The Laughing Hangman Page 2

  Jonas Applegarth told of his Blackfriars experience.

  ‘He had the gall to ask me for a play.’

  ‘Who?’ said Elias.

  ‘Cyril Fulbeck, the Master of the Chapel.’ Applegarth emptied another tankard. ‘He and his partner in the enterprise, Raphael Parsons, expected a full-grown poet like me to devise a drama for his dribbling pygmies. As if I’d turn punk and sell my art at so cheap a price!’

  ‘What was its subject?’

  ‘The stalest of all. Antony and Cleopatra.’

  ‘Can a ten-year-old chorister with a piping voice wield power over the Roman Empire?’

  ‘No, Owen. And think of my martial verse in the sweet mouths of those little eunuchs. I told Master Fulbeck as much. “Let me write another play for you,” I suggested. “It is called The Plague of Blackfriars and tells of a verminous swarm of locusts, who devour the bread that belongs to their elders and betters. A wily beekeeper tricks them and every last parasite is drowned in the River Thames.” When he realised that I was talking about his young charges, Cyril Fulbeck walked off in disgust and Raphael Parsons, Lord Foulmouth himself, used language that would have turned the black friars blue and set their cowls alight. In the whole history of Christianity, there cannot have been such irreligious cursing on consecrated ground. It was wondrous sport! I have not been so joyously abused by a vile tongue since my wedding night!’

  Once again, James Ingram offered only a token smile.

  Jonas Applegarth was in his element, carousing with his newfound companions as if they were his oldest friends and drawing from an apparently inexaustible well of anecdote and jest. Seeing him in such a benevolent mood, it was difficult to believe that he had such a reputation for violence and wild behaviour. He seemed the epitome of amiability. Words gushed out of him in a happy torrent. Arresting phrases and clever conceits bubbled on the surface of the water. He positively exuded goodwill.

  It vanished in a flash. When a figure came into the taproom and signalled with his hand, Jonas Applegarth stopped in midflow. The massive frame stiffened, the flabby cheeks shed their smile, and the teeth began to grind audibly. But it was his eyes which underwent the greatest change. Set close together beneath the bristling eyebrows, they had sparkled with such merriment that they almost redeemed his unsightly features. They now became black coals, glowing with a hatred which ignited the whole body and turned the face itself into a grotesque mask.

  He grabbed the side of the settle to haul himself upright. His companions were shocked by the transformation.

  ‘What ails you, Jonas?’ said Owen.

  ‘Spend this for me,’ rumbled Applegarth, taking coins from his purse and tossing them onto the table. ‘I’ll return anon to share in your pleasure.’

  Leaving the others still bemused, he waddled purposefully across the room and went out with the newcomer. Owen Elias was the first to recover. Scooping up the money, he called for more beer and grinned at his fellows.

  ‘Let’s raise our tankards to Jonas Applegarth!’

  ‘Which one?’ murmured Ingram. ‘There are two of them.’

  The genial dramatist from the Queen’s Head was now a furious avenger with murder in his heart. As he swept along Gracechurch Street with his friend at his heels, Jonas Applegarth was cursing volubly and buffeting anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. He swung into a side street, then turned off that into a narrow lane. It was late evening and shadows were striping the buildings. When he reached a small courtyard, however, there was still enough light for him to recognise the two figures who lurked in a corner.

  Applegarth glared at the bigger of the two men. Hugh Naismith was a stocky individual, in his twenties, with a handsome face set now in a scowl. His hand went straight to the hilt of his sword, but his companion, a much older and thinner man, held his wrist.

  ‘Viper!’ snarled Applegarth.

  ‘Pig-face!’ retorted Naismith.

  ‘Rascal!’

  ‘Knave!’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said the older man, coming to stand between the two of them. ‘There is no call for bloodshed here. Tempers were too hot when this tryst was arranged.’ He turned to Naismith. ‘Make but a simple apology and the matter is ended. You make shake hands again and part as friends.’

  ‘He’ll get no apology from me,’ sneered Naismith.

  ‘Nor would I hear one,’ exclaimed Applegarth. ‘I’ve come to separate this slave from his miserable existence. That is the only parting which will take place here.’

  ‘Send for six horses!’ yelled Naismith. ‘You will need at least that number to drag away his fat carcass when I have cut the villainy out of it.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ implored the peacemaker.

  ‘Stand aside, old sir,’ warned Applegarth, ‘or I’ll run you through as well. Honour must be satisfied.’

  ‘Then let us not delay,’ said Naismith.

  Handing his cap to the old man, he drew his sword and took up his position. Jonas Applegarth reached for the rapier that his companion offered him and swished the blade through the air a few times. Duelling was illegal and both parties would be imprisoned if they were caught by the watch. The seconds were not there merely to ensure that the rules of fair combat were observed. They would also keep one eye out for any patrolling officers and be on hand to summon a surgeon in the event of a wounding. Jonas Applegarth and Hugh Naismith were both resolved that any wound they inflicted on their opponent would be fatal.

  ‘I am ready for you, sir,’ invited Applegarth.

  Naismith smirked. ‘Bid farewell to London.’

  Steel touched steel in a brief greeting and the duel began. Jonas Applegarth held his ground while his opponent circled him. The seconds stood out of harm’s way in the lane. Hugh Naismith sounded much more confident than he felt. Challenged to a duel during a fierce row, he had been forced to accept. Calm reflection had made him regret his decision and several cups of wine had been needed to lubricate his courage for the event itself. He still loathed Applegarth enough to want him dead but he was also aware of his adversary’s strength and determination.

  In theory, Applegarth’s bulk made him an easy target. In practice, however, he was supremely well defended by a flashing rapier and a powerful wrist. When Naismith launched the first attack, it was parried with ease. A second assault was beaten away and a third met with such resistance that Naismith’s sword arm was jarred. It was the younger and fitter man who was now breathing hard and perspiring freely. Jonas Applegarth moved in for the kill.

  Swords clashed again. Thrust, parry and counter-thrust sent Naismith reeling back against a wall. Applegarth used his weight to imprison his opponent and his strength to finish the contest. Their rapiers were now locked together below the hilt and Applegarth was forcing the blade of Naismith’s sword slowly but inexorably towards the man’s unguarded throat. Naismith’s eyes filmed over with fear and his sweat dripped onto the weapon. Chuckling with triumph, Applegarth applied more pressure and the keen edge drew its first trickle of blood from the white neck.

  Panic gave Naismith a fresh burst of energy and he contrived to push his adversary away, but he gained only momentary relief. Applegarth slashed the man’s wrist and made him drop his sword with a howl of anguish. A second thrust opened up a wound in Naismith’s other arm and sent him down on one knee in agony. Applegarth stepped back and drew back his arm for a final thrust, but the old man flung himself in front of his wounded friend.

  ‘Hold there, sir!’ he begged. ‘You have won the day. Honour is satisfied and needs no more blood to assuage its thirst. Hugh kneels before you as a penitent. Show mercy!’

  Applegarth was about to brush the old man aside when the other second saw someone coming along the lane.

  ‘Officers of the watch!’ he called.

  The duel was over. Sighing with r
elief, the old man bent over his stricken friend. Jonas Applegarth was not yet done with Hugh Naismith. Kicking him to the ground, he used the toe of his shoe to flick offal into the man’s face. He stood astride the body and hovered menacingly over it.

  ‘Thus perish all actors who mangle my plays!’ he said.

  Then he fled nimbly into the shadows with his friend.

  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 sto
p 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.’