The Roaring Boy nb-7 Read online

  Nicholas Bracewell accepted the promise and backed off.

  His strategy with regard to the Master of the Revels was a shrewd one. It was the book holder’s job to take each new drama to Sir Edmund Tilney’s office and pay the fee to have it read. Delays were normal and often very lengthy. Since The Roaring Boy relied on its topicality, it was essential to bring it into the light of day as quickly as possible. Lord Westfield served his players well. A tactful word to his friend and a troublesome play was granted an immediate licence with hardly a line of the work altered.

  Edmund Hoode took much of the credit for its apparent harmlessness. Sir John Tarker was featured as The Stranger and accused by inference rather than name. The real power of The Roaring Boy lay not in the lines that were spoken but in the action that went on between them. Hoode had contrived to damn Sir John Tarker in the most visible way possible. There was a cunning reference to the latter’s jousting skills and many other hidden clues that would be instantly recognised by those who knew the knight. His identity would be trumpeted to the skies.

  While performances continued to be given at the Queen’s Head in the afternoons, the leading members of the company rehearsed the new play secretly in the evenings. Hired men were not brought into the venture at this point. Their parts were too small to be of significance and Nicholas argued that the fewer people who knew the true substance of The Roaring Boy, the less chance there was of any details of its contents falling into the wrong hands.

  Hard work, punishing hours and the constant strain of being on guard inevitably took their toll and frayed tempers occasionally rocked a rehearsal. Barnaby Gill exploded like a powder keg at regular intervals, torn between delight at the leading role he had been assigned and trepidation at the consequences of playing it. But he was always calmed by the others and equilibrium was soon re-established. The Roaring Boy took on real shape and was ready for its premiere well ahead of the original schedule. It was inserted into the company’s programme at once. Lawrence Firethorn supervised the printing of the playbills himself. In sonorous tones, he read one of them out to his fellows.

  THE ROARING BOY

  Being the Lamentable and True Tragedy

  of M. Brinklow of Greenwich

  Most wickedly murdered by foul means

  Supposedly at the behest of a wanton wife

  It was enough to ignite great interest without giving too much away. Whatever else might happen at the performance of the play, Westfield’s Men could rely on getting a large and excitable audience. A savage murder involving an adulterous wife was a cautionary tale that none could resist.

  ***

  Orlando Reeve was less than pleased to be sent back to the Queen’s Head to sit on a crowded bench and endure the stench of horse manure and the stink of the commonalty that rose up in equal parts from a packed courtyard. What increased his dismay was the fact that his pay-master this time was not the bounteous Sir Godfrey Avenell but the tight-fisted Sir John Tarker. While the former loved music, the latter was openly contemptuous of musicians and treated Reeve with a disdain which he found quite intolerable. Tarker’s command could not be ignored, however, so the second ordeal had to be faced.

  The play on offer that afternoon was Mirth and Madness but Orlando Reeve was untouched by either. A rumbustious comedy sent the audience into an almost continuous spasm of laughter but the adipose musician remained stony-faced. Only the work of Peter Digby and his consort brought any relief to a grim afternoon for him. When the performance was over, he cornered his old friend in the taproom. Digby was astounded to see him again and wondered why Reeve was so eager to buy him a cup of wine and talk about former times. Not wishing to stay in the noisy tavern any longer than he had to, the visitor swiftly guided the conversation around to The Roaring Boy.

  ‘I see that you play the murder of Thomas Brinklow.’

  ‘On Saturday next.’

  ‘A warning to all men foolish enough to marry.’

  ‘His wife may not be the villain that you imagine.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘She was the victim of a plot conceived by another.’

  ‘Tell me more of this, Peter.’

  ‘I may not,’ said Digby, remembering the dire warnings issued by Lawrence Firethorn. ‘I am sworn to secrecy. We have enemies all around us and have built a wall of silence to keep them at bay. But this I may tell you. The Roaring Boy will blaze across the stage. Westfield’s Men have not had such a play in years.’

