‘Officers of the watch!’ he called.
The duel was over. Sighing with relief, the old man bent over his stricken friend. Jonas Applegarth was not yet done with Hugh Naismith. Kicking him to the ground, he used the toe of his shoe to flick offal into the man’s face. He stood astride the body and hovered menacingly over it.
‘Thus perish all actors who mangle my plays!’ he said.
Then he fled nimbly into the shadows with his friend.
Chapter Two
Thames Street was his seventh home since leaving Bankside and he knew that he would not stay there long. Anne Hendrik’s house had provided a secure mooring for Nicholas Bracewell in every way. Deprived of that, he drifted aimlessly through a succession of lodgings, never settling, never feeling at ease, never using the respective dwellings as anything more than a place to sleep. Loneliness kept him on the move.
Nicholas lived in a room at the top of a house on the corner of Thames Street and Cordwainer Street. Through its tiny window, he could watch the fishing smacks taking their catch into Queenhithe and larger vessels bringing foreign wines to the Vintry. Across the dark back of the river, he got a glimpse of Bankside with its tenements jostling each other for room around a haphazard collection of churches, brothels, taverns and ordinaries. The Rose Theatre blossomed above the smaller buildings surrounding it.
He woke early that morning, as every morning, to the happy clamour of tradespeople below and the plaintive cries of the gulls wheeling hopefully above the wharves. After washing and dressing, Nicholas made his way out into Thames Street and paused to let its pungency strike his nostrils. The smell of fish dominated but the stink of the nearby breweries was also carried on the wind. A dozen other strong odours merged into the distinctive aroma of the riverside.
After throwing a nostalgic glance at Bankside, Nicholas headed east towards the subtler fragrances of the fruit market. He did not get very far.
‘Good morrow, Master Bracewell.’
‘And to you, sir.’
‘Are you bound for that den of iniquity?’
‘If you mean the Queen’s Head,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘then I fear that I am. It is not the ideal arena for our work but it is all that we may call our own.’
Caleb Hay put his head to one side and studied Nicholas carefully. The old man was short, neat and compact, and he carried his sixty years with surprising lightness. His sober apparel and intelligent face suggested a scholar while the ready grin and the glint in his eye hinted at a more worldly existence. Caleb Hay was one of Nicholas’s neighbours and they had struck up a casual friendship. On the former’s side, it consisted largely of jovial teasing.
‘What made you do it?’ said Hay.
‘Do what?’
‘Sell your soul to such a thankless profession.’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘I like the theatre.’
‘But how can such a patently good man work at such a manifestly bad trade?’ The grin lit up his features. ‘The theatre is the haunt of all the sweepings of the city. For every gallant in the gallery, there are three or four trulls and pickpockets and arrant knaves breathing garlic all over your innyard. You play to plebeians, Master Bracewell.’
‘Everyone who can buy entrance is welcome.’
‘That is where the boys lord it over you,’ said Hay. ‘The Chapel Children and the Children of St Paul’s charge higher prices at their indoor playhouses and keep out the commonalty. Sweeter breaths are met at Blackfriars. And finer plays may be set before a more discerning audience.’
‘You’ll not find a better comedy than the one that we next stage, Master Hay,’ said Nicholas proudly. ‘Its author is a scholar of repute with a wit to match any in the city. The Misfortunes of Marriage is a feast for groundlings and great minds alike. As for the children’s companies,’ he added with an indulgent smile, ‘there is room for them as well as us. We serve the same Muse.’
Caleb Hay chuckled and patted him affectionately on the shoulder. He was carrying a leather satchel under his arm and Nicholas could see the scrolls of parchment poking out of it. Hay was a retired scrivener, who was devoting every waking hour to the writing of a history of London. Having been born and bred in the city, he knew it intimately and had witnessed extraordinary changes in the course of his long life. Those changes would all be listed scrupulously in his book, but research had first to be done into the earlier times of the capital, and Caleb trotted zealously about his task from dawn till dusk.
Nicholas was intrigued by the old man’s obsessive interest in his native city. Caleb Hay was engaged in a labour of love that kept him glowing with contentment. It was impossible not to envy such a man.
‘How does your book progress?’ Nicholas asked.
‘It grows, it grows. Slowly, perhaps, but we antiquarians may not rush. There is so much to sift and to weigh.’
‘Then I will not keep you away from your studies.’
‘Nor I you from your sinful occupation.’
‘You do not fool me, Master Hay,’ said Nicholas with a pleasant smile. ‘Though you denigrate the theatre, I’ll warrant that you have more than once rubbed shoulders with the lower sort in order to cheer a play in an innyard.’
‘I do not deny it,’ admitted the other, ‘but I did not venture there in search of pleasure. I forced myself to go in the spirit of inquiry. To know this city well enough to write about it, one must visit its most noisome quarters. How can a man describe a cesspool unless he has wallowed in it?’
They shared a laugh and exchanged farewells. Nicholas was about to move off when Caleb Hay plucked at his sleeve.
‘Your author is a noted scholar, you say?’
‘He can speak Greek and Latin like a schoolmaster.’
‘What is his name?’
‘Jonas Applegarth.’
Hay’s cherubic face darkened. He walked abruptly away.
***
No, no, no!’ bellowed Jonas Applegarth. ‘Speak the speech as it is set down, you dolt, and not as you half-remember it. If you cannot learn my lines, do not pile insult on incompetence by inventing your own.’
Barnaby Gill spluttered with fury and waved his arms like a windmill out of control.
‘I’ll not be talked to like this!’
‘Then play the part as it is written.’
‘My art enhances any role that I undertake.’
‘You are certainly proving a vile undertaker here, sir,’ said Applegarth with heavy sarcasm. ‘You have killed the character that I created and buried him in a wooden casket. Exhume him straight or I’ll step up on that stage and aid the resurrection with my dagger.’
Barnaby Gill was so outraged by the criticism of his performance and so mortified by the threat of violence that he was struck dumb. His arms were now revolving with such speed that they seemed about to part company with his body.
‘And do not saw the air so!’ shouted Applegarth. ‘If you wave your arms thus during my play, I’ll tie them to your sides with rope and weight you down with an anchor. Gestures must match the verse, not slap it to death!’
Gill had heard enough. Jumping in the air like a startled rabbit, he bolted into the room which was used as a tiring-house. Torn between amusement and horror, the rest of the company either burst out laughing or slunk away from Jonas Applegarth in fear. Edmund Hoode did both. James Ingram did neither but simply watched Applegarth with a quiet disgust. The dramatist himself continued to berate the absent Gill in the most obscene language.
Nicholas Bracewell and Lawrence Firethorn came running to see what had caused the commotion. When trouble erupted in the yard of the Queen’s Head, they had been having one of their regular quarrels with its erratic landlord, Alexander Marwood. A minor irritation was postponed as they raced to confront a major problem.
Nicholas read the situation at a glance. A predictable skirmish between player and playwright had occurred. He blamed himself for not being on hand to stop it and took instant steps to make sure that the skirmish did not turn into a battle, a certain result if Firethorn were drawn into it. Nicholas persuaded the actor-manager to go after Barnaby Gill and mollify him, then he announced a break in the rehearsal and cleared the yard of all but Edmund Hoode and Jonas Applegarth.