The Roaring Boy

Chapter Five

After lying dormant for some days the, raging toothache awoke to turn breakfast at the Firethorn household into an ordeal for everyone concerned. Apart from his wife and children, the four apprentices from Westfield’s Men also lived with the actor-manager so they, too, sat around the table as mute witnesses to his suffering, deprived of any appetite themselves by his blood-curdling howls of anguish. Lawrence Firethorn’s bad tooth was a burden that they all shared. Margery once again advocated extraction but her husband would not even countenance the notion, preferring to endure intermittent torture rather than submit himself to the pincers of a surgeon. When she pressed him hard on the matter, he insisted that he suddenly felt much better and that his mouth would even permit the introduction of a little moistened food. The first bite had him roaring louder than ever.

At the Queen’s Head later that day, Firethorn wisely restricted himself to a cup of Canary wine. It soothed his swollen gum and calmed his throbbing tooth. Owen Elias was on hand to activate the pain in both once more.

‘A lighted candle,’ he recalled.

‘Candle?’ repeated Firethorn.

‘He held the palm of my hand over it.’

‘Who did?’

‘The surgeon.’

‘Why?’

‘So that he burned my skin.’

‘You went to a surgeon to be set alight?’

‘No, Lawrence,’ said the Welshman with a chuckle. ‘I needed to have a bad tooth pulled. That rogue of a surgeon distracted my attention. I was so taken up with the injury to my hand that I hardly noticed him pulling out the tooth until it was too late. One sharp pain disguised another.’

Firethorn’s mouth felt as if a hundred candles had just been lit inside it to be carried in procession by a choir of chanting surgeons. A sip of Canary wine only seemed to make the flames burn brighter. It was at this point, when the actor-manager most needed sympathy and succour, that Barnaby Gill joined his colleagues at their table in the taproom. Lowering himself on to the settle, he dispensed with the civilities and came straight to the point.

‘I will not act in this lunatic venture,’ he said.

‘We do not expect you to act, Barnaby,’ teased Owen Elias. ‘Simply stand there as usual and say what few lines you can remember. We act in the play-you merely appear.’

‘Cease this levity. I speak in earnest.’

‘Lower your voice, man.’

‘Why?’

‘Out of respect for the dead.’

Gill started. ‘Another of our company has died?’

‘Lawrence’s tooth. It will pass away any minute.’

‘Not if you keep prodding at it, you torturer!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘We are here to discuss business, not to talk of surgeons with lighted candles. God’s blood! If my tooth were sound, I’d use it to bite off your mocking face! No more of it, Owen. Let us hear Barnaby out before we answer him.’

‘You have heard all,’ said Gill. ‘I say nay.’

‘When you have not even read the play?’

‘I do not need to, Lawrence. It spells disaster.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘For our rivals. If The Roaring Boy is but half the success it deserves to be, Westfield’s Men will rise head and shoulders above the other companies.’

‘We already do that,’ argued Firethorn.

‘This play will let us eclipse them completely.’

‘It is the road to Bedlam,’ said Gill. ‘When I consider its subject, every part about me quivers.’

‘That is only fitting,’ said Firethorn. ‘It should make you quiver with excitement, Barnaby.’

‘I shake with fear.’

‘You should glow with pride.’

‘I shudder with disgust.’

‘This play is the sword of justice.’

‘It will cut down the lot of us.’

‘Not if we wield it ourselves,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Westfield’s Men will hold the slicing edge of death.’

Lawrence Firethorn did not regret taking the Welshman into their confidence. The attack on Nicholas Bracewell was a grim warning. Apart from the book holder himself, nobody had such skill in arms as Owen Elias. His belligerence could be trying at times but it was a source of comfort now. The victor in a score of tavern brawls, he lent strength as well as experience to Westfield’s Men. For this reason, it was wise to keep him informed of every development relating to The Roaring Boy. Like the actor-manager, Elias was outraged by the injuries sustained by his beloved friend and longed for the opportunity to avenge each blow struck at Nicholas. He would be a most effective guard dog.

Barnaby Gill, by contrast, had no stomach for a fight.

‘We court unnecessary peril,’ he bleated.

‘Think of the prize that awaits us,’ said Firethorn.

‘Violent assault.’

‘Righting a grave wrong.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Bringing a villain to the scaffold. Publishing his wickedness to the whole world.’

‘He will not stand idly by while we do that.’

‘Of course not,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘We will be hounded and harrassed at every turn but we must not give in. Our safety lies in our unity. Hold fast together and we can withstand the onslaught of the Devil himself.’

‘I want nothing whatsoever to do with the play,’ said Gill impetuously. ‘I wash my hands of it forthwith.’

‘A Pontius Pilate in our ranks!’

Owen Elias grunted. ‘A Judas, more like!’

‘Very well,’ said Firethorn with uncharacteristic calm. ‘Withdraw into your ivory tower, Barnaby. Shun your fellows. Spurn this heaven-sent chance to turn Westfield’s Men into agents of the law. You can be spared, sir. Indeed, your decision brings relief. If truth be told, I was not certain in my mind that you were equal to the task before us.’

‘I am equal to anything!’ retorted the other.

‘This role was beyond even your scope, Barnaby.’

‘Falsehood! Every part is within my compass.’

‘Even that of a hapless mathematician, who is foully murdered by hired villains? No, it is too heavy a load for you to bear. Stay with your clowning and your comical jigs. They place no great strain on your art.’

‘What are you telling me, Lawrence?’

‘That you release us from vexation,’ said Firethorn. ‘Had you played in The Roaring Boy, the leading part would have fallen to you.’

‘Thomas Brinklow?’

‘The same.’

‘Would not you have seized upon the role?’

