‘It is the only way to end this business.’
‘By throwing away your own life?’
‘Tarker is a monster!’
‘Then he must answer to the law,’ she pleaded. ‘If you lay hands upon him, you will be the felon. There has to be another way to bring him to justice.’
‘Yes, Emilia. We tried it in vain this afternoon.’
‘The situation may yet be retrieved.’
‘With my sword!’
‘No, Simon!’ she implored. ‘Dear God in heaven-no!’
She held him so tightly that his righteous indignation eventually gave way to concern for her. He stroked her hair and calmed her down with whispered condolences. Lowering her on to the chair again, he knelt down in front of her so that he could look up into her face. He used a gentle finger to brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek.
‘Take heart, my love,’ he said.
‘We were so close, Simon-then all was lost.’
‘Only our folly persuaded us that we could win. Tarker set his ambush well. He had The Roaring Boy stabbed to death just as callously as Thomas.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, then shook his head with philosophical resignation. ‘This morning was so rich in hope but the afternoon has left me poor indeed.’
‘Poor?’
‘I was doubly robbed at the Queen’s Head.’
‘How so?’
‘I lost both a play and a dearest partner in life.’
Emilia squeezed his hand. ‘That is not so.’
‘It is,’ he said resignedly. ‘You will not marry me until this business is concluded and what chance is there of that now? My joy is further away from me than ever.’ He stood up again and moved across the room. ‘I have worked so sedulously on your behalf, Emilia. I have waited so long and tried so very hard. There is nothing more that I could have done save lay down my life.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I love you for it.’
‘But not enough, I fear.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you will not be mine,’ he said. ‘You will not wed me now so that we can join forces to renew this fight together. You will not put me first in line of affection for once. Your love is on condition only.’
She crossed quickly to him. ‘It has to be, Simon.’
‘Why?’
‘I have explained it to you a thousand times.’
‘And I believed you, Emilia. Until today. Now I begin to wonder if your explanation truly answers me.’
‘I will not rest until the murder is resolved.’
‘Thomas is dead. Vengeance will not bring him back.’
‘It will give me peace of mind.’
‘Then-at last-you may pay heed to my existence.’
‘I do, Simon,’ she said with feeling. ‘On my honour, I do. But I am not able to open my heart fully to you until this dreadful burden has been lifted from it. That burden only took on extra weight this afternoon, for now I am oppressed by guilt as well as grief.’
‘Guilt?’
‘At the damage we have inflicted on Westfield’s Men.’
‘It was not deliberate, Emilia.’
‘That does not still my conscience. They risked their lives and their reputation for us. To what end? Their inn-yard playhouse was wrecked, their work dismembered and Edmund Hoode carted off to prison. And all because of me.’ She walked across to the window. ‘They must hate the very name of Brinklow. It has brought them nothing but trouble.’
‘I am to blame for that. I gave them the play.’
‘Only at my behest.’
‘You charged me to find the fittest company,’ he said, ‘and I did that when I met Nick Bracewell. I knew that he would be steadfast enough to hold his company together and put The Roaring Boy on the stage. He must regret that he ever got involved with this venture.’
‘I regret it, too,’ she said soulfully. ‘Nicholas was a kind and courageous man. I would not hurt him for the world. I hope his fellows do not turn against him for this.’
***
A pall of misery hung over the house in Shoreditch. Not even the warm resilience of a Margery Firethorn could lift it. When she served refreshment, only one of the guests, Nicholas Bracewell, had voice enough to give her proper thanks. The others hardly stirred out of their melancholy. Barnaby Gill was morose, Owen Elias stared gloomily at the empty fireplace and Lawrence Firethorn himself was in the grip of a pain deeper even than his toothache. When Margery left them alone again in the parlour, Nicholas Bracewell tried to rouse the others into action.
He slapped a table. ‘What are we to do?’ he said.
‘You have done enough already, sir,’ accused Gill. ‘It is all your doing that we are in this quandary. Had they listened to me, instead of to you, we would not have touched this leprous play. It has infected the whole company. You have much to answer for, Nicholas.’
‘Not so!’ exclaimed Owen Elias, jumping to the defence of his friend. ‘But for Nick, we would never have had the chance to present such a vital piece of theatre.’
‘Too vital!’ moaned Firethorn.
‘We were not to know the play would be waylaid.’
‘It was always a possibility, Owen,’ said Nicholas, ‘but there was a limit to the precautions we could take. I warned the gatherers to look for any ruffians who sought admission to the play. I stationed extra men to curb any disturbance but they could not be everywhere. The brawl was too sudden and well-planned. We lost control.’
‘Control!’ snarled Gill. ‘If that indeed were all. We have lost more than control, sir. Our occupation’s gone!’
‘For the time being only,’ said Nicholas.
‘Forever. Face the truth-forever!’
Gill’s voice was like a death knell and nobody tried to interrupt its fearsome echo. The Roaring Boy had been an engine of destruction. It not only blackened a record of good audience behaviour at the inn, it caused several injuries, inflicted indiscriminate damage on their venue and led to the arrest of their playwright. Alexander Marwood’s furious vow that they would never set foot again in the Queen’s Head for once had legal reinforcement. The sheriff, whose men so roughly dragged Edmund Hoode away, also served the company with a writ. An injunction had been taken out forbidding them to perform any play at the Queen’s Head until further notice.
‘We are voices from the past,’ said Gill at his most lugubrious. ‘Mere phantoms. The Roaring Boy has silenced our art in perpetuity.’
‘No great loss where you are concerned, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn pointedly. ‘Bonfires will be lit in celebration. But we will live to act on.’
‘Where?’ sneered the comedian. ‘How?’
‘With distinction, sir!’
‘There has to be a way out for us,’ said Elias.
‘There is, Owen,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘Westfield’s Men have faced adversity before-plague, fire, the machinations of our rivals-and we have always survived. We can do so again at this time of trial.’ His bluster became a tentative query for the book holder. ‘Is that not so, Nick? Stiffen our spirits. Teach us the road to salvation.’
‘But he is the author of our misfortune!’ said Gill.
‘We all share the blame for that,’ retorted Elias. ‘Only one man can rescue us and here he sits. Well, Nick? Your counsel is always sage. What must we do?’
Nicholas Bracewell weighed his words before speaking.
‘First, we must secure Edmund’s release,’ he said. ‘We may bewail our own lot but at least we still enjoy our freedom. Edmund languishes in the Marshalsea on a most serious charge. We must restore his liberty.’
‘How may we do that?’ asked Firethorn.
‘By calling on our patron once more. He can speak into ears that we are powerless to reach. Request Lord Westfield to find out how Edmund came to be incarcerated.’
‘We know that already,’ said Elias. ‘Seditious libel.’
‘Against whom?’
‘Sir John Tarker.’
‘I am not so certain of that, Owen,’ said Nicholas. ‘Sir John Tarker has a worthy reputation as a tournament jouster but he is also a notorious gambler and always in debt. He has neither the money nor the position at Court to bring about this action. We wrestle with a higher authority here.’