The Roaring Boy

Chapter Three

Having feasted with the gods on ambrosia and nectar, Lawrence Firethorn suffered grievously for his over-indulgence. When he opened his eyes once more, he was no longer at a banquet on Mount Olympus, sporting with a compliant young nymph. He was twisted like a convolvulus around the ample frame of his wife and a tiny mole was burrowing its way eagerly through his swollen cheek. Connubial delight was at an end. Toothache reigned supreme. Time thereafter throbbed slowly past.

‘Fenugreek,’ said Margery later that evening.

‘What?’

‘Fenugreek. That is what the apothecary recommends.’

‘A fig for his recommendations!’

‘You are still in agony, Lawrence.’

‘I do not need to be told that!’ he howled.

‘Is not this fenugreek at least worth trying?’

‘No!’

‘Fill the tooth with it, said the apothecary. Hold it in place with wax. In time, he assured me, the ailing tooth would so loosen that you may pluck it out with your fingers.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘I’ll pluck the apothecary’s stones off with my fingers if he dares inflict that remedy on me! God’s tits! The cure is worse than the disease.’

It was only a few hours since they had smothered pain beneath a blanket of passion but it seemed like a century ago. When he tried to bestow a fond smile on her, his face remained locked into a lopsided grimace. Firethorn extended a forlorn hand to his wife and she gave it a sympathetic squeeze. She was about to steal away and leave him alone in the flickering light of the bedchamber when there was a loud knocking at the front door of the house.

‘Nick Bracewell, I’ll be bound,’ she said.

‘Where has the rogue been?’

‘I’ll show him in myself.’

‘Chide him for his lateness when you do so.’

‘He is always welcome here, whatever the hour.’

Margery went skipping down the stairs with an almost girlish delight and waved away the servant girl who was about to open the door. Nicholas was admitted by the mistress of the house and greeted with an affectionate smile. He doffed his cap politely.

‘I am sorry I have been delayed,’ he said.

‘We knew that you would come when you could.’

She gave him a warm hug and pulled him into the house before closing the door. Her voice became conspiratorial.

‘Deal gently with him, Nick.’

‘How is he?’ whispered the other.

‘More comfortable but still in pain.’

‘Has a surgeon been sent for yet?’

‘He will not consider it.’

Nicholas glanced upwards. ‘Is he still awake?’

‘Yes!’ bellowed Firethorn. ‘Still wide awake and able to hear everything the pair of you are muttering. Send him up here, Margery. Make haste, sir. I have waited long enough.’

Nicholas smiled and picked his way up the staircase to the main bedchamber of the house. With a lighted candle either side of him, Lawrence Firethorn was propped up on some pillows in his nightshirt like a potentate worn down by the cares of state. He wagged an admonitory finger.

‘What on earth has kept you away for so long?’

‘Ben Skeat.’

‘That news was an aching tooth in itself.’

‘We still reel from the shock of it.’

‘Have all the arrangements been made?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I engaged the services of an undertaker and spoke to the parish clerk of St Leonard’s. Ben Skeat will be buried beside his beloved wife.’

‘When is the funeral?’

‘On Tuesday next at ten.’

‘The whole company must be there.’

‘They will need no urging on that score.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn. ‘He was loved and respected by all. How many of us can say that? But let us save our tears for his funeral. Now, tell me what happened.’

‘Has not someone already played the messenger?’

‘Oh, yes. Barnaby came dancing in here to boast of the way that he had rescued the company from extinction. The villain crowed over me like a very Chanticleer. But when he spoke out of turn to Margery, and told her-would you believe? — to hold her peace, I sent him dancing out again with his ears aflame.’

‘He may not have given you the full story.’

‘It was a pack of lies from start to finish. He forgot that the apprentices live under my roof. When they got home this evening, their version quarrelled with Barnaby’s in every particular.’ He gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Dick Honeydew was the most trustworthy. The lad was still shaking like an aspen at the horror of it all. Dick says that you were magnificent.’

‘I did only what was needful.’

‘You stopped them bolting like frightened horses.’

‘The play had to go on. Ben would have wanted that.’

Nicholas Bracewell gave a succinct account of the trials endured by Westfield’s Men during their performance. He explained that he had helped Edmund Hoode back to his lodgings but made no mention of the poet’s determination to write no more. Nor was it the moment to discuss the strange encounter with Simon Chaloner. The actor-manager was in need of comfort rather than anxiety and Nicholas was seasoned in the art of keeping unsettling news from his employer.

‘How do you feel now?’ he asked solicitously.

‘The worst is over, Nick. I’ll be back on Monday.’

‘Vincentio’s Revenge is a demanding piece.’

‘I can play it in my sleep.’

‘You are sure that you will be fully recovered?’

‘Double sure.’ Firethorn beckoned him closer. ‘But tell me what neither Barnaby nor the apprentices could. How bad a play was The Corrupt Bargain?’

‘It would be unfair to judge it on that showing.’

‘Come, come, man. Put tact aside for once. Beshrew your love for Edmund. Speak honestly about his work.’

‘He has written finer plays.’

‘Has he ever penned anything worse?’

Nicholas hesitated. ‘Possibly not.’

‘His talent has been drying up steadily all year.’

‘That is unkind.’

‘Unkind but not inaccurate.’

Lawrence Firethorn was sometimes mistakenly regarded as a monster of selfishness whose only interest was in his own performances. It was true that he had the vanity common to his trade and that it sometimes tipped over into an unseemly arrogance, but he had none of the bickering narcissism of a Barnaby Gill or the combative exuberance of an Owen Elias. Firethorn was a proven master of his craft with the confidence to tackle any role and the dedication to strive ever harder for perfection.

