The Wanton Angel

Chapter Six

Rose Marwood felt like a prisoner in her own home. It was a frustrating situation. She shared a hostelry with dozens of other people yet she was not allowed to see any of them apart from her mother. Even her father was denied access to her, though that was in the nature of a gain rather than a loss. Having been shouted at and cursed by him in the most robust language, she was glad to be spared his ire and his whining self-pity. Neither of her parents seemed to be able to think about anything but the effect of her pregnancy upon them. She detected no real sympathy for her and it was what she most needed at that delicate time.

The ordeal which lay ahead was made far worse by her ignorance of the full implications of childbirth. Terrible fears assailed her. She remembered all of the blood-curdling tales she had overheard passing between older women. She thought of all the gravestones she had seen in the church cemetery, pathetic monuments to young brides who had died while trying to bring a child into the world. Would that also be her fate? Would they allow her to lie in consecrated ground? And what of the child itself? Would it survive or go with its mother to the grave? Whenever she contemplated the moment of birth itself, she was terrified.

Yet it was his. That thought anchored her terror. The child was conceived in love with a man on whom she doted and it was a great consolation. There was still hope for her. If Rose could get word to him of her condition, she was sure that he would come to her rescue and carry her away from a home she had come to detest. A God-fearing girl, she knew that she should be more obedient to her parents but they had virtually disowned her since she confessed her secret. Forced into a choice between them and her lover, she wanted him.

Wonderful memories washed over her and soothed her anguished mind. Until she had met him, she did not know what happiness was. Only when she was lying in his arms did she realise how much pleasure had been denied to her by watchful parents who kept her on an invisible chain. Her lover had snapped that chain for her and she would be eternally grateful to him for that. Whatever horrors might be inflicted upon her, Rose knew that she could bear them for his sake and she was convinced that he would one day bring her travail to an end. All that she had to do was somehow to make contact with him but that was impossible when she was entombed in her bedchamber. If he came in search of her at the Queen’s Head, he would not be allowed anywhere near her.

Grief claimed her again and she flung herself down on the bed, sobbing quietly and whispering his name to herself over and over again. A sharp tapping sound made her sit up and look around but the source of the noise was a mystery. After a brief pause, she heard the sound again and realised that it came from the window. Crossing quickly to it, she peered out and saw the massive figure of Leonard below in the street. Leonard was an affable giant of a man who worked at the inn. Kind, willing but slow-witted, he had a brute strength which was held in check by a gentle disposition. He sent a warm smile of greeting up to her.

After wiping a hand on his leather apron, he slipped it inside his shirt to bring out a hunk of bread and a slice of cheese. He gestured for her to open the window so that he could throw the food up to her. Rose was touched. Leonard was taking a risk in trying to comfort her. Servants had been forbidden to speak with her and faced instant dismissal if they disobeyed. In his own shambling way, Leonard had ignored the order and sought her out. Rose was no longer wholly alone. She had a friend.

She opened the window and popped her head out.

‘Thank you, Leonard,’ she said.

‘This is all that I could find,’ he said, holding up the food. ‘But I’ll bring more another time.’

‘I am not hungry. I have victuals enough.’

‘Oh!’

‘But I thank you for your kindness.’

He shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘I wanted to help.’

‘I know. I am very grateful.’

An idea began to form in her mind but she had no time to discuss it with him. The sound of a key in the lock brought the conversation to an abrupt close.

‘Someone is coming,’ she called. ‘Go at once!’

‘I will,’ he said, backing away.

‘But Leonard …’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you come again?’

He nodded enthusiastically before vanishing around the corner. Rose shut the window but her mother had already come into the room and sensed a breach in her security. Rushing to the window, she flung it open and glared out but the street was now empty apart from a few stray dogs. Sybil rounded smartly on her daughter.

‘Who were you talking to?’ she demanded.

‘Nobody, mother.’

‘Do not lie, girl. I heard your voice.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

‘Was it him?’

‘Alas, no,’ said Rose, head bowed.

‘Then there was someone. I knew it.’ She pulled the window shut. ‘I’ll have a lock put on this. That will stop you.’ She flicked a hand. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Why, mother?’

‘Do as you are told. We are going out.’

‘Where to?’

