The Roaring Boy

Chapter Six

Valentine heard the sound of horses in the stable-yard and rested his wheelbarrow on the lawn. He pricked his ears and caught the murmur of distant conversation. It was enough to tell him that the mistress of the house had returned. The voices died when a door opened and shut. Evidently, they had gone into the building. Valentine lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow and pushed it with unhurried gait towards the shrubs that grew outside the parlour. It was a warm evening and the windows were still open. Bending to scoop up some of the grass he had mown earlier, the gardener slowly inched himself towards the room until he was within earshot, his ugly face animated with curiosity as he listened to the hurt tones from within. His success was short-lived.

‘What are you doing there?’ said a sharp voice.

‘Picking up this grass,’ he said.

‘Move away from that window.’

‘I have my work to do.’

‘Do it somewhere else.’

Agnes stood there with her hands on her hips and a look of deep suspicion on her face. She hated Valentine enough to have asked for his dismissal more than once but he did his job conscientiously and Emilia Brinklow was reluctant to part with any of the staff who had been engaged by her brother. His furtive manner showed that she had caught him out. Removing his cap with a clumsy attempt at courtesy, he aimed his repulsive grin at the maidservant and shrugged his apologies.

‘I’ve no wish to upset a woman like you, Agnes.’

‘Then keep out of my sight.’

‘Be friends with me, I beg.’

‘You are paid to work here and that is all.’

‘Why, so are you. Can we not lighten the load by sharing it a little? A smile and a kind word is all that I seek.’

‘You will get neither from me. Away with you!’

Her homely face was a mask of cold anger. Valentine replaced his cap and wiped the back of his hand across his harelip. Wilting under the maidservant’s stern gaze, he took his wheelbarrow off down the garden and disappeared behind the fountain. He would have to content himself with the few words he had managed to pick up through the open window.

Unaware of the exchange outside the parlour, Emilia Brinklow and Simon Chaloner continued their urgent conversation within it. The riotous behaviour at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had shocked both of them into silence and the long ride back to Greenwich had been a mute ordeal. Back at the house, they were able to give vent to their wounded feelings. White-faced and despondent, Emilia sat on an upright chair while Simon Chaloner circled the room with restless strides.

‘I should not have taken you there,’ he said.

‘It was my own decision to go, Simon.’

‘The danger was too great. It was madness.’

‘You could not expect me to miss the performance.’

‘What performance?’ he said ruefully. ‘Act Two had scarcely begun when those villains wreaked their havoc. We were lucky to escape injury.’ His hand went to his sword. ‘Had you not been with me, my love, I’d have hacked the rogues down one by one and sent their stinking carcasses to Sir John Tarker. They were plainly his creatures, hired to start that affray and chase The Roaring Boy from the stage.’

‘How can we prove that?’

‘We do not need to, Emilia.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I shall do what honour prompted me to do at the very start,’ he said, standing before her. ‘Go straight to Tarker and cut out his black heart.’

‘Simon, no!’ she protested, rising to clutch at him.

‘It is the only way to end this business.’

‘By throwing away your own life?’

‘Tarker is a monster!’

‘Then he must answer to the law,’ she pleaded. ‘If you lay hands upon him, you will be the felon. There has to be another way to bring him to justice.’

‘Yes, Emilia. We tried it in vain this afternoon.’

‘The situation may yet be retrieved.’

‘With my sword!’

‘No, Simon!’ she implored. ‘Dear God in heaven-no!’

She held him so tightly that his righteous indignation eventually gave way to concern for her. He stroked her hair and calmed her down with whispered condolences. Lowering her on to the chair again, he knelt down in front of her so that he could look up into her face. He used a gentle finger to brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek.

‘Take heart, my love,’ he said.

‘We were so close, Simon-then all was lost.’

‘Only our folly persuaded us that we could win. Tarker set his ambush well. He had The Roaring Boy stabbed to death just as callously as Thomas.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, then shook his head with philosophical resignation. ‘This morning was so rich in hope but the afternoon has left me poor indeed.’

‘Poor?’

‘I was doubly robbed at the Queen’s Head.’

‘How so?’

‘I lost both a play and a dearest partner in life.’

Emilia squeezed his hand. ‘That is not so.’

‘It is,’ he said resignedly. ‘You will not marry me until this business is concluded and what chance is there of that now? My joy is further away from me than ever.’ He stood up again and moved across the room. ‘I have worked so sedulously on your behalf, Emilia. I have waited so long and tried so very hard. There is nothing more that I could have done save lay down my life.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I love you for it.’

‘But not enough, I fear.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you will not be mine,’ he said. ‘You will not wed me now so that we can join forces to renew this fight together. You will not put me first in line of affection for once. Your love is on condition only.’

She crossed quickly to him. ‘It has to be, Simon.’

‘Why?’

‘I have explained it to you a thousand times.’

‘And I believed you, Emilia. Until today. Now I begin to wonder if your explanation truly answers me.’

‘I will not rest until the murder is resolved.’

‘Thomas is dead. Vengeance will not bring him back.’

‘It will give me peace of mind.’

‘Then-at last-you may pay heed to my existence.’

‘I do, Simon,’ she said with feeling. ‘On my honour, I do. But I am not able to open my heart fully to you until this dreadful burden has been lifted from it. That burden only took on extra weight this afternoon, for now I am oppressed by guilt as well as grief.’

‘Guilt?’

‘At the damage we have inflicted on Westfield’s Men.’

‘It was not deliberate, Emilia.’

‘That does not still my conscience. They risked their lives and their reputation for us. To what end? Their inn-yard playhouse was wrecked, their work dismembered and Edmund Hoode carted off to prison. And all because of me.’ She walked across to the window. ‘They must hate the very name of Brinklow. It has brought them nothing but trouble.’

‘I am to blame for that. I gave them the play.’

‘Only at my behest.’

‘You charged me to find the fittest company,’ he said, ‘and I did that when I met Nick Bracewell. I knew that he would be steadfast enough to hold his company together and put The Roaring Boy on the stage. He must regret that he ever got involved with this venture.’

‘I regret it, too,’ she said soulfully. ‘Nicholas was a kind and courageous man. I would not hurt him for the world. I hope his fellows do not turn against him for this.’

