The Laughing Hangman E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 383

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

A laughing hangman turns the stage into the gallows... When Nicholas Bracewell finds himself once again in the parlour of his lost love, Anne Hendrik, he was not expecting her entreaties to embroil him in the murder of a beloved choir master. Between tales of cruelty, forgotten maps of London and a butcher determined to rescue his son, it is yet another mystery for the book keeper to untangle. But will his quest endanger Lord Westfield's Men? As their latest play, The Misfortunes of Marriage, threatens to break them apart beneath the playwright's own belligerent ribaldry, the threat of the hangman stalks ever closer. And with every step his laughter rings with the power to turn even the hallowed stage into the gallows.

Leseprobe

The Laughing Hangman

AN ELIZABETHAN MYSTERY

EDWARD MARSTON

To

VISCOUNT KRICHEVSKY

Laird of Dobbs Ferry

Lone survivor of the Stuart dynasty

Plays will never be suppressed, while her Majesty’s unfledged minions flaunt it in silks and satins … Even in her Majesty’s chapel do these pretty upstart youths profane the Lord’s day by the lascivious writhing of their tender limbs and gorgeous decking of their apparel, in feigning bawdy fables gathered from the idolatrous heathen poets.

– Anonymous, The Children of the Chapel Stripped and Whipped (1569)

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

Chapter One

He missed her. Nicholas Bracewell felt a pang of regret so sharp and so unexpected that it made him catch his breath. He looked down involuntarily to see if the point of a knife had pricked his chest and drawn blood. Nicholas had not even been thinking about Anne Hendrik, still less talking about her, yet she was suddenly filling his mind, standing before his eyes and stroking his cheek with wistful fingers. It was at once reassuring and tantalising.

For several minutes, Nicholas was so enveloped by a flurry of wonderful memories that he paid no heed to the argument that was raging in front of him. Anne Hendrik whispered softly in his ear and kept out the violent discord. The book holder did not even hear the fist that banged the table like the blast of a cannon.

‘I’ll not be thwarted!’ roared Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Then leave off this madness!’ argued Barnaby Gill.

‘I put the good of the company first and foremost.’

‘You have never done so before, Lawrence.’

‘I have always done so! It is you who believe that Westfield’s Men exists for the greater glory of one paltry individual.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Look in any mirror, Barnaby. He will leer back at you.’

‘That is a gross slander!’

‘I speak but the truth.’

‘Calumny!’ said Gill, rising to his feet and inflating his chest to its full extent. ‘But for me, there would be no company. I have oftentimes saved it from extinction and I am trying to do so again.’

‘You are obstructing the path to triumph.’

‘Yes, Lawrence. Triumph for our rivals. If we follow your lunatic advice, we hand the advantage to them.’

‘My plan puts Westfield’s Men in the seat of power.’

‘It is a cucking-stool and we shall be drowned by ridicule if we place our buttocks anywhere near it.’

Firethorn gave a mock bow. ‘I defer to your superior knowledge on the subject of buttocks.’

Barnaby Gill turned purple and slapped his thigh with a petulant palm. Turning on his heel, he tried to make a dramatic exit, but Edmund Hoode jumped up to restrain him.

‘Hold, Barnaby. This is no way to settle a quarrel.’

‘I’ll not stay to be insulted.’

‘Then scurry off,’ said Firethorn, ‘for the very sight of you calls up a hundred insults. We’ll make the decision without you and inform you in due course.’

Gill stamped a foot. ‘I demand to be part of that decision.’

‘Take your seat once more and you will be,’ soothed Hoode. ‘Your voice is needed at this table, Barnaby, and you shall be heard. Is that not so, Nick?’

A nudge brought Nicholas out of his reverie and he adjusted quickly to the familiar scene. Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were at each other’s throats again. Two men who could combine brilliantly to lift the performance of any play were sworn enemies the moment that they quit the stage. Their mutual antagonism went deeper than mere professional jealousy. Firethorn, the company’s actor-manager, felt that his remarkable talents were not properly acknowledged by his colleague; Gill, the resident clown with Westfield’s Men, saw himself as the true leader of the troupe and resented any reminder that he occupied second place behind Firethorn.

Nicholas Bracewell helped to calm the quivering Gill and the latter eventually agreed to resume his seat. The four men were in the parlour of Firethorn’s house in Old Street. Everyone in Shoreditch was aware of the fact because it intruded stridently on their eardrums and they were not sure if they found Firethorn’s deep bellow or Gill’s high-pitched wail the more tiresome. Regular acrimony in the parlour had one domestic compensation. It dusted the room so thoroughly that the servant did not need to brush the cobwebs from the beams or sweep the beetles out of corners. Every creature that could walk, crawl or fly vacated the premises at once. Even the mice in the thatch fled to a quieter refuge.

‘I thought it might be a moment for more refreshment.’

Margery Firethorn came sailing into the room with a wooden tray in her hands and a benign smile on her handsome face. Her entry was perfectly timed to break the tension and allow the combatants to cool off. As she set a plate of warm cakes and a fresh pitcher of wine in front of them, she caught Nicholas’s eye and gave him an affectionate wink. He replied with a quiet grin of thanks. Not for the first time, a woman who could rant and rail as loud as her husband on occasion had imposed a welcome stillness with a show of gentle hospitality.

