‘The weapons are going to the Netherlands?’ said Elias.
‘Where, then, is the treason?’ asked Nicholas. ‘If swords and pikes are sold to the Dutch, they are bought by those who are friendly to our nation. Nobody can question that.’
‘Unless that cargo is unloaded on Dutch soil,’ argued Firethorn, ‘to be carried to another country over land. If those weapons are part of some legal trade, why do they have to be costumed as garden implements? And why should weapons be sent to the Continent when we have a greater need for them in Ireland? There’s treason brewing here, have no doubt. Another fact supports it.’
‘What is that, Lawrence?’ said Elias.
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell. Nick bade me enquire after our Master of the Armoury and so I did. Every guard and servant around the palace has a tale about the man.’
‘Do they call him traitor?’ said Nicholas.
‘Far from it,’ said Firethorn. ‘They respect the noble knight. He is diligent in his office and fair-minded with those who work beneath him. Sir Godfrey has a flair for staging tournaments and a knowledge of jousting that is based on years of experience.’ He turned to Elias. ‘One of his old opponents in the saddle was Lord Hunsdon. I had forgot our Lord Chamberlain was also a notable jouster in his younger day. Their friendship started in the tiltyard.’
‘How does Lord Hunsdon’s name come in?’ said Nicholas.
‘He signed the order sending Edmund to prison.’
‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘Our patron found that out. The Lord Chamberlain is also responsible for the injunction that keeps us out of the Queen’s Head. He is giving Sir Godfrey full return on their friendship.’
‘Lord Hunsdon will have the reddest face in Christendom when the truth about that friend is published,’ observed Firethorn. ‘Do you know what they all ask about the Master of the Armoury? Where does he get his wealth? Why does a man who has but a modest income for his duties keep a house in the Strand and another in the country? How can he afford to dress as well as he does, to ride on such fine coursers and to afford suits of armour for his favourites?’
‘I begin to see your reasoning,’ said Elias.
‘His money comes from selling arms to our enemies.’
‘Can this be proved?’ said Nicholas.
‘It already has been to my satisfaction.’
‘We’ll need more evidence yet,’ continued the book holder, ‘but it certainly explains why Master Chaloner met his death. He strayed too close to the truth. Sir Godfrey Avenell is not just concealing his part in the killing of Thomas Brinklow. He may be hiding this appalling treason.’
Elias was vengeful. ‘A man who betrays his country is no better than a dog. Sir Godfrey should be hanged, drawn and quartered. Think of the wickedness of it! Those weapons he has sold abroad may be used to kill his own countrymen!’
Firethorn nodded. ‘We must stop the devil forthwith.’
‘He must wait his turn,’ said Nicholas. ‘First, we must catch Sir John Tarker in our snare. He is a party to the murders if not to the treason. He is also the chief shield used by Sir Godfrey. Remove him and we may see what evil and corruption lie behind it.’
‘Sir John stays at the palace,’ said Firethorn. ‘How do we entice him out? We have no means to gain entry there. We can hardly expect him to come calling at our invitation.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘Yes, we can. And he will.’
***
Sir John Tarker mounted his horse by the light of the torch in the wall-bracket. Karl made final adjustments to the girth of his own mount. Midnight was approaching and all the gates of the palace were sealed but they were about to leave by a postern at the rear. Clouds drifted lazily across the moon. Tarker grunted with pleasure. Darkness was a good omen.
‘Heaven blesses our enterprise,’ he said. ‘We thought to ask for a key to the house and one is offered.’
‘Agnes is a good woman,’ said Karl, putting a foot in the stirrup and hauling himself up. ‘She has never let me down before.’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘But, then, I have never disappointed her. Agnes will be well-rewarded for this night’s work.’
‘I’ve a mind to reward her in bed myself,’ said Tarker, ‘if I had not already set my eye on someone else in the house. Once Nicholas Bracewell is out of the way, all else falls into my hands. Come, Karl.’