Proud of his own achievements, he did not ignore those of other people. Players were helpless without good plays and he had learned how to coax the best work out of his resident author. Performances were doomed without strict discipline, which was why he set such a high value on the stage management of Nicholas Bracewell. Firethorn might be the central pillar of Westfield’s Men but he never forgot that each member of the company made his own contribution. When that contribution was satisfactory, he had nothing but praise. If anyone was giving less than his best, he upbraided him without mercy.

‘I will have to speak to Edmund,’ he warned.

‘Stay your hand a little while.’

‘You cannot protect him forever, Nick. Someone has to tell him the truth. He is letting us down. Most of all, he is letting himself down.’

‘That has not evaded his notice.’

‘Then why does he not do something about it?’ He warmed to his theme. ‘His last two plays barely caused a ripple of excitement. This new one-by all accounts-was dying on its feet until a real death put some life into it. Edmund Hoode is in decline and it must be stopped.’

‘I am confident that it will be,’ said Nicholas with far more conviction than he felt. He thought of the jaded friend he had left asleep in Silver Street, a man so out of love with his craft that he talked of abandoning it. The book holder had been concealing the truth about Edmund Hoode’s condition from Lawrence Firethorn. He would now have to hide the actor-manager’s frank criticism from the playwright. ‘Edmund has been through a difficult time of late,’ he said, ‘but he is emerging from it now. His next play will surely vindicate his reputation. Give him time.’

Firethorn sighed. ‘Do you know what was worst, Nick?’

‘Worst?’

‘When I was lying here alone this afternoon.’

‘Missing the opportunity to play Duke Alonso?’

‘No, not that.’

‘Suffering such intense pain from your tooth?’

‘Nor that.’

‘Being clucked over afterwards by Barnaby Gill?’

‘Nor even that,’ said Firethorn. ‘It was the noise.’

‘Noise?’

‘From Holywell Lane. Heaven knows, I created a din myself but only to drown out that horrible sound from The Curtain.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Applause, Nick. Long and loud applause for Giles Randolph and Banbury’s Men. While I lay stricken here, he and his company were feted. At the expense of Lawrence Firethorn. It was unendurable. Topcliffe himself could not have devised a more exquisite torture for me.’

Nicholas gave a wry smile. Richard Topcliffe was the notorious interrogator of suspected Roman Catholics, a man whose name was synonymous with cruelty and who was so dedicated to his grisly work that he had built a private torture chamber in his own house at Westminster.

Firethorn writhed in anguish for a moment.

‘Giles Randolph was Topcliffe this afternoon.’

‘He is only a good actor where you are a great one.’

‘A good actor in a good play,’ corrected the other. ‘And that is far better than a great actor in a bad one. I need powerful weapons to battle against Randolph and my other rivals. Edmund has left me unarmed.’

‘He is not our only author.’

‘But he remains our touchstone.’

Nicholas could not deny it. Firethorn was only saying what Edmund Hoode himself had admitted. Westfield’s Men were having to rely more and more on staple dramas from their repertoire. Other companies were attracting the best and most consistent playwrights. Nicholas looked down at the manuscript that was still tucked under his arm. Though he had told Simon Chaloner that they received a steady flow of new plays, this was the first to be offered to the company in months. It would doubtless meet the same fate as the vast majority of its predecessors. The book holder’s instinct told him that The Roaring Boy would amount to no more than the scribble of a floundering amateur.

‘He must be told, Nick.’

‘Let me broach the topic with him.’

‘Very well,’ said Firethorn, ‘but do not let sentiment stand in the way of the harsh truth. Edmund must shake off this lethargy and learn to write small masterpieces once more. Otherwise-much as it would grieve me-we will have to dispense with his services as a playwright and replace him with a more durable talent. Make that clear to him!’

***

Simon Chaloner was a fine horseman who knew how to pace his mount. After the meeting in Silver Street, he retraced his steps to the Queen’s Head and collected the animal he had stabled there. With night starting to wrap its warm cloak around the capital, he went over London Bridge at a rising trot, kicked the horse into a steady canter and headed east along the old Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street. It was the road which pilgrims had taken for centuries to the shrine of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury and it could not be more apposite for him. Chaloner rode with the anticipatory thrill of a man on the way to meet a saint.

The moon was a kindly lantern that splashed his route with subdued light. It was highly dangerous for a lone horseman to venture so far by day. Night brought additional hazards but he paid them no heed. Speed and a sense of purpose were protection enough for Simon Chaloner. When jeopardy loomed up ahead of him, he met it up cold disdain. Two men, armed with daggers, lying in wait for travellers a mile or so from Deptford, jumped out into his path as he approached and waved a ragged cloak in the air to startle the horse into throwing its rider.

They chose the wrong victim. Chaloner’s heels dug into the animal’s flank and it surged into a gallop to knock the two men flying. One went rolling over helplessly on the hard ground while the other was hurled with force against a stout elm. The highwaymen were still counting their bruises and cursing their luck as the sound of the pummelling hooves faded away in the distance. Nothing was going to stop this particular traveller.