  ‘Does it have songs and dances?’

  ‘All our work contains those, Orlando.’

  ‘And incidental music between scenes?’

  ‘I have composed it all.’

  ‘What yet remains to exercise your talents?’

  ‘A tuneful setting for the ballad.’

  ‘Ballad?’

  ‘It begins the play,’ said Digby, ‘and tells what lies ahead. It is a simple enough task to match it to music but I have not yet found the trick of it. I am too bound up with composition of a more serious kind to master the ballad-maker’s art.’

  ‘Perhaps I may help,’ volunteered the oleaginous Reeve.

  ‘It is beneath the dignity of a Court musician.’

  ‘Not so. I turned my hand to ballads in younger days. Give me but the first verse, then hum your tunes for me. I’ll help you choose the one most apt.’ He poured the hesitating Digby another cup of wine and gave him a flabby grin. ‘Come, Peter. One verse will break no solemn vow of secrecy. I come to you as a fellow-musician. Sing it in my ear.’

  ***

  Saturday finally dawned and brought with it the prospect of release from the appalling tensions that had built up within the company. The stage was set up in the yard of the Queen’s Head and an attenuated rehearsal held that morning. Lawrence Firethorn did not wish to reveal anything to prying eyes. He simply walked his cast through the play to familiarise them with their movement around the boards and to acquaint them with the scenic devices that would be used. Hired men were slotted into minor parts for the first time. It was such a fraught occasion that they were grateful to Barnaby Gill when his spectacular fit helped to clear the air.

  Forearmed against danger from without, Nicholas Bracewell also had to cope with a hazard from within. Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, enjoyed a nervous relationship with Westfield’s Men, believing that actors were little better than wild goats and that he never ought to place either his tavern or his nubile daughter within their lustful reach. He was a small, ageing, restless man with hollow cheek and haunted eyes. A few last strands of greasy hair still remained, not knowing whether to cling to the lost cause of his mottled skull or to fling themselves into the void after their fellows.

  When Marwood scurried across his yard, his face was simultaneously twitching in three distinct areas. With an unerring instinct for misfortune, he could smell calamity in the air. His arms gesticulated wildly.

  ‘You bring trouble into my yard, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘We bring the biggest audience we have had for many a week and thereby put extra money in your purse.’

  ‘The Roaring Boy alarms me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know but I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘We cannot choose our plays to appease your anatomy.’

  ‘More’s the pity!’ said Marwood, as the three separate twitches met in the middle of his face to make his nose tremble violently. ‘I had this same presentiment before The Devil’s Ride Through London and what happened, sir? You all but burned my tavern to the ground.’

  ‘No fire is used in this play. You are safe.’

  ‘From conflagration, maybe. But what of the fire in the play’s subject? May not that flare up and scorch us?’

  Nicholas calmed him with a mixture of argument and assurance but the book holder was by no means as confident as he sounded. The landlord, for once, had scented danger where it genuinely existed. Once it started, The Roaring Boy would be walking a tightrope between hop
e and terror.

  The atmosphere in the tiring-house was as taut as a bowstring. As the hour of performance edged nearer, the whole company fell prey to niggling anxiety. Barnaby Gill gave way to bitter recrimination, Edmund Hoode flew into a sudden panic at the thought that Emilia Brinklow would be among the spectators to judge both him and his work, Owen Elias grew more pugnacious than ever and Lawrence Firethorn-intending to rally them with a high-flown speech that stressed the significance of the event before them-only succeeded in disseminating more unease. It was left to Nicholas Bracewell to lead by example with the quiet efficiency which had become his hallmark.

  ‘Stand by, my lads!’ said Firethorn. ‘We are there!’

  The bell in the nearby clocktower chimed twice and the performance began. As the consort played the introductory music, the spectators gave a concerted cheer. Packed into the yard and crammed into the benches, they positively buzzed with anticipation. The murder of such a decent and upright man as Thomas Brinklow was an emotive subject and their passions were already stirred. The Roaring Boy had no need to warm up an audience already simmering in the sunshine.

