‘I’ve told you all I can,’ whimpered Maggs. ‘And I speak the truth. If you don’t believe me, there’s a letter in my breeches there from Sir John Tarker himself. I’ll carry it to my grave. Pass the breeches to me and I will show it you.’
The two friends exchanged a glance and decided to comply with the request. A letter was crucial evidence. Elias kept his quarry pinned to the wall while Firethorn retrieved the tattered breeches from the floor. The latter handed them to Maggs. It was a fatal mistake. With a speed and suddenness which took them both by surprise, Maggs hurled the breeches into Firethorn’s face and aimed a kick at Elias’s groin which had him doubling up in pain. Before either of them could stop him, the little man ran stark naked through the door.
He did not get far. Alerted by the woman, someone was waiting outside for him. One thrust with the long spike was all that it took. Maggs was impaled to the door through which he tried to flee, bleeding like a stuck pig and squirming the last few seconds of his life away. One murderer had finally paid for his crime.
Chapter Eight
Anxious to make an early start to the day, Nicholas Bracewell foresook breakfast and headed for the stables. Emilia Brinklow had not yet risen so he left word with one of the manservants that he would soon return. He did not anticipate that his errand would take long. The ride to the cottage was a relatively short one and the sound of a coranto told him that Orlando Reeve was at home. The musician was already at his keyboard to put the finishing touches to his latest work. Nicholas was about to introduce a few discordant notes into the composition.
A deferential old man answered the door to him.
‘I wish to see Master Reeve,’ said Nicholas.
‘Is he expecting you, sir?’
‘He is not but my business will permit no delay.’
‘It must, I fear. My master is at his work and I am forbidden to interrupt him for any reason.’
‘You may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am not.’
He brushed past the man and went into the room from which the sound of the virginals came. Orlando Reeve was seated before the instrument like an acolyte before an altar. He looked up in shock at the sudden intrusion. It bordered on sacrilege.
‘Who are you, sir!’ he demanded. ‘Stand off!’
‘Not until we have exchanged a few words, Master Reeve.’
‘Show the fellow out, William!’
‘I will try,’ muttered the old servant, eyeing the visitor’s powerful physique with misgiving. ‘Follow me, if you please, sir.’
‘Leave us,’ ordered Nicholas. ‘I am acquainted with an old friend of your master—one Peter Digby.’
Orlando Reeve tensed at the sound of the name. After a moment’s consideration, he dismissed his servant with a peremptory wave and stood up to confront his visitor. The room occupied virtually the whole of the ground floor of the house. It was well-furnished and spotlessly clean but its main items of interest were the three keyboard instruments. They were superbly crafted and clearly of great value. The musician had built the room around himself to create the most propitious conditions in which to work and practise.
Reeve lifted his chin and adopted a patronising tone.
‘State your business, sir. I have not much time.’
‘You found enough to visit the Queen’s Head recently.’
‘I may spend my leisure as I wish.’
‘Peter Digby says you would never wish to see a play. Yet you sat through two in as many weeks. Why was that?’
‘I do not have to answer to you,’ retorted Reeve with a lordly sneer. ‘Who are you that you should force your way into my home to interrogate me?’
‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and I am here on behalf of Westfield’s Men. Peter Digby is a close friend of mine.’
‘And of mine, sir.’
‘Throwing him out into the street is a strange way to repay his friendship,’ said Nicholas. ‘For that is what you have helped to do. Because of you, one of our number lies at this moment in prison and the rest of us are denied a stage on which to play. We are fellow-artistes, sir. Why do you rob us of our occupation?’
‘I did nothing of the kind,’ blustered Reeve.
‘Who sent you to the Queen’s Head?’
‘I went of my own accord.’
‘Even though you hate the theatre and avoid it like the plague? You came to urge an old acquaintance in order to draw intelligence from Peter Digby.’ He took a menacing step closer. ‘I will not leave until I hear the truth.’
‘You do not frighten me,’ said Reeve, wobbling with fear and purpling around the cheeks. ‘If you do not quit my house presently, I’ll summon the constable and bring on action for assault.’
‘He’ll come too late to save you from certain damage.’
‘Spare me!’ cried the other, backing away as Nicholas moved towards him again. ‘I have done you no harm. Do none to me!’ He held out his hands. ‘These are my fortune. If my hands are hurt, my livelihood dies. Do not touch my hands.’
‘I will not touch you, Master Reeve,’ said Nicholas as he raised a bunched fist high above the virginals. ‘Your instruments will bear the suffering instead.’
‘Stop!’
‘It is only a box of wood and strings.’
‘You destroy the most precious thing in my life!’
‘Then we pay you back in kind. You helped to take our theatre away from us. I’ll separate you from your music.’
He raised his fist even higher but Orlando Reeve flung himself in front of the instrument, his face now puce all over and his eyes bulging dangerously. He gabbled his plea for mercy but Nicholas brushed it aside. The book holder had come for information even if he had to smash everything in the cottage to get at it. Reeve finally capitulated.