‘Indeed not. I am satisfied with Freshwell, the roaring boy himself. He lords it in the title of the play but Brinklow carries the piece. Edmund spoke strongly on your behalf but I was not minded to accept his judgement. You have rescued me from that dilemma. Stand aside.’

‘Not so fast, Lawrence.’

‘Does that mean I am Thomas Brinklow?’ asked Elias.

‘You were my choice at the start, Owen.’

‘The matter is not yet settled,’ said Gill quickly.

‘But you deserted us even now,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are frighted out of the project. I heard you say as much. So did Owen here.’ He gave the Welshman a sly wink to ensure his complicity. ‘What was it that he said?’

‘That he will not act in this lunatic venture.’

‘Nor will I,’ said Gill, folding his arms in a posture of indifference. After a moment’s reflection, however, he weakened visibly. ‘Unless certain conditions are met.’

‘You have surrendered the role,’ said Firethorn, working on the other’s pride. ‘It goes to Owen. He needs to impose no conditions on the company.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Had old Ben Skeat still been with us, I would have offered the part to him. Ben would have been a noble Thomas Brinklow.’

‘Why, so will I,’ asserted Gill.

‘He had the authority. The dignity.’

‘So do I, so do I.’

‘Ben Skeat would have anchored the play securely.’

‘He did not anchor The Corrupt Bargain securely,’ said Gill with a rueful glare. ‘Had we relied on him, we would have drifted on to the rocks. It was I who saved the day. I who proved my mettle. I who led the company. Where was Ben Skeat then? Beyond recall!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Thomas Brinklow must first be offered to me. I have all the qualities of the man. If Edmund can but find me a song or two in the role, I will consider it afresh. Good day, sirs. That is all the parlay that I will permit.’

It was enough. Barnaby Gill was caught in their net. Owen Elias expressed token disappointment at the loss of a part he had never expected to play and Firethorn feigned reluctance but the two men had achieved their objective. Barnaby Gill would act in The Roaring Boy. When the comedian strutted out of the taproom, Lawrence Firethorn turned to his companion with a whoop of delight.

‘It worked, Owen!’

‘We played him like a fish on a line.’

‘I talk of the lighted candle.’

‘When that surgeon burned my hand?’

‘One agony drove out another,’ said Firethorn. ‘The pain of dealing with Barnaby’s vanity has quite taken away my toothache. He was the flame that distracted me. It is a blessing. I am recovered to give my full attention to the challenge of The Roaring Boy.

‘All we need now is the play itself,’ said Owen.

Firethorn emptied his cup. ‘Put trust in our fellows. Edmund Hoode is no inquisitor but Nick Bracewell will dig out the truth. Our book holder will not leave Greenwich until he has sifted every detail of this endeavour.’

***

Nicholas Bracewell became increasingly fascinated with Emilia Brinklow. His first impression of her was slowly ratified. The sedate figure on the bench opposite was patently still mourning the loss of her brother but she was not prostrated by grief. There was an air of cool detachment about her and she was evidently in control of her situation. When Agnes brought refreshment for the visitors, Emilia thanked the maidservant and gave her crisp new instructions. When the assistant gardeners strayed too close to the arbour, she despatched them with a glance. Thomas Brinklow had died but his sister was more than able to run the establishment in his stead. House and garden were being maintained in the way that he himself had designated.

Having exhausted enquiries about the play, and the facts underlying it, Edmund Hoode stared at her with open-mouthed infatuation. His commitment to the project was now complete. Two hours in the garden with Emilia Brinklow had turned The Roaring Boy into the most exhilarating work of his career. Simon Chaloner manoeuvred them around to more neutral topics, believing that he had safely brought her through what could have been a harrowing encounter for her. He was still congratulating himself on his adroit management of the interview when Emilia herself supplanted him.

She turned a searching gaze upon Nicholas Bracewell.

‘You are not happy, I think.’

‘Our visit has been a most pleasant event,’ he said.

‘Yet it has left you feeling disappointed.’

‘No!’ said Hoode gallantly. ‘There is no disappointment on my side. I was never more content in my life.’

Her eyes never left Nicholas. ‘Your friend does not share your contentment, I fear. Do you, sir?’

Nicholas felt oddly discomfited by her inspection. He wished that his face were not so bruised and found himself wanting to appear before her at his best rather than in such a battered condition. At the same time, he noted an interest on her part that went beyond mere curiosity. She was sitting with one man who loved her and another who adored her on sight yet her attention was fixed solely on Nicholas.

‘Something is puzzling you, is it not?’ she said.

‘No, Emilia,’ said Chaloner, trying to seize the initiative once more. ‘We have been through every aspect of the case. There is nothing left to discuss. Let me show our visitors the spot where the hideous deed took place, then they can make their way back to London.’

‘Do not rush our guests away so fast, Simon.’

‘But Edmund is eager to resume work on the play.’

‘Indeed, I am,’ said Hoode willingly.

‘We must not detain them, Emilia.’

‘Something must first be resolved,’ she said, her gaze still on Nicholas. ‘I still await your answer.’

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Many things puzzle me.’

‘Tell me what they are.’ Her hand shot up as Chaloner sought to intervene. ‘Leave this to me, Simon. I do not need your protection. I have nothing to hide.’

‘Why do you not appear in the play?’ said Nicholas.

‘Because I was not involved in the murder.’

‘Indirectly, you were. Through Sir John Tarker.’

‘That was a distressing episode that I have tried to forget. My brother was not killed because of me. Other reasons prompted his death. If the play brings the real villain to light, we shall learn what those reasons were.’

‘Emilia Brinklow should still be a character in the action,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘Thomas would then have someone in whom he could confide his worries about his wife. I am sure that Edmund could write some touching scenes between brother and sister.’

‘It would be an honour!’ said the playwright.

