The Wanton Angel

Chapter Five

Alexander Marwood was a soul in torment. Clad in his night attire but fearing that he would never again know the joys of slumber, he paced relentlessly up and down, his face so animated by nervous twitches that it changed its shape and expression with every second. His wife, Sybil, was propped up in bed in a state of ruminative anger, her features set in stone but her eyes gently smouldering. Marwood travelled aimlessly on. A bedchamber which had long been an instrument of torture to him now inflicted further refinements of pain. The agony reached the point where it burst out of him in a piercing yell.

‘Arghhhhh!’

‘What ails you, sir?’ asked Sybil.

‘Everything,’ he moaned. ‘My debts, my troubles, my misery. The whole of my life ails me! I am in Purgatory.’

‘No,’ she scolded. ‘You are in a bedchamber with your wife. Do you think that is Purgatory?’

Marwood bit back an affirmative retort.

‘Look at my situation,’ he wailed. ‘A daughter who has brought shame and ignominy down on me. An actor who was responsible for her condition yet whom I am powerless to evict. And now this latest threat to my sanity. A rumoured decision of the Privy Council to close all inn yard theatres.’

‘I would have thought you would welcome that decision.’

‘Welcome it, Sybil!’

‘It achieves what you and that costly lawyer, Ezekiel Stonnard, have failed to do. It throws Westfield’s Men out of the Queen’s Head and rids us of the father of Rose’s child.’

‘Yes, my love, and I would give it my blessing if it did not also deprive us of such a large part of our income. I long to sever my contract with Westfield’s Men but only in order to replace them with another company, much more trustworthy and amenable.’

‘You have always hated players.’

‘I hate beer but I have no qualms about selling it.’

‘You are perverse, Alexander.’

‘I have to look to the future,’ he said. ‘As you have so often pointed out to me, a theatre company brings custom here in abundance. To lose that source of money would be ruinous.’

‘What do you intend to do about it?’

‘Register my complaint in the strongest language.’

‘To whom?’

‘The Privy Council.’

‘Ha! What notice would they take of a mere innkeeper?’

‘I am wounded by this decision, Sybil.’

‘We both are, sir,’ she said sharply, ‘but not so deep a wound as the one inflicted on us by our own daughter. That is what vexes me night and day.’

‘And me. And me.’

‘Then why have you not found the name of the father?’

‘I might ask the same of you.’

‘Rose is headstrong. She will not tell me.’

‘Press her more closely.’

‘Do you dare to instruct me?’ she said warningly.

He backed off at once. ‘No, no, Sybil. You know best how to handle the girl. You always have. But it is a wonder to me that you have not prised the name out of her.’

‘It is protected by a lover’s vow.’

‘This lover’s vow is more like a leper’s handshake.’

‘Rose is young and vulnerable,’ said his wife with a grim nostalgia, ‘as I once was. Vows exchanged in the heat of passion can bind for life. I found that out to my cost.’

Marwood did not dare to probe her meaning. When he thought of his daughter, he remembered that the last time his wife had given him the delights due to a husband was on the night when Rose was conceived. The girl was a living symbol of his years of deprivation. The fact that she herself, unmarried and not even betrothed, had savoured the pleasures of carnal love came as a huge shock to him. His lip curled vengefully.

‘We must find the villain!’

‘That was your office, Alexander.’

‘I taxed Master Firethorn by the hour.’

‘What has he done?’

‘Asked his book holder to look into the matter.’

‘Did Nicholas Bracewell not track down the villain?’ she said in surprise. ‘Then the man is more cunning than we thought. If he can elude someone as sharp-eyed as Master Bracewell, what hope do we have of finding him?’

‘Rose.’

‘Her lips will not speak his name.’

‘Nor will those of the players,’ said Marwood, ‘though some of them must surely know who the rogue is. Such men always boast of their conquests. Half the company have probably heard the story of how he seduced Rose Marwood.’ He came to a sudden halt and stamped both feet in turn. ‘This is unbearable. I am in Hell itself!’

‘Keep your voice down, Alexander.’

‘I will expire from a broken heart.’

‘You will do nothing of the kind, sir. You will stay on the trail of this man until you run him down. It is only a question of time. Rose admitted that he was an actor so we know that he is a member of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Or was, Sybil.’