  Simon Chaloner sat in the lower gallery beside Emilia Brinklow. He scanned the benches all around him for signs of danger but her attention never left the stage. This was the moment of truth for her. When Simon felt her tremble, he took her hand in his and found the little palm moist. Grateful for his love and support, Emilia tossed him a little smile, then watched the stage with beating heart.

  Instead of the expected Prologue, the penitent figure of Cecily Brinklow stepped out from behind the arras. Richard Honeydew wore the plain dress, in which he would later go to his death, and an auburn wig. With cosmetic aid, the young apprentice was a most attractive and convincing wife. As a lute played in the gallery above him, he sang his ballad with a tearful simplicity that all but hushed the audience.

  Ah me, vile wretch, that ever I was born,

  Making myself unto the world a scorn;

  And to my friends and kindred all a shame,

  Blotting their blood by my unhappy name.

  Unto a gentleman of wealth and fame,

  (One Master Brinklow, he was called by name)

  I wedded was to this man of great renown,

  Living at Greenwich, close to London town.

  This husband dear, my heart he fully won,

  Until I met again with Walter Dunne,|

  Whose sugared tongue, good shape and lovely look,

  Soon stole my heart, and Brinklow’s love forsook.

  The remorseful wife was not alone on stage for long. As each new character was mentioned in the plaintive song, he or she stepped out to take up position in a carefully arranged tableau. Spectators soon recovered their voices. Thomas Brinklow set off a ripple of sympathy and Walter Dunne was greeted with a hiss of anger, but it was the murderers themselves who provoked the loudest response. When Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias skulked on to the stage as Freshwell and Maggs, respectively, they were met with concerted abuse. Pictures of wickedness in their ragged garb, the two actors played on the spectators with roars of defiance and increased the general ire by making obscene gestures at them. Here were no wretched penitents. They were villains who clearly revelled in their villainy.

  Cecily Brinklow waited for the uproar to abate before she sung verses that offered a whole new perspective on tragic events in a house in Greenwich.

  The world reviles for e’er my hated name,

  With Walter Dunne, I bear eternal blame.

  But though we sinned together through the night,

  To murder did we nobody incite.

  Another hand unleashed these evil scrags

  (The one called Freshwell, and the other Maggs)This cruel man had Thomas killed stone dead

  But Walter Dunne and I hanged in his stead.

  Who this foul demon is, our play will tell,

  He dwells in London here but comes from hell.

  Call him The Stranger until his face you espy.

  Send him to the gallows to hang up high.

  There was a gasp of disbelief as Edmund Hoode strode on to the stage in a long black cloak with a hat pulled down over his eyes. For the vast majority of those present, The Stranger was a sensational new element in the story. Could the law really have hanged Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne for a crime they did not commit? Was the play going to offer fresh evidence that would exonerate them and incriminate the dark figure on the stage? Who was the Stranger and why would he wish to have Thomas Brinklow so viciously killed?

  Simon Chaloner was chilled by the sinister entrance of the newcomer. Emilia Brinklow stifled a cry with the back of her hand. Both of them marvelled at Edmund Hoode’s skill as an actor. The moon-faced playwright had been turned into a stealthy figure of doom. What neither of them realised was that the Stranger himself was sitting above them in the upper gallery, lurking in a shadowed corner and already smarting with discomfort. Sir John Tarker watched it all with growing frenzy.

  With the ballad over, the play unfolded in a series of short but effective scenes. Thomas Brinklow was first seen at home with his wife, bestowing rich gifts upon her as a token of his undying love. Barnaby Gill floated joyously on the waves of sympathy that came rolling towards him. The first meeting between Cecily and Walter Dunne aroused fresh hisses of disgust but the adulterous couple were no longer condemned out of hand. In the light of the ballad, the audience was at least now ready to suspend judgement for a while.

