The Roaring Boy

Chapter Four

As dark shadows rubbed the last of the colour from the lawns and the flowers, Valentine dismissed his two assistants and shambled out of the garden. He was a big, ungainly, middle-aged man, who had worked at the house in Greenwich since he was a boy. Few people liked him and most were repulsed by his appearance. Straggly hair, blotchy skin, two large warts and a wispy beard combined to give his face a sinister look. The broken nose had been caused by a fall from an apple tree in the orchard but the harelip was a defect of birth. In a vain bid to hide the latter handicap, his blackened teeth were forever bared in an ingratiating grin that made him even more unsightly. A conscientious gardener, Valentine wrapped his ugliness in the beauties of nature.

He shuffled to the rear door of the house and rang the bell. The maidservant deliberately kept him waiting and was brusque when she deigned to answer his summons.

‘Yes?’

‘I must speak to the mistress,’ he said.

‘She is not at your beck and call.’

‘Tell her I am here.’

‘Can your business not wait until tomorrow?’

‘No, Agnes.’ He gave her a knowing leer that so clearly affronted her that he snatched off his cap in apology. ‘Let us not fall out, my dear. Call the mistress and I will be very thankful.’

‘Speak to her in the morning.’

‘My question will not wait.’

‘Then tell it me and I’ll convey the message.’

‘I must see her myself,’ said Valentine, replacing his cap and rubbing his huge, gnarled hands up and down his coarse jerkin. ‘She gave order for it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘The mistress was most particular. She has instructions for me.’ The harelip rose higher above the hideous teeth. ‘Will I step inside while you fetch her to me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’

The maidservant shut the door in his face. She was a short, stout, motherly woman in her thirties with a normally pleasant manner. Confronted by the egregious Valentine, she became curt and irritable. The fact that he tried to show some fumbling affection towards her made him even more grotesque. Agnes went first to the parlour and then to the dining room. Finding her mistress in neither place, she went upstairs to the main bedchamber. That, too, was empty.

Only one place was left. Agnes went bustling along the landing and descended by the kitchen stairs. They took her down to a buttery and she sensed that her mistress was in the room beyond. It had been added to the back of the property several years earlier at considerable expense and meticulous care had been taken with its design and construction. Long, high and commodious, it had large windows along three of its walls to admit maximum light.

None of those windows had survived. As Agnes tapped on the door and opened it, she stepped into a veritable wilderness. A room which had once been filled with tasteful furniture and costly equipment was virtually razed to the ground. Little of the walls still stood and only one crossbeam remained in place to suggest that there had once been a ceiling. Open to the elements, the room had been invaded by weeds and become a prey to vermin.

‘You have a visitor, mistress.’

‘What?’

‘The gardener is asking to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘He says that you sent for him.’

Emilia was sitting in the middle of the room on the charred remains of a chair. She looked lonely and cheerless but oddly at home in the bleak surroundings. Agnes moved towards her to take her by the arm.

‘Come back into the house,’ she said kindly.

‘I like to sit out here.’

‘It will be dark soon.’

‘Will it? I had not noticed.’

‘Valentine is eager to speak with you?’

‘Valentine?’ Emilia spoke the name as if she had heard it for the first time, then she came out of her reverie and composed herself. ‘Oh, yes. The gardener. There is no need for me to see him myself. Simply tell him this. I want all the weeds cleared out of here.’

‘Do you want the stone and timber removed as well?’

‘No, Agnes. He is to touch nothing else.’

‘Would it not be better to clear it all away?’

‘Better?’

‘It might help to put the matter from your mind.’

Emilia’s eyes flashed. ‘I do not want it put from my mind, Agnes,’ she snapped. ‘I want my orders obeyed and that swiftly. Do not presume to give me advice about what I may do and may not do in my own house. Nothing is to be touched in here except the weeds. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, mistress.’ A submissive curtsey.

‘Tell the gardener to begin tomorrow. Tell him I want every dock, dandelion and blade of grass pulled out by the roots. Tell him that I want this room completely tidied up.’

Agnes was about to leave when a voice interrupted them.

‘No need,’ said Valentine. ‘I heard everything.’

He stepped out from behind one of the vestigial walls and gave them a servile grin.

***

As Nicholas Bracewell slowly regained consciousness, he became aware of the pain and discomfort. His whole body was aching and he could feel a trickle down his forehead. The back of his head was on fire, though something cold and wet was trying to smother the flames. He stifled a groan. An arm was put around his shoulders to help him up, then a cup was held to his lips. The aqua vitae was bitter but restorative. He revived enough to be able to open his eyes. Blinking in the light of the candle, he saw a figure bending over him.

‘How do you feel?’ asked Simom Chaloner.

‘Drowsy…Where am I?’

‘Alive. More or less.’

‘Still at the tavern?’

‘Yes. But quite safe now.’

Nicholas touched his head. ‘Someone hit me.’

‘Hard, by the look of it.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Let us worry about that in a moment,’ said Chaloner.

He dipped a wet cloth into the bowl of water on the floor and squeezed it out before dabbing at Nicholas’s temple. The latter winced slightly. They were in the room where the attack had taken place, and the boards were splashed with red where Nicholas’s head had lain.

‘It is not a deep gash,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hold this to your head until the bleeding stops. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’ Nicholas lifted an arm and felt its soreness. His palm held the cloth in place. ‘What happened?’

‘You were beaten and kicked.’

‘For what reason?’

‘It was a warning.’

‘Of what?’

‘The danger we face.’

