‘This is a poor welcome after your long journey.’
‘I brought it upon myself.’
‘No, Nicholas,’ she said wearily. ‘I have been too bound up in this affair to view it coolly from without. The slightest breath of criticism is like a dagger in my breast. My wrath was ill-judged. Forgive me.’
‘There is no need.’
‘For me, it is everything: for you, it is just a play.’
‘It is far more than that,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘The Roaring Boy has put my friend in prison, my fellows into the street and our whole future in jeopardy. No mere play could do that. This is a matter of utmost significance to us and that is why I have taken such trouble to come here. I was eager to talk with you and this house is the only place where I may reach Master Chaloner.’
‘Simon lives but five miles’ ride from here.’
‘Can he be sent for?’
‘I’ll despatch a servant straight.’
‘He cannot be spared from this debate.’
‘Nor will he be.’
Emilia crossed to the door and opened it to call for her maidservant. Agnes came running at once, took her orders, then rushed off to convey them to the ostler.
‘He will be in the saddle within minutes.’
‘Let us pray that he finds Master Chaloner at home.’ Nicholas stood up and glanced through the window. ‘I have another favour to ask of you.’
‘It is granted.’
‘Show me your brother’s laboratory.’
‘But you saw it on your last visit here.’
‘Only from the outside,’ he said. ‘I would go within.’
‘If you wish. Follow me.’
Emilia led him down a corridor, through the kitchens and into the buttery. The locked door that now confronted them was clad with steel. Nicholas was struck with its thickness.
‘This door would keep an army out,’ he observed.
‘It saved the house from the fire.’
‘What needed such careful protection?’
‘His privacy,’ she said. ‘And his work.’
She produced a key from a pocket at her waist and used it to unlock the door. It opened on to ruination. Nicholas took a few steps into the laboratory, then paused to look around him, trying to reconstruct in his mind its fallen walls and its shattered windows. Emilia moved familiarly around the room, noting with pleasure that her orders for the removal of weeds had been followed to the letter. Valentine and his assistants had plucked up nature from around the ankles of science.
Nicholas walked forward in silent wonder. Even in its devastated state, the laboratory preserved a strange order and pattern. Burned-out tables were aligned, charred stools knew their place, wrecked equipment of all kinds stood in unforced symmetry. The punctilious mind of Thomas Brinklow survived the fire intact. Nicholas crouched down before a forge.
‘Your brother smelted his own metals?’
‘The forge was always busy.’
‘He had some assistant to feed its hunger?’
‘No,’ she said fondly. ‘Thomas looked after it himself like a favourite pet. He would let nobody near his forge.’
‘Not even you?’
‘Not even me. His workshop was sacrosanct.’
‘He would need the finest metal if he built a compass.’
‘That is what he produced.’
‘A remarkable man,’ said Nicholas with admiration. ‘I begin to feel his presence. Where did he keep his papers?’
‘In that desk,’ she said, pointing to pile of cinders.
‘All destroyed?’
‘Lost forever. His inventions died with him.’
Nicholas thought long and hard before he spoke again.
‘I have one last favour.’
‘Ask anything if it helps our cause.’
‘Who wrote The Roaring Boy?’ he said, stepping closer to her as she pursed her lips and lowered her head. ‘I must be told. Was it Master Chaloner? He said that the author had gone away but no man deserts a work like that at such a fatal hour. Did Master Chaloner pen The Roaring Boy?’
She looked up at him in evident distress. Before she could speak, however, Nicholas was distracted by a noise in the bushes. Fearing that someone was eavesdropping, he ran to the remains of a wall, jumped quickly over it and pushed his way into the undergrowth. Nobody was there. When he came out the other side, however, he saw a figure no more than twenty yards away, tying some rambling roses back on their trellis-work and apparently absorbed in his task. Valentine became aware of his scrutiny and turned to acknowledge him, touching his cap in deference with a gnarled finger and flashing the infamous grin once more.
***
Frustration finally provoked Simon Chaloner into action. Long months of hard and dangerous work had come to fruition in the yard of the Queen’s Head, only to be squashed out of recognition by the man he was trying to convict of a murder. The Roaring Boy was a legal and highly public means of calling Sir John Tarker to account. Since that had signally failed, a more irregular and private means had to be used. There was no point in discussing it with Emilia because she would never condone such a course of action. Chaloner had to strike on his own.
He felt certain that his quarry would be at hand. With a Court tournament in the offing, Sir John Tarker would be practising in the tiltyard at Greenwich Palace once more. Having knocked The Roaring Boy from its saddle, he would be trying to unseat other challengers to his position. Chaloner might not get such an opportunity again. It had to be seized on ruthlessly. One shot from a pistol would achieve what five acts of a play would never do.
Having been in the palace many times, Chaloner knew how to find his way through its courtyards and apartments if only he could gain entry. That depended on good fortune. Armed and excited by the prospect of revenge, he rode out that morning in the direction of Greenwich, skirting the village itself so that he would not be seen by anyone from the Brinklow household and trotting on to find a copse where he could tether his horse and approach the palace on foot.
The main entrance was in the riverside frontage but there were postern gates at various points around the building. As he approached the rear of the palace, he saw a small crowd of people listening to a tall, distinguished man who was delivering some sort of lecture. Chaloner was in luck. A group of foreign visitors was being shown around the premises by the chamberlain. From their attire and general deportment, Chaloner guessed that they were Dutch, most probably the ambassador and his entourage. Intermingled with them were a few other nationalities. The ostentatious garb of one man combined with his extravagant gestures to mark him out as an Italian. His two companions also had a Mediterranean cast of feature.
Simon Chaloner did not hesitate. He walked slowly towards the group until he could merge quietly into it. The chamberlain was too caught up with listening to the sound of his own voice to see the intruder and the visitors assumed that he was a legitimate member of the party who arrived late. Chaloner had picked up snatches of Dutch and Italian in his army days. An occasional phrase and a benign smile were all that he needed to employ by way of response.
‘Let us now step back inside the palace,’ droned the chamberlain, leading them through the gate. ‘I mentioned earlier that Duke Humphrey had called it Bella Court…’
The visitors followed, listened and gaped. Secure in the middle of them, Chaloner kept his head down and his hand on his sword. He was in. It was only a matter of minutes before he could detach himself from the knot of foreigners and slip into the building itself. He walked along a corridor with a confidence that suggested a legitimate right to be inside a royal palace. Doublet and hose of a colourful and expensive cut would not look out of place at Court and he had the true bearing of a gentleman. When two guards marched past, they did not even throw him a second glance. Now that he was inside Greenwich Palace, he was invisible.