While Gill reached for the wine, Firethorn grabbed a cake to pop into his mouth. He munched it happily and the crumbs found a temporary lodging in his black beard.

‘Thank you, my dove,’ he cooed.

‘We are most grateful,’ added Edmund Hoode, replenishing his own cup and taking a deep sip. ‘Nectar!’

‘Do you have need of anything else?’ she said.

‘No,’ grunted Gill.

‘We will call if we do, my angel,’ said her husband, blowing her a fond kiss.

‘I’ll stay within earshot, Lawrence.’

Hoode nodded ruefully. ‘All of London does that!’

Margery let out a rich cackle and went back into the kitchen. Her intervention had taken the sting out of the discussion. Anger subsided and reason slowly returned. Firethorn was soon ready to draw the others into the debate.

‘What is your opinion, Nick?’ he asked.

‘It matters not,’ said Gill, testily. ‘This is a question to be decided by we three sharers, not by one of the hired men. Nicholas is a competent book holder, I grant you, but he does not rank with us.’

‘No,’ said Hoode, coming to the defence. ‘He ranks far higher. His wisdom and loyalty have rescued us from damnation more times than I can count. Lawrence seeks his counsel and so do I. Speak up, Nick.’

‘Yours is the more important voice here, Edmund.’

‘Mine?’

‘Yes,’ observed Nicholas. ‘This touches you more directly than any of us. The argument thus far has simply been about a new play.’

‘A masterpiece!’ affirmed Firethorn.

‘A monstrosity!’ countered Gill.

‘It is only right that players should dispute the merits of a drama,’ continued Nicholas tactfully, ‘but you may be more concerned with the character of the dramatist.’

Edmund Hoode winced slightly. He had been doing his best to separate the play from the playwright because the very name of Jonas Applegarth could set his teeth on edge. It was not a case of naked envy. Hood admired the other’s work immensely and was the first to admit that Applegarth was the superior poet. In terms of literary talent, the latter could outshine anyone in London, but there were other aspects of Jonas Applegarth that were far less appealing. Edmund Hoode made an effort to draw a veil over them.

‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is a fine play,’ he said with unfeigned enthusiasm. ‘It is comedy with a satirical edge and far exceeds anything that my wilting pen could produce. The Queen’s Head will not have seen a more riotous afternoon than Applegarth’s play will offer.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I believe that we should put personal considerations aside and stage the play. There is pure genius in The Misfortunes of Marriage.’

‘I love the piece,’ said Firethorn.

‘I hate it,’ said Gill, ‘yet I applaud the title. The misfortunes of marriage are far too many and varied to attract me into the connubial state.’

Margery Firethorn snorted with derision in the kitchen. Her husband chuckled and Nicholas traded an amused glance with him. Edmund Hoode tried hard to convince himself that it was in his own best interests to accept the new play for performance by Westfield’s Men.

‘Jonas Applegarth has his vices, I know,’ he said with masterly understatement, ‘but they are outweighed by his virtues. We must always embrace rare talent where we find it. For my own part, I will be happy to work alongside Master Applegarth. I look to learn much from him.’

Firethorn beamed. ‘Nobly spoken, Edmund!’

‘Indeed,’ said Gill, ‘but I would urge a little less nobility and a little more caution on your behalf. You are our poet, Edmund, and your art has served us well. Do you want to be eclipsed by this freak of nature? Do you wish to have your livelihood squashed flat beneath the hideous bulk of Jonas Applegarth?’

Hoode shifted uneasily on his chair. ‘I must recognise a good play when I see one.’

‘That is more than Applegarth does,’ retorted Gill. ‘He pours scorn over everything you have written.’

‘Only in his cups,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘What poet does not abuse his fellows when too much drink is taken?’

‘Edmund Hoode does not,’ noted Nicholas.

‘He is far too trusting,’ said Gill. ‘Applegarth will tread all over him and unsettle the entire company.’

‘That will not be tolerated!’ said Firethorn firmly. ‘You have my word on that. He works here on our terms or not at all. Nick will make him understand that.’ He slipped another cake into his mouth and looked around contentedly. ‘Well, Edmund and I agree that The Misfortunes of Marriage is a worthy addition to our repertoire.’

‘I refuse to countenance the idea,’ said Gill.

‘Our two votes tip the scales against your one.’

‘We have not heard Nick’s opinion yet,’ said Hoode.

‘Nor need we,’ muttered Gill.

‘Unless it chimes with your own, Barnaby,’ teased Firethorn. ‘You’d elevate Nick Bracewell to sharer on the spot for that.’ He turned to the book holder. ‘Well? Cast your vote, Nick. Speak freely among friends.’

Hoode leant forward. ‘How do you like The Misfortunes of Marriage?’

