Until I met again with Walter Dunne,|
Whose sugared tongue, good shape and lovely look,
Soon stole my heart, and Brinklow’s love forsook.
The remorseful wife was not alone on stage for long. As each new character was mentioned in the plaintive song, he or she stepped out to take up position in a carefully arranged tableau. Spectators soon recovered their voices. Thomas Brinklow set off a ripple of sympathy and Walter Dunne was greeted with a hiss of anger, but it was the murderers themselves who provoked the loudest response. When Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias skulked on to the stage as Freshwell and Maggs, respectively, they were met with concerted abuse. Pictures of wickedness in their ragged garb, the two actors played on the spectators with roars of defiance and increased the general ire by making obscene gestures at them. Here were no wretched penitents. They were villains who clearly revelled in their villainy.
Cecily Brinklow waited for the uproar to abate before she sung verses that offered a whole new perspective on tragic events in a house in Greenwich.
The world reviles for e’er my hated name,
With Walter Dunne, I bear eternal blame.|
But though we sinned together through the night,
To murder did we nobody incite.
Another hand unleashed these evil scrags
(The one called Freshwell, and the other Maggs)This cruel man had Thomas killed stone dead
But Walter Dunne and I hanged in his stead.
Who this foul demon is, our play will tell,
He dwells in London here but comes from hell.
Call him The Stranger until his face you espy.
Send him to the gallows to hang up high.
There was a gasp of disbelief as Edmund Hoode strode on to the stage in a long black cloak with a hat pulled down over his eyes. For the vast majority of those present, The Stranger was a sensational new element in the story. Could the law really have hanged Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne for a crime they did not commit? Was the play going to offer fresh evidence that would exonerate them and incriminate the dark figure on the stage? Who was the Stranger and why would he wish to have Thomas Brinklow so viciously killed?
Simon Chaloner was chilled by the sinister entrance of the newcomer. Emilia Brinklow stifled a cry with the back of her hand. Both of them marvelled at Edmund Hoode’s skill as an actor. The moon-faced playwright had been turned into a stealthy figure of doom. What neither of them realised was that the Stranger himself was sitting above them in the upper gallery, lurking in a shadowed corner and already smarting with discomfort. Sir John Tarker watched it all with growing frenzy.
With the ballad over, the play unfolded in a series of short but effective scenes. Thomas Brinklow was first seen at home with his wife, bestowing rich gifts upon her as a token of his undying love. Barnaby Gill floated joyously on the waves of sympathy that came rolling towards him. The first meeting between Cecily and Walter Dunne aroused fresh hisses of disgust but the adulterous couple were no longer condemned out of hand. In the light of the ballad, the audience was at least now ready to suspend judgement for a while.
The Stranger came to the house in Greenwich as a friend but departed as a sworn enemy. What caused the intemperate row with Thomas Brinklow was not made clear but the Stranger’s vile threats left nobody in any doubt about his intentions. When he engaged the services of Freshwell and Maggs, all three of them were subjected to the most ear-splitting denigration from the onlookers. Lawrence Firethorn had to use the full force of his voice to rise above it.
Murder was to be followed by malicious deceit. Having instigated the killing, the Stranger plotted the arrest and conviction of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. It was when he explained that they would be caught in flagrante that the real explosion came. Sir John Tarker could endure no more. He gave the signal to his confederates and they acted with promptness. Freshwell was in the middle of a drunken speech of praise for the Stranger when a member of the audience clambered up on to the stage to wave a club at him. One roaring boy was suddenly confronted by another.
The standees bayed at the interloper but they soon had a more immediate problem of their own. A fight broke out in the very middle of the yard between two of Tarker’s men. It quickly spread until several dozen people were involved. When a second affray erupted in the lower gallery, the whole audience was in turmoil. Nicholas Bracewell rushed out to overpower the man with the club but his intervention was too late. The performance was ruined. Spectators who had been absorbed in the drama only minutes before now joined in the brawl or fought their way to the exits. Simon Chaloner had to use all his strength to protect Emilia from the busy elbows and bruising shoulders all around them. His howled attempts to calm down the mob went unheard.
Sir John Tarker presided over it all with malignant satisfaction. Having been upbraided so roundly by Sir Godfrey Avenell, he was anxious to redeem himself in the most dramatic way. Instead of launching a second attack on any of Westfield’s Men, therefore, he bided his time to give them the illusion that they were safe. The moment to strike was when he could inflict maximum damage on the company and on the play that they were daring to present. As he viewed the seething chaos below, he was content. The Roaring Boy was now no more than a fading memory in the minds of brawling spectators.
Lawrence Firethorn was livid, Barnaby Gill was aghast and Edmund Hoode was utterly destroyed. Owen Elias was belabouring the man who had first jumped on the stage and Nicholas was trying to save the structure itself from collapse. Alexander Marwood was in an ecstasy of hysteria, running around in circles like a headless chicken as each new surge of violence inflicted more damage on his property and holding his hands over his ears to keep out the deafening clamour of combat.