‘Was?’

‘That was Nicholas Bracewell’s thought. Haply, the man is no longer with them. The company changes all the time. In the course of a season, they take on and release a number of hired men. Rose’s lover could have been one of them.’ He plucked recklessly at his few remaining tufts of hair. ‘He may not even be in London any more. He may be sowing his vile seed a hundred miles away.’

She became indignant. ‘Spare me such foul language, sir.’

‘I am sorry. Despair got the better of me, Sybil.’

‘Then take your despair elsewhere if it makes your tongue run with such filth. I expect purity in my bedchamber.’

Marwood did not have the courage to mention his own blighted expectations with regard to the marital couch. They had withered on the vine many years ago. When he looked at Sybil now, a lump of human granite in billowing white linen, he marvelled at the fact that they had somehow, somewhere, in the distant recesses of time and by a grotesque error, actually had a semblance of affection for each other which had enabled them to produce a child. Marwood gurgled. Every second of illusory pleasure which he experienced that night had cost him hour upon hour of excruciating pain.

Sybil had closed her eyes and fallen so eerily silent that he supposed her to be asleep. After another frantic stroll up and down the room, he went to the bed and climbed carefully in beside her. His wife let out a deep murmur.

‘Master Pryde!’

‘Who?’

‘Sylvester Pryde,’ she said firmly. ‘I have come to believe that he was Rose’s downfall.’

‘Which one is he, Sybil?’

‘The handsome man with airs and graces. He wears fine apparel and has a quality most of his fellows lack. His beard is always well-trimmed. He is more liberal with his purse than the others, more courteous, too. Rose noticed him.’

Envy stirred. ‘It seems that she was not the only one!’

‘I was only displaying a mother’s vigilance.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Marwood with a mollifying touch on her arm. ‘What astounds me is how he managed to evade your vigilance. It has kept Rose safe from harm for so long. The man we seek is clearly Deception itself.’

‘Sylvester Pryde may fit that description.’

‘But he was questioned along with the others and found innocent of the charge. Nicholas Bracewell would have put serious questions to him.’

‘I would like to do that myself,’ said Sybil darkly. ‘This Sylvester Pryde is altogether too plausible. I have a strong sense that he is involved here. When I mentioned his name to Rose, she blushed crimson.’

‘Let me at him!’ said her husband, flaring into life again. ‘I’ll take a pair of shears and geld the knave.’ He made such a violent gesture with his hands that the bedside candle was blown out by the displaced air. ‘I’ll insist that Master Firethorn expels the miscreant at once.’

‘We have first to be certain of his guilt, Alexander. And that can only be done by wresting a confession from Rose. I’ll work more craftily on her.’

‘Do so, Sybil. Practice on her. Wear her down. You are well-versed in that black art.’

‘What black art?’ she asked.

‘I spoke in jest,’ he said, regretting his momentary lapse into honesty about his wife. ‘What I was praising was your gifts of persuasion.’

‘I hope so, sir. I am in no mood for censure.’

‘I have complete confidence in you,’ he assured her — then an image of his daughter came suddenly into his mind. He gave an involuntary shiver. ‘When is the unbidden child due?’

‘Forget the child.’

‘How can I forget it when she carries it before her?’

‘We may soon rid ourselves of that burden.’

‘How? That devilish grandchild will be around our necks for the rest of our days. With the whole parish pointing their fingers and laughing at us. We will have to feed, clothe and bring up a bastard child, Sybil.’

‘I’ll not endure that.’

‘You will have to, my love. There is no cure.’

She turned to face him and opened a bulging eye.

‘There is.’

Nicholas Bracewell returned to Bankside that night at a far later hour than he had intended. Having nobly waited up for him, Anne Hendrik, tired and slightly tetchy, was about to scold him for breaking his promise to get back earlier when she saw the deep concern etched in his face. Tiredness fled, tetchiness disappeared and a surge of sympathy ensued. After giving him a welcoming kiss, she led him to the parlour and sat beside him.

‘Something terrible has happened,’ she guessed.

‘It may happen, Anne.’

‘What may?’

‘Extinction.’

