The Roaring Boy nb-7 Read online

  ‘The best of its kind.’

  ‘I would dearly like to see that.’

  ‘His own version perished in the fire with the rest.’

  ‘A tragedy.’

  ‘Vindictiveness.’

  A look of sudden helplessness came into her eyes.

  ‘Why did you wish to speak to me alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I feel I can trust you.’

  ‘Nobody is more trustworthy than Edmund Hoode.’

  She shook her head. ‘He can be trusted to refashion the play but you are the only one who can be relied upon to see it staged. Simon is an excellent judge of character and he singles you out.’ A smile danced around her lips. ‘We are not ignorant provincials in Greenwich, sir. When Thomas was alive, we often came to London to see a play. I love the theatre and my brother indulged my taste. Westfield’s Men were always my favourite company.’

  ‘I’ll tell that to Master Firethorn.’

  ‘Beg him to present The Roaring Boy.’

  ‘He will implore you to give us that privilege.’

  ‘Whatever setbacks, whatever dangers…’

  ‘It will be staged. I give you my word on it.’

  She touched his arm. ‘I knew that I could trust you.’

  Voices approached and she stepped back involuntarily. Simon Chaloner came up with Edmund Hoode and the latter reacted with horror to the destruction of the laboratory. Thomas Brinklow had not just been killed. His life’s work had been obliterated. Emilia soon took her leave of them, giving Hoode a smile of gratitude that would keep him happy for days but reserving a more meaningful glance for Nicholas.

  Chaloner now took them into the house to view the actual scene of the crime. It was near the foot of the main staircase, a shadowy area even by day. Thomas Brinklow had returned at night to be ambushed in his own home.

  ‘How did the villains get in here?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘They must have picked the lock,’ replied Chaloner.

  ‘Or had a confederate inside the building.’

  ‘Emilia will not hear of such an idea.’

  ‘What is your opinion?’

  He looked around to make sure that Emilia was not within earshot. ‘This house was well-protected with locks and bolts. Thomas saw to that. They were either given a key or let in.’

  ‘Did no one hear the commotion?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Agnes, the maidservant. She was awakened by cries and raised the alarm. Not soon enough, alas. Before anyone got downstairs, the killers had made good their escape.’

  ‘After first setting fire to the laboratory?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘That happened much later in the night. They must have returned to wreak further havoc.’

  ‘Was the fire not part of Freshwell’s confession?’

  ‘He admitted the murder. That was enough to hang him.’

  Nicholas walked up and down the hallway and tried all the doors to see which was the most likely mode of entry and exit for the two villains.

  ‘Was Thomas Brinklow a big man?’

  ‘Big and strong, Nicholas. Something of your build.’

  ‘He would have fought his attackers?’

  ‘No question of that.’

  It made surprise a vital element in the ambush and that confirmed Nicholas’s feeling that the killers had concealed themselves beneath the staircase. As Thomas Brinklow tried to mount the steps, they must have leapt out and hacked him down from behind. Edmund Hoode stared ghoulishly at the spot where the mathematician fell but Nicholas was concerned to analyse the murder in great detail. He also made a mental note of the setting of the crime for use in the performance of the play itself. Only when he had explored every possibility in the location did he announce that it was time to go.

  The visit to Greenwich had been a revelation and his few minutes alone with Emilia Brinklow were invaluable. He and Hoode would have much to debate on their return journey. As he looked around the sumptuous house with its costly furnishings and its air of formal luxury, one question kept nagging away at him. He turned to Simon Chaloner.

  ‘When did he realise that his marriage was a mistake?’

  ‘Too late, I fear. Far, far too late.’

  ‘How did he meet his wife?’

  ‘At Greenwich Palace. They were introduced by a mutual friend, who often stayed there.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’

  ‘The Master of the Armoury?’

  ‘No less.’

  ‘How did Thomas Brinklow come to know such a man?’