‘You will soon find out. Now dress yourself.’

While her daughter shed her night attire, Sybil kept vigil at the window. Rose dressed as quickly as she could, fearful that Leonard would return and be discovered. He was the one faint hope she had of getting a message to her beloved and she did not want him thrown out of his employment at the inn. That would be a cruel reward for the kindness he had shown her.

‘I am ready, mother,’ she said at length.

‘Then let us go.’

Sybil took her firmly by the wrist and almost dragged her out of the room. They were soon leaving by a rear exit and plunging into the labyrinth that was London.

‘Their own playhouse?’ Giles Randolph was aghast. ‘Westfield’s Men intend to build their own playhouse?’

‘That is what I have heard, Giles.’

‘Where will it be?’

‘The site has not yet been found.’

‘Surely not here in Shoreditch? We have to contend with The Theatre as it is. A new playhouse could put our own position in jeopardy.’

‘That is why I brought the tidings to you at once.’

‘You did well, Henry.’

‘I know where my loyalties lie.’

Henry Quine gave a fawning smirk then raised the glass of canary wine to his lips. He was a slim, young man of medium height with dark hair which curled attractively around his ears and a vestigial beard. If his eyes had not been so close together and his nose so long, Quine might have been accounted a handsome man but he had a smile which redeemed his features and a deep, melodious voice which stroked the ear. The two colleagues were supping at a tavern in Shoreditch.

Giles Randolph was patently annoyed by the news.

‘Their own playhouse?’ he said. ‘That is impossible.’

‘They do not think so.’

‘How could they raise the money for such a venture? Lord Westfield is more penurious than our own patron and Lawrence Firethorn’s credit will not extend that far.’

‘They have secured a loan, Giles.’

‘From whom?’

‘I cannot say but I know who has been their broker.’

‘Who?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Their new sharer?’

‘He has wealthy friends.’

‘So it seems, Henry,’ said the other, ‘and that wealth might make Banbury’s Men poor indeed. As long as Westfield’s Men play at the Queen’s Head, we are in no danger. Inn yard theatres will be closed down in due course. Give them their own playhouse, however, and it is a different story.’

‘Only if it is built here in Shoreditch.’

‘North or south of the river, it is a threat.’

‘Not to us,’ said Quine. ‘If they choose a site in Bankside, it is Havelock’s Men who will suffer from their proximity. We will be safe here at The Curtain.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘Two theatres only are to stand. One north and one south of the Thames. That is the promised edict.’

‘Promised but not delivered, Henry,’ said Randolph with a sneer. ‘The Privy Council is capricious. According to our patron, they have put off a final decision for some weeks. That gives Westfield’s Men time to find a site and start to build. Security of tenure is almost certain to go to Havelock’s Men. The Viscount’s uncle sits on the Council. But what if the work of Westfield’s Men is judged superior to our own? Such is the perversity of the Privy Council that they may even change their decree and permit both surviving playhouses to stand in Bankside.’

‘That is highly unlikely, Giles.’

‘It is a possibility we have to consider.’

‘How do we counter it?’

‘With cunning, Henry. We must disable them.’

‘Tell me how and it will be done.’

Randolph smiled. ‘You have been a loyal servant to us,’ he said, pouring more wine into his friend’s cup. ‘The day when Henry Quine joined our company was indeed an auspicious one. You have tied yourself to Banbury’s Men and will do anything to advance our cause.’

‘Anything!’ repeated Quine.

‘Being made a sharer will be a just reward.’

‘I long to have that honour.’

‘It will come, Henry. It will come.’

‘When?’

‘When our own future is certain and when Westfield’s Men are doomed. They are sides of the same coin.’ He leant in closer. ‘Sound out Barnaby Gill. He is a gem that must be stolen. Take him away and their company totters. Master Gill and Lawrence Firethorn are uneasy bedfellows. Let us drive a wedge between them.’ He raised a finger. ‘But do it carefully, Henry. Dangle promises before his eyes.’

‘I will study how best to do that.’

‘Be quick about it. Ours is not the only company which will try to take captives. Havelock’s Men will do the same.’

‘They have already struck.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Or so it is rumoured,’ said Quine. ‘One Lucius Kindell, a young playwright whom Edmund Hoode has taken under his wing — a sure sign of promise in itself — has been wooed and won over by Rupert Kitely.’