Nicholas sat up with a start, realising that it was the title and matter of the play which had conjured up Anne Hendrik’s memory. When he had finally come to see how dearly he loved her, he proposed marriage on the confident assumption that she would accept his hand. Misfortune had struck. Anne Hendrik refused him and his emotional life had been adrift ever since.

‘How do you like it?’ pressed Firethorn. ‘Tell us!’

‘I like it well,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head to evict its female ghost. ‘The play will offer Westfield’s Men a challenge but I am certain that we can rise to it. My only reservations concern the author.’

Firethorn flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Jonas Applegarth cannot help being so ugly and ill-favoured.’

‘I speak not of his appearance,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is his behaviour that troubles me. Quarrels, fights, drunkenness. Some companies refuse to let him near them.’

‘So should we!’ hissed Gill.

‘Strict conditions need to be laid down at the outset. That is my advice. If he joins Westfield’s Men, let Master Applegarth know that he must abide by our rules. We want no upheaval in the company.’ Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘In short, present the play for its sheer delight but keep a tight rein on the playwright.’

Barnaby Gill blustered but all to no avail. The die had been cast. The Misfortunes of Marriage would receive its first performance the following week. It would be left to Nicholas Bracewell to break the news to Jonas Applegarth and to make him aware of his contractual obligations. Edmund Hoode was sad and pensive. Honesty compelled him to praise the play but he sensed that he would suffer humiliation as a result. When Gill stalked out, therefore, Hoode also took his leave. Both men had grave misgivings, albeit of different kinds.

Lawrence Firethorn watched them through the window before turning to clap the book holder on the shoulder.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he predicted. ‘We have made one of the most momentous decisions in the history of Westfield’s Men. I dote on Edmund and on his plays, but Jonas Applegarth puts his work in the shade. My only complaint is that The Misfortunes of Marriage will spring to life in the mean surroundings of the inn yard at the Queen’s Head under the gaze of that death’s-head of a landlord. It calls for a truer playhouse. It deserves to be staged at The Curtain or at The Theatre.’

‘The Rose would be a fitter place,’ said Nicholas.

As the words came out of his mouth, Anne Hendrik stepped back into his thoughts. The Rose was a recently built theatre in Bankside. When the book holder lodged with Anne, sharing her life and basking in her love, he had been within easy walking distance of the playhouse. He would always associate The Rose with the happier times he spent on the south bank of the Thames.

Firethorn saw the faraway look on his friend’s face. He knew the book holder well enough to guess at its meaning.

‘Still brooding on her, Nick?’

‘I must away. There is much work to do.’

‘Go to her, man. Plead your case.’

‘That is all past,’ said Nicholas briskly. ‘Pray excuse me. I must seek out Jonas Applegarth. He will be eager to know the fate of his play and I must explain clearly the conditions on which we accept it.’

Firethorn caught his arm. ‘How long has it been?’

There was a brief pause. The pang of remorse was even sharper this time, the sense of loss more extreme.

‘A year,’ said Nicholas, as the truth dawned on him. ‘A year to the day.’

He at last understood why he was missing Anne Hendrik so much. It was the first anniversary of their parting.

Jonas Applegarth lay back in the oak settle and rocked with mirth. Delighted that his play had been accepted by Westfield’s Men, he was celebrating in the taproom of the Queen’s Head with some of his new fellows. Applegarth was barely thirty but his vast girth, his thinning hair, his grey beard and his pockmarked skin added a decade and more. Whenever he moved, the hooks on his doublet threatened to snap and his huge thighs seemed on the point of bursting the banks of his breeches and flooding the settle.

The colossal body was matched by a colossal appetite and a seemingly insatiable thirst. Jonas Applegarth drank tankards of beer as fast as they could be filled, but it was no solitary indulgence. Generous with his money, he invited four of his new friends to join him in his revelry and they were soon cracking merry jests together.

Owen Elias laughed loudest of all. An ebullient Welsh actor with a love of life, he discerned a soulmate in Jonas Applegarth. The dramatist had not only provided Elias with an excellent role in his play, he was showing that he could roister with the wildest of them. In the short time he’d been with the troupe, Applegarth had taken the measure of Westfield’s Men.

‘What think you of Barnaby Gill?’ asked Elias.

‘Far less than he thinks of himself,’ said Applegarth as he preened himself in an invisible mirror. ‘Not a pretty boy in London is safe when Master Gill is strutting about the town in his finery. ‘Tis well that he is not employed at Blackfriars or the Chapel Children would fear for their virtue every time they bent in prayer.’

Owen Elias led the crude laughter once again and two of his fellows joined in. The one exception was James Ingram, a tall, slender young man with the dashing good looks of an actor allied to the poise of courtier. As the others enlarged upon their theme, Ingram remained detached and watchful. The target of the general amusement was now fixed on the Children of Her Majesty’s Chapel Royal, a theatre company of boys who performed at the reconstructed playhouse in Blackfriars. Westfield’s Men competed for an audience with the Chapel Children so they had good reason to mock their rivals. James Ingram had equally good reason to stand apart from the ribaldry.

Jonas Applegarth told of his Blackfriars experience.

‘He had the gall to ask me for a play.’

‘Who?’ said Elias.

