Margery Firethorn snorted with derision in the kitchen. Her husband chuckled and Nicholas traded an amused glance with him. Edmund Hoode tried hard to convince himself that it was in his own best interests to accept the new play for performance by Westfield’s Men.
‘Jonas Applegarth has his vices, I know,’ he said with masterly understatement, ‘but they are outweighed by his virtues. We must always embrace rare talent where we find it. For my own part, I will be happy to work alongside Master Applegarth. I look to learn much from him.’
Firethorn beamed. ‘Nobly spoken, Edmund!’
‘Indeed,’ said Gill, ‘but I would urge a little less nobility and a little more caution on your behalf. You are our poet, Edmund, and your art has served us well. Do you want to be eclipsed by this freak of nature? Do you wish to have your livelihood squashed flat beneath the hideous bulk of Jonas Applegarth?’
Hoode shifted uneasily on his chair. ‘I must recognise a good play when I see one.’
‘That is more than Applegarth does,’ retorted Gill. ‘He pours scorn over everything you have written.’
‘Only in his cups,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘What poet does not abuse his fellows when too much drink is taken?’
‘Edmund Hoode does not,’ noted Nicholas.
‘He is far too trusting,’ said Gill. ‘Applegarth will tread all over him and unsettle the entire company.’
‘That will not be tolerated!’ said Firethorn firmly. ‘You have my word on that. He works here on our terms or not at all. Nick will make him understand that.’ He slipped another cake into his mouth and looked around contentedly. ‘Well, Edmund and I agree that The Misfortunes of Marriage is a worthy addition to our repertoire.’
‘I refuse to countenance the idea,’ said Gill.
‘Our two votes tip the scales against your one.’
‘We have not heard Nick’s opinion yet,’ said Hoode.
‘Nor need we,’ muttered Gill.
‘Unless it chimes with your own, Barnaby,’ teased Firethorn. ‘You’d elevate Nick Bracewell to sharer on the spot for that.’ He turned to the book holder. ‘Well? Cast your vote, Nick. Speak freely among friends.’
Hoode leant forward. ‘How do you like The Misfortunes of Marriage?’
Nicholas sat up with a start, realising that it was the title and matter of the play which had conjured up Anne Hendrik’s memory. When he had finally come to see how dearly he loved her, he proposed marriage on the confident assumption that she would accept his hand. Misfortune had struck. Anne Hendrik refused him and his emotional life had been adrift ever since.
‘How do you like it?’ pressed Firethorn. ‘Tell us!’
‘I like it well,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head to evict its female ghost. ‘The play will offer Westfield’s Men a challenge but I am certain that we can rise to it. My only reservations concern the author.’
Firethorn flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Jonas Applegarth cannot help being so ugly and ill-favoured.’
‘I speak not of his appearance,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is his behaviour that troubles me. Quarrels, fights, drunkenness. Some companies refuse to let him near them.’
‘So should we!’ hissed Gill.
‘Strict conditions need to be laid down at the outset. That is my advice. If he joins Westfield’s Men, let Master Applegarth know that he must abide by our rules. We want no upheaval in the company.’ Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘In short, present the play for its sheer delight but keep a tight rein on the playwright.’
Barnaby Gill blustered but all to no avail. The die had been cast. The Misfortunes of Marriage would receive its first performance the following week. It would be left to Nicholas Bracewell to break the news to Jonas Applegarth and to make him aware of his contractual obligations. Edmund Hoode was sad and pensive. Honesty compelled him to praise the play but he sensed that he would suffer humiliation as a result. When Gill stalked out, therefore, Hoode also took his leave. Both men had grave misgivings, albeit of different kinds.
Lawrence Firethorn watched them through the window before turning to clap the book holder on the shoulder.
‘Nick, dear heart!’ he predicted. ‘We have made one of the most momentous decisions in the history of Westfield’s Men. I dote on Edmund and on his plays, but Jonas Applegarth puts his work in the shade. My only complaint is that The Misfortunes of Marriage will spring to life in the mean surroundings of the innyard at the Queen’s Head under the gaze of that death’s-head of a landlord. It calls for a truer playhouse. It deserves to be staged at The Curtain or at The Theatre.’
‘The Rose would be a fitter place,’ said Nicholas.
As the words came out of his mouth, Anne Hendrik stepped back into his thoughts. The Rose was a recently built theatre in Bankside. When the book holder lodged with Anne, sharing her life and basking in her love, he had been within easy walking distance of the playhouse. He would always associate The Rose with the happier times he spent on the south bank of the Thames.
Firethorn saw the faraway look on his friend’s face. He knew the book holder well enough to guess at its meaning.
‘Still brooding on her, Nick?’
‘I must away. There is much work to do.’
‘Go to her, man. Plead your case.’
‘That is all past,’ said Nicholas briskly. ‘Pray excuse me. I must seek out Jonas Applegarth. He will be eager to know the fate of his play and I must explain clearly the conditions on which we accept it.’
Firethorn caught his arm. ‘How long has it been?’
There was a brief pause. The pang of remorse was even sharper this time, the sense of loss more extreme.
‘A year,’ said Nicholas, as the truth dawned on him. ‘A year to the day.’
He at last understood why he was missing Anne Hendrik so much. It was the first anniversary of their parting.
***
Jonas Applegarth lay back in the oak settle and rocked with mirth. Delighted that his play had been accepted by Westfield’s Men, he was celebrating in the taproom of the Queen’s Head with some of his new fellows. Applegarth was barely thirty but his vast girth, his thinning hair, his grey beard and his pock-marked skin added a decade and more. Whenever he moved, the hooks on his doublet threatened to snap and his huge thighs seemed on the point of bursting the banks of his breeches and flooding the settle.
The colossal body was matched by a colossal appetite and a seemingly insatiable thirst. Jonas Applegarth drank tankards of beer as fast as they could be filled, but it was no solitary indulgence. Generous with his money, he invited four of his new friends to join him in his revelry and they were soon cracking merry jests together.
Owen Elias laughed loudest of all. An ebullient Welsh actor with a love of life, he discerned a soulmate in Jonas Applegarth. The dramatist had not only provided Elias with an excellent role in his play, he was showing that he could roister with the wildest of them. In the short time he’d been with the troupe, Applegarth had taken the measure of Westfield’s Men.
‘What think you of Barnaby Gill?’ asked Elias.
‘Far less than he thinks of himself,’ said Applegarth as he preened himself in an invisible mirror. ‘Not a pretty boy in London is safe when Master Gill is strutting about the town in his finery. ’Tis well that he is not employed at Blackfriars or the Chapel Children would fear for their virtue every time they bent in prayer.’
Owen Elias led the crude laughter once again and two of his fellows joined in. The one exception was James Ingram, a tall, slender young man with the dashing good looks of an actor allied to the poise of courtier. As the others enlarged upon their theme, Ingram remained detached and watchful. The target of the general amusement was now fixed on the Children of Her Majesty’s Chapel Royal, a theatre company of boys who performed at the reconstructed playhouse in Blackfriars. Westfield’s Men competed for an audience with the Chapel Children so they had good reason to mock their rivals. James Ingram had equally good reason to stand apart from the ribaldry.