When he explained the situation to her, she cursed herself inwardly for imagining for one moment that he had been delayed by some roistering with his fellows in the taproom. Anne knew that she should have had more faith in her lodger. Only a serious crisis would have made Nicholas default on his promise and nothing could be more serious than threat of dissolution.

‘What does Lawrence Firethorn say?’ she asked.

‘I would not care to repeat his words in front of you.’

‘And the others?’

‘Most are resigned to their doom.’

‘Without even fighting for survival?’ she said with spirit. ‘That does not sound like Westfield’s Men. You have overcome plague, puritan attacks, disapproval by the City authorities, a fire at the Queen’s Head, even the imprisonment of Edmund Hoode for seditious libel. Your inn yard playhouse has been closed down before but it has always opened again.’

‘Not this time, Anne.’

‘Only two theatres to remain? It is a scandal.’

Nicholas pursed his lips and nodded. ‘There are those in the Privy Council who believe that theatre itself is a scandal,’ he said philosophically, ‘and they have strong support from the Church. We are up against the great and the good, Anne. They have the power to muzzle us completely.’

‘Is there no way out of this predicament?’

‘Only one and even that might not save us. But at least it would give us a fair chance against our rivals. They would think twice about ending the career of Westfield’s Men so abruptly if we had our own playhouse.’

Anne was incredulous. ‘Your own playhouse?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a wan smile, ‘I know it may sound like a wild dream but it is not outside the bounds of possibility. First, we need a site. Next, we must hire a builder. And then there is the small problem of paying for them both and buying the materials for construction.’

‘Can this be done, Nick?’

‘If we want it enough, it can.’

‘But where would your playhouse be?’

‘Here in Bankside, Anne.’

‘When we already have The Rose?’

‘But that is all you have,’ he said. ‘Shoreditch has two theatres close by each other. If we build a third there, we have to compete with both of the others.’

‘In Bankside you would be up against Havelock’s Men.’

‘True.’

‘And you told me even now that they had some influence with the Privy Council.’

‘Viscount Havelocks’ uncle is a member of it.’

‘Then your cause is lamed from the start.’

‘No, Anne,’ he reasoned. ‘One man does not make the final decision about which two companies survive. The whole Privy Council will sit in judgement and they will take the advice of the Master of the Revels. Sir Edmund Tilney admires our work greatly but deplores our inn yard. In their own playhouse, Westfield’s Men would shine like a jewel in a proper setting.’

‘You would certainly outshine Havelock’s Men.’

‘That is why we must come here.’

‘How was this idea received?’ she asked.

Nicholas grinned. ‘With utter disbelief at first,’ he admitted. ‘Edmund Hoode thought I had taken leave of my senses. Even Owen Elias was sceptical. Most of the others thought the project hopelessly beyond us until I listed some of the advantages with which we start.’

‘Advantages?’

‘We have a company of able-bodied men, Anne. With Nathan Curtis to teach us, we could all turn carpenter and help to build the structure ourselves. That would save us a great deal of money.’

‘You would still need to find a considerable sum.’

‘Sylvester Pryde came to our rescue there.’

‘Sylvester? He has that kind of wealth?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he is acquainted with many people who have. He swore to us that he could raise the bulk of the money for us. I believe him.’

‘Sylvester is the best advantage of all.’

‘Not quite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have another good friend on whom we may call.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Anne Hendrik.’

She was startled. ‘Me!’

‘Yes,’ he explained, ‘the labour is vital and the money imperative but something comes before both.’

‘Choosing the site.’

‘That will be your contribution.’

‘But I know nothing about the building of a playhouse.’

‘You know Bankside better than any of us, Anne. Your trade brings you into contact with people all over Southwark. You have an instinct for business and an eye for a bargain. I’d willingly put my trust in you.’

‘I would not know where to start, Nick.’

‘Here and now,’ he said, kissing her lightly on the lips. ‘I will tell you what features a site must have and you will be well-prepared to begin your search tomorrow. Speed is of the essence here, Anne. A project like this must quickly gather its own momentum or it is lost.’

‘It is certainly an exciting proposal,’ she said.

‘Exciting and inspiring.’

‘With one huge drawback.’

‘What is that?’

‘You might go to all the trouble and expense of building a playhouse, only to find that the Privy Council closes it down again and sends Westfield’s Men into the wilderness.’

