Edward Marston - The Laughing Hangman

Lawrence Firethorn tried to limit the damage by cutting in with the final speech of the play, but he took Peter Digby and the consort completely by surprise. Instead of a dignified exit to music, the French Court shuffled off in grim silence, and it was only when the stage was virtually empty that the instruments spoke from above. Fresh peals of laughter rang out. Firethorn brought the cast on stage to enjoy the applause, but even his broad smile cracked when the entry of John Tallis was greeted with a loud cheer.

When he quit the stage, the actor-manager was seething.

‘Where is that vile assassin!’ he roared.

‘Do not blame the boy,’ advised Nicholas.

‘Oh, I’ll not blame him, Nick. I’ll belabour him! I’ll pull off those bulging balls of his and roast them like chestnuts in a fire! He killed my performance! He stabbed the play in the back!’

‘It was not John’s fault. His voice broke.’

‘Then I’ll break his arms, his legs and his foul neck to keep it company! You only heard the disaster, Nick. I had visible warning of its dire approach.’

‘Warning?’

‘Manhood reared its unlovely visage,’ said Firethorn with a vivid gesture. ‘When the Prince of Navarre stole that first kiss from Marie, the maid of honour’s skirt twitched as if it had a flag-pole beneath it. Had John Tallis been wearing a codpiece, it would have burst asunder and displayed his wares to the whole world. I wonder that James Ingram kept his composure! What man wants to spend his wedding night in the arms of a frog maiden with a monstrous pizzle!’ He glared around the tiring-house. ‘Where is that freak of nature? I’ll geld him!’

‘Calm down,’ said Nicholas. ‘The play is done.’

‘Done and done for!’

‘It was well received by the audience.’

‘Jeers of derision.’

‘Even the best horse stumbles.’

‘This one stumbled, fell and threw us all from the saddle.’ He made an effort to bank down his fury. ‘Nobody can accuse us of denying John Tallis his moment of triumph. Marie can steal every scene in which she appears. We did all we could to help the oaf. We covered his lantern jaw with a fan, we hid much of his ugliness under a wig, and we dressed him in such rich and jewelled apparel that it took the attention away from what remained of his charmless countenance. And how did he repay us?’

‘John lost control of his voice, alas. It has been on the verge of breaking these past few months.’

‘It was a humiliation!’ recalled Firethorn with a shiver. ‘He could not have ruined the play more thoroughly if he had sprouted a beard and grown hair all over his chest. God’s buttocks!’ he howled, as his anger burst out once more. ‘He made Westfield’s Men the laughing-stock of London. Instead of a demure maid of honour, we have a hoarse-voiced youth afflicted with standing of the yard. Bring the rogue to me! I’ll murder him with my bare hands!’

Nicholas diverted him by flattering him about his performance. When Barnaby Gill came up to complain that Firethorn had deliberately ruined one of his jigs by standing between him and the audience, the book holder saw his chance to slip away. John Tallis sat in the corner of the tiring-house, still wearing the costume of a maid of honour but weeping the tears of a young man. Richard Honeydew tried to console his colleague but his piping voice only reminded Tallis of his fatal loss.

‘My hour on the stage is over!’ he wailed.

‘Do not talk so,’ said Nicholas, crouching beside him. ‘As one door closes, another one opens for you.’

‘Yes! The door out of Master Firethorn’s house. He will kick me through it most certainly. This morning, I was one of the apprentices; this afternoon, I am doomed.’

‘You came of age, John. It happens to us all.’

‘Not in the middle of the Court of France!’

He sobbed even louder and it took Nicholas several minutes to comfort him. Tallis eventually stepped out of a dress he would never be able to wear again and put on his own attire. The lantern jaw sagged with despair.

‘What will become of me?’ he sighed.

‘We’ll find occupation for you somewhere,’ Nicholas reassured him. ‘In the meantime, keep out of Master Firethorn’s way and do not-this I beg you, John-do not let him hear your voice.’

The boy produced the deepest and harshest croak yet.

‘Why not?’ he said.

Even Nicholas had to suppress a smile.

She was there. He sensed it. Without knowing who she was or where she might be sitting, Edmund Hoode was certain only of her presence. It set his blood racing. Throughout the performance, he scanned the galleries whenever he came on stage, searching for that special face, waiting for that telltale smile, hoping for that significant gesture. When she chose not to reveal herself, he felt even more excited. In preserving her mystery, she became infinitely more appealing. Simply to know that she existed was an inspiration in itself.

Alone of the cast, the Constable of France was unmoved by the sudden transformation of a maid of honour into a husky youth. With a rose pressed to his heart beneath his costume, he was proof against all interruption. If John Tallis had turned into a three-headed dog and danced a galliard, he would not have distracted Hoode. She was there. That was all that mattered.

‘What means this haste, Edmund?’

‘I have somewhere to go.’

‘Deserting your fellows so soon?’

‘They will not miss me.’

‘You have some tryst, I venture.’

‘Venture all you wish, Jonas. My lips are sealed.’

Jonas Applegarth chuckled aloud and slapped Hoode on the back. The latter was just leaving the tiring-house after shedding the apparel of the Constable of France. Inspired by the hope that his admirer might make fresh contact with him, he was not pleased to find the massive Applegarth blocking his way.

‘You have talent as a player, Edmund.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That is the finest performance I have seen you give.’

‘Much thought went into it, Jonas.’

‘To good effect. I could not fault you.’

‘Praise, indeed.’

‘The role was base, the play even baser, but you rose above those shortcomings. It is your true profession.’

‘I am a poet. Writing plays is a labour of love.’

‘But they show too much of the labour and too little of the love, Edmund. Abandon the pen. It leads you astray. Let sharper minds and larger imaginations create new plays. Your destiny is merely to act in them.’

The amiable contempt of his remarks did not wound Hoode. He was armoured against the jibes of a rival, even one as forthright as the corpulent Applegarth. Excusing himself with a pleasant smile, Hoode pushed past the portly frame and hurried along the passageway. Where he was going he did not know, but hope kept him on the move.

Chance dictated his footsteps, guiding him through the taproom, down another passageway, up one staircase, down a second, deep into a cellar, until he finally emerged in the yard once again. It was almost deserted. Most of the spectators had now dispersed, save for a few stragglers. Hoode halted with disappointment. There was no sign of his pining lover, no hint even of a female presence in the yard or up in the galleries.

Rose Marwood then materialised out of thin air and came tripping across the yard towards him. He revived at once. Another rose? A different token of love? A longer missive? But all that she bore him was a shy smile. Wafting past him, she went back into the building and shut the door firmly behind her.

Hoode was abashed. Had his instincts betrayed him? Was his secret admirer absent from the afternoon’s performance? Or had she taken a second and more critical look at her quondam beloved before deciding that he was unworthy of her affections? His quick brain conjured up a dozen reasons why she was not there, each one more disheartening than its predecessor.