It was a long time before even a semblance of order was restored. Nicholas Bracewell stood on the wrecked stage with Firethorn and Hoode. The yard was littered with wounded bodies, the galleries were cluttered with broken benches, the balustrades were stained with blood or draped with abandoned articles of apparel. An air of complete desolation hung over the tavern. As they surveyed the carnage in front of them, the actor-manager tempted fate with an unconsidered remark.
‘This has been our Armageddon,’ he said with a sweep of his arm. ‘But one consolation remains. The worst is now over.’
A sheriff and two constables arrived on cue. Forcing their way through the remnants of the crowd with brute unconcern, they stood at the edge of the stage and looked up at the three men. The sheriff was brusque and peremptory.
‘We seek one Edmund Hoode,’ he said.
‘I am he,’ volunteered the playwright.
‘You are under arrest, sir.’
‘On what charge, pray?’
‘Seditious libel. Seize him.’
Chapter Six
Valentine heard the sound of horses in the stable-yard and rested his wheelbarrow on the lawn. He pricked his ears and caught the murmur of distant conversation. It was enough to tell him that the mistress of the house had returned. The voices died when a door opened and shut. Evidently, they had gone into the building. Valentine lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow and pushed it with unhurried gait towards the shrubs that grew outside the parlour. It was a warm evening and the windows were still open. Bending to scoop up some of the grass he had mown earlier, the gardener slowly inched himself towards the room until he was within earshot, his ugly face animated with curiosity as he listened to the hurt tones from within. His success was short-lived.
‘What are you doing there?’ said a sharp voice.
‘Picking up this grass,’ he said.
‘Move away from that window.’
‘I have my work to do.’
‘Do it somewhere else.’
Agnes stood there with her hands on her hips and a look of deep suspicion on her face. She hated Valentine enough to have asked for his dismissal more than once but he did his job cons
cientiously and Emilia Brinklow was reluctant to part with any of the staff who had been engaged by her brother. His furtive manner showed that she had caught him out. Removing his cap with a clumsy attempt at courtesy, he aimed his repulsive grin at the maidservant and shrugged his apologies.
‘I’ve no wish to upset a woman like you, Agnes.’
‘Then keep out of my sight.’
‘Be friends with me, I beg.’
‘You are paid to work here and that is all.’
‘Why, so are you. Can we not lighten the load by sharing it a little? A smile and a kind word is all that I seek.’
‘You will get neither from me. Away with you!’
Her homely face was a mask of cold anger. Valentine replaced his cap and wiped the back of his hand across his harelip. Wilting under the maidservant’s stern gaze, he took his wheelbarrow off down the garden and disappeared behind the fountain. He would have to content himself with the few words he had managed to pick up through the open window.
Unaware of the exchange outside the parlour, Emilia Brinklow and Simon Chaloner continued their urgent conversation within it. The riotous behaviour at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had shocked both of them into silence and the long ride back to Greenwich had been a mute ordeal. Back at the house, they were able to give vent to their wounded feelings. White-faced and despondent, Emilia sat on an upright chair while Simon Chaloner circled the room with restless strides.
‘I should not have taken you there,’ he said.
‘It was my own decision to go, Simon.’
‘The danger was too great. It was madness.’
‘You could not expect me to miss the performance.’
‘What performance?’ he said ruefully. ‘Act Two had scarcely begun when those villains wreaked their havoc. We were lucky to escape injury.’ His hand went to his sword. ‘Had you not been with me, my love, I’d have hacked the rogues down one by one and sent their stinking carcasses to Sir John Tarker. They were plainly his creatures, hired to start that affray and chase The Roaring Boy from the stage.’
‘How can we prove that?’
‘We do not need to, Emilia.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shall do what honour prompted me to do at the very start,’ he said, standing before her. ‘Go straight to Tarker and cut out his black heart.’
‘Simon, no!’ she protested, rising to clutch at him.
‘It is the only way to end this business.’
‘By throwing away your own life?’
‘Tarker is a monster!’
‘Then he must answer to the law,’ she pleaded. ‘If you lay hands upon him, you will be the felon. There has to be another way to bring him to justice.’
‘Yes, Emilia. We tried it in vain this afternoon.’
‘The situation may yet be retrieved.’
‘With my sword!’
‘No, Simon!’ she implored. ‘Dear God in heaven—no!’
She held him so tightly that his righteous indignation eventually gave way to concern for her. He stroked her hair and calmed her down with whispered condolences. Lowering her on to the chair again, he knelt down in front of her so that he could look up into her face. He used a gentle finger to brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek.
‘Take heart, my love,’ he said.
‘We were so close, Simon—then all was lost.’
‘Only our folly persuaded us that we could win. Tarker set his ambush well. He had The Roaring Boy stabbed to death just as callously as Thomas.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, then shook his head with philosophical resignation. ‘This morning was so rich in hope but the afternoon has left me poor indeed.’
‘Poor?’
‘I was doubly robbed at the Queen’s Head.’
‘How so?’
‘I lost both a play and a dearest partner in life.’
Emilia squeezed his hand. ‘That is not so.’