Nicholas had regained his wits now and was anxious to get to his feet but Chaloner counselled him to rest until he had a clearer idea of the extent of his injuries. There was a throbbing lump on the back of his head where he had been struck and the gash had been collected as his temple grazed the rough floorboards, but there were other random abrasions as well. His body and legs were a mass of bruises and he could feel a swelling beneath one eye. His fair beard was flecked with blood, his neck was stiff and difficult to move without a shooting pain. Clearly, the warning had been delivered with thoroughness.

No bones had been broken, however, and the loss of blood was relatively minor. Simon Chaloner had arrived in time to disturb the attackers but they had fled from the premises before he could confront them.

‘How many were there?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Two of the rogues.’

‘It feels as if there were a dozen,’ he said, hauling himself upright and finding new sources of grief in his thighs and shoulder. ‘You saved me from worse punishment. I thank you for that.’

‘You should be blaming me.’

‘Why?’

‘For getting you so soundly beaten.’

‘It was not your doing.’

‘I fear me that it was.’

‘Why?’

‘The warning was not for you.’

‘Then for whom?’

‘Me.’ There was a noise outside the door and Nicholas tensed for a moment. ‘They will not come back, I promise you. Those ruffians will only attack one man by surprise. They would never dare take on two who are ready for them.’

He flicked his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal weapons at his waist. Nicholas took a closer look at him and saw that Simon Chaloner was in much more sober garb than at their previous meeting. Instead of the garish apparel of a roaring boy, he was now wearing a doublet and hose that would not have been out of place on a lawyer. Nobody at the Inns of Court, however, would have been as well-armed as Chaloner. In addition to a sword and dagger, he had a ball-butted pistol in a holster attached to his belt.

The younger man looked at the injured face and sighed.

‘I offer you a thousand apologies, Nicholas, if I may call you that. In trying to protect you from danger, I seem unwittingly to have led you into it.’

‘It was not your fault,’ said Nicholas, attempting to piece together the sequence of events. ‘I was caught off guard. When I entered the tavern, a serving-wench was waiting for me. She brought me up here and led me into the trap.’

‘But only because of me.’

‘How so?’

‘I called here earlier to hire a room. Obviously, I was followed and my business learned from the landlord. The serving-wench was party to the ambush. I will swear that she is not employed at the Eagle and Serpent.’

Nicholas walked a few paces but found his legs heavy and unsure of themselves. Chaloner helped him to a stool before sitting opposite him at the table. Raucous laughter filtered up from far below. Other revellers could be heard in the street. The atmosphere in the room was noisome but at least they had a measure of privacy. Nicholas kept both elbows on the table for support.

‘The case is altered, I think,’ said Chaloner sadly.

‘Case?’

‘You came here this evening to tell me that Westfield’s Men would stage The Roaring Boy. Had you not, you would have brought the manuscript with you to return it. Had you or Edmund Hoode despised the play as a vile concoction, you would not even have bothered to answer my summons.’

‘That is true.’

‘But your offer will now be withdrawn, alas.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the beating you took. Every scratch and bruise about you was put there by The Roaring Boy. It is, as you see, a perilous enterprise. Now that you know the risks we take here, you will run headlong from the project.’

‘Westfield’s Men are not so easily frightened, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘You were right to think the play found favour. Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode judged it a remarkable piece of drama-when it is made fit for the stage by a more practised hand. If they commit themselves to something, they are not easily deflected.’

‘Nor are you, I suspect.’

‘The Eagle and Serpent has given me a personal stake in this business,’ said Nicholas, lowering the wet cloth to examine the bloodstains on it. ‘I have a score to settle with the two men who set upon me here this evening. And with the person who hired them. The only way I can do that is if we perform The Roaring Boy. That will bring them back.’

‘Unhappily, it will.’

Nicholas felt another trickle down his forehead and folded the cloth before applying it to the gash once more. The lump on the back of his head continued to pound away. He appraised his companion for a moment and took especial note of his weaponry.

‘You have served in the army, I think,’ he said.

Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why, yes.’

‘And saw service in Germany?’

‘Holland. I was at Zutphen when our dear commander, Sir Philip Sidney died. How on earth did you guess that?’

‘You have something of the stamp of a military man,’ said Nicholas. ‘And you have a soldier’s bravery, certainly. You would not else have undertaken such a dangerous business. You carry those weapons like a man who knows how to use them.’ Nicholas gave longer attention to the stock of the pistol, which protruded from the other’s holster. ‘I would say that fought in the cavalry.’

‘Even so! By what sorcery did you divine that?’

‘Your pistol. May I see it?’

Chaloner handed it over at once. ‘Here, ’tis yours.’

‘It is of German design,’ said Nicholas, ‘its stock inlaid with engraved staghorn. A wheel-lock. Such weapons are highly expensive and not to be wasted on common foot-soldiers, where the risk of damage would be great. This is a German cavalry pistol.’

‘Indeed, it is,’ agreed Chaloner with a grin. ‘I borrowed it from its owner when he had no more use for it. The villain had the gall to discharge it at me. When our swords clashed, I cut him down and took it as a souvenir. You name him aright, Nicholas. He was a German mercenary.’ He took the pistol back and returned it to his holster. ‘How does a book holder with a theatre company come to know so much about firearms?’

‘It is all part of my trade, sir. We use pistols and muskets in our plays as well as swords and daggers. Nathan Curtis, our stage carpenter, fashioned a caliver out of wood but two weeks ago. Before that, an arquebus. Painted replicas but made with great skill.’