  The Stranger came to the house in Greenwich as a friend but departed as a sworn enemy. What caused the intemperate row with Thomas Brinklow was not made clear but the Stranger’s vile threats left nobody in any doubt about his intentions. When he engaged the services of Freshwell and Maggs, all three of them were subjected to the most ear-splitting denigration from the onlookers. Lawrence Firethorn had to use the full force of his voice to rise above it.

  Murder was to be followed by malicious deceit. Having instigated the killing, the Stranger plotted the arrest and conviction of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. It was when he explained that they would be caught in flagrante that the real explosion came. Sir John Tarker could endure no more. He gave the signal to his confederates and they acted with promptness. Freshwell was in the middle of a drunken speech of praise for the Stranger when a member of the audience clambered up on to the stage to wave a club at him. One roaring boy was suddenly confronted by another.

  The standees bayed at the interloper but they soon had a more immediate problem of their own. A fight broke out in the very middle of the yard between two of Tarker’s men. It quickly spread until several dozen people were involved. When a second affray erupted in the lower gallery, the whole audience was in turmoil. Nicholas Bracewell rushed out to overpower the man with the club but his intervention was too late. The performance was ruined. Spectators who had been absorbed in the drama only minutes before now joined in the brawl or fought their way to the exits. Simon Chaloner had to use all his strength to protect Emilia from the busy elbows and bruising shoulders all around them. His howled attempts to calm down the mob went unheard.

  Sir John Tarker presided over it all with malignant satisfaction. Having been upbraided so roundly by Sir Godfrey Avenell, he was anxious to redeem himself in the most dramatic way. Instead of launching a second attack on any of Westfield’s Men, therefore, he bided his time to give them the illusion that they were safe. The moment to strike was when he could inflict maximum damage on the company and on the play that they were daring to present. As he viewed the seething chaos below, he was content. The Roaring Boy was now no more than a fading memory in the minds of brawling spectators.

  Lawrence Firethorn was livid, Barnaby Gill was aghast and Edmund Hoode was utterly destroyed. Owen Elias was belabouring the man who had first jumped on the stage and Nicholas was trying to save the structure itself from collapse. Alexander Marwood was in an ecstasy of hysteria, running around in circles like a headless chicken as each new surge of violence inflic
ted more damage on his property and holding his hands over his ears to keep out the deafening clamour of combat.

  It was a long time before even a semblance of order was restored. Nicholas Bracewell stood on the wrecked stage with Firethorn and Hoode. The yard was littered with wounded bodies, the galleries were cluttered with broken benches, the balustrades were stained with blood or draped with abandoned articles of apparel. An air of complete desolation hung over the tavern. As they surveyed the carnage in front of them, the actor-manager tempted fate with an unconsidered remark.

  ‘This has been our Armageddon,’ he said with a sweep of his arm. ‘But one consolation remains. The worst is now over.’

  A sheriff and two constables arrived on cue. Forcing their way through the remnants of the crowd with brute unconcern, they stood at the edge of the stage and looked up at the three men. The sheriff was brusque and peremptory.

  ‘We seek one Edmund Hoode,’ he said.

  ‘I am he,’ volunteered the playwright.

  ‘You are under arrest, sir.’

  ‘On what charge, pray?’

  ‘Seditious libel. Seize him.’

  Chapter Six

  Valentine heard the sound of horses in the stable-yard and rested his wheelbarrow on the lawn. He pricked his ears and caught the murmur of distant conversation. It was enough to tell him that the mistress of the house had returned. The voices died when a door opened and shut. Evidently, they had gone into the building. Valentine lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow and pushed it with unhurried gait towards the shrubs that grew outside the parlour. It was a warm evening and the windows were still open. Bending to scoop up some of the grass he had mown earlier, the gardener slowly inched himself towards the room until he was within earshot, his ugly face animated with curiosity as he listened to the hurt tones from within. His success was short-lived.