The Roaring Boy nb-7

by Edward Marston

  When he tried to compose his own epitaph, it served only to deepen his melancholy. No words could sum up the agony of his last hours alive, no conceit could describe his self-contempt, no clever rhyme could adequately express the folly of his existence. All was lost. A man whose plays and playing had delighted audiences for a decade or more would give a final, inglorious performance before a lone spectator. Only an excruciating death would draw applause from the watching Topcliffe.

  Hope was a cruel illusion. Westfield’s Men were still toiling on his behalf but their efforts were futile. If the influence of their patron could secure no comfort for their doomed playwright, then his situation was beyond recovery. Edmund Hoode was to be a scapegoat, a blood-covered warning to every other author to work more guardedly and to eschew libelous comment on figures in authority. It was a savage injustice. He was being sacrificed for a play he did not write about a man he had never met.

  He looked up at the barred window. The last few rays were quitting his cell along with the last strands of belief in his friends. They had let him down signally and the greatest disappointment came from the man in whom he had reposed his highest expectations. A fury rustled deep inside him and slowly built until it burst through his sorrow and made him clamber to his feet to yell with all his might.

  ‘Nicholas! Where are you!’

  ***

  ‘Everyone had something to say about Thomas Brinklow but all comment led in the same direction.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘He was a recluse. In love with his work.’

  ‘Why, then, did he marry?’

  ‘It was a blunder. All agree on that.’

  ‘Could he have been happy with another woman?’

  ‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘Nobody spoke it outright but their nudges and winks were eloquent enough. Our Master Brinklow was not for marriage with any woman. It is certain that his match fell short of consummation.’

  ‘Small wonder that his wife looked elsewhere.’

  ‘She did not need to, Nick.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Walter Dunne came with her. Or so the rumours would have it. He was the steward of her former household and warmed her bed as part of his duties. When she took a husband, she did not lose a lover.’ Elias chuckled. ‘The common report is that Master Brinklow was cuckolded on his wedding night. What sort of husband would tolerate that?’

  ‘A man content to be husband in name only.’

  Nicholas Bracewell was reminded of the maidservant’s remark that Thomas Brinklow had condoned his wife’s affair. If that was so, it cleared the lovers from even the faintest vestige of suspicion. Why did they need to kill a man who actively promoted their relationship? Instead of being an obstacle that needed to be removed, the husband had been a most effective cover. Aspects of Brinklow’s character were emerging which had not found themselves into the play.

  ‘What else did you learn, Owen?’

  The two men were back at the house in Greenwich at the agreed hour. Lawrence Firethorn’s absence was puzzling but they hoped that he would arrive in due course to pool his findings with theirs. In the meantime, Elias held the floor. The Welshman had been assiduous, visiting all the taverns in the vicinity and soaking up dozens of assorted recollections of Thomas Brinklow.

  ‘He did employ builders,’ said Elias, ‘he did engage suppliers, he did pay someone to maintain his equipment. But it was only ever under his personal supervision. Nobody ever got into that workshop on his own.’

  ‘What was he hiding?’

  ‘It was his way, Nick. That’s what everyone says.’

  ‘His way.’

  Elias retailed a number of anecdotes about Brinklow’s obsessive privacy. He also discovered that the murdered man was an unusually devout Christian, visiting the church every day and often staying an hour alone in prayer. His wife had been far more erratic in her attendance.

  ‘Even though she had more to confess,’ said Elias.

  ‘Confess?’

  ‘Lustful embraces with Walter Dunne.’

  ‘It seems that she had already confessed those to her husband,’ said Nicholas. ‘To confess them before God would have brought an end to them.’

  They were still discussing the idiosyncrasies of the Brinklow household when a dishevelled Lawrence Firethorn was shown into the room. Dust-covered and perspiring, he yet had an air of triumph about him.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Why have you kept us waiting?’ said Elias.

  Firethorn sat down beside them. ‘I have been to the very fons et origo of evil. We do not just deal with rogues and murderers here, gentlemen. We fight against treason.’

