The Roaring Boy nb-7 Read online

  The playwright had neither the strength nor the will-power to take to his heels. He was grateful to have the manacles unlocked and pulled off the wrists that they were chafing so badly but he would have preferred his two companions to remain. As the gaolers left the room, he hoped that they would linger nearby. Richard Topcliffe was the last man in the world with whom he cared to be left alone.

  His host bit into the apple and chewed it slowly. He was much older than Hoode had anticipated, perhaps sixty, and his grey hair had an almost saintly glow. The doublet and hose of black satin came in stark contrast to the whiteness of his face. His body was lean, his shoulders rounded, his hands covered in knotted veins. Hoode found it difficult to believe that a man who looked like a retired bishop could possess such an insatiable appetite for cruelty.

  Then he looked into Topcliffe’s eyes. They were dark whirlpools of malice that seemed to contain the frothing blood of his countless victims. Hoode felt as if he were staring at an evil force of nature. No further torture was needed to make him submit. Those eyes caused pain enough.

  Topcliffe’s voice was like a poniard between his ribs.

  ‘Welcome to my home, Master Hoode.’

  ‘Thank you,’ gulped the other.

  ‘I have been asked to speak with you in private.’ He swallowed a piece of apple and sat back. ‘How do you like the Marshalsea, sir?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Are the food and company not to your liking?’

  ‘Indeed, they are not.’

  ‘Then let us see if we can improve your accommodation. If you help me, I will see what I may do to assist you. I do not like to see you suffer so.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘And carry such an abominable stink.’ He glanced down at a sheaf of papers in front of him and read something that made him click his tongue in admonition. ‘You have been reckless, Master Hoode. Seditious libel is no light matter.’

  ‘But I am innocent of the crime!’ cried Hoode.

  ‘That is for me to determine.’

  ‘No libel was intended or employed, Master Topcliffe.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  Topcliffe raised a mocking eyebrow to silence Hoode. The playwright saw the sheer hopelessness of his position. If someone in authority had brought a charge against him, it was lunacy to imagine that the interrogator would take the playwright’s part. Richard Topcliffe did not make impartial judgements. Those who were sent to him were already presumed guilty and thus fit for extreme punishment.

  The old man bit off another piece of apple.

  ‘What is your opinion of pain, Master Hoode?’

  ‘Pain?’

  ‘Have you ever considered its nature or purpose?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘A poet like you? A man whose profession must make him contemplate all the mysteries of existence? Yet you have never studied the philosophy of pain?’ He swallowed his food and gave a faint smile. ‘It has been my one true passion in life. Suffering is a most rewarding subject of study. If you can control and inflict pain, you have unlimited power. That is the great difference between us, Master Hoode. You have devoted your life to giving pleasure while I have dedicated mine to administering pain.’

  Hoode was given a few minutes to weigh the import of the words he had just heard. The playwright was already in agony. He and the interrogator had indeed operated in two opposing worlds. What terrified him was the thought that they might now be united in one with Hoode providing pleasure to a fiend who revelled in pain. He shuddered as he felt the old man’s gaze raking his body again. There was no escape.

  ‘I always find it in the end,’ said Topcliffe.

  ‘Find what, sir?’

  ‘The truth. No matter where a man may hide it, I will root it out. Sometimes I have to look in their heart and sometimes I have to prise open their brains. I will even lay bare a man’s soul in order to get at it.’ He stood up and came around the table. ‘Where do you keep the truth?’

  ‘About what, Master Topcliffe?’

  ‘This play of yours, The Roaring Boy.’

  ‘It is not my play,’ insisted Hoode. ‘I was merely the carpenter who made the necessary repairs. Another hand wrote the piece. Look for him.’

  ‘I do, sir. That is why you are here.’

  ‘But I do not know his name!’

  ‘You will remember it in time.’

  ‘The author preferred to remain anonymous. I have no idea who he was or why he wrote what he did. I will swear that on the Bible, sir.’

  ‘They all say that.’ Topcliffe grinned. ‘Follow me.’