‘Cyril Fulbeck, the Master of the Chapel.’ Applegarth emptied another tankard. ‘He and his partner in the enterprise, Raphael Parsons, expected a full-grown poet like me to devise a drama for his dribbling pygmies. As if I’d turn punk and sell my art at so cheap a price!’

‘What was its subject?’

‘The stalest of all. Antony and Cleopatra.’

‘Can a ten-year-old chorister with a piping voice wield power over the Roman Empire?’

‘No, Owen. And think of my martial verse in the sweet mouths of those little eunuchs. I told Master Fulbeck as much. “Let me write another play for you,” I suggested. “It is called The Plague of Blackfriars and tells of a verminous swarm of locusts, who devour the bread that belongs to their elders and betters. A wily beekeeper tricks them and every last parasite is drowned in the River Thames.” When he realised that I was talking about his young charges, Cyril Fulbeck walked off in disgust and Raphael Parsons, Lord Foulmouth himself, used language that would have turned the black friars blue and set their cowls alight. In the whole history of Christianity, there cannot have been such irreligious cursing on consecrated ground. It was wondrous sport! I have not been so joyously abused by a vile tongue since my wedding night!’

Once again, James Ingram offered only a token smile.

Jonas Applegarth was in his element, carousing with his newfound companions as if they were his oldest friends and drawing from an apparently inexhaustible well of anecdote and jest. Seeing him in such a benevolent mood, it was difficult to believe that he had such a reputation for violence and wild behaviour. He seemed the epitome of amiability. Words gushed out of him in a happy torrent. Arresting phrases and clever conceits bubbled on the surface of the water. He positively exuded goodwill.

It vanished in a flash. When a figure came into the taproom and signalled with his hand, Jonas Applegarth stopped in mid-flow. The massive frame stiffened, the flabby cheeks shed their smile, and the teeth began to grind audibly. But it was his eyes which underwent the greatest change. Set close together beneath the bristling eyebrows, they had sparkled with such merriment that they almost redeemed his unsightly features. They now became black coals, glowing with a hatred which ignited the whole body and turned the face itself into a grotesque mask.

He grabbed the side of the settle to haul himself upright. His companions were shocked by the transformation.

‘What ails you, Jonas?’ said Owen.

‘Spend this for me,’ rumbled Applegarth, taking coins from his purse and tossing them onto the table. ‘I’ll return anon to share in your pleasure.’

Leaving the others still bemused, he waddled purposefully across the room and went out with the newcomer. Owen Elias was the first to recover. Scooping up the money, he called for more beer and grinned at his fellows.

‘Let’s raise our tankards to Jonas Applegarth!’

‘Which one?’ murmured Ingram. ‘There are two of them.’

The genial dramatist from the Queen’s Head was now a furious avenger with murder in his heart. As he swept along Gracechurch Street with his friend at his heels, Jonas Applegarth was cursing volubly and buffeting anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. He swung into a side street, then turned off that into a narrow lane. It was late evening and shadows were striping the buildings. When he reached a small courtyard, however, there was still enough light for him to recognise the two figures who lurked in a corner.

Applegarth glared at the bigger of the two men. Hugh Naismith was a stocky individual, in his twenties, with a handsome face set now in a scowl. His hand went straight to the hilt of his sword, but his companion, a much older and thinner man, held his wrist.

‘Viper!’ snarled Applegarth.

‘Pig-face!’ retorted Naismith.

‘Rascal!’

‘Knave!’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said the older man, coming to stand between the two of them. ‘There is no call for bloodshed here. Tempers were too hot when this tryst was arranged.’ He turned to Naismith. ‘Make but a simple apology and the matter is ended. You make shake hands again and part as friends.’

‘He’ll get no apology from me,’ sneered Naismith.

‘Nor would I hear one,’ exclaimed Applegarth. ‘I’ve come to separate this slave from his miserable existence. That is the only parting which will take place here.’

‘Send for six horses!’ yelled Naismith. ‘You will need at least that number to drag away his fat carcass when I have cut the villainy out of it.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ implored the peacemaker.

‘Stand aside, old sir,’ warned Applegarth, ‘or I’ll run you through as well. Honour must be satisfied.’

‘Then let us not delay,’ said Naismith.

Handing his cap to the old man, he drew his sword and took up his position. Jonas Applegarth reached for the rapier that his companion offered him and swished the blade through the air a few times. Duelling was illegal and both parties would be imprisoned if they were caught by the watch. The seconds were not there merely to ensure that the rules of fair combat were observed. They would also keep one eye out for any patrolling officers and be on hand to summon a surgeon in the event of a wounding. Jonas Applegarth and Hugh Naismith were both resolved that any wound they inflicted on their opponent would be fatal.

‘I am ready for you, sir,’ invited Applegarth.

Naismith smirked. ‘Bid farewell to London.’

Steel touched steel in a brief greeting and the duel began. Jonas Applegarth held his ground while his opponent circled him. The seconds stood out of harm’s way in the lane. Hugh Naismith sounded much more confident than he felt. Challenged to a duel during a fierce row, he had been forced to accept. Calm reflection had made him regret his decision and several cups of wine had been needed to lubricate his courage for the event itself. He still loathed Applegarth enough to want him dead but he was also aware of his adversary’s strength and determination.

