Sir Marcus spends the rest of the play trying to seduce the second wife while keeping her presence hidden from the first, professing Puritan values to Arabella while promising to convert to Roman Catholicism if Araminta will relent and embrace his manhood. The similarity in their names leads to all kinds of comic confusion. When the bigamy is finally exposed, the two wives join forces to wreak a revenge on their joint husband that deprives him of all wish to lie near a woman ever again.
The Misfortunes of Marriage was an uproarious success and the ovation which greeted it lasted several minutes. Lawrence Firethorn led out the troupe to receive the applause. He and Barnaby Gill had been the outstanding performers, playing off each other with dazzling brilliance, but there had been excellent support from Edmund Hoode as the moon-faced Father Monfredo, from Owen Elias as the drunken hedge-priest who was bribed to perform the second marriage, from James Ingram as Arabella’s true love, from Martin Yeo as Arabella herself, and from Richard Honeydew as the Roman Catholic spouse.
Jonas Applegarth was suffused with delight. Potentially the sternest critic of the performance, he was completely won over by it, and ignored the minor errors and examples of mistiming which inevitably crept in when such a complex piece was played at such breakneck speed. So thrilled was he with the outrageous Doctor Epididymis that he forgot all his earlier strictures of Barnaby Gill and resolved to make amends by showering him with acclaim. As he clapped his huge hands together, Applegarth was not just applauding his own play. He was expressing his profound gratitude to Westfield’s Men. A playwright ousted by every other theatre company in London had finally found a home.
Approbation was still not universal. One spectator had detested every minute of what he saw. The spectre at the feast was in the upper gallery. Hugh Naismith had chosen a vantage point that allowed him to watch the dramatist rather than the drama. It was a painful afternoon for him. His wounded arm and bandaged wrist were constantly jostled by the excited spectators either side of him, but it was his pride which suffered the real agony. A man he loathed was being fêted, a company he despised was being celebrated.
Hugh Naismith was an actor whose occupation had been stolen from him by the sharp sword of Jonas Applegarth. Dismissed from Banbury’s Men because of his injuries, he would not rest until he had avenged himself on his enemy. Applegarth had to die.
***
I have never known such a day as this,’ said Nicholas Bracewell.
‘Nor I,’ agreed James Ingram.
‘This morning, we were like to have our play drowned by rain. This afternoon, it sailed on a tide of triumph. Truly, we serve a profession of extremes.’
‘Yes, Nick. Feast or famine, with nothing in between.’
‘Today, we had a royal banquet.’
Joyful celebrations at the Queen’s Head would go on all evening, but Nicholas and Ingram had only shared in them for an hour before slipping quietly away. It was a long walk to Blackfriars from Gracechurch Street and Nicholas needed a clear head for what he anticipated as a difficult confrontation. Ingram, too, had supped only a moderate amount of ale before quitting the taproom with his friend.
‘There is one small consolation,’ he said.
‘What is that, James?’
‘Neither of them will have seen The Misfortunes of Marriage today. Cyril Fulbeck is too unwell and Raphael Parsons is too involved in staging his own plays to pay close attention to the work of his rivals.’
‘How is that a consolation?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘They will not have taken offence at the Induction. It pilloried the Chapel Children in particular. Word of the attack will surely reach them soon and my own welcome at Blackfriars will no longer be so cordial. Transact your business with them swiftly, Nick, before they realise that you were party to a scurrilous assault on their work.’
‘Jonas merely turned his wit upon them.’
‘He traduced them most shamefully.’
‘You are bound to feel defensive to the Chapel, but do not overstate the case that Jonas Applegarth made against them. Mockery there was, certainly, but I hope it will not sour your own name at Blackfriars.’
‘They’ll hear about that callous Induction soon enough and find a means to answer it in kind.’
They were walking parallel with the river along Thames Street, retracing the steps that Nicholas himself took every night on his way back to his lodging. Even at that time of the evening, it was a busy thoroughfare with the sounds as noisy and the smells as pungent as ever. James Ingram was too fair-minded to let his reservations about the play obscure its finer points.
‘Induction apart,’ he said, ‘it is a remarkable achievement. Only when I saw it performed did I realise how remarkable. How many of those who clapped its antics had any understanding of its true intent?’
‘I cannot guess at that, James, but this I do know. The Master of the Revels was blind to its full import. He insisted on but few changes before he granted us a licence. Jonas Applegarth disguised his satire well on the page.’
‘But not on the stage.’
‘Indeed not. That is where any play is revealed in its true light. Those of discernment must have seen that Sir Marcus Coldbed was kin to our own dear Queen’s father, King Henry. Sir Marcus changed the religion of his whole household in order to bed a woman, albeit with no success. Nor was King Henry happy with his change of wives.’
They discussed the deeper meaning of the play all the way along Thames Street. The spiritual upheaval of the reign of Henry VIII had been cunningly transposed into a sexual crisis in the life of a rich landowner. Nicholas was still trying to decide whether the indictment of Roman Catholicism was more searing than that of Puritanism when their destination came in sight.
Blackfriars Monastery had been built over three centuries earlier as the first London home of the Dominican Order. Occupying a prime location near the river, it swiftly grew in size, wealth and influence until it reached the point where major affairs of state were occasionally decided within its walls. The monastery was dissolved and largely demolished in 1538 but it retained its privilege of sanctuary. Its vestigial remains included the Porter’s Lodge, the Old Buttery and the Upper Frater, where the monks had taken their meals. Joined together, the resultant building contained the Blackfriars Theatre.
Nicholas had been past the edifice a hundred times but never across its threshold. He was curious to take full stock of the changes to the theatre and irritated that he was there on business which might preclude that. What he was going to say on behalf of Philip Robinson he did not know, but he could at least establish more facts about the boy’s alleged ill-treatment. Ingram had warned him that a writ of impressment was rarely revoked and that Nicholas might well leave empty-handed, but he would at least have discharged his promise to Anne Hendrik, and that was paramount. James Ingram took him across the Great Yard.
‘Good-even, Geoffrey.’
‘What? Who might you be, young sir?’
‘Have you so soon forgot your favourite chorister?’
‘By the Lord!’ Tis never Master Ingram.’
‘The same.’
‘Welcome, good sir. My old eyes delight to see you.’
The ancient porter was dozing when they rang the bell at his door. He clearly had a great affection for James Ingram, and Nicholas had to wait some minutes while the two men exchanged reminiscences.
‘But what brings you here?’ croaked Geoffrey.
‘We have come to see Master Parsons about one of the choristers and hope to speak to the lad himself.’
‘Then your journey has been wasted. Master Parsons is not here and the choir sing in a special service at the Chapel Royal.’ He saw their disappointment and tried to lessen it. ‘Master Fulbeck may still be here.’