The guard unbolted the postern gate and the two of them went through it. The horses were soon cantering across the grass in the direction of the village. Sir John Tarker was in good humour. The message that had been sent by Agnes had come at exactly the right moment. The maidservant claimed that she had overheard Emilia Brinklow confess to Nicholas Bracewell that her brother’s papers had not all gone up in flames. Records of his most recent work had been hidden elsewhere in the house because of their importance. According to the letter, Nicholas Bracewell insisted on taking the papers to his bedchamber for safekeeping. Agnes promised to leave a key near a side-door so that Karl could slip into the house to steal the documents.
Sir John Tarker was delighted. Nicholas Bracewell and the missing papers, which had caused so much trouble. If he could kill the former and retrieve the latter, he would be back once more in Sir Godfrey Avenell’s charmed circle. One night’s work would restore all that had been taken away.
They came into the village and slowed to a trot. When the silhouette of the house rose up before them, they dismounted and tethered their horses to some bushes. As they approached silently on foot, both felt their blood race at the prospect of action. A soldier and a jouster, Tarker always revelled in combat but Karl was just as keen to be involved. When he had knocked out Simon Chaloner with a blow from his tongs, the armourer had wanted to finish him off. Deprived of that pleasure, he was eager to be involved in the slaying of Nicholas Bracewell.
Both wore dark attire which allowed easy movement and blended with the night. They circled the house warily to check that nobody was still awake. The whole place was in darkness. Karl led the way back into the garden to await the signal promised in his lover’s message. Only when a lighted candle appeared at her window was it safe for them to enter. They crouched in the bushes and looked up at the top of the house, cursing the delay and wondering if something was amiss. Absorbed in their vigil, they did not realise that they were themselves under surveillance and that Valentine was curled up like a dog in the undergrowth only yards away.
‘Hurry, Agnes!’ Karl muttered under his breath.
‘Where is the woman?’ hissed Tarker.
‘She will come.’
‘When?’
He got an immediate answer. A flickering candle was held in the topmost window for a few seconds before the curtains were drawn to hide it. Tarker jabbed his companion and they trotted towards the side-door of the house. It was the work of a moment to locate the key that the maidservant had left for them. Karl put it into the lock and turned it slowly. When the door opened, they went noiselessly in.
Their entry was not unobserved. Eyes accustomed to the darkness, Valentine saw them go into the building and knew his role. He threw a ball of moss up to a window on the first floor so that its gentle tap on the glass could act as a warning. The gardener had been thrilled to be given such responsibility by Nicholas Bracewell. Having discharged it, he withdrew once more into his hiding-place.
Tarker and the armourer moved furtively along a dark passageway. Since Karl had visited the building more than once, he was familiar with its design. Fortune favoured them. They knew that Nicholas Bracewell was in the bedchamber at the top of the first flight of stairs. They could be in and out without disturbing anyone else. Emilia Brinklow slept in a room farther along the landing and all the servants were up in the attics. Tarker led the way up the stairs, feeling for each step with his foot and taking care to make no sound. Karl’s breathing quickened with excitement.
When t
hey reached the landing, they paused to take stock of their surroundings. Karl checked the door to the attic rooms and found it securely shut. They would have no interference from any men in the house and Emilia was the only other person on the first floor. It was time to execute their plan. Nicholas Bracewell must be despatched before a search of his chamber was made by candlelight. They would soon be riding back to Greenwich Palace with their double mission accomplished.
‘Stand ready!’ whispered Tarker.
‘I have the cloth in my hand.’
‘Then use it!’
Tarker eased the door open and they saw the outline of the sleeper in the bed against the wall. A few swift steps got them to the place of execution. Karl held the piece of cloth over the mouth of their prey to silence him while Tarker stabbed repeatedly with his dagger. No human being could survive an attack of such savagery. Had he been in the bed, Nicholas Bracewell would have been dead within seconds.