Nicholas sat back in his chair and heaved a sigh.

‘That is a risk we will have to take, Anne.’

A pall seemed to hang over the Queen’s Head next morning. Word of their precarious position had seeped down to the lowest ranks of Westfield’s Men and robbed them of all spirit. George Dart walked around as if in a dream. Nathan Curtis wielded his hammer without purpose as he converted the high-backed chair which had been used in Mirth and Madness into a regal throne. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, wondered if it was worth mending costumes which might never be used again. Peter Digby and his musicians were matching portraits of dejection and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, a man who had weathered so many threats to his livelihood in his long career in the theatre, felt that he could at last hear the funeral bell.

Alexander Marwood added to the general melancholy, circling the inn yard like a mangy old dog moping over a dead master. His wife glared down on them from a window, a hovering vulture who waited to pick their bones. When they erected their stage, there was a queasy feeling that they might be doing so for the last time. Superstitious by nature, actors saw bad omens on every side. Nicholas Bracewell did what he could to raise their morale but all that he could conjure into being were pale smiles on the faces of corpses.

Edmund Hoode arrived in a state of gibbering terror.

‘It has started, Nick,’ he confided.

‘What has?’

‘The fight to the death with our rivals.’

‘In what way, Edmund?’

‘They have got at Lucius Kindell.’

‘They?’

‘Havelock’s Men,’ said Hoode with disgust. ‘Or, to speak more precisely, that scheming fiend they call Rupert Kitely. He has led poor Lucius astray.’

‘How do you know?’ said Nicholas in mild alarm.

‘They were seen together at the Devil Tavern last night and I doubt that Lucius had the wit to sup with a long spoon. When I called at his lodging this morning, I was told that he had gone to The Rose.’ Hoode looked betrayed. ‘What more proof do we need? They have seduced him away.’

‘Did he expect you to call this morning?’

‘Yes, Nick. It was arranged that he would watch the rehearsal of The Loyal Subject. Lucius has written a couple of speeches he wanted me to include in the play. There is no hope of that now. He has sold his soul to Havelock’s Men.’

‘We are not certain of that, Edmund.’

‘Why else consort with Rupert Kitely?’

‘Do not rush to condemn him,’ warned Nicholas. ‘There may yet be another explanation. Lucius is himself a loyal subject. He acknowledges the debt he owes to Westfield’s Men.’

‘Then what is he doing at The Rose?’

‘We will soon find out.’

‘I nurtured him,’ said Hoode sadly. ‘I taught him all that I knew about my craft. It would have been impossible to find an apprentice playwright more eager to learn and willing to work. And no pupil could have been more grateful to his master than Lucius Kindell.’ His voice hardened into a bark. ‘Until this happened. I have been stabbed in the back.’

‘It is worrying news, certainly.’

‘A tragedy, Nick. And only the beginning.’

‘Yes,’ agreed the other. ‘I said that we had to shore up our defences. Our rivals are predators. They will swoop down and seize whoever they can in their beaks.’

Hoode ran a despairing eye over the rest of the company.

‘Lucius is our first loss,’ he said. ‘Who is next?’

At that moment, Lawrence Firethorn came clattering into the yard on his horse to take control. Sensing at once the mood of despondency, he tried to dispel it by issuing crisp orders to all and sundry. Response was immediate. The assistant stagekeepers built the stage with more urgency, the carpenter hammered with more enthusiasm, the tireman picked up his needle and thread, the musicians began to practise and the hired men who had been standing around in disconsolate groups now made their way swiftly to the tiring-house. Leaping down from the saddle, Firethorn handed the reins of his horse to a waiting ostler and crossed to his friends.

‘Good morrow!’ he said cheerily.

‘I see no goodness in it, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘That is because you spent the night in a cold and lonely bed, Edmund. Had you shared the hours of darkness with a wife as warm as Marjory, you would have been up with the lark and throbbing with energy to greet the new day.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Marriage has many pains but its pleasures are truly beyond compare.’

Hoode grimaced. ‘How can you talk of pleasure at such a time? Westfield’s Men have no future ahead of them.’

‘We have a far more glorious future ahead.’

