The Wanton Angel Page 8

  He was on his third glass of wine when there was a tap on the door. The servant entered, bowed, then stood aside to admit Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell before bowing once more and withdrawing from the room. The newcomers inclined their heads politely and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. Their patron did not rise from his chair.

  ‘Your letter summoned me, my lord,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘It did.’

  ‘I took the liberty of inviting Nicholas Bracewell along. If this concerns the company, there is nobody more well-versed in its inner workings.’

  ‘Then he is welcome,’ said their patron. ‘I know what a valuable member of Westfield’s Men he has become.’ He waved a hand. ‘Pray take a seat, gentlemen. This news is too heavy to bear standing up.’

  Nicholas and Firethorn lowered themselves onto the bench on the opposite side of the room. Fearing criticism, the actor-manager elected to defend himself before the attack came.

  ‘A thousand apologies, my lord,’ he said effusively. ‘I know that the company fell far short of their best this afternoon but there are reasons for it. The problem will be addressed and solved, I give you my word. At our performance tomorrow, we will be worthy of your name once again.’

  Lord Westfield was baffled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Mirth and Madness.’

  ‘I have never heard of it.’

  ‘Did you not watch it being played today?’

  ‘I watched something but my mind was far away.’

  ‘Then you have not come to censure us, my lord?’ said Firethorn with relief. ‘This is heartening.’

  ‘You may not think so when you have listened to the intelligence I have gathered,’ said the other. ‘Westfield’s Men are in grave danger. There could be a serious threat to the company’s very existence.’

  Firethorn blenched. ‘You will surely not withdraw your patronage?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Never, Lawrence. I take pride in my company.’

  ‘Then where does this threat come from, my lord?’ asked Nicholas. ‘You said that it could exist. Does that mean there is an element of doubt?’

  ‘Only a small one, Nicholas.’

  ‘Who is after us this time?’ said Firethorn pugnaciously. ‘We will beat them off, whoever they may be. We have done it before and we will do it again now.’

  ‘That may be not be possible,’ said Lord Westfield.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We are up against the Privy Council.’

  Nicholas and Firethorn exchanged an anxious glance.

  ‘Are you certain of this, my lord?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘The signs were infallible.’

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Those little indications of how the wind blows which I have learnt to pick up,’ said their patron. ‘The Earl of Banbury was at Court yesterday and looked at me as if I were about to be led to the block for his amusement. Others did the same and so I turned to Sir Patrick Skelton for confirmation of my fears. He lied to me.’ His cheeks coloured with anger. ‘A man in whom I put complete trust actually lied to me. That was the most infallible sign of all.’

  ‘Of what, my lord?’ pressed Nicholas.

  ‘The menace that confronts us. It so disturbed my slumbers in the night that I resolved to know the worst. This morning, I sought a meeting with Sir Edmund Tilney.’

  ‘The Master of the Revels?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘The same. A man of power and influence in these matters. And one not given to deviousness or dishonesty. When I confided my worries, he was only too candid.’

  ‘About what, my lord?’ said Nicholas. ‘Is the Privy Council displeased with our work? Do they wish to shackle us even more? Have the Puritans finally managed to persuade them that playhouses are dens of evil and places of corruption?’

  Lord Westfield shook his head. ‘I do not know how or why they have come to their brutal decision, Nicholas. Sir Edmund Tilney was not at liberty to divulge the full details to me.’

  Firethorn gaped. ‘Brutal decision, you say?’

  ‘Brutal, savage and quite unnecessary.’

  ‘What is the Privy Council’s decree?’

  ‘It has yet to be finalised,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘so there is a faint ray of hope that it may yet be softened but it seems unlikely. This is their edict. Believing that London has too many theatres, they are planning to close down all but two playhouses, one north and one south of the Thames. Other companies will be summarily disbanded.’

  ‘This is barbarous!’ howled Firethorn.

