‘Waiting, sir. Like all the others. Waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Justice.’
‘In a loathsome privy like this?’
The man eyed the coins. ‘What do you wish to know, sir?’
‘When I am to be released.’
‘That is a secret.’
‘Sell it to me.’
‘I would not part cheaply with it.’
Hoode added another coin to the others and jingled them in his palm. ‘Tell me, my friend, and the money is yours.’
‘First give it to me,’ said the man, extending a grubby palm.
‘Not before I have your secret,’ bargained Hoode. He jingled the money again. ‘Come, sir. When will I leave the Marshalsea? When will I get out of this accursed cell?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘As God is my witness!’
‘Tomorrow!’ Hoode was delirious with joy. ‘I get out of this prison tomorrow. Here, friend. Take the money.’ He put the coins gratefully into the man’s hand. ‘You have earned every penny. I am to be released from this hell tomorrow.’
‘Not released, sir.’
‘But you just said that I would. Did you lie?’
‘When will you leave the Marshalsea, you asked.’
‘Why, so I did and so you answered.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Aye, so there’s an end to it.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the keeper, relishing the other’s bewilderment. ‘You leave here but are not released.’
‘Where, then, will I go?’
‘To visit a certain gentleman.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘He would have conversation with you in his house.’
‘Who is this gentleman? Why does he seek my company?’
‘Only he knows that, sir.’
‘What is his name?’
‘That I can tell you if you have courage enough to hear.’
‘Courage?’
‘Some shake at the very sound of his name.’
‘Why? Who is he?’
‘Master Topcliffe.’
Hoode began to sway. ‘The torturer?’
‘Interrogator,’ corrected the other. ‘You are honoured. Master Richard Topcliffe only invites very special guests to his house. It is your turn tomorrow.’
He went out laughing and pulled the door shut. Edmund Hoode did not even hear its loud bang as he went down in a dead faint.
***
Morning passed at the house in Greenwich and the afternoon soon dwindled away but there was no sign of Simon Chaloner. The ostler sent to fetch him returned with the news that the latter was not at home. Chaloner’s servant had no idea where his master had gone or how long he would be away. Emilia Brinklow grew anxious at this intelligence. Her betrothed was in such close and regular contact with her that she always knew where to find him. It was most unusual for him to quit his house without leaving details of his whereabouts. She scented trouble.
‘He may come here of his own accord,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then where is he? Simon could have been here hours ago. Something has happened to him, Nicholas.’
‘Do not run to meet fear,’ he cautioned.
‘But I know Simon. This is not like him.’
‘He may have had business elsewhere that detained him.’
‘That is what worries me.’
They were back in the parlour and Emilia’s calm and collected front had been fractured by her concern. Nicholas wanted to pay a visit to Orlando Reeve in the hope of catching the musician at his house but he felt unable to leave her alone in her distress. Evening was approaching and a man who called at the house every day had still not put in an appearance. It was puzzling.
‘Simon is in danger,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Master Chaloner can take care of himself,’ he assured her. ‘Rest easy. He is young, strong and well-armed.’
‘He is also impulsive. Far too impulsive. I fear me that he has finally run out of patience.’
‘Patience?’
‘Yes, Nicholas. He has waited so long.’
‘For revenge?’
‘For me,’ she said. ‘And I will only be his when the matter is finally and completely resolved. Even then…’ She bit back what she was going to say and paced the room instead. ‘Simon has wearied of this interminable delay. He is distraught at the collapse of all our hopes. I demanded too much from him.’
‘So what do you believe he has done?’
‘Proceeded against Sir John Tarker on his own.’
‘That would be lunacy.’
‘Simon has more than a streak of that.’
‘He would stand no chance of getting near him.’
‘That will not check his ardour,’ she said, coming back to him. ‘He does not only wish to avenge Thomas’s death. He has another score to settle. Concerning me. I will never forgive myself if anything happens to Simon. He is the dearest friend I have in all the world. And I am his.’
‘He covets the day when he can make you his wife.’
‘So do I.’
She manufactured a smile of enthusiasm but it was far too strained to convince Nicholas. In any case, he had seen her and Chaloner together. They were not like most couples on the verge of marriage. Emilia seemed to tolerate his love instead of requiting it. Nicholas wondered if her attitude to him would change in time but it was not his place to say so. What he did convey in a glance was his own admiration of her. Over half a day had now been spent in her company and it had seemed like minutes.
‘You have been a good friend to me as well, Nicholas.’
‘I will do all in my power to help you,’ he said.
‘I know and I am grateful. After what happened at the Queen’s Head yesterday, most people in your position would loathe the very sight of me.’
‘I could never do that.’
‘Even though I have caused you so much upheaval?’
‘Sir John Tarker did that. Not you.’
He looked deep into her eyes and found an answering glint of affection. Nicholas mastered his curiosity. It was not the time to investigate his feelings for her. Emilia’s bethrothed was missing and his safety was their immediate priority. He became businesslike.