‘But it would also confuse the audience,’ rejoined Emilia. ‘Their sympathy must be wholly with Thomas. He must command the stage. If I am dragged into the story, I will draw away attention that rightly belongs to my brother. They will feel sorry for me when they should be saving all their pity and compassion for Thomas.’

Hoode purred with admiration. ‘A sound reason!’

‘And one that I accept,’ said Nicholas graciously, not wishing to pursue an argument he could never win. ‘We will keep Emilia Brinklow in our minds but out of the play.’

‘Thank you.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come with me.’

‘Where are you going, Emilia?’ said Chaloner anxiously.

‘To show him something.’

‘I can conduct them both to the place.’

‘We will go alone. I wish for private conference.’

Chaloner was bewildered by her decision but he did not contest it further. Seeing his distress, she put a consoling hand on his shoulder before leading Nicholas up the garden in the direction of the house.

‘Simon watches over me too closely,’ she explained.

‘Why?’

‘He fears for my safety.’ She turned to look up into his face. ‘You have seen for yourself how dangerous is our situation. I am truly sorry that you suffered a beating.’ Her voice faltered slightly. ‘You have such a kind face. It reminds me of Thomas. I hate to see such injuries on it.’

‘You know of the attack, then?’

‘Simon tells me everything. He has spoken well of you and holds you in high esteem. That is a compliment.’

‘I am duly flattered by it,’ said Nicholas, ‘and even more so by your trust in me. Master Chaloner is indeed fortunate to be betrothed to such a lady.’

She gave him an enigmatic smile, then led him along the path through the trees. They came around the angle of a hawthorn hedge and were confronted by the rear of the house. Nicholas stopped in surprise when he saw the fire damage.

‘What was that building?’

‘My brother’s laboratory and workshop. Thomas virtually lived there. There never was a man so wedded to his work.’

‘When was it burned down?’

‘The same night that he was killed.’

‘Who started the fire?’

‘We do not know,’ she said. ‘The villains who murdered him, we believe. His life’s work was in that laboratory. It was destroyed as cruelly as he himself.’

‘Why?’

‘They were vindictive men.’

‘Then why not burn down the whole house?’

‘We can only guess.’

Nicholas looked down at her and inhaled her fragrance. Seated in the arbour, she was handsome and composed. Seen in close proximity, however, her beauty was far more striking. He felt a distant envy of Simon Chaloner. There was something about Emilia Brinklow which set her apart from the common run and he could not quite decide what it was. All he knew was that it made her infinitely appealing. When he had parted company with his beloved Anne Hendrik, he feared that he would never meet her like again yet Emilia Brinklow had many of Anne’s qualities, allied to features that were all her own. Both of them, he reflected, had been devastated by the loss of a loved one and forced to rebuild their lives. It gave Emilia the same subdued but steely resolve.

Determination made her eyes glint and her jaw tighten.

‘This play gives purpose to my life,’ she said. ‘Simon is a dear man but he is only involved because of his devotion to me. I am the moving spirit here. The Roaring Boy has become my obsession. Can you understand that?’

‘I think so.’

Her voice took on a new intensity. ‘I lost a brother and a sister-in-law in this business. One was murdered by hired killers, the other by judicial process. Cecily was no saint, it is true, but neither was she a murderer. In her own way, I believe, she cared for Thomas.’

‘But it was an unhappy marriage.’

‘They were simply not suited.’

‘Why, then, did they wed?’

Emilia shrugged. ‘It seemed the natural thing to do. Cecily was fond of him and Thomas had great respect for her. Other people kept saying that they were an ideal couple.’

‘Marriage needs more than fondness and respect.’

‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘You have a wife yourself?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘Thomas was a kind husband but Cecily loved another.’

‘Walter Dunne. They paid dearly for their passion.’ He looked at the debris in front of him. ‘What sort of work did your brother do in his laboratory?’

‘Anything and everything,’ she said proudly. ‘Thomas loved all the sciences but his abiding interest was in mathematics. That workshop was his private sanctum. His finest inventions were conceived within those walls.’

‘Inventions?’

‘Thomas had a questing mind. He was always looking for new solutions to old problems. When he was retained by the royal dockyards at Deptford, he designed a compass that was far more reliable than any of its predecessors. An astrolabe, too, if you know what that is.’

‘Most certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I sailed with Drake around the world, so I learned all there is to learn about navigation. An astrolabe is an instrument for measuring the altitude of heavenly bodies, from which latitude and time may be calculated. Your brother invented one, you say?’

‘The best of its kind.’

‘I would dearly like to see that.’

‘His own version perished in the fire with the rest.’

‘A tragedy.’

‘Vindictiveness.’

A look of sudden helplessness came into her eyes.

‘Why did you wish to speak to me alone?’ he asked.

‘Because I feel I can trust you.’

‘Nobody is more trustworthy than Edmund Hoode.’

She shook her head. ‘He can be trusted to refashion the play but you are the only one who can be relied upon to see it staged. Simon is an excellent judge of character and he singles you out.’ A smile danced around her lips. ‘We are not ignorant provincials in Greenwich, sir. When Thomas was alive, we often came to London to see a play. I love the theatre and my brother indulged my taste. Westfield’s Men were always my favourite company.’

‘I’ll tell that to Master Firethorn.’

‘Beg him to present The Roaring Boy.’

‘He will implore you to give us that privilege.’

‘Whatever setbacks, whatever dangers…’

‘It will be staged. I give you my word on it.’

She touched his arm. ‘I knew that I could trust you.’

Voices approached and she stepped back involuntarily. Simon Chaloner came up with Edmund Hoode and the latter reacted with horror to the destruction of the laboratory. Thomas Brinklow had not just been killed. His life’s work had been obliterated. Emilia soon took her leave of them, giving Hoode a smile of gratitude that would keep him happy for days but reserving a more meaningful glance for Nicholas.