  ‘What is the reasoning behind it?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘They claim a superfluity of players when most of them, as you well know, lack proper employment. The Privy Council also sides with the City authorities in wanting to close down all the inn yard theatres because – a specious argument, this – they draw people away from their work and are likely to promote violent affray.’

  ‘We have never had a violent affray at the Queen’s Head!’ roared Firethorn, reining in his ire at once. ‘I am sorry to shout in your presence, my lord, but this has cut me to the quick. Close us down! It is unthinkable.’

  Nicholas pondered. ‘Something more is behind this,’ he said. ‘Why only two playhouses? That means one in Shoreditch and one in Bankside.’

  ‘No,’ said Lord Westfield, ‘it means one in Shoreditch and The Rose. Havelock’s Men are safe, of that we may be sure. The Viscount’s uncle sits on the Privy Council. He would hardly condone a decision which would dispossess his nephew. That leaves only one other company to escape the rigour of this decree.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men!’ affirmed Firethorn.

  ‘Not if they close down the Queen’s Head,’ said Nicholas. ‘A company with no place to perform would never win the approval of the Privy Council. They would choose one of the playhouses in Shoreditch and we know which one that would be.’

  ‘The Curtain,’ sighed their patron. ‘Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ growled Firethorn.

  ‘We will have to battle for our survival, Lawrence.’

  ‘With every sinew in our bodies, my lord.’

  ‘These are bleak tidings.’

  ‘The bleakest possible.’ He turned to Nicholas. ‘They make our dispute with the landlord and a shabby performance of Mirth and Madness seem trivial by comparison.’ Firethorn sagged visibly. ‘The end of Westfield’s Men? At one fell swoop?’

  ‘It may come to that,’ said their patron.

  ‘What are we to do, Nick?’ whispered Firethorn.

  Nicholas took a moment to gather his thoughts.

  ‘First of all,’ he suggested, ‘we learn the true facts of the situation. This edict is not yet declared and may assume a different shape when it has been framed. The second thing we must do is to shore up our defences.’

  ‘Defences?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and hastily. What Lord Westfield has learnt is news already in the possession of our rivals. That is apparent. Banbury’s Men and Havelock’s Men will each want to strengthen their own positions and the best way to do that is to take captives from Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Nobody would desert us, Nick, surely?’

  ‘I fear that they may. Think of the temptation. Given the choice between work with a new company or certain unemployment with an old one, there may well be those who might defect. We must speak to each of them in turn,’ advised Nicholas, ‘at the earliest possible opportunity and appeal to their loyalty. We must close ranks. If our actors start leaving us now, we will bleed to death long before the day of our execution.’

  The Devil Tavern near Temple Bar served delicious food and fine wine to its patrons. Lucius Kindell rarely dined in such style. His brave decision to support himself as a poet and playwright had not endeared him to his father who, having paid for his education at Oxford, had expected him to join one of the learned professions and carve out an impressive career. Now virtually disinherited, Kindell eked out
a living of sorts but it contained more excitement for the mind than sustenance for the body. To be invited to the Devil Tavern, and to be plied with as much food and drink as he could reasonably consume, was a treat to be savoured.

  He was the guest of one John Ransome, a friend from his Oxford days who was now at the Inns of Court. A young man of independent wealth, Ransome had a passionate interest in the theatre and wanted to know all that Kindell could tell him about Westfield’s Men. The company’s apprentice dramatist was so inebriated with the wine and so intoxicated with the heady conversation that he did not notice the third person who joined them at their table. It was only when Ransome excused himself and departed that Kindell could take stock of the newcomer, a short, slight and rather anonymous figure.

  ‘My name is Rupert,’ said the stranger.

  ‘Well-met, sir!’

  ‘You are a friend of John Ransome, I hear. He speaks highly of you and that is commendation enough for me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How do you like it here?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘You must come here again, Lucius.’

  ‘I could not afford to do that too often, sir.’

  ‘That situation may change,’ said the other levelly.