‘Then we have no time to waste,’ said Randolph irritably. ‘Get to Barnaby Gill before Havelock’s Men start to pour honey into his ear. Offer whatever you have to, Henry. Greedy men will lap up any lies.’

‘Master Gill is greedier than most.’

They shared a laugh, then drained their cups of wine.

Randolph became serious. ‘Will this damnable playhouse of theirs ever be built, do you think?’

‘Yes, Giles. They are resolved and already have a name.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Angel theatre.’

‘The Angel!’ said the other contemptuously. ‘This angel could displace Banbury’s Men from our place in heaven. We must act swiftly. Who is the man who secured their loan?’

‘Sylvester Pryde.’

‘Can we corrupt him?’

‘I doubt that, Giles.’

‘But he is the key to their good fortune.’ He stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Tell me about him, Henry. Tell me all about this Sylvester Pryde.’

Sybil Marwood did not loosen her grip on her daughter until they reached their destination in Clerkenwell. Hustled along through an endless succession of streets, lanes and alleyways, Rose was in great discomfort. When her mother finally released the girl from her grasp, Rose rubbed her sore wrist. Before she had time even to look up at the dilapidated little house, she was helped inside it by a firm maternal palm.

As soon as they opened the door, the smell invaded their nostrils. It was a strong, rich, but not unpleasant aroma and Rose thought at first that someone was cooking a meal in the kitchen. They were in a dark, featureless room with only a few stools and a table by way of furniture. A ragged piece of cloth hung over the doorframe opposite and it was pulled back to reveal the gaunt face of an old woman with straggly grey hair trailing down from her mop cap. Rose recoiled slightly but Sybil seemed to know the crone.

‘We are here at the appointed time,’ she said.

‘I am ready for you,’ said the old woman, pushing the cloth aside to step into the room and scrutinise Rose. ‘So this is your daughter, is it? A pretty girl without question and not like most of those who come to me for help. They have the mark of wickedness upon them but Rose does not.’

‘Yet wicked she has been,’ grunted Sybil.

‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ decided the old woman, giving Rose a gap-toothed grin of reassurance. ‘A man is to blame here. She was led astray. Rose is only the victim of another’s wickedness.’ She indicated a stool. ‘Sit there, girl.’

She bustled out of the room and Rose hesitated.

‘Do as she bids you,’ ordered her mother.

‘Who is she?’

‘Mary Hogg. A wise woman of Clerkenwell.’

‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘She will medicine you. Now sit down.’

Sybil used both hands to ease her onto the stool. Rose was in a mild panic, sensing that she was in danger without quite knowing what that danger might be. When Mary Hogg reappeared, she was carrying a cup that was filled with a steaming liquid. Setting it down on the table, she turned to Sybil and snapped her fingers. Money was passed between them and the old woman counted it before slipping it into the pocket of her filthy apron.

Mary Hogg turned her full attention upon Rose.

‘Do not be alarmed, Rose,’ she soothed. ‘I will help you as I have helped so many others in the past. I am a wise woman and know the art of saving a girl’s reputation.’

‘Reputation?’ murmured Rose.

‘This child comes before its time. You are unwed.’

‘And no husband in sight,’ added Sybil.

‘Do you know what would happen if this baby were born?’ continued the old woman. ‘It would be condemned to a life of misery and you with it. Bastard offspring are spurned by one and all, Rose. You would be the mother of an outcast. It would be a cruelty to bring such a child into the world. A cruelty and a sin. For you have been sinful.’

‘I have prayed for forgiveness,’ said Rose.

‘Prayer is part of my remedy,’ explained the other. ‘And the old religion furnishes us with the best supplication. Do not be afraid to make use of what would be forbidden in a church. God will bless you for it. When I have given you my cure, you must say five Paternosters, five Aves and a Creed for nine consecutive nights, taking herbs in holy water at the same time. Only at the end of nine days will we know if the cure has been effective.’

‘What cure?’ asked the trembling girl.

‘Release from this shame!’ said Sybil.

Rose stood up. ‘You would kill my child!’