Chaloner now took them into the house to view the actual scene of the crime. It was near the foot of the main staircase, a shadowy area even by day. Thomas Brinklow had returned at night to be ambushed in his own home.

‘How did the villains get in here?’ said Nicholas.

‘They must have picked the lock,’ replied Chaloner.

‘Or had a confederate inside the building.’

‘Emilia will not hear of such an idea.’

‘What is your opinion?’

He looked around to make sure that Emilia was not within earshot. ‘This house was well-protected with locks and bolts. Thomas saw to that. They were either given a key or let in.’

‘Did no one hear the commotion?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Agnes, the maidservant. She was awakened by cries and raised the alarm. Not soon enough, alas. Before anyone got downstairs, the killers had made good their escape.’

‘After first setting fire to the laboratory?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘That happened much later in the night. They must have returned to wreak further havoc.’

‘Was the fire not part of Freshwell’s confession?’

‘He admitted the murder. That was enough to hang him.’

Nicholas walked up and down the hallway and tried all the doors to see which was the most likely mode of entry and exit for the two villains.

‘Was Thomas Brinklow a big man?’

‘Big and strong, Nicholas. Something of your build.’

‘He would have fought his attackers?’

‘No question of that.’

It made surprise a vital element in the ambush and that confirmed Nicholas’s feeling that the killers had concealed themselves beneath the staircase. As Thomas Brinklow tried to mount the steps, they must have leapt out and hacked him down from behind. Edmund Hoode stared ghoulishly at the spot where the mathematician fell but Nicholas was concerned to analyse the murder in great detail. He also made a mental note of the setting of the crime for use in the performance of the play itself. Only when he had explored every possibility in the location did he announce that it was time to go.

The visit to Greenwich had been a revelation and his few minutes alone with Emilia Brinklow were invaluable. He and Hoode would have much to debate on their return journey. As he looked around the sumptuous house with its costly furnishings and its air of formal luxury, one question kept nagging away at him. He turned to Simon Chaloner.

‘When did he realise that his marriage was a mistake?’

‘Too late, I fear. Far, far too late.’

‘How did he meet his wife?’

‘At Greenwich Palace. They were introduced by a mutual friend, who often stayed there.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’

‘The Master of the Armoury?’

‘No less.’

‘How did Thomas Brinklow come to know such a man?’

‘He had many friends in high places,’ said Chaloner. ‘His circle of acquaintances was very wide. He dined with Sir Godfrey at the Palace one day when Cecily was also a guest. She warmed to Thomas and showed a keen interest in his work. That is rare among women.’

‘How soon did they marry?’

‘Less than a year after that first meeting. Sir Godfrey was delighted to have played Cupid. At their wedding, he showered them with the most generous gifts. He had a real investment in that marriage.’

‘It gave him a miserable dividend.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘He was mortified. Sir Godfrey Avenell must wish that he never brought them together.’

***

Greenwich Palace was a magnificent structure built around three quadrangles. Faced in red brick and ornamented with pillars, it lay on the bank of the Thames like a giant alligator basking in the sun. A long pier gave access to the river at all states of the tide. The main entrance was through a massive gatehouse which led to the central court. Successive members of the Tudor dynasty had lavished money and affection unstintingly upon their favoured residence and Queen Elizabeth was no exception. Having herself been born in the riverside palace, she always had a special fondness for it and liked nothing more than to spend her summers there, holding court, entertaining foreign dignitaries or watching plays, masques and musical concerts.

She particularly enjoyed the regular tournaments that were held at Greenwich Palace, glittering occasions that would find her seated amid her retinue in the permanent gallery above the tiltyard. Tournaments were immensely popular but exclusively reserved for the elite. Only the rich could afford to take part in an event which imposed enormous costs upon them. Only the very rich could finance such a contest. The Queen’s own father, Henry VIII, once spent?4000 on the Westminster tournament, almost double the cost of his huge warship, The Great Elizabeth. The Tudor monarchy took jousting very seriously.

A lone figure sat in the permanent gallery and surveyed the busy tiltyard. Sir Godfrey Avenell had much to divert him. Greenwich was an ideal place for would-be knights to practice their horsemanship and to hone their technique with the lance. The tilt itself was a permanent wooden fence some one hundred and fifty yards long, gaily painted and defining the nature of combat. It prevented any collision when jousting knights thundered towards each other on horseback on either side of the fixture. It also obliged them to attack an opponent from an angle. Several pairs of knights were in action, some fighting on foot but most taking their turn in the saddle.

Sir Godfrey Avenell watched it all with an imperious air. Dressed in his finery, he cast an expert eye over the proceedings. He had been a keen jouster in his day and still took part in the occasional practice but he left competition in the prestigious Court tournaments to younger and stronger riders. One such man, Sir John Tarker, rode into the tiltyard below and Avenell’s interest quickened. He had good reason for such bias towards the newcomer. The splendid armour worn by Tarker was commissioned and paid for by his friend. Sir Godfrey Avenell was scrutinising his own money.

The Office of the Armoury was based at the Tower of London. As its Master, he operated largely from that base but made frequent visits to Greenwich because the finest armour was made in its workshops. The Green Gallery and the Great Chamber at the palace housed a display of supreme examples of the armourer’s art and Avenell never saw them without wishing that he could take some of the pieces away for his own collection. There was something about their design and craftsmanship that he found truly inspiring.

Leaning forward in his seat, he examined Sir John Tarker’s new suit of armour with meticulous care until he was satisfied that his money had been well spent. The gleaming breastplate was decorated with white and gilt bands into which the Tarker coat-of-arms had been inscribed. The helmet had similar decoration and a latticed visor which protected its owner’s face completely while giving him a fair degree of visibility. The leg armour was beautifully tailored to allow easy movement. Even from that distance, the Master of the Armoury could see that the gauntlets were masterpieces of construction, the left one a manifer or bridle gauntlet, designed to cover hand and lower arm on the exposed side of the jouster.