As it was, the joint ferocity of the attackers was wasted on a pillow and a sack of hay. Before the two men realised that they had been duped, light poured in from half a dozen candles and the room was boiling with bodies. Owen Elias and Lawrence Firethorn grappled with the armourer and quickly managed to disarm him. Nicholas Bracewell launched himself at Tarker, grabbing the wrist that held the knife and smashing it down across his knee so that the weapon was knocked free. The two of them rolled on to the bed and fought with their bare fists.
The ostler and the three manservants each held a candle in one hand and a sword or club in the other. The local constable held another, while his assistant carried two. They illumined a scene of vigorous activity. Sir John Tarker was fighting hard but Nicholas was the stronger and the more athletic. Without his weapon, the former could never master his assailant. He made a supreme effort to push Nicholas off him and struggled to his feet, dodging the club that was swung at him by a servant and grabbing a small table to swing at all and sundry.
Nicholas dived beneath it and tackled him around the legs, bringing him crashing to the floor before raining blows to his body. Tarker punched, gouged and bit his opponent but his energy was starting to wane. He was riding no fine horse in the tiltyard now. He had no magnificent armour for defence and no lance for attack. In unarmed combat with Nicholas Bracewell, he was being comprehensively beaten.
The book holder rolled over until he was on top of his man. Sitting astride Tarker’s chest, he grabbed the black hair and began to pound the head against the floor. Dazed and weary, his adversary was unable to unseat him.
‘Why did you come here?’ demanded Nicholas.
‘To kill you!’ gasped Tarker.
‘The same way that you murdered Master Chaloner?’
‘With even more pleasure!’
Sir John Tarker tapped a last reserve of strength and heaved upwards with all his might but Nicholas was equal to the manoeuvre. As he was forced back, he jumped quickly to his feet, hauled Tarker after him, then delivered a punch to the jaw that took all resistance away. As the man slumped to the floor, the two constables gave a ragged cheer.
Fighting was not yet over, however. Firethorn and Elias had overpowered the armourer and pushed him against a wall. Karl saw the situation all too clearly. He and Sir John Tarker had been lured into a trap with law officers present to act as witnesses. What galled him was that Agnes had been part of the deception. Rage at her betrayal gave him fresh energy and he suddenly burst from the grasp of the two men who held him and raced to the window. Throwing it up, he flung himself out and landed on soft ground below.
Firethorn roared his annoyance and sought to go after the man but pursuit was unnecessary. As the armourer tried to make his escape, the flat of a spade swung at him out of the darkness and hit him full in the face. Valentine stepped into the pool of light thrown down by the candles and looked up at the faces in the window.
There was a wealth of indignation in his apology.
‘He jumped in my flower-beds!’
***
Edmund Hoode shrank back against the wall as he heard the tread of the keeper’s feet. They sounded more urgent than usual. The playwright was being sent for again by Richard Topcliffe. He was going to be torn slowly apart on the rack while the torturer searched in vain for a name that Hoode had never even heard. It was better to die swiftly in the prison than in such agony on the murderous contraption at Topcliffe’s house. When the door opened, therefore, Hoode tried to hurl himself at the keeper in the hope that the latter would draw his dagger and relieve him of his agonies with one sharp thrust. The plan soon foundered. He was now so weak that his violent assault was no more than a drunken fall against the keeper, who steadied him with his arm.
‘Be careful, sir,’ he said. ‘I warned you to eat more.’
‘I refuse to go,’ mumbled Hoode.
‘You have no choice. Orders have come.’
‘I will never go back to that accursed house again.’
‘Lean on me and you will find it easier.’
‘Let me stay here,’ pleaded Hoode. ‘Lock the door and throw away the key. Or lend me your dagger that I may do the deed myself. Do not make me go!’
The keeper was used to such protests. He got the prisoner in a firm grasp and more or less carried him along the dark passageway before ascending a flight of stone steps. An iron door was opened by another keeper and Hoode was taken through it. The Marshalsea was a barrage of noise but the playwright could only hear the voice of Topcliffe in his ear. When he thought about the device he had been shown at the house, his fingers began to throb in protest.