‘It is an act of Christian kindness,’ said Mary Hogg. ‘Besides, I cannot kill what is not really alive. I simply prevent it from taking on any shape and form. Do not fret,’ she whispered, easing her back down onto the stool. ‘It will not hurt you, Rose, and my cure has the approval of God or He would not hear the prayers.’

‘I want to go home, mother!’ exclaimed Rose.

‘Not until this is done,’ said Sybil, restraining the girl as she tried to rise again. ‘Not until you take the remedy.’

‘Keep her away from me! She frightens me!’

‘Not as much as that child in your belly frightens me and your father. You have shamed us, Rose, and we are paying to rid ourselves of that shame. Now keep silent!’

Rose struggled to get up but she was held firm. Mary Hogg took something from the pocket of her apron and stepped in close to the girl. Her voice had a gentle persuasiveness.

‘Do not hold her so,’ she said to Sybil. ‘Rose must not be compelled. She knows what must be done. It is in the interests of everyone but, most of all, it advantages Rose herself. When she is wed, she will bear as many children as she wishes. She is clearly fruitful. This first apple will soon be forgotten when it has been plucked down.’ Motioning Sybil back, she bent over Rose and held up the object in her hand. ‘Open your mouth a little so that I may place this on your tongue.’

‘What is it?’

‘The bill of a white duck. It has potent charms.’

‘I do not want it in my mouth.’

‘It will only be for a minute or two.’

‘It offends me.’

‘You will find its taste both sweet and comforting.’

Mary Hogg began to intone a strange prayer, waving the duck bill to and fro in front of Rose’s face until the girl was slowly lulled into a state of relative calm. The old woman used delicate fingertips to part the patient’s lips then carefully inserted the duck’s bill. When it lay on Rose’s tongue, the prayers were replaced by a series of charms which were chanted in a high, lilting voice.

The girl’s mouth stayed open when the duck bill was removed and her eyes stared straight ahead. She seemed to have gone off into some sort of reverie. Mary Hogg dipped a finger in the cup to test the heat of its contents. Nodding her approval, she lifted the cup to Rose’s lips and tipped it gently upwards. Before she was able to resist, the girl had swallowed a mouthful of the hot, black, curdled liquid. Jumping to her feet, she spluttered a protest and held both hands over her mouth as she started to retch.

‘Must she drink it all?’ asked Sybil.

‘No,’ said Mary Hogg complacently. ‘My work is done. Make her say the prayers each morning, as I instructed, on her knees. In nine days’ time, her problems will be at an end.’ She put the duck’s bill back into her pocket. ‘And so will yours.’

Westfield’s Men underwent a complete transformation. In less than a week, their fortunes improved out of all recognition. The loan was secured and the relevant document signed, a site was located, a builder hired and detailed plans drawn up for the immediate construction of The Angel theatre. Jaded actors who feared extinction now became proud members of a company which would have what they believed would be its own permanent home in Bankside. It was the stuff of dreams.

Anne Hendrik was instrumental in finding the site for them. On Sunday morning, therefore, after they had attended church together, Nicholas Bracewell escorted her to the river to take a closer look at the property.

‘I knew that you could do it, Anne,’ he said proudly.

‘Luck played the greater part.’

‘You asked the right people and looked in the right places. Where is the luck in that? Take due credit.’ He gazed around. ‘This site is not ideal but it has virtues which make its defects seem small.’

‘I hope so, Nick,’ she said.

‘Let me tell you how the playhouse will look.’

The Angel theatre was to be built on the site of a disused boatyard which had been badly damaged by fire. Its wharf had collapsed into the Thames. Tenements stood either side of it and a row of houses, inns and ordinaries ran alongside the back of the site. Nicholas ignored the scene of devastation and saw only the tall playhouse which would replace it. One arm around Anne, he drew large pictures in the air with the other hand. The Angel theatre was conjured into existence.

‘It will be one of the delights of Bankside,’ said Anne.

‘That would only be fitting,’ he observed with a grin. ‘For the site was discovered by another delight of Bankside.’

‘Is that what I am?’

‘What else, Anne?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Would you soil your tongue with flattery on the Sabbath?’

‘I merely express our gratitude,’ he said, squeezing her affectionately. ‘Thanks to you, this old boatyard will have a new lease of life. So, we trust, will Westfield’s Men.’