‘And a ball-butted German cavalry wheel-lock?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘that is beyond his art and our needs. But he works from a book of firearms that I keep and study for pleasure. It contains a drawing of your pistol. It is very distinctive.’ He leaned forward and his voice hardened. ‘So you see, Master Chaloner. I already know more about you than you intended. Do not put me to the trouble of finding out who you really are. Enough of all this mystery and evasion. If you wish to proceed in this affair, we must have more honesty between us.’

‘There is only so much that I may tell you, Nicholas.’

‘Then we might as well part company now.’

‘Do not mistake me,’ said Chaloner, easing the other back on to his stool as he tried to rise. ‘I will answer any question you put to me. Some of those answers, I must insist, are for your ears only and I rely on your discretion to perceive what they might be. But my own knowledge is far from complete. On many things, I am still in the dark.’

‘Let us begin then where light can be shed.’

‘Please do.’

‘How did they know I was coming to this tavern?’ said Nicholas. ‘When you hired the room here, did you tell the landlord my name?’

‘The devil I did! He did not even get my own.’

‘Then why was I expected at the Eagle and Serpent?’

‘I can only guess, Nicholas.’

‘Well?’

‘Someone learned of my business with Westfield’s Men,’ decided Chaloner. ‘Not from me. I am as close as the grave. And only one other person on my side knew of our meeting. Someone at the Queen’s Head must have let slip our plans.’

‘Only three people know them apart from myself.’

‘Word got out somehow. It shows how subtly they work.’

‘They?’

‘The people who ordered the death of Thomas Brinklow. Who sent his wife and her lover-guilty of sin, but innocent of murder-to the gallows. The people whom the play sets out to expose and call to account.’

‘But what are their names?’ pressed Nicholas.

Chaloner hesitated. ‘I am not certain.’

‘You are lying.’

‘More evidence yet is needed.’

‘You know who they are.’

‘I believe I know who he is but not his confederates.’

‘Name the man,’ demanded Nicholas. ‘The Roaring Boy is a tasty loaf indeed but only half baked if we exonerate the innocent without pointing a finger at the malefactor.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It is not as easy as that.’

‘Very well, sir. Let us come at it another way.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Did you know Thomas Brinklow of Greenwich?’

‘Extremely well.’

‘Was he a friend or a relative?’

‘He was like to have been both,’ said the other. ‘I am betrothed to his sister, Emilia. Had he lived, Thomas would have been my brother-in-law by now.’

‘You are still betrothed to the lady?’

‘We will be fast married as soon as this business is finally over.’ Chaloner’s glib charm was replaced by a warm compassion. ‘Emilia has suffered deeply over this. She lost a brother whom she adored and a sister-in-law whom she liked in spite of Cecily’s failings. Emilia was as anxious as anyone to see Thomas’s death answered on the gallows but not when it meant the execution of two innocent people. She is desperate for the real murderer to be convicted. As am I.’

‘That is only natural,’ said Nicholas. ‘Emilia Brinklow is that one other person of whom you spoke just now?’

‘Yes. She alone is in my confidence.’

‘What of the author?’

‘The author is…no longer involved in the project.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he has gone away, Nicholas. Far away.’

‘Without waiting to see his work performed?’

‘The play was written out of love for Thomas Brinklow and given to us. I took upon myself the task of trying to get it staged by one of our leading companies.’

‘On Saturday last, you told me that you were involved in the creation of the piece.’

‘That is so.’

‘What form did that involvement take?’

‘I provided the facts of the case,’ said Chaloner, ‘the author supplied the art. To put it another way, Nicholas, I made the bricks and he built the house.’

‘You have worked hard.’

‘With good cause.’

‘How many of your facts are true?’

‘All of them!’ said the other with sudden vehemence. ‘I can vouch for each and every one of them. Do you think I would spend all that time and money in pursuit of something so important and let it elude my grasp? Consider what we are up against here. You have only been yoked to The Roaring Boy for a matter of days and it has cost you a beating. Imagine the dire threats I have received these past few months. I have to look over my shoulder wherever I go. Were I not so well-trained in the arts of war and able to take care of myself, Emilia would be mourning another loved one. That devil has sent his men after me a dozen times.’

‘What is his name?’ insisted Nicholas.

‘Speak it to nobody else, I charge you.’

‘Who is he?’

A long pause. ‘Sir John Tarker.’

‘You are certain?’

‘As certain as any man can be.’

‘Sir John Tarker that excels in the tournaments?’

‘The same.’

‘Was he acquainted with Thomas Brinklow?’

‘He was,’ said Chaloner. ‘Sir John spends much time at Greenwich Palace. Thomas was often a guest there.’

‘For what reason did he want Master Brinklow killed?’

‘Dislike, envy of his wealth.’

‘Murder needs a stronger warrant than that.’

‘Thomas and he had quarrelled. Sir John is a bellicose man who bears a grudge against any who gainsay him. His ire festered. When Thomas crossed him again, the testy knight hired ruffians to cut him down.’

‘There is something you are not telling me.’

‘They quarrelled. I would swear an oath on that.’

‘About what?’ said Nicholas.

‘Does it matter? They fell out. That is enough.’

‘Not for me,’ said Nicholas. ‘What was the cause?’

‘Some foolish disagreement.’

‘Is folly to be paid for with a life?’

‘They simply could not abide each other.’

‘The reason?’

‘Hold off, Nicholas,’ said Chaloner, turning away. ‘You have heard the truth about Sir John Tarker. You have read the play. It says all. What else do you need to know?’

‘Why you are shielding Mistress Emilia Brinklow.’

Chaloner reached involuntarily for his dagger but Nicholas was too quick for him, grabbing his arm in a grip of steel and holding it tight while he stared deep into the other man’s eyes. They were locked in a battle of wills for a long while before Nicholas finally prevailed.

