Richard Honeydew had heard the voice before in the churchyard. For the second time that day, he was lifted up and thrown uncaringly over the man’s shoulder.
London was full of inns but some were so ramshackle, or catered for such low company, that they could be discounted at once. Nicholas Bracewell was looking for a place where a lady and gentleman might stay in some degree of comfort. Accompanied by Leonard, he was searching the area to the south of the Queen’s Head while Hoode and Elias went off in the opposite direction. It was painstaking work. Some landlords were helpful, others loath to give away any information about their guests. They encountered several people who were visiting London from the country but none that looked remotely like those they sought. Leonard began to lose heart. Pessimism set in.
‘They are not here, Nick,’ he said.
‘They must be.’
‘Then perhaps they went over the bridge to Bankside.’
‘They’d be less likely to find a good lodging there,’ said Nicholas, ‘and they would not have carried Dick Honeydew all that way.’
‘What if they had a coach?’
‘They followed the boy on foot. That much we can guess.’
‘Then where did they take him?’
‘Where would you take him?’
‘Down to the river,’ said Leonard after a moment’s thought. ‘Put him in a boat moored away from the bank and we’d never find him.’
‘These people are newcomers. They do not know the city.’
‘Then they’d find a room at a respectable inn.’
‘That’s where we have to run them to earth.’
They went into more inns and talked to more landlords. Another hour slipped past but it yielded no result. As they came out of yet another tavern, Leonard’s hopes had virtually disappeared.
‘This will take an age, Nicholas. What can two of us do?’
‘Edmund and Owen take part in the search as well.’
‘It needs a small army,’ said Leonard. ‘One of them should be Master Hibbert. It’s his bounden duty to be of help.’
‘He’s not inclined to discharge such a duty,’ said Nicholas.
‘He should be. Dick was only kidnapped because of his play.’
‘Our author had somewhere else to go.’
Leonard was worried. ‘You do not think he has fled, do you?’ he asked. ‘That’s what the landlord fears. He thinks that Master Hibbert will run up huge bills then steal away without paying them.’
‘He’ll not leave,’ said Nicholas, confidently. ‘He came to London to make his name and will not quit so easily. In any case, Leonard, I’ve made sure that he stays.’
‘How?’
‘By bringing this.’ He tapped his satchel. ‘I have the only copy of The Malevolent Comedy here with me. He’d never leave without that. It’s worth its weight in gold to him because it proves his worth as an author. As long as I have it, our spendthrift playwright is bound to us.’
They were in Tower Street and the night was dark. Though their eyes were used to the gloom, they could not see far ahead of them. Leonard had drunk his share of ale earlier in the evening and needed to relieve himself. When they came to an alleyway, he stepped into it.
‘Go on ahead, Nicholas. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Meet me in the White Hart.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the left, no more than a minute away.’
‘I’ll see you there,’ said Leonard, vanishing into the dark.
Nicholas walked on alone, glad of his friend’s company but pleased to be alone, if only briefly, so that he could reflect on what had happened. He felt partly to blame for Honeydew’s disappearance, recalling that it was he who told the boy where Hal Bridger was buried. If he had made no mention of the fact, the apprentice might not have left the Queen’s Head. Another worry lay at the back of his mind. Honeydew’s performance that afternoon had been remarkable for its bite and savagery. It did not sound like Dick Honeydew at all. It was almost as if the boy had been in someone’s grip, forced to take on a personality that was so at odds with his natural tenderness. Honeydew could be regal and even peremptory onstage, but, in Mistress Malevole, he had revealed a spitting hatred and rancour that had always been beyond him before. It was yet another charge to bring against the author. His play was having a corrupting effect on its leading lady.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted. Nicholas had gone no more than twenty or thirty yards when he heard quick footsteps behind him. Before he could even turn round, he received a sharp blow on the back of the head from a cudgel. It sent him pitching forward onto the ground.
Chapter Ten
Nicholas Bracewell reacted instinctively. He had been taken completely by surprise but the blow had been partially softened by his cap, so that he was hurt rather than stunned. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled over and reached for his dagger, ready to defend himself against his assailant. But there were two of them, brawny figures, both armed with cudgels, intent on beating him senseless. Nicholas needed help.
‘Leonard!’ he yelled. ‘Ho, there!’
‘Close his mouth!’ snarled one man.
They tried to belabour him but Nicholas was no harmless victim. Rolling rapidly from side to side, he used one arm to ward off the cudgels and the other hand to wield his dagger. As a blow glanced off his shoulder, he stabbed hard with his blade and opened up a deep wound in a wrist. Shrieking with pain, one of the men dropped his cudgel. The other continued to flail away with his weapon, bruising Nicholas’s arm and knocking the dagger from his grasp. He aimed a vicious strike at the book holder’s eyes but Nicholas jerked back his head just in time. Grazing his temple with searing pain, the cudgel drew blood.
When he tried to kick the fallen man, however, his attacker lost his advantage. Seizing his foot, Nicholas twisted the ankle hard then pulled. His adversary came tumbling down on top of him. Nicholas grappled with him and managed to roll over on top of him, only to feel a hard stamp in the back from the other man. Bent on revenge, and with blood dripping from his injured wrist, he lashed out with his foot at Nicholas. At the same time, the man beneath the book holder tried to bite him on the face. Rage gave Nicholas an upsurge of strength. Subduing the man on the ground with a fierce relay of punches, he rolled over, leapt to his feet and faced the other attacker. He saw a dagger in his hand. Leonard was at last lumbering up the street towards him but would not get there in time to save his friend.
Nicholas used the only weapon available. He lifted the satchel quickly from around his neck. Before the man could lunge at him with the dagger, Nicholas swung the satchel by its strap with as much force as he could, catching the other across the cheek and making him reel.
‘I’m coming, Nick,’ shouted Leonard. ‘Leave him to me.’
But the attackers had had enough. Seeing that the odds had turned against them, they opted for retreat. The man with the wounded wrist helped his dazed companion to his feet and the two of them limped off into the darkness. Panting heavily, Leonard finally reached his friend.
‘You called at an awkward time,’ he said, apologetically.
‘I managed on my own, Leonard.’
‘Let’s go after them.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, breathing hard and rubbing his bruised arm. ‘I’m in no condition to give chase. They’ll be well away by now.’
‘Did they get your purse?’
‘They were not after money.’
‘Then why attack you?’
‘They were here to give me a beating. We were stalked.’
‘I heard nobody behind us.’
‘They knew their trade. As soon as I was alone, they struck.’
Blood was trickling down the side of his face from the cut on his temple. Nicholas pulled out the handkerchief that had been dropped in the churchyard and used it to stem the flow. With his other hand, he rubbed the back of his head gingerly.
‘Are you hurt, Nick?’
‘I’ve lost some blood and gained some painful bruises in return, but nothing is broken.’ He retrieved his dagger and slipped it back in its sheath. ‘I was lucky. I survived.’