‘Is your patron in favour of your venture?’

‘He is consumed with delight. When the project was first mentioned to him, he took fright because he thought that we would ask him for money which he simply does not have. As soon as he realised that we could raise our own capital, he gave us his full support.’ Nicholas let his gaze rake the riverbank. ‘Can you not see that wharf when it is rebuilt?’

‘Yes, Nick.’

‘Playgoers will be able to come by boat and alight at the very door of the theatre. The watermen will bless us for the increase we will bring to their trade.’

‘The watermen and the innkeepers of Bankside.’

‘Yes, Anne. All will profit from The Angel.’ He gestured towards the timbers which were stacked on the site. ‘Including this builder you commended. Thomas Bradd has his materials in readiness. Work begins in earnest tomorrow.’

‘He will not fail you, Nick. He repaired my own house and has worked for some of my neighbours as well. We all found Thomas Bradd to be an honest and trustworthy man.’

‘That was my impression of him,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I took the trouble to examine some of the other properties he built in Southwark before we engaged him. He is without question a sound craftsman and is willing to let some of us labour alongside him to keep the costs down.’

‘Us?’ she queried. ‘Does that include you?’

Nicholas chuckled. ‘I was the first to volunteer my services, Anne. Do you think I would miss out on the chance to build a piece of theatre history? Do not forget that I am no raw beginner. When I sailed with Drake, we learnt to turn our hands to anything. That experience will stand me in good stead.’

‘Who else will work here?’

‘Nathan Curtis, for certain. He is our skilled carpenter and lives here in Bankside. Owen Elias is also eager to do his share of sawing and hammering. Edmund Hoode and James Ingram will not be left out. And, of course,’ he added, ‘there is Sylvester Pryde. He is not above earning himself a few blisters from hard labour.’

‘Surely he has done more than enough already?’

‘He insists on being involved in the construction.’

After surveying the site for another few minutes, they turned away and headed back towards Anne’s house. Gulls flew overhead and cried out their hunger. The streets were busy. Entertainments which were curtailed on Sundays within the bounds of the city were permitted outside its jurisdiction. Nicholas was reminded that The Angel theatre would be able to open seven days a week in Bankside, thus increasing their takings and helping to pay off the substantial debt they were taking on.

‘How did Sylvester raise the loan?’ asked Anne.

‘From an anonymous friend.’

‘Have you no idea who he might be?’

‘We can only guess, Anne. Some people believe that Sylvester himself has given us this money and that this guardian angel of ours is really a member of the company.’

‘Is that what you believe, Nick?’

‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘On the day that he secured the money, he rode out of London for an hour. Our benefactor dwells in the country.’

‘He must be a close friend indeed if he will advance several hundred pounds to Sylvester at such short notice.’

‘That is my feeling, Anne.’

‘Will you hazard a guess at his identity?’

‘If you wish. I believe, in all probability, that he is a member of Sylvester’s own family.’

‘His family?’

‘Yes, Anne,’ he said firmly. ‘If you press me closer, my guess would be that our guardian angel is his father.’

Sylvester Pryde was in his element. He was honest enough to acknowledge that he would never be lauded for his ability as an actor but there was another way to win plaudits within the company. He had effected a rescue. By arranging a loan on their behalf, Pryde had endeared himself to Westfield’s Men and changed from a being a latecomer to the troupe into its hero. Whenever he arrived at the Queen’s Head, he was met with smiles and words of praise. In the taproom, he was greeted with a round of applause from his fellows.

The play which was performed that afternoon was The History of King John, a stirring chronicle which offered him only two meagre roles, but Pryde was content. Simply to be a member of the company was a joy to him. To be its acclaimed champion gave him a deep gratification. He swept onto the stage as if he were playing the title role and declaimed his few lines with surging confidence. Liberated from their worst fears, Westfield’s Men gave of their best yet again and made an old play vibrate with new significance.

Applause still rang in their ears as they took a final bow and retreated into the tiring-house. Everyone had a kind word or a pat on the back for him. Sylvester Pryde glowed. When they adjourned to the taproom, he was given a privileged position at the same table as the leading sharers and toyed with his cup of wine while rubbing shoulders with Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode. Barnaby Gill sat opposite him and, when all his chores had been done, Nicholas Bracewell joined them. All but Gill were in a happy mood.

