The noise of mock battle rose up from the tiltyard to guide his footsteps. He came out on the leaded roof where Henry VIII had loved to stand and he gazed down on the assembly below. Men in armour were fighting on foot or practising on horseback with the lance. Retainers were everywhere. There was no sign of Sir John Tarker but the watching Chaloner sensed that he would be there. He hid behind the corner of a chimney-pot to keep the yard under surveillance while remaining out of sight himself. His intended victim was bound to emerge in time.
It was only a matter of waiting and watching.
Five hours of acute hunger made Edmund Hoode pick up the hunk of stale bread which had been flung to the ground. It was as hard as rock and his teeth could do little more than chip off a few crisp edges. He began to wish he had been more politic in his dealings with the keeper. Hoode had money about him and would willingly part with it for wholesome food and restorative drink. Since he could be locked away in the Marshalsea for some time, it was important to keep body and soul together. He longed for the man’s return and listened in the meantime to the accumulated misery of the prison as it reverberated along the gloomy corridors. The only time he had heard such wild cries before was when he had visited Bedlam to observe the behaviour of madmen.
It seemed an eternity before anyone recalled his existence. The footsteps were more ponderous this time and the key scraped in the lock before it engaged. Hoode was standing so close to the door that it caught him a glancing blow as it creaked open. The same keeper regarded him with mocking eyes. The man had no meal with him this time.
‘Do you have any garnish?’ he said.
‘What will it buy me?’
‘Depends how much you pay, sir.’
‘A shilling?’
‘That will keep you well fed for a day or two.’
‘No more than that?’
‘We have rates here in the Marshalsea,’ said the man before spitting on to the floor. ‘Any prisoner who is an esquire, a gentleman or a wealthy nobleman can eat heartily for a weekly charge of ten shillings.’
‘I do not look to be here as long as a week.’
‘It is good fare, sir. Bone of meat with broth. A piece of bone beef. A loin or breast of roasted veal. Or else a capon. As much bread as you will eat and a quarter of beer and claret wine.’ He leered at Hoode. ‘How like you that?’
‘Indifferently.’
‘Then you must stick to bread, water and some meat.’
‘I cannot stay alive on that.’
‘Buy yourself more, sir.’
‘I’d rather buy some information,’ said Hoode, putting a hand into his purse to pull out some coins. ‘I am dragged here by the sheriff and thrown into this cell without due explanation. Why am I here?’
‘Waiting, sir. Like all the others. Waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘Justice.’
‘In a loathsome privy like this?’
The man eyed the coins. ‘What do you wish to know, sir?’
‘When I am to be released.’
‘That is a secret.’
‘Sell it to me.’
‘I would not part cheaply with it.’
Hoode added another coin to the others and jingled them in his palm. ‘Tell me, my friend, and the money is yours.’
‘First give it to me,’ said the man, extending a grubby palm.
‘Not before I have your secret,’ bargained Hoode. He jingled the money again. ‘Come, sir. When will I leave the Marshalsea? When will I get out of this accursed cell?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘As God is my witness!’
‘Tomorrow!’ Hoode was delirious with joy. ‘I get out of this prison tomorrow. Here, friend. Take the money.’ He put the coins gratefully into the man’s hand. ‘You have earned every penny. I am to be released from this hell tomorrow.’
‘Not released, sir.’
‘But you just said that I would. Did you lie?’
‘When will you leave the Marshalsea, you asked.’
‘Why, so I did and so you answered.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Aye, so there’s an end to it.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the keeper, relishing the other’s bewilderment. ‘You leave here but are not released.’
‘Where, then, will I go?’
‘To visit a certain gentleman.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘He would have conversation with you in his house.’
‘Who is this gentleman? Why does he seek my company?’
‘Only he knows that, sir.’
‘What is his name?’
‘That I can tell you if you have courage enough to hear.’
‘Courage?’
‘Some shake at the very sound of his name.’
‘Why? Who is he?’
‘Master Topcliffe.’
Hoode began to sway. ‘The torturer?’
‘Interrogator,’ corrected the other. ‘You are honoured. Master Richard Topcliffe only invites very special guests to his house. It is your turn tomorrow.’
He went out laughing and pulled the door shut. Edmund Hoode did not even hear its loud bang as he went down in a dead faint.
***
Morning passed at the house in Greenwich and the afternoon soon dwindled away but there was no sign of Simon Chaloner. The ostler sent to fetch him returned with the news that the latter was not at home. Chaloner’s servant had no idea where his master had gone or how long he would be away. Emilia Brinklow grew anxious at this intelligence. Her betrothed was in such close and regular contact with her that she always knew where to find him. It was most unusual for him to quit his house without leaving details of his whereabouts. She scented trouble.
‘He may come here of his own accord,’ said Nicholas.
‘Then where is he? Simon could have been here hours ago. Something has happened to him, Nicholas.’
‘Do not run to meet fear,’ he cautioned.
‘But I know Simon. This is not like him.’
‘He may have had business elsewhere that detained him.’
‘That is what worries me.’
They were back in the parlour and Emilia’s calm and collected front had been fractured by her concern. Nicholas wanted to pay a visit to Orlando Reeve in the hope of catching the musician at his house but he felt unable to leave her alone in her distress. Evening was approaching and a man who called at the house every day had still not put in an appearance. It was puzzling.
‘Simon is in danger,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Master Chaloner can take care of himself,’ he assured her. ‘Rest easy. He is young, strong and well-armed.’
‘He is also impulsive. Far too impulsive. I fear me that he has finally run out of patience.’
‘Patience?’
‘Yes, Nicholas. He has waited so long.’
‘For revenge?’
‘For me,’ she said. ‘And I will only be his when the matter is finally and completely resolved. Even then…’ She bit back what she was going to say and paced the room instead. ‘Simon has wearied of this interminable delay. He is distraught at the collapse of all our hopes. I demanded too much from him.’
‘So what do you believe he has done?’
‘Proceeded against Sir John Tarker on his own.’
‘That would be lunacy.’
‘Simon has more than a streak of that.’
‘He would stand no chance of getting near him.’
‘That will not check his ardour,’ she said, coming back to him. ‘He does not only wish to avenge Thomas’s death. He has another score to settle. Concerning me. I will never forgive myself if anything happens to Simon. He is the dearest friend I have in all the world. And I am his.’
‘He covets the day when he can make you his wife.’
‘So do I.’
She manufactured a smile of enthusiasm but it was far too strained to convince Nicholas. In any case, he had seen her and Chaloner together. They were not like most couples on the verge of marriage. Emilia seemed to tolerate his love instead of requiting it. Nicholas wondered if her attitude to him would change in time but it was not his place to say so. What he did convey in a glance was his own admiration of her. Over half a day had now been spent in her company and it had seemed like minutes.