***
Marriage to an actor as brilliant and virile as Lawrence Firethorn brought many pains but they were swamped beneath the compensating pleasures. Foremost among these for his redoubtable wife, Margery, was the never-ending delight of watching him ply his trade, strutting the stage with an imperious authority and carving an unforgettable performance in the minds of the onlookers. His talent and his sheer vitality were bound to make countless female hearts flutter and Firethorn revelled in the adulation. When Margery visited the Queen’s Head, she could not only share in the magic of his art, she could also keep his eye from roving and his eager body from straying outside the legitimate confines of the marital couch.
Vincentio’s Revenge was a darker play in the repertoire of Westfield’s Men, but one that gave its actor-manager a superb role as the eponymous hero. It never failed to wring her emotions and move Margery to tears. Since it was being played again that afternoon, she abandoned her household duties, dressed herself in her finery and made her way to Gracechurch Street with an almost girlish excitement. Good weather and high hopes brought a large audience converging on the Queen’s Head. Pleased to see the throng, Margery was even more thrilled to identify two of its members.
‘Anne!’ she cried. ‘This is blessed encounter.’
‘You come to watch Vincentio’s Revenge?’
‘Watch it, wonder at it and wallow in it.’
‘May we then sit together?’ suggested Anne Hendrik.
‘Indeed we may, though I must warn you that I will use all the womanly wiles at my command to steal that handsome gallant away from your side.’
Preben van Loew blushed deeply and made a gesture of self-deprecation. Margery’s blunt speech and habit of teasing always unnerved him. When the three of them paid their entrance fee to the lower gallery, the old Dutchman made sure that Anne sat between him and the over-exuberant Margery. It allowed the two women to converse freely.
‘I have not seen you this long while,’ said Margery.
‘My visits to the Queen’s Head are less frequent.’
‘You are bored with Westfield’s Men?’
‘Far from it,’ said Anne. ‘It is work that keeps me away and not boredom. I love the theatre as much as ever.’
‘Does Nicholas know that you are here?’
‘No, he does not.’
‘Then it were a kindness to tell him. It would lift his spirits to know that you were in the audience.’
‘I am not so sure.’
‘He dotes on you, woman,’ said Margery with a nudge. ‘Are you blind? Are you insensible? If a man as fine and upright as Nick Bracewell loved me, I would never leave his side for a second. He misses you, Anne.’
‘I miss him,’ she said involuntarily.
‘Then why keep him ignorant of your presence?’
‘It is needful.’
‘For whom? You or him?’
‘I simply came to watch a play, Margery.’
‘Then why not visit The Rose, which is closer to your home and far more commodious? Why not go to Shoreditch to choose between The Curtain and The Theatre? Deceive yourself, but do not try to deceive me. You came here for a purpose.’
‘To see Vincentio’s Revenge,’ insisted Anne.
‘I will not press the matter.’
‘What happened between Nick and myself is…all past.’
‘Not in his mind. Still less in his heart.’
Anne grew pensive. Margery’s companionship gave her joy and discomfort in equal measure. Anne’s feelings were so confused that she was not quite sure why she had decided to find the time to attend the play, and to release Preben van Loew from his work in order to chaperone her. She had responded to an urge which had yet to identify itself properly.
‘Forgive me,’ said Margery, squeezing her wrist in apology. ‘My fondness for Nick makes me speak out of turn. You and he need no Cupid. I’ll hold my peace.’
‘A friend’s advice is always welcome.’
‘You know what mine would be. I say no more.’
Anne nodded soulfully and a surge of regret ran through her. It soon passed. Vincentio’s Revenge began and the forthright woman beside her turned into a sobbing spectator. Anne herself was caught up in the emotion of the piece and whisked along for two harrowing but glorious hours by its poetry and its poignancy. It was only when the performance was over that she realised why she had come to it.
***
Having piloted another play safely into port, Nicholas Bracewell supervised the unloading of the cargo and the crew. It was not until the last of the properties and the costumes had been safely locked away that he was able to spare the time to listen to Owen Elias’s report of his findings. The two of them were alone in the tiring-house.
‘His name is Hugh Naismith.’
‘Can you be certain, Owen?’
‘As certain as it is possible to be. The fellow was a regular member of Banbury’s Men, a promising actor, secure in the company’s estimation and likely to rise to the rank of sharer.’
‘What happened?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Friar Francis. By one Jonas Applegarth.’
‘I remember seeing the playbills for it.’
‘Hugh Naismith did not like the piece. Friar Francis was a most un-Christian play, by all account, as full of fury as The Misfortunes of Marriage, and with an even sharper bite. This foolish actor dared to rail against it in the hearing of the author and the two of them had to be held apart for they squawked at each other like fighting cocks.’
‘Was this Naismith his opponent in the duel?’
‘Ned Meares confirms it,’ said Elias. ‘The varlet was so badly injured that his arm was put in a sling for weeks. Banbury’s Men expelled him straight. The fight with Jonas has cost Naismith both his pride and his occupation.’
‘Two strong reasons for him to seek revenge.’
‘One arm was in a sling but he still might throw a dagger with the other. It must be him, Nick.’
‘Where does he dwell?’
‘In Shoreditch. I called at his lodging.’
‘You met him?’
‘He was not there. Out stalking his prey, no doubt. That thought made me straight repair to Jonas’s house, where I found our fat friend, sitting at his desk in the window of his chamber, writing away as if he did not have a care in the world.’
‘You and he arrived here together, I saw.’
‘Yes, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘I felt compelled to go back to his house again this morning. An assassin may strike on the journey to the Queen’s Head just as well as on the walk back home. Four eyes offer better protection than two.’
‘How did Jonas seem?’
‘As loud and irreverent as ever.’
‘Did you mention Hugh Naismith to him?’
‘He affected not to know the man and would not discuss his time with Banbury’s Men except to say that it was a species of torment.’
‘For him or for them?’ asked Nicholas with a wry smile.
‘Both.’
The book holder checked that everything had been cleared out of the tiring-house before taking his friend through into the taproom. It was throbbing with noise. Players and playgoers alike were ready for drink and debate after the stirring performance of Vincentio’s Revenge.
Jonas Applegarth was holding forth in the middle of the room, addressing his remarks to all who would listen. His lack of tact and restraint made the newcomers gasp.
‘It is a miserable, meandering, worm-eaten play,’ he argued.
‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a sterling piece,’ countered James Ingram. ‘You saw how the audience loved it.’
‘Ignorant fools! What do they know of drama? If you put ten bare arses on the stage and farted at them for two hours, they would applaud you just as wildly. The Maids of Honour was base enough, but today’s offering was putrid.’