders with men of influence and was generally given such a sense of his own importance that he could sneer openly at his detractors. From time to time, he was even favoured with a few words from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. It was an idle but wholly satisfying existence. Lord Westfield luxuriated in it.

Today, however, it was very different. Almost none of his intimate friends were at Court and persons of consequence seemed strangely uninterested in conversing with him. When her Grace made her accustomed flamboyant entrance and swept across to the throne, seizing attention with sovereign assurance, Lord Westfield felt oddly out of place, a foreigner making his first bemused appearance in London, an outsider, a newcomer, an exile. It was a paradox. In the place where he was most at home, he was now an unwanted intruder. It made him furtive.

There was no opportunity to get within five yards of the Queen. Ringed by her favourites, she flirted gaily and indulged in badinage until the Portuguese ambassador was admitted to the Chamber with his train and a less sportive note was introduced. Pleasantries passed between the two countries but Lord Westfield did not even try to listen to them. His gaze was fixed on the hated Earl of Banbury, an unrepentant old sybarite with a goatee beard and such costly apparel that it stood out even in such a glorious wardrobe as the English Court. What was his rival up to this time? It was a question which tormented Lord Westfield for hours.

Only when the Queen departed could he begin to seek an answer to his question. As they streamed out of the Presence Chamber in chattering groups, Lord Westfield tried first to engage the Master of the Revels in conversation but the latter excused himself rather brusquely and strode off. Even more disturbed than before, Lord Westfield now fell in beside Sir Patrick Skelton, a short, stocky man in his forties with the distinctive strut of a seasoned courtier. Skelton had such an affable manner that no rebuff could be feared from him and, though he was a deeply political animal, he also had a rare capacity for honesty in a world where dissembling was the more common currency. When the moment served, Lord Westfield took him by the elbow and guided him into a quiet corner.

‘A word, Sir Patrick,’ he said.

‘As many as you like, my lord,’ came the obliging reply.

‘Her Majesty was in fine fettle today.’

‘When is she not? Even the sprightliest of us is put to shame by her vivacity.’ He gave a benign smile. ‘But that is not what you drew me aside to talk about, my lord, is it?’

‘No, Sir Patrick.’

There was a long pause as Lord Westfield searched for the right words to broach an awkward topic. Skelton tried to help him out of his difficulty.

‘You wish to ask me about affairs of state,’ he prompted.

‘Yes.’

‘Then do not be diffident. It does not become you and it sits ill with your reputation for plain speaking.’

Lord Westfield cleared his throat. ‘You are trusted and respected,’ he began, ‘as a man of complete integrity. Though you hear every whisper that flies around inside these ancient walls, you are careful to separate idle speculation from hard fact. You never spread wild rumours or pass on any of the scurrilous tales which daily reach your ears.’

‘Spare me this flattery, my lord. It is not needed.’

‘I merely wished to show you the high esteem in which I hold you, Sir Patrick.’

‘Your praise is gratefully accepted. Now speak out.’

‘What is going on?’

‘Going on, my lord?’

‘Something is in the wind concerning my theatre company and I have a strong feeling that Westfield’s Men will suffer as a result. I would like some warning of what exact form the threat takes.’

‘How do you know that there is a threat?’

‘Because of the way the Earl of Banbury looked at me.’

‘That is all the evidence you have?’

‘It is enough in itself.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Then add to it the fact that his friends were clearly in on the conspiracy and enjoying themselves at my expense.’

‘Conspiracy? Too strong a word, surely?’

‘I think not. The Master of the Revels is involved in it.’

‘Why,’ said the other softly, ‘what is Sir Edmund Tilney’s crime against you? Has he, too, been guilty of looking at you in a certain way?’

‘He ignored me, Sir Patrick.’

‘That is unlikely in so courteous a gentleman.’

‘When I tried to speak with him, he mumbled an excuse and walked away. That was scarcely an act of courtesy.’