***

A pall of misery hung over the house in Shoreditch. Not even the warm resilience of a Margery Firethorn could lift it. When she served refreshment, only one of the guests, Nicholas Bracewell, had voice enough to give her proper thanks. The others hardly stirred out of their melancholy. Barnaby Gill was morose, Owen Elias stared gloomily at the empty fireplace and Lawrence Firethorn himself was in the grip of a pain deeper even than his toothache. When Margery left them alone again in the parlour, Nicholas Bracewell tried to rouse the others into action.

He slapped a table. ‘What are we to do?’ he said.

‘You have done enough already, sir,’ accused Gill. ‘It is all your doing that we are in this quandary. Had they listened to me, instead of to you, we would not have touched this leprous play. It has infected the whole company. You have much to answer for, Nicholas.’

‘Not so!’ exclaimed Owen Elias, jumping to the defence of his friend. ‘But for Nick, we would never have had the chance to present such a vital piece of theatre.’

‘Too vital!’ moaned Firethorn.

‘We were not to know the play would be waylaid.’

‘It was always a possibility, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there was a limit to the precautions we could take. I warned the gatherers to look for any ruffians who sought admission to the play. I stationed extra men to curb any disturbance but they could not be everywhere. The brawl was too sudden and well-planned. We lost control.’

‘Control!’ snarled Gill. ‘If that indeed were all. We have lost more than control, sir. Our occupation’s gone!’

‘For the time being only,’ said Nicholas.

‘Forever. Face the truth-forever!’

Gill’s voice was like a death knell and nobody tried to interrupt its fearsome echo. The Roaring Boy had been an engine of destruction. It not only blackened a record of good audience behaviour at the inn, it caused several injuries, inflicted indiscriminate damage on their venue and led to the arrest of their playwright. Alexander Marwood’s furious vow that they would never set foot again in the Queen’s Head for once had legal reinforcement. The sheriff, whose men so roughly dragged Edmund Hoode away, also served the company with a writ. An injunction had been taken out forbidding them to perform any play at the Queen’s Head until further notice.

‘We are voices from the past,’ said Gill at his most lugubrious. ‘Mere phantoms. The Roaring Boy has silenced our art in perpetuity.’

‘No great loss where you are concerned, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘Bonfires will be lit in celebration. But we will live to act on.’

‘Where?’ sneered the comedian. ‘How?’

‘With distinction, sir!’

‘There has to be a way out for us,’ said Elias.

‘There is, Owen,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Westfield’s Men have faced adversity before-plague, fire, the machinations of our rivals-and we have always survived. We can do so again at this time of trial.’ His bluster became a tentative query for the book holder. ‘Is that not so, Nick? Stiffen our spirits. Teach us the road to salvation.’

‘But he is the author of our misfortune!’ said Gill.

‘We all share the blame for that,’ retorted Elias. ‘Only one man can rescue us and here he sits. Well, Nick? Your counsel is always sage. What must we do?’

Nicholas Bracewell weighed his words before speaking.

‘First, we must secure Edmund’s release,’ he said. ‘We may bewail our own lot but at least we still enjoy our freedom. Edmund languishes in the Marshalsea on a most serious charge. We must restore his liberty.’

‘How may we do that?’ asked Firethorn.

‘By calling on our patron once more. He can speak into ears that we are powerless to reach. Request Lord Westfield to find out how Edmund came to be incarcerated.’

‘We know that already,’ said Elias. ‘Seditious libel.’

‘Against whom?’

‘Sir John Tarker.’

‘I am not so certain of that, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir John Tarker has a worthy reputation as a tournament jouster but he is also a notorious gambler and always in debt. He has neither the money nor the position at Court to bring about this action. We wrestle with a higher authority here.’

Firethorn nodded. ‘He must have influential friends.’

‘We need to know who they are. Only when we identify our enemies can we hope to prevail against them. Then there is another point.’ He scratched his beard in contemplation for a moment. ‘The play was interrupted well before Sir John Tarker was unmasked. How could Edmund be accused of libel when none took place? Do you follow me here, gentlemen?’

‘No,’ admitted Firethorn.

‘I do not even bother to listen,’ said Gill.

‘Well, we do, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘Attentively. Continue.’

‘The Roaring Boy was swept from the scaffold because a certain person knew that he would be revealed as a partner in the murder of Thomas Brinklow. What we believe is naked truth, he describes as libel. In other words, he must have had foreknowledge of the rest of the play. Why else attack it?’ Nicholas looked around at his three companions. ‘How did he find out? We closed ranks against all enquiry. We lived on top of each other to ensure our mutual safety. Yet he knew. Who taught him the innermost workings of the company? To speak more plain-who betrayed us?’

The question produced a flurry of speculation from Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias along with a vigorous self-defence from Barnaby Gill, who was sensitive to any charge of indiscretion. Nicholas soon interrupted them.

‘The fault may not be ours,’ he pointed out. ‘Before the play came into our hands, it was housed at Greenwich. Someone there may have gained improper access to it and been warned of its contents. On the other hand, no plans for any performance had then been made. The manuscript was harmless until it came alive on a stage. For that reason, I suspect a member of the company is involved.’

‘I’ll tear him apart limb by limb!’ vowed Firethorn.

‘Let us find him first.’

‘That will be my office,’ volunteered Elias.

‘No, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘I have more taxing work than that. You must track a more difficult prey with me.’

‘Say but his name and I’ll run him to earth.’

‘Maggs.’

‘My part in the play?’

‘The same. Freshwell was hanged but Maggs escaped.’

‘The law could not find him, how shall we?’

‘By searching more assiduously,’ said Nicholas. ‘The law had scapegoats enough in Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. With Freshwell to dance at the end of a rope beside them, they could spare Maggs. We may not.’

‘How do we know he is still alive?’

‘If he was cunning enough to evade capture, he will have the wit to survive. Find out where he is, Owen. The two of us will then have conference with him. There are hidden facts about this case that only Maggs knows.’

Elias chuckled. ‘One Maggs will hunt another.’

‘While you are about that,’ said Firethorn, ‘I’ll engage the services of Lord Westfield on our behalf. We’ll see if he can find the key to Edmund’s cell.’

‘And what must I do,’ asked the peevish Gill.