Sir John Tarker’s destrier was also arrayed. Its shaffron, a superbly moulded piece of armour that covered its forehead, cheeks and nose, allowed clear vision through the flanged eyeholes. A spike projected from the centre of the forehead to give it the appearance of a steel unicorn. The horse also wore a patterned crinet, a section of armour that was attached to the shaffron in order to guard the animal’s neck and mane. During a tournament itself, the destrier would also wear armour plate to protect its chest, crupper and flank but Tarker had dispensed with that during the practice in the interests of speed. Other knights would have baulked at exposing their mounts to unnecessary danger in this way but Tarker was confident that his skill in jousting was a sufficient safeguard for the animal.

Sir Godfrey Avenell was suitably impressed. His man cut a fine figure in the saddle. When he fought in the Accession Day Tournament in November, Sir John Tarker would need to call on his friend for some additional expenditure. Much preparation went into such an illustrious event. A knight had to decide on a theme for his entry into the tiltyard and choose the costumes for himself, his pages, his servants, his lance bearers, his grooms, his trumpeters and any other musicians he hired for extra effect. His horse, too, would require a caparison to match the costumes. Sir Godfrey Avenell had already laid out well over?400 on the suit of armour and its garniture. He was quite happy to meet further exorbitant costs in order to attain the best results.

Sir John Tarker trotted across to him and dipped his lance in acknowledgement. Avenell took a closer inventory.

‘How does the armour feel?’ he said.

‘It fits me like the supplest of leather.’

‘Weight?’

‘Heavy enough to protect, light enough for movement.’

‘Decoration?’

‘Exactly as prescribed.’

‘Total cost?’

‘Murderous!’ They shared a laugh. ‘I am eternally in your debt. Shall I put it to the test?’

‘That is why I am here.’

‘Then watch.’

Sir John Tarker wheeled his horse and spurred it into a canter that took it to the far end of the tiltyard. Reining it in, he swung round once more to face his opponent, a burly knight in dark armour, sitting astride a powerful black destrier that was drumming the turf with its hooves. Tarker’s reputation frightened away many combatants but this man clearly had courage enough for the encounter and confidence enough in his own ability. He adjusted his shield, lifted his lance and made ready.

The preliminaries were soon over. When the signal was given, the two riders jabbed their horses into action and pounded towards each other on either side of the tilt. Sir Godfrey Avenell respected the challenger’s skill but knew it would be unequal to the task. Sir John Tarker was a masterly jouster. His mount was steered at the right pace, his lance and shield held at the correct angles. The long pummelling approach ended in a momentary clash of metal. Tarker’s shield deflected the oncoming lance while his own weapon found a tiny gap in the defence and struck his adversary full in the chest. Since the lance was rebated, its blunt end did not damage the breastplate but the man was promptly unseated and Sir Godfrey Avenell rocked with appreciative laughter.

Tarker reined in his horse again and trotted back to the fallen rider with token concern. Pages were already running to the latter’s assistance.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, Sir John,’ said the other breathlessly, as they helped him up. ‘My pride only has been wounded.’

‘Will you remount and engage me a second time?’

‘I will not. Find some other fool to challenge you.’

Tarker grinned behind his visor. ‘They are frighted.’

‘Who can blame them? You have no peer as a jouster. A man with your skills could look to be Queen’s Champion.’

‘I do, believe me. I do.’

Pleased with his performance and wanting approbation from the source he respected most, Tarker took his horse across to the gallery once more. He flicked up his visor so that he could see Sir Godfrey Avenell more clearly and enjoy the latter’s praise. His friend, however, was no longer beaming down at the tiltyard. He was reading a letter, which had just been handed to him by a servant. The frown of alarm became a scowl of anger as he scrunched up the missive in his hand. Rising to his feet, he fixed Tarker with a venomous glare and pointed an accusatory finger.

‘You failed me again!’ he snarled.

‘How?’

‘You swore the matter was dead and buried.’

‘What matter?’ He realised the subject of the letter and spluttered. ‘It is. We may forget the whole thing.’

‘We may but Westfield’s Men will not.’

‘Westfield’s Men?’

‘Two of their number visited a house in Greenwich but yesterday,’ said Avenell. ‘One was their playwright and the other was this Nicholas Bracewell whom your men, you assured me, had beaten into submission.’

‘They did!’ asserted Tarker. ‘On my honour, they did!’

‘You failed.’

‘That is not so!’

‘You failed miserably,’ said Avenell with scorn. ‘I give you a simple task and you let me down. Does such an imbecile deserve the brightest armour from the workshops? Has such a bungler any call on my friendship?’

‘I did but as you urged me,’ said Tarker hurriedly. ‘If there is some fault, it is not of my making. Blame the fools I hired. They promised me they had all but finished this Nicholas Bracewell. They lied to me, the rogues. I’ll have the hide off their backs for this.’

‘I’ll have the armour off yours!’ snarled Avenell. ‘If you do not wipe up this mess you have made-and that with all celerity-I’ll turn Sir John Tarker into the poorest knight in Christendom. You’ll be jousting at the Accession Tournament in fustian on the back of a donkey. The Queen’s Champion indeed! They will hail you as the Queen’s Champion jester!’

***

Westfield’s Men were steeped in affliction and seasoned by regular crisis but the next ten days brought pressures of an intensity that even they had not known before. The whole company was in a state of muted desperation. Stimulated to a fever pitch of creation by his visit to Greenwich, Edmund Hoode worked tirelessly on The Roaring Boy, wholly convinced of its importance and buttressed by thoughts of winning the approval of Emilia Brinklow. He still acted in the current offerings at the Queen’s Head but no longer stayed for a celebratory drink after a performance. Within half an hour of quitting the stage, he was back at his post in the lodging he shared with Nicholas Bracewell.

