The Roaring Boy

Chapter Nine

Edmund Hoode was so reduced by hunger and anxiety that he barely had the strength to move. As the finger of light slowly withdrew from his cell in the Marshalsea, he lay on the floor in a disconsolate heap and mused on his sorry plight. “Disasters come triple-tongued” he wrote in one of his plays and that line now returned to haunt him. The Corrupt Bargain was his first disaster, a mediocre play made far worse by the death of its central character. Ben Skeat, however, was fortunate. The old actor had died while exercising his art. It was more than Hoode would be allowed to do.

Infatuation with Emilia Brinklow presaged his second disaster. Meeting her had swept aside all reservations about The Roaring Boy. It seemed like an exciting challenge and revived his creative urge. Pleased with the result of his reworking of the play, he had seen it felled on the stage at the Queen’s Head before his own eyes. One play stricken by the demise of its main character and another stopped in its tracks by a brawl. These were not unrelated phenomena. Some malign curse had clearly been put upon his work. Whatever his pen touched soon crumbled to dust.

He could have borne the two disasters if a third had not arisen to join them. His name was Richard Topcliffe and he had left the playwright in a state of cold hysteria. The memory of those instruments in the cellar had burned itself into Hoode’s brain. Simply to look at them had been torture enough. To be subjected to their venom would be unendurable. He knew that his heart would burst asunder long before his body was rent apart on the rack.

When he tried to compose his own epitaph, it served only to deepen his melancholy. No words could sum up the agony of his last hours alive, no conceit could describe his self-contempt, no clever rhyme could adequately express the folly of his existence. All was lost. A man whose plays and playing had delighted audiences for a decade or more would give a final, inglorious performance before a lone spectator. Only an excruciating death would draw applause from the watching Topcliffe.

Hope was a cruel illusion. Westfield’s Men were still toiling on his behalf but their efforts were futile. If the influence of their patron could secure no comfort for their doomed playwright, then his situation was beyond recovery. Edmund Hoode was to be a scapegoat, a blood-covered warning to every other author to work more guardedly and to eschew libelous comment on figures in authority. It was a savage injustice. He was being sacrificed for a play he did not write about a man he had never met.

He looked up at the barred window. The last few rays were quitting his cell along with the last strands of belief in his friends. They had let him down signally and the greatest disappointment came from the man in whom he had reposed his highest expectations. A fury rustled deep inside him and slowly built until it burst through his sorrow and made him clamber to his feet to yell with all his might.

‘Nicholas! Where are you!’

***

‘Everyone had something to say about Thomas Brinklow but all comment led in the same direction.’

‘Which was?’

‘He was a recluse. In love with his work.’

‘Why, then, did he marry?’

‘It was a blunder. All agree on that.’

‘Could he have been happy with another woman?’

‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Nobody spoke it outright but their nudges and winks were eloquent enough. Our Master Brinklow was not for marriage with any woman. It is certain that his match fell short of consummation.’

‘Small wonder that his wife looked elsewhere.’

‘She did not need to, Nick.’

‘Why?’

‘Walter Dunne came with her. Or so the rumours would have it. He was the steward of her former household and warmed her bed as part of his duties. When she took a husband, she did not lose a lover.’ Elias chuckled. ‘The common report is that Master Brinklow was cuckolded on his wedding night. What sort of husband would tolerate that?’

‘A man content to be husband in name only.’

Nicholas Bracewell was reminded of the maidservant’s remark that Thomas Brinklow had condoned his wife’s affair. If that was so, it cleared the lovers from even the faintest vestige of suspicion. Why did they need to kill a man who actively promoted their relationship? Instead of being an obstacle that needed to be removed, the husband had been a most effective cover. Aspects of Brinklow’s character were emerging which had not found themselves into the play.

‘What else did you learn, Owen?’

The two men were back at the house in Greenwich at the agreed hour. Lawrence Firethorn’s absence was puzzling but they hoped that he would arrive in due course to pool his findings with theirs. In the meantime, Elias held the floor. The Welshman had been assiduous, visiting all the taverns in the vicinity and soaking up dozens of assorted recollections of Thomas Brinklow.

‘He did employ builders,’ said Elias, ‘he did engage suppliers, he did pay someone to maintain his equipment. But it was only ever under his personal supervision. Nobody ever got into that workshop on his own.’

‘What was he hiding?’

‘It was his way, Nick. That’s what everyone says.’

‘His way.’

Elias retailed a number of anecdotes about Brinklow’s obsessive privacy. He also discovered that the murdered man was an unusually devout Christian, visiting the church every day and often staying an hour alone in prayer. His wife had been far more erratic in her attendance.

‘Even though she had more to confess,’ said Elias.

‘Confess?’

‘Lustful embraces with Walter Dunne.’

‘It seems that she had already confessed those to her husband,’ said Nicholas. ‘To confess them before God would have brought an end to them.’

They were still discussing the idiosyncrasies of the Brinklow household when a dishevelled Lawrence Firethorn was shown into the room. Dust-covered and perspiring, he yet had an air of triumph about him.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Why have you kept us waiting?’ said Elias.