‘What of our unfriendly landlord?’ asked Pryde. ‘Has he been told that we mean to vacate his premises?’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ‘and he was forced to approve. If inn yard theatres are to be closed, his contract with us is null and void. And since he still believes that we all took it in turns to seduce his daughter, he will be glad to see the back of us.’ He slapped Pryde on the thigh. ‘That is another boon you have bestowed on us, Sylvester. You have freed us from the domination of Alexander Marwood.’

‘Has his daughter’s lover been named yet?’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, ‘but I know who he is.’

‘Who?’

‘Why, Edmund here!’

Hoode’s cheeks became tomatoes. ‘I deny the charge!’

‘Then it must have been Barnaby!’ teased Firethorn.

‘Heaven forfend!’ said Gill with disgust.

‘Admit it, man. The night was dark and you mistook Rose Marwood for a pretty boy. It is your thrusts which help to swell that little belly of hers.’ He let out a guffaw. ‘The girl was well and truly Barnabied!’

‘You are gross, Lawrence!’ retorted the other.

‘Then it was not you?’

Gill rose from his seat with dignity and excused himself.

‘You put him to flight, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘He would not have stayed much longer, Edmund. He has been sitting on coals since we arrived. Barnaby has an assignation. That is why he was so eager to quit our company.’

‘An assignation or an invitation?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We are still under threat here. Lucius Kindell has already been snared and others in the company approached and blandished.’

‘Nobody has offered me blandishments,’ said Firethorn.

‘Nobody would dare,’ remarked Pryde.

‘Master Gill is an easier target,’ argued Nicholas. ‘I know for a fact that both Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men covet him. Since word of The Angel went abroad, they may redouble their efforts to entice him away.’

‘He has a contract with us, Nick,’ said Hoode.

‘We had a contract with the landlord but we are about to be in breach of it if we leave the Queen’s Head.’

‘Barnaby will not leave,’ said Firethorn. ‘He will rant and rave at us but he would never betray us.’

‘Has he confided to you any approaches from our rivals?’

‘No, Nick.’

‘Is not that a form of betrayal?’

‘Only if those approaches took place. My guess is that they did not,’ decided Firethorn. ‘Barnaby is never at ease with red-blooded fellows like us. His pleasures lie elsewhere and I believe he has gone off in search of them.’

Nicholas did not pursue the subject but he had noticed warning signs about Gill’s behaviour which suggested that his commitment to Westfield’s Men was not as absolute as it might have been. It caused him concern. The Angel theatre would be a lesser auditorium without Barnaby Gill to grace its boards.

Pryde was more interested in Rose Marwood’s fate.

‘What has happened to the poor girl?’ he asked.

‘She is kept under lock and key,’ said Nicholas. ‘They have even put a bolt on her window or so Leonard tells me.’

‘How would he know?’ said a jocular Firethorn. ‘Was he in the girl’s bedchamber at the time? That would be a revelation! The lumbering Leonard as the father of her child. Procreation must surely have taken place with the girl astride him for she would else have been suffocated beneath that monstrous body.’

‘Leonard is a good friend to her,’ said Nicholas. ‘No more. I will miss him when we leave here. That bullish strength of his was put at our disposal many times.’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode, ‘I have seen him lift a barrel of beer on his own when its weight would defeat two other men.’

‘It is a pity that he cannot be employed on the site of The Angel,’ said Pryde. ‘Leonard’s muscles are an asset that none of us could provide.’

A cheer went up from a nearby table and Pryde turned to see Owen Elias beckoning him over to join them. Half-a-dozen grinning faces endorsed the invitation.

‘Go on, Sylvester,’ said Firethorn easily. ‘It is their turn to enjoy your company. You are common property now, my friend, and must be shared equally among us all.’

‘Then I take my leave,’ said Pryde courteously.

A yell of delight went up as he crossed to the others and room was immediately made for him on the settle. Elias put a proprietary arm around him and ordered him a drink. Pryde was soon at the centre of the merriest table in the taproom. Firethorn watched with approval then turned to Nicholas.

