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.
‘You do not like Orlando, I think?’
‘He is a fat fool.’
‘Even so, yet he can play like an angel.’
‘I hate those fawning musicians.’
‘He has his uses,’ said Avenell, moving to stand in front of the ornamental chimney-piece which climbed halfway up the wall. ‘We have had proof of that this very day. That fat fool was cunning enough to insinuate himself into the counsels of Westfield’s Men and we must be grateful to him for that. It has enabled us to nip disturbance in the bud.’ His smile faded. ‘At least, I trust that this is so.’
‘Have no fears on that account.’
‘Then reassure me straight.’
‘Everything went according to plan.’
‘I seem to have heard that boast before.’
‘The best men were chosen.’
‘That, too,’ said Avenell with hissing sarcasm. ‘The best men come at the highest price. When you saved a few pence on the hiring last time, you bought us unlooked-for trouble. I do not wish to encounter further unpleasantness in this matter. It puts me to choler. Convince me that it is over and done with.’
‘You have my word on it.’
‘The play has been destroyed?’
‘To all intents.’
‘Explain.’
‘A member of the company was beaten senseless.’
‘Will they heed the warning?’
‘They must,’ insisted Tarker. ‘My men know their trade. Their orders were clear. The intercessory was to be all but killed. No sane creature would proceed in a business that is fraught with such danger.’
‘Sanity is not a normal property of the theatre.’
‘We struck at their chief prop.’
‘Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘A man
called Nicholas Bracewell. He is but the book holder with the company but carries the whole enterprise on his shoulders. Without his strength and resource, they would be in a sorry state. Maim him and they all limp. There is no question but that we seized the right prey.’
‘And left him for dead, you say?’
Sir John Tarker nodded and gave a grim smile.
‘We will hear no more of Westfield’s Men.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode travelled to Greenwich by means of the river. Since no performance was being given by Westfield’s Men that afternoon, they were released for the whole day. The long journey from London Bridge gave them ample time to rehearse the many pertinent questions that needed to be put. The promised meeting with Emilia Brinklow had been arranged by Simon Chaloner on the condition that he himself would be present to advise and assist her. For their part, the book holder and the playwright agreed to be tactful and considerate in their enquiries. Evidently, Chaloner felt that his betrothed required protection even from putative friends.
It was a fine morning with a stiff breeze blowing upstream. Craft of all sizes were gliding along on the broad back of the Thames. Seated in the stern of their boat, the two friends felt the refreshing tug of the wind and conversed to the creak of oars and the plash of blades dipping into the dark water. The watermen were too immersed in their strenuous work to pay any attention to their passengers. It was a few days since Nicholas had been attacked at the Eagle and Serpent but he still bore the marks of the assault. His face was covered in bruises and the head wound beneath his cap still had a dressing. Appraising him now, Hoode began to have second thoughts.
‘It is not too late to abandon this folly,’ he said.
‘I have given my word, Edmund.’
‘What if there is another beating?’
‘Then I will administer it instead of receiving it. They will not take me unawares a second time. Besides,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘I have a bodyguard. Now that you have moved into my lodging to watch over me, I am quite safe.’
Hoode blenched. ‘But I thought you were looking after me! That is why Lawrence wanted me out of Silver Street. So that I might have your strong arm to shield me.’
‘A wise precaution. When they realise that we are determined to press on with this venture, they may try to wreck the play itself.’
‘Along with its author!’
‘His identity, alas, remains concealed.’
‘Mine does not,’ said Hoode. ‘Everyone in London knows that I hold the pen for Westfield’s Men, whether in the writing of new dramas, the cobbling of old ones or the wet-nursing of novice playwrights. The Roaring Boy may be the work of another hand but the signature of Edmund Hoode is also scrawled across it.’
‘You should be proud of that fact.’
‘Indeed, I am, Nick. Very proud—but very fearful.’
‘Stay close by me and banish all apprehension.’
‘I will try.’
Edmund Hoode and Lawrence Firethorn had been highly alarmed to learn of the beating taken by their book holder but their reaction had been positive. Both had their faith in the play reaffirmed, believing that the violence proved its veracity. Indeed, the actor-manager announced that they now had a mission as well as a duty to stage The Roaring Boy and Hoode was momentarily carried along by Firethorn’s rhetoric. As the playwright was rowed ever closer to the scene of the crime, however, his resolve began to vaccilate.
‘We take the most dreadful risks, Nick.’
‘That is why we work in the theatre.’
‘This is a matter of life and death.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The life of Emilia Brinklow and the cruel death of her brother. If we can sweeten the one by uncovering the truth about the other, we will have done noble service. We may also have cleared the names of two innocent people wrongly convicted of the murder.’
‘But we are up against such powerful men.’
‘All the more reason to bring them down.’
‘That is a task for the law, not for mere players.’
‘When the law fails, we must seek retribution ourselves.’ He put a comforting arm around his sagging colleague. ‘Take heart, Edmund. This will be one of the most fateful pieces that ever issued from your teeming brain. You will give pleasure to your audience and dispense justice at one and the same time. Hold fast to that thought and the dangers that haunt you will fade to distant shadows.’