‘I’ll tell you all,’ he said, panting and perspiring. ‘But you wrong me. I did not seek in any way the loss of your right to act at the Queen’s Head. Until this moment, I knew nothing of it. I simply obeyed a summons.’
‘From whom?’
Reeve took a deep breath. ‘Sir John Tarker. He saw the playbills for The Roaring Boy and sent me to enquire further into its substance. That’s all I did and all I would do, sir. I have no quarrel with Westfield’s Men.’
‘We have one with you.’
‘Sir John forced me to go.’
‘On both occasions?’
‘The second only. The play was Mirth and Madness.’
‘What of your first visit?’
‘That was prompted by…another source.’
‘I want his name.’
‘He will never forgive me if I part with it. The man has been my patron for many years. I would not betray him.’
‘Choose between them,’ said Nicholas, holding his fist over the instrument again. ‘His name or your virginals.’
Perspiration began to drip off the musician’s face as he writhed in his quandary. Nicholas was an immediate threat but an even greater one might await him if he complied with his visitor’s request. He was skewered on the horns of a dilemma and movement in either direction would cause him pain. Music eventually won the argument. The rescue of his beloved instruments was his paramount concern. They were quite irreplaceable. He lowered his head in defeat.
‘Go your way, sir.’
‘Only when I learn his name.’
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’
‘He sent you to the Queen’s Head?’
‘A rumour displeased his ears. I was sent to sound its depth. Peter Digby told me what I sought, that Westfield’s Men were going to play the murder of Thomas Brinklow.’
‘So you were Sir Godfrey Avenell’s creature?’
‘He loves my music, sir. I did him but a favour.’
Nicholas was scathing. ‘It did not advantage us, M
aster Reeve. When the piece was staged, Sir John Tarker hired bullies to cause an affray and disrupt it. How would you feel if we did likewise when you were playing before your audience?’ He stepped in close. ‘Do you hate Peter Digby so much that you would see him thrown out like a beggar? Will you set no price at all on friendship?’
Orlando Reeve was shaken to the core. There had been a certain pleasure in worming the required information out of the gullible Peter Digby and he had been handsomely rewarded for his pains. For him, the matter ended there. He did not realise that such dire consequences might follow and he was astute enough to realise that Sir John Tarker would not have wrecked the performance of a play unless he had cause to fear its content. Reeve quailed. What had he got himself drawn into and how could he possibly get out of it?
Nicholas Bracewell glowered down at him in disgust.
‘Where might I find Sir John Tarker now?’
‘Nearby, sir. He stays at the palace.’
‘And Sir Godfrey Avenell?’
‘He is there, too. Practise for a tournament is afoot.’
‘They’ll stay for a day or two?’
‘All week.’
Nicholas was content. He had found out what he needed to know and given Orlando Reeve a scare into the bargain. He left the cottage and mounted his horse. He was soon trotting back towards the Brinklow house. Nicholas felt that he was now able to enjoy his breakfast.
***
Noon found Sir Godfrey Avenell in one of the workshops at Greenwich Palace. Hammers pounded and fire raged all around him but he was not perturbed. Nor did the swirling smoke offend his eyes or nostrils. He enjoyed the clang of metal and the forging of new weapons. The workshop was his natural habitat.
The Master of the Armoury held an important post. His chief responsibility was to have a sufficient store of armour and weapons to fit out an army in the event of war. When the Spanish Armada sailed for England a few years earlier, Sir Godfrey Avenell had worked at full stretch to equip the force which had been hastily thrown together to guard strategic points on the mainland against the threat of invasion. When that crisis passed, he was able to concentrate on his other main duty, which was the organising and staging of Court tournaments.
Some Masters of the Armoury would have stood on the dignity of their position and delegated most of the mundane tasks to subordinates but Avenell liked to be involved at each stage. Instead of consorting only with the knights who used his weapons, he befriended those who made them as well.
‘Is all ready here?’ he said.
‘I have the inventory in my hand, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Read the items as they load them up.’
Under the supervision of a clerk, men were carrying piles of weapons across to a series of wooden boxes. A consignment was about to be stored in preparation for the forthcoming tournament. Avenell stood at the man’s shoulder as the clerk read the inventory.
‘One hundred pikes…two hundred tilt staves…eighty-five swords for barriers…sixty vamplates…one hundred coronels… one hundred and twenty puncheon staves…’
‘Where are the mornes?’ asked Avenell.
‘Already in store, Sir Godfrey. Two hundred of them.’
‘Good. We need them to blunt our lances. We must not fright the ladies with the sight of blood.’
‘Our armour prevents that.’
Avenell waited until the full consignment had been checked and stored. He then took the clerk aside and whispered something to him. The man produced a second inventory from inside his doublet. Taking it from him, the Master of the Armoury read it to himself.
‘Five hundred pikes, four hundred spear staves, one hundred two-handed swords, one hundred rapiers…’
The list was long and comprehensive. Avenell handed it back to the clerk with a nod of approval. The man secreted it inside the doublet once again.
‘Delivery is in hand?’
