Owen Elias belonged among Applegarth’s supporters. Sharing a table with Edmund Hoode and James Ingram, he confided his feelings about the incident.
‘Barnaby deserved it,’ he said. ‘He has grown lazy at conning lines. Jonas acquainted him with that truth.’
‘Truth should have a softer edge,’ said Hoode, with evident sympathy for the victim. ‘Why belabour Barnaby so when you could request him with kind words?’
‘Jonas Applegarth does not know any kind words,’ said Ingram. ‘Threat and insult are his only weapons.’
‘You do him wrong,’ defended Elias. ‘He speaks his mind honestly and I admire any man who does that. Especially when he does so with such wit and humour.’
‘I side with James,’ said Hoode. ‘Wit and humour should surprise and delight as they do in The Misfortunes of Marriage. They should not be used as stakes to drive through the heart of a fine actor in front of his fellows. Barnaby will never forgive him.’
‘Nor will I,’ thought Ingram.
‘Jonas is a wizard of language,’ asserted Elias. ‘When I see a play such as his, I can forgive him everything.’
Hoode nodded. ‘It is certainly a rare piece of work.’
Ingram made no comment. Elias nudged his elbow.
‘Do you not agree, James?’
The other pondered. ‘It has some wonderful scenes in it, Owen,’ he declared. ‘And the wit you spoke of is used to savage effect. But I do not think it the work of genius that you do. It has too many defects.’
‘Not many,’ said Hoode, reasonably. ‘A few, perhaps, and they mostly concern the construction of the piece. But I find no major faults.’
‘There speaks a fellow-writer!’ noted Elias. ‘Praise from Edmund is praise indeed. What are your objections, James?’
‘Master Applegarth is too wild and reckless in his attacks. He puts everything to the sword. Take but the Induction…’
He broke off as Nicholas Bracewell came into the taproom to join them. Edmund Hoode moved along the bench to make room for his friend, but the book holder found only the briefest resting place. Alexander Marwood, the cadaverous landlord, came shuffling across to them with the few remaining tufts of his hair dancing like cobwebs in the breeze. The anxious look on Marwood’s face made Nicholas ready himself for bad news, but the tidings were a joy.
‘A lady awaits you, Master Bracewell.’
‘A lady?’
‘She has been here this past hour.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Mistress Anne Hendrik.’
Nicholas was on his feet with excitement. ‘Where is she?’
‘Follow me and I’ll lead you to her.’
‘Let’s go at once.’
‘Give her our love!’ called Elias, pleased at his friend’s sudden happiness. ‘We’ll not expect you back before morning.’ He winked at Hoode, then turned to Ingram. ‘Now, James. What is amiss with the Induction?’
Nicholas heard none of this. The mere fact of Anne’s presence in the same building made him walk on air and forget all the irritations of a tiring day. Marwood conducted him along a corridor before indicating the door of a private room. Nicholas knocked and let himself in.
Anne Hendrik was there. When he saw her standing in the middle of the room with such a welcoming smile, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away a year’s absence. She looked enchanting. Wearing a deep blue bodice with a blue gown of a lighter hue, she was as handsome and shapely as ever. Appropriately, it was the hat which really set off her features. Anne Hendrik was the English widow of a Dutch hatmaker and her late husband had taught her the finer points of headgear. She was now wearing a shallow-brimmed, high-crowned light blue hat with a twist of darker material around the crown.
‘Nicholas!’ she said with evident pleasure.
‘By all, it’s good to see you!’
She offered a hand for him to kiss and her fond smile showed just how delighted she was to see him. Nicholas felt an upsurge of love that had been suppressed for twelve long months. Before he could find words to express it, however, she turned to introduce her companion and Nicholas realised with a shudder that they were not, in fact, alone.
‘This is Ambrose Robinson,’ she said.
‘I have heard so much about you, Master Bracewell,’ said the visitor with an obsequious smile. ‘All of it was complimentary. Anne has the highest regard for you.’
Nicholas gave a polite smile and shook his hand, but there was no warmth in the greeting. He took an immediate dislike to the man, not merely because his presence had turned a reunion of lovers into a more formal meeting, but because there was a faintly proprietary tone in his voice. The way that he dwelt on the name of ‘Anne,’ rolling it in his mouth to savour its taste, made Nicholas cringe inwardly. He waved his visitors to seats and took a closer look at Ambrose Robinson.
Garbed like a tradesman, he was a plump man of middle height, with a rubicund face so devoid of hair that it had the sheen of a small child. His big red hands were clasped together in his lap and his shoulders hunched deferentially.
‘Ambrose is a neighbour and a friend,’ said Anne.
‘A butcher by trade,’ he explained. ‘I am honoured to provide food for Anne’s table. Only the freshest poultry and finest cuts of meat are saved for her.’
Nicholas lowered himself onto a stool opposite them but found no rest. The joy of seeing Anne again had been vitiated by the annoying presence of an interloper. She gave him an apologetic smile, then took a deep breath.
‘We have come to ask for your help, Nick,’ she began.
‘It is yours to command,’ he said gallantly.
‘You are so kind, Master Bracewell,’ said Robinson with an ingratiating grin. ‘You do not even know me and yet you are ready to come to my assistance at Anne’s behest.’
‘Your assistance?’
‘Let me explain,’ said Anne. ‘In brief, the situation is this. Ambrose has a son, barely ten years of age, as bright and gifted a child as you could wish to meet. His name is Philip. He is the apple of his father’s eye, and rightly so.’ She glanced at her companion, who nodded soulfully. ‘Until this month, Philip was a chorister at the Church of St Mary Overy. He has a voice as clear as a bell and was chosen to take solo parts during Evensong.’
‘Philip sings like an angel,’ said the doting father.
‘Wherein lies the problem?’ asked Nicholas.
Robinson glowered. ‘He has been stolen away from me!’
‘Kidnapped?’
‘As good as, Master Bracewell.’
‘He has been gathered into the Chapel Royal,’ said Anne. ‘Philip’s beautiful voice was his own undoing. A writ of impressment was signed and he was spirited away.’
‘Is that not a cause for celebration?’ said Nicholas. ‘They have a notable choir at the Church of St Mary Overy, but to sing before Her Majesty is the highest honour that any chorister can attain.’
‘So it would be,’ agreed Robinson, ‘if that is all that Philip was enjoined to do. But it is not. The Master of the Chapel has made my son a member of a theatrical troupe that stages plays at Blackfriars. The boy is young and innocent. He should not be so cruelly exposed to wantonness.’
‘That will not of necessity happen, Master Robinson,’ said Nicholas with slight asperity. ‘Playhouses are not the symbols of sin that they are painted. We have apprentices in our own company, little above your son’s age, yet they have not been corrupted. The Chapel Children are far less likely to lead your son astray. Their repertoire is chosen with care and their audience more select than ours.’