The Laughing Hangman

Chapter Six

For the rest of the morning, Nicholas Bracewell was so bound up in his duties that he had no time to reflect upon the unexpected visit of Raphael Parsons or to indulge in any speculation about the true feelings of Philip Robinson towards the Children of the Chapel Royal. Preparation for the afternoon’s performance was his abiding concern, and The Maids of Honour gave him much to prepare. His first task was to prevent the stagekeeper from assaulting his smallest and lowliest assistant.

‘No, no, no, George! You are an idiot!’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so because I know so!’ shouted the irate Thomas Skillen. ‘You have set out the wrong scenery and the wrong properties for the wrong play.’

‘Have I?’ George Dart scratched his head in disbelief. ‘I thought The Maids of Honour called for a bench, a tree, a rock, a tomb, a well and three buckets.’

‘You are thinking of The Two Maids of Milchester.’

‘Am I?’ he said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Why, so I am! We need no bench and buckets here. Our play demands a wooden canopy, a large bed, a stool, Mercury’s wings and a rainbow. Tell me I am right.’

‘You are even more wrong,’ hissed the other, taking a first wild swipe at him. ‘Dolt! Dunce! Imbecile! Mercury’s wings and the rainbow belong in Made to Marry. Have I taught you nothing?’

Four decades in the theatre had made Thomas Skillen an essentially practical man. Actors might covet a striking role and authors might thrill to the music of their own verse, but the stagekeeper summarised character and language in terms of a few key items.

‘Table, throne and executioner’s block.’

‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled Dart.

‘We play The Maids of Honour.’

‘Table, throne and executioner’s block. I’ll fetch them straight.’ He scampered off but came to a sudden halt. His face was puckered with concentration. ‘The Maids of Honour? There is no executioner’s block in the piece. Why do you send for it?’

‘So that I may strike off your useless head!’

The old stagekeeper lunged at his hapless assistant, but Nicholas stepped good-humouredly between them. Dart cowered gratefully behind his sturdy frame.

‘Let me at the rogue!’ shouted Skillen.

‘Leave him be,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘George confused his maids of honour with his maids of Milchester. A natural mistake for anyone to make. It is not a criminal offence.’

‘It is to me!’

‘Does it really merit execution?’

‘Yes, Nick. Perfection is everything.’

‘Then are we all due for the headsman’s axe, Thomas, for each one of us falls short of perfection in some way. George is willing and well intentioned. Build on these virtues and educate him out of his vices.’

Skillen’s anger abated and he chortled happily.

‘I frighted him thoroughly. He will not misjudge The Maids of Honour again.’ He gave a toothless grin. ‘Will you, George?’

‘Never. Table and throne. I’ll find them presently.’

‘No need,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the makeshift stage. ‘The table stands ready. Nathan Curtis was here at first light to repair it. And he is even now putting some blocks of wood beneath the throne to heighten its eminence.’

‘What shall I do, then, Master Bracewell?’

‘Fetch the rest of the properties.’

Skillen took his cue. ‘Act One. First scene, table and four chairs. Second scene, a box-tree. Third scene, curtains and a truckle-bed within. Fourth scene, the aforesaid throne. Fifth scene…’

The rapid litany covered all seventeen scenes of the play and left Dart’s head spinning. He raced off to gather what he could remember and to stay out of reach of the old man’s temper. Nicholas looked fondly after him.

‘You are too hard on the lad, Thomas.’

‘Stern schoolmasters get the best results.’

‘George has too much to learn in too short a time.’

‘That is because of his stupidity and laziness.’

‘No, it is not,’ said Nicholas reasonably. ‘We overload him, that is all. This season, Westfield’s Men will stage all of thirty-six different plays, seventeen of them, like Jonas Applegarth’s, entirely new. Asking George Dart to remember the plots and properties of thirty-six plays is to put an impossible strain on the lad.’

‘I know what each play requires,’ said Skillen proudly.

‘You are a master of your craft, Thomas. He is not.’

The old man was mollified. He loved to feel that his age and experience were priceless assets to the company. After discussing the play at greater length with him, Nicholas went off to tackle the multifarious chores that awaited him before the rehearsal could begin. He could spare only a wave of greeting to each new member of the company who drifted into the yard.

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?’

‘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.’

‘You saw qualities in him that eluded me.’

‘I may be wrong, James. I hope that I am.’

‘He spoke so warmly of Cyril Fulbeck,’ said Ingram, ‘and I can forgive a man most things if he does that. For what it is worth, my judgement is in his favour. I do not believe that Raphael Parsons was involved in this crime.’

‘I delay my verdict on that.’

‘He shook with grief when he talked of the murder.’

