‘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.