‘Nothing,’ said Elias. ‘That’s contribution enough.’

Nicholas reviewed the situation and reached a decision.

‘I’ll to Greenwich tomorrow at first light,’ he said. ‘This latest business may force a more complete story from Master Chaloner. I fear that something was held back from us and I will pursue him until I learn why.’

Action dispersed anxiety. Instead of bemoaning their fate, they could now take positive steps to amend it. Barnaby Gill still wallowed in pessimism but the others were eager to vindicate the name of Westfield’s Men, and that could be done only if they found out the full details surrounding the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Since The Roaring Boy could not prosecute their case, they had to marshal their evidence in a different way. After further lengthy discussion, Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias bade farewell to their hosts and set off down the street.

They did not get very far. Someone waited at a corner ahead of them and leapt out into their path with a sheepish smile. Peter Digby was trembling with embarrassment.

‘I must speak with you, Nicholas,’ he said.

‘Is the matter so urgent?’

‘I fear that it may be.’

‘Then it touches on this afternoon’s affair?’ Digby nodded and threw an anxious glance at the Welshman. ‘Speak freely in front of Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Though he is famed for babbling tongue, he knows when to hold it.’

‘Would that I did!’ said the musician.

He took the two friends down a quiet lane so that their conversation could be neither witnessed nor overheard. Peter Digby was so conscious-stricken that perspiration broke out on his forehead. He gave a shamefaced grin of apology.

‘What ails you, Peter?’ said Nicholas. ‘Tell us.’

‘I may be wrong,’ said the other. ‘Pray God that I am! I would never forgive myself if I was lured into treachery. The company is my life. Westfield’s Men are my family.’

‘They will always remain so,’ assured Elias.

‘Not after today.’

‘Why, man? What have you done?’

‘Nothing with intent to cause harm.’

Nicholas put an arm around the musician’s shoulders. With the exception of the much-maligned George Dart, there was not a more decent and innocuous member of the troupe than Peter Digby. Any damage or inconvenience he had caused his fellows must be inadvertent.

‘Do not tell Master Firethorn,’ pleaded Digby.

‘We will not,’ promised Nicholas.

‘He would expel me straight.’

‘The matter begins and ends here, Peter.’

‘Then hear the worst.’ He licked his lips and glanced nervously around. ‘When the play went into rehearsal, we were all enjoined to reveal nothing of its substance to anyone outside the company. Nor did I, Nicholas. Not wittingly, I swear. But an old friend came to see Mirth and Madness. One Orlando Reeve with whom I once studied.’

‘Was his visit unusual?’

‘Most unusual. Orlando looks down upon the theatre. Yet this was his second appearance at the Queen’s Head in weeks.’

‘Second appearance?’

‘Yes,’ said Digby. ‘On the first, he bought me wine and teased me about a falling off in our work. He mocked us so much that I had to defend Westfield’s Men. I told him that we would assert ourselves with a wonderful new play.’

Nicholas sighed. ‘The Roaring Boy?’

‘Even so.’

‘What did you disclose of its contents?’

‘Little beyond its characters and theme.’

‘And this second unexpected visit?’

‘Orlando bought me more wine,’ confessed Digby. ‘He flattered me and wriggled inside my guard. Playbills had been posted up for The Roaring Boy and he affected interest. Before I knew it, I was singing him snatches of the ballad.’ The old face was contorted with apprehension. ‘Tell me that I did no harm, Nicholas. Assure me that I could not possibly have betrayed my fellows in such a foolish way.’

‘You did well to confide in me,’ said Nicholas. ‘This Orlando Reeve is a musician, you say?’

‘A virtuoso of the keyboard.’

‘For whom does he play?’

‘Her Majesty. Orlando is a Court musician.’

‘Where does he dwell? Here in London?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Digby. ‘But he also owns a house which is the merest walk from the palace. Much of his time is spent there when Her Majesty is in residence.’

‘Which palace?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Greenwich.’

***

Sir Godfrey Avenell was a genial host. He ate supper in his apartment at Greenwich Palace with Sir John Tarker and listened with amusement to the latter’s account of the commotion at the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Tarker soon won back the good opinion of his friend and patron.

‘I congratulate you,’ said Avenell with a smirk. ‘You contrived the perfect ending for The Roaring Boy. I like to see revenge spiced with a modicum of wit.’

‘The play was wiped clean off the stage.’

‘It should never have got there in the first place,’ reminded the other. ‘Had you snuffed out its flame at an earlier point, there would have been no need for your own theatricals.’ The smirk returned. ‘But this afternoon’s delights do please my palate and I am grateful to you for that. You showed cunning and imagination.’

‘I placed my men where they could see my signal.’

‘Their money was well-earned.’

‘And my new suit of armour…?’

The question hung in the air for a moment while Avenell poured himself another cup of wine. He was still irritated by his companion’s earlier failures but his memory of them was dulled by Tarker’s patent success at the Queen’s Head. The latter might after all have justified the huge expenditure on him.

‘I will think it over,’ said Avenell.

‘You will not have cause to chide me again.’

‘Ensure that I do not.’

‘I am your man, Sir Godfrey. Help me to prove myself.’

‘The armour did sit well upon you.’

‘When I put it on, I felt inspired.’

‘That inspiration comes at a very high price.’ He sipped the wine and kept the other waiting. ‘We shall see. Today, you have recaptured my interest. Tomorrow, you may find your way back into my coffers. Who knows? We shall see.’

Sir John Tarker was content. He knew that his career in the saddle would now continue. Avenell’s wealth would once more support Tarker’s jousts. In spite of differences in outlook and temperament, the two men made a formidable team when they acted in concert. One rejoiced in amassing and spending money: the other sought his pleasures elsewhere. But they were bonded together at a deep level in a private conspiracy.

‘One thing only persists.’

‘What is that, Sir Godfrey?’

‘This play itself. The Roaring Boy.’

‘It was impounded by the sheriff and his men.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘I will have it delivered to you, if you wish.’

‘Not the manuscript.’

‘Then what?’

‘The head of its author.’

‘It lies on a board at the Marshalsea Prison.’

‘I speak not of Edmund Hoode,’ said Avenell. ‘He is but the cobbler who put new soles on the piece so that it could walk across the stage. What I want, alive or dead, is the man who first drafted this pernicious drama.’