The horse slowed down to clatter over the bridge at Deptford Creek, then resumed its canter for the last leg of the journey. Chaloner’s destination was only a mile away now and it was not long before he caught his first glimpse of guttering light. Torches were burning at Greenwich Palace to define its elegant bulk and to throw shifting patterns upon the river that fronted it. Seen in silhouette, it had an almost fairy tale quality about it. Chaloner goaded his mount into one last spurt as the village itself came hazily into view with its houses, churches and civic buildings in a haphazard cluster. A community with strong naval associations, it was surrounded on three sides by a scatter of imposing manors, tenanted farms and market gardens.

In recent years, the popularity of Greenwich had continued to grow. It was close enough to London to allow comfortable access by boat or horse, and far enough away to escape its seething crowds, its abiding stink and its frequent outbreaks of plague. There was an air of prosperity about the place, set in a loop of the Thames and surrounded by lush green fields. Ships lay at anchor in front of the palace and sheep grazed safely on the pasture. Even at night, Greenwich exuded a quiet pride in itself.

Simon Chaloner reached a large house in the main street and went to the stables at the rear. An ostler came running to take the reins from him as he dropped down from the saddle, and he tossed a word of thanks to the man before hurrying away. A maidservant admitted him to the house itself and conducted him without delay to the parlour.

A pale young woman was pacing the room anxiously with lips pursed and hands clasped tightly together. She looked up with trepidation as she heard the door open but gave a gasp of relief when she saw who it was. She ran to him on tiptoe.

‘Simon!’

‘Did you think I would never come?’

‘I am so glad to see you safe returned!’

He removed his hat and gave a mock bow, then took her hand to place a soft kiss on it. The maidservant was lingering in the doorway to see if she would be needed further but her mistress waved her away. When they were left alone, the young woman stood in front of her visitor with trembling impatience.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘Let me first get my breath back, Emilia.’

‘Did you watch the play?’ He nodded and removed a glove to dab at the specks of perspiration on his brow. ‘And were you satisfied?’

‘Satisfied and even amused.’

Her face clouded. ‘Amused?’

‘I will explain in a moment,’ he promised. ‘But only when you calm down and stop badgering me, my sweet. Take a seat so that I may look at you properly. I have ridden such a long way for this pleasure and I surely deserve my reward.’ When she still hesitated, he sounded a warning note. ‘If you would hear my report, you must humour me.’

Emilia gave a wan smile and lowered herself into one of the carved oak chairs. Tallow candles had been set on the table and on the low cupboards. Simon Chaloner chose a seat which enabled him to see her encircled by light. Short, slim and graceful, she had a face that remained enchanting even when it was marked, as now, with signs of acute distress. She wore a plain dress of a dark blue material but it was the robe of a saint to him. This was his shrine and his eyes worshipped gratefully.

His love was frank and unashamed but her feelings for him were held in check by an inner sadness that pushed everything else out to the margins. Chaloner understood this only too well and made allowances for her fitful impulses of affection towards him and her wavering concentration. Emilia had more immediate concerns than their relationship.

‘You went to the Queen’s Head,’ she said. ‘What, then?’

‘I enjoyed the performance.’

‘What, then? What, then?

‘I mingled with the players to win their confidence so that I could sound them out on certain matters. Though I say so myself, I gave an excellent performance in my role.’

‘Was your opinion of Westfield’s Men confirmed?’

‘Whole-heartedly, Emilia.’

‘You spoke with their manager?’

‘Lawrence Firethorn was indisposed.’

‘With whom, then?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘One of the sharers?’

‘The book holder.’

Emilia was jolted. ‘A book holder!’ she exclaimed. ‘You entrusted something as important as this to a book holder?’

‘There is no more able or discreet fellow in the entire company,’ said Chaloner seriously. ‘He holds them all together. I tell you, Emilia, without his boldness, that play would have fallen to pieces this afternoon.’

‘Why?’

‘They suffered a mishap both tragic and amusing.’

He recounted the story of the performance and praised the way that Westfield’s Men had overcome adversity, albeit with some moments of incidental comedy that had not been devised by the author. Emilia hung on his words and was much reassured by what she heard of Nicholas Bracewell. The narrative wended its way to Silver Street.

‘He accepted the play?’ she said.

‘Without obligation.’

‘I hope you insisted that he take great care of it.’

‘No need. Plays are like gold to them. The book holder will guard it with his life and he is not a man to yield that up lightly. I would hate to meet Nicholas Bracewell in a brawl. He is someone to have as friend and not foe.’

‘But discreet, you say?’

‘Discreet and influential. His word is respected.’

‘How much did you tell him?’

‘Little beyond the title of the play.’

‘When will it be read?’ she said, rising from her seat. ‘How soon can we have an answer? Who will make the decision?’

‘Do not alarm yourself, Emilia,’ he soothed, crossing to ease her back down into the chair. ‘I have delivered the manuscript to the right person, of that there is no doubt. It may take some time to get a verdict. Be patient.’

‘I have been so for many months.’

‘This is a delicate enterprise. It may not be rushed.’

‘Pray God they see its merit.’

‘They will be blind else.’

‘And their playwright?’

‘Edmund Hoode? I talked with him as well, more or less.’

‘More or less?’

‘He was present at our discussion.’

Simon Chaloner tailored the truth to fit more snugly over her apprehension. There was no point in telling her that the resident poet of Westfield’s Men had been too drunk even to stay awake, let alone to take part in an intelligent conversation. Chaloner put his faith in Nicholas Bracewell.

‘What happens next, Simon?’

‘We wait and watch.’

‘And if they do show an interest in The Roaring Boy?’

‘I will conduct the negotiations.’

She squeezed his arm gratefully. ‘You have done so much already,’ she said. ‘I will be forever in your debt.’

‘You’ll find me a doting creditor.’