Firethorn sat down beside them. ‘I have been to the very fons et origo of evil. We do not just deal with rogues and murderers here, gentlemen. We fight against treason.’

He checked to ensure that nobody else was listening.

‘Rest easy,’ said Nicholas. ‘That little spy has been disarmed. You may speak freely now. What is this treason?’

‘The most damnable crime I have ever encountered, Nick.’

Firethorn told them about his vigil at the quayside. His brief voyage to Deptford had not only revealed the true nature of the cargo aboard the boat. When he reached the dockyards and saw it unloaded into a larger vessel, he discovered its ultimate port of call.

‘Flushing.’

‘The weapons are going to the Netherlands?’ said Elias.

‘Where, then, is the treason?’ asked Nicholas. ‘If swords and pikes are sold to the Dutch, they are bought by those who are friendly to our nation. Nobody can question that.’

‘Unless that cargo is unloaded on Dutch soil,’ argued Firethorn, ‘to be carried to another country over land. If those weapons are part of some legal trade, why do they have to be costumed as garden implements? And why should weapons be sent to the Continent when we have a greater need for them in Ireland? There’s treason brewing here, have no doubt. Another fact supports it.’

‘What is that, Lawrence?’ said Elias.

‘Sir Godfrey Avenell. Nick bade me enquire after our Master of the Armoury and so I did. Every guard and servant around the palace has a tale about the man.’

‘Do they call him traitor?’ said Nicholas.

‘Far from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘They respect the noble knight. He is diligent in his office and fair-minded with those who work beneath him. Sir Godfrey has a flair for staging tournaments and a knowledge of jousting that is based on years of experience.’ He turned to Elias. ‘One of his old opponents in the saddle was Lord Hunsdon. I had forgot our Lord Chamberlain was also a notable jouster in his younger day. Their friendship started in the tiltyard.’

‘How does Lord Hunsdon’s name come in?’ said Nicholas.

‘He signed the order sending Edmund to prison.’

‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘Our patron found that out. The Lord Chamberlain is also responsible for the injunction that keeps us out of the Queen’s Head. He is giving Sir Godfrey full return on their friendship.’

‘Lord Hunsdon will have the reddest face in Christendom when the truth about that friend is published,’ observed Firethorn. ‘Do you know what they all ask about the Master of the Armoury? Where does he get his wealth? Why does a man who has but a modest income for his duties keep a house in the Strand and another in the country? How can he afford to dress as well as he does, to ride on such fine coursers and to afford suits of armour for his favourites?’

‘I begin to see your reasoning,’ said Elias.

‘His money comes from selling arms to our enemies.’

‘Can this be proved?’ said Nicholas.

‘It already has been to my satisfaction.’

‘We’ll need more evidence yet,’ continued the book holder, ‘but it certainly explains why Master Chaloner met his death. He strayed too close to the truth. Sir Godfrey Avenell is not just concealing his part in the killing of Thomas Brinklow. He may be hiding this appalling treason.’

Elias was vengeful. ‘A man who betrays his country is no better than a dog. Sir Godfrey should be hanged, drawn and quartered. Think of the wickedness of it! Those weapons he has sold abroad may be used to kill his own countrymen!’

Firethorn nodded. ‘We must stop the devil forthwith.’

‘He must wait his turn,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, we must catch Sir John Tarker in our snare. He is a party to the murders if not to the treason. He is also the chief shield used by Sir Godfrey. Remove him and we may see what evil and corruption lie behind it.’

‘Sir John stays at the palace,’ said Firethorn. ‘How do we entice him out? We have no means to gain entry there. We can hardly expect him to come calling at our invitation.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘Yes, we can. And he will.’

***

Sir John Tarker mounted his horse by the light of the torch in the wall-bracket. Karl made final adjustments to the girth of his own mount. Midnight was approaching and all the gates of the palace were sealed but they were about to leave by a postern at the rear. Clouds drifted lazily across the moon. Tarker grunted with pleasure. Darkness was a good omen.

‘Heaven blesses our enterprise,’ he said. ‘We thought to ask for a key to the house and one is offered.’

‘Agnes is a good woman,’ said Karl, putting a foot in the stirrup and hauling himself up. ‘She has never let me down before.’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘But, then, I have never disappointed her. Agnes will be well-rewarded for this night’s work.’

‘I’ve a mind to reward her in bed myself,’ said Tarker, ‘if I had not already set my eye on someone else in the house. Once Nicholas Bracewell is out of the way, all else falls into my hands. Come, Karl.’

The guard unbolted the postern gate and the two of them went through it. The horses were soon cantering across the grass in the direction of the village. Sir John Tarker was in good humour. The message that had been sent by Agnes had come at exactly the right moment. The maidservant claimed that she had overheard Emilia Brinklow confess to Nicholas Bracewell that her brother’s papers had not all gone up in flames. Records of his most recent work had been hidden elsewhere in the house because of their importance. According to the letter, Nicholas Bracewell insisted on taking the papers to his bedchamber for safekeeping. Agnes promised to leave a key near a side-door so that Karl could slip into the house to steal the documents.

