The Laughing Hangman nb-8

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 innyard 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.

  Garbed like a tradesman, he was a plump man of middle height, with a rubicund face so devoid of hair that it had the sheen of a small child. His big red hands were clasped together in his lap and his shoulders hunched deferentially.

  ‘Ambrose is a neighbour and a friend,’ said Anne.

  ‘A butcher by trade,’ he explained. ‘I am honoured to provide food for Anne’s table. Only the freshest poultry and finest cuts of meat are saved for her.’

  Nicholas lowered himself onto a stool opposite them but found no rest. The joy of seeing Anne again had been vitiated by the annoying presence of an interloper. She gave him an apologetic smile, then took a deep breath.

  ‘We have come to ask for your help, Nick,’ she began.

  ‘It is yours to command,’ he said gallantly.

  ‘You are so kind, Master Bracewell,’ said Robinson with an ingratiating grin. ‘You do not even know me and yet you are ready to come to my assistance at Anne’s behest.’

  ‘Your assistance?’

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Anne. ‘In brief, the situation is this. Ambrose has a son, barely ten years of age, as bright and gifted a child as you could wish to meet. His name is Philip. He is the apple of his father’s eye, and rightly so.’ She glanced at her companion, who nodded soulfully. ‘Until this month, Philip was a chorister at the Church of St Mary Overy. He has a voice as clear as a bell and was chosen to take solo parts during Evensong.’

  ‘Philip sings like an angel,’ said the doting father.

  ‘Wherein lies the problem?’ asked Nicholas.

  Robinson glowered. ‘He has been stolen away from me!’

  ‘Kidnapped?’

  ‘As good as, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘He has been gathered into the Chapel Royal,’ said Anne. ‘Philip’s beautiful voice was his own undoing. A writ of impressment was signed and he was spirited away.’

  ‘Is that not a cause for celebration?’ said Nicholas. ‘They have a notable choir at the Church of St Mary Overy, but to sing before Her Majesty is the highest honour that any chorister can attain.’

  ‘So it would be,’ agreed Robinson, ‘if that is all that Philip was enjoined to do. But it is not. The Master of the Chapel has made my son a member of a theatrical troupe that stages plays at Blackfriars. The boy is young and innocent. He should not be so cruelly exposed to wantonness.’

  ‘That will not of necessity happen, Master Robinson,’ said Nicholas with slight asperity. ‘Playhouses are not the symbols of sin that they are painted. We have apprentices in our own company, little above your son’s age, yet they have not been corrupted. The Chapel Children are far less likely to lead your son astray. Their repertoire is chosen with care and their audience more select than ours.’

  ‘Ambrose did not mean to offend you, Nick,’ said Anne when she heard the defensive note in his voice. ‘He does not want to impugn your profession in any way. This is not a complaint about Westfield’s Men or about any of the other companies. It relates only to the Chapel Children.’

  ‘And the villain in charge of them,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Cyril Fulbeck?’

  ‘He is the Master there, but the deadly spider who has caught my son in his web is called Raphael Parsons.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Read Philip’s letters and you would understand. He makes my son’s life a misery. Raphael Parsons is a monster.’

  Nicholas was still mystified. ‘Why bring this problem to me? I can offer you little beyond sympathy.’

  ‘We came for advice, sir,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Then take your story to a shrewd lawyer. Get a hearing for the case in the courts. Pursue it all the way to the Star Chamber, if need be. You have good cause.’

  ‘We hoped there might be a quicker way,’ said Anne.

  ‘Quicker?’

  ‘And less costly,’ added Robinson. ‘Lawyers’ fees would eat hungrily through my purse.’

  ‘It might take months to reach the Star Chamber,’ said Anne. ‘We need someone who can go to the Chapel Royal and speak directly to this ogre called Raphael Parsons.’

  ‘His father is the proper person to do that.’

  ‘I have tried,’ said Robinson angrily, ‘but they will not even hear me. Besides, I could not trust myself to be in Parsons’s company and not throttle the life out of him with my bare hands.’ He opened his palms to show thick and powerful fingers. ‘That would gladden me but deprive Philip of a father. He has already lost his mother and could not bear to see me hanged upon the gallows.’

