With the ballad over, the play unfolded in a series of short but effective scenes. Thomas Brinklow was first seen at home with his wife, bestowing rich gifts upon her as a token of his undying love. Barnaby Gill floated joyously on the waves of sympathy that came rolling towards him. The first meeting between Cecily and Walter Dunne aroused fresh hisses of disgust but the adulterous couple were no longer condemned out of hand. In the light of the ballad, the audience was at least now ready to suspend judgement for a while.
The Stranger came to the house in Greenwich as a friend but departed as a sworn enemy. What caused the intemperate row with Thomas Brinklow was not made clear but the Stranger’s vile threats left nobody in any doubt about his intentions. When he engaged the services of Freshwell and Maggs, all three of them were subjected to the most ear-splitting denigration from the onlookers. Lawrence Firethorn had to use the full force of his voice to rise above it.
Murder was to be followed by malicious deceit. Having instigated the killing, the Stranger plotted the arrest and conviction of Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne. It was when he explained that they would be caught in flagrante that the real explosion came. Sir John Tarker could endure no more. He gave the signal to his confederates and they acted with promptness. Freshwell was in the middle of a drunken speech of praise for the Stranger when a member of the audience clambered up on to the stage to wave a club at him. One roaring boy was suddenly confronted by another.
The standees bayed at the interloper but they soon had a more immediate problem of their own. A fight broke out in the very middle of the yard between two of Tarker’s men. It quickly spread until several dozen people were involved. When a second affray erupted in the lower gallery, the whole audience was in turmoil. Nicholas Bracewell rushed out to overpower the man with the club but his intervention was too late. The performance was ruined. Spectators who had been absorbed in the drama only minutes before now joined in the brawl or fought their way to the exits. Simon Chaloner had to use all his strength to protect Emilia from the busy elbows and bruising shoulders all around them. His howled attempts to calm down the mob went unheard.
Sir John Tarker presided over it all with malignant satisfaction. Having been upbraided so roundly by Sir Godfrey Avenell, he was anxious to redeem himself in the most dramatic way. Instead of launching a second attack on any of Westfield’s Men, therefore, he bided his time to give them the illusion that they were safe. The moment to strike was when he could inflict maximum damage on the company and on the play that they were daring to present. As he viewed the seething chaos below, he was content. The Roaring Boy was now no more than a fading memory in the minds of brawling spectators.
Lawrence Firethorn was livid, Barnaby Gill was aghast and Edmund Hoode was utterly destroyed. Owen Elias was belabouring the man who had first jumped on the stage and Nicholas was trying to save the structure itself from collapse. Alexander Marwood was in an ecstasy of hysteria, running around in circles like a headless chicken as each new surge of violence inflicted more damage on his property and holding his hands over his ears to keep out the deafening clamour of combat.
It was a long time before even a semblance of order was restored. Nicholas Bracewell stood on the wrecked stage with Firethorn and Hoode. The yard was littered with wounded bodies, the galleries were cluttered with broken benches, the balustrades were stained with blood or draped with abandoned articles of apparel. An air of complete desolation hung over the tavern. As they surveyed the carnage in front of them, the actor-manager tempted fate with an unconsidered remark.
‘This has been our Armageddon,’ he said with a sweep of his arm. ‘But one consolation remains. The worst is now over.’
A sheriff and two constables arrived on cue. Forcing their way through the remnants of the crowd with brute unconcern, they stood at the edge of the stage and looked up at the three men. The sheriff was brusque and peremptory.
‘We seek one Edmund Hoode,’ he said.
‘I am he,’ volunteered the playwright.
‘You are under arrest, sir.’
‘On what charge, pray?’
‘Seditious libel. Seize him.’
Chapter Six
Valentine heard the sound of horses in the stable-yard and rested his wheelbarrow on the lawn. He pricked his ears and caught the murmur of distant conversation. It was enough to tell him that the mistress of the house had returned. The voices died when a door opened and shut. Evidently, they had gone into the building. Valentine lifted the handles of his wheelbarrow and pushed it with unhurried gait towards the shrubs that grew outside the parlour. It was a warm evening and the windows were still open. Bending to scoop up some of the grass he had mown earlier, the gardener slowly inched himself towards the room until he was within earshot, his ugly face animated with curiosity as he listened to the hurt tones from within. His success was short-lived.
‘What are you doing there?’ said a sharp voice.
‘Picking up this grass,’ he said.
‘Move away from that window.’
‘I have my work to do.’
‘Do it somewhere else.’
Agnes stood there with her hands on her hips and a look of deep suspicion on her face. She hated Valentine enough to have asked for his dismissal more than once but he did his job conscientiously and Emilia Brinklow was reluctant to part with any of the staff who had been engaged by her brother. His furtive manner showed that she had caught him out. Removing his cap with a clumsy attempt at courtesy, he aimed his repulsive grin at the maidservant and shrugged his apologies.
‘I’ve no wish to upset a woman like you, Agnes.’
‘Then keep out of my sight.’
‘Be friends with me, I beg.’
‘You are paid to work here and that is all.’
‘Why, so are you. Can we not lighten the load by sharing it a little? A smile and a kind word is all that I seek.’
‘You will get neither from me. Away with you!’
Her homely face was a mask of cold anger. Valentine replaced his cap and wiped the back of his hand across his harelip. Wilting under the maidservant’s stern gaze, he took his wheelbarrow off down the garden and disappeared behind the fountain. He would have to content himself with the few words he had managed to pick up through the open window.
Unaware of the exchange outside the parlour, Emilia Brinklow and Simon Chaloner continued their urgent conversation within it. The riotous behaviour at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had shocked both of them into silence and the long ride back to Greenwich had been a mute ordeal. Back at the house, they were able to give vent to their wounded feelings. White-faced and despondent, Emilia sat on an upright chair while Simon Chaloner circled the room with restless strides.
‘I should not have taken you there,’ he said.
‘It was my own decision to go, Simon.’
‘The danger was too great. It was madness.’
‘You could not expect me to miss the performance.’
‘What performance?’ he said ruefully. ‘Act Two had scarcely begun when those villains wreaked their havoc. We were lucky to escape injury.’ His hand went to his sword. ‘Had you not been with me, my love, I’d have hacked the rogues down one by one and sent their stinking carcasses to Sir John Tarker. They were plainly his creatures, hired to start that affray and chase The Roaring Boy from the stage.’
‘How can we prove that?’
‘We do not need to, Emilia.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shall do what honour prompted me to do at the very start,’ he said, standing before her. ‘Go straight to Tarker and cut out his black heart.’
‘Simon, no!’ she protested, rising to clutch at him.