‘A cautious one, too, I trust.’

‘Do not fret about me.’

‘You put yourself in a perilous situation.’

‘Every man who falls in love does that.’

She gave him another wan smile and released his arm. Simon Chaloner moved away and glanced around the room. It was spacious and well furnished with a tapestry adorning one wall and rich hangings at the windows. The floor was lightly strewn with rushes mixed with sweet-smelling lavender and rosemary clippings. For all its hints of luxury, however, the parlour had a curious emptiness to it. Flushed with his exertions, he nevertheless felt a cold shiver.

‘When it is all over, I will take you away from here.’

‘Why?’ she said.

‘This house has too many bitter memories.’

‘They are balanced by fond recollection.’

He blinked in surprise. ‘How, in God’s name, can you speak of fondness, Emilia? You are surrounded by ghosts here. They haunt you dreadfully. They rob you of your peace of mind. It was within these self-same walls that-’

‘Say no more!’ she protested.

‘We must build a new life together.’

‘I do not even wish to think about it yet.’

‘But that is what drives us on, is it not? That is why we have entered this battle. To win some happiness.’

‘Happiness and justice.’

‘The one flows from the other.’

He went quickly back to her and knelt beside the chair but she was in no mood for impassioned declarations. She stilled his mouth with the tips of her fingers, then brushed his lips with the merest whisper of a kiss. He was content. The patience which he had recommended to her must be his own watchword. A long struggle lay ahead and it was fraught with unknown danger. Only when that struggle was resolved could he come to claim her as his own. Only then would she yield herself completely to him. Pilgrim and saint would at last be united in marriage.

‘When will you go back to London?’ she asked.

‘Soon, my love.’

‘And if they reject the play?’

He grinned bravely. ‘They will not dare!’

***

Edmund Hoode fell headfirst into a bottomless pit and spiralled his way down through eternity until he met an unexpected obstacle. What he thought was the first circle in hell turned out to be the floor of his chamber in Silver Street and its hard surface buffeted him straight out of his nightmare and back into the waking world. One bleary glance at it told him he would prefer the bottomless pit. At least there had been no pain during his leaf-like fall through a perpetual autumn. Plucked untimely from his deep slumber, he discovered that his head was now pounding, his back felt as if it had been flayed and his stomach was so queasy that it was about to stage an armed mutiny against its owner.

He crawled to the chamber pot just in time and lowered his face below the rim. The steaming vomit gushed out of him and left a foul taste in his mouth. When he dared to raise his head, he vowed that he would never again drink so much ale so fast in a tavern. Why had he done such a reckless thing and who had helped him back to his lodging?

Through fluttering eyelids, he looked across at the window and saw that dawn was slowly pushing the dark clouds apart like curtains. Supporting himself against a wall, he made a supreme effort and dragged himself upright before making his way to the casement. The feat was impressive but the result was not encouraging. His head pounded harder, his back smarted more and his stomach began to consider a second revolt. What worried him most was that his eyes seemed to take on independent lives, one watering while the other burned, each giving him conflicting pictures of the murky London to which he had been reluctantly dragged back.

As he looked through the window, one eye told him that a familiar figure was turning the corner of his street but the other identified only a dog. Which intelligence should he trust? He closed both lids and felt his way back to the bed before lowering himself on to it as gingerly as he could. Once horizontal again, he resolved to stay there until his various organs proved capable of at least a degree of co-operation.

He was just starting to drift off to sleep when a fist banged on the front door below. Hoode felt as if someone were knocking directly on his forehead. It made both eyes water. The front door was locked and bolted overnight so it took a moment for the servant to open it. Voices joined in the briefest of conversation, then heavy footsteps came up the staircase. The tap on his door was soft and considerate.

‘Edmund?’

‘What?’ he groaned.

‘May I come in?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Nicholas.’

‘At this time of the morning?’

‘I have been up all night.’

‘Why?’

Nicholas opened the door and took a tentative step into the room. The sight that confronted him was daunting, the smell even more so. He crossed immediately to the small window and flung it back on its hinges to admit a draught of air. Edmund Hoode propped himself up on his elbows and found that his eyes had at last come to an amicable agreement with each other. Pleased to see his friend, he was embarrassed to be caught in such a disgusting condition.

‘Up all night, you say?’

‘With advantage, Edmund.’

‘That means there is a lady in the case.’

‘I found a more exciting bedfellow.’

‘Indeed.’

‘This.’ Nicholas held up the manuscript. ‘A play.’ Hoode gaped. ‘You stayed awake to read that?’

‘Twice over.’

‘Have you run mad?’

‘Only with joy. I had to bring it to you.’

‘Take it away, Nick. I am done with plays. I never want to see, write or act in one again.’ Hoode was now sitting upright without undue calamity and his head was actually beginning to clear. Curiosity stirred. ‘What is it called?’

‘The Roaring Boy.’

‘Who wrote it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Where did it come from?’

‘A stranger.’

‘What is its theme?’

‘Murder.’

‘That’s a stale plot.’

‘None could be fresher, Edmund.’

‘Why?’

‘Read it for yourself.’

‘Never!’

‘Be ruled by me and you will live to be grateful.’

‘Grateful?’ moaned Hoode. ‘To be woken at dawn for no better reason than to have a scurvy play waved in front of me? You expect thanks for this ordeal? I lie abed, man. What I need beside me is a gentle girl not a roaring boy.’

‘You will soon change your mind,’ said Nicholas as he dropped the manuscript into the other’s lap. ‘Take care of it. I am giving you the most precious gift of all.’