In theory, Applegarth’s bulk made him an easy target. In practice, however, he was supremely well defended by a flashing rapier and a powerful wrist. When Naismith launched the first attack, it was parried with ease. A second assault was beaten away and a third met with such resistance that Naismith’s sword arm was jarred. It was the younger and fitter man who was now breathing hard and perspiring freely. Jonas Applegarth moved in for the kill.

Swords clashed again. Thrust, parry and counter-thrust sent Naismith reeling back against a wall. Applegarth used his weight to imprison his opponent and his strength to finish the contest. Their rapiers were now locked together below the hilt and Applegarth was forcing the blade of Naismith’s sword slowly but inexorably towards the man’s unguarded throat. Naismith’s eyes filmed over with fear and his sweat dripped onto the weapon. Chuckling with triumph, Applegarth applied more pressure and the keen edge drew its first trickle of blood from the white neck.

Panic gave Naismith a fresh burst of energy and he contrived to push his adversary away, but he gained only momentary relief. Applegarth slashed the man’s wrist and made him drop his sword with a howl of anguish. A second thrust opened up a wound in Naismith’s other arm and sent him down on one knee in agony. Applegarth stepped back and drew back his arm for a final thrust, but the old man flung himself in front of his wounded friend.

‘Hold there, sir!’ he begged. ‘You have won the day. Honour is satisfied and needs no more blood to assuage its thirst. Hugh kneels before you as a penitent. Show mercy!’

Applegarth was about to brush the old man aside when the other second saw someone coming along the lane.

‘Officers of the watch!’ he called.

The duel was over. Sighing with relief, the old man bent over his stricken friend. Jonas Applegarth was not yet done with Hugh Naismith. Kicking him to the ground, he used the toe of his shoe to flick offal into the man’s face. He stood astride the body and hovered menacingly over it.

‘Thus perish all actors who mangle my plays!’ he said.

Then he fled nimbly into the shadows with his friend.

Chapter Two

Thames Street was his seventh home since leaving Bankside and he knew that he would not stay there long. Anne Hendrik’s house had provided a secure mooring for Nicholas Bracewell in every way. Deprived of that, he drifted aimlessly through a succession of lodgings, never settling, never feeling at ease, never using the respective dwellings as anything more than a place to sleep. Loneliness kept him on the move.

Nicholas lived in a room at the top of a house on the corner of Thames Street and Cordwainer Street. Through its tiny window, he could watch the fishing smacks taking their catch into Queenhithe and larger vessels bringing foreign wines to the Vintry. Across the dark back of the river, he got a glimpse of Bankside with its tenements jostling each other for room around a haphazard collection of churches, brothels, taverns and ordinaries. The Rose Theatre blossomed above the smaller buildings surrounding it.

He woke early that morning, as every morning, to the happy clamour of tradespeople below and the plaintive cries of the gulls wheeling hopefully above the wharves. After washing and dressing, Nicholas made his way out into Thames Street and paused to let its pungency strike his nostrils. The smell of fish dominated but the stink of the nearby breweries was also carried on the wind. A dozen other strong odours merged into the distinctive aroma of the riverside.

After throwing a nostalgic glance at Bankside, Nicholas headed east towards the subtler fragrances of the fruit market. He did not get very far.

‘Good-morrow, Master Bracewell.’

‘And to you, sir.’

‘Are you bound for that den of iniquity?’

‘If you mean the Queen’s Head,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘then I fear that I am. It is not the ideal arena for our work but it is all that we may call our own.’

Caleb Hay put his head to one side and studied Nicholas carefully. The old man was short, neat and compact, and he carried his sixty years with surprising lightness. His sober apparel and intelligent face suggested a scholar while the ready grin and the glint in his eye hinted at a more worldly existence. Caleb Hay was one of Nicholas’s neighbours and they had struck up a casual friendship. On the former’s side, it consisted largely of jovial teasing.

‘What made you do it?’ said Hay.

‘Do what?’

‘Sell your soul to such a thankless profession.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I like the theatre.’

‘But how can such a patently good man work at such a manifestly bad trade?’ The grin lit up his features. ‘The theatre is the haunt of all the sweepings of the city. For every gallant in the gallery, there are three or four trulls and pickpockets and arrant knaves breathing garlic all over your inn yard. You play to plebeians, Master Bracewell.’

‘Everyone who can buy entrance is welcome.’

‘That is where the boys lord it over you,’ said Hay. ‘The Chapel Children and the Children of St Paul’s charge higher prices at their indoor playhouses and keep out the commonalty. Sweeter breaths are met at Blackfriars. And finer plays may be set before a more discerning audience.’

‘You’ll not find a better comedy than the one that we next stage, Master Hay,’ said Nicholas proudly. ‘Its author is a scholar of repute with a wit to match any in the city. The Misfortunes of Marriage is a feast for standees and great minds alike. As for the children’s companies,’ he added with an indulgent smile, ‘there is room for them as well as us. We serve the same Muse.’

