Elias ducked below a beam and surveyed the taproom through a fug of tobacco smoke. Westfield’s Men were deadly rivals of the company at The Curtain and relations between them went well beyond bitterness. The Welshman would not normally have sought out the other troupe, especially as he had once belonged to it for a brief and acrimonious period. Necessity compelled him to come, and he looked for the swiftest way to discharge his business and leave the enemy lair.
Selecting his man with care, he closed in on him.
‘Why, how now, Ned!’
‘Is that you, Owen?’
‘As large and lovely as life itself.’
‘What brings you to the Elephant?’
‘Two strong legs and a devil of a thirst. Will you drink some ale with me, Ned?’
‘I’ll drink with any man who pays the bill, even if he belong to that hellish crew known as Westfield’s Men.’ He turned to his friends on the adjoining table. ‘See here, lads. Look what the tide has washed up. Owen Elias!’
Jeers of disapproval went up and Owen had to endure some stinging insults before he could settle down beside his former colleague. Ale was brought and he drank deep. Ned Meares was a hired man, one of the many actors who scraped a precarious living at their trade and who made the most of their intermittent stretches of employment while they lasted.
A stout man in his thirties, Meares was an able actor with a wide range. In the time since he had last seen the man, Elias noted, regular consumption of ale had filled out his paunch and deepened the florid complexion.
‘A sharer now, I hear,’ said Meares enviously.
‘I have been lucky, Ned.’
‘Spare a thought for we who toil on as hired men.’
‘I do. I struggled along that same road myself.’
‘It will never end for me, alas.’ He nudged the visitor. ‘Come, Owen, you crafty Welshman. Do not pretend that you are here to renew old acquaintance. Westfield’s Men lurk in the Queen’s Head. You have no place at the Elephant. What do you want?’
‘To talk about a playwright you will know.’
‘What is his name?’ asked Meares, quaffing his ale.
‘Jonas Applegarth.’
Elias had to move sharply to avoid the drink which was spat out again by his companion. Meares coughed and spluttered until his eyes watered. A few hearty slaps on the back were needed to help him recover.
Elias grinned. ‘I see that you remember Jonas.’
‘Remember him! Could I ever forget that monster? Jonas Applegarth was like a visitation of the plague.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he infected the whole company.’
‘He wrote only one play for Banbury’s Men.’
‘One play too many!’ groaned Meares. ‘Friar Francis. The name of that dread piece is scrawled on my soul for ever.’ He sipped his ale before continuing. ‘Most authors sell us a play, advise us how best to stage it, then stand aside while we do our work. Not Jonas. He was author, actor and book holder rolled into one. He stood over us from start to finish. We were no more than galley-slaves, lashed to the oars while he whipped us unmercifully with his tongue and urged us to row harder.’
‘He does have a warm turn of phrase,’ conceded Elias.
‘Threats and curses were all his conversation.’
‘Did the company not resist?’
‘Every inch of the way, Owen. Banbury’s Men were to have played Friar Francis but that raging bull tried to turn us into Applegarth’s Men. It could not be borne.’
Meares needed another fortifying drink of his ale before he could recount full details of the fierce battle against the arrogance of the author. Feigning sympathy, Elias took great satisfaction from the chaos which had been caused in the rival company while making a mental note to take precautions to stop the obstreperous playwright from wreaking the same havoc among Westfield’s Men. Recrimination left Ned Meares shaking like an aspen. The visitor had to buy him another tankard of ale to restore his shattered nerves.
‘Did anyone hate Jonas enough to kill him?’
‘Yes,’ said Meares. ‘All of us!’
‘Was there a special enemy of his in the company?’
‘A dozen at least, Owen.’
‘Who had most cause to loathe him?’
‘Most cause?’ The actor rubbed a hand ruminatively through his beard. ‘Most cause? That would have to be Hugh Naismith.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell slept fitfully that night, dreaming of happier days at the Bankside home of Anne Hendrik and waking at intervals to scold himself for the way he had upset her during his visit. Both were strong-willed individuals and this had led to many arguments in the past, but they had usually been resolved in the most joyful and effective way in Anne’s bed. That avenue of reconciliation had now been closed off to him, and he feared that as long as Ambrose Robinson stayed in her life, she would remain beyond his reach.
Jealousy of the butcher was not the only reason why he wanted to put the man to flight. Robinson had a temper which flared up all too easily and threatened to spill over into violence. Nicholas was worried that Anne might one day unwittingly become the victim of that choleric disposition. What mystified him was that she seemed to enjoy’s the man’s friendship, enough to attend church in his company and to fret about his enforced estrangement from his son.
The plight of Philip Robinson had drawn the two of them together and placed Nicholas in a quandary. If he helped to secure the boy’s release from the Chapel Children, would he be pushing Anne even closer to the Robinson family, and was it not in his interests to keep father and son apart? His sense of duty prevented his taking the latter course. Having promised assistance, he could not now go back on his word.
His mind was still in turmoil and his feelings still in a state of ambivalence as he left his lodging in Thames Street. The morning cacophony enveloped him and he did not hear the soft footsteps which came scurrying up behind him.