‘The Master of the Revels is a busy man with extremely wide responsibilities. It was not rudeness which made him behave thus but pressure of work. I happen to know that, at this very moment, he has a private audience with her Grace. He was no doubt hurrying off to attend her.’

‘What is the subject of their discussion?’

Skelton shrugged. ‘I can only hazard a guess.’

‘My guess is that it touches on Westfield’s Men.’

‘Perhaps, my lord, but then again, perhaps not. And even if your troupe does come into the conversation, it may not be a cause for apprehension. The only time I heard her Grace mention Westfield’s Men by name was to praise the quality of their performances.’

‘Is that true?’ said the other, snatching up the crumb of comfort. ‘When was this? What were her precise words? Did her Grace mention me?’

‘You and your company earned favourable comment. That is all I can remember, my lord. And Sir Edmund Tilney is even more aware of your pre-eminence. The Master of the Revels reads every new play you intend to perform to ensure that it is fit to receive his licence. He knows the high standards to which your players have always adhered.’

‘Then why does he ignore me?’

‘Her Majesty, the Queen, had prior claims, alas.’

‘That still leaves the Earl of Banbury.’

‘And, if I may remind you, Viscount Havelock.’

‘He has no part in this.’

‘But he does, my lord,’ said Skelton. ‘Banbury’s Men are your closest rivals, it is true, but your company also has to compete with Havelock’s Men. Viscount Havelock is as much a sworn foe of yours as the good Earl. Did you receive hostile glances from the Viscount?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Did he spurn you in any way?’

‘Far from it,’ admitted the other. ‘He smiled civilly at me and exchanged a polite word. Viscount Havelock is a man of true breeding — unlike a certain Earl.’

‘Does not one rival cancel out another?’

‘I do not follow.’

‘Courtesy from one balances conspiracy from the other. Take heart from that, my lord. Viscount Havelock is far closer to the centre of power than the Earl. His uncle sits on the Privy Council. The Viscount would be the first to learn of anything which adversely affected Westfield’s Men and, by implication, which advantaged his own company.’ Skelton gave another shrug. ‘You are chasing moonbeams here. You have invented a conspiracy which may not even exist.’

‘I know the Earl of Banbury.’

‘He was merely trying to slight you.’

‘He was gloating, Sir Patrick.’

‘Over what?’

‘I dread to think.’

‘But calm thought is exactly what is required here,’ said the other. ‘Your imagination has got the better of you, my lord. Apply cool reason. The Earl may have been savouring a personal triumph which has nothing whatsoever to do with his theatre company. A new mistress, perhaps? A banquet he is due to attend? An inheritance which will help to defray the massive debts he faces? Some small sign of favour from her Grace? The possibilities are endless.’

‘I am somehow involved.’

‘Only if you let yourself be, my lord.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a mere game. You and the earl have played it for years. There have been many times when you have been able to score off him and you savoured those occasions. I have been in Court to witness them. Might he not simply have been trying to get some small revenge today? Seeking to unsettle you out of sheer mischief. Come, my lord,’ he said with a smile. ‘It is not like you to be so needlessly upset by your rival. Do not give him the pleasure of ruffling your feathers.’

‘Nor will I,’ vowed Lord Westfield.

‘Hold fast to that resolve.’

‘I defy the earl and his ragged band of players.’

‘He is envious of the success of Westfield’s Men.’

‘With justice.’

‘Then no more of these phantom fears.’

‘They are banished forthwith,’ said Lord Westfield firmly but he immediately succumbed to another tremble of fright. ‘Just tell me this, Sir Patrick, for I know you will be blunt and candid. It is the last question with which I will plague you, I promise.’

‘Then ask it, sir.’

‘Have you heard anything from the chambers of power that will be to the detriment of Westfield’s Men?’

Sir Patrick Skelton gave an easy smile.

‘No, my lord,’ he said confidently.