  Kindell leant forward to peer at his companion through the fug of tobacco smoke. He had seen the man before though in a dozen different guises. His heart began to pound. Was he really seated at the same table as the leading actor from Havelock’s Men?

  ‘Your name is Rupert?’ he asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Would that be Rupert Kitely, by any chance?’

  ‘Chance is not involved, Lucius,’ said the other, honestly. ‘I am indeed the man you take me to be and I came here, with John Ransome’s connivance, in order to meet and befriend you.’

  ‘I am duly honoured, sir. I have seen you play at The Rose a dozen times or more. Each time you have astonished me.’

  Kitely smiled. ‘I seem to have done so again.’

  ‘I cannot believe that you should wish to meet me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You are an established player and I am a mere beginner.’

  ‘Even the best of us has to start somewhere,’ said Kitely, ‘and I will freely admit that my own introduction to the stage brought nothing like the success which has attended you. I stumbled where you have walked sure-footedly.’

  ‘But all that I have done is to collaborate on two plays with Edmund Hoode. He is my mentor.’

  ‘You could not have chosen better, Lucius. Master Hoode will teach you well until the time comes when you outgrow his tutelage. That time, I suspect, is not too far distant.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘I hear wondrous reports of The Insatiate Duke.’

  ‘It was a collaboration.’

  ‘But who set it in motion?’ asked Kitely. ‘Did you not tell John Ransome that you devised the plot and provided the title? Come, Lucius. No modesty here. Take due credit.’

  ‘If you say so, Master Kitely.’

  ‘Rupert,’ said the other softly.

  He poured more wine into Kindell’s cup and more flattery into his ear, slowly winning his confidence and breaking down his defences. The inn was slowly filling and the prevailing mood of jollity spilt over into raucous noise. Kindell was too fascinated by his companion to hear any of it. That someone as distinguished as the actor should show such a keen interest in him was an overwhelming compliment. It never occurred to Kindell to wonder what lay behind it.

  ‘What is your favourite tavern, Lucius?’ said Kitely.

  ‘The Queen’s Head,’ returned the playwright.

  ‘What others do you frequent?’

  ‘None, sir. I have been to the Red Bull and the Dolphin. And we gathered at the Cross Keys Inn yesterday. But I do not know the taverns of London well enough to have many favourites among them.’

  ‘Have you not heard the famous poem?’

  ‘Poem?’

  ‘It will serve as a useful guide to you.’

  Rupert Kitely sat upright and began to declaim the lines in a melodious voice, turning banal verse into something that was at once amusing and lyrical.

  ‘The ladies will dine at the Feathers,

  The Globe no captain will scorn:

  The huntsmen will go to the Greyhound below,

  And some townsmen to the Horn.

  The plummer will dine at the Fountain,

  The cooks at the Holy Lamb:

  The drunkards at noon to the Man in the Moon

  and the cuckolds to the Ram.

  The rovers will dine at the Lyon,

  The watermen at the Old Swan:

  The bawds will to the Negro go

  And the whores to the Naked Man.

  The keepers will to the White Hart

  the mariners unto the Ship:

  The beggars they must take their way

  to the Eg-shell and the Whip.

  The Taylors will dine at the Sheers,

  The shoo-makers will to the Boot:

  The Welshmen will take their way

  And dine at the sign of the Goat.’

  Kindell burst into laughter and the other broke off.

  ‘You know a Welshman, I think.’

  ‘Yes, Rupert. His name is Owen Elias.’

  ‘By report, a fine actor.’

  ‘But he also has a goatish disposition,’ said Kindell. ‘The rest of the company jest about it. Whenever a new wench serves at the tavern, Owen is the first to accost her. The man who penned that verse must have had Owen Elias in mind.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ coaxed the other.

  ‘A wonderful man and a good friend.’

  ‘But what of his talent? Is this goatish Welshman really as gifted as some say? There are even those who call him a second Lawrence Firethorn.’

  ‘Nobody could aspire to that title,’ said Kindell. ‘There is only one Lawrence Firethorn. He has no peer. But Owen does have rare gifts and would shine in any company.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Tell me why?’