Sir John Tarker was delighted. Nicholas Bracewell and the missing papers, which had caused so much trouble. If he could kill the former and retrieve the latter, he would be back once more in Sir Godfrey Avenell’s charmed circle. One night’s work would restore all that had been taken away.

They came into the village and slowed to a trot. When the silhouette of the house rose up before them, they dismounted and tethered their horses to some bushes. As they approached silently on foot, both felt their blood race at the prospect of action. A soldier and a jouster, Tarker always revelled in combat but Karl was just as keen to be involved. When he had knocked out Simon Chaloner with a blow from his tongs, the armourer had wanted to finish him off. Deprived of that pleasure, he was eager to be involved in the slaying of Nicholas Bracewell.

Both wore dark attire which allowed easy movement and blended with the night. They circled the house warily to check that nobody was still awake. The whole place was in darkness. Karl led the way back into the garden to await the signal promised in his lover’s message. Only when a lighted candle appeared at her window was it safe for them to enter. They crouched in the bushes and looked up at the top of the house, cursing the delay and wondering if something was amiss. Absorbed in their vigil, they did not realise that they were themselves under surveillance and that Valentine was curled up like a dog in the undergrowth only yards away.

‘Hurry, Agnes!’ Karl muttered under his breath.

‘Where is the woman?’ hissed Tarker.

‘She will come.’

‘When?’

He got an immediate answer. A flickering candle was held in the topmost window for a few seconds before the curtains were drawn to hide it. Tarker jabbed his companion and they trotted towards the side-door of the house. It was the work of a moment to locate the key that the maidservant had left for them. Karl put it into the lock and turned it slowly. When the door opened, they went noiselessly in.

Their entry was not unobserved. Eyes accustomed to the darkness, Valentine saw them go into the building and knew his role. He threw a ball of moss up to a window on the first floor so that its gentle tap on the glass could act as a warning. The gardener had been thrilled to be given such responsibility by Nicholas Bracewell. Having discharged it, he withdrew once more into his hiding-place.

Tarker and the armourer moved furtively along a dark passageway. Since Karl had visited the building more than once, he was familiar with its design. Fortune favoured them. They knew that Nicholas Bracewell was in the bedchamber at the top of the first flight of stairs. They could be in and out without disturbing anyone else. Emilia Brinklow slept in a room farther along the landing and all the servants were up in the attics. Tarker led the way up the stairs, feeling for each step with his foot and taking care to make no sound. Karl’s breathing quickened with excitement.

When they reached the landing, they paused to take stock of their surroundings. Karl checked the door to the attic rooms and found it securely shut. They would have no interference from any men in the house and Emilia was the only other person on the first floor. It was time to execute their plan. Nicholas Bracewell must be despatched before a search of his chamber was made by candlelight. They would soon be riding back to Greenwich Palace with their double mission accomplished.

‘Stand ready!’ whispered Tarker.

‘I have the cloth in my hand.’

‘Then use it!’

Tarker eased the door open and they saw the outline of the sleeper in the bed against the wall. A few swift steps got them to the place of execution. Karl held the piece of cloth over the mouth of their prey to silence him while Tarker stabbed repeatedly with his dagger. No human being could survive an attack of such savagery. Had he been in the bed, Nicholas Bracewell would have been dead within seconds.

As it was, the joint ferocity of the attackers was wasted on a pillow and a sack of hay. Before the two men realised that they had been duped, light poured in from half a dozen candles and the room was boiling with bodies. Owen Elias and Lawrence Firethorn grappled with the armourer and quickly managed to disarm him. Nicholas Bracewell launched himself at Tarker, grabbing the wrist that held the knife and smashing it down across his knee so that the weapon was knocked free. The two of them rolled on to the bed and fought with their bare fists.

The ostler and the three manservants each held a candle in one hand and a sword or club in the other. The local constable held another, while his assistant carried two. They illumined a scene of vigorous activity. Sir John Tarker was fighting hard but Nicholas was the stronger and the more athletic. Without his weapon, the former could never master his assailant. He made a supreme effort to push Nicholas off him and struggled to his feet, dodging the club that was swung at him by a servant and grabbing a small table to swing at all and sundry.

Nicholas dived beneath it and tackled him around the legs, bringing him crashing to the floor before raining blows to his body. Tarker punched, gouged and bit his opponent but his energy was starting to wane. He was riding no fine horse in the tiltyard now. He had no magnificent armour for defence and no lance for attack. In unarmed combat with Nicholas Bracewell, he was being comprehensively beaten.

The book holder rolled over until he was on top of his man. Sitting astride Tarker’s chest, he grabbed the black hair and began to pound the head against the floor. Dazed and weary, his adversary was unable to unseat him.

‘Why did you come here?’ demanded Nicholas.

‘To kill you!’ gasped Tarker.

‘The same way that you murdered Master Chaloner?’

‘With even more pleasure!’