‘Stay, sir!’ said a voice. ‘I would speak with you.’
Caleb Hay had to pluck at his sleeve to get Nicholas’s attention. The book holder turned and exchanged greetings with him. Boyish enthusiasm lit up the older man’s features.
‘I hoped that I would catch you,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I have something for you. Step this way, sir. Let us rid ourselves of this tumult.’
‘I may not tarry long, Master Hay.’
‘This will take but a few minutes and I think that you will consider them well spent.’
He led Nicholas back down the busy street to his house. Once they were inside, the noise subsided to a gentle hubbub. Joan Hay was sitting in the parlour with her embroidery as they entered. A glance from her husband made her jump to her feet and give the visitor a hesitant smile before moving off into the kitchen.
Caleb Hay went to a box on the table. Taking a large iron ring from his belt, he selected one of the keys and opened the box. Nicholas was first handed a sheet of parchment. His interest quickened as he studied the sketch of the Blackfriars Theatre.
‘Forgive my crude handiwork,’ said Hay. ‘As you see, I am no artist, but it may give you some idea of the shape and size of the building. It is yours to scrutinise at will.’
‘Thank you. This will be a great help.’
‘Every exit is clearly marked.’
The sketch was simple but drawn roughly to scale. It enabled Nicholas to see exactly where he had been when he heard the Laughing Hangman and why it had taken him so long to reach the door at the rear of the building. Names of the adjacent streets had been added in a neat hand.
Caleb Hay produced a second item from the box.
‘I can take more pride in this,’ he said with a mild chuckle. ‘You asked about the petition that was drawn u
p to prevent a theatre being re-opened in Blackfriars. This is not the document itself but an exact copy. It must remain in my keeping but you are welcome to over-glance it, if you wish.’
‘Please,’ said Nicholas, taking the document from him. ‘I am most grateful to you. Anything which pertains to Blackfriars is of interest to me.’
He read the petition with attention to its detail:
To the right honorable the Lords and others of her Majesties most honorable Privy Counsell—Humbly shewing and beseeching your honors, the inhabitants of the precinct of Blackfryers, London, that whereas one Burbage hath lately bought certaine roomes in the said precinct neere adjoyning unto the houses of the right honorable, the Lord Chamberlaine and the Lord of Hunsdon, which roomes the said Burbage is now altering and meaneth very shortly to convert and turne the same into a comon playhouse, which will grow to be a very great annoyance and trouble.…
The complaints against public theatre were all too familiar to Nicholas. They were voiced every week by members of the City authorities and by outraged Puritans, who sought to curb the activities of Westfield’s Men. The Blackfriars petition was signed by thirty-one prominent residents of the precinct, starting with Lord Hunsdon, who, ironically, was the patron of his own troupe—Lord Chamberlain’s Men—but who drew the line at having a playhouse on his doorstep. Nicholas ran his eye down the other names, which included the dowager Lady Russell and a respected printer, Richard Field.
‘Is it not strongly and carefully worded?’ said Hay.
‘Indeed, it is.’
‘It represents my own view on the theatre. I was mightily relieved when the petition was accepted by the Privy Council.’
‘With such names to sustain it, the plea could hardly be denied,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was only a temporary measure. A public playhouse may have been kept out of Blackfriars, but a private theatre was re-opened.’
‘Alack the day!’
‘The audiences who flock there will disagree.’
‘No doubt,’ said Hay, taking the document back and locking it in the box. ‘This petition belongs to history.’
Nicholas moved to the door. ‘You have been most kind. This drawing of Blackfriars will make a difficult task much easier.’
‘Catch him! Catch this vile murderer.’
‘I will bend all my efforts to do so.’
‘Keep the name of Raphael Parsons firmly in mind.’
‘You have evidence against him, Master Hay?’
‘Nothing that would support his arrest,’ confessed the other. ‘But I have a feeling in my old bones that he is involved in this crime in some way. He is a man without scruple or remorse. Keep watch on him. From what I hear about this Master Parsons, he would be a ready hangman.’
***
Raphael Parsons endured the rehearsal for as long as he could but the lackluster performance and the recurring errors were too much for him to bear.
‘Stop!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll stand no more of this ordeal! It is a disgrace to our reputation!’
The young actors on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the second act. Even a play as well tried as Mariana’s Revels seemed to be beyond their scope. Their diction was muted, their gesture without conviction and their movement sluggish. A drama which required a lightness of touch was accorded a leaden treatment. Parsons was livid.
‘This is shameful!’ he snarled. ‘I would not dare to put such a miserable account of the play before a crew of drunken sailors, let alone in front of a paying audience. Where is your art, sirs? Where is your self-respect? Where is your pride in our work? We laboured hard to make the Children of the Chapel Royal a company of distinction. Will you betray all that we have struggled to create?’
The cast stood there with heads bowed while the manager harangued them. Some shook with trepidation, others shed tears, all were plunged into the deepest melancholy. Parsons came striding down the hall to bang on the edge of the stage with his fist.