Chaloner’s wrath subsided and he gave a resigned nod of acceptance. Nicholas released his hold. A memory made the young man shake with muted fury.

‘Sir John Tarker made unwelcome advances to Emilia.’

‘Her brother intervened?’

‘Most strongly. Thomas was a mild man but he could be a lion when roused. Sir John was more or less thrown out of the house in Greenwich, an insult that he would not bear lightly.’ An angry scowl descended. ‘He was fortunate. That scurvy knight was very fortunate. Had I been there, I would have used something more damaging than harsh words.’

‘Where were you at the time?’

‘In Holland. I came back within the month.’

‘To be told this sorry tale.’

Chaloner’s head dropped. ‘No, Nicholas. They kept it from me. My own dear Emilia was all but molested by that foul lecher and they hid it from me lest I run wild. I did not learn the truth of it until after Thomas’s death. When it was too late.’ He looked up with haunted eyes. ‘Can you see now why I am obsessed with this affair? Thomas was killed because he defended my betrothed. I’ll not rest until Sir John Tarker is arrested for the crime.’

Nicholas gave him time to recover from what had been a harrowing confession. It had robbed Chaloner of his poise and left his face ashen, but it had thrown a whole new light on The Roaring Boy. Nicholas brought the cloth away from his head and felt the wound with tentative fingers. It had stopped bleeding. He put the cloth aside and resumed the conversation. Something had struck him forcibly.

‘His sister is not mentioned in the play.’

‘Nor can she be. Emilia insists on that.’

‘But she is an element in the story.’

‘It is one that she prefers to forget,’ said Chaloner. ‘The fact of Sir John’s guilt is more important than its causes. He has been given reason enough in the play to murder Thomas, has he not? Why add more?’

‘Because we go in the pursuit of truth.’

‘Truth has to be tempered with consideration.’

‘I must speak with the lady.’

‘That, too, is impossible.’

‘Then we waste time here. Your play is not for us.’

‘Nicholas-’

‘Good night, sir,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I will not stay to be misled any further.’

‘You ask too much of me.’

‘And you ask too much of us!’ retorted Nicholas with a show of spirit. He snatched up a candle and held it to his face. ‘I have taken a beating for you and this play. That entitles me to know everything there is to know about it and I cannot do that unless I speak with the lady. If she will not meet my request, I’ll advise Master Firethorn to put the piece aside. That path has much appeal for me, I assure you.’

Their eyes met again in another contest of strength but it was soon over. The Roaring Boy was doomed without the help of Westfield’s Men. No other company would have the bravado to stage it and the skill to do it to bring the best out of it. Simon Chaloner was being forced to make the one concession he hated most but he had no choice.

‘I will speak to Emilia and arrange a meeting.’

‘We will try not to intrude too long upon her grief.’

Chaloner stiffened. ‘We?’

‘Edmund Hoode and I.’

‘Can you not conduct the interview alone, Nicholas? She has been almost a recluse since her brother’s death. One person will be distressing enough for Emilia to accommodate. Two will throw her into a state of profound dismay.’

‘Master Hoode must be there,’ argued Nicholas. ‘If he is to make your play fit for the stage, he must know every detail that appertains to it. Have no fears on his part. He is the gentlest soul and will pose no threat to the lady.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘Very well. I will bring Emilia to London and the four of us will meet secretly.’

‘Why not in Greenwich? That is the obvious place.’

‘I’d welcome the excuse to get her away from there.’

‘Then find it on some other pretext,’ said Nicholas. ‘Edmund Hoode will not only wish to meet the sister of Thomas Brinklow. He will want to see the house where the man lived and the place where he was murdered. It will all help to make The Roaring Boy a richer and more accurate play in the end. That, surely, is our common goal.’

‘Let me talk with Emilia. This may require persuasion.’ He got to his feet. ‘May I tell her, then, that the play will be performed if she agrees to help?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘You may also tell her that we will offer five pounds for the privilege. Westfield’s Men always pay the price of a good play.’

‘We want to money, Nicholas. Only justice.’

‘The author might wish for payment.’

‘He has been well paid already.’ He crossed to the door and paused. ‘I will send word to you at the Queen’s Head. Until then…’

‘Not so fast. I have one last question.’

‘What is it?’

‘The world believes that Thomas Brinklow was cruelly butchered by two men hired by his wife and her lover. How can we persuade everyone to think otherwise?’

‘The play tells you. That is why it is called The Roaring Boy. Freshwell was one of the killers and he was a notorious swaggerer. When he goes to the scaffold at the end of Act Five, he makes a speech denouncing the true villain.’

‘It did not happen quite that way,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘It was Freshwell’s testimony which confirmed the guilt of those who suborned him. He made full confession.’

‘Did anyone see that confession?’ said Chaloner. ‘It was extracted under torture and a man will say anything to escape further agony. I am certain that Freshwell did not drag the names of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne into the reckoning. He did not even know them. For what reason should he bear false witness? Freshwell was liar, rogue and black-hearted murderer but he must certainly be absolved of perjury.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I was there, Nicholas. At his execution.’

‘Did Freshwell not make a final speech, repenting of his wickedness and asking for God’s mercy?’

‘No. He roared so loud, they had to gag his mouth.’

Nicholas was unconvinced. ‘Men often behave so at their execution. It is a last act of defiance. They roar to show that scorn for the majesty of the law. There is yet another reason why they rave so at the last. Those wild cries are often a means to disguise their terror.’