‘It is a grief that is not allowed to interfere with his business affairs,’ remarked Nicholas coolly. ‘He may mourn his partner but he has not suspended performances at the Blackfriars as a mark of respect. His company are due to perform again tomorrow, young actors who must themselves be consumed with their own grief and beset by terror. Master Parsons tempers his sorrow with an instinct for gain.’

‘That is strange behaviour.’

‘Strange and unfeeling. What was his profession before he became a theatre manager?’

‘He was a lawyer.’

‘That explains much.’

They finished their drinks, then Nicholas took his leave. He crossed to the table at which Owen Elias was sitting with other members of the company, trading impersonations of the luckless John Tallis. Nicholas waited for the laughter to subside. Crouching beside the Welshman, he plucked his sleeve and kept his voice low.

‘Will you undertake a special task for me?’

‘Willingly, Nick.’

‘Go about it privily.’

‘A secretive assignment? You arouse my curiosity at once. What is it?’

‘The rumour is that Jonas fought a duel.’

‘More than a rumour. I know it to be a fact.’

‘Find out who his opponent was.’

‘Why?’

‘Jonas was attacked last night as we walked home,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘The ambush may be linked in some way to the duel. We need to recognise the face of the enemy so that we may safeguard Jonas from him.’

‘He made no mention to me of any ambush.’

‘He denies it happened in the same way as he refuses to admit that he was involved in a duel. But I was there when a dagger was thrown at him. Jonas is one of us now. Though he may spurn it, he needs our help.’

‘This is work I’ll readily accept, Nick,’ said Elias with concern. ‘I am grateful you chose me for the task.’

‘You can get closer to him than me.’

‘That is because Jonas and I are birds of the same feather. Roisterers with red blood in our veins. Lovers of life and troubadours of the tavern. We were both born to carouse.’ Elias grinned. ‘I need him alive to buy his share of the ale. Besides, he’s asked me to teach him some Welsh songs. I’ll not let an assassin kill my fellow-chorister.’

‘Then we must find the man before he strikes again.’

‘I’ll about it straight.’ He looked around the taproom. ‘Jonas was here even now. Where is the fellow?’

‘Returned home.’

‘When danger lurks in the streets? He is too careless. Each time he goes abroad, he is at risk. Jonas needs protection.’

‘I arranged it,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘Have no fear. He had a companion on his journey. By now, he will be safely bestowed in his house.’

***

The Maids of Honour had amused Jonas Applegarth for a couple of hours that afternoon, but it also fed his arrogance. He regarded the play as vastly inferior to anything he had written and voiced that opinion loudly in the taproom of the Queen’s Head. Watching one comedy prompted him to work on another. After only one tankard of ale, therefore, he left the inn to waddle back to his house.

When Nathan Curtis fell in beside him, it never occurred to Applegarth that the carpenter had been assigned to act as his bodyguard. He was happy enough to have jocular company on the walk back home, not pausing to wonder for a moment why a man who lived in Bankside was walking in the opposite direction. The sturdy presence of Curtis kept any potential attacker at bay. Once Curtis saw the playwright enter his house, he turned his steps back towards the river. The duty which Nicholas Bracewell had given him was discharged.

Jonas Applegarth clambered up the stairs to the little room at the front of the house. He sat down before a table set under the window and covered in sheets of parchment. After sharpening his pen, he dipped it into the inkwell and wrote with a swift hand. The surge of creativity kept him bent over the table for an hour. Evening shadows obliged him to light a candle and he used its flame to read what he had written. Pleased with his progress, he took up his pen once more.

Hugh Naismith watched it all from the cover of a fetid lane opposite the house. While the actor stood in a stinking quagmire, the playwright sat in comfort in his window as he created a new theatrical gem to set before the playgoers of London. Naismith spat with disgust. The difference in their stations rankled. He was cast into the wilderness by a man whose career was now flourishing. It was unjust.

The sight of Jonas Applegarth made his rage smoulder. As he breathed in the foul air, he contemplated the various ways in which he could kill his enemy, dwelling longest on those which inflicted the greatest pain and humiliation.

***

Nicholas Bracewell approached the house from the far end of the street so that he did not have to walk past the premises owned by Ambrose Robinson. It irked him that since Anne Hendrik stepped back into his life, he had not yet managed to have a proper conversation alone with her.

When the servant opened the door to him, Nicholas heard voices within and feared that the truculent neighbour was already there, but the visitor was in fact a good friend.

‘It is wonderful to see you again, Master Bracewell!’

‘Thank you, Preben.’

‘We have missed you in Bankside.’

‘I lodge north of the river now.’