  He checked to ensure that nobody else was listening.

  ‘Rest easy,’ said Nicholas. ‘That little spy has been disarmed. You may speak freely now. What is this treason?’

  ‘The most damnable crime I have ever encountered, Nick.’

  Firethorn told them about his vigil at the quayside. His brief voyage to Deptford had not only revealed the true nature of the cargo aboard the boat. When he reached the dockyards and saw it unloaded into a larger vessel, he discovered its ultimate port of call.

  ‘Flushing.’

  ‘The weapons are going to the Netherlands?’ said Elias.

  ‘Where, then, is the treason?’ asked Nicholas. ‘If swords and pikes are sold to the Dutch, they are bought by those who are friendly to our nation. Nobody can question that.’

  ‘Unless that cargo is unloaded on Dutch soil,’ argued Firethorn, ‘to be carried to another country over land. If those weapons are part of some legal trade, why do they have to be costumed as garden implements? And why should weapons be sent to the Continent when we have a greater need for them in Ireland? There’s treason brewing here, have no doubt. Another fact supports it.’

  ‘What is that, Lawrence?’ said Elias.

  ‘Sir Godfrey Avenell. Nick bade me enquire after our Master of the Armoury and so I did. Every guard and servant around the palace has a tale about the man.’

  ‘Do they call him traitor?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Far from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘They respect the noble knight. He is diligent in his office and fair-minded with those who work beneath him. Sir Godfrey has a flair for staging tournaments and a knowledge of jousting that is based on years of experience.’ He turned to Elias. ‘One of his old opponents in the saddle was Lord Hunsdon. I had forgot our Lord Chamberlain was also a notable jouster in his younger day. Their friendship started in the tiltyard.’

  ‘How does Lord Hunsdon’s name come in?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He signed the order sending Edmund to prison.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘Our patron found that out. The Lord Chamberlain is also responsible for the injunction that keeps us out of the Queen’s Head. He is giving Sir Godfrey full return on their friendship.’

  ‘Lord Hunsdon will have the reddest face in Christendom when the truth about that friend is published,’ observed Firethorn. ‘Do you know what they all ask about the Master of the Armoury? Where does he get his wealth? Why does a man who has but a modest income for his duties keep a house in the Strand and another in the country? How can he afford to dress as well as he does, to ride on such fine coursers and to afford suits of armour for his favourites?’

  ‘I begin to see your reasoning,’ said Elias.

  ‘His money comes from selling arms to our enemies.’

  ‘Can this be proved?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It already has been to my satisfaction.’

  ‘We’ll need more evidence yet,’ continued the book holder, ‘but it certainly explains why Master Chaloner met his death. He strayed too close to the truth. Sir Godfrey Avenell is not just concealing his part in the killing of Thomas Brinklow. He may be hiding this appalling treason.’

  Elias was vengeful. ‘A man who betrays his country is no better than a dog. Sir Godfrey should be hanged, drawn and quartered. Think of the wickedness of it! Thos
e weapons he has sold abroad may be used to kill his own countrymen!’

  Firethorn nodded. ‘We must stop the devil forthwith.’

  ‘He must wait his turn,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, we must catch Sir John Tarker in our snare. He is a party to the murders if not to the treason. He is also the chief shield used by Sir Godfrey. Remove him and we may see what evil and corruption lie behind it.’

  ‘Sir John stays at the palace,’ said Firethorn. ‘How do we entice him out? We have no means to gain entry there. We can hardly expect him to come calling at our invitation.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘Yes, we can. And he will.’

  ***

  Sir John Tarker mounted his horse by the light of the torch in the wall-bracket. Karl made final adjustments to the girth of his own mount. Midnight was approaching and all the gates of the palace were sealed but they were about to leave by a postern at the rear. Clouds drifted lazily across the moon. Tarker grunted with pleasure. Darkness was a good omen.