‘If we all work together for it,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘Unity is our strength. Let them all come at us. The company will triumph. Ah, what a sublime difference a night of bliss can make to a man! I retired to bed as the manager of a troupe which might soon become defunct and I awoke as the leader of a happy band of lads who may soon have their own playhouse.’

‘You will not find much happiness here, Lawrence,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘Most of our fellows do not share your optimism.’

‘Then it will have to be beaten into them. Eh, Nick?’

‘A good performance is the best remedy.’

‘Then we will have it,’ vowed Firethorn, punching the air with a clenched fist. ‘By heaven! We’ll set the stage alight with our skills. Mirth and Madness was a travesty. We owe our audience a superlative performance to atone for yesterday’s disgrace. And what better play to offer them this afternoon than The Loyal Subject by a certain Edmund Hoode?’

‘What better play?’ echoed Hoode. ‘The Insatiate Duke.’

‘They’ll have that again, too, before the week is out.’

‘They may have the play, Lawrence, but not the author.’

‘You are the author, Edmund.’

‘I am one of them. The other was Lucius Kindell.’

‘Well?’

‘He has turned traitor.’

‘That is not so,’ said Nicholas, jumping in to prevent Hoode from reciting his mournful news. ‘Lucius is a rising talent who is bound to be courted by our rivals. But he will always choose Westfield’s Men over them, especially when he hears that we are to have our own playhouse.’

‘Will that miracle ever come to pass?’ said Hoode.

‘Yes!’ affirmed Nicholas.

‘No question but that it will,’ added Firethorn. ‘I will strain every fibre of my being to bring it about.’

‘Everybody will do the same,’ said Nicholas. ‘When they see that we have a choice between survival or disappearance, the whole company will rise to the challenge.’

‘That may be so, Nick,’ said Hoode, ‘and you will not find me wanting. But I have grave doubts about our ability to raise the necessary money.’

‘Sylvester Pryde will find most of what we need.’

‘He will not let us down,’ said Firethorn confidently.

‘Then where is he?’ asked Hoode.

‘What?’

‘Sylvester is not here, Lawrence. I was the first to arrive this morning and I can assure you that he has not come in through that gate.’ Hoode shrugged. ‘Nobody likes Sylvester more than I. He is a cheerful companion and a generous friend. But he does too often try to seize attention and ingratiate himself. What if his offer was no more than an idle boast to gain a momentary lustre?’

‘It was made in good faith,’ insisted Nicholas.

‘Then where is he?’

‘Sylvester will be here any moment.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn airily, ‘and he will expect to rehearse The Loyal Subject. Let us begin, gentlemen. Nick, gather the whole company into the tiring-house. I’ll put some heart into them and assure them that Westfield’s Men are not destined for the grave.’

Firethorn stalked off but Hoode’s scepticism remained.

‘Where is Sylvester?’ he said.

‘He will be here,’ replied Nicholas.

‘I thought that about Lucius.’

He walked forlornly away. Nicholas went after him and collected all the members of the company into the room at the rear of the stage which was used as the tiring-house. Everyone but Sylvester Pryde was there and his absence was worrying. In his short time with Westfield’s Men, he had been unfailingly punctual. At such a critical time in the company’s fortunes, it was vital for him to be there.

Firethorn spoke to them like a warrior king addressing his army on the eve of battle. There was pure steel in his voice. When he told them about the project to secure a playhouse of their own, heads lifted and frowns vanished. They were also reminded of their shameful performance on the previous day and they resolved to make amends. By the time Firethorn had finished, even the wilting Edmund Hoode and the cynical Barnaby Gill were enthused. They donned their costumes with alacrity.

Yet there was still no sign of Sylvester Pryde. Hiding his concern behind a broad smile, Firethorn took Nicholas aside.

‘Where is the fellow?’ he whispered.

‘I do not know.’

‘Can he be sick?’

‘I think it unlikely.’

‘Still lying in the arms of some woman?’

‘Sylvester has never let anyone distract him before.’

‘Then why is he doing so now?’

‘I have sent George Dart to his lodging in search of him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Meanwhile, I would suggest that we reassign Sylvester’s roles to other members of the company for the rehearsal. Owen Elias and James Ingram can most easily take over those roles and both are experienced at doubling.’

‘Instruct them to that effect, Nick.’

‘I will.’

