Edmund Hoode came first, buoyed up by the thought that his admirer might send him another token of her love or perhaps even reveal her identity. Barnaby Gill shared his mood of elation, though for a more professional reason. The Maids of Honour was one of his favourite plays because it gave him an excellent role as a court jester, with no less than four songs and three comic jigs. Owen Elias and James Ingram arrived together, deep in animated conversation. Three of the boy apprentices came into the yard abreast, giggling at a coarse jest. The fourth, Richard Honeydew, strolled in with Peter Digby, the director of the musicians.
Lawrence Firethorn, predictably, timed his entrance for maximum effect, clattering into the yard on his horse when everyone else was assembled there and raising his hat in salutation. From the broad grin on his face, his colleagues rightly surmised that he had tasted connubial delight that morning with his wife, the passionate Margery, a fact which was corroborated by the sniggers of the apprentices, who lived under the same roof as the actor-manager and who had heard every sigh of ecstasy and every creak of the bed. Silent pleasure was a denial of nature in the Firethorn household.
‘Nick, dear heart!’ he said, dismounting beside the book holder. ‘Is all ready here?’
‘Now that you have come, it is.’
‘Then let us waste no more of a wonderful day.’
He tossed the reins to a waiting ostler, then strode off towards the tiring-house. Nicholas called the rest of the company to order and had the stage set for the first scene.
The Maids of Honour was a staple part of their repertoire, played for its reliability rather than for any intrinsic merits. A sprightly comedy with a political thrust, it was set in the French Court at some unspecified period in the past. The King of France is deeply troubled by rumours of a planned assassination. The Queen dismisses his fears until an attempt is made on his life but thwarted by the brave intercession of the Prince of Navarre, a guest at the Court.
Convinced that someone inside the palace is helping his enemies, the King lets his suspicions fall on the three maids of honour who attend the Queen. She is outraged by the suggestion that her most cherished friends could plot the overthrow of her husband, but the King follows his own intuition. Disguising himself as an Italian nobleman, he tests each maid of honour in turn to see if she can be corrupted by the promise of money. Two of them welcome his advances, proving that they have neither honour nor maidenhead; but the third, Marie, the plain girl matched with two Court beauties, vehemently rejects his blandishments.
The King removes his disguise and returns to his Queen. Presenting his evidence, he expects her to accept his word, but she flies into a rage and accuses him of trying to seduce her maids of honour. She flounces out of the Court and locks herself in her chamber. The Court Jester, acting as a mocking chorus throughout, takes especial pleasure in the marital discord. In his despair, the King confides in the handsome Prince.
Two of the maids of honour conspire with the exiled Duke of Brabant to overthrow the King. A second assassination attempt is planned, but it is foiled by Marie, who raises the alarm. The King is only wounded and the conspirators are captured by the Prince of Navarre. A contrite Queen tends her husband’s wounds and promises that she will never misjudge him so cruelly again. As a reward for her loyalty, Marie, blossoming in victory, becomes the bride of the Prince. The play ends on a note of celebration with honour satisfied in every way.
The rehearsal was halting but free from major mishap. A large audience filled the yard of the Queen’s Head for the performance itself. Jonas Applegarth sat in the upper gallery, paying for one seat but taking up almost three. Hugh Naismith sat where he could keep his mortal enemy in view. Lord Westfield and his cronies emerged from a private room behind the lower gallery to occupy their customary station and to whet their appetites for the play with brittle badinage over cups of Canary wine. Alexander Marwood circled his yard like a carrion crow.