  ‘Heaven blesses our enterprise,’ he said. ‘We thought to ask for a key to the house and one is offered.’

  ‘Agnes is a good woman,’ said Karl, putting a foot in the stirrup and hauling himself up. ‘She has never let me down before.’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘But, then, I have never disappointed her. Agnes will be well-rewarded for this night’s work.’

  ‘I’ve a mind to reward her in bed myself,’ said Tarker, ‘if I had not already set my eye on someone else in the house. Once Nicholas Bracewell is out of the way, all else falls into my hands. Come, Karl.’

  The guard unbolted the postern gate and the two of them went through it. The horses were soon cantering across the grass in the direction of the village. Sir John Tarker was in good humour. The message that had been sent by Agnes had come at exactly the right moment. The maidservant claimed that she had overheard Emilia Brinklow confess to Nicholas Bracewell that her brother’s papers had not all gone up in flames. Records of his most recent work had been hidden elsewhere in the house because of their importance. According to the letter, Nicholas Bracewell insisted on taking the papers to his bedchamber for safekeeping. Agnes promised to leave a key near a side-door so that Karl could slip into the house to steal the documents.

  Sir John Tarker was delighted. Nicholas Bracewell and the missing papers, which had caused so much trouble. If he could kill the former and retrieve the latter, he would be back once more in Sir Godfrey Avenell’s charmed circle. One night’s work would restore all that had been taken away.

  They came into the village and slowed to a trot. When the silhouette of the house rose up before them, they dismounted and tethered their horses to some bushes. As they approached silently on foot, both felt their blood race at the prospect of action. A soldier and a jouster, Tarker always revelled in combat but Karl was just as keen to be involved. When he had knocked out Simon Chaloner with a blow from his tongs, the armourer had wanted to finish him off. Deprived of that pleasure, he was eager to be involved in the slaying of Nicholas Bracewell.

  Both wore dark attire which allowed easy movement and blended with the night. They circled the house warily to check that nobody was still awake. The whole place was in darkness. Karl led the way back into the garden to await the signal promised in his lover’s message. Only when a lighted candle appeared at her window was it safe for them to enter. They crouched in the bushes and looked up at the top of the house, cursing the delay and wondering if something was amiss. Absorbed in their vigil, they did not realise that they were themselves under surveillance and that Valentine was curled up like a dog in the undergrowth only yards away.

  ‘Hurry, Agnes!’ Karl muttered under his breath.

  ‘Where is the woman?’ hissed Tarker.

  ‘She will come.’

  ‘When?’

  He got an immediate answer. A flickering candle was held in the topmost window for a few seconds before the curtains were drawn to hide it. Tarker jabbed his companion and they trotted towards the side-door of the house. It was the work of a moment to locate the key that the maidservant had left for them. Karl put it into the lock and turned it slowly. When the door opened, they went noiselessly in.

  Their entry was not unobserved. Eyes accustomed to the darkness, Valentine saw them go into the building and knew his role. He threw a ball of moss up to a window on the first floor so that its gentle tap on the glass could act as a warning. The gardener had been thrilled to be given such responsibility by Nicholas Bracewell. Having discharged it, he withdrew once more into his hiding-place.

  Tarker and the armourer moved furtively along a dark passageway. Since Karl had visited the building more than once, he was familiar with its design. Fortune favoured them. They knew that Nicholas Bracewell was in the bedchamber at the top of the first flight of stairs. They could be in and out without disturbing anyone else. Emilia Brinklow slept in a room farther along the landing and all the servants were up in the attics. Tarker led the way up the stairs, feeling for each step with his foot and taking care to make no sound. Karl’s breathing quickened with excitement.

  When they reached the landing, they paused to take stock of their surroundings. Karl checked the door to the attic rooms and found it securely shut. They would have no interference from any men in the house and Emilia was the only other person on the first floor. It was time to execute their plan. Nicholas Bracewell must be despatched before a search of his chamber was made by candlelight. They would soon be riding back to Greenwich Palace with their double mission accomplished.