‘Why are you doing this to me!’ he demanded.
The youngest member of the company was its spokesman.
‘We are grieving, sir,’ said Philip Robinson meekly.
‘That performance was enough to make anyone grieve!’
‘Master Fulbeck is ever in our minds.’
Nods of agreement came from several of the cast and more eyes moistened. Philip Robinson’s own face was glistening with tears. Short, slim and pale, he wore the costume of Mariana as if it were a set of chains. Features which had a feminine prettiness when animated were now dull and plain. His body sagged. His voice was a pathetic bleat.
‘We are too full of sadness, sir,’ he said.
The manager’s first impulse was to supplant the sadness with naked fear. It would not be the first time that he had instilled terror into his company in order to raise the level of their performance. Instinct held him back. These were unique circumstances, calling for a different approach. Instead of excoriating his juvenile players, therefore, he opted for a show of compassion.
Clambering upon the stage, he beckoned them closer.
‘We all mourn him,’ he said softly. ‘And rightly so. The cruel manner of his death makes it an intolerable loss. Master Fulbeck was the only true begetter of this theatre. Though the Chapel Royal was his first love, he came to take an equal delight in your work here at Blackfriars. Hold to that thought. We do not play Mariana’s Revels for our own benefit or even for the entertainment of our spectators. We stage it in remembrance of Cyril Fulbeck, late Master of the Chapel. Will you honour his name with a jaded performance?’
‘No, Master Parsons,’ said Philip boldly.
‘Shall we close the theatre and turn people away? Is that what he would have wanted? Or shall we continue the noble work which he first started here? Cyril Fulbeck died in and for this theatre. The place to celebrate his memory is here on this very stage with a play which he held dear.’
‘Yes!’ called a voice at the back.
‘We must play on!’ added another.
‘Under your instruction,’ said Philip Robinson.
‘So it will be,’ decided Parsons, watching their spirits revive. ‘But let us do it with no show of sadness or despair. Mariana’s Revels is a joyful play. Speak its lines with passion. Dance its measures with vigour. Sing its songs with elation. Tell us why, Philip.’
‘They were written by Master Fulbeck himself.’
‘Even so. Most of them fall to Mariana to sing. Give them full voice, my boy. Treat them like hymns of praise!’
‘Yes, sir!’
The rehearsal started again with a new gusto. For all his youth and inexperience, Philip Robinson led the Chapel Children like a boy on a mission, taking his first solo and offering it up to Heaven in the certainty that it would be heard and applauded by the man who had composed it for him.
***
Marriage to an actor as brilliant and virile as Lawrence Firethorn brought many pains but they were swamped beneath the compensating pleasures. Foremost among these for his redoubtable wife, Margery, was the never-ending delight of watching him ply his trade, strutting the stage with an imperious authority and carving an unforgettable performance in the minds of the onlookers. His talent and his sheer vitality were bound to make countless female hearts flutter and Firethorn revelled in the adulation. When Margery visited the Queen’s Head, she could not only share in the magic of his art, she could also keep his eye from roving and his eager body from straying outside the legitimate confines of the marital couch.
Vincentio’s Revenge was a darker play in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men, but one that gave its actor-manager a superb role as the eponymous hero. It never failed to wring her emotions and move Margery to tears. Since it was being played again that afternoon, she abandoned her household duties, dressed h
erself in her finery and made her way to Gracechurch Street with an almost girlish excitement. Good weather and high hopes brought a large audience converging on the Queen’s Head. Pleased to see the throng, Margery was even more thrilled to identify two of its members.
‘Anne!’ she cried. ‘This is blessed encounter.’
‘You come to watch Vincentio’s Revenge?’
‘Watch it, wonder at it and wallow in it.’
‘May we then sit together?’ suggested Anne Hendrik.
‘Indeed we may, though I must warn you that I will use all the womanly wiles at my command to steal that handsome gallant away from your side.’
Preben van Loew blushed deeply and made a gesture of self-deprecation. Margery’s blunt speech and habit of teasing always unnerved him. When the three of them paid their entrance fee to the lower gallery, the old Dutchman made sure that Anne sat between him and the over-exuberant Margery. It allowed the two women to converse freely.
‘I have not seen you this long while,’ said Margery.
‘My visits to the Queen’s Head are less frequent.’
‘You are bored with Westfield’s Men?’
‘Far from it,’ said Anne. ‘It is work that keeps me away and not boredom. I love the theatre as much as ever.’
‘Does Nicholas know that you are here?’
‘No, he does not.’
‘Then it were a kindness to tell him. It would lift his spirits to know that you were in the audience.’
‘I am not so sure.’
‘He dotes on you, woman,’ said Margery with a nudge. ‘Are you blind? Are you insensible? If a man as fine and upright as Nick Bracewell loved me, I would never leave his side for a second. He misses you, Anne.’
‘I miss him,’ she said involuntarily.
‘Then why keep him ignorant of your presence?’
‘It is needful.’
The Laughing Hangman Page 12