  Lucius Kindell talked at great length about his friends, quite unaware of the fact that he was being expertly pumped by the actor. Wine and wooing conspired to lower his defences. His naivety was subtly exploited. When it was all over and Rupert Kitely had been given a detailed insight into the membership and activities of Westfield’s Men, he rose from his chair and helped Kindell up after him.

  ‘Come, my friend,’ he said. ‘Let us walk to the river.’

  ‘The river?’

  ‘We can take a boat across the Thames.’

  ‘To what end, sir?’

  ‘I wish to show you our playhouse, Lucius.’

  ‘But I have seen The Rose many times.’

  ‘Only through the eyes of a spectator. Never as a prospective member of Havelock’s Men. Here,’ he said as Kindell tottered, ‘lean on me, Lucius.’

  When they came out into the street, the cold air hit Kindell with the force of a slap and he recoiled slightly. His companion supported him and they made their way unsteadily towards the river. The young playwright was still too flattered by Rupert Kitely’s attentions to probe their true meaning. He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘There was no mention of the Devil in your poem.’

  ‘Was there not?’ said Kitely. ‘We can soon amend that.’

  ‘There is a verse about the tavern?’

  ‘Yes but I choose to improve it a little.’

  ‘Improve it?’

  ‘The weavers will dine at the Shuttle,

  The bellmen go straight to the Bell;

  The hounds of hell to the Devil repair

  With Kitely and Lucius Kindell.’

  Their laughter mingled and echoed along the street.

  They were all there. The eight sharers were crammed into the parlour of Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch to discuss the latest crisis which had befallen Westfield’s Men. For once in his life, Barnaby Gill did n
ot object to the presence of Nicholas Bracewell, sensing that the hired man might be the one person who could affect their survival. Refreshment had been provided by Firethorn’s wife, Margery, who closed the door on the debate and scattered the apprentices who were trying to eavesdrop outside it. Many important meetings had been held at short notice in her home but Margery knew that none had greater significance than this one. Westfield’s Men were engaged in a battle against extinction.

  Lawrence Firethorn stood in the middle of the room as if he were at the centre of the stage at the Queen’s Head. He ran his eye over the visitors.

  ‘You all know why we are here,’ he said solemnly. ‘The Privy Council is poised to strike us down. We must decide how best to protect ourselves from its blow.’

  ‘There is no protection,’ moaned Edmund Hoode. ‘How can we resist an edict of the Privy Council? It is the supreme power in the land. We are defeated.’

  ‘No, Edmund,’ said Owen Elias truculently. ‘Never talk of defeat while there is breath in our bodies to fight.’

  ‘Against whom?’ said Barnaby Gill. ‘The Privy Council? I side with Edmund here. We are minnows against a giant whale. We will be gobbled up at the first bite.’

  ‘You might be, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, ‘but I’ll not. Nor will Westfield’s Men. Should they try to gobble us up, we’ll cause such havoc in their mouth that they will be forced to spit us out again.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ challenged Gill.

  ‘That is what we are met to decide.’

  ‘The decision has already been made for us, Lawrence.’

  ‘That is not quite true,’ Nicholas Bracewell reminded them. ‘All that we have been given by Lord Westfield is a timely warning. No decree has yet been issued by the Privy Council and our patron has sworn to use what influence he has to prevent that decree from ever seeing the light of day. Whether or not he will succeed, we do not know, but he may at the very least put in an eloquent plea for Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘The most eloquent plea comes from our audience,’ said Sylvester Pryde, looking around the room. ‘I am new to this company, gentleman, and feel a natural diffidence in speaking out on its behalf but I do have one advantage. Until recently, I was a complete outsider, able to observe and enjoy every theatre company in London before choosing to tie my future to this one. None of your rivals has such a large and faithful following as Westfield’s Men. Popularity must surely be a touchstone here. The Privy Council would not dare to put to death the most loved and respected troupe in London.’