The Roaring Boy Page 6

Nicholas could not deny it. Firethorn was only saying what Edmund Hoode himself had admitted. Westfield’s Men were having to rely more and more on staple dramas from their repertoire. Other companies were attracting the best and most consistent playwrights. Nicholas looked down at the manuscript that was still tucked under his arm. Though he had told Simon Chaloner that they received a steady flow of new plays, this was the first to be offered to the company in months. It would doubtless meet the same fate as the vast majority of its predecessors. The book holder’s instinct told him that The Roaring Boy would amount to no more than the scribble of a floundering amateur.

  ‘He must be told, Nick.’

  ‘Let me broach the topic with him.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Firethorn, ‘but do not let sentiment stand in the way of the harsh truth. Edmund must shake off this lethargy and learn to write small masterpieces once more. Otherwise—much as it would grieve me—we will have to dispense with his services as a playwright and replace him with a more durable talent. Make that clear to him!’

  ***

  Simon Chaloner was a fine horseman who knew how to pace his mount. After the meeting in Silver Street, he retraced his steps to the Queen’s Head and collected the animal he had stabled there. With night starting to wrap its warm cloak around the capital, he went over London Bridge at a rising trot, kicked the horse into a steady canter and headed east along the old Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street. It was the road which pilgrims had taken for centuries to the shrine of St Thomas Becket in Canterbury and it could not be more apposite for him. Chaloner rode with the anticipatory thrill of a man on the way to meet a saint.

  The moon was a kindly lantern that splashed his route with subdued light. It was highly dangerous for a lone horseman to venture so far by day. Night brought additional hazards but he paid them no heed. Speed and a sense of purpose were protection enough for Simon Chaloner. When jeopardy loomed up ahead of him, he met it up cold disdain. Two men, armed with daggers, lying in wait for travellers a mile or so from Deptford, jumped out into his path as he approached and waved a ragged cloak in the air to startle the horse into throwing its rider.

  They chose the wrong victim. Chaloner’s heels dug into the animal’s flank and it surged into a gallop to knock the two men flying. One went rolling over helplessly on the hard ground while the other was hurled with force against a stout elm. The highwaymen were still counting their bruises and cursing their luck as the sound of the pummelling hooves faded away in the distance. Nothing was going to stop this particular traveller.

  The horse slowed down to clatter over the bridge at Deptford Creek, then resumed its canter for the last leg of the journey. Chaloner’s destination was only a mile away now and it was not long before he caught his first glimpse of guttering light. Torches were burning at Greenwich Palace to define its elegant bulk and to throw shifting patterns upon the river that fronted it. Seen in silhouette, it had an almost fairy tale quality about it. Chaloner goaded his mount into one last spurt as the village itself came hazily into view with its houses, churches and civic buildings in a haphazard cluster. A community with strong naval associations, it was surrounded on three sides by a scatter of imposing manors, tenanted farms and market gardens.

  In recent years, the popularity of Greenwich had continued to grow. It was close enough to London to allow comfortable access by boat or horse, and far enough away to escape its seething crowds, its abiding stink and its frequent outbreaks of plague. There was an air of prosperity about the place, set in a loop of the Thames and surrounded by lush green fields. Ships lay at anchor in front of the palace and sheep grazed safely on the pasture. Even at night, Greenwich exuded a quiet pride in itself.

  Simon Chaloner reached a large house in the main street and went to the stables at the rear. An ostler came running to take the reins from him as he dropped down from the saddle, and he tossed a word of thanks to the man before hurrying away. A maidservant admitted him to the house itself and conducted him without delay to the parlour.

  A pale young woman was pacing the room anxiously with lips pursed and hands clasped tightly together. She looked up with trepidation as she heard the door open but gave a gasp of relief when she saw who it was. She ran to him on tiptoe.

  ‘Simon!’

  ‘Did you think I would never come?’

  ‘I am so glad to see you safe returned!’

  He removed his hat and gave a mock bow, then took her hand to place a soft kiss on it. The maidservant was lingering in the doorway to see if she would be needed further but her mistress waved her away. When they were left alone, the young woman stood in front of her visitor with trembling impatience.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘Let me first get my breath back, Emilia.’

  ‘Did you watch the play?’ He nodded and removed a glove to dab at the specks of perspiration on his brow. ‘And were you satisfied?’

  ‘Satisfied and even amused.’

  Her face clouded. ‘Amused?’

  ‘I will explain in a moment,’ he promised. ‘But only when you calm down and stop badgering me, my sweet. Take a seat so that I may look at you properly. I have ridden such a long way for this pleasure and I surely deserve my reward.’ When she still hesitated, he sounded a warning note. ‘If you would hear my report, you must humour me.’

  Emilia gave a wan smile and lowered herself into one of the carved oak chairs. Tallow candles had been set on the table and on the low cupboards. Simon Chaloner chose a seat which enabled him to see her encircled by light. Short, slim and graceful, she had a face that remained enchanting even when it was marked, as now, with signs of acute distress. She wore a plain dress of a dark blue material but it was the robe of a saint to him. This was his shrine and his eyes worshipped gratefully.

