The Roaring Boy nb-7 Read online

  Firethorn insisted on being involved in the adventure in place of Nicholas Bracewell. Expected back the previous night, the book holder did not appear and they rightly assumed that he was detained in Greenwich by urgent business. In the interests of speed, they elected to take on the pursuit of Maggs by themselves. Owen Elias was glad of Firethorn’s company even if the jogging of the horse did set off the latter’s toothache again. The Welshman would not dare to take George Dart on this outing. He needed strength beside him and there were few more powerful men in the company than the barrel-chested actor-manager. The son of a blacksmith, Lawrence Firethorn had all the attributes of that occupation allied to a taste for danger. His skill with sword and dagger was no mere stage illusion.

  ‘What do we say to him?’ asked Elias.

  ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘Tell him that Lucy sends her love.’

  ‘At the sign of the Red Cock.’

  ‘What other kind is worth having?’

  They guffawed loudly and kicked their horses into a canter. Now that they were outside the city gates, their progress would be much quicker. They struck eastwards with the river on their right hand, its smell never far away. It was not a journey they would make by choice but necessity compelled them. Their whole careers were at stake. If one man could help to save them, they had to be prepared to track him down in his unsavoury hiding place.

  It was the distinctive reek that first told them they were within reach of their destination. The stench came out to meet them like an invisible fist that punched them on the nose. They coughed and spluttered for a moment.

  ‘How can anyone live in a place like this?’ said Elias.

  ‘They get used to it.’

  ‘Not me, Lawrence. Dieu-that stink!’

  ‘When we hunt a rat, we must expect a sewer.’

  It was a not unfair description of the Isle of Dogs. The low, marshy peninsula jutted out obstructively into the Thames at the bend between Limehouse and Blackwall reaches. It was directly opposite Greenwich on the south bank and the contrast between the two places could not have been harsher. Greenwich was affluent and graced by royalty: the Isle of Dogs was poverty-stricken and haunted by outlaws, punks and fugitive debtors. The latter was also swilled by all the sewage and detritus that came downriver from London. Sailors cursed the Isle of Dogs because it obliged them to make a long, time-consuming loop in their journeys. If they were forced to anchor nearby, it would always be in mid-stream or they would be pillaged from the northern shore.

  Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs represented extremes of society. Only the rich and influential rose to attend the banquets at the palace: only the poor and the desperate sank to the ignominy of the Isle of Dogs. One was the home of privilege while the other was a lair for masterless men.

  Lawrence Firethorn was revolted by the unredeemed squalor.

  ‘Bankside can be bad enough,’ he said. ‘And there are parts of Clerkenwell that can turn your stomach but this is worse than both. What are we doing here, Owen?’

  ‘Trying to find someone.’

  ‘In this swamp! We’ll be infected with every disease known to man and beast. The air is so thick and stale we may cut it with our daggers and feed it to those mangy hounds.’

  Fierce dogs were scavenging in the putrid lanes. Small children were playing in the dirt. Stagnant water lent its strength to the general whiff of decay. Wild-eyed men and ragged women roamed the streets. Even at that early hour, the sound of violence rent the air. Firethorn saw the wisdom of their disguises. In the flamboyant doublet and hose that he usually wore, he would have been ridiculously out of place in the Isle of Dogs and that would have rendered him a certain target. As it was, they collected hostile glares from the beggars lying in the doorway of an ordinary. When the two strangers refused to toss them any money, the glares became loud imprecations.

  They stabled their horses at a decrepit tavern and proceeded on foot to attract less attention. Owen Elias had suggested a morning visit in the hope that the area would be more quiescent but it was already bubbling with crude life. Lucy had provided the name of a street but no number. They were grateful to find only nine tenements in the street and two of those had collapsed against each other like drunken revellers. That left seven, each building with several occupants. They split up, knocked on doors and endured ear-shattering abuse. When only one door was left in the very last tenement, they converged on it without ceremony.

  Elias’s strong shoulder hit the door with such force that it broke the bolt. Firethorn was first in, his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Elias was on his heels. Both men froze in their tracks. They could not believe what they were seeing. Quite undisturbed by the commotion, two figures were rutting enthusiastically on a mattress. A big, bosomy woman of middle years was lying on her back with her taffeta dress pulled up to her waist and her chubby legs in the air while a small, thin, naked man with a bald head and a back covered in sweat and scabs was pumping vigorously into her as if his life depended on it. He suddenly stiffened his back, let out a wheeze of pleasure, jiggled around for a moment and then broke wind.

  Maggs rolled over on to the bare floorboards and gasped for air. Owen Elias was on to him in a flash, kneeling beside him and pricking his scrotum with the point of his dagger.

  ‘Hello, Maggs,’ he said. ‘Visitors.’

  ‘Who are you?’ gabbled the disadvantaged lover.

  ‘We ask the questions.’

  Elias jabbed his dagger and produced a yell of pain.

  ‘Don’t kill him yet,’ said the woman resentfully. ‘He hasn’t paid me.’ She nudged her client. ‘Come on, Maggs. Where is it?’

  ‘Away with you!’ said Firethorn, thrusting a few coins into her hands and shoving her out through the door. ‘This is a private conversation.’

  Maggs took stock of his oppressors. They had the upper hand. He began to squeal and plead for mercy. Firethorn stood over him with a swordpoint at his chest.

  ‘How much mercy did you show to Thomas Brinklow?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him!’ said Maggs. ‘It was Freshwell.’

  ‘The pair of you did it,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘I merely held the man. Freshwell struck him down.’

  ‘Who paid you?’

  ‘I do not know his name.’

  ‘Who was he?’ said Elias, grabbing the man by the throat to lift him upright and thrust him against the wall. ‘We do not have time to argue, Maggs. His name!’

  ‘Sir John Tarker,’ mumbled the other.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘Sir John Tarker!’

  ‘Who else?’ demanded Firethorn.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Maggs. ‘He paid Freshwell and me to kill Brinklow and get his papers. But we were disturbed and had to run away. When we went back later, someone had burned part of the place down. All his papers were destroyed.’

  ‘What papers?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘How should I know? We just followed orders.’ Maggs became bitter. ‘Sir John turned nasty. He betrayed us. Because we only did one half of what he asked, he handed us over to the law. I escaped but old Freshwell danced a jig on fresh air.’

  ‘You may well join him,’ said Elias.

  ‘Hanging can be no worse than the Isle of Dogs.’

  ‘These papers,’ said Firethorn, feeling they had made a valuable discovery. ‘Where were they kept? Were they to do with Master Brinklow’s work, by any chance?’

  ‘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, Magg
s 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, Master 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…’