‘That was not so in Freshwell’s case,’ explained the other. ‘Had he been allowed to speak, I believe that he would have named the man who hired him to do his filthy work. If Freshwell had but an ounce of conscience, he would also have pleaded for Cecily and Walter Dunne to be released.’

‘Why did he not do so instead of roaring in anger?’

‘The executioner’s assistant explained that.’

‘His assistant?’

‘He pinioned Freshwell in his cell before bringing him to the scaffold, so he got as close to him as anyone. The hangman himself would not even speak to me but his assistant took my bribe willingly enough. He told me why the roaring boy went to his death so noisily.’

‘And?’

‘Freshwell was no longer able to denounce anybody.’

‘Why not?’

‘They had cut out his tongue.’

A new resolution coursed through Nicholas Bracewell.

‘We will stage this play,’ he promised.

***

Heavy rain turned the streets and lanes of London into miry runnels of mud. People dived for cover under the eaves of houses or huddled in doorways or filled church porches with impromptu congregations. Cats and dogs scurried wildly to the nearest shelter. Horses churned up the slime and spattered the walls with indiscriminate force. Unrelenting water explored every leaking roof, splintered door, cracked paving slab and broken window in the city. The vast, noisome, accumulated filth of the capital became a voracious quagmire, which tried to swallow up each leg, paw or hoof foolish enough to tread on it. In the space of a few minutes, a hitherto mild night was transformed into sodden torment.

Sir John Tarker missed the worst of the downpour but that did not still his high temper. While the city itself was feeling the first drops of damnation, he spurred his horse out through Ludgate and galloped along Fleet Street until it became the wide and well-paved Strand. Here were some of the most palatial dwellings in the kingdom, fit only for those from the higher reaches of the nobility or the clergy, built along the line of the River Thames and linking the city with the architectural wonder of Westminster. The Strand was one long strip of wealth and privilege.

As the rain began to pelt down in earnest, Sir John Tarker turned his horse in through the gates of Avenell Court and clattered to a halt on the slippery cobbles. Dismounting with practised ease, he yelled for an ostler and cursed his delay in coming. When the man finally did emerge from the stables, he earned himself a stern rebuke and a vicious blow to the head. Even in clement weather, the guest was not someone to be kept waiting. He spat his contempt at the heavens before hurrying into the building.

Avenell Court was a large, looming, battlemented house of Kentish ragstone with a dry ditch by way of a moat and an army of tall chimneys patrolling its steep roof. The hint of a castle was replicated in its interior as well. Corridors were long, cold and lined with suits of armour. Swords and shields decorated the walls of all the rooms on the ground floor. The main hall had a display of weaponry-from many nations-which could rival that at the Tower of London. Banners, pennants and coats-of-arms further enriched an exhibition which had been put together with considerable care and at immense cost. There was even a life-size statue of a warhorse in gleaming bronze.

In such a setting, it was difficult not to hear the sound of battle but the figure who reclined in the high-backed chair beside the huge fireplace managed the feat without undue effort. Instead of the din of armed conflict, he was listening to the sombre strains of a pavan as played with exquisite touch by Orlando Reeve. Head down, eyes closed in concentration, shoulders hunched, the corpulent musician was perched on a stool, his bulk almost hiding the instrument that stood before him on the dais at the end of the hall. Podgy hands seemed to flutter over the keyboard to draw the most affecting tone from the virginals. Orlando Reeve had composed the dance himself in the Italian style and given it a slow and bewitching dignity.

When he finished the piece, he inhaled deeply before expelling the air through his nostrils. He opened a hopeful eye to search for the approval of his audience. The man in the chair mimed applause with his hands, then flicked a palm upwards to call for something more lively. Orlando Reeve obliged at once with a sprightly galliard that soon had his lone spectator tapping a foot in accompaniment as the little instrument all but filled the hall with its tinkling harmony. The musician was so engrossed in the dance that he did not observe the guest who was conducted in by a servant.

Divested of his wet cloak and hat, Sir John Tarker strode across the marble floor with a haughty familiarity. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a full chest that tapered down to a narrow waist. The swarthy face was framed by long black hair and a neatly barbered beard. Dressed as a courtier, he had the arrogant swagger of a soldier and the natural impatience of a man of action. He accorded Orlando Reeve no more than a derisive snort as he approached his host. Sir John Tarker had not come to listen to music.

Before he could speak, however, the visitor was waved into silence by the man in the chair. Shorter, slimmer and ten years older than his guest, Sir Godfrey Avenell was a striking figure of middle years, wearing doublet and hose of the latest and most expensive fashion below an elaborate lawn ruff that set off his sallow countenance. Silver hair and beard gave him a distinction that was reinforced by the upward tilt of his chin and the piercing blue eyes. The habit of command sat easily on Sir Godfrey Avenell and elicited a grudging respect from his visitor.

As the galliard continued, the foot kept in time on the marble. Its owner looked up with a contented smile.

‘Is this music not sublime?’ he said.

‘I am not in the mood for it, Sir Godfrey.’

‘Come, come, man. Does it not make you wish to dance?’

Tarker was politely emphatic. ‘No.’

‘I love the virginals,’ said the other, savouring each note. ‘Did I never tell you of the occasion when I heard the Queen herself at the keyboard? I dined one time with my dear friend, Lord Hunsdon, who drew me up to a quiet gallery where I might listen to Her Majesty upon the virginals. She played excellently well. Since her back was towards me, I ventured to draw back the tapestry and enter the chamber so that I could hear the more clearly. Her Majesty sensed my presence at once and stopped forthwith, turning to see me and rising from her seat to chide me. “I play not before men,” she said, “but only when I am solitary, to shun melancholy.” I have always remembered that phrase-to shun melancholy. Such is the soothing power of music. What better way to keep black thoughts at bay?’