The book holder himself rarely left Hoode’s side. He helped him, advised him and guaranteed his safety. Given the proper space in which to work, the playwright blossomed. Owen Elias was a second line of defence, watching over his friends from a distance and ready to ward off any attack. The rest of the company were also schooled in the basic elements of security. Convinced that Westfield’s Men might be ambushed at any moment, Lawrence Firethorn counselled them to stay in groups at all times and to remain alert.

But the expected assault never came. The Roaring Boy was allowed to grow from a halting drama into a fullfledged play. The actors did not, however, relax. They felt that they had merely been given a stay of execution and that the axe would fall on them in time. Nicholas Bracewell wondered if its enemies planned to scupper the play in a more bloodless fashion. Every new work had first to be read by the Master of the Revels before it was licensed for performance. If Sir John Tarker had some influence at court, he might well use it to have the play banned. To guard against that eventuality, Nicholas suggested a counteraction.

‘It must be twofold,’ he told Firethorn.

‘Speak on, Nick.’

‘The Roaring Boy must not mention Sir John Tarker by name or that will invite censorship for sure. Edmund will devise a suitable disguise for the character. Nobody will hear the name of Tarker but everyone will recognise it.’

‘What is your other strategy?’

‘We make use of our patron, Lord Westfield.’

‘In what way?’

‘He is a personal friend of the Master of the Revels.’

‘True. He and Sir Edmund Tilney often dine together.’

‘We must ask Lord Westfield to submit The Roaring Boy on our behalf,’ said Nicholas. ‘A word from him in the ear of a boon companion may get the piece read and licensed much sooner than would otherwise be the case.’

‘Your advice as ever is sound.’

Nicholas took the opportunity to grasp another nettle. ‘Let me add more of a personal nature.’

‘Personal?’

‘Have your tooth pulled by a surgeon,’ said Nicholas. ‘A little pain now will spare you a lot of agony in the future. You claim that the discomfort has gone but that swelling in your cheek argues the contrary case.’

‘Leave my tooth alone. It is not relevant here.’

‘It is if it keeps you off the stage again.’

‘It will not!’ snapped Firethorn, feeling a menacing tingle in his gum. ‘Simply forget my toothache and it will go away. Stoke up the fire with constant carping about it and my mouth is an inferno. You mean well, Nick, I know that. But your concern is unfounded. Trust me, dear heart. A dozen bad teeth will not keep me away from The Roaring Boy. They will simply make Freshwell roar all the louder.’

Nicholas Bracewell accepted the promise and backed off.

His strategy with regard to the Master of the Revels was a shrewd one. It was the book holder’s job to take each new drama to Sir Edmund Tilney’s office and pay the fee to have it read. Delays were normal and often very lengthy. Since The Roaring Boy relied on its topicality, it was essential to bring it into the light of day as quickly as possible. Lord Westfield served his players well. A tactful word to his friend and a troublesome play was granted an immediate licence with hardly a line of the work altered.

Edmund Hoode took much of the credit for its apparent harmlessness. Sir John Tarker was featured as The Stranger and accused by inference rather than name. The real power of The Roaring Boy lay not in the lines that were spoken but in the action that went on between them. Hoode had contrived to damn Sir John Tarker in the most visible way possible. There was a cunning reference to the latter’s jousting skills and many other hidden clues that would be instantly recognised by those who knew the knight. His identity would be trumpeted to the skies.

While performances continued to be given at the Queen’s Head in the afternoons, the leading members of the company rehearsed the new play secretly in the evenings. Hired men were not brought into the venture at this point. Their parts were too small to be of significance and Nicholas argued that the fewer people who knew the true substance of The Roaring Boy, the less chance there was of any details of its contents falling into the wrong hands.

Hard work, punishing hours and the constant strain of being on guard inevitably took their toll and frayed tempers occasionally rocked a rehearsal. Barnaby Gill exploded like a powder keg at regular intervals, torn between delight at the leading role he had been assigned and trepidation at the consequences of playing it. But he was always calmed by the others and equilibrium was soon re-established. The Roaring Boy took on real shape and was ready for its premiere well ahead of the original schedule. It was inserted into the company’s programme at once. Lawrence Firethorn supervised the printing of the playbills himself. In sonorous tones, he read one of them out to his fellows.

THE ROARING BOY

Being the Lamentable and True Tragedy

of M. Brinklow of Greenwich

Most wickedly murdered by foul means

Supposedly at the behest of a wanton wife

It was enough to ignite great interest without giving too much away. Whatever else might happen at the performance of the play, Westfield’s Men could rely on getting a large and excitable audience. A savage murder involving an adulterous wife was a cautionary tale that none could resist.

***

Orlando Reeve was less than pleased to be sent back to the Queen’s Head to sit on a crowded bench and endure the stench of horse manure and the stink of the commonalty that rose up in equal parts from a packed courtyard. What increased his dismay was the fact that his pay-master this time was not the bounteous Sir Godfrey Avenell but the tight-fisted Sir John Tarker. While the former loved music, the latter was openly contemptuous of musicians and treated Reeve with a disdain which he found quite intolerable. Tarker’s command could not be ignored, however, so the second ordeal had to be faced.

The play on offer that afternoon was Mirth and Madness but Orlando Reeve was untouched by either. A rumbustious comedy sent the audience into an almost continuous spasm of laughter but the adipose musician remained stony-faced. Only the work of Peter Digby and his consort brought any relief to a grim afternoon for him. When the performance was over, he cornered his old friend in the taproom. Digby was astounded to see him again and wondered why Reeve was so eager to buy him a cup of wine and talk about former times. Not wishing to stay in the noisy tavern any longer than he had to, the visitor swiftly guided the conversation around to The Roaring Boy.