‘His name is unknown.’

‘Find it, Sir John.’

‘We have tried many times.’

Avenell’s voice congealed. ‘Find it soon.’

‘Leave the matter in my hands.’

‘I feel that I may safely do that now. Your splendid work this day has armoured me against disappointment.’ They traded a smile. ‘Hoode is in the Marshalsea, then?’

‘Fighting off the rats and praying for deliverance.’

‘Let him rot there until my pleasure is served.’

‘Will he ever see the light of day again?’

‘Not while I live.’

They laughed harshly and attacked their food once more.

***

The Marshalsea was a grim fortress in a squalid corner of Southwark. Infested with crime of all sorts, the city had well over a dozen prisons into which to fling its never-ending supply of malefactors. Debtors, vagrants, drunkards and those guilty of disorderly conduct were also liable to incarceration, so the prison population was always large and varied. Disease, brutality and starvation were rife in all institutions and many who went in for minor offences never came out alive. Corruption was the order of the day among prison wardens, sergeants, keepers and tipstaffs. Within the dark walls of their respective gaols, they exploited their positions in the most unscrupulous way and inflicted all manner of horrors on those who sought to obstruct or deny them.

Second only to the Tower in importance, the Marshalsea shared all the hideous faults of the other prisons. It was mainly used for debtors but it also housed a number of religious dissidents and those accused of maritime offences. Another category of prisoners was steadily growing. People who sought to ridicule authority by slanderous or libelous means often found themselves inhaling the fetid atmosphere of the Marshalsea so that they might reflect at leisure on the rashness of their behaviour. Like the other institutions of its kind, it was a seething pit of filth into which its unfortunate inmates were dropped without mercy.

Edmund Hoode sat on the stone floor of his cell and shivered with cold. The room was barely six feet square and its dank walls gave off the most noisome vapour. A sodden mattress lay on the flagstones but it was too foul and lumpy to invite any guest. High in one wall, a tiny barred window admitted a thin sliver of light that pointed down at Hoode like the finger of doom. Night in the Marshalsea had been a descent into Hades. Fear, cold and discomfort had kept him awake. Dreadful cries and piteous moans from other parts of the establishment were punctuated by the snuffling of a rat in the pile of straw and excrement that lay in a corner.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he wailed.

He was still asking the question when morning came. Hoode took no consolation from the fact that many authors had seen the inside of a prison in the course of their precarious careers. It was a recognised hazard of their calling. Plays that contained scurrilous or defamatory matter relating to eminent persons often introduced the playwright to the terrors of confinement. Drama that was entirely free from satire could sometimes cause offence and lead to the arrest of an innocent author. Those who lived by the pen walked in the shadow of the prison cell.

The most disturbing aspect of it all for Hoode was the fact that he was locked up entirely alone. It rescued him from assault by other prisoners but it also argued the severity of his alleged crime. Most offenders were hurled indiscriminately into one of the larger and noisier cells with a frightening assortment of humanity. If Hoode was set apart, it could only mean that some special treatment was reserved for him. Seditious libel was a heinous offence. If he were convicted, the punishment was unimaginable.

Hoode shuddered once more and wrapped his arms around his body. It was galling to be held responsible for a play that he had not himself written. All that he had done was to make it fit for the stage. The Roaring Boy had entailed substantial reworking but he had changed nothing of its main thrust and argument. Those were the creation of another hand. A different playwright should be enduring the mean hospitality of the Marshalsea.

The misery of his own condition was compounded by the suffering inflicted on Westfield’s Men. In the course of one afternoon, they lost their playwright, their venue and their right to perform. They were homeless exiles. Some might find work with other companies but most would struggle or starve. It was even possible that a few of them would join him in the Marshalsea when they fell headlong into debt.

Further agony came when he considered Emilia Brinklow. The failure of The Roaring Boy to achieve retribution was a shattering blow to her and he longed to be able to reach out to embrace her with consoling arms. His love for Emilia had fuelled his belief in the play. Disaster had once again marked a foray into matters of the heart. His plight would at least arouse her sympathy and that brought some comfort. Even in her own distress, she would have compassion for him. Simply to be in her thoughts was a blessed relief.

Heavy footsteps brought him out of his cheerless meditation. As he heard a key being inserted into the lock of his door, he hauled himself to his feet and tried to compose himself. Every bone and muscle ached. The weight of his fatigue was like a boulder across his shoulders. When the door swung back on its hinges, a short, squat man in a studded leather jerkin thrust breakfast at him. Hoode looked down at the hunk of bread and the cup of brackish water.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘Food,’ grunted the keeper.

‘Is this all that I am to be served?’

‘Unless you have some garnish about you.’

‘I have to bribe you in order to eat?’

‘This is prison, sir.’

Hoode bridled. ‘Fetch the warden,’ he said. ‘I wish to complain. I also wish to know exactly why I was brought here and how long I am to be kept in this disgusting hole. It is not fit for the meanest animal. Fetch him at once.’

The man let out a cackle of amusement before throwing the bread on to the ground and tipping the water after it. Hoode was still protesting when the door was slammed in his face. He kept on yelling until the rising stench of his cell made him cough uncontrollably. The Marshalsea accorded him no respect whatsoever. He was just one more nameless victim of its grisly regime. As he collapsed to the floor in a dejected heap, he wondered what other tribulations lay in store for him.

***

Nicholas Bracewell left London early that morning on a bay mare he had borrowed from Lawrence Firethorn. He rode at a canter and paused only once to take refreshment at a wayside inn and to water his horse. When he reached Greenwich, he spent time exploring the village and admiring its verdant setting. He also took the opportunity of asking after Orlando Reeve. The local vintner told him that the fat musician lived in a cottage just outside the village. Nicholas thanked him and rode over to the house, giving it a cursory inspection before continuing on past Greenwich Park to the palace itself. The Queen’s summer residence looked serene and stately in the morning sunlight but it held dark secrets inside it. He knew that he would have to plumb some of its mysteries before his work was done.

Returning to the village, he went along the main street to the Brinklow house. The servant who answered the front door carried word of his unheralded arrival to Emilia. She was highly surprised to learn that he was on her doorstep but agreed at once to see him. Nicholas was shown into the parlour and greeted by the mistress of the house. Emilia looked drawn and jaded. Her red-rimmed eyes had obviously shed many a tear during the night. Her voice was brittle.