‘What is that?’

‘Salvation in five acts.’

***

The Parish Church of St Leonard’s was a medieval foundation which dated back to the time when Shoreditch was no more than a straggle of houses near a crossroads. It was now partly hemmed in by other buildings but its nave was long and its graveyard accommodating. Several actors lived or lodged in the district, attracted by its suburban charms and its two theatres. Some-including Lawrence Firethorn-were known to worship at St Leonard’s. Others only visited the church with regularity when they were laid to rest there.

Ben Skeat had always had a close relationship with St Leonard’s. He had been married before its altar and attended services there on most Sundays with a gladsome mind. It was also the place where he had buried his three children. His wife had joined them in time and Skeat-having travelled on without her until he found the journey too onerous-elected to follow her into the grave. Westfield’s Men were all there to bid farewell to a cherished colleague. What was even more touching was the fact that so many actors from other companies came to pay their respects. Skeat had been a presence on the London stage. Even his rivals admired him.

‘Why does the fool not shut up?’ asked Firethorn.

‘He is almost done,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll have none of this dribbling vicar when I die.’

‘He speaks well of Ben.’

‘We come to mourn, not to hear an hour’s sermon.’

Seated in the church beside his employer, Nicholas Bracewell was more tolerant. Traditionally, the parson of St Leonard’s was always the archdeacon of London but the mundane round of baptisms, services of holy matrimony and funerals was left to the vicar. Advanced in age himself, the vicar had known Skeat for decades and took his congregation through an accumulation of pleasant memories. Firethorn grew weary of the address but his wife, Margery, seated on the other side of him, was moved to tears. Nicholas was held by the well-meaning benevolence of the vicar’s words.

They adjourned to the churchyard for the burial. A sad occasion was made more depressing by a steady drizzle. Skeat had only a few distant relatives to witness his descent into the good earth. The acting fraternity dominated and one or two of them used the occasion to attract undue attention. Barnaby Gill was the most blatant offender, attired in black and given to sudden fits of weeping over a man to whom he had never been more than polite in the past. Firethorn gave a snort of disapproval at the performance but was powerless to prevent it. In any case, he had to mollify his colleague rather than take him to task.

‘Stay, Barnaby,’ he said. ‘A word in your ear.’

‘My thoughts lie in the coffin with Ben Skeat.’

‘He is beyond our help now.’

‘You were not beside him when he died-I was.’

The funeral was over and the congregation dispersed. As no performance was scheduled for that afternoon, most of the company headed in the direction of Bishopsgate so that they could ease their sorrows at the Queen’s Head and exchange reminiscences of the dear departed. Lawrence Firethorn had another funeral to attend. He somehow had to bury the violent quarrel he had in his house with Barnaby Gill.

Since that moment of conflict, the two had hardly spoken a word to each other. Firethorn’s toothache had faded to a dull ache that allowed him to give an adequate-if rather muted-account of the title role in Vincentio’s Revenge on the previous afternoon. Gill had played opposite him with his customary brio but sulked in silence when he came offstage. The rift in the lute had to be mended.

Nicholas Bracewell undertook to begin the repairs.

‘We need your advice on a most pressing matter.’

‘Can I not be left to mourn in peace?’ said Gill.

‘You will not be detained long.’

‘Save it until the morrow.’

‘It may be too late, Master Gill.’

‘For what?’

‘The decision.’

‘Lawrence makes all the decisions. Talk to him.’

‘This one requires your approval, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn with an appeasing smile. ‘Return to my house with us and partake of some refreshment.’

‘You wish to feed me this time before you evict me?’

‘I mean to apologise to you.’

Gill thawed visibly at the mention of an apology and Nicholas stepped in again to secure an advantage. By alternately praising Gill’s work with the company and emphasizing the importance of his opinion, the book holder managed to escort him all the way to the house in Old Street before the actor really noticed. When he took stock of his surroundings again, Gill found himself in the very house from which he had been expelled so rudely on Saturday.

Margery Firethorn had been schooled in her part.

‘Welcome, Barnaby!’ she said with open arms. ‘It is a joy to have you beneath our humble roof once more. But I intrude here. Woman’s work is in the kitchen.’ She beamed at the three men. ‘I will leave you alone, sirs.’

She went out of the parlour and shut the latch door behind her. Before Gill could pass any comment, his host thrust a cup of Canary wine into his hand and passed another to Nicholas Bracewell. All three drank a toast to the memory of Ben Skeat, then settled down on upright chairs.

Barnaby Gill was still morose and defensive.

‘I was outraged on my last visit to this house.’

‘It will not happen again,’ Firethorn assured him.

‘Toothache sometimes has bad manners,’ said Nicholas.

‘Those, I accept,’ said Gill. ‘Violence, I abhor.’

Firethorn grasped the nettle. ‘I apologise, Barnaby.’

‘You admit you were in the wrong?’

‘There were faults on both sides.’

‘I was unjustly set upon!’

‘Through a misunderstanding,’ said Nicholas. ‘Let us put that aside and turn to the matter in hand. It is a cause for mild celebration though it is not without its qualms.’

Gill turned to Firethorn. ‘What is he talking about?’

‘Nick will tell you himself. It is his tale.’

‘I hope it be shorter than the vicar’s narrative.’

‘Hear him, Barnaby.’

Nicholas cleared his throat and gave a brief account of how The Roaring Boy had come into his hands. He found it exhilarating and gave it to Edmund Hoode. The playwright thought it inspiring and passed it on to Lawrence Firethorn. The actor-manager considered it immensely promising as it had a powerful role for him. All three were keen to give the work the accolade of a performance by Westfield’s Men.