‘I see that you play the murder of Thomas Brinklow.’

‘On Saturday next.’

‘A warning to all men foolish enough to marry.’

‘His wife may not be the villain that you imagine.’

‘Indeed?’

‘She was the victim of a plot conceived by another.’

‘Tell me more of this, Peter.’

‘I may not,’ said Digby, remembering the dire warnings issued by Lawrence Firethorn. ‘I am sworn to secrecy. We have enemies all around us and have built a wall of silence to keep them at bay. But this I may tell you. The Roaring Boy will blaze across the stage. Westfield’s Men have not had such a play in years.’

‘Does it have songs and dances?’

‘All our work contains those, Orlando.’

‘And incidental music between scenes?’

‘I have composed it all.’

‘What yet remains to exercise your talents?’

‘A tuneful setting for the ballad.’

‘Ballad?’

‘It begins the play,’ said Digby, ‘and tells what lies ahead. It is a simple enough task to match it to music but I have not yet found the trick of it. I am too bound up with composition of a more serious kind to master the ballad-maker’s art.’

‘Perhaps I may help,’ volunteered the oleaginous Reeve.

‘It is beneath the dignity of a Court musician.’

‘Not so. I turned my hand to ballads in younger days. Give me but the first verse, then hum your tunes for me. I’ll help you choose the one most apt.’ He poured the hesitating Digby another cup of wine and gave him a flabby grin. ‘Come, Peter. One verse will break no solemn vow of secrecy. I come to you as a fellow-musician. Sing it in my ear.’

***

Saturday finally dawned and brought with it the prospect of release from the appalling tensions that had built up within the company. The stage was set up in the yard of the Queen’s Head and an attenuated rehearsal held that morning. Lawrence Firethorn did not wish to reveal anything to prying eyes. He simply walked his cast through the play to familiarise them with their movement around the boards and to acquaint them with the scenic devices that would be used. Hired men were slotted into minor parts for the first time. It was such a fraught occasion that they were grateful to Barnaby Gill when his spectacular fit helped to clear the air.

Forearmed against danger from without, Nicholas Bracewell also had to cope with a hazard from within. Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, enjoyed a nervous relationship with Westfield’s Men, believing that actors were little better than wild goats and that he never ought to place either his tavern or his nubile daughter within their lustful reach. He was a small, ageing, restless man with hollow cheek and haunted eyes. A few last strands of greasy hair still remained, not knowing whether to cling to the lost cause of his mottled skull or to fling themselves into the void after their fellows.

When Marwood scurried across his yard, his face was simultaneously twitching in three distinct areas. With an unerring instinct for misfortune, he could smell calamity in the air. His arms gesticulated wildly.

‘You bring trouble into my yard, Master Bracewell.’

‘We bring the biggest audience we have had for many a week and thereby put extra money in your purse.’

‘The Roaring Boy alarms me.’

‘Why?’

‘I do not know but I feel it in my bones.’

‘We cannot choose our plays to appease your anatomy.’

‘More’s the pity!’ said Marwood, as the three separate twitches met in the middle of his face to make his nose tremble violently. ‘I had this same presentiment before The Devil’s Ride Through London and what happened, sir? You all but burned my tavern to the ground.’

‘No fire is used in this play. You are safe.’

‘From conflagration, maybe. But what of the fire in the play’s subject? May not that flare up and scorch us?’

Nicholas calmed him with a mixture of argument and assurance but the book holder was by no means as confident as he sounded. The landlord, for once, had scented danger where it genuinely existed. Once it started, The Roaring Boy would be walking a tightrope between hope and terror.

The atmosphere in the tiring-house was as taut as a bowstring. As the hour of performance edged nearer, the whole company fell prey to niggling anxiety. Barnaby Gill gave way to bitter recrimination, Edmund Hoode flew into a sudden panic at the thought that Emilia Brinklow would be among the spectators to judge both him and his work, Owen Elias grew more pugnacious than ever and Lawrence Firethorn-intending to rally them with a high-flown speech that stressed the significance of the event before them-only succeeded in disseminating more unease. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to lead by example with the quiet efficiency which had become his hallmark.

‘Stand by, my lads!’ said Firethorn. ‘We are there!’

The bell in the nearby clocktower chimed twice and the performance began. As the consort played the introductory music, the spectators gave a concerted cheer. Packed into the yard and crammed into the benches, they positively buzzed with anticipation. The murder of such a decent and upright man as Thomas Brinklow was an emotive subject and their passions were already stirred. The Roaring Boy had no need to warm up an audience already simmering in the sunshine.

Simon Chaloner sat in the lower gallery beside Emilia Brinklow. He scanned the benches all around him for signs of danger but her attention never left the stage. This was the moment of truth for her. When Simon felt her tremble, he took her hand in his and found the little palm moist. Grateful for his love and support, Emilia tossed him a little smile, then watched the stage with beating heart.

Instead of the expected Prologue, the penitent figure of Cecily Brinklow stepped out from behind the arras. Richard Honeydew wore the plain dress, in which he would later go to his death, and an auburn wig. With cosmetic aid, the young apprentice was a most attractive and convincing wife. As a lute played in the gallery above him, he sang his ballad with a tearful simplicity that all but hushed the audience.

Ah me, vile wretch, that ever I was born,

Making myself unto the world a scorn;

And to my friends and kindred all a shame,

Blotting their blood by my unhappy name.

Unto a gentleman of wealth and fame,

(One Master Brinklow, he was called by name)

I wedded was to this man of great renown,

Living at Greenwich, close to London town.

This husband dear, my heart he fully won,

Until I met again with Walter Dunne,|

Whose sugared tongue, good shape and lovely look,

Soon stole my heart, and Brinklow’s love forsook.

