The Laughing Hangman

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 innyard. 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 groundlings 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 innyard.’

‘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 inquiry. 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 short-comings. 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 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?’

‘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.