‘Please take a seat,’ she said, indicating a chair.

‘Thank you.’

‘I hardly thought to see you here again.’

‘It was needful,’ said Nicholas, sitting opposite her. ‘I am glad to find you at home. Is Master Chaloner here?’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Why should he be? Simon and I are betrothed but it would be most unseemly for us to live beneath the same roof until the proper time. I hope that you did not think otherwise.’

‘I thought only of yesterday’s sad events. In view of those, I wondered if Master Chaloner felt obliged to remain here in order to offer you his protection.’

‘He has done that every night for months but I have always refused. I need no protection. I am not afraid. This is my home. I am quite safe here.’

‘That is what your brother believed,’ he said softly.

Emilia recoiled slightly as if from a blow. Nicholas chided himself for such a tactless remark and reached out an appeasing hand. Making a swift recovery, she waved it away and stared levelly at him. He sensed once again the single-minded determination that had reminded him so much of Anne Hendrik. Most women would be frightened to be alone in such a large house filled with so many bitter memories but Emilia Brinklow was not. She loved the home and wrapped it around her like a garment.

‘Why did you come, sir?’ she asked.

‘To speak with you and Master Chaloner.’

‘Do you not have problems to deal with in London?’

‘They can only be solved here.’

‘In Greenwich?’

‘In this house-and at the palace.’

‘How?’

‘That is what I have come to find out.’

A considered pause. ‘You may certainly count on my help,’ she said at length. ‘I am racked by guilt at the way that Westfield’s Men have suffered at my hands. If there is any way in which I may alleviate that suffering, you have only to tell me what it is.’

‘I need to put some more questions to you,’ he said.

‘You will find me ready in my answers.’

‘Necessity compels me to be blunt.’

‘That will not vex me.’

She held his gaze for a long time and he felt the pull of her attraction. It was patently mutual. Completely alone for the first time, each felt a surge of affection for the other which was at once incongruous yet perfectly natural. Nicholas wished that he could have met her in another place and in different circumstances. The smile in her eyes told him that she read and approved his thoughts.

‘Very well, Nicholas,’ she said, using his name for the first time. ‘Do not spare me. Be blunt.’

‘On the night of the murder, you were not in the house.’

‘That is true.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Staying with friends at a cottage in Dartford.’

‘When did you learn of the tragedy?’

‘The same night,’ she said. ‘One of the servants rode out to fetch me. I came back with him at once to find the house in turmoil. You can imagine my grief. Thomas, my dear brother, so full of life and feeling-murdered.’ She bit her lip as the memory stung her afresh. ‘It was unbearable.’

‘When had you last seen him?’

‘Seen him?’

‘Your brother. Before that terrible discovery.’

Emilia hesitated. ‘Two days earlier,’ she said finally. ‘Thomas had been away on business.’

‘In London?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the nature of that business?’

‘How should I?’

‘You took such an interest in his work.’

‘I was proud of it,’ she said vehemently. ‘Thomas was a brilliant man. He excelled at everything he touched. But he was also very secretive and only let me see what he wanted to show me. He never discussed his business with me.’

‘What was he working on when he was killed?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Have you no idea at all?’

‘None. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I think it has a bearing on his murder.’

‘Sir John Tarker instigated that.’

‘He was involved in the plot certainly.’

‘It was all his doing,’ she argued. ‘You have seen the evidence that Simon collected. It cannot be denied. Sir John Tarker had my brother killed. The Roaring Boy proved that.’

‘The play may have been wrong.’

It was a mild statement but it ignited a spark of anger in Emilia, casting out any vestige of affection for him and replacing it with an icy disdain. She was shaking as she rose to her feet and stood over him.

‘What do you know about it, sir?’ she demanded. ‘Have you learned more about this case in five minutes than I have in five months? Have you risked life and limb to gather all the facts as Simon has done? What gives you the right to tell us that we are mistaken? If Sir John Tarker is not the villain here, why did he have the play destroyed before it could pronounce his detested name?’

‘Calm down,’ he soothed. ‘I spoke not to rouse you.’

‘Well, that is what you have done.’

‘It was a suggestion only.’

‘Then you have seen my estimation of it.’

‘We are on the same side,’ he urged. ‘If we are ever to see this matter resolved, we must work closely together.’

Her rage subsided and she nodded her agreement, sinking back down on to the chair. But her cheeks were still inflamed and her manner was far more watchful. Nicholas set about repairing some of the damage.

‘I spoke out of turn and accept your just rebuke.’

‘You touched unwittingly on raw flesh.’

‘My clumsiness distresses me.’

‘It did not deserve such fury,’ she apologised.

‘Perhaps it did. I know now where I stand.’

Emilia Brinklow looked at him with a curious amalgam of suspicion and wistfulness, still hurt by what he had said while remembering his many good qualities. She made a visible effort to subdue her irritation and even managed a smile of conciliation.

‘This is a poor welcome after your long journey.’

‘I brought it upon myself.’

‘No, Nicholas,’ she said wearily. ‘I have been too bound up in this affair to view it coolly from without. The slightest breath of criticism is like a dagger in my breast. My wrath was ill-judged. Forgive me.’

‘There is no need.’

‘For me, it is everything: for you, it is just a play.’

‘It is far more than that,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘The Roaring Boy has put my friend in prison, my fellows into the street and our whole future in jeopardy. No mere play could do that. This is a matter of utmost significance to us and that is why I have taken such trouble to come here. I was eager to talk with you and this house is the only place where I may reach Master Chaloner.’

‘Simon lives but five miles’ ride from here.’

‘Can he be sent for?’

‘I’ll despatch a servant straight.’

‘He cannot be spared from this debate.’

‘Nor will he be.’

Emilia crossed to the door and opened it to call for her maidservant. Agnes came running at once, took her orders, then rushed off to convey them to the ostler.

‘He will be in the saddle within minutes.’

‘Let us pray that he finds Master Chaloner at home.’ Nicholas stood up and glanced through the window. ‘I have another favour to ask of you.’

‘It is granted.’

‘Show me your brother’s laboratory.’

‘But you saw it on your last visit here.’