‘You were right, Nick,’ he said seriously. ‘I did not wish to discuss it in front of Sylvester. He has rendered us a sterling service but we do not have to draw him too close into our affairs. There is still a whiff of mystery about him which I find disturbing.’

‘Mystery?’ echoed Nicholas.

‘We know so little about him.’

‘He found us that money,’ noted Hoode. ‘What else do we need to know, Lawrence?’

‘The name of our guardian angel, for a start.’

‘Sylvester is sworn to secrecy.’

‘That is what irks me,’ admitted Firethorn, ‘but I will bear my irritation. Let us go back to Nick’s comment. I think it was accurate. Barnaby is being courted.’

‘By whom?’ said Hoode anxiously.

‘By Banbury’s Men, by Havelock’s Men or by one of the other companies. Does it matter? All that need concern us is that he is their chosen target.’

‘How do you know, Lawrence?’

‘He has been strangely silent of late.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and, alone of our fellows, he has shown scant enthusiasm for The Angel. It is almost as if he believes that he will never play there.’

‘But he must,’ insisted Hoode. ‘He is one of us.’

‘And will remain so,’ said Firethorn. ‘Barnaby and I have our differences but I am all too aware of his contribution to our work. We would be impoverished by his absence. Keep a close eye on him, Nick.’

‘That is what I have been doing,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘I saw how uncomfortable he was at this table. He kept glancing up as if expecting to meet someone else here. I think that he has doubts about The Angel. Even if it is built, we may still find ourselves without an occupation.’

‘In London, perhaps,’ conceded Firethorn, ‘but we need not vanish into thin air. Westfield’s Men can still tour.’

‘Not with Barnaby,’ said Hoode gloomily. ‘You know how much he loathes life on the road. If he had to choose between a tour with us and a London playhouse, our hopes of keeping him would be slim.’

Firethorn sighed. ‘What is the remedy, Nick?’

‘We have to convince him that his interests are best served by Westfield’s Men,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have to build The Angel and turn it into the most exciting playhouse in London. Then he will never even think of leaving us.’

Sylvester Pryde remained at the Queen’s Head for most of the evening, moving from table to table to receive congratulations from all his fellows, carousing until the wine began to make him feel slightly drowsy. Pleading the need of some fresh air, he waved a general farewell then came out into Gracechurch Street and swung right towards the river. Pryde sauntered along in the cool night air with a grin of satisfaction on his face. He was not only accepted by his colleagues now. He was positively feted.

When London Bridge loomed up ahead of him, he walked on until he reached Thames Street then turned right. His legs were taking him where his heart wanted them to go. Minutes later he was standing at the river’s edge, staring out across the broad stretch of water at the site of The Angel theatre. Pryde could see it rising boldly on the opposite bank, soaring above the buildings around it and advertising itself by its very ascendancy. He was immensely proud to have been able to instigate the building of the new playhouse and took an almost paternal joy in it.

‘Boat, sir?’ called a hoarse voice.

‘What’s that?’ said Pryde, coming out of his reverie.

‘Do you want to cross the river?’

‘Why, yes,’ he decided impulsively. ‘Take me over, good sir. I want to view a property on the other side.’

‘Come aboard.’

There were two watermen in the little vessel and they rowed with an easy rhythm. Pryde sat in the stern, his eyes fixed on the abandoned boatyard that would soon disappear beneath the foundations of his theatre, his mind filled with imagined triumphs for the company. It never occurred to him that he was being followed by someone in a second boat.

When he reached the other bank, he tipped the watermen handsomely and went ashore. He was soon picking his way in the half-dark around the site of The Angel. It was still largely covered with debris and there was little progress to note but Pryde still felt exhilarated by the experience. As he stood in the centre of the property, he could almost see the many sides of the theatre rising up around him and hear the applause that reverberated around its walls.

Huge timbers stood upright against a wall, waiting to take their place in the new structure. Pryde ran his hand against one of them, feeling its rough-hewn surface and estimating its immense weight. When he heard a noise behind him, he tried to turn round but something hard and broad struck him viciously across the back of the head. He collapsed in a heap on the ground with blood gushing out of the wound. Still half-conscious, he opened his mouth to cry for help but no words emerged. The last thing he ever saw was the timber, which he had so lovingly caressed, descending murderously towards him.