‘Where else could Master Chaloner be?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Might he not be with friends? With relations?’
‘His friends are all in London, his family in Dorset. He would visit neither without telling me. Simon is a creature of habit. He is always here at this hour of the day.’
‘I will gladly renew the search on your behalf.’
‘You do not know the area.’
‘Let your ostler be my guide.’
“No, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Stay here in the hope that he will soon return. Your presence is comforting. I am most grateful that you came to Greenwich today.’
‘So am I.’
She assessed him for a moment, then gave a sad smile.
‘You asked me a question in the garden,’ she said. ‘I refused to give you a proper answer.’
‘And now?’
‘Simon Chaloner did not write The Roaring Boy. He has many sterling virtues but he is not a creative man. His talents run in other directions, as you have no doubt observed. He is far too restive to be a playwright.’
‘It is work that requires a certain stillness.’
‘Simon cannot keep still for one minute.’
‘I thought it too solitary an occupation for him.’
‘Too solitary and too safe,’ she said wryly. ‘I may not give you the author’s name because I
have vowed to shield him but it was certainly not Simon. He thought the play too slow a means to catch Sir John Tarker in a trap. That is why I am so anxious now. I fear he seeks a speedier solution.’
***
From his hiding-place on the roof, Simon Chaloner looked down on a panorama of controlled violence. Knights in splendid armour practised for hours to improve their skills, keeping strictly to the rules of jousting. Points were awarded for striking an opponent’s helmet; for striking a coronel, the crownlike safety device at the end of his lance; for unseating him by legitimate means; or for breaking a lance by striking him in the permitted area from the waist upwards. Those who deliberately or carelessly struck an adversary’s legs, saddle or horse had points deducted.
At any other time, Chaloner would have enjoyed the occasion and savoured its finer nuances. Now it was merely a tedious spectacle that dragged on and on into the evening. Sir John Tarker was there, resplendent in his new armour and invincible in the saddle, but Chaloner could not get near him without discovery. Tarker would have to be confronted in a more private part of the building. The knight could not ride up and down the tilt forever.
When the erect figure of Sir Godfrey Avenell came into the gallery above the yard, he caught the attention of his friend and beckoned him over. Chaloner was close enough to observe but not hear the exchange between the two friends. It was soon over. Two other spectators came into the gallery to join Avenell and they were soon deep in conversation with him. Chaloner watched them long enough to recognise the newcomers as two of the Dutch visitors earlier being shown around the castle, then he switched his gaze to the yard.
Sir John Tarker had finally come to the end of his practise. Dismounting from his destrier, he handed the reins to his esquire, then crossed to one of the armourers who was standing on the sidelines. There was an animated discussion as Tarker appeared to complain about some problem with his breastplate, gesturing at it with his gauntlet. Contrite and apologetic, the brawny armourer pointed towards the workshops as if suggesting that he effect the necessary adjustments there and then. Chaloner was delighted when Tarker agreed to go with the man. The desired opportunity might have come at last.
He gave them plenty of time to reach the workshop because Tarker could only walk slowly in his suit of armour. Most of the other knights stayed in the tilting yard and the viewing stands were dotted with palace guards or servants, stealing a moment away from their duties to enjoy the impromptu tournament. Sir Godfrey Avenell was still talking with the Dutchmen in the gallery, all three of them now oblivious to the combat down below. Chaloner judged that the workshop would be largely deserted. He and Sir John Tarker might meet on equal terms at last.
‘Why is your armour so expensive?’
‘Because it is the best, Sir John.’
‘It costs a king’s ransom.’
‘That is because it has to be tailored to each knight,’ said the armourer in a guttural voice. ‘And we have to import the metal. That only adds to the price. Only finest and strongest metal is used and that cannot be found in England.’
‘The finest and strongest knights are English!’
Sir John Tarker let out an arrogant laugh, then ordered the armourer to look more closely at the part of the breastplate that was chafing the side of his chest slightly. They were in one of the workshops, a vast and cavernous place filled with glowing coals and curling smoke. Armour and weaponry of all kinds stood around the walls. Hammers and anvils abounded. The two men were beside a forge with their backs to the door. Chaloner let himself into the chamber, then eased the door shut again as quietly as he could before slipping home the bolt. They were completely safe from intrusion now.
Pulling out his rapier, he closed on Tarker.
‘Turn, you vermin!’ he shouted. ‘Show your vile face!’
Tarker had removed his helmet so the expression of amazement showed when he spun round. His hand went for his own sword but Chaloner was too quick for him, wielding his rapier to first strike the gauntleted hand away from its weapon, then flick upwards into the knight’s face. Tarker yelled as a gash opened up in his cheek to send a stream of blood running down his breastplate. He shook with rage. Grabbing a stave from a pile against the wall, he swung it viciously at his attacker. Chaloner ducked and used the rapier to prick the other side of Tarker’s face. More blood flowed.