Sir John Tarker tapped a last reserve of strength and heaved upwards with all his might but Nicholas was equal to the manoeuvre. As he was forced back, he jumped quickly to his feet, hauled Tarker after him, then delivered a punch to the jaw that took all resistance away. As the man slumped to the floor, the two constables gave a ragged cheer.

Fighting was not yet over, however. Firethorn and Elias had overpowered the armourer and pushed him against a wall. Karl saw the situation all too clearly. He and Sir John Tarker had been lured into a trap with law officers present to act as witnesses. What galled him was that Agnes had been part of the deception. Rage at her betrayal gave him fresh energy and he suddenly burst from the grasp of the two men who held him and raced to the window. Throwing it up, he flung himself out and landed on soft ground below.

Firethorn roared his annoyance and sought to go after the man but pursuit was unnecessary. As the armourer tried to make his escape, the flat of a spade swung at him out of the darkness and hit him full in the face. Valentine stepped into the pool of light thrown down by the candles and looked up at the faces in the window.

There was a wealth of indignation in his apology.

‘He jumped in my flower-beds!’

***

Edmund Hoode shrank back against the wall as he heard the tread of the keeper’s feet. They sounded more urgent than usual. The playwright was being sent for again by Richard Topcliffe. He was going to be torn slowly apart on the rack while the torturer searched in vain for a name that Hoode had never even heard. It was better to die swiftly in the prison than in such agony on the murderous contraption at Topcliffe’s house. When the door opened, therefore, Hoode tried to hurl himself at the keeper in the hope that the latter would draw his dagger and relieve him of his agonies with one sharp thrust. The plan soon foundered. He was now so weak that his violent assault was no more than a drunken fall against the keeper, who steadied him with his arm.

‘Be careful, sir,’ he said. ‘I warned you to eat more.’

‘I refuse to go,’ mumbled Hoode.

‘You have no choice. Orders have come.’

‘I will never go back to that accursed house again.’

‘Lean on me and you will find it easier.’

‘Let me stay here,’ pleaded Hoode. ‘Lock the door and throw away the key. Or lend me your dagger that I may do the deed myself. Do not make me go!’

The keeper was used to such protests. He got the prisoner in a firm grasp and more or less carried him along the dark passageway before ascending a flight of stone steps. An iron door was opened by another keeper and Hoode was taken through it. The Marshalsea was a barrage of noise but the playwright could only hear the voice of Topcliffe in his ear. When he thought about the device he had been shown at the house, his fingers began to throb in protest.

‘One more flight of steps, sir,’ said the keeper.

‘Spare me, friend. Take pity on me.’

‘Out we go!’

The man kicked a door at the top of the steps and it was opened by a colleague. Hoode came into a room where the prison sergeant sat behind a desk. The man looked up before consulting a paper in front of him.

‘Edmund Hoode?’ he asked.

‘No, no!’ denied the latter. ‘I am someone else.’

‘This is the man,’ confirmed the keeper.

‘You are released,’ said the sergeant.

‘To go to that abominable house again?’

‘I do not know where they will take you, sir.’

Hoode threw himself to the floor in front of the desk and put his hands together in prayer. Humiliated when he was thrown into the Marshalsea, he was now begging to stay there.

‘Do not let them take me! Please! Let me stay!’

‘Get him out!’ said the sergeant impassively.

The keeper picked him up bodily and hustled him through another door into an antechamber. Two figures converged on Hoode at once. He thought they were the gaolers who had taken him to Topcliffe on the previous occasion. This time they would not bring him back alive. With the last ounce of his strength, he tried to beat the two of them away.

‘Edmund, dear heart!’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘You are free. We are here to take you home.’

‘Look at the state of him!’ said his wife in horror. ‘You poor creature! Come to me!’

She enfolded him in an embrace that knocked all the breath out of him but her warmth and maternal affection soon began to have an effect. Hoode blinked at them in disbelief.

‘They will not take me to Master Topcliffe again?’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are safe now.’

‘Your suffering is at an end,’ added Margery. ‘We will take you home to wash and feed you. Then you will have the softest bed in the house on which to lie your head.’

‘Welcome back, Edmund. Welcome back to Westfield’s Men!’

***

Nicholas Bracewell arrived at Avenell Court before any of them. Officers would soon be sent with a warrant for the arrest of its owner but he was determined to have a private interview with him first. Lawrence Firethorn had been left to implement the release of Edmund Hoode. Nicholas reserved a more dangerous assignment for himself. Leaving his horse in the stableyard, he made his way to the front door and rang the bell. A massive door swung open. Nicholas gave his name and was invited to step inside. He was taking an immense risk in arriving alone at the house of Sir Godfrey Avenell but he knew enough about the man’s character to believe that he would at least be admitted to his presence.

His instinct was sound. Instead of having his unwelcome visitor overpowered by his men, Sir Godfrey asked the servant to conduct him to the main hall. Nicholas walked along the corridor with its display of armour and weaponry. When he was taken in to his host, he was given a mild shock. Sir Godfrey was sitting in his high-backed chair near the fireplace as he listened to some dances being played on the virginals by Orlando Reeve. The Master of the Armoury was serene and relaxed but the musician was soon discomfited. When he glanced up and saw Nicholas enter, Reeve immediately began to hit the wrong notes on the keyboard.