Gill flew at once into a state of apostasy.

‘I refuse to countenance this folly!’

‘But you have not even seen the play,’ said Nicholas.

‘That is exactly why I object to it. Since when have I been forced to take my turn behind a book holder and a poet? I should have been the first to study any new work.’

‘After me, that is,’ reminded Firethorn.

‘Does it matter in what order it is read?’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘I gave it to Edmund Hoode because the play needs him to give it shape and direction. Without his help, we would not be able to proceed.’

‘Could not the author improve it himself?’ said Gill.

‘We do not know who he is.’

‘An anonymous play?’

‘The author has a reason for concealing his name.’

‘Is he then ashamed of his work?’

‘He has every right to be proud.’

‘It is a somewhat makeshift affair at the moment,’ said Firethorn, ‘but the faults lie only in construction. Those are soon mended. The piece has great spirit, Barnaby. If we can make it work, Westfield’s Men will take London by storm.’

Gill remained sceptical but he agreed to let Nicholas Bracewell outline the plot of The Roaring Boy. It was a domestic drama based on a murder case whose reverberations were still being felt in the capital. Thomas Brinklow was a highly successful mathematician and marine engineer from Greenwich. When he married a young wife, Cecily, he did not realise that she was still in love with the steward of her former household, Walter Dunne. Wife and lover conspired to have Brinklow murdered in order that they could be together and inherit his wealth.

Two villains, Maggs and Freshwell, were engaged to do the deed. When Thomas Brinklow was butchered to death, the plot was uncovered and three of the malefactors were arrested. Freshwell went to the gallows with Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. The other killer, Maggs, eluded capture and was still at large. So brutal was the actual slaughter that it even shocked a city where murder was a daily event. London was still buzzing about the grotesque treatment accorded to Brinklow of Greenwich.

‘I remember the case well,’ said Gill airily. ‘Who does not? But there is no call to show this heinous crime upon a stage. The murder was solved and the guilty hanged.’

‘But they may not have been guilty,’ said Nicholas.

‘Aye,’ noted Firethorn. ‘There’s the rub.’

‘Not guilty!’ Gill laughed derisively. ‘Why, that scheming steward was actually taken in flagrante with the slippery wife. What more proof of guilt do you need?’

‘That only confirms their adultery,’ said Nicholas. ‘They admitted that in court. Complicity in the murder was denied. They protested their innocence to the end.’

Gill was unconvinced. ‘Which murderer does not? The wretches tried to throw all the blame on to their two accomplices. Did not this Freshwell confess all? They paid him and his vile comrade to hack poor Brinklow to death.’

‘Supposing that they did not?’ said Firethorn.

‘Is that what the play suggests?’

‘Suggests and proves, in my estimation,’ said Nicholas. ‘The Roaring Boy is about a miscarriage of justice. If its argument be true-and we will take pains to verify that-then we have something which will do more than merely entertain our spectators. It will have a moral purpose.’

‘It will clear the name of innocent people,’ added Firethorn with an expansive gesture. ‘The whole city will flock to see us. Murder is always good business but we offer intrigue and wrongful arrest as well. Westfield’s Men do not just have a duty to stage the play. It must be our mission!’

Barnaby Gill threw up a dozen serious objections to the idea but Nicholas Bracewell had a plausible answer for each one. The book holder admitted that there were still a few obstacles to overcome-not least the corroboration of the facts that lay at the heart of the drama-but he was certain that The Roaring Boy was a play that answered all requirements. It would cause great controversy, redeem Edmund Hoode from his depression, enhance the reputation of Westfield’s Men, tell a cautionary tale and help to right a terrible injustice.

When he could find no more faults, Gill capitulated. High tragedy and rumbustious comedy were the hallmarks of Westfield’s Men and they had hitherto held aloof from the presentation of dramas based on such sensational material from the annals of crime. But The Roaring Boy was obviously a special case and it was perverse to miss an extraordinary opportunity. Similar plays had always had immense, if short-lived, popularity. There was an added bonus of topicality with The Roaring Boy. Its gory appeal was fresh in the public mind. Gill conceded all this. Only one question was now pertinent.

‘Does the play have a suitable part for me?’

***

Orlando Reeve spread his bulk on a cushioned bench in the upper gallery and gazed down into the yard of the Queen’s Head with an amalgam of envy and disdain. He was impressed by the size of the audience that was filling every available inch of space but contemptuous of their manifest lack of quality. The one-penny standees included students, discharged soldiers, tradesmen of the lower sort, apprentices who had sneaked away from their work and rough countrymen in search of entertainment. The yard was also salted with wives, women and punks, bold thieves and sly pickpockets, and every manner of rogue and trickster. Orlando Reeve wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stink that rose up at him and inhaled the aromatic herbs in the silver pomander which hung from a chain around his neck.

It was the day after Skeat’s funeral and Westfield’s Men were back in harness, but Reeve had not come to watch them in A New Way to Please a Woman. Its very title offended his sensibilities and its rustic humour could not even provoke the ghost of a smile from him. He was appalled at the ease with which the rest of spectators were amused. To his left was a tall silkweaver, who giggled inanely throughout: to his right, a merchant from Ulm released a series of long, low chuckles at all the wit and wordplay even though his grasp of English was so uncertain that he understood no more than one word in five. The gallants and their ladies loved A New Way to Please a Woman. Everyone seated in the galleries gave the piece their warmest approval. Attended by his usual fawning entourage, the company’s patron, Lord Westfield, was shaking with glee at the antics below him on the stage.