  He walked to the end of the room and opened a door. Hoode went after him with reluctant footsteps and found himself in a passageway that led to a flight of steps. Topcliffe went down them with his victim in tow. They came into a long, low, stone-floored chamber that was lit by altar candles. One glance at the contents of the room was enough to make Hoode’s stomach heave.

  In the middle of the room stood a large, solid, wooden contraption with all manner of straps, spikes and ropes attached to it. Stout handles on all four sides of the rack allowed it to be tightened inexorably in all directions. Other devices were ranged around the walls. These further refinements of torture included iron bridles to fit over the head and deep into the mouth, an array of thumbscrews and a wooden coffin lined with razor-sharp teeth that could bite ever deeper into the flesh of its occupant when its sides were beaten with hammers. Red-hot tongs and pokers nestled in the brazier that stood in a corner.

  It was not just the sight of these objects that made Hoode retch. The atmosphere in the room was unbearable. The smell of suffering was almost tangible. Richard Topcliffe thrived on it but his guest was inhaling the reek of a charnel-house.

  The interrogator indicated the rack with immense pride.

  ‘Have you ever seen such a wonderful machine?’ he said. ‘It is my own invention. Compared to this, the one at the Tower is child’s play. Do you see what I have done here? Every part of a man’s body can feel a separate agony. Look at this device for the hands, Master Hoode. You will be able to appreciate its cunning.’

  ‘Will I?’ Hoode murmured.

  ‘You spoke of your carpentry on a play. Well, here is carpentry of a much higher order. Each finger slots into its own individual hole, as you may see. I simply turn this one handle and the subtlety of my design becomes apparent.’ He was almost drooling now. ‘All ten fingers are simultaneously crushed and a tongue is invariably loosened.’

  Edmund Hoode was in such distress that he clutched at a wall for support. The fact that he did not know the name of the play’s author was irrelevant. Richard Topcliffe would search for it with a cruelty and relentlessness that were their own justification.

  ‘Go back to the Marshalsea now,’ said Topcliffe.

  ‘Back?’ gasped Hoode in relief. ‘I am released?’

  ‘For the time being. Reflect on what I have said and you will soon remember the name that evades you. This visit has simply acquainted you with my methods, Master Hoode.’ He gave his faint smile. ‘You have seen my instruments.’

  ***

  The three men continued to question Emilia Brinklow about the nature of her brother’s work but the help she could give them was limited. She was sometimes allowed to view the results of his toil but he never discussed the means by which he made them. Privacy had been the major preoccupation of Thomas Brinklow.

  ‘What about his wife?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘Cecily?’

  ‘Was she taken into his confidence?

  ‘Even less so than me,’ said Emilia, ‘and that upset her deeply. She was always curious about the time he spent in his workshop but he never let her past that iron door. Cecily was locked out just as much as the rest of us. She protested bitterly but in vain.’

  Nicholas thanked her for her help and asked if he could show his friends around the ruined laboratory. Emilia gave them the freedom of the house. She herself felt the need to pay an important c
all elsewhere.

  ‘I will to the church,’ she said. ‘Simon lies there. I want to offer up a prayer for the salvation of his soul.’

  ‘That is only proper,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I feel ready to look upon him now.’

  ‘Prepare yourself first. It is not a happy sight.’

  ‘Duty bids me endure it.’

  She gave him the key from her pocket and took her leave. They could easily have entered the ruin from the garden by stepping over one of its walls but it seemed sensible to approach it as its designer must have done. Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias both commented on the thickness of the door. When it was thrust open, they stepped into the wilderness beyond and marvelled. Nicholas indicated some of the apparatus at the far end of the workshop.

  ‘Here is his forge where he fashioned that knife-blade,’ said Nicholas. ‘Close by are two more furnaces.’

  ‘Was not one enough?’ asked Elias.

  ‘Not for a craftsman,’ explained Firethorn. ‘I grew up in a world of sparks and steel. My father was a blacksmith and taught me that iron is not simply a dull metal. If it is handled aright, it can come alive. My father knew how to make it hiss in the coals and sing on his anvil.’