‘Enough!’ said Avenell. ‘Stop that cacophony!’

Orlando Reeve obeyed and sat nervously on his stool.

Avenell looked at the newcomer. ‘So you are Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I had the feeling that we might meet sooner or later.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Take his weapons. I will not be accosted by an armed man in my own home.’

Nicholas Bracewell held his arms out wide so that the servant could take the sword and dagger that hung in their scabbards from his belt. The man departed with the weapons and closed the door behind him. What he had not taken, however, was the knife which Thomas Brinklow had made for his sister and which Nicholas had concealed up his sleeve. The book holder anticipated that he might need a second mode of defence and was taking no chances.

Avenell stood up in front of the fireplace, framed by its marble bulk. More weapons stood on the mantelpiece and a pike rested against it like a giant poker.

‘Why have you come?’ he said calmly.

‘I needed to speak with you, Sir Godfrey,’ said Nicholas. ‘They told me you had left Greenwich Palace to return home. You have missed much activity in the night.’

‘Activity?’

‘Sir John Tarker is under lock and key for the murder of Master Chaloner and for the attempted murder of myself. With him is an armourer by the name of Karl. Their part in the killing of Thomas Brinklow will also be looked into.’

Avenell was unruffled. ‘Why should any of this concern me in the least?’

‘Sir John was a close associate of yours.’

‘That is no longer the case.’

‘He was acting on your orders.’

‘Is that what he has claimed?’

‘He will admit it under questioning.’

‘I doubt that, Nicholas Bracewell. You will find it very difficult to link anything that Sir John has done with orders that I am supposed to have given. No court in the land will arraign me. I have important friends.’

‘Not any more, Sir Godfrey.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because Lord Hunsdon has already repudiated some of the actions you made him take. The injunction has been lifted from Westfield’s Men and Edmund Hoode will have been released from the Marshalsea within the last hour.’ He saw Avenell’s jaw tighten slightly. ‘Do not look to the Lord Chamberlain this time. He does not befriend traitors.’

‘Guard your tongue, sir!’

‘That is what they are calling you in Deptford.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’

‘The Peppercorn.’

‘I have never heard that name.’

‘It is the vessel that was bearing your latest shipment of arms to the Netherlands,’ said Nicholas. ‘When it set sail from Deptford early this morning, it was intercepted. A quantity of weapons made in the Greenwich Palace workshops was found aboard. Those weapons did not tally with the items listed in the manifest.’

‘Blame that on some idle clerk and not on me.’

Nicholas admired his self-control. ‘Two people were arrested aboard The Peppercorn,’ he continued. ‘Dutchmen, who had been staying in Greenwich with you to do business. They were sailing to Flushing with those arms but they were not going to make delivery in the Netherlands. Their business was with other nations, as you well know.’

‘This is wild speculation,’ said Avenell. ‘I have yet to hear or see one scrap of proof being offered for my involvement. If any weaponry has left Greenwich illegally, I will be the first to track down the culprit and have him thrown into prison.’ He gave a defiant smile. ‘Where is your proof, Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘At the home of Master Thomas Brinklow.’

‘Brinklow was a fool!’

‘He was also a genius,’ said Nicholas. ‘He invented a new process for smelting iron ore. It produced a metal that must have dazzled your eyes. A metal that was lighter and stronger than anything your armourers can produce. Easier to work, I suspect, for I have seen the results.’ He gazed levelly at the other man. ‘You coveted that process. Because he would not hand it over, you had Master Brinklow killed.’

‘The man was an idiot. I offered him a fortune.’

‘He found out what you meant to do with his invention.’

‘That process was our key to a treasure-house.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘If you produced such superior weapons, you could have sold them at a much higher price to hostile nations. When Master Brinklow realised that, he broke with you and refused to let you near his invention. He knew too much about you to be allowed to live.’

‘He is not the only one, sir.’

‘Information has been laid with the authorities. They will soon be here to arrest you on a charge of high treason and bear you away to the Tower.’

Avenell smiled. ‘They will not keep me there for long, I do assure you. Everything you have alleged may be placed at the door of other people. There is no proven link with me.’

‘Sir John Tarker thinks otherwise,’ said Nicholas. ‘He said that he murdered Master Chaloner at your behest.’

‘Then it is a case of his word against mine.’ Avenell put a hand against the fireplace and leaned back. ‘You will have to do better than that, sir. Groundless accusations will get you nowhere. Search wherever you like. You will never be able to connect my name with the death of Master Chaloner.’

Nicholas Bracewell looked steadily at him, then let his gaze drift upwards. On the mantelpiece, directly above the head of Sir Godfrey Avenell, was an object which did more than connect a name with a corpse. The ball-butted German cavalry pistol, a souvenir of Chaloner’s army career, was now part of the private collection of the Master of the Armoury. Nicholas was staring up at the murder weapon itself.