The courtier excused himself and slipped away to join the stragglers. Lord Westfield was glad that he had sought his information from such a dependable source but he was worried that he did not feel more reassured. As he made his way out of the Palace of Westminster, it was the gloating Earl rather than the comforting courtier who stayed uppermost in his mind. When he came out into the early evening sunshine, Lord Westfield was suddenly struck by another thought.

Something did not ring true. Was it conceivable that Sir Patrick Skelton had deliberately misled him? Could a man who was renowned for his frankness and moral probity have lied to him?

It was the most worrying development of all.

The Cross Keys Inn was less than fifty yards away from the Queen’s Head but the distance between the two establishments seemed more like a mile to the discontented refugees from the latter. Westfield’s Men wandered up Gracechurch Street in a daze, wondering what they had done to get themselves so swiftly evicted from their own theatre at the very moment when they had secured tenure of it for another year. It was both bewildering and humiliating.

Lawrence Firethorn smouldered, Edmund Hoode puzzled, Lucius Kindell was dismayed, Owen Elias was outraged and Sylvester Pryde was highly annoyed. Predictably, it was Barnaby Gill who led the chorus of protest, rounding on Nicholas Bracewell and wagging an accusing finger at him.

‘This is your doing,’ he spluttered.

‘I simply advised caution, Master Gill.’

‘You forced us to quit the premises.’

‘That is not true,’ said Nicholas.

‘At the instigation of the landlord, you threw us out of the Queen’s Head as if we were drunk and disorderly.’

Nicholas was patient. ‘All I did was to try to take the heat out of this altercation, and that could only be done by getting out of his sight. Alexander Marwood was implacable. Why stay there to enrage him with our presence? It is much more sensible to withdraw awhile in order to allow his lawyer time and space in which to calm him down.’

‘I’ll calm him down!’ said Firethorn. ‘With my dagger.’

‘That would be too quick a death for him,’ added Elias. ‘I’d rather roast him over a slow fire and cool him down from time to time by dipping him in a barrel of his own beer.’

‘You’d contaminate the liquid,’ said Firethorn.

‘This landlord contaminates us all,’ said Gill, throwing a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. ‘Instead of hurling me out, he should be grovelling on his knees in gratitude to me for deigning to display my talents on his premises. I’ll not endure this, Nicholas. I have left the Queen’s Head for ever.’

‘We have a contract,’ Nicholas reminded him.

‘Then why does the rogue not honour it?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You spoke with him. You must have some idea.’

Nicholas made no reply. He had already guessed the reason for Marwood’s rash behaviour but he did not want to voice it abroad until he had confirmation. It was essentially a matter to be discussed in private rather than a subject for ribald comment in the street. Gill continued to press him but the book holder would not be drawn. His immediate concern was to get his company into the taproom of the Cross Keys where fresh wine and ale would assuage their hurt feelings. The mood of celebration would soon return and most of his fellows would quickly forget that Alexander Marwood even existed as they revelled on into the night.

When they reached the inn, Owen Elias led the way through its yard and into its welcoming interior. Like the Queen’s Head, it was a regular venue for the performance of plays though no company had been in residence that afternoon. The landlord was delighted to see a large bevy of thirsty patrons surging into his taproom to fill his empty tables. Brisk business was transacted with the servingmen. Westfield’s Men still grumbled but their recriminations lost some bitterness when they supped their first drinks.

Firethorn took Nicholas aside for private conference.

‘What is happening, Nick?’ he said.

‘That is what I will endeavour to find out.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I have seen the company settled in here, I’ll return to the Queen’s Head to speak with Master Stonnard. He will be able to cast some light on this unfortunate incident.’

‘Unfortunate! It is an insult to us!’

‘Bear it with dignity.’

‘How can I be dignified when we are so disgraced?’

‘There is no disgrace in withdrawing of our own volition. The Queen’s Head was too crowded for once with little enough room for our fellows to stretch in any comfort. Here they have space and comfort.’

‘And a landlord who knows how to smile.’

‘That, too. The crisis is over.’

‘But what brought it about in the first place?’