  ‘How many furnaces did he have?’

  ‘Two, Owen. One firing will drive out some impurities from the metal. A second may refine it more and render it easier to handle. All depends on how much heat you apply.’ Firethorn enjoyed a rare lapse into nostalgia. ‘I watched my father for hours on end in his forge. Most of his time was spent in shoeing horses and fitting iron rims on cartwheels but he was a skilled metalworker as well. His wrought-iron screen still stands in the village church.’

  ‘Thomas Brinklow was no blacksmith,’ reminded Nicholas. ‘He had three furnaces to conduct his experiments, each one different in size and shape to the others. What does that suggest to you, Lawrence?’

  ‘It goes well beyond my father’s art. I’d say he found a way to alter the properties of the metal by the separate firings. Something may have been added in its molten state.’ He knelt beside one furnace and picked up a handful of small cinders. ‘Here is one clue, sirs. I would expect to find a forge like this burning charcoal. These cinders are the last remains of coal, a fuel that causes untold problems.’

  ‘Unless he found a way to cure them,’ said Nicholas.

  Firethorn felt the cinders. ‘Or a new type of coal.’

  ‘From Wales, perhaps,’ said Elias. ‘We have mines.’

  ‘Or from even further afield,” added Nicholas. ‘Ships carry timber and other fuels into London every day.’

  They continued to speculate for some time before Nicholas drew his friends down the garden to the middle of the largest lawn. He lowered his voice.

  ‘Here we may certainly talk in complete safety.’

  ‘Are we then overheard?’ said Elias.

  ‘There is a spy in the house. I believe I know who it is. She will not be able to listen to us out here.’

  ‘She?’ repeated Firethorn.

  ‘If I am correct.’

  Valentine suddenly came out of the bushes some twenty yards away with his wheelbarrow. He gave Nicholas the most obsequious grin and ambled off in the direction of the house. The book holder’s companions were taken aback.

  ‘Who, in God’s name, is that?’ said Elias.

  ‘Valentine the gardener.’

  ‘A hideous face like that does not belong in a lovely garden,’ opined Firethorn. ‘It should be set on the side of a cathedral with the other gargoyles.’

  ‘Do not be misled by appearances,’ said Nicholas. ‘He is our friend. To business. I cannot tell you how it cheers me to have you both here. Three of us may contrive things that no one person could ever attempt alone.’

  Elias grinned. ‘Tell us what to do and it is done.’

  ‘Then first, we must split up. I am known to be here in Greenwich, you are not. That gives us an advantage. One of you must go to the palace to see what may be learned there.’

  ‘That will I,’ volunteered Firethorn.

  ‘They may not even admit you,’ said Nicholas, ‘but much may be gleaned if you hang about the quay. Ask what comes in and out by boat. Find out about the workings of the palace. Pick up even the tiniest scrap of news about Sir Godfrey Avenell. His face must be well-known to all. Ask why the Master of the Armoury spends so much time down here in Greenwich when his office is in the Tower.’

  ‘I’ll find out all that and more, Nick,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘What of me?’ said Elias.

  ‘Haunt the taverns here, Owen. You met with good fortune in the stews of Bankside. Try your luck in Greenwich.’

  ‘What must I seek?’

  ‘Any rumour, tale or idle gossip about Thomas Brinklow. Secretive about his work he may have been, but someone must have supplied him with materials. Who delivered the coal, for instance? Who built his equipment and machines? Who kept them in a state of repair? Someone must have got in here.’

  ‘Drink and listen,’ said Elias. ‘Fitting work for me.’

  ‘About it now.’

  They arranged a time and place to meet up later. As they strolled back down the garden together, Firethorn remembered what Nicholas had said a little earlier.

  ‘You are known, but we are not?’ said the actor.

  ‘Yes, Lawrence. Word of my presence here will already have been sent to the palace. I am hoping that it will flush out some of the game.’