  ‘Stand ready!’ whispered Tarker.

  ‘I have the cloth in my hand.’

  ‘Then use it!’

  Tarker eased the door open and they saw the outline of the sleeper in the bed against the wall. A few swift steps got them to the place of execution. Karl held the piece of cloth over the mouth of their prey to silence him while Tarker stabbed repeatedly with his dagger. No human being could survive an attack of such savagery. Had he been in the bed, Nicholas Bracewell would have been dead within seconds.

  As it was, the joint ferocity of the attackers was wasted on a pillow and a sack of hay. Before the two men realised that they had been duped, light poured in from half a dozen candles and the room was boiling with bodies. Owen Elias and Lawrence Firethorn grappled with the armourer and quickly managed to disarm him. Nicholas Bracewell launched himself at Tarker, grabbing the wrist that held the knife and smashing it down across his knee so that the weapon was knocked free. The two of them rolled on to the bed and fought with their bare fists.

  The ostler and the three manservants each held a candle in one hand and a sword or club in the other. The local constable held another, while his assistant carried two. They illumined a scene of vigorous activity. Sir John Tarker was fighting hard but Nicholas was the stronger and the more athletic. Without his weapon, the former could never master his assailant. He made a supreme effort to push Nicholas off him and struggled to his feet, dodging the club that was swung at him by a servant and grabbing a small table to swing at all and sundry.

  Nicholas dived beneath it and tackled him around the legs, bringing him crashing to the floor before raining blows to his body. Tarker punched, gouged and bit his opponent but his energy was starting to wane. He was riding no fine horse in the tiltyard now. He had no magnificent armour for defence and no lance for attack. In unarmed combat with Nicholas Bracewell, he was being comprehensively beaten.

  The book holder rolled over until he was on top of his man. Sitting astride Tarker’s chest, he grabbed the black hair and began to pound the head against the floor. Dazed and weary, his adversary was unable to unseat him.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ demanded Nicholas.

  ‘To kill you!’ gasped Tarker.

  ‘The same way that you murdered Master Chaloner?’

  ‘With even more pleasure!’

  Sir John Tarker tapped a last reserve of strength and heaved upwards with all his might but Nicholas was equal to the manoeuvre. As he was forced back, he ju
mped quickly to his feet, hauled Tarker after him, then delivered a punch to the jaw that took all resistance away. As the man slumped to the floor, the two constables gave a ragged cheer.

  Fighting was not yet over, however. Firethorn and Elias had overpowered the armourer and pushed him against a wall. Karl saw the situation all too clearly. He and Sir John Tarker had been lured into a trap with law officers present to act as witnesses. What galled him was that Agnes had been part of the deception. Rage at her betrayal gave him fresh energy and he suddenly burst from the grasp of the two men who held him and raced to the window. Throwing it up, he flung himself out and landed on soft ground below.

  Firethorn roared his annoyance and sought to go after the man but pursuit was unnecessary. As the armourer tried to make his escape, the flat of a spade swung at him out of the darkness and hit him full in the face. Valentine stepped into the pool of light thrown down by the candles and looked up at the faces in the window.

  There was a wealth of indignation in his apology.

  ‘He jumped in my flower-beds!’

  ***

  Edmund Hoode shrank back against the wall as he heard the tread of the keeper’s feet. They sounded more urgent than usual. The playwright was being sent for again by Richard Topcliffe. He was going to be torn slowly apart on the rack while the torturer searched in vain for a name that Hoode had never even heard. It was better to die swiftly in the prison than in such agony on the murderous contraption at Topcliffe’s house. When the door opened, therefore, Hoode tried to hurl himself at the keeper in the hope that the latter would draw his dagger and relieve him of his agonies with one sharp thrust. The plan soon foundered. He was now so weak that his violent assault was no more than a drunken fall against the keeper, who steadied him with his arm.

  ‘Be careful, sir,’ he said. ‘I warned you to eat more.’