Howling even louder, the knight flung the stave at him and pulled his own sword from its scabbard, using its heavier blade to knock the rapier from Chaloner’s hand. When he raised his weapon to smite his young adversary, however, he found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol. It was the weapon that Nicholas Bracewell had remarked upon and it was aimed directly at Sir John Tarker’s forehead.
‘Drop your sword!’ ordered Chaloner.
‘We should have killed you at the start!’
‘Drop it or I shoot.’
Tarker glared at him. ‘You do not have the courage.’
Simon Chaloner looked into the swarthy face with its coal-black eyes and its taunting smile. He thought of Thomas Brinklow lying butchered in his own home and he thought of Emilia being molested. The pistol remained steady in his hand as his finger tightened on the trigger. Retribution was indeed sweet. His finger tightened again but he did not fire. Before he could discharge the weapon, Chaloner was hit from behind by a swinging blow from armourer’s tongs. In concentrating all his attention on one man, he had forgotten the other. He went down with a thud and rolled over on the floor. The armourer raised the tongs again to smash at the unconscious figure.
‘No,’ said the grinning Sir John Tarker. ‘Leave him to me.’
Chapter Seven
Owen Elias set out that evening on the trail of an escaped murderer. He was in the unlikely company of George Dart. The assistant stagekeeper was alarmed to be pressed into service and taken off to the stews of Southwark with the exuberant Welshman. Dart was a short, thin, drooping youth in ragged garb with the timidity of a church mouse and the modesty of a vestal virgin. Bankside was not his natural milieu. Though he enjoyed those privileged occasions when Westfield’s Men played at the custom-built Rose Theatre, he never tarried with his fellows to explore the taverns and ordinaries. Roistering made him fearful and whores made him blush. Since Bankside was notorious for its combination of the two, Dart flew into a panic before they reached London Bridge.
‘Why me, Owen?’ he said in his reedy voice.
‘Why not, George?’
‘You need someone strong and skilled with a sword.’
‘I need you.’
‘Bankside frightens me.’
‘That’s why I’m taking you.’
‘But you say we are on the trail of a killer.’
‘That is so,’ confirmed Elias.
‘If he has killed once, he may kill again.’
‘You will be safe from harm, boy.’
‘Will I?’
‘Maggs would never lay a finger on you.’
‘Why not?’
‘He would not kill his own son.’
George Dart gulped. ‘His son?’
They were on the bridge now, picking their way between the shops and houses, and dodging the occasional horse and cart that rattled along the narrow gap between the various buildings. Owen Elias explained that they were picking up a trail already abandoned by the officers of the law. Until he was caught up in the Brinklow murder, Maggs was a denizen of Southwark, well-known in its darker haunts and in its most disreputable company.
‘They were as arrant a pair of knaves as any in London,’ said Elias. ‘Freshwell and Maggs. Freshwell was the roaring boy and Maggs was a sly little rat of a man. You should have chosen your father with more care, George.’
‘My father?’
‘I see only faint resemblance to him in you.’
‘But I have never met t
his Maggs.’
‘You have something of his fierceness,’ teased Elias.
‘My father worked for a fishmonger in Billingsgate!’
‘Not tonight. You play a different part.’
‘Why?’
‘It keeps us both alive.’ Owen Elias chuckled as Dart’s face whitened. ‘Be ruled by me, George, and you will see the wisdom of my device. We rub shoulders with true villains. They would steal the clothes off each other’s backs but they have a code of loyalty. If we barge in there and demand to know where Maggs is, we will finish up in a ditch with out throats cut. My trick protects us.’
Dart was terrified. ‘What must I say?’
‘Nothing. Leave all the talking to me.’
‘What, then, must I do?’
‘You are already doing it.’
Elias let out another chuckle and pounded him between the shoulder-blades. They were soon leaving the bridge and heading for the sinful streets and lewder lanes of Bankside. The Welshman strode along with the sure-footed confidence of a man who knew the area well but his companion trotted nervously along beside him like a fawn in a forest of lions. The first few taverns they visited yielded nothing more than curses at the mention of the murderer’s name. One innkeeper confidently claimed that Maggs was dead, another that he had fled the country. Nobody spoke of Maggs or Freshwell with affection.
As the brothels became fouler, the trail became warmer. They eventually began to meet with some success. Maggs was definitely still alive. Several people vouched for that. One man boasted that he had actually seen him though he would not disclose where. It was in the most revolting place of all that they finally got some real help. The Red Cock was an unashamed den of vice, a dark, filthy, smoke-filled hole of a place, where constant drinking, gambling and debauchery were interrupted only by the occasional brawl.
George Dart began to retch when he inhaled its fug and he jumped a foot in the air when a bold female hand caressed his trembling thigh in the gloom. Owen Elias was unperturbed by the sordid surroundings. He ordered beer, found a table in a corner and invited the oldest and fattest punk to join them. A trawl through the stews had taught him something of his quarry’s taste in women. The diminutive Maggs liked to spend his nights on top of huge mounds of flesh.
The Roaring Boy Page 17