Your pleasure and indulgence, dearest friends,
Is all we seek and to these worthy ends
We take you to the glittering court of France,
Where gorgeous costume, music, song and dance,
Affairs of state and matters of the heart,
Mirthful jests, a Barnabian art,
With pomp and ceremonial display
Enhance the scene for our most honourable play
About three Maids of Honour.…
Dressed in a black cloak, Owen Elias delivered the Prologue before bowing to applause and stealing away as a fanfare signalled the entry of the French Court. Lawrence Firethorn and Richard Honeydew made a magnificent entrance as King and Queen, respectively, in full regalia, and took their places at the head of a table set for a banquet. The solemnity of the occasion was soon shattered by the appearance of the Court Jester, who came somersaulting onto the stage to snatch a bowl or fruit and set it on his head like a crown. The Barnabian art of Barnaby Gill was in full flow and the spectators were enthralled.
Firethorn led the company with characteristic brio. James Ingram was a dashing Prince of Navarre, Owen Elias a truly villainous Duke of Brabant, and Edmund Hoode, in a flame-coloured gown, was a resplendent Constable of France. What The Maids of Honour also did was to furnish the four apprentices with an opportunity to do more than simply decorate a scene in female attire. Richard Honeydew showed regal fury as the Queen while Martin Yeo and Stephen Judd were suitably devious and guileful as the two dishonourable maids.
But it was John Tallis who really came to the fore. The boy was a competent actor but his lantern jaw and unfortunate cast of feature ruled him out of romantic roles. The part of Marie was a signal exception. Overshadowed by the external beauty of the other maids, he evinced an inner radiance that finally shone through. Tactfully concealing his lantern jaw behind a fan, he knelt gratefully before his King as the latter joined his hand symbolically with that of the Prince of Aragon.
It was then that the crisis occurred. Until that point, John Tallis had given the performance of his young lifetime. Puberty then descended upon him with its full weight. When the King of France invited Marie to accept the hand of the Prince of Navarre in marriage, he tempted Providence with his choice of words:
Sing out your sweetest answer, soft-voiced Maid,
And let your music captivate Navarre.
John Tallis put all the sweetness that he could muster into his reply, but what emerged from his mouth was the croak of a giant frog. His voice had broken, and with it broke the spell which had so carefully been woven throughout the preceding two hours. A tender moment between lovers became a source of crude hilarity. The audience rocked with mirth. When John Tallis tried to retrieve the situation with a series of mellifluous rhyming couplets, they came out as gruff entreaties which only increased the general hysteria.
Lawrence Firethorn tried to limit the damage by cutting in with the final speech of the play, but he took Peter Digby and the consort completely by surprise. Instead of a dignified exit to music, the French Court shuffled off in grim silence, and it was only when the stage was virtually empty that the instruments spoke from above. Fresh peals of laughter rang out. Firethorn brought the cast on stage to enjoy the applause, but even his broad smile cracked when the entry of John Tallis was greeted with a loud cheer.
When he quit the stage, the actor-manager was seething.
‘Where is that vile assassin!’ he roared.
‘Do not blame the boy,’ advised Nicholas.
‘Oh, I’ll not blame him, Nick. I’ll belabour him! I’ll pull off those bulging balls of his and roast them like chestnuts in a fire! He killed my performance! He stabbed the play in the back!’
‘It was not John’s fault. His voice broke.’
‘Then I’ll break his arms, his legs and his foul neck to keep it company! You only heard the disaster, Nick. I had visible warning of its dire approach.’
‘Warning?’
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‘Manhood reared its unlovely visage,’ said Firethorn with a vivid gesture. ‘When the Prince of Navarre stole that first kiss from Marie, the maid of honour’s skirt twitched as if it had a flag-pole beneath it. Had John Tallis been wearing a codpiece, it would have burst asunder and displayed his wares to the whole world. I wonder that James Ingram kept his composure! What man wants to spend his wedding night in the arms of a frog maiden with a monstrous pizzle!’ He glared around the tiring-house. ‘Where is that freak of nature? I’ll geld him!’
‘Calm down,’ said Nicholas. ‘The play is done.’
‘Done and done for!’
‘It was well received by the audience.’
‘Jeers of derision.’
‘Even the best horse stumbles.’
