‘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.
Chapter Seven
The Elephant was a large, low, sprawling inn, famed for its strong ale and unflagging hospitality. It stood near near The Curtain, one of the two theatres in Shoreditch which brought the citizens of London streaming out through Bishopsgate in search of entertainment. Banbury’s Men, the resident company at The Curtain, used the inn as a place to celebrate their frequent successes or to drown their sorrows in the wake of occasional abysmal failures. When Owen Elias arrived at the Elephant that evening, the boisterous atmosphere told him that celebration was in order. Banbury’s Men were basking in the triumph of their new play, The Fatal Dowry, performed that afternoon to general acclaim.
Elias ducked below a beam and surveyed the taproom through a fug of tobacco smoke. Westfield’s Men were deadly rivals of the company at The Curtain and relations between them went well beyond bitterness. The Welshman would not normally have sought out the other troupe, especially as he had once belonged to it for a brief and acrimonious period. Necessity compelled him to come, and he looked for the swiftest way to discharge his business and leave the enemy lair.
Selecting his man with care, he closed in on him.
‘Why, how now, Ned!’
‘Is that you, Owen?’
‘As large and lovely as life itself.’
‘What brings you to the Elephant?’
‘Two strong legs and a devil of a thirst. Will you drink some ale with me, Ned?’
‘I’ll drink with any man who pays the bill, even if he belong to that hellish crew known as Westfield’s Men.’ He turned to his friends on the adjoining table. ‘See here, lads. Look what the tide has washed up. Owen Elias!’
Jeers of disapproval went up and Owen had to endure some stinging insults before he could settle down beside his former colleague. Ale was brought and he drank deep. Ned Meares was a hired man, one of the many actors who scraped a precarious living at their trade and who made the most of their intermittent stretches of employment while they lasted.
A stout man in his thirties, Meares was an able actor with a wide range. In the time since he had last seen the man, Elias noted, regular consumption of ale had filled out his paunch and deepened the florid complexion.
‘A sharer now, I hear,’ said Meares enviously.
‘I have been lucky, Ned.’
‘Spare a thought for we who toil on as hired men.’
‘I do. I struggled along that same road myself.’
‘It will never end for me, alas.’ He nudged the visitor. ‘Come, Owen, you crafty Welshman. Do not pretend that you are here to renew old acquaintance. Westfield’s Men lurk in the Queen’s Head. You have no place at the Elephant. What do you want?’
‘To talk about a playwright you will know.’
‘What is his name?’ asked Meares, quaffing his ale.
‘Jonas Applegarth.’
Elias had to move sharply to avoid the drink which was spat out again by his companion. Meares coughed and spluttered until his eyes watered. A few hearty slaps on the back were needed to help him recover.
Elias grinned. ‘I see that you remember Jonas.’
‘Remember him! Could I ever forget that monster? Jonas Applegarth was like a visitation of the plague.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he infected the whole company.’
‘He wrote only one play for Banbury’s Men.’
‘One play too many!’ groaned Meares. ‘Friar Francis. The name of that dread piece is scrawled on my soul for ever.’ He sipped his ale before continuing. ‘Most authors sell us a play, advise us how best to stage it, then stand aside while we do our work. Not Jonas. He was author, actor and book holder rolled into one. He stood over us from start to finish. We were no more than galley-slaves, lashed to the oars while he whipped us unmercifully with his tongue and urged us to row harder.’
‘He does have a warm turn of phrase,’ conceded Elias.
‘Threats and curses were all his conversation.’
‘Did the company not resist?’
‘Every inch of the way, Owen. Banbury’s Men were to have played Friar Francis but that raging bull tried to turn us into Applegarth’s Men. It could not be borne.’
Meares needed another fortifying drink of his ale before he could recount full details of the fierce battle against the arrogance of the author. Feigning sympathy, Elias took great satisfaction from the chaos which had been caused in the rival company while making a mental note to take precautions to stop the obstreperous playwright from wreaking the same havoc among Westfield’s Men. Recrimination left Ned Meares shaking like an aspen. The visitor had to buy him another tankard of ale to restore his shattered nerves.
‘Did anyone hate Jonas enough to kill him?’
‘Yes,’ said Meares. ‘All of us!’
‘Was there a special enemy of his in the company?’
‘A dozen at least, Owen.’
‘Who had most cause to loathe him?’
‘Most cause?’ The actor rubbed a hand ruminatively through his beard. ‘Most cause? That would have to be Hugh Naismith.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell slept fitfully that night, dreaming of happier days at the Bankside home of Anne Hendrik and waking at intervals to scold himself for the way he had upset her during his visit. Both were strong-willed individuals and this had led to many arguments in the past, but they had usually been resolved in the most joyful and effective way in Anne’s bed. That avenue of reconciliation had now been closed off to him, and he feared that as long as Ambrose Robinson stayed in her life, she would remain beyond his reach.
Jealousy of the butcher was not the only reason why he wanted to put the man to flight. Robinson had a temper which flared up all too easily and threatened to spill over into violence. Nicholas was worried that Anne might one day unwittingly become the victim of that choleric disposition. What mystified him was that she seemed to enjoy’s the man’s friendship, enough to attend church in his company and to fret about his enforced estrangement from his son.
The plight of Philip Robinson had drawn the two of them together and placed Nicholas in a quandary. If he helped to secure the boy’s release from the Chapel Children, would he be pushing Anne even closer to the Robinson family, and was it not in his interests to keep father and son apart? His sense of duty prevented his taking the latter course. Having promised assistance, he could not now go back on his word.
His mind was still in turmoil and his feelings still in a state of ambivalence as he left his lodging in Thames Street. The morning cacophony enveloped him and he did not hear the soft footsteps which came scurrying up behind him.
‘Stay, sir!’ said a voice. ‘I would speak with you.’
Caleb Hay had to pluck at his sleeve to get Nicholas’s attention. The book holder turned and exchanged greetings with him. Boyish enthusiasm lit up the older man’s features.
‘I hoped that I would catch you,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I have something for you. Step this way, sir. Let us rid ourselves of this tumult.’
‘I may not tarry long, Master Hay.’
‘This will take but a few minutes and I think that you will consider them well spent.’
He led Nicholas back down the busy street to his house. Once they were inside, the noise subsided to a gentle hubbub. Joan Hay was sitting in the parlour with her embroidery as they entered. A glance from her husband made her jump to her feet and give the visitor a hesitant smile before moving off into the kitchen.