The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston

crowded the pit and the benches in the galleries were filled with equal enthusiasm. The whole theatre buzzed with a hum of expectation. Westfield’s Men were held in high regard and there was no better place to display their wares than at this inspiring playhouse in Southwark.
    Lord Westfield timed his own arrival to gain maximum effect, sweeping into his cushioned chair in the upper gallery amid his usual entourage and acknowledging the sporadic applause that broke out by waving a gloved hand. A new play by his beloved company was not to be missed but the sybaritic patron was not there simply to lend tacit support. He expected to reap his share of the harvest of praise. Lord Westfield was not a man to hide his light under a bushel. He was more inclined to let it blaze in the afternoon sun. It was the one certain way to annoy and frustrate the Earl of Banbury.
    Anne Hendrik also took her place on the benches. Since the theatre was virtually on her doorstep, she had willingly accepted her lodger’s invitation to come along and she had brought Preben van Loew with her. The Dutchman, an impassive character of middle years, was her most skilful hatmaker and he affected an almost puritanical distaste for the theatre but his presence lent her respectability and guaranteed her safety. As on previous occasions – Anne felt sure – her employee would end up enjoying the play hugely while doing his best to disguise the fact. She herself had been given a specific task by Nicholas Bracewell. He had contrived aseries of special effects for
Love’s Sacrifice
and needed a pair of eyes in the auditorium. Anne Hendrik was there to be entertained and to sit in judgement. Handsomely dressed for the event, she looked incongruous beside the dark apparel of her laconic companion but she was used to this situation.
    A new play imposed additional responsibilities on the company. It was like fighting a battle with untried weapons. They might taste glorious victory or ignominious defeat. Only when they set their verse on its first cavalry charge into the ears of its spectators could they gauge the possible success of the encounter. In a world of swirling fashion, nothing was certain. Plots and themes which had held sway one month could become tedious the next. Characters who impressed in one piece could find they had no life outside it. Novelty was in request but its precise nature shifted all the time. Westfield’s Men hoped that
Love’s Sacrifice
would come through unscathed but they could not predict it with any confidence. In the heat of war, strange things could happen. For this reason, the tiring-house was pervaded by an even greater degree of nervous excitement than usual. Players and playwright alike were fearful lest there should be heavy casualties.
    It was at times like this that Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn came into their own. The book holder was a calming presence with a comforting smile while the actor-manager was an impatient general who was eager to lead the first attack. They put heart into the entire company and even Edmund Hoode’s faithin the play was restored. He had followed his usual practise of writing a cameo for himself that showed off his not inconsiderable talent as an actor. Barnaby Gill lapsed into his customary testiness and made useless last-minute complaints about the size and scope of his role. Collectively and individually, the company was going down some well-trodden paths.
    Lawrence Firethorn then diverged from them. As the moment of truth drew near and the excitement spiralled even higher, he twitched the curtain to get a brief glimpse of his latest audience. It was a fateful action. A sea of faces came into view but he saw only one of them. She was seated in the middle of the lower gallery with a poise that set her completely apart from the jostling bodies all around her. A heart-shaped face of inexpressible beauty was framed by black hair that swept upwards and vanished into a most