‘And pray that Sylvester turns up,’ said Firethorn. ‘He must not desert us in our hour of need.’

‘There is no possibility of that.’

Nicholas’s reassurance sounded hollow. Both men were now having serious doubts about Pryde and they knew how important it was to start the rehearsal before those doubts spread throughout the entire company. Busy actors would have no time to brood. When the musicians were in position, therefore, Nicholas gave the signal and the fanfare sounded. Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue to a couple of ostlers and four curious horses.

They were well into Act Two before a breathless George Dart came staggering into the tiring-house. Nicholas gave the cue for the Queen and her train to make an entry then he beckoned the diminutive figure across to him. The perspiration was running in rivulets down Dart’s face.

‘What news, George?’

‘None that will please you, alas.’

‘Was Sylvester not at his lodging?’

‘No. He left at first light, it seems.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘His landlord did not know. Nor does he understand why Sylvester Pryde quit the house for good.’

Nicholas was shaken. ‘For good, you say?’

‘When he left, he took his belongings with him.’

‘No word of explanation?’

‘None, I fear.’ Dart wiped an arm across his glistening brow. ‘I am sorry I could not bear happier tidings.’

‘You have done well, George. Change into your costume as a guard in the royal retinue and be ready for the first scene in Act Three. Oh, and one thing,’ cautioned Nicholas. ‘Do not mention to anyone that Sylvester has quit his lodging. It might cause unnecessary alarm.’

Dart nodded and went off to find his costume. Nicholas turned his full attention to the rehearsal and put the disappearance of Sylvester Pryde from his mind. There was no point in worrying over a problem he was powerless to solve while he as engaged in his duties as the book holder. It was only when the play came to an end that the subject took on a new urgency. Having thanked the company for the sterling effort which they had put into the rehearsal, Firethorn dismissed them and sought a quiet word with Nicholas.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Sylvester is still not here.’

‘Where can the man be?’

‘Not at his lodging, that much is certain. He left at dawn and took his belongings with him.’

Firethorn blenched. ‘Has he fled London?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Why else quit his lodging?’

‘I have no idea,’ confessed Nicholas, ‘What surprises me is that he sent no word to us. Sylvester has always been so considerate. This sudden flight is disturbing.’

‘And may bring all our ambitions crashing down,’ said an anxious Firethorn. ‘Without Sylvester, there will be no money. Without that money, there will be no new playhouse. Did he deliberately raise our hopes in order to dash them, Nick?’

‘That would not be in his character.’

‘What is he playing at?’

‘We will discover that in time,’ said Nicholas. ‘Until then, we must not unsettle the others by telling them he has disappeared. I will devise an excuse which will cover his absence.’

‘Your excuse would not fool me for a moment,’ said a voice behind them. ‘However prettily it was phrased.’

They turned to see Barnaby Gill entering the tiring-house.

‘You were eavesdropping!’ accused Firethorn.

‘I have a right to know the truth, Lawrence.’

‘By lurking outside a door?’

‘Sylvester has fled the sinking ship,’ said Gill wryly. ‘I could have foretold this. He was all noise and pretence, a man of fashion who liked to disport himself upon a stage, a strutting peacock with no real belief in the actor’s art.’

‘That is not so,’ countered Nicholas. ‘Sylvester was keen to study and improve. He was committed to Westfield’s Men.’

‘Where is that commitment now?’

‘We begin to wonder,’ said Firethorn ruefully.

Gill was sardonic. ‘Wonder no more, Lawrence. He has ridden out of London as fast as he can. That promise to secure a loan for us was no more than a vain boast. It gave him a moment of ascendancy over us. Having enjoyed that, he has left the rest of us floundering.’

‘So it seems, Barnaby.’

‘I have more trust in Sylvester,’ said Nicholas.

Gill snorted. ‘Then it is misplaced.’

‘He loved this company.’

‘Until he discovered that there is no longer a company to love. He has gone. Such men are rovers. They never stay long in one place.’ Gill sniffed at his pomander. ‘I wager that we never set eyes again on Sylvester Pryde.’

