The Roaring Boy nb-7

by Edward Marston

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

  ‘Yes. She alone is in my confidence.’

  ‘What of the author?’

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

  ‘Why?’

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

  ‘Without waiting to see his work performed?’

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

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

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘What form did that involvement take?’

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

  ‘You have worked hard.’

  ‘With good cause.’

  ‘How many of your facts are true?’

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

  ‘What is his name?’ insisted Nicholas.

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

  ‘Who is he?’

  A long pause. ‘Sir John Tarker.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘As certain as any man can be.’

  ‘Sir John Tarker that excels in the tournaments?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Was he acquainted with Thomas Brinklow?’

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

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

  ‘Dislike, envy of his wealth.’

  ‘Murder needs a stronger warrant than that.’

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

  ‘There is something you are not telling me.’

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

  ‘About what?’ said Nicholas.

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

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

  ‘Some foolish disagreement.’

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

  ‘They simply could not abide each other.’

  ‘The reason?’

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

  ‘Why you are shielding Mistress Emilia Brinklow.’

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

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

  ‘Sir John Tarker made unwelcome advances to Emilia.’

  ‘Her brother intervened?’

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

  ‘Where were you at the time?’

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

  ‘To be told this sorry tale.’

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

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

  ‘His sister is not mentioned in the play.’

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

  ‘But she is an element in the story.’

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

  ‘Because we go in the pursuit of truth.’

  ‘Truth has to be tempered with consideration.’

  ‘I must speak with the lady.’

  ‘That, too, is impossible.’

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

  ‘Nicholas-’

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

  ‘You ask too much of me.’

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

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

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

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

  Chaloner stiffened. ‘We?’

  ‘Edmund Hoode and I.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The author might wish for payment.’

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

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

  ‘What is it?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why do you say that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The executioner’s assistant explained that.’

  ‘His assistant?’

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

  ‘And?’

  ‘Freshwell was no longer able to denounce anybody.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They had cut out his tongue.’

  A new resolution coursed through Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘We will stage this play,’ he promised.

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Is this music not sublime?’ he said.

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

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

  Tarker was politely emphatic. ‘No.’

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

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

  ‘Your taste needs schooling.’

  ‘A man is entitled to his desires.’

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

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

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

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It is done,’ said Tarker.

  ‘Then our information was sound?’

  ‘Very sound.’

  ‘Good.’

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

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

  ‘You played well for me.’

  ‘I am rewarded beyond my deserts.’

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

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