‘Only from the outside,’ he said. ‘I would go within.’

‘If you wish. Follow me.’

Emilia led him down a corridor, through the kitchens and into the buttery. The locked door that now confronted them was clad with steel. Nicholas was struck with its thickness.

‘This door would keep an army out,’ he observed.

‘It saved the house from the fire.’

‘What needed such careful protection?’

‘His privacy,’ she said. ‘And his work.’

She produced a key from a pocket at her waist and used it to unlock the door. It opened on to ruination. Nicholas took a few steps into the laboratory, then paused to look around him, trying to reconstruct in his mind its fallen walls and its shattered windows. Emilia moved familiarly around the room, noting with pleasure that her orders for the removal of weeds had been followed to the letter. Valentine and his assistants had plucked up nature from around the ankles of science.

Nicholas walked forward in silent wonder. Even in its devastated state, the laboratory preserved a strange order and pattern. Burned-out tables were aligned, charred stools knew their place, wrecked equipment of all kinds stood in unforced symmetry. The punctilious mind of Thomas Brinklow survived the fire intact. Nicholas crouched down before a forge.

‘Your brother smelted his own metals?’

‘The forge was always busy.’

‘He had some assistant to feed its hunger?’

‘No,’ she said fondly. ‘Thomas looked after it himself like a favourite pet. He would let nobody near his forge.’

‘Not even you?’

‘Not even me. His workshop was sacrosanct.’

‘He would need the finest metal if he built a compass.’

‘That is what he produced.’

‘A remarkable man,’ said Nicholas with admiration. ‘I begin to feel his presence. Where did he keep his papers?’

‘In that desk,’ she said, pointing to pile of cinders.

‘All destroyed?’

‘Lost forever. His inventions died with him.’

Nicholas thought long and hard before he spoke again.

‘I have one last favour.’

‘Ask anything if it helps our cause.’

‘Who wrote The Roaring Boy?’ he said, stepping closer to her as she pursed her lips and lowered her head. ‘I must be told. Was it Master Chaloner? He said that the author had gone away but no man deserts a work like that at such a fatal hour. Did Master Chaloner pen The Roaring Boy?’

She looked up at him in evident distress. Before she could speak, however, Nicholas was distracted by a noise in the bushes. Fearing that someone was eavesdropping, he ran to the remains of a wall, jumped quickly over it and pushed his way into the undergrowth. Nobody was there. When he came out the other side, however, he saw a figure no more than twenty yards away, tying some rambling roses back on their trellis-work and apparently absorbed in his task. Valentine became aware of his scrutiny and turned to acknowledge him, touching his cap in deference with a gnarled finger and flashing the infamous grin once more.

***

Frustration finally provoked Simon Chaloner into action. Long months of hard and dangerous work had come to fruition in the yard of the Queen’s Head, only to be squashed out of recognition by the man he was trying to convict of a murder. The Roaring Boy was a legal and highly public means of calling Sir John Tarker to account. Since that had signally failed, a more irregular and private means had to be used. There was no point in discussing it with Emilia because she would never condone such a course of action. Chaloner had to strike on his own.

He felt certain that his quarry would be at hand. With a Court tournament in the offing, Sir John Tarker would be practising in the tiltyard at Greenwich Palace once more. Having knocked The Roaring Boy from its saddle, he would be trying to unseat other challengers to his position. Chaloner might not get such an opportunity again. It had to be seized on ruthlessly. One shot from a pistol would achieve what five acts of a play would never do.

Having been in the palace many times, Chaloner knew how to find his way through its courtyards and apartments if only he could gain entry. That depended on good fortune. Armed and excited by the prospect of revenge, he rode out that morning in the direction of Greenwich, skirting the village itself so that he would not be seen by anyone from the Brinklow household and trotting on to find a copse where he could tether his horse and approach the palace on foot.

The main entrance was in the riverside frontage but there were postern gates at various points around the building. As he approached the rear of the palace, he saw a small crowd of people listening to a tall, distinguished man who was delivering some sort of lecture. Chaloner was in luck. A group of foreign visitors was being shown around the premises by the chamberlain. From their attire and general deportment, Chaloner guessed that they were Dutch, most probably the ambassador and his entourage. Intermingled with them were a few other nationalities. The ostentatious garb of one man combined with his extravagant gestures to mark him out as an Italian. His two companions also had a Mediterranean cast of feature.

Simon Chaloner did not hesitate. He walked slowly towards the group until he could merge quietly into it. The chamberlain was too caught up with listening to the sound of his own voice to see the intruder and the visitors assumed that he was a legitimate member of the party who arrived late. Chaloner had picked up snatches of Dutch and Italian in his army days. An occasional phrase and a benign smile were all that he needed to employ by way of response.

‘Let us now step back inside the palace,’ droned the chamberlain, leading them through the gate. ‘I mentioned earlier that Duke Humphrey had called it Bella Court…’

The visitors followed, listened and gaped. Secure in the middle of them, Chaloner kept his head down and his hand on his sword. He was in. It was only a matter of minutes before he could detach himself from the knot of foreigners and slip into the building itself. He walked along a corridor with a confidence that suggested a legitimate right to be inside a royal palace. Doublet and hose of a colourful and expensive cut would not look out of place at Court and he had the true bearing of a gentleman. When two guards marched past, they did not even throw him a second glance. Now that he was inside Greenwich Palace, he was invisible.

The noise of mock battle rose up from the tiltyard to guide his footsteps. He came out on the leaded roof where Henry VIII had loved to stand and he gazed down on the assembly below. Men in armour were fighting on foot or practising on horseback with the lance. Retainers were everywhere. There was no sign of Sir John Tarker but the watching Chaloner sensed that he would be there. He hid behind the corner of a chimney-pot to keep the yard under surveillance while remaining out of sight himself. His intended victim was bound to emerge in time.

It was only a matter of waiting and watching.

Five hours of acute hunger made Edmund Hoode pick up the hunk of stale bread which had been flung to the ground. It was as hard as rock and his teeth could do little more than chip off a few crisp edges. He began to wish he had been more politic in his dealings with the keeper. Hoode had money about him and would willingly part with it for wholesome food and restorative drink. Since he could be locked away in the Marshalsea for some time, it was important to keep body and soul together. He longed for the man’s return and listened in the meantime to the accumulated misery of the prison as it reverberated along the gloomy corridors. The only time he had heard such wild cries before was when he had visited Bedlam to observe the behaviour of madmen.

