Nicholas was surprised how unsurprised he felt. Her arrival seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Had he tried to analyse it, the situation would have yielded up all sorts of warnings and contradictions but he was in no mood to spoil an affecting moment. She was there. At a time of real crisis, she chose the place where she most wanted to be. Nicholas accepted that fact with gratitude. He soon faded back into sleep himself.
Sunlight was fingering the curtains when he awoke next morning. He felt refreshed and invigorated. How long he had slept he did no know but one thing was certain.
Emilia Brinklow no longer lay in the bed beside him.
***
Lawrence Firethorn and Owen Elias set out on horseback at first light. Their rough and nondescript attire had been borrowed from the costume stock of Westfield’s Men. With their plain caps and coarse jerkins, they looked like two watermen taking a day off from their oars. As they rode side by side along the street at a rising trot, Firethorn gave a snort of contempt.
‘Look at me, Owen!’ he exclaimed. ‘To what depths have I fallen! I am accustomed to the robes of an emperor or the armour of a soldier king. At the very least, I play a duke or an earl. But this! I feel like a dung-collector!’
‘That is exactly what we are, Lawrence.’
‘I deserve better.’
‘You will get it if this day’s work bears fruit.’
‘One rotten apple is all we seek. Maggotty Maggs.’
‘Then we must dress the part.’
‘I’ll wear my Freshwell face.’
Firethorn insisted on being involved in the adventure in place of Nicholas Bracewell. Expected back the previous night, the book holder did not appear and they rightly assumed that he was detained in Greenwich by urgent business. In the interests of speed, they elected to take on the pursuit of Maggs by themselves. Owen Elias was glad of Firethorn’s company even if the jogging of the horse did set off the latter’s toothache again. The Welshman would not dare to take George Dart on this outing. He needed strength beside him and there were few more powerful men in the company than the barrel-chested actor-manager. The son of a blacksmith, Lawrence Firethorn had all the attributes of that occupation allied to a taste for danger. His skill with sword and dagger was no mere stage illusion.
‘What do we say to him?’ asked Elias.
‘Leave that to me.’
‘Tell him that Lucy sends her love.’
‘At the sign of the Red Cock.’
‘What other kind is worth having?’
They guffawed loudly and kicked their horses into a canter. Now that they were outside the city gates, their progress would be much quicker. They struck eastwards with the river on their right hand, its smell never far away. It was not a journey they would make by choice but necessity compelled them. Their whole careers were at stake. If one man could help to save them, they had to be prepared to track him down in his unsavoury hiding place.
It was the distinctive reek that first told them they were within reach of their destination. The stench came out to meet them like an invisible fist that punched them on the nose. They coughed and spluttered for a moment.
‘How can anyone live in a place like this?’ said Elias.
‘They get used to it.’
‘Not me, Lawrence. Dieu-that stink!’
‘When we hunt a rat, we must expect a sewer.’
It was a not unfair description of the Isle of Dogs. The low, marshy peninsula jutted out obstructively into the Thames at the bend between Limehouse and Blackwall reaches. It was directly opposite Greenwich on the south bank and the contrast between the two places could not have been harsher. Greenwich was affluent and graced by royalty: the Isle of Dogs was poverty-stricken and haunted by outlaws, punks and fugitive debtors. The latter was also swilled by all the sewage and detritus that came downriver from London. Sailors cursed the Isle of Dogs because it obliged them to make a long, time-consuming loop in their journeys. If they were forced to anchor nearby, it would always be in mid-stream or they would be pillaged from the northern shore.
Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs represented extremes of society. Only the rich and influential rose to attend the banquets at the palace: only the poor and the desperate sank to the ignominy of the Isle of Dogs. One was the home of privilege while the other was a lair for masterless men.
Lawrence Firethorn was revolted by the unredeemed squalor.
‘Bankside can be bad enough,’ he said. ‘And there are parts of Clerkenwell that can turn your stomach but this is worse than both. What are we doing here, Owen?’
‘Trying to find someone.’
‘In this swamp! We’ll be infected with every disease known to man and beast. The air is so thick and stale we may cut it with our daggers and feed it to those mangy hounds.’
Fierce dogs were scavenging in the putrid lanes. Small children were playing in the dirt. Stagnant water lent its strength to the general whiff of decay. Wild-eyed men and ragged women roamed the streets. Even at that early hour, the sound of violence rent the air. Firethorn saw the wisdom of their disguises. In the flamboyant doublet and hose that he usually wore, he would have been ridiculously out of place in the Isle of Dogs and that would have rendered him a certain target. As it was, they collected hostile glares from the beggars lying in the doorway of an ordinary. When the two strangers refused to toss them any money, the glares became loud imprecations.
They stabled their horses at a decrepit tavern and proceeded on foot to attract less attention. Owen Elias had suggested a morning visit in the hope that the area would be more quiescent but it was already bubbling with crude life. Lucy had provided the name of a street but no number. They were grateful to find only nine tenements in the street and two of those had collapsed against each other like drunken revellers. That left seven, each building with several occupants. They split up, knocked on doors and endured ear-shattering abuse. When only one door was left in the very last tenement, they converged on it without ceremony.
Elias’s strong shoulder hit the door with such force that it broke the bolt. Firethorn was first in, his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Elias was on his heels. Both men froze in their tracks. They could not believe what they were seeing. Quite undisturbed by the commotion, two figures were rutting enthusiastically on a mattress. A big, bosomy woman of middle years was lying on her back with her taffeta dress pulled up to her waist and her chubby legs in the air while a small, thin, naked man with a bald head and a back covered in sweat and scabs was pumping vigorously into her as if his life depended on it. He suddenly stiffened his back, let out a wheeze of pleasure, jiggled around for a moment and then broke wind.
Maggs rolled over on to the bare floorboards and gasped for air. Owen Elias was on to him in a flash, kneeling beside him and pricking his scrotum with the point of his dagger.
‘Hello, Maggs,’ he said. ‘Visitors.’
‘Who are you?’ gabbled the disadvantaged lover.
‘We ask the questions.’
Elias jabbed his dagger and produced a yell of pain.
‘Don’t kill him yet,’ said the woman resentfully. ‘He hasn’t paid me.’ She nudged her client. ‘Come on, Maggs. Where is it?’
‘Away with you!’ said Firethorn, thrusting a few coins into her hands and shoving her out through the door. ‘This is a private conversation.’
Maggs took stock of his oppressors. They had the upper hand. He began to squeal and plead for mercy. Firethorn stood over him with a swordpoint at his chest.
‘How much mercy did you show to Thomas Brinklow?’