  ‘We have been in the house awhile now. Has not the same person reported as much to her spymaster?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘I set my own informer to watch her. Valentine may seem to be about his work out here but he is also keeping his eyes peeled. If a certain maidservant tries to leave the premises, I will be told.’

  ‘You are a stage manager to your fingertips!’

  ‘He is too comfortable here in Greenwich,’ said Elias with a wink. ‘How will we ever drag him back to London when he has a beautiful woman to care for him and an ugly gardener to act as his eyes and his ears?’

  He and Firethorn went off laughing happily together but Nicholas did not share their mirth. The teasing remark had contained a grain of truth that almost embarrassed him. The book holder was becoming slowly drawn to Greenwich and the kind of life that it might offer him. More particularly, he was drawn to Emilia Brinklow. She was much more than a grieving young woman who needed his help at a difficult time. She had qualities that he found quite entrancing and his admiration for her had soared since her authorship of The Roaring Boy had been revealed. What impressed him was not just the extraordinary skill she had shown for a novice playwright but the way in which her writing had so carefully disguised her gender.

  The moment alone together in the middle of the night had a profound effect on him. It was some time since he had shared a bed with a woman and, although they did not sleep in each other’s arms as lovers, there had yet been a bond forged between them. Trust, affection and need had brought Emilia to his bedchamber. It was an open question whether or not they could mature into something more permanent.

  As soon as he caught himself even considering such a possibility, he expelled it from his mind. Emilia Brinklow could never be his. She was a rich young woman with a large house and a recognised place in Greenwich society, while he was a humble book holder with a theatre company which did not even have a venue in which to perform. Emilia could offer him so much but he could never bring an equal portion of money or property to the match. On the other hand, there were deficiencies in her life that he could repair. Nicholas could provide the strength which her brother had obviously supplied and the love which hitherto had come from Simon Chaloner. Would he, however, simply be taking the place of others? To be at all worthwhile, he knew, a friendship had to be a merging of true minds.

  With a conscious effort, he shook himself free of her for the second time. Emilia Brinklow did not intrude upon his concentration again because someone distracted him. It was Val
entine, giving a pre-arranged signal to him that Agnes was about to leave the house for some reason. Nicholas could guess what her errand might be. With her mistress out of the house at church, she had the opportunity to slip out and send some sort of message to the palace. There was no chance of her going there and back on foot so he surmised that she must have an intercessory in the village.

  Nicholas moved swiftly. Screened by a line of trees, he worked his way towards the house and was in time to see the maidservant letting herself out by the rear door. She looked furtively around before darting behind the bushes. Nicholas cut around the other side of the house so that he would be at the front when she got there. Agnes knew how to conceal her movements. Only the faintest disturbance in the bushes showed her progress. She emerged near the front gate and tried to scurry through it.

  The solid frame of Nicholas Bracewell blocked her way. ‘Where do you go on Fridays?’ he asked.

  She let out a gasp of fear, then burst into tears.

  ***

  Sir John Tarker was an arrogant man who had been utterly humiliated. Somebody now had to pay for that humiliation. Sir Godfrey Avenell had administered it but the real cause of it was Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder’s name had cropped up time and again to irritate and confound him. After being soundly beaten at the Eagle and Serpent, he somehow had the resilience to bounce back. Tarker had gone to great lengths to effect the destruction of The Roaring Boy and the damage that had occasioned Westfield’s Men was an incidental bonus to him. An affray, an arrest and an injunction had virtually killed the theatre company.

  Yet its members still kept up their pursuit of him. He was certain that two of them had run Maggs to earth in the Isle of Dogs but the organising force behind them was Nicholas Bracewell. And the latter was back in Greenwich.

  ‘I want him!’ he barked.

  ‘Leave him to me,’ said a heavy-set man with a guttural accent. ‘I’ll break his back for him.’

  ‘No, Karl. This man is my quarry.’

  ‘Will you run him through with a lance?’

  ‘It would be too kind a death for Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘How, then, will you kill him, Sir John?’