‘That is our loss.’

Preben van Loew was the senior hatmaker in the business which Anne Hendrik had inherited from her late husband and which she managed in the adjoining building. A spectral figure in a black skull-cap, the old Dutchman embraced Nicholas warmly before quitting the house. Anne herself waited until they were alone in the parlour before she gave him her welcome.

‘This is a lovely surprise, Nick!’

‘Do I call at an inconvenient hour?’

Her answer came in the form of a light kiss on the cheek. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, but she moved to a seat and gestured for him to sit opposite her. There was a long pause as they simply luxuriated in the pleasure of being together again. Nicholas let a tidal wave of fond memories wash over him. When it passed, he was left with a profound sense of loss and of waste. Why had he walked away from a house which had given him so much happiness?

‘What did you play this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘The Maids of Honour.’

‘I have seen the piece more than once.’

‘Not quite as it was performed today,’ he said wryly. ‘John Tallis came to grief at a most unfortunate moment. His voice broke as he was about to marry the Prince of Navarre.’

‘Poor boy!’

‘He is a man now.’

Nicholas recounted the incident in full and the two of them were soon sharing a chuckle. It was just like old times when the book holder would repair to his lodging and divert her with tales from the innyard of the Queen’s Head. Each day brought new adventures. A theatre company inhabited a world of extremes. Anne was a kind audience, interested and responsive, always rejoicing in the heady triumphs of Westfield’s Men while sympathising with their numerous disasters. Her bright-eyed curiosity in his work was one of the things that he missed most.

‘How goes it with you?’ he asked softly.

‘The business fares well.’

‘Good.’

‘We are to take on a new apprentice.’

‘Preben will teach him his trade.’

‘I have learnt much from him myself.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘And the house?’

‘What about it?’

‘Do you have a lodger here?’

‘That is my affair,’ she said with a note of gentle reprimand. ‘As it happens, there is nobody here at the moment, but that situation may change.’ She looked at him with a cautious affection. ‘Why did you come?’

‘To see you.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘My own pleasure. Do I need a larger reason?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not when that pleasure is mutual.’

She met his gaze and Nicholas thought of a dozen compliments he wished to pay. All of them had to be held back because there was now an obstacle between them. Until the intrusive figure of Ambrose Robinson were removed, he did not feel able to express his true feelings to her.

‘A peculiar visitor called on me this morning,’ he said.

‘Who might that be?’

‘Raphael Parsons.’

‘Peculiar, indeed! Why did he come?’

‘To ascertain the facts about the discovery of Cyril Fulbeck’s corpse. Master Parsons had already questioned James Ingram on the matter. This morning, it was my turn.’

‘Is he the beast that he is reputed to be?’

‘Far from it, Anne.’

‘Maligned by report, then?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is a lawyer by training. He knows what to hide and what to show. Like most lawyers, he has the touch of an actor about him. I found him pleasant enough and remarkably candid. The Chapel Children no doubt see aspects of him that were concealed from me.’

‘They loathe him.’

‘So I am told.’

‘You saw the letters written by Philip Robinson.’

‘I did, Anne.’

‘They speak of a cruel master, who makes them work hard and who beats them into submission if they try to disobey. Philip is more or less a prisoner there.’

‘That is not what Master Parsons says.’

‘Oh?’

‘He claims that the boy is very happy at Blackfriars.’

‘Happy? It is one long ordeal for Philip!’

‘So his father alleges.’

‘You read the boy’s own testimony.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘That is why I found Master Parsons’s denial surprising. Why does it contradict the lad’s version of events so completely?’

‘The man must be lying.’

‘That was not my impression.’

‘What other explanation can there be?’

Nicholas let her question hang in the air for a moment.

‘How well do you know Philip?’ he said at length.

‘Reasonably well. He lived but a step away from here.’

‘Did you see much of him?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He was a quiet boy. Always polite but rather diffident. And very lonely after his mother’s sad death. Philip was almost invisible. Until Sundays, that is.’

‘Sundays?’

‘When he sang in the choir. He came alive then. I have never seen a child take such a delight in singing the praises of God. His little face would light up with joy.’

‘Does he not have that same joy in the Chapel Royal?’

‘I fear not.’

‘What chorister would not relish the opportunity of singing before Her Majesty?’

‘His pleasure is marred by the misery he endures at the Blackfriars Theatre, where he is forced to be an actor.’

‘By Raphael Parsons.’

‘Even so. Philip’s father has told you all.’

‘Has he?’

She grew defensive. ‘Of course. Do you doubt Ambrose?’

‘Not if you can vouch for him.’

‘I can, Nick.’