Sir Godfrey Avenell’s composure vanished. When he realised what his visitor could see, he grabbed the pike from beside the fireplace and advanced on him. Thunderous knocking could be heard in the distance and voices were raised. Officers had patently arrived to effect the arrest of a presumed traitor. It all served to make Avenell more frenzied.

‘Whatever happens,’ he sneered, ‘you will not live to see it. Goodbye, sir!’

He thrust at Nicholas with the pike but the latter eluded it and backed away. Avenell followed, circling him with the weapon at full stretch. When Nicholas veered towards the dais at the end of the hall, Orlando Reeve let out a squeal of fear and jumped off his stool. He cowered in a corner as he watched them. Noises in the passageway became louder and more urgent. Help was fast approaching.

Avenell jabbed with the pike again, then swung it in a vertical plane to try to knock his quarry over. Nicholas ducked under the whirling weapon just in time but the older man quickly adjusted his attack. A second swing of the pike took Nicholas’s legs from under him and sent him sprawling on the marble. Doors were now flung open and a detachment of armed officers marched in. Avenell stopped them with a command.

‘Stay there!’ he ordered. ‘Keep out of this!’

Their arrival gave Nicholas the opportunity to get to his feet. He was glad of the presence of more witnesses. Orlando Reeve’s gibbering testimony would not have been enough. The officers could clearly see that Nicholas was at a disadvantage and that any action he took would be strictly in self-defence.

Avenell closed on him with the pike, using it to describe small circles in the air. He had moved his grasp down the shaft now so that he could use it more like a staff. When he lashed out and missed with the blade, he quickly brought the other end of the shaft into play and caught Nicholas a glancing blow on the shoulder. It sent him falling back into a suit of armour which collapsed on to the floor with a loud clatter. Avenell was on him at once, sensing his chance to finish off the man who had pursued him so remorselessly.

He raised the pike, leaped in and brought the blade down with devastating force. Nicholas reacted like lightning. As the weapon descended, he rolled over, flicked the concealed knife into his hand and thrust it upwards. The pike clanged harmlessly on the floor but the knife that Thomas Brinklow had made struck home. Sir Godfrey Avenell had taken possession of the discovery at last. He gave a strangled cry and dropped his weapon. The Master of the Armoury lay twitching on the ground in an island of his own blood, clutching vainly at the knife which had gone clean through his neck and which bore the proud name of his victim.

***

The spectators filled the yard of the Queen’s Head an hour before the play was even due to start. Such was the scandal that surrounded it-and the reverberations that its first attempted performance caused-The Roaring Boy was the biggest attraction in London. Lord Westfield was up in his accustomed position with his entourage. Emilia Brinklow was in the front row of the lower gallery, waiting to see how much of the second version of the play resembled her own original draft. Restored to liberty and resuscitated by the gratitude she heaped upon him, Edmund Hoode had been more than ready to resume work on the piece to rewrite it in the light of new evidence. His health improved markedly under Margery Firethorn’s care and his apprehension was greatly stilled by the news that the egregious Richard Topcliffe had actually been arrested because of his excessive cruelty to those he interrogated. Emilia was looking forward to seeing Edmund Hoode in a new role in their joint creation.

Alexander Marwood had vowed he would never let any theatre company through his portals again but the prospect of naked commercial gain soon modified his verdict. Westfield’s Men were not just a viable troupe once more. They were brave heroes, who had helped to solve two murders and uncover a shameful act of treason by no less a personage than the Master of the Armoury. The repercussions were enormous and they ensured huge audiences for anything that Westfield’s Men cared to present. In the case of The Roaring Boy, it was impossible to get even half of the would-be spectators inside the yard. They would have to wait for later performances, for the piece would surely enjoy a long and successful run.

The Roaring Boy still held to its original shape but its scope was vastly wider. Beginning as a domestic tragedy about a man with a wanton wife, it broadened out into a complex political drama. The Stranger-played by Hoode once more- was now openly called Sir Godfrey Avenell and Tarker’s role was more subordinate to his master. Emilia Brinklow herself still did not appear in the story but one other new character had been created. Glowing with pride and grinning ridiculously, Valentine the gardener was standing in the yard to see himself brought vividly to life on stage.

The play was a sensation, the performances uniformly excellent and the whole occasion memorable. The only thing which threatened to disrupt the event was a sudden recurrence of Lawrence Firethorn’s toothache. Weeks of intermittent pain had made him prod and pull at the aching molar until it was barely hanging in his mouth but it would not be dislodged completely. When he stepped on stage as Freshwell, one side of his mouth was the size of an inflated bladder. The distorted visage was very much in character and the swollen gum made him speak out of the side of his mouth. But the pain got steadily worse as the play progressed. Like the true professional that he was, he managed to turn it all to good account in the end.

Act Five brought the piece to a horrifying conclusion. As the roaring boy was dragged up to the gallows, he fought off his guard to make a moving speech of denial, freely admitting his own guilt while nobly trying to save Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne from their undeserved fate. Freshwell’s mouth was now a furnace of pain. The tooth burned with such intensity that it seemed to be on the point of exploding inside his mouth. Lines written in prose by Edmund Hood turned the actor into his own surgeon.