‘This one stumbled, fell and threw us all from the saddle.’ He made an effort to bank down his fury. ‘Nobody can accuse us of denying John Tallis his moment of triumph. Marie can steal every scene in which she appears. We did all we could to help the oaf. We covered his lantern jaw with a fan, we hid much of his ugliness under a wig, and we dressed him in such rich and jewelled apparel that it took the attention away from what remained of his charmless countenance. And how did he repay us?’
‘John lost control of his voice, alas. It has been on the verge of breaking these past few months.’
‘It was a humiliation!’ recalled Firethorn with a shiver. ‘He could not have ruined the play more thoroughly if he had sprouted a beard and grown hair all over his chest. God’s buttocks!’ he howled, as his anger burst out once more. ‘He made Westfield’s Men the laughing-stock of London. Instead of a demure maid of honour, we have a hoarse-voiced youth afflicted with standing of the yard. Bring the rogue to me! I’ll murder him with my bare hands!’
Nicholas diverted him by flattering him about his performance. When Barnaby Gill came up to complain that Firethorn had deliberately ruined one of his jigs by standing between him and the audience, the book holder saw his chance to slip away. John Tallis sat in the corner of the tiring-house, still wearing the costume of a maid of honour but weeping the tears of a young man. Richard Honeydew tried to console his colleague but his piping voice only reminded Tallis of his fatal loss.
‘My hour on the stage is over!’ he wailed.
‘Do not talk so,’ said Nicholas, crouching beside him. ‘As one door closes, another one opens for you.’
‘Yes! The door out of Master Firethorn’s house. He will kick me through it most certainly. This morning, I was one of the apprentices; this afternoon, I am doomed.’
‘You came of age, John. It happens to us all.’
‘Not in the middle of the Court of France!’
He sobbed even louder and it took Nicholas several minutes to comfort him. Tallis eventually stepped out of a dress he would never be able to wear again and put on his own attire. The lantern jaw sagged with despair.
‘What will become of me?’ he sighed.
‘We’ll find occupation for you somewhere,’ Nicholas reassured him. ‘In the meantime, keep out of Master Firethorn’s way and do not—this I beg you, John—do not let him hear your voice.’
The boy produced the deepest and harshest croak yet.
‘Why not?’ he said.
Even Nicholas had to suppress a smile.
She was there. He sensed it. Without knowing who she was or where she might be sitting, Edmund Hoode was certain only of her presence. It set his blood racing. Throughout the performance, he scanned the galleries whenever he came on stage, searching for that special face, waiting for that telltale smile, hoping for that significant gesture. When she chose not to reveal herself, he felt even more excited. In preserving her mystery, she became infinitely more appealing. Simply to know that she existed was an inspiration in itself.
Alone of the cast, the Constable of France was unmoved by the sudden transformation of a maid of honour into a husky youth. With a rose pressed to his heart beneath his costume, he was proof against all interruption. If John Tallis had turned into a three-headed dog and danced a galliard, he would not have distracted Hoode. She was there. That was all that mattered.
‘What means this haste, Edmund?’
‘I have somewhere to go.’
‘Deserting your fellows so soon?’
‘They will not miss me.’
‘You have some tryst, I venture.’
‘Venture all you wish, Jonas. My lips are sealed.’
Jonas Applegarth chuckled aloud and slapped Hoode on the back. The latter was just leaving the tiring-house after shedding the apparel of the Constable of France. Inspired by the hope that his admirer might make fresh contact with him, he was not pleased to find the massive Applegarth blocking his way.
‘You have talent as a player, Edmund.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That is the finest performance I have seen you give.’
‘Much thought went into it, Jonas.’
‘To good effect. I could not fault you.’
‘Praise, indeed.’
‘The role was base, the play even baser, but you rose above those shortcomings. It is your true profession.’
‘I am a poet. Writing plays is a labour of love.’