Nothing more could be said. They went off to the taproom to seek refreshment before the afternoon’s performance. No mention was made of the missing actor but he was clearly on the mind of the whole company. Their sharer had deserted them and the projected playhouse lay in ruins. Everyone sensed it. There was no way that the company itself could raise such a substantial loan on their own. They had tried and failed many times. Their patron, Lord Westfield, was even less likely to come to their aid. Crippled by debts, he was more concerned with seeking loans for his own purse than for any building plans conceived by his troupe. Their plight was hopeless.

Yet they did not surrender to despair. The prospect of dissolution seemed instead to fill them with determination to give a good account of themselves in what might be one of a series of valedictory performances. Westfield’s Men were determined to be remembered, to write their signature boldly and vividly on the memories of London playgoers.

When they returned to the tiring-house, there was a mood of resolution. Firethorn strengthened it with another rousing speech but it was Nicholas who perceived another side to the new sense of purpose. While keen to serve Westfield’s Men to the best of their ability, they also wanted to attract the attention of their rivals. Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men were the favoured survivors of the Privy Council’s edict and they would divide the spoils of Westfield’s Men. That being the case, it was highly likely that both companies would have someone in the audience to study the company and select the most likely recruits. Westfield’s Men were auditioning for their individual survival.

The yard was full, the galleries bursting and the actors straining at the leash. The Loyal Subject was a fine play, first performed at Court during the Christmas festivities and a reminder that the company had been favoured with royal patronage. With a mere ten minutes to go before the drama started, the tension was broken in the most unexpected way.

‘I am sorry to keep you all waiting, lads!’

Sylvester Pryde strode cheerfully into the tiring-house to be met by a tidal wave of questions. He raised both hands to silence the company then motioned them in close to him.

‘I went in search of money,’ he explained. ‘That meant an hour’s ride out of London. I left a message with my surly landlord but I see from your faces that he never delivered it. The rogue was too angry at my sudden departure to oblige me. No matter, friends. I am here now and so is our saviour.’

‘Our saviour?’ said Firethorn. ‘Who is he?’

‘That must remain a secret,’ warned Pryde, ‘but this I can tell you. The loan is all but secured but nobody can be expected to advance so much money without some proof of your genuine quality. I brought him to the Queen’s Head to watch you this afternoon. Your saviour sits up in the gallery. My part is done,’ he said with a grin. ‘The money is there but you must show yourselves worthy of it.’

‘God’s tits!’ said Firethorn with a laugh. ‘We’ll dazzle like sunlight. You heard him, lads. It is up to us now. Seize this opportunity with both hands. Follow me!’

Owen Elias and James Ingram gladly relinquished the roles they had taken over from Pryde and the latter quickly changed into his costume for the first scene. Determination now shaded into euphoria. At the eleventh hour, they believed, they had been rescued by the man whom they had all foolishly suspected of deserting them. When the performance commenced, they hurled themselves into it as if their lives depended on the outcome.

It was a sensation. Inspired by Lawrence Firethorn, the whole company shone brilliantly, bringing out every facet of The Loyal Subject and attesting once again their supremacy on the London stage. The audience was alternately harrowed and amused as tragic events were interleaved with comic diversion. Somewhere in one of the galleries was the person whose money could reprieve them and they directed their performance at their invisible saviour. At the end of the play’s final dramatic scene, they were given an ovation which set their blood coursing.

While the rest of the company went off to the taproom to celebrate, Sylvester Pryde slipped quietly away to seek out their benefactor. They were kept waiting for a long time before he appeared again. When he finally did so, his face was clouded, his shoulders hunched and his gait halting. His every motion signalled rejection. Profound disappointment fell on the company. Pryde dispelled it with a wicked grin.

‘The loan is secured!’ he announced.

‘Did he enjoy our performance?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Our saviour exulted in it. The money is ours.’

‘The man is our guardian angel!’

‘We will have our playhouse after all,’ said Hoode with a giggle of pleasure. ‘But what shall it be called?’

Suggestions came thick and fast and Nicholas Bracewell waited until the separate imaginations had run dry. He then stepped into the middle of the group.

‘Master Firethorn has already named it,’ he said.

‘Have I?’ asked a bemused Firethorn.

‘You described our benefactor as a guardian angel. That must surely be the name we choose. The Angel theatre.’

Firethorn beamed. ‘The Angel.’

A roar of acclamation went up. The christening was over.