Barnaby Gill bounced across to them in a teasing mood.
‘Is all well between you now?’ he asked.
‘Why should it not be?’ said Firethorn.
‘Rumours, Lawrence. Scandalous rumours.’
‘Ignore them.’
‘They are far too delicious for that.’
‘Edmund and I are the best of friends,’ said Firethorn with an arm around Hoode’s shoulder. ‘We have too much in common to fall out.’
‘Too much indeed. Including your dear wife, Margery.’
‘That is slander, sir!’
‘A hideous misunderstanding,’ said Hoode.
‘They speak otherwise at the Unicorn,’ prodded Gill. ‘There they talk of the bigamous Margery Firethorn. One woman with two husbands. So much for the misfortunes of marriage! I give thanks that I never dwindled into matrimony.’
‘It is only because the Chapel Children rejected your proposal,’ rejoined Firethorn. ‘You’d be bigamously married to every boy’s bum in the choir if you could!’
Gill flew into a rage and Firethorn threw fresh taunts at him. Hoode found himself back in his customary role as the peacemaker between the two. He was home again.
Nicholas Bracewell gave the warning and the company readied themselves for the start of the performance. Its actor-manager had a last whispered exchange with Hoode.
‘Turn to me when you are next in that predicament.’
‘To you, Lawrence?’
‘I have a remedy even better than Margery’s.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Why, man, to take a woman off your hands and into mine. If this Cecily Gilbourne was too hot for your unskilled fingers to hold, you should have given her to me. My palms are proof against the fires of Hell.’
‘Margery’s was the eftest way.’
‘I would have been a sprightly unicorn to the lady.’
‘Then why did she not choose you in the first place?’ said Hoode. ‘No, Lawrence. The matter is ended and my debt is paid off to you both.’
‘What debt?’
‘I inadvertently disturbed your nuptial pleasure. By way of reprisal, Margery pulled me from the delights of the bedchamber. An eye for an eye.’
‘A testicle for a testicle!’
Firethorn’s chortle was masked by the sound of the music as Peter Digby and the consort brought the play to life once more. Westfield’s Men soared to the occasion.
The Misfortunes of Marriage blossomed at The Rose. Its plot was firmer, its characters enriched and its satire more biting and hilarious. The company took full advantage of the superior facilities at the theatre to make their play a more exciting experience. Many dazzling new effects were incorporated by Nicholas Bracewell into the action, including one he had borrowed from Raphael Parsons and adapted for their own purposes. Trapdoors allowed sudden appearances. Flying equipment permitted the dramatic descent of actors and scenic devices. With the book holder in control behind the scenes, the pace of the play never faltered and its thrusts never missed their targets.
The acclaim which greeted the cast as they were led out to take their bow by Firethorn was so loud and so sustained that they could have played the final scene through again before its last echoes died. When the actors plunged back into the tiring-house, they were inebriated with their success. Barnaby Gill was dancing, Richard Honeydew was singing, Edmund Hoode was quoting his favourite speech from the play and John Tallis was croaking happily. Firethorn himself went around hugging each member of the troupe in tearful gratitude.
Even James Ingram was infected by the mood of celebration. He confided his feelings to the book holder.
‘It is a better play than I gave it credit, Nick.’
‘The play is unchanged,’ said Nicholas. ‘What has altered is your perception of it.’
‘True. It is so much easier to appreciate when its author is not here to obstruct my view of its virtues.’
‘Jonas was here this afternoon.’
‘In spirit, if not in body.’
‘That was his voice I heard out there on the stage. Even your mimicry could not reproduce that sound. It was a distinctive voice, James. Too harsh for some, maybe. You have been among them. But impossible to ignore.’
‘Westfield’s Men have done him proud.’
‘No playwright could ask for more,’ said Hoode, joining them as he pulled off his costume. ‘Jonas Applegarth was a true poet. He died for his art. It is a tragedy that we only have this one play of his to act as his headstone.’
‘We may yet have a second,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Has he bequeathed us another?’
‘No, Edmund. But you could provide it.’
‘I could never write with that surging brilliance. Only Jonas could pen a Jonas Applegarth play.’
‘Work with him as your co-author.’
‘How can he, Nick?’ said Ingram. ‘Jonas is dead.’
‘Yes,’ added Hoode with a touch of envy. ‘He outshines me there as well. Not only did he live with more of a flourish, he died in a way that made all London sit up and say his name. Edmund Hoode will just fade away, unsung, in some mean lodging. That is what I admire most about Jonas Applegarth. His own life was his most vivid and unforgettable drama.’
‘Then there is your theme,’ urged Nicholas.
‘Theme?’
‘Put him back up on the stage in full view.’
‘Jonas?’
‘Why not?’ said Ingram, warming to the idea. ‘Change his name, if you wish. But retain his character. Keep that humour. Keep that wit. Keep that belligerence. If ever a man belonged on the boards with a mouth-filling oath, it is Jonas Applegarth.’
‘His death will certainly give me my final scene.’
‘The play foments in your mind already, Edmund,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Write it as an act of appreciation. Let him know that Westfield’s Men cherish his memory. We loved him but did not have time to tell him so before he left us.’
***
It took Anne Hendrik a long time to make a comparatively short journey. The audience at The Rose was too large and too inclined to linger for her to make a swift exit from the theatre. She and Preben van Loew were forced to wait until the earnest discussions of the play gradually subsided and the press of bodies thinned out. The Dutchman escorted her home before going on to his own house in Bankside.
There was no hurry. Nicholas would be delayed even longer than she had been. First of the company to arrive, he would be the last to leave, having supervised the removal of their scenery and costumes, the cleaning of the tiring-house and the collection of the money from the gatherers. There would be a dozen other chores before he could begin to think of slipping away.
When Anne caught herself calculating the earliest possible time of his arrival, she tried to pull herself together and put him from her mind. There was no guarantee that Nicholas would come. When Westfield’s Men had last played at The Rose, she had no visit from its book holder afterwards. Why should this time be different? They had no obligations towards each other. Ambrose Robinson may have eased them back together but his arrest would just as effectively push them apart. She soon persuaded herself that Nicholas would be too busy carousing with his fellows to remember her invitation. She sank into a chair with resignation.
It was an hour before she got out of it. The tap on the door made her leap up and rush to answer it, waving away the servant who came out from the kitchen. Adjusting her dress and modifying her broad grin to a smile, she opened the door to find Nicholas standing there. She dismissed his apology for being so late and took him into the parlour.
‘Did you enjoy the play?’ he asked.
‘As much as anything I have seen in years.’
‘It is a remarkable piece of theatre.’
‘A little too remarkable for Preben, I fear.’
‘Oh?’
‘He laughed at its jests but shied at its irreverence.’
‘It is strong meat for a timid palate.’
They talked at length about the play until they felt sufficiently relaxed with each other to move away from it. Nicholas had some news for her.