  ‘He had many friends in high places,’ said Chaloner. ‘His circle of acquaintances was very wide. He dined with Sir Godfrey at the Palace one day when Cecily was also a guest. She warmed to Thomas and showed a keen interest in his work. That is rare among women.’

  ‘How soon did they marry?’

  ‘Less than a year after that first meeting. Sir Godfrey was delighted to have played Cupid. At their wedding, he showered them with the most generous gifts. He had a real investment in that marriage.’

  ‘It gave him a miserable dividend.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘He was mortified. Sir Godfrey Avenell must wish that he never brought them together.’

  ***

  Greenwich Palace was a magnificent structure built around three quadrangles. Faced in red brick and ornamented with pillars, it lay on the bank of the Thames like a giant alligator basking in the sun. A long pier gave access to the river at all states of the tide. The main entrance was through a massive gatehouse which led to the central court. Successive members of the Tudor dynasty had lavished money and affection unstintingly upon their favoured residence and Queen Elizabeth was no exception. Having herself been born in the riverside palace, she always had a special fondness for it and liked nothing more than to spend her summers there, holding court, entertaining foreign dignitaries or watching plays, masques and musical concerts.

  She particularly enjoyed the regular tournaments that were held at Greenwich Palace, glittering occasions that would find her seated amid her retinue in the permanent gallery above the tiltyard. Tournaments were immensely popular but exclusively reserved for the elite. Only the rich could afford to take part in an event which imposed enormous costs upon them. Only the very rich could finance such a contest. The Queen’s own father, Henry VIII, once spent?4000 on the Westminster tournament, almost double the cost of his huge warship, The Great Elizabeth. The Tudor monarchy took jousting very seriously.

  A lone figure sat in the permanent gallery and surveyed the busy tiltyard. Sir Godfrey Avenell had much to divert him. Greenwich was an ideal place for would-be knights to practice their horsemanship and to hone their technique with the lance. The tilt itself was a permanent wooden fence some one hundred and fifty yards long, gaily painted and defining the nature of combat. It prevented any collision when jousting knights thundered towards each other on horseback on either side of the fixture. It also obliged them to attack an opponent from an angle. Several pairs of knights were in action, some fighting on foot but most taking their turn in the saddle.

  Sir Godfrey Avenell watched it all with an imperious air. Dressed in his finery, he cast an expert eye over the proceedings. He had been a keen jouster in his day and still took part in the occasional practice but he left competition in the prestigious Court tournaments to younger and stronger riders. One such man, Sir John Tarker, rode into the tiltyard below and Avenell’s interest quickened. He had good reason for such bias towards the newcomer. The splendid armour worn by Tarker was commissioned and paid for by his friend. Sir Godfrey Avenell was scrutinising his own money.

  The Office of the Armoury was based at the Tower of London. As its Master, he operated largely from that base but made frequent visits to Greenwich because the finest armour was made in its workshops. The Green Gallery and the Great Chamber at the palace housed a display of supreme examples of the armourer’s art and Avenell never saw them without wishing that
he could take some of the pieces away for his own collection. There was something about their design and craftsmanship that he found truly inspiring.

  Leaning forward in his seat, he examined Sir John Tarker’s new suit of armour with meticulous care until he was satisfied that his money had been well spent. The gleaming breastplate was decorated with white and gilt bands into which the Tarker coat-of-arms had been inscribed. The helmet had similar decoration and a latticed visor which protected its owner’s face completely while giving him a fair degree of visibility. The leg armour was beautifully tailored to allow easy movement. Even from that distance, the Master of the Armoury could see that the gauntlets were masterpieces of construction, the left one a manifer or bridle gauntlet, designed to cover hand and lower arm on the exposed side of the jouster.

  Sir John Tarker’s destrier was also arrayed. Its shaffron, a superbly moulded piece of armour that covered its forehead, cheeks and nose, allowed clear vision through the flanged eyeholes. A spike projected from the centre of the forehead to give it the appearance of a steel unicorn. The horse also wore a patterned crinet, a section of armour that was attached to the shaffron in order to guard the animal’s neck and mane. During a tournament itself, the destrier would also wear armour plate to protect its chest, crupper and flank but Tarker had dispensed with that during the practice in the interests of speed. Other knights would have baulked at exposing their mounts to unnecessary danger in this way but Tarker was confident that his skill in jousting was a sufficient safeguard for the animal.

