‘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.’
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