Orlando Reeve closed his eyes and relied solely on his ears. He was at least able to savour something. No play at the Queen’s Head was complete without vocal and instrumental music. While the players’ histrionics only bored Reeve, their songs delighted him throughout. Voices were clear and true. The consort was well-balanced and rehearsed to a high standard but Reeve had expected no less from its leader. Peter Digby, conductor and musician, was an old friend of his and still as expert on the bass viol as he had always been. Orlando Reeve wallowed in the glorious sound that Digby and his consort were producing from their instruments, then he writhed in horror when the music was submerged beneath braying laughter at the latest piece of vulgarity onstage.

When the play was over, and the yard cleared of what he regarded as its offal, Reeve made his way to the taproom of the Queen’s Head to renew his acquaintance with Peter Digby. The contrast between the two could not have been greater. Peter Digby was a thin, ascetic man whose grey hair was slowly migrating to the farthest reaches of his skull and whose forehead was striped by long years of anxiety. His shoulders were hunched, his legs bowed, his whole appearance suggesting decline and neglect.

Sleek, fat and oozing self-importance, Orlando Reeve looked fifteen years younger than a man who was virtually the same age as himself. Pink, flabby cheeks wobbled in a round face into which a pair of twinkling eyes had been set close together. There was enough material in his expensive white satin doublet to make three whole suits for Peter Digby and still leave a remnant behind. The latter was at once pleased but embarrassed to meet Orlando Reeve again.

‘Well-met, Peter!’

‘I did not think to see you here.’

‘Even Court musicians are permitted some leisure.’

‘You were never wont to spend it at a play.’

‘I came to listen to you,’ said Reeve. His voice was a study in affectation and almost eunuchoid in its high pitch. ‘You are still the complete master of your instrument.’

‘Praise indeed, coming from you!’

‘Your music made the play bearable.’

‘Did you not care for A New Way to Please a Woman?’

‘Its theme was tiresome.’ He exposed tiny, pointed teeth in a razor grin. ‘I have no time for women. Still less for strutting men. Music and musicians fill my world. Who needs anything more?’

‘On that argument, we may readily agree.’ He remembered something and clutched at his purse. ‘Let me offer you a cup of wine, Orlando. This chance meeting calls for celebration.’

‘Unhappily, I may not stay. We play this evening.’

‘At Whitehall?’

‘Yes. Her Majesty has returned from Greenwich. We have been there this past month, filling its corridors with song and gracing its banquets with dance. I received the personal commendation of no less than three visiting ambassadors.’

‘It was deserved,’ said Digby.

Orlando Reeve had his faults but nobody could question his musicianship. He was one of the finest keyboard-players in London, equally adept on virginals, clavichord and chamber organ. His recitals took place before royalty or in packed cathedrals. Peter Digby, once a colleague of his, performed in the humbler arena of the Queen’s Head, stationed in a part of the balcony above the stage that had been curtained off to give the consort some protection from the wind. Court musicians had countless prerogatives but, as he looked up into the beaming self-satisfaction of his friend, Digby was strangely relieved that he had chosen another path.

‘How much of the music did you compose?’ said Reeve.

‘All of it.’

‘Even the songs?’

‘We have to work for our wage in the theatre, Orlando.’

‘I am pleased to see you so busy.’

‘There is no rest for me when Westfield’s Men take to the stage.’ He gave a shrug. ‘And far too much rest when the plague drives them out of London. We perform on occasion at the Inns of Court and elsewhere, but the theatre is our lifeblood. Take that away and we wilt.’

‘So I see,’ said Reeve, running a censorious eye over him and observing the tear in his sleeve and the stain on his ruff. ‘You are like to have a good season this year if the weather is kind to you. Have you any new plays to lift your company above its rivals?’

‘One or two.’

‘May I know what they are?’

‘I do not even have their names myself, Orlando.’

‘Come, come. You are part-author of everything that Westfield’s Men perform. Your music gives beauty to even the most beastly drama, and there has been a plentiful supply of that in this innyard, from what I hear.’

Digby became defensive. ‘We are still without compare.’

‘Only if the plays reach the standard of your music.’

‘Our repertoire is acclaimed.’

‘But old and musty. You must bake fresh bread.’

‘We do,’ said Digby. ‘We will please every palate.’

‘With what?’

‘Our next new offering.’

‘And that is?’ He raised his pomander to his nostrils and sniffed hard to ward off the dark odours of the taproom. ‘You may tell me, Peter,’ he continued as he released the chain again. ‘We are good friends, are we not? I will not betray you. The secret will be locked securely between the tongue and the lips. Nobody will ever know.’

‘I am bound by my loyalty to the company.’

‘Do I ask you to break it?’

‘Our rivals lurk on every side to bring us down.’

‘They will get no help from me.’ He put a podgy hand on Digby’s shoulder and massaged it. ‘Your new play?’

‘It is only a rumour.’

‘Tell me and it dies inside my ear.’

‘Master Firethorn warned me he would need many songs.’

‘In what, Peter?’

‘And music low and sombre, if we proceed with it.’

‘With what?’

Peter Digby weakened. He was feeling completely overawed by a companion who was prospering so well in the higher reaches of his calling. Orlando Reeve was a visible boast of success. Something was needed to match that boast and to elevate Digby’s drooping self-esteem.