‘Can you not guess?’

There was a long pause. For the first time since the confrontation with their testy landlord, Firethorn put aside his own anger and applied some thought to the situation. Instead of glowering, his face became a study in wonderment. Eyebrows slowly arched, eyes glinted, jaw dropped. He stepped in close to speak in an undertone.

‘Is that what this is all about, Nick?’

‘I believe so.’

‘No wonder he was so furious.’

‘That fury will abate in our absence.’

‘But he still has no cause to abuse the whole company.’

‘I will tax him with that argument.’

‘Shall I go with you?’

‘Delicate negotiations may be needed,’ said Nicholas. ‘The less people involved, the better.’ Firethorn gave a nod of assent. ‘And please do not spread our suspicion freely among the others. We may yet be wrong.’

‘And if we are not?’

‘Then we take the appropriate action.’

‘What is that?’

‘I will not know until the full facts are at my disposal.’

‘We must retain the Queen’s Head,’ said Firethorn with an edge of desperation. ‘We belong there, Nick. Our tenancy has not been without turmoil but that makeshift stage of ours is still my favourite theatre.’

‘And mine.’

‘Can this rift be mended?’

Nicholas Bracewell looked across at the members of the company, robbed of their security in the twinkling of an eye and experiencing once more the cruel precariousness of their profession. Good humour was slowly returning and the first jest was cracked by Owen Elias but they were still nursing their wounded pride. Entitled to celebrate the success of their performance, they had instead been ignominiously turned out into the street. On their behalf, Nicholas was profoundly shocked and saddened.

‘Can it, Nick?’ pressed Firethorn.

‘I hope so.’

Ezekiel Stonnard needed all his patience to cope with his garrulous client. Seated in a private room with writing materials before him, he waited for facts which could be recorded but they took time to emerge from the landlord’s cloudburst of vituperation. It was only when the storm had blown itself out that he could probe for detail. Alexander Marwood crossed to the window and drooped in front of it, staring out despondently at the yard where the troupe had so recently enthralled yet another audience. Stonnard rose to join him at the window.

‘I am hampered by a shortage of information,’ he said.

‘And I have too much to bear.’

‘Then unburden it to me, Master Marwood.’

‘I cannot bring myself to do so.’

‘You must. I am your lawyer and, I like to believe, your good friend. You may entrust any intelligence to me. A lawyer is a species of priest, taking confession.’

‘You are more likely to administer last rites here.’

‘But why? That is what I do not yet grasp. Why?’

Marwood was about to answer when his eye alighted on a figure who had just entered the inn yard. The sight of Nicholas Bracewell was like a dagger through the landlord’s heart. He let out a cry, grabbed at his chest and fell backwards into the lawyer’s arms. Stonnard disentangled himself.

‘What ails you, sir?’

‘A member of that accursed company has returned.’

‘Let me see.’

Stonnard was just in time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas before the latter came into the building. His response was in sharp contrast to that of his client.

‘This is an accident that heaven provides,’ he said with an oleaginous grin. ‘They have sent an emissary. This matter can be resolved before Westfield’s Men engage their own lawyer to take the case to litigation.’

‘Could they do that, Master Stonnard?’

‘All too easily. You signed that contract.’

‘Before I knew the ugly truth.’

‘That does not matter. You are legally bound to observe the terms of that contract. Now, sir,’ he said, leading Marwood to a chair and lowering him into it. ‘Acquaint me with the full facts, then I will summon Nicholas Bracewell to discuss the situation in an amicable atmosphere.

‘Amicable!’

‘Free from harsh language.’

‘I am undone,’ said Marwood, sagging forward. ‘You ask me to make peace with my vilest enemy.’

‘I ask you to instruct your attorney, sir.’

The story eventually began to dribble out. Torn between anger and self-pity, the landlord gave a rambling account of the marital interchange in his daughter’s bedchamber. Ezekiel Stonnard listened without interruption. When Marwood came to the end of his sorry tale, he put his head in his hands and sobbed bitterly. Stonnard gave him token comfort before urging him to compose himself.

