‘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.
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.