  Sir Godfrey Avenell was suitably impressed. His man cut a fine figure in the saddle. When he fought in the Accession Day Tournament in November, Sir John Tarker would need to call on his friend for some additional expenditure. Much preparation went into such an illustrious event. A knight had to decide on a theme for his entry into the tiltyard and choose the costumes for himself, his pages, his servants, his lance bearers, his grooms, his trumpeters and any other musicians he hired for extra effect. His horse, too, would require a caparison to match the costumes. Sir Godfrey Avenell had already laid out well over?400 on the suit of armour and its garniture. He was quite happy to meet further exorbitant costs in order to attain the best results.

  Sir John Tarker trotted across to him and dipped his lance in acknowledgement. Avenell took a closer inventory.

  ‘How does the armour feel?’ he said.

  ‘It fits me like the supplest of leather.’

  ‘Weight?’

  ‘Heavy enough to protect, light enough for movement.’

  ‘Decoration?’

  ‘Exactly as prescribed.’

  ‘Total cost?’

  ‘Murderous!’ They shared a laugh. ‘I am eternally in your debt. Shall I put it to the test?’

  ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘Then watch.’

  Sir John Tarker wheeled his horse and spurred it into a canter that took it to the far end of the tiltyard. Reining it in, he swung round once more to face his opponent, a burly knight in dark armour, sitting astride a powerful black destrier that was drumming the turf with its hooves. Tarker’s reputation frightened away many combatants but this man clearly had courage enough for the encounter and confidence enough in his own ability. He adjusted his shield, lifted his lance and made ready.

  The preliminaries were soon over. When the signal was given, the two riders jabbed their horses into action and pounded towards each other on either side of the tilt. Sir Godfrey Avenell respected the challenger’s skill but knew it would be unequal to the task. Sir John Tarker was a masterly jouster. His mount was steered at the right pace, his lance and shield held at the correct angles. The long pummelling approach ended in a momentary clash of metal. Tarker’s shield deflected the oncoming lance while his own weapon found a tiny gap in the defence and struck his adversary full in the chest. Since the lance was rebated, its blunt end did not damage the breastplate but the man was promptly unseated and Sir Godfrey Avenell rocked with appreciative laughter.

  Tarker reined in his horse again and trotted back to the fallen rider with token concern. Pages were already running to the latter’s assistance.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, Sir John,’ said the other breathlessly, as they helped him up. ‘My pride only has been wounded.’

  ‘Will you remount and engage me a second time?’

  ‘I will not. Find some other fool to challenge you.’

  Tarker grinned behind his visor. ‘They are frighted.’

  ‘Who can blame them? You have no peer as a jouster. A man with your skills could look to be Queen’s Champion.’

  ‘I do, believe me. I do.’

  Pleased with his performance and wanting approbation from the source he respected most, Tarker took his horse across to the gallery once more. He flicked up his visor so that he could see Sir Godfrey Avenell more clearly and enjoy the latter’s praise. His friend, however, was no longer beaming down at the tiltyard. He was reading a letter, which had just been handed to him by a servant. The frown of alarm became a scowl of anger as he scrunched up the missive in his hand. Rising to his feet, he fixed Tarker with a venomous glare and pointed an accusatory finger.

  ‘You failed me again!’ he snarled.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You swore the matter was dead and buried.’

  ‘What matter?’ He realised the subject of the letter and spluttered. ‘It is. We may forget the whole thing.’

  ‘We may but Westfield’s Men will not.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘Two of their number visited a house in Greenwich but yesterday,’ said Avenell. ‘One was their playwright and the other was this Nicholas Bracewell whom your men, you assured me, had beaten into submission.’

  ‘They did!’ asserted Tarker. ‘On my honour, they did!’