Hang this guilty man on high but spare the innocent. I’ll not go to my grave with their deaths on my conscience. Sooner than speak against them, I will pluck out my tongue so that it can speak no lies!

His hand went into his mouth, his fingers grabbed the pounding tooth and he pulled for all his worth. There was a cry of utter amazement from all who watched. He really did seem to have done what he had vowed. Blood gushed out of his mouth in a torrent and splashed forward on to the spectators in the front rows. It was accompanied by a roar so loud and so chilling that it brought hairs up on the back of every neck in the yard. At a moment of supreme pain, Lawrence Firethorn had achieved an effect that no actor in the world could match. The dripping tooth which he held up in his hand looked like the tongue he had sacrificed for his art. It was a fitting climax to the crescendo of violence and duplicity which had preceded it.

Applause of that wildness and length had never been heard at the Queen’s Head before. As Firethorn led out his company to drink it in, the blood was still streaming down his chin. He did not mind in the least. The pain had finally gone and he could float on a sea of exquisite pleasure. His companions shared the ovation. Edmund Hoode beamed up at Emilia Brinklow. Barnaby Gill bowed low to Lord Westfield. Owen Elias waved to Valentine. George Dart cried with joy. The Roaring Boy had vindicated the reputation of Westfield’s Men and carried their art to a new pinnacle. It was such an unequivocal triumph that it even brought a smile to the face of Alexander Marwood. The ultimate accolade had been achieved.

***

Nicholas Bracewell found her in the private room which she had hired at the Queen’s Head. While everyone else was moving into the tavern itself to celebrate an extraordinary event, Emilia Brinklow had withdrawn to be alone. The book holder knew where to find her. There were tears in her eyes as she admitted him to the room.

‘I hoped you would come, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘We have been waiting for you down below.’

‘There is no place for me there.’

‘Indeed, there is,’ he argued. ‘But for you, The Roaring Boy would never have come into being. Put off your modesty. This triumph is largely yours and you may bask in it. You are the only true begetter of this play.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I am content to let it stand as Edmund Hoode’s work. He has earned the right by the misery that he endured because of me. Only you and I must know the secret of The Roaring Boy. It is our bond.’

She reached up to kiss him tenderly on the lips and let him embrace her in his arms. Nicholas was moved. The event at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had been the culmination of months of hard work and setback for her. Emilia Brinklow had seen all her hopes flower in the sunshine. She was entitled to be the guest of honour at the celebrations, yet she preferred to be alone with him. He put a hand under her chin to kiss her again but she allowed the merest brushing of the lips this time before pulling gently away.

‘Have I offended you?’ he said with disquiet.

‘You have pleased me more than I can say, Nicholas.’

‘All your distress is now over. Your brother and Master Chaloner have truly been avenged. They may rest at peace in their graves.’ He took her hand. ‘It is time for you to start living your own life again.’

‘It can never be separated from them.’

‘It must,’ he said. ‘You are at last free.’

‘You do not know the chains that bind me.’

‘Can they not be broken?’

‘Alas, no!’ She came to him again to look deep into his eyes. ‘If any man could do it, his name would be Nicholas Bracewell. But I could not ask you to share my burden or to be stained with my shame.’

‘Shame?’

She nodded. ‘Do you remember when you stayed the night at my house in Greenwich? Someone came into the bedchamber.’

‘I will never forget it.’

‘I need forgiveness also.’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘It answered a need in both of us and I will cherish the memory because of that. You wished to lie beside me, Emilia, and you did.’

‘I did,’ she whispered, ‘and I did not.’

‘What do you mean?’

She lowered her lids. ‘Do you know in whose bed you lay that night?’

‘You said it was your brother’s.’

‘Thomas always slept in there. But not with his wife. Cecily had another bedchamber. Though he agreed to marry her, they privately contracted to sleep apart.’

‘She with Walter Dunne, if she chose?’

‘My brother closed his eyes to their love.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because his heart had already been given to another.’

As she looked up at him again, realisation hit him with the force of a blow. Emilia Brinklow had not come into his bed to be with Nicholas himself. She was lying beside her brother again. Theirs was a passion forbidden by law and frowned upon by nature but it had withstood both. Thomas Brinklow’s extreme privacy was now explained. Marriage was just one more shield against the prying eyes of the world. He chose a woman who did not want a proper husband in her bed because he was already wholly committed to his sister.

Nicholas was deeply shocked but not disgusted. Here was a love he could not understand but neither could he condemn it. The Roaring Boy was its issue. Emilia Brinklow had not written it simply to avenge the death of a brother. She was fuelled by her enduring passion for a lover.

‘Now you may see why I was betrothed to Simon,’ she said. ‘I needed him to help me but I could never requite his love. It was a cruel irony. I loved him only as a brother while it was brother only that I loved.’ She searched his eyes. ‘Do I repel you now?’

‘No!’ he assured her.

‘Do you think me evil and corrupt?’

‘You are brave and honest.’

‘And so are you, dear Nicholas. I knew it when I first saw your kind face. Do you recall what I said?’