‘With a willing wench on a bed of silk.’

‘Your taste needs schooling.’

‘A man is entitled to his desires.’

‘Not when they are as coarse as yours sometimes are.’

The galliard stopped and Orlando Reeve looked up for further endorsement. He was always glad to be invited to give a private recital at Avenell Court. His host was a most cultured and generous patron of music. The instruments which had been collected at the house were of the highest quality. Reeve was able to practice and entertain at the same time.

Praise was not immediately forthcoming. The musician was forced to wait while Sir Godfrey Avenell stood up to give his guest a proper welcome. The older man clapped his friend on the shoulder, then spoke in a low whisper.

‘Well?’

‘It is done,’ said Tarker.

‘Then our information was sound?’

‘Very sound.’

‘Good.’

Sir Godfrey Avenell threw a shrewd glance at Orlando Reeve, then softened it with a benign smile. Strolling across to the dais, he took a purse from his belt and tossed it into the eager palms of the musician. The weight of the purse told Reeve the value of its contents.

‘Thank you, Sir Godfrey,’ he said obsequiously.

‘You played well for me.’

‘I am rewarded beyond my deserts.’

‘The gold is not only for your music, Orlando.’

Reeve understood and nodded obediently. He gathered a scowl from Sir John Tarker and a dismissive nod from his host before stepping down from the platform and scuttling out of the hall. Avenell turned back to his guest.

‘You do not like Orlando, I think?’

‘He is a fat fool.’

‘Even so, yet he can play like an angel.’

‘I hate those fawning musicians.’

‘He has his uses,’ said Avenell, moving to stand in front of the ornamental chimney-piece which climbed halfway up the wall. ‘We have had proof of that this very day. That fat fool was cunning enough to insinuate himself into the counsels of Westfield’s Men and we must be grateful to him for that. It has enabled us to nip disturbance in the bud.’ His smile faded. ‘At least, I trust that this is so.’

‘Have no fears on that account.’

‘Then reassure me straight.’

‘Everything went according to plan.’

‘I seem to have heard that boast before.’

‘The best men were chosen.’

‘That, too,’ said Avenell with hissing sarcasm. ‘The best men come at the highest price. When you saved a few pence on the hiring last time, you bought us unlooked-for trouble. I do not wish to encounter further unpleasantness in this matter. It puts me to choler. Convince me that it is over and done with.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘The play has been destroyed?’

‘To all intents.’

‘Explain.’

‘A member of the company was beaten senseless.’

‘Will they heed the warning?’

‘They must,’ insisted Tarker. ‘My men know their trade. Their orders were clear. The intercessory was to be all but killed. No sane creature would proceed in a business that is fraught with such danger.’

‘Sanity is not a normal property of the theatre.’

‘We struck at their chief prop.’

‘Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘A man called Nicholas Bracewell. He is but the book holder with the company but carries the whole enterprise on his shoulders. Without his strength and resource, they would be in a sorry state. Maim him and they all limp. There is no question but that we seized the right prey.’

‘And left him for dead, you say?’

Sir John Tarker nodded and gave a grim smile.

‘We will hear no more of Westfield’s Men.’

***

Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode travelled to Greenwich by means of the river. Since no performance was being given by Westfield’s Men that afternoon, they were released for the whole day. The long journey from London Bridge gave them ample time to rehearse the many pertinent questions that needed to be put. The promised meeting with Emilia Brinklow had been arranged by Simon Chaloner on the condition that he himself would be present to advise and assist her. For their part, the book holder and the playwright agreed to be tactful and considerate in their enquiries. Evidently, Chaloner felt that his betrothed required protection even from putative friends.

It was a fine morning with a stiff breeze blowing upstream. Craft of all sizes were gliding along on the broad back of the Thames. Seated in the stern of their boat, the two friends felt the refreshing tug of the wind and conversed to the creak of oars and the plash of blades dipping into the dark water. The watermen were too immersed in their strenuous work to pay any attention to their passengers. It was a few days since Nicholas had been attacked at the Eagle and Serpent but he still bore the marks of the assault. His face was covered in bruises and the head wound beneath his cap still had a dressing. Appraising him now, Hoode began to have second thoughts.

‘It is not too late to abandon this folly,’ he said.

‘I have given my word, Edmund.’

‘What if there is another beating?’

‘Then I will administer it instead of receiving it. They will not take me unawares a second time. Besides,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘I have a bodyguard. Now that you have moved into my lodging to watch over me, I am quite safe.’

Hoode blenched. ‘But I thought you were looking after me! That is why Lawrence wanted me out of Silver Street. So that I might have your strong arm to shield me.’

‘A wise precaution. When they realise that we are determined to press on with this venture, they may try to wreck the play itself.’

‘Along with its author!’

‘His identity, alas, remains concealed.’

‘Mine does not,’ said Hoode. ‘Everyone in London knows that I hold the pen for Westfield’s Men, whether in the writing of new dramas, the cobbling of old ones or the wet-nursing of novice playwrights. The Roaring Boy may be the work of another hand but the signature of Edmund Hoode is also scrawled across it.’

‘You should be proud of that fact.’

‘Indeed, I am, Nick. Very proud-but very fearful.’

‘Stay close by me and banish all apprehension.’

‘I will try.’