Caleb Hay chuckled and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. He was carrying a leather satchel under his arm and Nicholas could see the scrolls of parchment poking out of it. Hay was a retired scrivener, who was devoting every waking hour to the writing of a history of London. Having been born and bred in the city, he knew it intimately and had witnessed extraordinary changes in the course of his long life. Those changes would all be listed scrupulously in his book, but research had first to be done into the earlier times of the capital, and Caleb trotted zealously about his task from dawn till dusk.

Nicholas was intrigued by the old man’s obsessive interest in his native city. Caleb Hay was engaged in a labour of love that kept him glowing with contentment. It was impossible not to envy such a man.

‘How does your book progress?’ Nicholas asked.

‘It grows, it grows. Slowly, perhaps, but we antiquarians may not rush. There is so much to sift and to weigh.’

‘Then I will not keep you away from your studies.’

‘Nor I you from your sinful occupation.’

‘You do not fool me, Master Hay,’ said Nicholas with a pleasant smile. ‘Though you denigrate the theatre, I’ll warrant that you have more than once rubbed shoulders with the lower sort in order to cheer a play in an inn yard.’

‘I do not deny it,’ admitted the other, ‘but I did not venture there in search of pleasure. I forced myself to go in the spirit of enquiry. To know this city well enough to write about it, one must visit its most noisome quarters. How can a man describe a cesspool unless he has wallowed in it?’

They shared a laugh and exchanged farewells. Nicholas was about to move off when Caleb Hay plucked at his sleeve. ‘Your author is a noted scholar, you say?’

‘He can speak Greek and Latin like a schoolmaster.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Jonas Applegarth.’

Hay’s cherubic face darkened. He walked abruptly away.

‘No, no, no!’ bellowed Jonas Applegarth. ‘Speak the speech as it is set down, you dolt, and not as you half remember it. If you cannot learn my lines, do not pile insult on incompetence by inventing your own.’

Barnaby Gill spluttered with fury and waved his arms like a windmill out of control.

‘I’ll not be talked to like this!’

‘Then play the part as it is written.’

‘My art enhances any role that I undertake.’

‘You are certainly proving a vile undertaker here, sir,’ said Applegarth with heavy sarcasm. ‘You have killed the character that I created and buried him in a wooden casket. Exhume him straight or I’ll step up on that stage and aid the resurrection with my dagger.’

Barnaby Gill was so outraged by the criticism of his performance and so mortified by the threat of violence that he was struck dumb. His arms were now revolving with such speed that they seemed about to part company with his body.

‘And do not saw the air so!’ shouted Applegarth. ‘If you wave your arms thus during my play, I’ll tie them to your sides with rope and weight you down with an anchor. Gestures must match the verse, not slap it to death!’

Gill had heard enough. Jumping in the air like a startled rabbit, he bolted into the room which was used as a tiring-house. Torn between amusement and horror, the rest of the company either burst out laughing or slunk away from Jonas Applegarth in fear. Edmund Hoode did both. James Ingram did neither but simply watched Applegarth with a quiet disgust. The dramatist himself continued to berate the absent Gill in the most obscene language.

Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn came running to see what had caused the commotion. When trouble erupted in the yard of the Queen’s Head, they had been having one of their regular quarrels with its erratic landlord, Alexander Marwood. A minor irritation was postponed as they raced to confront a major problem.

Nicholas read the situation at a glance. A predictable skirmish between player and playwright had occurred. He blamed himself for not being on hand to stop it and took instant steps to make sure that the skirmish did not turn into a battle, a certain result if Firethorn were drawn into it. Nicholas persuaded the actor-manager to go after Barnaby Gill and mollify him, then he announced a break in the rehearsal and cleared the yard of all but Edmund Hoode and Jonas Applegarth.

Hoode was still swinging to and fro between amusement and apprehension but he was able to give Nicholas a swift account of what had transpired. The Misfortunes of Marriage had claimed its first casualty. Unless firm action were taken, there would be many more. Nicholas let his friend join the others before crossing over to the playwright. Jonas Applegarth was sitting in the middle of the yard on an upturned barrel, chortling to himself.

‘How now, Nick!’ he greeted. ‘You missed good sport!’

‘Baiting Master Gill is not my idea of pleasure.’

‘He asked for it!’

‘But has it advantaged your play?’

‘He will not be so rash as to forget my lines again. Players are all alike, Nick. Unless you hammer your wishes into their skulls, they will go their own sweet ways and destroy your work.’

‘That has not been my experience,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it is not the way that Westfield’s Men conduct their business. Master Gill is a most highly respected member of the company, and his contract as a sharer guarantees him an important role in everything we present.’

‘He has an important role,’ argued Applegarth. ‘It is because of his significance in the piece that I taxed him about his shortcomings. Barnaby is one of the foundations of The Misfortunes of Marriage. If he falters, the whole edifice will come tumbling down.’