It seemed an eternity before anyone recalled his existence. The footsteps were more ponderous this time and the key scraped in the lock before it engaged. Hoode was standing so close to the door that it caught him a glancing blow as it creaked open. The same keeper regarded him with mocking eyes. The man had no meal with him this time.

‘Do you have any garnish?’ he said.

‘What will it buy me?’

‘Depends how much you pay, sir.’

‘A shilling?’

‘That will keep you well fed for a day or two.’

‘No more than that?’

‘We have rates here in the Marshalsea,’ said the man before spitting on to the floor. ‘Any prisoner who is an esquire, a gentleman or a wealthy nobleman can eat heartily for a weekly charge of ten shillings.’

‘I do not look to be here as long as a week.’

‘It is good fare, sir. Bone of meat with broth. A piece of bone beef. A loin or breast of roasted veal. Or else a capon. As much bread as you will eat and a quarter of beer and claret wine.’ He leered at Hoode. ‘How like you that?’

‘Indifferently.’

‘Then you must stick to bread, water and some meat.’

‘I cannot stay alive on that.’

‘Buy yourself more, sir.’

‘I’d rather buy some information,’ said Hoode, putting a hand into his purse to pull out some coins. ‘I am dragged here by the sheriff and thrown into this cell without due explanation. Why am I here?’

‘Waiting, sir. Like all the others. Waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘Justice.’

‘In a loathsome privy like this?’

The man eyed the coins. ‘What do you wish to know, sir?’

‘When I am to be released.’

‘That is a secret.’

‘Sell it to me.’

‘I would not part cheaply with it.’

Hoode added another coin to the others and jingled them in his palm. ‘Tell me, my friend, and the money is yours.’

‘First give it to me,’ said the man, extending a grubby palm.

‘Not before I have your secret,’ bargained Hoode. He jingled the money again. ‘Come, sir. When will I leave the Marshalsea? When will I get out of this accursed cell?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Is that the truth?’

‘As God is my witness!’

‘Tomorrow!’ Hoode was delirious with joy. ‘I get out of this prison tomorrow. Here, friend. Take the money.’ He put the coins gratefully into the man’s hand. ‘You have earned every penny. I am to be released from this hell tomorrow.’

‘Not released, sir.’

‘But you just said that I would. Did you lie?’

‘When will you leave the Marshalsea, you asked.’

‘Why, so I did and so you answered.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Aye, so there’s an end to it.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ said the keeper, relishing the other’s bewilderment. ‘You leave here but are not released.’

‘Where, then, will I go?’

‘To visit a certain gentleman.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘He would have conversation with you in his house.’

‘Who is this gentleman? Why does he seek my company?’

‘Only he knows that, sir.’

‘What is his name?’

‘That I can tell you if you have courage enough to hear.’

‘Courage?’

‘Some shake at the very sound of his name.’

‘Why? Who is he?’

‘Master Topcliffe.’

Hoode began to sway. ‘The torturer?’

‘Interrogator,’ corrected the other. ‘You are honoured. Master Richard Topcliffe only invites very special guests to his house. It is your turn tomorrow.’

He went out laughing and pulled the door shut. Edmund Hoode did not even hear its loud bang as he went down in a dead faint.

***

Morning passed at the house in Greenwich and the afternoon soon dwindled away but there was no sign of Simon Chaloner. The ostler sent to fetch him returned with the news that the latter was not at home. Chaloner’s servant had no idea where his master had gone or how long he would be away. Emilia Brinklow grew anxious at this intelligence. Her betrothed was in such close and regular contact with her that she always knew where to find him. It was most unusual for him to quit his house without leaving details of his whereabouts. She scented trouble.

‘He may come here of his own accord,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then where is he? Simon could have been here hours ago. Something has happened to him, Nicholas.’

‘Do not run to meet fear,’ he cautioned.

‘But I know Simon. This is not like him.’

‘He may have had business elsewhere that detained him.’

‘That is what worries me.’

They were back in the parlour and Emilia’s calm and collected front had been fractured by her concern. Nicholas wanted to pay a visit to Orlando Reeve in the hope of catching the musician at his house but he felt unable to leave her alone in her distress. Evening was approaching and a man who called at the house every day had still not put in an appearance. It was puzzling.

‘Simon is in danger,’ she said. ‘I know it.’

‘Master Chaloner can take care of himself,’ he assured her. ‘Rest easy. He is young, strong and well-armed.’

‘He is also impulsive. Far too impulsive. I fear me that he has finally run out of patience.’

‘Patience?’

‘Yes, Nicholas. He has waited so long.’

‘For revenge?’

‘For me,’ she said. ‘And I will only be his when the matter is finally and completely resolved. Even then…’ She bit back what she was going to say and paced the room instead. ‘Simon has wearied of this interminable delay. He is distraught at the collapse of all our hopes. I demanded too much from him.’

‘So what do you believe he has done?’

‘Proceeded against Sir John Tarker on his own.’

‘That would be lunacy.’

‘Simon has more than a streak of that.’

‘He would stand no chance of getting near him.’

‘That will not check his ardour,’ she said, coming back to him. ‘He does not only wish to avenge Thomas’s death. He has another score to settle. Concerning me. I will never forgive myself if anything happens to Simon. He is the dearest friend I have in all the world. And I am his.’

‘He covets the day when he can make you his wife.’

‘So do I.’

She manufactured a smile of enthusiasm but it was far too strained to convince Nicholas. In any case, he had seen her and Chaloner together. They were not like most couples on the verge of marriage. Emilia seemed to tolerate his love instead of requiting it. Nicholas wondered if her attitude to him would change in time but it was not his place to say so. What he did convey in a glance was his own admiration of her. Over half a day had now been spent in her company and it had seemed like minutes.

‘You have been a good friend to me as well, Nicholas.’

‘I will do all in my power to help you,’ he said.

‘I know and I am grateful. After what happened at the Queen’s Head yesterday, most people in your position would loathe the very sight of me.’

‘I could never do that.’

‘Even though I have caused you so much upheaval?’