‘You are right,’ decided Hoode. ‘I must be brave.’
‘We are too far in to turn back now.’
Nicholas spent the next ten minutes in bolstering his friend’s sense of purpose. Hoode’s commitment was pivotal. They could expect wild protest from Barnaby Gill but he could usually be overruled by Lawrence Firethorn. If the comedian persevered with his objections, they could even present the play without him. Edmund Hoode, however, was quite indispensable. It was for this reason that Nicholas had been appointed as his keeper. He sensed that it would be a difficult assignment.
When he next looked out across the water, Nicholas saw that they were approaching the royal dockyards at Deptford. The jumble of storehouses, slipways, sawpits, masthouses and cranes brought a mixture of nostalgia and regret. It was a long time since he sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the globe but the experience was tattooed on his soul. A first glimpse of The Golden Hind provoked a flurry of memories. It stood on the foreshore in a dry dock for people to gape at, its hull now hacked by a thousand knives in search of a piece of history. Looking at the vessel—still trim and well fitted out—Nicholas found it impossible to believe that so many men had been crammed into such a small space for such an interminable period of time.
Reflection on his past brought a surge of confidence in the future. Drake and his mariners had met with recurring horrors during their three years at sea yet they somehow survived. What kept them going was an indomitable spirit. So it must be with The Roaring Boy. It involved a much shorter voyage, albeit over uncharted water, but it would bring its share of tempests. They had to be withstood at all costs. Nicholas must regard the attack at the Eagle and Serpent as simply the first squall. It was vital for Westfield’s Men to combat hostile elements and keep the ship on course until they could bring it into port.
Simon Chaloner was waiting at Greenwich to escort them to the house and to prepare them for their meeting with Emilia Brinklow. They walked together along the main street.
‘I beg you to show all due care,’ he said.
‘Is the lady unwell?’ asked Hoode.
‘In mind but not in body. She grieves. Be gentle.’
‘We shall,’ said Nicholas. ‘But there are some personal matters which we must broach with her. Issues on which even you have been unable to satisfy us.’
‘All I ask is that you proceed with caution.’
Nicholas Bracewell wondered what sort of fragile woman Emilia Brinklow must be to require such delicate handling. Simon Chaloner was patently a robust young man with an extrovert streak in his nature. Could he really be drawn to the frail being that his description of Emilia had conjured up? Had she been told of the perils that attended The Roaring Boy? Or was he deliberately keeping her ignorant of them?
When they reached the house, they paused to look up at its facade. Edmund Hoode was frankly impressed.
‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘So neat, so symmetrical.’
‘Thomas took a hand in its design,’ explained Chaloner. ‘First and foremost, he was a mathematician. All that you see around you will be geometrically exact.’
‘A remarkable building,’ said Hoode, marvelling at the size and scope of the place. ‘I had no idea that there was so much money in mathematics.’
‘Thomas was a genius.’
‘A renowned engineer, too, I believe,’ said Nich
olas. ‘Did he not design naval equipment for the royal dockyards?’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner. ‘There was no limit to his abilities. He worked with distinction in many fields. You will catch something of his personality here. The imprint of Thomas Brinklow is on every part of the house and garden.’ He remembered something and became brisk. ‘Come, gentlemen. Emilia is waiting in the arbour to meet you. Please bear in mind what I told you.’
They followed him to a side-gate and went around the house to the long, rectangular garden at the rear. It was laid out with mathematical precision and kept in immaculate condition. Straight paths bisected well-groomed lawns. Flowers and shrubs grew in orderly beds. Every tree seemed to have been put in the perfect location. Wide stone steps led up to an arbour at the far end of the garden that was screened off from the house by a series of concentric hedges. The pattern envisaged by Thomas Brinklow had been brought scrupulously to life.
Emilia was seated on a bench in the arbour, talking to the maidservant. As soon as she heard the visitors, Agnes turned to give them a polite curtsey before hurrying back in the direction of the house. Simon Chaloner placed a gentle kiss on Emilia’s hand, then raised her to her feet to perform the introductions. She was poised but taciturn, bestowing wan smiles of welcome on the two men before resuming her seat. Chaloner indicated that the visitors should sit down before lowering himself on to the bench beside Emilia. Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode had no choice but to take up a position diametrically opposite. Mathematics quashed even the slightest rebellion against order.
‘It is kind of you to invite us here,’ said Nicholas politely, ‘and we do appreciate it. We will not take up any more of your time than is necessary.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
Hoode tried to speak but his lips betrayed him. So struck was he by the pallid loveliness of Emilia Brinklow that he was bereft of words. The playwright was no stranger to beauty. Having dedicated much of his life to the futile pursuit of feminine charms, he felt that it was a subject in which he had acquired some painful expertise but here was someone who broke through the boundaries even of his wide experience. Emilia Brinklow was wholly enchanting. Dressed in a dark green satin that blended with the lawns, she wore blue hat and gloves to complement the tiny blue shoes that peeped out below the hem of her skirt. A single piece of jewellery—a pendant ruby—sparkled against the divine whiteness of her neck. Edmund Hoode was instantly vanquished.
The Roaring Boy Page 10