‘Understand one thing, Jonas,’ said Nicholas with polite reproach. ‘Without Master Gill, there will be no edifice. Drive him away with your bullying and abuse and the whole enterprise crumbles. Your play will not reach the stage.’

Applegarth bristled and rose from his barrel. ‘But you are contracted to present it.’

‘Only if certain conditions are met, pertaining to your behaviour. That was made abundantly clear to you at the outset. I explained the terms myself.’

‘My play has been advertised for performance tomorrow.’

‘The Misfortunes of Marriage would not be the first piece to be substituted at the eleventh hour. We have been on tour many times, Jonas, and are used to plucking a play from our repertoire at a moment’s notice.’

‘Cancel my masterpiece! It’s a betrayal.’

‘The play will have been betrayed by its author.’

‘All I did was to box his ears with my tongue.’

‘Then you will have to use that tongue to lick those ears better, Jonas, because Master Gill will not stir in the service of your play until you have apologised.’

‘I’d sooner eat my night soil!’

‘I’ll convey that message to Master Firethorn.’

Nicholas turned away and headed for the tiring-house. Mastering his anger, Applegarth lumbered after him.

‘Wait, Nick! Be not so hasty!’

‘I must say the same to you,’ said Nicholas, stopping to face him again. ‘Hasty words from your mouth are the culprits here. Hasty jibes and hasty threats have put your play in jeopardy.’

‘It must be staged!’

‘Not if you grow quarrelsome.’

‘I put my life’s blood into that play.’

‘Master Gill makes an equal commitment in his acting.’

Jonas Applegarth bit back the stinging retort he was about to make and stared deep into the book holder’s eyes to see if he was bluffing. Nicholas met his gaze unwaveringly and the playwright was forced to reconsider his actions. His companion was making no idle threat. The Misfortunes of Marriage really did have an axe poised above its neck.

The playwright sounded a note of appeasement.

‘Perhaps I was a little overbearing,’ he conceded.

‘That is patent.’

‘It is my way, I fear.’

‘Not when you work with Westfield’s Men.’

‘Barnaby Gill annoys me so!’

‘You are not his favourite human being either, Jonas.’

‘And must I kneel in supplication to him?’

‘A sincere apology is the best balm for his wounds.’

‘What about the scars he inflicts on my play?’

‘They will not be there during the performance itself,’ said Nicholas confidently. ‘Master Gill has never let us down in front of an audience. Spectators bring the best out of him and he has a loyal following.’

Applegarth had to hold back another expletive. Heaving a sigh, he spread his arms wide and opened his palms.

‘The Misfortunes of Marriage is my best play, Nick.’

‘Its brilliance has been remarked upon by all of us.’

‘Any company should be proud to present it.’

‘So shall we be, Jonas, if you but stand aside and let us rehearse without interruption.’

‘It was agreed. I have the right to offer advice.’

‘Not in the form of abuse.’

‘It is my play, Nick. I wish it to be played aright.’

‘Then form a company on your own and act all the parts yourself,’ said the book holder, ‘for that is the only way you’ll be satisfied. Give your play to us and you must allow for compromise. Theatre always falls short of perfection. Westfield’s Men can simply offer to do their best for you.’

‘Under my direction.’

‘With your help,’ corrected Nicholas.

There was a long pause as Applegarth reflected on the situation. It was not a new one. He had fallen out with other theatre companies in more spectacular ways and had found himself spurned as a result. Westfield’s Men were a last resort. If they did not stage The Misfortunes of Marriage, it might never be seen by an audience. Applegarth weighed pride against practicality.

‘Well,’ said Nicholas finally. ‘Am I to tell Master Firethorn that you are now ready to eat your own night soil?’

Applegarth guffawed. ‘Tell him I am ready to drink a cesspool and eat every dead dog in Houndsditch if it will put my work upon the scaffold in this yard.’

‘And Master Gill?’

‘Send him out to me now and I’ll cover him with so many kisses that his codpiece will burst with joy.’

‘A less extreme demonstration of regret will suffice,’ said Nicholas with a smile. He adopted a sterner tone. ‘I will not caution you again, Jonas. Unless you mend your ways and give counsel instead of curses, there is no place for you here. Do you accept that?’

Applegarth nodded. ‘I give you my word.’

‘Hold to it.’

‘I will, Nick.’

‘Wait here while I see if Master Gill is in a fit state to speak with you.’ Nicholas was about to move away when he remembered something. ‘Rumour has it that you fought a duel in recent days.’

‘That is a downright lie.’

‘With an actor from Banbury’s Men.’

‘I have never crossed swords with anyone.’

‘His offence, it seems, was damaging a play of yours.’

‘Who is spreading this untruth about me? I am the most peaceable of men, Nick. I love nothing more than harmony.’

‘It is so with us, Jonas. Bear that in mind.’

On that note of admonition, Nicholas went off to the tiring-house and left the playwright alone in the yard. Jonas Applegarth padded back to his barrel, flopped down onto it and stared at the makeshift stage in front of him. It was empty now but his quick imagination peopled it with the characters of his play and set them whirling into action. The Misfortunes of Marriage was an overwhelming success and he was soon luxuriating in thunderous applause from an invisible audience.