‘It is,’ he said resignedly. ‘You will not marry me until this business is concluded and what chance is there of that now? My joy is further away from me than ever.’ He stood up again and moved across the room. ‘I have worked so sedulously on your behalf, Emilia. I have waited so long and tried so very hard. There is nothing more that I could have done save lay down my life.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I love you for it.’
‘But not enough, I fear.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you will not be mine,’ he said. ‘You will not wed me now so that we can join forces to renew this fight together. You will not put me first in line of affection for once. Your love is on condition only.’
She crossed quickly to him. ‘It has to be, Simon.’
‘Why?’
‘I have explained it to you a thousand times.’
‘And I believed you, Emilia. Until today. Now I begin to wonder if your explanation truly answers me.’
‘I will not rest until the murder is resolved.’
‘Thomas is dead. Vengeance will not bring him back.’
‘It will give me peace of mind.’
‘Then—at last—you may pay heed to my existence.’
‘I do, Simon,’ she said with feeling. ‘On my honour, I do. But I am not able to open my heart fully to you until this dreadful burden has been lifted from it. That burden only took on extra weight this afternoon, for now I am oppressed by guilt as well as grief.’
‘Guilt?’
‘At the damage we have inflicted on Westfield’s Men.’
‘It was not deliberate, Emilia.’
‘That does not still my conscience. They risked their lives and their reputation for us. To what end? Their inn-yard playhouse was wrecked, their work dismembered and Edmund Hoode carted off to prison. And all because of me.’ She walked across to the window. ‘They must hate the very name of Brinklow. It has brought them nothing but trouble.’
‘I am to blame for that. I gave them the play.’
‘Only at my behest.’
‘You charged me to find the fittest company,’ he said, ‘and I did that when I met Nick Bracewell. I knew that he would be steadfast enough to hold his company together and put The Roaring Boy on the stage. He must regret that he ever got involved with this venture.’
‘I regret it, too,’ she said soulfully. ‘Nicholas was a kind and courageous man. I would not hurt him for the world. I hope his fellows do not turn against him for this.’
***
A pall of misery hung over the house in Shoreditch. Not even the warm resilience of a Margery Firethorn could lift it. When she served refreshment, only one of the guests, Nicholas Bracewell, had voice enough to give her proper thanks. The others hardly stirred out of their melancholy. Barnaby Gill was morose, Owen Elias stared gloomily at the empty fireplace and Lawrence Firethorn himself was in the grip of a pain deeper even than his toothache. When Margery left them alone again in the parlour, Nicholas Bracewell tried to rouse the others into action.
He slapped a table. ‘What are we to do?’ he said.
‘You have done enough already, sir,’ accused Gill. ‘It is all your doing that we are in this quandary. Had they listened to me, instead of to you, we would not have touched this leprous play. It has infected the whole company. You have much to answer for, Nicholas.’
‘Not so!’ exclaimed Owen Elias, jumping to the defence of his friend. ‘But for Nick, we would never have had the chance to present such a vital piece of theatre.’
‘Too vital!’ moaned Firethorn.
‘We were not to know the play would be waylaid.’
‘It was always a possibility, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there was a limit to the precautions we could take. I warned the gatherers to look for any ruffians who sought admission to th
e play. I stationed extra men to curb any disturbance but they could not be everywhere. The brawl was too sudden and well-planned. We lost control.’
‘Control!’ snarled Gill. ‘If that indeed were all. We have lost more than control, sir. Our occupation’s gone!’
‘For the time being only,’ said Nicholas.
‘Forever. Face the truth—forever!’
Gill’s voice was like a death knell and nobody tried to interrupt its fearsome echo. The Roaring Boy had been an engine of destruction. It not only blackened a record of good audience behaviour at the inn, it caused several injuries, inflicted indiscriminate damage on their venue and led to the arrest of their playwright. Alexander Marwood’s furious vow that they would never set foot again in the Queen’s Head for once had legal reinforcement. The sheriff, whose men so roughly dragged Edmund Hoode away, also served the company with a writ. An injunction had been taken out forbidding them to perform any play at the Queen’s Head until further notice.
‘We are voices from the past,’ said Gill at his most lugubrious. ‘Mere phantoms. The Roaring Boy has silenced our art in perpetuity.’
‘No great loss where you are concerned, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘Bonfires will be lit in celebration. But we will live to act on.’
‘Where?’ sneered the comedian. ‘How?’
‘With distinction, sir!’
‘There has to be a way out for us,’ said Elias.
‘There is, Owen,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Westfield’s Men have faced adversity before—plague, fire, the machinations of our rivals—and we have always survived. We can do so again at this time of trial.’ His bluster became a tentative query for the book holder. ‘Is that not so, Nick? Stiffen our spirits. Teach us the road to salvation.’
‘But he is the author of our misfortune!’ said Gill.
‘We all share the blame for that,’ retorted Elias. ‘Only one man can rescue us and here he sits. Well, Nick? Your counsel is always sage. What must we do?’
Nicholas Bracewell weighed his words before speaking.
‘First, we must secure Edmund’s release,’ he said. ‘We may bewail our own lot but at least we still enjoy our freedom. Edmund languishes in the Marshalsea on a most serious charge. We must restore his liberty.’
The Roaring Boy Page 14