‘Sir John Tarker did that. Not you.’

He looked deep into her eyes and found an answering glint of affection. Nicholas mastered his curiosity. It was not the time to investigate his feelings for her. Emilia’s bethrothed was missing and his safety was their immediate priority. He became businesslike.

‘Where else could Master Chaloner be?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Might he not be with friends? With relations?’

‘His friends are all in London, his family in Dorset. He would visit neither without telling me. Simon is a creature of habit. He is always here at this hour of the day.’

‘I will gladly renew the search on your behalf.’

‘You do not know the area.’

‘Let your ostler be my guide.’

“No, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Stay here in the hope that he will soon return. Your presence is comforting. I am most grateful that you came to Greenwich today.’

‘So am I.’

She assessed him for a moment, then gave a sad smile.

‘You asked me a question in the garden,’ she said. ‘I refused to give you a proper answer.’

‘And now?’

‘Simon Chaloner did not write The Roaring Boy. He has many sterling virtues but he is not a creative man. His talents run in other directions, as you have no doubt observed. He is far too restive to be a playwright.’

‘It is work that requires a certain stillness.’

‘Simon cannot keep still for one minute.’

‘I thought it too solitary an occupation for him.’

‘Too solitary and too safe,’ she said wryly. ‘I may not give you the author’s name because I have vowed to shield him but it was certainly not Simon. He thought the play too slow a means to catch Sir John Tarker in a trap. That is why I am so anxious now. I fear he seeks a speedier solution.’

***

From his hiding-place on the roof, Simon Chaloner looked down on a panorama of controlled violence. Knights in splendid armour practised for hours to improve their skills, keeping strictly to the rules of jousting. Points were awarded for striking an opponent’s helmet; for striking a coronel, the crownlike safety device at the end of his lance; for unseating him by legitimate means; or for breaking a lance by striking him in the permitted area from the waist upwards. Those who deliberately or carelessly struck an adversary’s legs, saddle or horse had points deducted.

At any other time, Chaloner would have enjoyed the occasion and savoured its finer nuances. Now it was merely a tedious spectacle that dragged on and on into the evening. Sir John Tarker was there, resplendent in his new armour and invincible in the saddle, but Chaloner could not get near him without discovery. Tarker would have to be confronted in a more private part of the building. The knight could not ride up and down the tilt forever.

When the erect figure of Sir Godfrey Avenell came into the gallery above the yard, he caught the attention of his friend and beckoned him over. Chaloner was close enough to observe but not hear the exchange between the two friends. It was soon over. Two other spectators came into the gallery to join Avenell and they were soon deep in conversation with him. Chaloner watched them long enough to recognise the newcomers as two of the Dutch visitors earlier being shown around the castle, then he switched his gaze to the yard.

Sir John Tarker had finally come to the end of his practise. Dismounting from his destrier, he handed the reins to his esquire, then crossed to one of the armourers who was standing on the sidelines. There was an animated discussion as Tarker appeared to complain about some problem with his breastplate, gesturing at it with his gauntlet. Contrite and apologetic, the brawny armourer pointed towards the workshops as if suggesting that he effect the necessary adjustments there and then. Chaloner was delighted when Tarker agreed to go with the man. The desired opportunity might have come at last.

He gave them plenty of time to reach the workshop because Tarker could only walk slowly in his suit of armour. Most of the other knights stayed in the tilting yard and the viewing stands were dotted with palace guards or servants, stealing a moment away from their duties to enjoy the impromptu tournament. Sir Godfrey Avenell was still talking with the Dutchmen in the gallery, all three of them now oblivious to the combat down below. Chaloner judged that the workshop would be largely deserted. He and Sir John Tarker might meet on equal terms at last.

‘Why is your armour so expensive?’

‘Because it is the best, Sir John.’

‘It costs a king’s ransom.’

‘That is because it has to be tailored to each knight,’ said the armourer in a guttural voice. ‘And we have to import the metal. That only adds to the price. Only finest and strongest metal is used and that cannot be found in England.’

‘The finest and strongest knights are English!’

Sir John Tarker let out an arrogant laugh, then ordered the armourer to look more closely at the part of the breastplate that was chafing the side of his chest slightly. They were in one of the workshops, a vast and cavernous place filled with glowing coals and curling smoke. Armour and weaponry of all kinds stood around the walls. Hammers and anvils abounded. The two men were beside a forge with their backs to the door. Chaloner let himself into the chamber, then eased the door shut again as quietly as he could before slipping home the bolt. They were completely safe from intrusion now.

Pulling out his rapier, he closed on Tarker.

‘Turn, you vermin!’ he shouted. ‘Show your vile face!’

Tarker had removed his helmet so the expression of amazement showed when he spun round. His hand went for his own sword but Chaloner was too quick for him, wielding his rapier to first strike the gauntleted hand away from its weapon, then flick upwards into the knight’s face. Tarker yelled as a gash opened up in his cheek to send a stream of blood running down his breastplate. He shook with rage. Grabbing a stave from a pile against the wall, he swung it viciously at his attacker. Chaloner ducked and used the rapier to prick the other side of Tarker’s face. More blood flowed.

Howling even louder, the knight flung the stave at him and pulled his own sword from its scabbard, using its heavier blade to knock the rapier from Chaloner’s hand. When he raised his weapon to smite his young adversary, however, he found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol. It was the weapon that Nicholas Bracewell had remarked upon and it was aimed directly at Sir John Tarker’s forehead.

‘Drop your sword!’ ordered Chaloner.

‘We should have killed you at the start!’

‘Drop it or I shoot.’

Tarker glared at him. ‘You do not have the courage.’

Simon Chaloner looked into the swarthy face with its coal-black eyes and its taunting smile. He thought of Thomas Brinklow lying butchered in his own home and he thought of Emilia being molested. The pistol remained steady in his hand as his finger tightened on the trigger. Retribution was indeed sweet. His finger tightened again but he did not fire. Before he could discharge the weapon, Chaloner was hit from behind by a swinging blow from armourer’s tongs. In concentrating all his attention on one man, he had forgotten the other. He went down with a thud and rolled over on the floor. The armourer raised the tongs again to smash at the unconscious figure.

‘No,’ said the grinning Sir John Tarker. ‘Leave him to me.’