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.