  His love was frank and unashamed but her feelings for him were held in check by an inner sadness that pushed everything else out to the margins. Chaloner understood this only too well and made allowances for her fitful impulses of affection towards him and her wavering concentration. Emilia had more immediate concerns than their relationship.

  ‘You went to the Queen’s Head,’ she said. ‘What, then?’

  ‘I enjoyed the performance.’

  ‘What, then? What, then?

  ‘I mingled with the players to win their confidence so that I could sound them out on certain matters. Though I say so myself, I gave an excellent performance in my role.’

  ‘Was your opinion of Westfield’s Men confirmed?’

  ‘Whole-heartedly, Emilia.’

  ‘You spoke with their manager?’

  ‘Lawrence Firethorn was indisposed.’

  ‘With whom, then?’

  ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

  ‘One of the sharers?’

  ‘The book holder.’

  Emilia was jolted. ‘A book holder!’ she exclaimed. ‘You entrusted something as important as this to a book holder?’

  ‘There is no more able or discreet fellow in the entire company,’ said Chaloner seriously. ‘He holds them all together. I tell you, Emilia, without his boldness, that play would have fallen to pieces this afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They suffered a mishap both tragic and amusing.’

  He recounted the story of the performance and praised the way that Westfield’s Men had overcome adversity, albeit with some moments of incidental comedy that had not been devised by the author. Emilia hung on his words and was much reassured by what she heard of Nicholas Bracewell. The narrative wended its way to Silver Street.

  ‘He accepted the play?’ she said.

  ‘Without obligation.’

  ‘I hope you insisted that he take great care of it.’

  ‘No need. Plays are like gold to them. The book holder will guard it with his life and he is not a man to yield that up li
ghtly. I would hate to meet Nicholas Bracewell in a brawl. He is someone to have as friend and not foe.’

  ‘But discreet, you say?’

  ‘Discreet and influential. His word is respected.’

  ‘How much did you tell him?’

  ‘Little beyond the title of the play.’

  ‘When will it be read?’ she said, rising from her seat. ‘How soon can we have an answer? Who will make the decision?’

  ‘Do not alarm yourself, Emilia,’ he soothed, crossing to ease her back down into the chair. ‘I have delivered the manuscript to the right person, of that there is no doubt. It may take some time to get a verdict. Be patient.’

  ‘I have been so for many months.’

  ‘This is a delicate enterprise. It may not be rushed.’

  ‘Pray God they see its merit.’

  ‘They will be blind else.’

  ‘And their playwright?’

  ‘Edmund Hoode? I talked with him as well, more or less.’

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘He was present at our discussion.’

  Simon Chaloner tailored the truth to fit more snugly over her apprehension. There was no point in telling her that the resident poet of Westfield’s Men had been too drunk even to stay awake, let alone to take part in an intelligent conversation. Chaloner put his faith in Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘What happens next, Simon?’

  ‘We wait and watch.’

  ‘And if they do show an interest in The Roaring Boy?’

  ‘I will conduct the negotiations.’

  She squeezed his arm gratefully. ‘You have done so much already,’ she said. ‘I will be forever in your debt.’

  ‘You’ll find me a doting creditor.’

  ‘A cautious one, too, I trust.’

  ‘Do not fret about me.’

  ‘You put yourself in a perilous situation.’

  ‘Every man who falls in love does that.’

  She gave him another wan smile and released his arm. Simon Chaloner moved away and glanced around the room. It was spacious and well furnished with a tapestry adorning one wall and rich hangings at the windows. The floor was lightly strewn with rushes mixed with sweet-smelling lavender and rosemary clippings. For all its hints of luxury, however, the parlour had a curious emptiness to it. Flushed with his exertions, he nevertheless felt a cold shiver.

  ‘When it is all over, I will take you away from here.’

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘This house has too many bitter memories.’

  ‘They are balanced by fond recollection.’

  He blinked in surprise. ‘How, in God’s name, can you speak of fondness, Emilia? You are surrounded by ghosts here. They haunt you dreadfully. They rob you of your peace of mind. It was within these self-same walls that—’

  ‘Say no more!’ she protested.

  ‘We must build a new life together.’

  ‘I do not even wish to think about it yet.’

  ‘But that is what drives us on, is it not? That is why we have entered this battle. To win some happiness.’

  ‘Happiness and justice.’

  ‘The one flows from the other.’

  He went quickly back to her and knelt beside the chair but she was in no mood for impassioned declarations. She stilled his mouth with the tips of her fingers, then brushed his lips with the merest whisper of a kiss. He was content. The patience which he had recommended to her must be his own watchword. A long struggle lay ahead and it was fraught with unknown danger. Only when that struggle was resolved could he come to claim her as his own. Only then would she yield herself completely to him. Pilgrim and saint would at last be united in marriage.

  ‘When will you go back to London?’ she asked.

