***
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 lightly. 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.