  Everything about the man unsettled Nicholas and he wanted no part in the affairs of his family, especially now that he realised Robinson was widowed and in need of a stepmother for his hapless child. But Anne Hendrik looked at him with such trust and pleading that the book holder found it hard to refuse. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I have little hope of succeeding where you failed.’

  ‘But you’ll go?’ begged Robinson.

  ‘I have heard stories about Raphael Parsons, it is true, but I do not know the man.’

  ‘He is the Devil Incarnate!’

  ‘Philip must be rescued from his clutches,’ said Anne.

  ‘I will pay all I can,’ promised her companion.

  ‘I want no money,’ said Nicholas. ‘Furnish me with more detail and I will look into it. That is all I can promise. One thing I can assure you, Master Robinson. Chapel Children are not the wayward sinners you imagine. We have a young man in the company, one James Ingram, who learned to sing, dance and act with the Chapel Children in the old Blackfriars playhouse. A more personable fellow you could not hope to encounter. I’ll see what James can tell me of Raphael Parsons.’

  ‘Let my son’s letters speak their full as well,’ insisted Robinson, pulling a bundle from his pocket and handing it over. ‘I would like them back when you have done with them.’

  ‘Linger a while and you shall have them anon.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne, rising to her feet. ‘Nick will read and absorb them in no time. Wait for me outside, Ambrose, and I will join you in a moment.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, getting up. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Save your gratitude until I have earned it.’

  ‘Listening to my tale was a kindness in itself.’

  Ambrose Robinson walked heavily to the door and let himself out. Nicholas relaxed slightly and looked up at Anne. She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Much as ever, Nick. And you?’

  ‘I am kept as busy as usual here.’

  ‘You thrive on work.’ Her face puckered. ‘I am sorry to burden you with this errand but it means so much to Ambrose. He is quite distracted with worry. You were the only person we could turn to, Nick.’

  ‘We?’<
br />
  ‘Ambrose has been kind to me. I owe him this favour. Do not blame me too much. Philip Robinson is suffering dreadfully, as you will see from his letters, and my heart goes out to him. But he is not the only reason I came here today.’

  ‘What else brought you here?’

  Anne bent over to kiss him softly on the lips.

  ‘You,’ she said.

  Then she let herself out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  Omens for The Misfortunes of Marriage were not propitious. The day began with torrential rain. It soaked the stage, blew into the galleries and turned the yard of the Queen’s Head into a quagmire. Emotional tempest soon followed. Barnaby Gill awoke with a blazing headache, announced that he was too ill to move, and refused to appear in the play which he saw as responsible for his condition. Lawrence Firethorn experienced his own marital misfortune. Incautious enough to retain a letter from a female admirer because it flattered his vanity, he opened his eyes that morning to find his wife reading the telltale missive before turning on him like a berserk she-tiger.

  Then there was Jonas Applegarth. Quiescent after the stern warning from Nicholas Bracewell, he worked through the night on emendations and additions which he wanted inserted into his play, and compiled a list of notes for individual actors whose performances, he felt on mature reflection, needed radical improvement if his work were to be given any hope of success. When his wife rose from her slumber and found him still poring over the foul papers of his play, Applegarth was like a powder keg in search of an excuse to explode. The sight of the downpour threatened to ignite rather than dampen.

  Nicholas Bracewell looked out from his lodging to see Thames Street being turned into a replica of the river whose name it bore. Horses churned up the mud, waggon wheels dispersed it with indiscriminate force, and sodden figures waded to and fro with all the speed that they could muster. Nicholas gave a sigh of resignation. Innyard theatre was at the mercy of the elements. In view of the religious satire which propelled The Misfortunes of Marriage, he was bound to wonder if the Almighty was inflicting the storm by way of a criticism of the play.

  Though the performance dominated his thoughts, there was another vexation at the back of his mind. Anne Hendrik’s request for help left him in a state of ambivalence. Willing to assist her in any way, he felt no such obligation towards Ambrose Robinson and still smarted at the memory of the man’s unconcealed affection towards the woman whom Nicholas still loved deeply. It worried him that Anne’s relationship with the Southwark butcher was so close that he felt able to entrust such a personal matter to her. Philip Robinson’s letters were indeed heart-breaking in their description of the boy’s ordeal, but Nicholas could not see why Anne Hendrik should be involved in his rescue, still less he himself.