‘Yes, Sir Godfrey. They’ll be at Deptford by evening.’
‘When will they leave?’
‘Tomorrow on the morning tide.’
Sir Godfrey Avenell was pleased. Efficient and industrious himself, he set high standards for his many underlings. He demanded complete loyalty and commitment from them. Discretion was also imperative. Those who fell short in any way were soon discharged. The clerk had been with him long enough to be trusted. It was good to have such men around him as part of a smooth-running system which had evolved over the years. The workshops at Greenwich Palace were a source of continual joy to the Master of the Armoury.
A small shadow suddenly fell across that joy. As he left the workshop and came out into the fresh air, Avenell was met by a servant bearing a message. It was delivered at the main gate of the palace with a request for urgent attention. Avenell dismissed the servant and tore off the crude seal on the letter. Two lines of spidery script made him hiss with rage.
Marching back into the workshop, he tossed the missive into the burning coals of a brazier and continued on down the room. A door at the far end gave access to an antechamber used for the fitting of armour. Sir John Tarker was preening himself in a mirror while his squire was polishing the new suit of armour. Avenell stormed in with murder in his eyes. The squire did not need to be told to leave at once. He bolted from the chamber to leave the two men alone together. Tarker was bewildered by the dramatic intrusion and the blistering anger.
‘What ails you?’ he said.
‘Maggs.’
‘He cannot harm us. Who will listen to the word of a hunted outlaw? His spite can never touch us.’
‘Maggs is dead,’ said Avenell.
Tarker grinned. ‘Then we have reason to celebrate, not to quarrel. If the rogue lies in his grave, all fear is gone. What benefactor took the life of that little rat for us?’
‘I did.’
‘You?’
‘By indirect means,’ said Avenell. ‘I could not rely on you. When you hired those men, they failed us badly.’
‘That is why I threw them to the law.’
‘You could not even do that properly. Freshwell was put in chains but Maggs broke free and ran.’
‘To the Isle of Dogs. What harm could he do us there?’
‘None until today. As long as Maggs stayed there and kept his mouth shut, I was content to let him live. But I took the precaution that you should have taken.’
‘Precaution?’
‘I had him watched.’
Tarker grew uneasy. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone tracked him down. They came to question him this morning about the murder. They may have wrung something out of him before my man could shut the villain’s mouth forever.’ He drew his rapier. ‘In other words, they are still sniffing after our scent.’
‘Maggs knew only part of the truth.’
‘He knew enough to keep them coming after us.’
‘Who are they?’
‘People you swore would never bother us again,’ snarled Avenell. ‘People who stand between me and my peace of mind.’ He advanced on Tarker with his sword raised. ‘People I would have put down once and for all.’
He slashed away with his weapon and Tarker jumped back involuntarily but he was not the target of the attack. Sir Godfrey Avenell was taking out his anger on the glistening armour, hacking away at the decorated breastplate until he knocked the whole suit over with a clatter, kicking the helmet free, then jabbing madly at the leg armour. Only when he had scored the metal in a hundred places did he pause to glare across at his alarmed companion.
‘Next time,’ he warned, ‘it will be you. Kill them!’
***
Emilia Brinklow was waiting for him when he returned to the house and they shared breakfast together. Nicholas Bracewell told of the visit to Orlando Reeve but divulged nothing of what passed betw
een them and she did not press him on the matter. They simply ate and talked together quietly as if they had been doing it every day of their lives. Emilia was transformed. The pale and dispirited creature of the night before was now poised and alert. Her cheeks had colour, her eyes hope and her whole being had acquired a new definition. Sadness still rested on her but its weight was no longer quite so suffocating.
She made no reference, either by word or glance, to their brief time together in bed and Nicholas started to wonder if it had really occurred. Was it no more than a pleasant dream sent to ease his troubled mind? Or was it some waking fantasy conjured up by the intense pressures of recent days? Had she indeed come to him and now regretted her action so much that she had blotted it out of her mind? Did their moment beside each other perhaps contribute to her apparent recovery? At all events, it was not a barrier between them and he was grateful for that.
They remained happily at the table until midday when the constable and his two assistants arrived to resume their wayward investigation. After hours of questioning those who lived in the neighbouring houses, they had divined nothing of any significance. Nicholas again steered them through their halting routine. He also ensured that their interrogation of Emilia was neither too distressing nor robust.
The manservant who discovered the body then adjourned with Nicholas to make sworn statements at the nearby home of a magistrate. Valentine was sheltered from the need to give any testimony even though he had been first aware of the arrival of tragedy on the doorstep. Nicholas saw no point in dragging the gardener into the investigation and thereby exposing his eccentric sleeping arrangements to public gaze while only further complicating the situation for the law officers. The book holder had already taken long strides forward and he did not want three well-intentioned buffoons around his feet to trip him up.
When he got back to the house once more, he was amazed to see two familiar figures dismounting from their horses.
‘Nick, dear heart!’
‘We knew that we would find you at the house.’
The Roaring Boy Page 21
