The Roaring Boy nb-7

by Edward Marston

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

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

  ‘I have arranged to meet someone here.’

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

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Follow me, sir.

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

  ‘You are to wait within, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The door is stiff. Let me help you.’

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

  Chapter Four

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

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

  ‘Yes?’

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

  ‘She is not at your beck and call.’

  ‘Tell her I am here.’

  ‘Can your business not wait until tomorrow?’

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

  ‘Speak to her in the morning.’

  ‘My question will not wait.’

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

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

  ‘Are you sure?’

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

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’

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

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

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

  ‘You have a visitor, mistress.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The gardener is asking to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He says that you sent for him.’

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

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

  ‘I like to sit out here.’

  ‘It will be dark soon.’

  ‘Will it? I had not noticed.’

  ‘Valentine is eager to speak with you?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Better?’

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

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

  ‘Yes, mistress.’ A submissive curtsey.

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

  Agnes was about to leave when a voice interrupted them.

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

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

  ***

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

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Simom Chaloner.

  ‘Drowsy…Where am I?’

  ‘Alive. More or less.’

  ‘Still at the tavern?’

  ‘Yes. But quite safe now.’

  Nicholas touched his head. ‘Someone hit me.’

  ‘Hard, by the look of it.’

  ‘Who was it?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘You were beaten and kicked.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘It was a warning.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The danger we face.’

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

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

  ‘How many were there?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Two of the rogues.’

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

  ‘You should be blaming me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For getting you so soundly beaten.’

  ‘It was not your doing.’

  ‘I fear me that it was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The warning was not for you.’

  ‘Then for whom?’

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

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

  The younger man looked at the injured face and sighed.

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

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

  ‘But only because of me.’

  ‘How so?’

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

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

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

  ‘Case?’

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

  ‘That is true.’

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

  ‘Why?’

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

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

  ‘Nor are you, I suspect.’

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

  ‘Unhappily, it will.’

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

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

  Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘And saw service in Germany?’

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

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

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

  ‘Your pistol. May I see it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then we might as well part company now.’

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

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

  ‘Please do.’

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

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

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

  ‘I can only guess, Nicholas.’

  ‘Well?’

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

  ‘Only three people know them apart from myself.’

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

  ‘They?’

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

  ‘But what are their names?’ pressed Nicholas.

  Chaloner hesitated. ‘I am not certain.’

  ‘You are lying.’

  ‘More evidence yet is needed.’

  ‘You know who they are.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Did you know Thomas Brinklow of Greenwich?’

  ‘Extremely well.’

  ‘Was he a friend or a relative?’

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

  ‘You are still betrothed to the lady?’

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