Before he could speak, however, the visitor was waved into silence by the man in the chair. Shorter, slimmer and ten years older than his guest, Sir Godfrey Avenell was a striking figure of middle years, wearing doublet and hose of the latest and most expensive fashion below an elaborate lawn ruff that set off his sallow countenance. Silver hair and beard gave him a distinction that was reinforced by the upward tilt of his chin and the piercing blue eyes. The habit of command sat easily on Sir Godfrey Avenell and elicited a grudging respect from his visitor.
As the galliard continued, the foot kept in time on the marble. Its owner looked up with a contented smile.
‘Is this music not sublime?’ he said.
‘I am not in the mood for it, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Come, come, man. Does it not make you wish to dance?’
Tarker was politely emphatic. ‘No.’
‘I love the virginals,’ said the other, savouring each note. ‘Did I never tell you of the occasion when I heard the Queen herself at the keyboard? I dined one time with my dear friend, Lord Hunsdon, who drew me up to a quiet gallery where I might listen to Her Majesty upon the virginals. She played excellently well. Since her back was towards me, I ventured to draw back the tapestry and enter the chamber so that I could hear the more clearly. Her Majesty sensed my presence at once and stopped forthwith, turning to see me and rising from her seat to chide me. “I play not before men,” she said, “but only when I am solitary, to shun melancholy.” I have always remembered that phrase-to shun melancholy. Such is the soothing power of music. What better way to keep black thoughts at bay?’
‘With a willing wench on a bed of silk.’
‘Your taste needs schooling.’
‘A man is entitled to his desires.’
‘Not when they are as coarse as yours sometimes are.’
The galliard stopped and Orlando Reeve looked up for further endorsement. He was always glad to be invited to give a private recital at Avenell Court. His host was a most cultured and generous patron of music. The instruments which had been collected at the house were of the highest quality. Reeve was able to practice and entertain at the same time.
Praise was not immediately forthcoming. The musician was forced to wait while Sir Godfrey Avenell stood up to give his guest a proper welcome. The older man clapped his friend on the shoulder, then spoke in a low whisper.
‘Well?’
‘It is done,’ said Tarker.
‘Then our information was sound?’
‘Very sound.’
‘Good.’
Sir Godfrey Avenell threw a shrewd glance at Orlando Reeve, then softened it with a benign smile. Strolling across to the dais, he took a purse from his belt and tossed it into the eager palms of the musician. The weight of the purse told Reeve the value of its contents.
‘Thank you, Sir Godfrey,’ he said obsequiously.
‘You played well for me.’
‘I am rewarded beyond my deserts.’
‘The gold is not only for your music, Orlando.’
Reeve understood and nodded obediently. He gathered a scowl from Sir John Tarker and a dismissive nod from his host before stepping down from the platform and scuttling out of the hall. Avenell turned back to his guest.
‘You do not like Orlando, I think?’
‘He is a fat fool.’
‘Even so, yet he can play like an angel.’
‘I hate those fawning musicians.’
‘He has his uses,’ said Avenell, moving to stand in front of the ornamental chimney-piece which climbed halfway up the wall. ‘We have had proof of that this very day. That fat fool was cunning enough to insinuate himself into the counsels of Westfield’s Men and we must be grateful to him for that. It has enabled us to nip disturbance in the bud.’ His smile faded. ‘At least, I trust that this is so.’
‘Have no fears on that account.’
‘Then reassure me straight.’
‘Everything went according to plan.’
‘I seem to have heard that boast before.’
‘The best men were chosen.’
‘That, too,’ said Avenell with hissing sarcasm. ‘The best men come at the highest price. When you saved a few pence on the hiring last time, you bought us unlooked-for trouble. I do not wish to encounter further unpleasantness in this matter. It puts me to choler. Convince me that it is over and done with.’
‘You have my word on it.’
‘The play has been destroyed?’
‘To all intents.’
‘Explain.’
‘A member of the company was beaten senseless.’
‘Will they heed the warning?’
‘They must,’ insisted Tarker. ‘My men know their trade. Their orders were clear. The intercessory was to be all but killed. No sane creature would proceed in a business that is fraught with such danger.’
‘Sanity is not a normal property of the theatre.’
‘We struck at their chief prop.’
‘Lawrence Firethorn?’
‘A man called Nicholas Bracewell. He is but the book holder with the company but carries the whole enterprise on his shoulders. Without his strength and resource, they would be in a sorry state. Maim him and they all limp. There is no question but that we seized the right prey.’
‘And left him for dead, you say?’
Sir John Tarker nodded and gave a grim smile.
‘We will hear no more of Westfield’s Men.’
***
Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode travelled to Greenwich by means of the river. Since no performance was being given by Westfield’s Men that afternoon, they were released for the whole day. The long journey from London Bridge gave them ample time to rehearse the many pertinent questions that needed to be put. The promised meeting with Emilia Brinklow had been arranged by Simon Chaloner on the condition that he himself would be present to advise and assist her. For their part, the book holder and the playwright agreed to be tactful and considerate in their enquiries. Evidently, Chaloner felt that his betrothed required protection even from putative friends.
It was a fine morning with a stiff breeze blowing upstream. Craft of all sizes were gliding along on the broad back of the Thames. Seated in the stern of their boat, the two friends felt the refreshing tug of the wind and conversed to the creak of oars and the plash of blades dipping into the dark water. The watermen were too immersed in their strenuous work to pay any attention to their passengers. It was a few days since Nicholas had been attacked at the Eagle and Serpent but he still bore the marks of the assault. His face was covered in bruises and the head wound beneath his cap still had a dressing. Appraising him now, Hoode began to have second thoughts.
‘It is not too late to abandon this folly,’ he said.
‘I have given my word, Edmund.’
‘What if there is another beating?’
‘Then I will administer it instead of receiving it. They will not take me unawares a second time. Besides,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘I have a bodyguard. Now that you have moved into my lodging to watch over me, I am quite safe.’
Hoode blenched. ‘But I thought you were looking after me! That is why Lawrence wanted me out of Silver Street. So that I might have your strong arm to shield me.’
‘A wise precaution. When they realise that we are determined to press on with this venture, they may try to wreck the play itself.’
‘Along with its author!’
‘His identity, alas, remains concealed.’
‘Mine does not,’ said Hoode. ‘Everyone in London knows that I hold the pen for Westfield’s Men, whether in the writing of new dramas, the cobbling of old ones or the wet-nursing of novice playwrights. The Roaring Boy may be the work of another hand but the signature of Edmund Hoode is also scrawled across it.’