‘But they show too much of the labour and too little of the love, Edmund. Abandon the pen. It leads you astray. Let sharper minds and larger imaginations create new plays. Your destiny is merely to act in them.’
The amiable contempt of his remarks did not wound Hoode. He was armoured against the jibes of a rival, even one as forthright as the corpulent Applegarth. Excusing himself with a pleasant smile, Hoode pushed past the portly frame and hurried along the passageway. Where he was going he did not know, but hope kept him on the move.
Chance dictated his footsteps, guiding him through the taproom, down another passageway, up one staircase, down a second, deep into a cellar, until he finally emerged in the yard once again. It was almost deserted. Most of the spectators had now dispersed, save for a few stragglers. Hoode halted with disappointment. There was no sign of his pining lover, no hint even of a female presence in the yard or up in the galleries.
Rose Marwood then materialised out of thin air and came tripping across the yard towards him. He revived at once. Another rose? A different token of love? A longer missive? But all that she bore him was a shy smile. Wafting past him, she went back into the building and shut the door firmly behind her.
Hoode was abashed. Had his instincts betrayed him? Was his secret admirer absent from the afternoon’s performance? Or had she taken a second and more critical look at her quondam beloved before deciding that he was unworthy of her affections? His quick brain conjured up a dozen reasons why she was not there, each one more disheartening than its predecessor.
He gave a hollow laugh at the depths of his own folly. While he walked the boards as the Constable of France, he was supremely aware of her attention. His vanity was breathtaking. Why should any woman swoon over him? Set against the imperious charm of Lawrence Firethorn, the sensual vitality of Owen Elias, or the striking good looks of James Ingram, his qualities were negligible. It was idiocy to pretend otherwise. The rose which had warmed his heart all afternoon was now a stake which pierced it. His hand clutched at his breast to hold in the searing pain.
And then she came. Not in person, that was too much to ask. An innyard in the wake of a performance was not the ideal place for the first meeting of lovers. It was too public, too mundane, too covered in the litter of the departed audience. What she sent was an emissary. He was a tall, well-favoured youth in the attire of a servant. Walking briskly across to Hoode, he gave him a polite bow and thrust a scroll into his hand before leaving at speed.
The fragrance of the letter invaded Hoode’s senses and confirmed the identity of the sender. He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment to
read her purpose. His heart was whole again and pounding with joy. The elegant hand had written only one word, but it gave him a positive surge of elation.
‘Tomorrow…’
***
When did you speak with Raphael Parsons?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘You sought him out?’
‘He came to me, Nick. The porter told him how he might track me down. He was waiting for me at my lodging when I returned from here.’
Nicholas Bracewell and James Ingram were sharing a drink and comparing opinions in the taproom. Both had been astounded by the unheralded arrival of Raphael Parsons, but each had learned much from his visit.
‘I found him at odds with expectation,’ said Ingram. ‘My first encounter with him was too fleeting for me to form a proper opinion. This time, I conversed alone with him. He did not seem at all like the ogre I had been led to expect. A strong-willed man, yes, and with strong passions. But he was too polite and reasonable to be a vile tyrant.’
‘Tyranny can work in many ways,’ observed Nicholas. ‘A reasonable despot can sometimes be more difficult to resist. Master Parsons was civil with me but I sensed a capacity to be otherwise. We saw but one side of him.’
‘A caring man, deeply shaken by the murder of a friend.’
‘That was how he wanted to present himself, James.’
‘It was a form of disguise?’
‘I am not sure, but Raphael Parsons knew best how to engage our help. He was eager yet not overbearing, persistent but undemanding. He even invited me to question him. That was most enlightening. At the same time…’
‘You had doubts about him?’
‘I did.’
‘He put mine to flight, Nick.’
‘And most of mine, I must confess. He was very adept. Perhaps it was his ease in stilling my doubts which kept one or two of them alive. There is craft here. Deep cunning.’
The Laughing Hangman Page 10