Edmund Hoode and Lawrence Firethorn had been highly alarmed to learn of the beating taken by their book holder but their reaction had been positive. Both had their faith in the play reaffirmed, believing that the violence proved its veracity. Indeed, the actor-manager announced that they now had a mission as well as a duty to stage The Roaring Boy and Hoode was momentarily carried along by Firethorn’s rhetoric. As the playwright was rowed ever closer to the scene of the crime, however, his resolve began to vaccilate.

‘We take the most dreadful risks, Nick.’

‘That is why we work in the theatre.’

‘This is a matter of life and death.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The life of Emilia Brinklow and the cruel death of her brother. If we can sweeten the one by uncovering the truth about the other, we will have done noble service. We may also have cleared the names of two innocent people wrongly convicted of the murder.’

‘But we are up against such powerful men.’

‘All the more reason to bring them down.’

‘That is a task for the law, not for mere players.’

‘When the law fails, we must seek retribution ourselves.’ He put a comforting arm around his sagging colleague. ‘Take heart, Edmund. This will be one of the most fateful pieces that ever issued from your teeming brain. You will give pleasure to your audience and dispense justice at one and the same time. Hold fast to that thought and the dangers that haunt you will fade to distant shadows.’

‘You are right,’ decided Hoode. ‘I must be brave.’

‘We are too far in to turn back now.’

Nicholas spent the next ten minutes in bolstering his friend’s sense of purpose. Hoode’s commitment was pivotal. They could expect wild protest from Barnaby Gill but he could usually be overruled by Lawrence Firethorn. If the comedian persevered with his objections, they could even present the play without him. Edmund Hoode, however, was quite indispensable. It was for this reason that Nicholas had been appointed as his keeper. He sensed that it would be a difficult assignment.

When he next looked out across the water, Nicholas saw that they were approaching the royal dockyards at Deptford. The jumble of storehouses, slipways, sawpits, masthouses and cranes brought a mixture of nostalgia and regret. It was a long time since he sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the globe but the experience was tattooed on his soul. A first glimpse of The Golden Hind provoked a flurry of memories. It stood on the foreshore in a dry dock for people to gape at, its hull now hacked by a thousand knives in search of a piece of history. Looking at the vessel-still trim and well fitted out-Nicholas found it impossible to believe that so many men had been crammed into such a small space for such an interminable period of time.

Reflection on his past brought a surge of confidence in the future. Drake and his mariners had met with recurring horrors during their three years at sea yet they somehow survived. What kept them going was an indomitable spirit. So it must be with The Roaring Boy. It involved a much shorter voyage, albeit over uncharted water, but it would bring its share of tempests. They had to be withstood at all costs. Nicholas must regard the attack at the Eagle and Serpent as simply the first squall. It was vital for Westfield’s Men to combat hostile elements and keep the ship on course until they could bring it into port.

Simon Chaloner was waiting at Greenwich to escort them to the house and to prepare them for their meeting with Emilia Brinklow. They walked together along the main street.

‘I beg you to show all due care,’ he said.

‘Is the lady unwell?’ asked Hoode.

‘In mind but not in body. She grieves. Be gentle.’

‘We shall,’ said Nicholas. ‘But there are some personal matters which we must broach with her. Issues on which even you have been unable to satisfy us.’

‘All I ask is that you proceed with caution.’

Nicholas Bracewell wondered what sort of fragile woman Emilia Brinklow must be to require such delicate handling. Simon Chaloner was patently a robust young man with an extrovert streak in his nature. Could he really be drawn to the frail being that his description of Emilia had conjured up? Had she been told of the perils that attended The Roaring Boy? Or was he deliberately keeping her ignorant of them?

When they reached the house, they paused to look up at its facade. Edmund Hoode was frankly impressed.

‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘So neat, so symmetrical.’

‘Thomas took a hand in its design,’ explained Chaloner. ‘First and foremost, he was a mathematician. All that you see around you will be geometrically exact.’

‘A remarkable building,’ said Hoode, marvelling at the size and scope of the place. ‘I had no idea that there was so much money in mathematics.’

‘Thomas was a genius.’

‘A renowned engineer, too, I believe,’ said Nicholas. ‘Did he not design naval equipment for the royal dockyards?’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. ‘There was no limit to his abilities. He worked with distinction in many fields. You will catch something of his personality here. The imprint of Thomas Brinklow is on every part of the house and garden.’ He remembered something and became brisk. ‘Come, gentlemen. Emilia is waiting in the arbour to meet you. Please bear in mind what I told you.’

They followed him to a side-gate and went around the house to the long, rectangular garden at the rear. It was laid out with mathematical precision and kept in immaculate condition. Straight paths bisected well-groomed lawns. Flowers and shrubs grew in orderly beds. Every tree seemed to have been put in the perfect location. Wide stone steps led up to an arbour at the far end of the garden that was screened off from the house by a series of concentric hedges. The pattern envisaged by Thomas Brinklow had been brought scrupulously to life.

Emilia was seated on a bench in the arbour, talking to the maidservant. As soon as she heard the visitors, Agnes turned to give them a polite curtsey before hurrying back in the direction of the house. Simon Chaloner placed a gentle kiss on Emilia’s hand, then raised her to her feet to perform the introductions. She was poised but taciturn, bestowing wan smiles of welcome on the two men before resuming her seat. Chaloner indicated that the visitors should sit down before lowering himself on to the bench beside Emilia. Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode had no choice but to take up a position diametrically opposite. Mathematics quashed even the slightest rebellion against order.

‘It is kind of you to invite us here,’ said Nicholas politely, ‘and we do appreciate it. We will not take up any more of your time than is necessary.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied.