The lone spectator in the inn yard of the Queen’s Head did not join in the acclamation. He stayed watching from the upper gallery. One wrist was heavily bandaged and his other arm was supported in a sling.

A long and arduous rehearsal produced a legacy of sore throats, aching limbs and frayed tempers. When their work was finally over, most of the members of the company adjourned to the taproom of the Queen’s Head to slake their thirst and to compare notes about an eventful day. Opinion was divided about Jonas Applegarth’s verbal assault on Barnaby Gill. Some praised it, some condemned it. Others felt that it was unfortunate but beneficial because, when Gill’s ruffled feathers had been smoothed by an abject apology, he gave such an impressive performance of his role that he had the playwright gleaming with approbation.

Owen Elias belonged among Applegarth’s supporters. Sharing a table with Edmund Hoode and James Ingram, he confided his feelings about the incident.

‘Barnaby deserved it,’ he said. ‘He has grown lazy at conning lines. Jonas acquainted him with that truth.’

‘Truth should have a softer edge,’ said Hoode, with evident sympathy for the victim. ‘Why belabour Barnaby so when you could request him with kind words?’

‘Jonas Applegarth does not know any kind words,’ said Ingram. ‘Threat and insult are his only weapons.’

‘You do him wrong,’ defended Elias. ‘He speaks his mind honestly and I admire any man who does that. Especially when he does so with such wit and humour.’

‘I side with James,’ said Hoode. ‘Wit and humour should surprise and delight as they do in The Misfortunes of Marriage. They should not be used as stakes to drive through the heart of a fine actor in front of his fellows. Barnaby will never forgive him.’

‘Nor will I,’ thought Ingram.

‘Jonas is a wizard of language,’ asserted Elias. ‘When I see a play such as his, I can forgive him everything.’

Hoode nodded. ‘It is certainly a rare piece of work.’

Ingram made no comment. Elias nudged his elbow.

‘Do you not agree, James?’

The other pondered. ‘It has some wonderful scenes in it, Owen,’ he declared. ‘And the wit you spoke of is used to savage effect. But I do not think it the work of genius that you do. It has too many defects.’

‘Not many,’ said Hoode, reasonably. ‘A few, perhaps, and they mostly concern the construction of the piece. But I find no major faults.’

‘There speaks a fellow-writer!’ noted Elias. ‘Praise from Edmund is praise indeed. What are your objections, James?’

‘Master Applegarth is too wild and reckless in his attacks. He puts everything to the sword. Take but the Induction …’

He broke off as Nicholas Bracewell came into the taproom to join them. Edmund Hoode moved along the bench to make room for his friend, but the book holder found only the briefest resting place. Alexander Marwood, the cadaverous landlord, came shuffling across to them with the few remaining tufts of his hair dancing like cobwebs in the breeze. The anxious look on Marwood’s face made Nicholas ready himself for bad news, but the tidings were a joy.

‘A lady awaits you, Master Bracewell.’

‘A lady?’

‘She has been here this past hour.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Mistress Anne Hendrik.’

Nicholas was on his feet with excitement. ‘Where is she?’

‘Follow me and I’ll lead you to her.’

‘Let’s go at once.’

‘Give her our love!’ called Elias, pleased at his friend’s sudden happiness. ‘We’ll not expect you back before morning.’ He winked at Hoode, then turned to Ingram. ‘Now, James. What is amiss with the Induction?’

Nicholas heard none of this. The mere fact of Anne’s presence in the same building made him walk on air and forget all the irritations of a tiring day. Marwood conducted him along a corridor before indicating the door of a private room. Nicholas knocked and let himself in.

Anne Hendrik was there. When he saw her standing in the middle of the room with such a welcoming smile, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away a year’s absence. She looked enchanting. Wearing a deep blue bodice with a blue gown of a lighter hue, she was as handsome and shapely as ever. Appropriately, it was the hat which really set off her features. Anne Hendrik was the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker and her late husband had taught her the finer points of headgear. She was now wearing a shallow brimmed, high crowned light blue hat with a twist of darker material around the crown.

‘Nicholas!’ she said with evident pleasure.

‘By all, it’s good to see you!’

She offered a hand for him to kiss and her fond smile showed just how delighted she was to see him. Nicholas felt an upsurge of love that had been suppressed for twelve long months. Before he could find words to express it, however, she turned to introduce her companion and Nicholas realised with a shudder that they were not, in fact, alone.

‘This is Ambrose Robinson,’ she said.

‘I have heard so much about you, Master Bracewell,’ said the visitor with an obsequious smile. ‘All of it was complimentary. Anne has the highest regard for you.’

Nicholas gave a polite smile and shook his hand, but there was no warmth in the greeting. He took an immediate dislike to the man, not merely because his presence had turned a reunion of lovers into a more formal meeting, but because there was a faintly proprietary tone in his voice. The way that he dwelt on the name of ‘Anne,’ rolling it in his mouth to savour its taste, made Nicholas cringe inwardly. He waved his visitors to seats and took a closer look at Ambrose Robinson.