Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

Edmund Hoode was shouldering his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street when it happened. The realisation took him completely by surprise and brought him to a sudden halt. He did not even notice that he was standing in a puddle of water or that his shoes were attracting the sniffing nostrils of a stray dog. Truth hit him like a shaft of sunlight breaking through the dark clouds above. He was happy. Gloriously and seriously happy. For the first time in several years, he was unaccountably filled with a pure contentment. It was a small miracle. On a dull, cold, wind-blown morning, amid the jostling elbows and deafening noise of a bustling London thoroughfare, he experienced a quiet joy which took his breath away.

It was baffling. Hoode was no stranger to the exhilaration of lust, still less to the pulsing delights of love, but here was ecstasy of a wholly different order. It was no brief flame of passion which would burn itself out and leave him in the pit of depression which was his normal abode. Indeed, romantic entanglement was, for once, markedly absent from his life and had no bearing on the feelings which surged within him. What he now basked in was a deep and satisfying inner glow. Edmund Hoode, the loyal, hapless, overworked, teased and tormented playwright with Westfields Men, was enjoying a peace of mind that blocked out all else.

It took a sharp nudge in the ribs to bring him out of his reverie. The old woman whose basket of fruit had struck him so hard and so carelessly apologised gruffly, but Hoode waved her away with a forgiving smile. Nothing could dent his sense of pleasure. As his legs began to move again in the direction of the Queens Head, he tried to piece together in his mind the constituent elements of his happiness. How had he managed to stumble into this rare condition?

More to the point, how long would it last?

Well-met, Edmund!

Good morrow, Lucius!

You are an early bird today.

I could say the same of you, my friend.

I take instruction from my master. In this, as in all other things, he sets a good example for me to follow.

There was no irony in his voice. Lucius Kindell was a model of sincerity. Young, keen and fresh-faced, he openly acknowledged Hoode as his inspiration and was a most willing apprentice. Hoode was at once touched and flattered. Kindell was a talented poet, a University wit whose brilliance at Oxford had earned him a wide reputation and whose fledgling dramas had enormous promise. Under the guidance of a veteran playwright, that promise was already bearing fruit.

When Lucius Kindell was first introduced to him, Hoode had been wary and defensive. Oxford and Cambridge graduates tended to be wilful and arrogant, reluctant to accept criticism of their plays and quick to mock those, like Hoode himself, who lacked a University education. Expecting to build a huge instant reputation, they were not prepared to put in the years of patient toil on the stage as they mastered their craft. Lucius Kindell, by contrast, was a modest, unassuming and conscientious pupil who was anxious to learn all that he could from a superior playwright. He had a streak of mischief in him and was a gifted satirist but he had none of the intellectual bumptiousness which so often marred the characters of self-styled University wits.

Hoodes reservations about him soon fled away. Kindell was not only a skilful dramatist and a congenial collaborator, but he brought the best out of his teacher. Hoodes own work actually improved, partly because he set about it with new enthusiasm and partly because he wanted to impress his young charge even more. Lucius Kindells arrival on the scene was without doubt a contributory cause of the others happiness. Though far from old himself, Hoode found himself taking a paternal interest in the latest addition to the companys playwrights. Kindell was the son he seemed doomed never to father.

I had a sleepless night, admitted Kindell.

That is only to be expected, said Hoode, reassuringly. Every true poet is justifiably nervous on the eve of the performance of his play.

Our play, Edmund. Our play.

You conceived the drama. I merely acted as a kind of midwife to bring it squealing into the world.

You did far more than that, said Kindell with a glint of admiration in his eyes. You transformed it. What I provided were some clever ideas in a shapeless tragedy. You fashioned it into a real drama. Any virtues it possesses were put there by Edmund Hoode.

Thank you, Lucius.

You are my mentor.

That role has brought me intense pride.

I sit at your feet.

Kindell somehow managed to sound grateful without being obsequious. Hoode was delighted that someone appreciated him but he was also conscious of the debt he owed to his young friend. Kindell had concentrated his mind on subjects which he normally avoided. Known for his rumbustious comedies, Hoode had worked with his collaborator on two dark tragedies, both of which explored the power of religion to save and also to pervert. Their first play had been a modest success, their second joint offering, The Insatiate Duke, was due to receive its premiere at the Queens Head that afternoon.

The young playwright had brought a spiritual dimension into the life of Edmund Hoode which had been woefully missing. Instead of penning yet another rustic farce with romantic subplots, Hoode was responding to the deeper challenge of tragedy and confronting far more serious issues. Significantly, his resort to prayer had been more willing, his attendance at church more regular. Writing about the struggle between Christianity and its detractors had brought him substantially closer to his Maker. Hoode was uplifted. He felt cleansed.

Lucius Kindell was apprehensive about the performance.

How will The Insatiate Duke be received, do you think? he wondered. Will they approve of its theme?

They must, said Hoode. It is a fine play.

And if they do not?

Put that thought out of your mind, Lucius.

Master Firethorn speaks well of the piece, said the other, trying to instil confidence into himself. So does Master Gill since you put in those additional songs for him. And the most reliable judgement of all is that of Nicholas Bracewell. He has nothing but praise for my work.

And so do I. Fear not.

My whole body trembles.

Applause will soon still you.

If the play merits applause.

It does, insisted Hoode. Trust me, Lucius.

I do. Implicitly.

Hoode put an affectionate arm around him and guided his friend into the inn yard. Hurrying towards them with head down, a buxom figure in a flurry of skirts all but collided with them and forced the couple to break apart. Rose Marwood stopped, looked up, blushed, dropped a vestigial curtsey and stammered an apology.

The fault is entirely on our side, said Hoode with beaming gallantry. We are sorry to block your path.

Thank you, Master Hoode, she muttered.

Do not let us detain you.

That would be too unmannerly, added Kindell.

They stepped aside to allow Rose Marwood to scurry on past them and lose herself in the crowd. The landlords daughter was a pretty wench with a shining face and long dark hair which streamed out beneath her cap. She had a bloom on her which habitually turned the heads of the company and Kindell was not immune to her nubile charms. He gazed after her with the fondness of rising curiosity.