Hoode tried to speak but his lips betrayed him. So struck was he by the pallid loveliness of Emilia Brinklow that he was bereft of words. The playwright was no stranger to beauty. Having dedicated much of his life to the futile pursuit of feminine charms, he felt that it was a subject in which he had acquired some painful expertise but here was someone who broke through the boundaries even of his wide experience. Emilia Brinklow was wholly enchanting. Dressed in a dark green satin that blended with the lawns, she wore blue hat and gloves to complement the tiny blue shoes that peeped out below the hem of her skirt. A single piece of jewellery-a pendant ruby-sparkled against the divine whiteness of her neck. Edmund Hoode was instantly vanquished.

Nicholas Bracewell was as much interested in her manner as her appearance. She was composed and watchful. Though her fiance sat beside her by way of defence, she did not look as if she was in need of his assistance. Hoode might find her demure but Nicholas detected a quiet self-possession. Emilia Brinklow was by no means the shrinking violet of report.

She weighed the two of them up for a few moments, then spoke with soft urgency.

‘The play will be performed, will it not?’

‘They have sworn that it will, my dear,’ said Chaloner.

‘Let me hear it from them.’

‘Westfield’s Men will present it,’ croaked Hoode.

‘When it is ready for the stage,’ said Nicholas. ‘And that can only be when we have plumbed its full depth. There is still much that we do not understand.’

She met his gaze. ‘I will help you in any way I can.’

‘Within reason,’ said Chaloner. ‘Let us begin.’

Nicholas turned to Hoode. ‘Edmund is our playwright. He it is who must put words into the mouths of the characters and flesh on the bones of the plot. Hear him speak first.’

Hoode’s voice faltered as he gazed on Emilia Brinklow.

‘The Roaring Boy is an uncommonly good play.’

‘Your high opinion is very gratifying,’ she said.

‘Who wrote the piece?’

‘A friend.’

‘May we know his name?’

‘He prefers to hand over his work to Westfield’s Men.’

‘And take no credit?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Then he is a most peculiar author.’

‘These are most peculiar circumstances.’

‘In what way?’

‘I have explained all this to Nicholas,’ said Chaloner with some asperity. ‘We do not have to go over old ground again. I gathered the material from which the playwright wove the fabric of The Roaring Boy. Neither of us seeks public acknowledgement. Take the piece and make it work.’

‘It is not as simple as that,’ observed Hoode. ‘I can match the style of any author when I am acquainted with him. If he is anonymous, my task is far more difficult. Tell me at least something about my co-author. Is this, for instance, a first play or has he written others for the stage?’

‘A first play,’ said Emilia crisply.

‘A worthy effort indeed for any novice.’

‘He has always loved the theatre,’ said Chaloner, ‘and has sat on the benches at the Queen’s Head many a time.’

‘Then why miss the performance of his own play?’

‘He has his reasons.’

Hoode turned back to Emilia. ‘He knew your brother?’

‘As well as anyone alive,’ she said.

‘That play was written by someone who admired him.’

‘Admired and loved him.’

‘Everyone loved Thomas Brinklow,’ said Chaloner, cutting in once more. ‘He was the most civilised and personable man on God’s earth. Kindness itself to those fortunate enough to be his friends. It was impossible not to love him.’ His face darkened. ‘Yet he inspired hatred in someone and it cost him his life. That is what has brought all of us here today.’

Nicholas Bracewell disagreed. The murder had bonded them together but it was Simon Chaloner himself who had organised the interview with Emilia Brinklow in Greenwich and who was presiding over it with such vigilance. Nicholas waited patiently as Edmund Hoode tried to prise further information out of her but the interrogation was woefully half-hearted. The playwright was so manifestly in awe of Emilia that he was quite unable to pursue any line of questioning with the polite tenacity required. Whenever Hoode did ask something of real importance, Simon Chaloner jumped in to deflect him.

It was a skillful performance but it did not deceive Nicholas Bracewell. He recognised stage management. As long as Chaloner was at her side, there was no hope of gaining vital new facts from Emilia Brinklow. Nicholas somehow had to speak with her alone. He, too, was acutely aware of her charms, noting with surprise how the deep sadness in her eyes only served to enhance her beauty. Though Chaloner’s love for her was open, she was too locked up in her distress to show him any real affection. Behind her quiet dignity, however, Nicholas saw flashes of a keen intelligence.

Conscious of his scrutiny, she responded with a smile.

‘You are strangely silent, sir.’

‘Edmund speaks for both of us.’

‘Do you have nothing to say for yourself?’

‘Nicholas has already questioned me a dozen times,’ said Chaloner with a laugh. ‘Do not unleash him on us again, Emilia. He is a terrier for the truth.’

‘What does he wish to ask?’ she wondered.

‘How word of this play leaked out to others,’ said Nicholas. ‘You and Master Chaloner are patently discreet and we have been careful to divulge nothing of our association with The Roaring Boy. Yet the secrecy has been breached. How?’

Her face clouded. ‘In all honesty, we do not know.’

‘But it is one of the reasons that we have met out here in this arbour,’ said Chaloner. ‘Walls have ears. The house itself listens to all that we say.’

‘You have a spy in the camp?’ said Nicholas.

‘No!’ denied Emilia hotly. ‘I will not conceive of such an idea. The entire household is loyal. Thomas engaged most of the staff himself. They would not betray us.’

‘Someone did,’ noted Chaloner, ‘and that enforces the utmost caution on our part. At least, we are safe out here. Nobody will be able to eavesdrop on us in this isolated part of the garden.’

A mere six yards away, Valentine laughed silently to himself. He had merged his ugliness with floral abundance to become part of nature itself. Deep in his lair, the gardener could hear every word that they spoke. He was intrigued.