  ‘Soon, my love.’

  ‘And if they reject the play?’

  He grinned bravely. ‘They will not dare!’

  ***

  Edmund Hoode fell headfirst into a bottomless pit and spiralled his way down through eternity until he met an unexpected obstacle. What he thought was the first circle in hell turned out to be the floor of his chamber in Silver Street and its hard surface buffeted him straight out of his nightmare and back into the waking world. One bleary glance at it told him he would prefer the bottomless pit. At least there had been no pain during his leaf-like fall through a perpetual autumn. Plucked untimely from his deep slumber, he discovered that his head was now pounding, his back felt as if it had been flayed and his stomach was so queasy that it was about to stage an armed mutiny against its owner.

  He crawled to the chamber pot just in time and lowered his face below the rim. The steaming vomit gushed out of him and left a foul taste in his mouth. When he dared to raise his head, he vowed that he would never again drink so much ale so fast in a tavern. Why had he done such a reckless thing and who had helped him back to his lodging?

  Through fluttering eyelids, he looked across at the window and saw that dawn was slowly pushing the dark clouds apart like curtains. Supporting himself against a wall, he made a supreme effort and dragged himself upright before making his way to the casement. The feat was impressive but the result was not encouraging. His head pounded harder, his back smarted more and his stomach began to consider a second revolt. What worried him most was that his eyes seemed to take on independent lives, one watering while the other burned, each giving him conflicting pictures of the murky London to which he had been reluctantly dragged back.

  As he looked through the window, one eye told him that a familiar figure was turning the corner of his street but the other identified only a dog. Which intelligence should he trust? He closed both lids and felt his way back to the bed before lowering himself on to it as gingerly as he could. Once horizontal again, he resolved to stay there until his various organs proved capable of at least a degree of co-operation.

  He was just starting to drift off to sleep when a fist banged on the front door below. Hoode felt as if someone were knocking directly on his forehead. It made both eyes water. The front door was locked and bolted overnight so it took a moment for the servant to open it. Voices joined in the briefest of conversation, then heavy footsteps came up the staircase. The tap on his door was soft and considerate.

  ‘Edmund?’

  ‘What?’ he groaned.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Nicholas.’

  ‘At this time of the morning?’

  ‘I have been up all night.’

  ‘Why?’

  Nicholas opened the door and took a tentative step into the room. The sight that confronted him was daunting, the smell even more so. He crossed immediately to the small window and flung it back on its hinges to admit a draught of air. Edmund Hoode propped himself up on his elbows and found that his eyes had at last come to an amicable agreement with each other. Pleased to see his friend, he was embarrassed to be caught in such a disgusting condition.

  ‘Up all night, you say?’

  ‘With advantage, Edmund.’

  ‘That means there is a lady in the case.’

  ‘I found a more exciting bedfellow.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘This.’ Nicholas held up the manuscript. ‘A play.’ Hoode gaped. ‘You stayed awake to read that?’

  ‘Twice over.’

  ‘Have you run mad?’

  ‘Only with joy. I had to bring it to you.’

  ‘Take it away, Nick. I am done with plays. I never want to see, write or act in one again.’ Hoode was now sitting upright without undue calamity and his head was actually beginning to clear. Curiosity stirred. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘The Roaring Boy.’

  ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

 
‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘A stranger.’

  ‘What is its theme?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘That’s a stale plot.’

  ‘None could be fresher, Edmund.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Read it for yourself.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Be ruled by me and you will live to be grateful.’

  ‘Grateful?’ moaned Hoode. ‘To be woken at dawn for no better reason than to have a scurvy play waved in front of me? You expect thanks for this ordeal? I lie abed, man. What I need beside me is a gentle girl not a roaring boy.’

  ‘You will soon change your mind,’ said Nicholas as he dropped the manuscript into the other’s lap. ‘Take care of it. I am giving you the most precious gift of all.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Salvation in five acts.’

  ***

  The Parish Church of St Leonard’s was a medieval foundation which dated back to the time when Shoreditch was no more than a straggle of houses near a crossroads. It was now partly hemmed in by other buildings but its nave was long and its graveyard accommodating. Several actors lived or lodged in the district, attracted by its suburban charms and its two theatres. Some—including Lawrence Firethorn—were known to worship at St Leonard’s. Others only visited the church with regularity when they were laid to rest there.

  Ben Skeat had always had a close relationship with St Leonard’s. He had been married before its altar and attended services there on most Sundays with a gladsome mind. It was also the place where he had buried his three children. His wife had joined them in time and Skeat—having travelled on without her until he found the journey too onerous—elected to follow her into the grave. Westfield’s Men were all there to bid farewell to a cherished colleague. What was even more touching was the fact that so many actors from other companies came to pay their respects. Skeat had been a presence on the London stage. Even his rivals admired him.

  ‘Why does the fool not shut up?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘He is almost done,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I’ll have none of this dribbling vicar when I die.’

  ‘He speaks well of Ben.’