‘Their ambassador must be seen,’ he insisted. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is a sound man, untouched by the vanity of the players and straightforward in his dealings. Did you not tell me that you have always found him so?’

‘Yes,’ conceded the other.

‘I will fetch him.’

‘But he is one of them.’

‘All the more reason to meet with him. Westfield’s Men must be appeased or this quarrel will catch fire and we all may be burnt by its flames.’ He introduced the argument which would have the most influence on his client. ‘This could be costly, sir.’

‘Costly?’ gasped the other.

‘Extremely costly.’

Marwood finally capitulated and Stonnard left the room at once. When he returned, he was towing Nicholas Bracewell in his wake, alternately patronising and apologising to him. They came into the room and closed the door behind them. The landlord refused even to meet the newcomer’s eyes. Nicholas addressed him with studied politeness.

‘I am sorry that we have caused you such distress,’ he said. ‘It was not intended.’

Marwood remained silent. Ezekiel Stonnard took over.

‘Do you know the cause of that distress, sir?’

‘I think so,’ said Nicholas.

‘Well?’

‘Mistress Rose is with child.’

Her father went off into a paroxysm of coughing. They waited until the fit had passed before continuing.

‘Who told you?’ asked Stonnard.

‘It is the only explanation,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it was hinted at by Master Marwood when he assailed us as lechers.’ He turned to the landlord. ‘Name the man responsible for this and he will be roundly chastised before being made to honour his obligations.’

Marwood looked up. ‘Name him?’

‘We hoped that you might do that,’ said Stonnard to Nicholas. ‘Identify the villain.’

‘Has he not boasted to you of his conquest?’ sneered the landlord. ‘My daughter would not yield up his loathsome name. All she would admit was that he was one of the players. Rose described him as a tall, handsome, loving man.’

‘Did she say no more than that?’ asked Nicholas.

Stonnard shook his head. ‘By all accounts, it was a trial to get that much out of the girl. She is deeply confused. Two facts, however, are certain. The poor creature is, alas, with child. And the father is a member of your company. We look to you to root him out so that he can be held to account.’

‘I will help in any way I can,’ volunteered Nicholas, ‘but the faults of one man must not be allowed to poison your view of the entire company. Westfield’s Men have signed a contract and we expect Master Marwood to abide by it.’

‘He will do so,’ soothed Stonnard. ‘In time.’

‘When the rogue has been unmasked,’ croaked Marwood. He glared at Nicholas. ‘I daresay that you may already guess at his name. A tall, handsome, loving man! Which is another way of saying that he is a vile seducer who takes advantage of a virtuous and God-fearing maid behind her father’s back. Who is he?’ he demanded querulously. ‘You have an insatiate duke among your fellows, sir. Tell me his foul name.’

‘When I learn it,’ promised Nicholas, ‘I will.’

Nobody saw him leave. Sylvester Pryde was roistering with his fellows at the Crossed Keys for an hour or more before he slid quietly off into the shadows. They would not miss him. Drink and exhilaration were powerful allies. They would soon obliterate all memory of Sylvester Pryde as Westfield’s Men lurched happily on towards the stupor which would bring an end to their madcap celebrations.

The actor flitted swiftly through a maze of streets until he came to a large house on a corner. Unlike its timber-framed neighbours, which were all thatched, the house was tiled and had recently been given a fresh coat of paint. It was patently owned by someone with moderate wealth and a pride in his home. The visitor was grateful that the householder was travelling to Norwich on business, blithely unaware of the fact that his beautiful young wife might entertain a guest in his absence.

Sylvester Pryde lurked in a doorway and watched the window of the bedchamber at the front of the house. It was only a matter of minutes before a candle was lit to signal that the coast was clear. He allowed himself a smile of anticipation before letting himself in through the unlocked front door. She was ready for him and it was an article of faith with him that he never kept a lady waiting.