‘That I reminded you of your brother.’

‘It is not the only reason that I shared your bed.’

Nicholas was touched that she should confide in him but he was hurt as well. He had lost her. Emilia Brinklow could never give herself to any man now. The house in Greenwich was a monument to her brother and she would tend it lovingly for the rest of her days.

‘One thing more,’ she confessed. ‘I set fire to the workshop that night. Thomas had commanded it. He knew he was in danger and made me swear to destroy the place if anything should happen to him. He did not wish his discoveries to fall into the hands of Sir Godfrey Avenell.’

‘But you were not in Greenwich that night,’ said Nicholas. ‘You claimed that you stayed with friends.’

‘One friend, Nicholas. His name was Thomas Brinklow. We came back to the house that night by separate means. Thomas had told the servants that he would return from business in London. That intelligence was passed to the killers.’

‘By Agnes?’

‘By Cecily,’ she said. ‘She was a spy without even knowing it. That is why Sir Godfrey Avenell contrived to get her inside the house. When he wanted to know anything about Thomas, he simply had to ask his wife. That was why Cecily pestered my brother so about his work. She had no interest on her own account. It was Sir Godfrey’s curiosity that she was trying to satisfy.’

Nicholas was intrigued. ‘Agnes, then, was innocent of complicity in the murder. When she provided the key for Freshwell and Maggs, she thought she was simply letting in two thieves to borrow papers from the workshop.’

Emilia nodded. ‘She will stand trial and must take her due punishment but Agnes was only used by others. Freshwell and Maggs knew my brother would return that night. What they did not know was that I would follow soon after.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘When I got back, the house was in disarray. I knew the cause at a glance. I honoured my promise to my brother. Everything went up in flames.’

Nicholas felt as if his own plans and aspirations had just been set alight. Emilia was an even more remarkable woman than he had imagined. Her play had just thrilled a packed audience but it had drawn a complete veil over a fundamental part of the story. He now understood why she was so anxious not to appear in it as a character herself.

‘Do not think too harshly of me, Nicholas.’

‘I will never do that,’ he said gallantly.

‘You will visit me at Greenwich one day?’

‘If I may. But you will surely come here again to see Westfield’s Men perform your play.’

‘I think not.’

There was no more to be said. Nicholas placed a kiss on her hand and took his leave of her. His place was downstairs in the taproom with his fellows: hers was back in Greenwich with her brother. The book holder was wistful but not abashed. Emilia had trusted him enough to let him look into her heart and he would always be grateful to her for that.

***

Celebrations were reaching the rowdy stage when he got into the taproom. Lawrence Firethorn had bought drinks for the entire company and Barnaby Gill was entertaining them with one of his jigs. Peter Digby played the accompaniment, delighted to be working once more for a company he feared he had inadvertently betrayed. George Dart was so euphoric that he did not mind having his ear clipped by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper. Edmund Hoode was resting on his laurels in the corner and finding them a softer couch than he had enjoyed at the Marshalsea. Owen Elias was making some of the hired men laugh at his merry tales. The spirit of Ben Skeat seemed to float above the joyous gathering.

Margery Firethorn handed a cup of wine to Nicholas. He waved away enquires about Emilia and submerged himself in the jollity. The company had been through a long, dark tunnel of pain before it emerged into this blaze of light. It was entitled to sing and shout until its lungs burst. Nicholas was so happy for them that his own sadness was forgotten.

He made his way across to Hoode and sat beside him.

‘This is your finest hour, Edmund,’ he said.

‘I want to share it with Emilia. Where is she?’

‘Too exhausted to come. The Roaring Boy thrilled her but it also drained her emotions. It was a brother’s murder she was watching on that stage.’

‘My work distressed her?’ said Hoode in alarm.

‘It pleased her beyond measure,’ said Nicholas, ‘and she asked me to tell you that. It pleased and harrowed everyone who saw it, Edmund. Today you have become the most famous playwright in London.’

‘Yet the piece is not mine.’ He clutched at the book holder’s sleeve. ‘Come, Nick. It is time to let me know the secret. You will have divined it by now, I am sure. Speak a name into my ear and it will go no further. Who is the true author of The Roaring Boy?’

‘You swear to lock the truth away?’

‘On my oath!’

‘And you will never ask me again?’

‘Tell me who he is and I am satisfied.’

‘Then hear it,’ said Nicholas, cupping his hands over his friend’s ear to whisper into it. ‘Edmund Hoode.’

‘You mock me!’ complained the other.

‘I give you right and title.’

‘Another hand fashioned The Roaring Boy at first.’

‘You have made it your own,’ said Nicholas. ‘That other hand wrote another play. What you have done is to breathe fresh life into it. Take all the honour that is due, Edmund. No man here has deserved it more. Look how your fellows acclaim you.’ He took in the whole room with a sweep of his arm. ‘Besides, you did something on that stage this afternoon that no author could ever have done and Westfield’s Men are eternally in your debt.’

‘For what, Nick?’ said Hoode. ‘For what?’

‘Writing a play that cured us all of the toothache!’