‘One more flight of steps, sir,’ said the keeper.
‘Spare me, friend. Take pity on me.’
‘Out we go!’
The man kicked a door at the top of the steps and it was opened by a colleague. Hoode came into a room where the prison sergeant sat behind a desk. The man looked up before consulting a paper in front of him.
‘Edmund Hoode?’ he asked.
‘No, no!’ denied the latter. ‘I am someone else.’
‘This is the man,’ confirmed the keeper.
‘You are released,’ said the sergeant.
‘To go to that abominable house again?’
‘I do not know where they will take you, sir.’
Hoode threw himself to the floor in front of the desk and put his hands together in prayer. Humiliated when he was thrown into the Marshalsea, he was now begging to stay there.
‘Do not let them take me! Please! Let me stay!’
‘Get him out!’ said the sergeant impassively.
The keeper picked him up bodily and hustled him through another door into an antechamber. Two figures converged on Hoode at once. He thought they were the gaolers who had taken him to Topcliffe on the previous occasion. This time they would not bring him back alive. With the last ounce of his strength, he tried to beat the two of them away.
‘Edmund, dear heart!’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘You are free. We are here to take you home.’
‘Look at the state of him!’ said his wife in horror. ‘You poor creature! Come to me!’
She enfolded him in an embrace that knocked all the breath out of him but her warmth and maternal affection soon began to have an effect. Hoode blinked at them in disbelief.
‘They will not take me to Master Topcliffe again?’
‘No, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are safe now.’
‘Your suffering is at an end,’ added Margery. ‘We will take you home to wash and feed you. Then you will have the softest bed in the house on which to lie your head.’
‘Welcome back, Edmund. Welcome back to Westfield’s Men!’
***
Nicholas Bracewell arrived at Avenell Court before any of them. Officers would soon be sent with a warrant for the arrest of its owner but he was determined to
have a private interview with him first. Lawrence Firethorn had been left to implement the release of Edmund Hoode. Nicholas reserved a more dangerous assignment for himself. Leaving his horse in the stableyard, he made his way to the front door and rang the bell. A massive door swung open. Nicholas gave his name and was invited to step inside. He was taking an immense risk in arriving alone at the house of Sir Godfrey Avenell but he knew enough about the man’s character to believe that he would at least be admitted to his presence.
His instinct was sound. Instead of having his unwelcome visitor overpowered by his men, Sir Godfrey asked the servant to conduct him to the main hall. Nicholas walked along the corridor with its display of armour and weaponry. When he was taken in to his host, he was given a mild shock. Sir Godfrey was sitting in his high-backed chair near the fireplace as he listened to some dances being played on the virginals by Orlando Reeve. The Master of the Armoury was serene and relaxed but the musician was soon discomfited. When he glanced up and saw Nicholas enter, Reeve immediately began to hit the wrong notes on the keyboard.
‘Enough!’ said Avenell. ‘Stop that cacophony!’
Orlando Reeve obeyed and sat nervously on his stool.
Avenell looked at the newcomer. ‘So you are Nicholas Bracewell,’ he said. ‘I had the feeling that we might meet sooner or later.’ He turned to the servant. ‘Take his weapons. I will not be accosted by an armed man in my own home.’
Nicholas Bracewell held his arms out wide so that the servant could take the sword and dagger that hung in their scabbards from his belt. The man departed with the weapons and closed the door behind him. What he had not taken, however, was the knife which Thomas Brinklow had made for his sister and which Nicholas had concealed up his sleeve. The book holder anticipated that he might need a second mode of defence and was taking no chances.
Avenell stood up in front of the fireplace, framed by its marble bulk. More weapons stood on the mantelpiece and a pike rested against it like a giant poker.
‘Why have you come?’ he said calmly.
‘I needed to speak with you, Sir Godfrey,’ said Nicholas. ‘They told me you had left Greenwich Palace to return home. You have missed much activity in the night.’
The Roaring Boy Page 25
