‘How may we do that?’ asked Firethorn.
‘By calling on our patron once more. He can speak into ears that we are powerless to reach. Request Lord Westfield to find out how Edmund came to be incarcerated.’
‘We know that already,’ said Elias. ‘Seditious libel.’
‘Against whom?’
‘Sir John Tarker.’
‘I am not so certain of that, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir John Tarker has a worthy reputation as a tournament jouster but he is also a notorious gambler and always in debt. He has neither the money nor the position at Court to bring about this action. We wrestle with a higher authority here.’
Firethorn nodded. ‘He must have influential friends.’
‘We need to know who they are. Only when we identify our enemies can we hope to prevail against them. Then there is another point.’ He scratched his beard in contemplation for a moment. ‘The play was interrupted well before Sir John Tarker was unmasked. How could Edmund be accused of libel when none took place? Do you follow me here, gentlemen?’
‘No,’ admitted Firethorn.
‘I do not even bother to listen,’ said Gill.
‘Well, we do, Nick,’ said Elias. ‘Attentively. Continue.’
‘The Roaring Boy was swept from the scaffold because a certain person knew that he would be revealed as a partner in the murder of Thomas Brinklow. What we believe is naked truth, he describes as libel. In other words, he must have had foreknowledge of the rest of the play. Why else attack it?’ Nicholas looked around at his three companions. ‘How did he find out? We closed ranks against all enquiry. We lived on top of each other to ensure our mutual safety. Yet he knew. Who taught him the innermost workings of the company? To speak more plain—who betrayed us?’
The question produced a flurry of speculation from Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias along with a vigorous self-defence from Barnaby Gill, who was sensitive to any charge of indiscretion. Nicholas soon interrupted them.
‘The fault may not be ours,’ he pointed out. ‘Before the play came into our hands, it was housed at Greenwich. Someone there may have gained improper access to it and been warned of its contents. On the other hand, no plans for any performance had then been made. The manuscript was harmless until it came alive on a stage. For that reason, I suspect a member of the company is involved.’
‘I’ll tear him apart limb by limb!’ vowed Firethorn.
‘Let us find him first.’
‘That will be my office,’ volunteered Elias.
‘No, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘I have more taxing work than that. You must track a more difficult prey with me.’
‘Say but his name and I’ll run him to earth.’
‘Maggs.’
‘My part in the play?’
‘The same. Freshwell was hanged but Maggs escaped.’
‘The law could not find him, how shall we?’
‘By searching more assiduously,’ said Nicholas. ‘The law had scapegoats enough in Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. With Freshwell to dance at the end of a rope beside them, they could spare Maggs. We may not.’
‘How do we know he is still alive?’
‘If he was cunning enough to evade capture, he will have the wit to survive. Find out where he is, Owen. The two of us will then have conference with him. There are hidden facts about this case that only Maggs knows.’
Elias chuckled. ‘One Maggs will hunt another.’
‘While you are about that,’ said Firethorn, ‘I’ll engage the services of Lord Westfield on our behalf. We’ll see if he can find the key to Edmund’s cell.’
‘And what must I do,’ asked the peevish Gill.
‘Nothing,’ said Elias. ‘That’s contribution enough.’
Nicholas reviewed the situation and reached a decision.
‘I’ll to Greenwich tomorrow at first light,’ he said. ‘This latest business may force a more complete story from Master Chaloner. I fear that something was held back from us and I will pursue him until I learn why.’
Action dispersed anxiety. Instead of bemoaning their fate, they could now take positive steps to amend it. Barnaby Gill still wallowed in pessimism but the others were eager to vindicate the name of Westfield’s Men, and that could be done only if they found out the full details surrounding the murder of Thomas Brinklow. Since The Roaring Boy could not prosecute their case, they had to marshal their evidence in a different way. After further lengthy discussion, Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias bade farewell to their hosts and set off down the street.
They did not get very far. Someone waited at a corner ahead of them and leapt out into their path with a sheepish smile. Peter Digby was trembling with embarrassment.
‘I must speak with you, Nicholas,’ he said.
‘Is the matter so urgent?’
‘I fear that it may be.’
‘Then it touches on this afternoon’s affair?’ Digby nodded and threw an anxious glance at the Welshman. ‘Speak freely in front of Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Though he is famed for babbling tongue, he knows when to hold it.’
‘Would that I did!’ said the musician.
He took the two friends down a quiet lane so that their conversation could be neither witnessed nor overheard. Peter Digby was so conscious-stricken that perspiration broke out on his forehead. He gave a shamefaced grin of apology.
‘What ails you, Peter?’ said Nicholas. ‘Tell us.’
‘I may be wrong,’ said the other. ‘Pray God that I am! I would never forgive myself if I was lured into treachery. The company is my life. Westfield’s Men are my family.’
‘They will always remain so,’ assured Elias.
‘Not after today.’
‘Why, man? What have you done?’
‘Nothing with intent to cause harm.’
Nicholas put an arm around the musician’s shoulders. With the exception of the much-maligned George Dart, there was not a more decent and innocuous member of the troupe than Peter Digby. Any damage or inconvenience he had caused his fellows must be inadvertent.
‘Do not tell Master Firethorn,’ pleaded Digby.
‘We will not,’ promised Nicholas.
‘He would expel me straight.’
‘The matter begins and ends here, Peter.’
‘Then hear the worst.’ He licked his lips and glanced nervously around. ‘When the play went into rehearsal, we were all enjoined to reveal nothing of its substance to anyone outside the company. Nor did I, Nicholas. Not wittingly, I swear. But an old friend came to see Mirth and Madness. One Orlando Reeve with whom I once studied.’
‘Was his visit unusual?’
‘Most unusual. Orlando looks down upon the theatre. Yet this was his second appearance at the Queen’s Head in weeks.’
‘Second appearance?’
‘Yes,’ said Digby. ‘On the first, he bought me wine and teased me about a falling off in our work. He mocked us so much that I had to defend Westfield’s Men. I told him that we would assert ourselves with a wonderful new play.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘The Roaring Boy?’
‘Even so.’
‘What did you disclose of its contents?’
‘Little beyond its characters and theme.’
‘And this second unexpected visit?’
‘Orlando bought me more wine,’ confessed Digby. ‘He flattered me and wriggled inside my guard. Playbills had been posted up for The Roaring Boy and he affected interest. Before I knew it, I was singing him snatches of the ballad.’ The old face was contorted with apprehension. ‘Tell me that I did no harm, Nicholas. Assure me that I could not possibly have betrayed my fellows in such a foolish way.’
‘You did well to confide in me,’ said Nicholas. ‘This Orlando Reeve is a musician, you say?’
> ‘A virtuoso of the keyboard.’
‘For whom does he play?’
‘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 d
ebt.
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.
The Roaring Boy Page 15