  ‘You failed.’

  ‘That is not so!’

  ‘You failed miserably,’ said Avenell with scorn. ‘I give you a simple task and you let me down. Does such an imbecile deserve the brightest armour from the workshops? Has such a bungler any call on my friendship?’

  ‘I did but as you urged me,’ said Tarker hurriedly. ‘If there is some fault, it is not of my making. Blame the fools I hired. They promised me they had all but finished this Nicholas Bracewell. They lied to me, the rogues. I’ll have the hide off their backs for this.’

  ‘I’ll have the armour off yours!’ snarled Avenell. ‘If you do not wipe up this mess you have made-and that with all celerity-I’ll turn Sir John Tarker into the poorest knight in Christendom. You’ll be jousting at the Accession Tournament in fustian on the back of a donkey. The Queen’s Champion indeed! They will hail you as the Queen’s Champion jester!’

  ***

  Westfield’s Men were steeped in affliction and seasoned by regular crisis but the next ten days brought pressures of an intensity that even they had not known before. The whole company was in a state of muted desperation. Stimulated to a fever pitch of creation by his visit to Greenwich, Edmund Hoode worked tirelessly on The Roaring Boy, wholly convinced of its importance and buttressed by thoughts of winning the approval of Emilia Brinklow. He still acted in the current offerings at the Queen’s Head but no longer stayed for a celebratory drink after a performance. Within half an hour of quitting the stage, he was back at his post in the lodging he shared with Nicholas Bracewell.

  The book holder himself rarely left Hoode’s side. He helped him, advised him and guaranteed his safety. Given the proper space in which to work, the playwright blossomed. Owen Elias was a second line of defence, watching over his friends from a distance and ready to ward off any attack. The rest of the company were also schooled in the basic elements of security. Convinced that Westfield’s Men might be ambushed at any moment, Lawrence Firethorn counselled them to stay in groups at all times and to remain alert.

  But the expected assault never came. The Roaring Boy was allowed to grow from a halting drama into a fullfledged play. The actors did not, however, relax.
They felt that they had merely been given a stay of execution and that the axe would fall on them in time. Nicholas Bracewell wondered if its enemies planned to scupper the play in a more bloodless fashion. Every new work had first to be read by the Master of the Revels before it was licensed for performance. If Sir John Tarker had some influence at court, he might well use it to have the play banned. To guard against that eventuality, Nicholas suggested a counteraction.

  ‘It must be twofold,’ he told Firethorn.

  ‘Speak on, Nick.’

  ‘The Roaring Boy must not mention Sir John Tarker by name or that will invite censorship for sure. Edmund will devise a suitable disguise for the character. Nobody will hear the name of Tarker but everyone will recognise it.’

  ‘What is your other strategy?’

  ‘We make use of our patron, Lord Westfield.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He is a personal friend of the Master of the Revels.’

  ‘True. He and Sir Edmund Tilney often dine together.’

  ‘We must ask Lord Westfield to submit The Roaring Boy on our behalf,’ said Nicholas. ‘A word from him in the ear of a boon companion may get the piece read and licensed much sooner than would otherwise be the case.’

  ‘Your advice as ever is sound.’

  Nicholas took the opportunity to grasp another nettle. ‘Let me add more of a personal nature.’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘Have your tooth pulled by a surgeon,’ said Nicholas. ‘A little pain now will spare you a lot of agony in the future. You claim that the discomfort has gone but that swelling in your cheek argues the contrary case.’

  ‘Leave my tooth alone. It is not relevant here.’

  ‘It is if it keeps you off the stage again.’

  ‘It will not!’ snapped Firethorn, feeling a menacing tingle in his gum. ‘Simply forget my toothache and it will go away. Stoke up the fire with constant carping about it and my mouth is an inferno. You mean well, Nick, I know that. But your concern is unfounded. Trust me, dear heart. A dozen bad teeth will not keep me away from The Roaring Boy. They will simply make Freshwell roar all the louder.’