The remorseful wife was not alone on stage for long. As each new character was mentioned in the plaintive song, he or she stepped out to take up position in a carefully arranged tableau. Spectators soon recovered their voices. Thomas Brinklow set off a ripple of sympathy and Walter Dunne was greeted with a hiss of anger, but it was the murderers themselves who provoked the loudest response. When Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias skulked on to the stage as Freshwell and Maggs, respectively, they were met with concerted abuse. Pictures of wickedness in their ragged garb, the two actors played on the spectators with roars of defiance and increased the general ire by making obscene gestures at them. Here were no wretched penitents. They were villains who clearly revelled in their villainy.

Cecily Brinklow waited for the uproar to abate before she sung verses that offered a whole new perspective on tragic events in a house in Greenwich.

The world reviles for e’er my hated name,

With Walter Dunne, I bear eternal blame.

But though we sinned together through the night,

To murder did we nobody incite.

Another hand unleashed these evil scrags

(The one called Freshwell, and the other Maggs)This cruel man had Thomas killed stone dead

But Walter Dunne and I hanged in his stead.

Who this foul demon is, our play will tell,

He dwells in London here but comes from hell.

Call him The Stranger until his face you espy.

Send him to the gallows to hang up high.

There was a gasp of disbelief as Edmund Hoode strode on to the stage in a long black cloak with a hat pulled down over his eyes. For the vast majority of those present, The Stranger was a sensational new element in the story. Could the law really have hanged Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne for a crime they did not commit? Was the play going to offer fresh evidence that would exonerate them and incriminate the dark figure on the stage? Who was the Stranger and why would he wish to have Thomas Brinklow so viciously killed?

Simon Chaloner was chilled by the sinister entrance of the newcomer. Emilia Brinklow stifled a cry with the back of her hand. Both of them marvelled at Edmund Hoode’s skill as an actor. The moon-faced playwright had been turned into a stealthy figure of doom. What neither of them realised was that the Stranger himself was sitting above them in the upper gallery, lurking in a shadowed corner and already smarting with discomfort. Sir John Tarker watched it all with growing frenzy.

With the ballad over, the play unfolded in a series of short but effective scenes. Thomas Brinklow was first seen at home with his wife, bestowing rich gifts upon her as a token of his undying love. Barnaby Gill floated joyously on the waves of sympathy that came rolling towards him. The first meeting between Cecily and Walter Dunne aroused fresh hisses of disgust but the adulterous couple were no longer condemned out of hand. In the light of the ballad, the audience was at least now ready to suspend judgement for a while.

The Stranger came to the house in Greenwich as a friend but departed as a sworn enemy. What caused the intemperate row with Thomas Brinklow was not made clear but the Stranger’s vile threats left nobody in any doubt about his intentions. When he engaged the services of Freshwell and Maggs, all three of them were subjected to the most ear-splitting denigration from the onlookers. Lawrence Firethorn had to use the full force of his voice to rise above it.

Murder was to be followed by malicious deceit. Having instigated the killing, the Stranger plotted the arrest and conviction of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. It was when he explained that they would be caught in flagrante that the real explosion came. Sir John Tarker could endure no more. He gave the signal to his confederates and they acted with promptness. Freshwell was in the middle of a drunken speech of praise for the Stranger when a member of the audience clambered up on to the stage to wave a club at him. One roaring boy was suddenly confronted by another.

The standees bayed at the interloper but they soon had a more immediate problem of their own. A fight broke out in the very middle of the yard between two of Tarker’s men. It quickly spread until several dozen people were involved. When a second affray erupted in the lower gallery, the whole audience was in turmoil. Nicholas Bracewell rushed out to overpower the man with the club but his intervention was too late. The performance was ruined. Spectators who had been absorbed in the drama only minutes before now joined in the brawl or fought their way to the exits. Simon Chaloner had to use all his strength to protect Emilia from the busy elbows and bruising shoulders all around them. His howled attempts to calm down the mob went unheard.

Sir John Tarker presided over it all with malignant satisfaction. Having been upbraided so roundly by Sir Godfrey Avenell, he was anxious to redeem himself in the most dramatic way. Instead of launching a second attack on any of Westfield’s Men, therefore, he bided his time to give them the illusion that they were safe. The moment to strike was when he could inflict maximum damage on the company and on the play that they were daring to present. As he viewed the seething chaos below, he was content. The Roaring Boy was now no more than a fading memory in the minds of brawling spectators.

Lawrence Firethorn was livid, Barnaby Gill was aghast and Edmund Hoode was utterly destroyed. Owen Elias was belabouring the man who had first jumped on the stage and Nicholas was trying to save the structure itself from collapse. Alexander Marwood was in an ecstasy of hysteria, running around in circles like a headless chicken as each new surge of violence inflicted more damage on his property and holding his hands over his ears to keep out the deafening clamour of combat.

It was a long time before even a semblance of order was restored. Nicholas Bracewell stood on the wrecked stage with Firethorn and Hoode. The yard was littered with wounded bodies, the galleries were cluttered with broken benches, the balustrades were stained with blood or draped with abandoned articles of apparel. An air of complete desolation hung over the tavern. As they surveyed the carnage in front of them, the actor-manager tempted fate with an unconsidered remark.

‘This has been our Armageddon,’ he said with a sweep of his arm. ‘But one consolation remains. The worst is now over.’

A sheriff and two constables arrived on cue. Forcing their way through the remnants of the crowd with brute unconcern, they stood at the edge of the stage and looked up at the three men. The sheriff was brusque and peremptory.

‘We seek one Edmund Hoode,’ he said.

‘I am he,’ volunteered the playwright.

‘You are under arrest, sir.’

‘On what charge, pray?’

‘Seditious libel. Seize him.’