‘The play was wiped clean off the stage.’
‘It should never have got there in the first place,’ reminded the other. ‘Had you snuffed out its flame at an earlier point, there would have been no need for your own theatricals.’ The smirk returned. ‘But this afternoon’s delights do please my palate and I am grateful to you for that. You showed cunning and imagination.’
‘I placed my men where they could see my signal.’
‘Their money was well-earned.’
‘And my new suit of armour…?’
The question hung in the air for a moment while Avenell poured himself another cup of wine. He was still irritated by his companion’s earlier failures but his memory of them was dulled by Tarker’s patent success at the Queen’s Head. The latter might after all have justified the huge expenditure on him.
‘I will think it over,’ said Avenell.
‘You will not have cause to chide me again.’
‘Ensure that I do not.’
‘I am your man, Sir Godfrey. Help me to prove myself.’
‘The armour did sit well upon you.’
‘When I put it on, I felt inspired.’
‘That inspiration comes at a very high price.’ He sipped the wine and kept the other waiting. ‘We shall see. Today, you have recaptured my interest. Tomorrow, you may find your way back into my coffers. Who knows? We shall see.’
Sir John Tarker was content. He knew that his career in the saddle would now continue. Avenell’s wealth would once more support Tarker’s jousts. In spite of differences in outlook and temperament, the two men made a formidable team when they acted in concert. One rejoiced in amassing and spending money: the other sought his pleasures elsewhere. But they were bonded together at a deep level in a private conspiracy.
‘One thing only persists.’
‘What is that, Sir Godfrey?’
‘This play itself. The Roaring Boy.’
‘It was impounded by the sheriff and his men.’
‘That is not enough.’
‘I will have it delivered to you, if you wish.’
‘Not the manuscript.’
‘Then what?’
‘The head of its author.’
‘It lies on a board at the Marshalsea Prison.’
‘I speak not of Edmund Hoode,’ said Avenell. ‘He is but the cobbler who put new soles on the piece so that it could walk across the stage. What I want, alive or dead, is the man who first drafted this pernicious drama.’
‘His name is unknown.’
‘Find it, Sir John.’
‘We have tried many times.’
Avenell’s voice congealed. ‘Find it soon.’
‘Leave the matter in my hands.’
‘I feel that I may safely do that now. Your splendid work this day has armoured me against disappointment.’ They traded a smile. ‘Hoode is in the Marshalsea, then?’
‘Fighting off the rats and praying for deliverance.’
‘Let him rot there until my pleasure is served.’
‘Will he ever see the light of day again?’
‘Not while I live.’
They laughed harshly and attacked their food once more.
***
The Marshalsea was a grim fortress in a squalid corner of Southwark. Infested with crime of all sorts, the city had well over a dozen prisons into which to fling its never-ending supply of malefactors. Debtors, vagrants, drunkards and those guilty of disorderly conduct were also liable to incarceration, so the prison population was always large and varied. Disease, brutality and starvation were rife in all institutions and many who went in for minor offences never came out alive. Corruption was the order of the day among prison wardens, sergeants, keepers and tipstaffs. Within the dark walls of their respective gaols, they exploited their positions in the most unscrupulous way and inflicted all manner of horrors on those who sought to obstruct or deny them.
Second only to the Tower in importance, the Marshalsea shared all the hideous faults of the other prisons. It was mainly used for debtors but it also housed a number of religious dissidents and those accused of maritime offences. Another category of prisoners was steadily growing. People who sought to ridicule authority by slanderous or libelous means often found themselves inhaling the fetid atmosphere of the Marshalsea so that they might reflect at leisure on the rashness of their behaviour. Like the other institutions of its kind, it was a seething pit of filth into which its unfortunate inmates were dropped without mercy.
Edmund Hoode sat on the stone floor of his cell and shivered with cold. The room was barely six feet square and its dank walls gave off the most noisome vapour. A sodden mattress lay on the flagstones but it was too foul and lumpy to invite any guest. High in one wall, a tiny barred window admitted a thin sliver of light that pointed down at Hoode like the finger of doom. Night in the Marshalsea had been a descent into Hades. Fear, cold and discomfort had kept him awake. Dreadful cries and piteous moans from other parts of the establishment were punctuated by the snuffling of a rat in the pile of straw and excrement that lay in a corner.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he wailed.
He was still asking the question when morning came. Hoode took no consolation from the fact that many authors had seen the inside of a prison in the course of their precarious careers. It was a recognised hazard of their calling. Plays that contained scurrilous or defamatory matter relating to eminent persons often introduced the playwright to the terrors of confinement. Drama that was entirely free from satire could sometimes cause offence and lead to the arrest of an innocent author. Those who lived by the pen walked in the shadow of the prison cell.
The most disturbing aspect of it all for Hoode was the fact that he was locked up entirely alone. It rescued him from assault by other prisoners but it also argued the severity of his alleged crime. Most offenders were hurled indiscriminately into one of the larger and noisier cells with a frightening assortment of humanity. If Hoode was set apart, it could only mean that some special treatment was reserved for him. Seditious libel was a heinous offence. If he were convicted, the punishment was unimaginable.
Hoode shuddered once more and wrapped his arms around his body. It was galling to be held responsible for a play that he had not himself written. All that he had done was to make it fit for the stage. The Roaring Boy had entailed substantial reworking but he had changed nothing of its main thrust and argument. Those were the creation of another hand. A different playwright should be enduring the mean hospitality of the Marshalsea.
The misery of his own condition was compounded by the suffering inflicted on Westfield’s Men. In the course of one afternoon, they lost their playwright, their venue and their right to perform. They were homeless exiles. Some might find work with other companies but most would struggle or starve. It was even possible that a few of them would join him in the Marshalsea when they fell headlong into debt.
Further agony came when he considered Emilia Brinklow. The failure of The Roaring Boy to achieve retribution was a shattering blow to her and he longed to be able to reach out to embrace her with consoling arms. His love for Emilia had fuelled his belief in the play. Disaster had once again marked a foray into matters of the heart. His plight would at least arouse her sympathy and that brought some comfort. Even in her own distress, she would have compassion for him. Simply to be in her thoughts was a blessed relief.
Heavy footsteps brought him out of his cheerless meditation. As he heard a key being inserted into the lock of his door, he hauled himself to his feet and tried to compose himself. Every bone and muscle ached. The weight of his fatigue was like a boulder across his shoulders. When the door swung back on its hinges, a short, squat man in a studded leather jerkin thrust breakfast at him. Hoode looked down at the hunk of bread and the cup of brackish water.