‘I see.’ He felt a flicker of jealousy. ‘You and he seem well acquainted.’

‘He is a neighbour and a friend.’

‘Does he have no closer hold on you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nathan Curtis has observed you in church together.’

‘So that is it!’ she said, stiffening. ‘You have set your carpenter to spy on us.’

‘Not at all, Anne. He vouchsafed the information.’

‘In answer to your prompting.’

‘I simply wondered if he knew Ambrose Robinson.’

‘This is unworthy of you, Nick.’

‘If I am engaged to help the man, I am entitled to know as much about him as I can. Nathan’s opinion of your friend was helpful. It confirms my own impression.’

‘You do not like Ambrose, I know that.’

‘My concern is that you do, Anne. Sufficient to walk to church with him on a Sunday and to kneel beside him.’

‘That is my choice.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes!’ she said, rising angrily from her seat. ‘If you have come to turn me against Ambrose, you have come in vain. I live my own life, Nick, and you are no longer part of it. I am grateful to you for the help you have offered, but it does not give you the right to meddle in my private affairs.’

‘I do it out of affection.’

‘Then express that affection in a more seemly way.’

‘Anne…’

He got up and reached out for her, but she moved away. There was an awkward pause. Before he could frame an apology into words, there was a loud knock on the door. The servant answered it and Ambrose Robinson came blundering in. His face was puce with indignation.

‘Fresh tidings from Blackfriars? Why was I not called?’

‘I came to speak with Anne,’ explained Nicholas.

‘Philip is my son. I have prior claim on any news.’

‘How did you know that I was here?’

‘I met with Preben van Loew in the street,’ said the butcher. ‘He told me that you were here. What has happened? I demand to know.’

‘Can you not first offer my guest a polite greeting?’ chided Anne. ‘You burst in here with improper haste, Ambrose. Remember where you are.’

‘I do, I do,’ he whined, instantly repentant. ‘Forgive my unmannerly behaviour, Anne. My anxiety over Philip robs me of my wits yet again.’ He took a deep breath and turned back to Nicholas. ‘Please allay my concern. What has happened?’

‘I spoke with Raphael Parsons.’

‘Did you insist on the release of my son?’

‘I raised the topic with him.’

‘What was his answer? How did that snake reply?’

‘He told me that your son was content to perform on the stage at the Blackfriars Theatre. The boy has talent as an actor. He is keen to develop it.’

‘Lies! Deception! Trickery!’

‘That is all Master Parsons would say on the subject.’

‘Falsehood!’

‘Lower your voice!’ urged Anne.

‘Why did you not take hold of the rogue and beat the truth out of him?’

‘He came to discuss the murder of Cyril Fulbeck,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘It weighs heavily upon him. Set against the death of the Master of the Chapel, the fate of one chorister was an irrelevance.’

‘It is not an irrelevance to me, sir!’

‘I will try to pursue the matter with him.’

‘Parsons is an arrant knave,’ said Robinson. ‘I should have done what a father’s love told me to do at the very start. Attend a performance at Blackfriars and snatch Philip off the stage.’

‘That would be madness,’ argued Anne.

‘I want my son back home with me.’

‘Then achieve that end by peaceful means. Take him away by force and the law will descend on you with such severity that you’d lose both Philip and your own freedom.’

‘Anne counsels well,’ added Nicholas. ‘What use are you to the boy if you’re fretting away in prison? I’ll speak with Master Parsons again and use what persuasion I may. In the meantime, you must learn patience.’

Robinson’s fury seemed to drain away. Face ashen and shoulders dropping, he stood there in silent bewilderment. He looked so wounded and defenceless that Anne lay a hand on his arm, like a mother comforting a hurt child. The gesture annoyed Nicholas but it had a different effect on the butcher.

It only served to ignite the spirit of vengeance until it glinted in his eyes. Taking her by the hand, Robinson led Anne gently out of the room and closed the door behind her so that he could speak to Nicholas alone. There was no ranting this time, no bluster and arm-waving, only a quiet and quite eerie intensity.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Try once more, Nick. Work within the law. Use reason and supplication to restore my son to me.’ His jaw tightened. ‘But if you fail, if they keep Philip locked up, if they continue to spread malicious lies about him wanting to stay there, I’ll seek Raphael Parsons out and play a part for him myself.’

‘A part?’

‘The Laughing Hangman.’

‘Keep well away from Blackfriars.’

‘That is what Anne advises,’ he said, ‘and for her sake, I have stayed my hand. But not for much longer. Unless Philip comes home to me soon, I’ll hang Raphael Parsons by the neck from the tallest building in London and I’ll laugh until my sides burst.’

The threat was a serious one.