‘The play could be the most popular we ever staged,’ he said. ‘I was given no details and can tell you little beyond the terms of the plot but that alone will fire the imagination.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It is a play about a most lamentable murder.’

‘We have enough of those to vex us,’ said Reeve.

‘This one puts most of them to shame.’

‘How so?’

‘Brinklow of Greenwich. You remember the case?’

‘Clearly, Peter. The poor fool of a mathematician wed a young wife whose affections were placed elsewhere. She and her lover-Dunne, was he called? — plotted to kill her husband. The pair of them were hanged for the crime.’

‘They were hanged certainly but were they guilty?’

‘What does your play decide?’

Peter Digby shook his head. He knew nothing more. The oily smile on Orlando Reeve’s face congealed to a frosty grimace. He had heard what he had been sent to find out. Patting Digby on the shoulder in farewell, he waddled out of the taproom and headed for the stables. It had been a long and trying afternoon for him but it had yielded its bounty.

He would earn his reward.

***

The transformation in Edmund Hoode’s attitude and appearance was remarkable. Gone was the melancholy poet who was ready to lay down his pen for good. In his place was an eager and dedicated craftsman, who wanted to spend every waking hour at his table. The Roaring Boy imbued him with an elation he had not known since the night when he had climbed into bed with Mistress Jane Diamond during her husband’s convenient absence. That joy had, in fact, stopped short of consummation but this latest one would not. Written entirely in prose, the play was pitted with the faults of the novice and strung together too loosely to have full impact. But its passion was overwhelming. It was a cry from the heart that Hoode could not resist.

The faults could easily be remedied, the construction just as swiftly improved. What the playwright had been given was something far more precious even than Jane Diamond’s virtue. The Roaring Boy was a dramatic gem that needed to be cut, polished and placed in the correct setting. When that was done, the play would out-dazzle anything on the London stage.

‘Let me come with you, Nick,’ he begged.

‘The message was sent to me alone.’

‘But I must meet this Simon Chaloner. How else can I rewrite the play unless I have the true facts at my fingers? He and I must work jointly on the venture.’

‘You have made progress enough without him so far,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, glancing down at sheets of parchment on the table. ‘This play obsesses you night and day. We had to drag you away to bear your part in this afternoon’s performance. Stay here in your lodgings and work on, Edmund.’

‘I need more help.’

‘You will get it through me.’

‘Why does the fellow behave so strangely?’

‘I hope to find out.’

‘Where did he get all this evidence of duplicity?’

‘That subject, too, will be pursued.’

It was evening and the friends were back at Silver Street. The chamber was now clean, tidy and a fit place in which a playwright could labour for long hours. Fresh rushes had taken away the stench. Nicholas had called to tell his friend that word had at last come from the roaring boy who had first burst into their life at the Queen’s Head. A letter summoned the book holder to a tavern in Eastcheap. He had been warned to come alone.

Hoode was persistent. ‘Why do I not go with you and stand privily where I may overhear the conversation?’

‘He has expressly forbidden your presence.’

‘But I am slaving over his play!’

‘Not his, Edmund. Not anyone’s as yet. Simon Chaloner has set the rules and we must play by them.’ Hoode was crestfallen. ‘Take heart,’ said Nicholas. ‘I will hasten straight back here to report to you.’

‘Be quick or I’ll have torn the manuscript to shreds!’

‘Then you’d throw away a pearl out of spite.’

Hoode nodded and tried to contain his frustration. He was still shamed by the fact that he slept drunkenly through his first meeting with Simon Chaloner, and hoped that a second encounter would give him the chance to make amends for his conduct. It was not to be. Nicholas Bracewell was the chosen interlocutor. He must be left to divine the reason why the young man courted the shadows.

Nicholas took his leave. He was sorry to disappoint his friend but certain that he would elicit more from Simon Chaloner on his own. Having read the play, he understood why it had been given to them in such a covert way. If its allegations were true, it would cause tremors in legal circles and uproar among the common people. It might also help to bring the real malefactor to justice. The imperative was to establish the play’s authorship. Edmund Hoode felt that it was the work of one man but Nicholas wondered if it might not be the product of many hands. One of them, he suspected, belonged to Simon Chaloner.

The Eagle and Serpent was a large, sprawling tavern in an area famed for its boisterous inns and ordinaries. As Nicholas entered the taproom, he was hit by a wall of tobacco smoke and noise. It was an unpropitious meeting-place for two people who wanted a peaceful conversation. Nicholas was still trying to peer through the fug when a plump serving-wench came over to him.

‘What is your pleasure, sir?’ she said.

‘I have arranged to meet someone here.’

‘Then you are the gentleman I was told about.’

‘By whom?’

‘Follow me, sir.

The girl bobbed across the room and Nicholas ducked under the sagging beams as he went after her. Evidently, a private room had been hired for the occasion and that was reassuring. He and Chaloner would be able to talk without interruption. The serving-wench took him up the dimly lit staircase with sure-footed confidence. She escorted him along a dark passageway on the second floor and paused at a door to turn to him.

‘You are to wait within, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The door is stiff. Let me help you.’

She knocked on the stout oak and gave it a firm shove with her bare shoulder. The door creaked open and she stood aside to let him enter. Candles burned to afford him a glimpse of a small, featureless chamber with little more than a table and a few chairs in it. He was given no chance to take a proper inventory. As he stepped into the room, something hard and purposeful struck him across the base of his skull with chilling force. Knocked senseless, Nicholas Bracewell slumped to the floor. He did not even feel the cruel feet that kicked repeatedly at him.