Perspiration began to drip off the musician’s face as he writhed in his quandary. Nicholas was an immediate threat but an even greater one might await him if he complied with his visitor’s request. He was skewered on the horns of a dilemma and movement in either direction would cause him pain. Music eventually won the argument. The rescue of his beloved instruments was his paramount concern. They were quite irreplaceable. He lowered his head in defeat.
‘Go your way, sir.’
‘Only when I learn his name.’
‘Sir Godfrey Avenell.’
‘He sent you to the Queen’s Head?’
‘A rumour displeased his ears. I was sent to sound its depth. Peter Digby told me what I sought, that Westfield’s Men were going to play the murder of Thomas Brinklow.’
‘So you were Sir Godfrey Avenell’s creature?’
‘He loves my music, sir. I did him but a favour.’
Nicholas was scathing. ‘It did not advantage us, Master Reeve. When the piece was staged, Sir John Tarker hired bullies to cause an affray and disrupt it. How would you feel if we did likewise when you were playing before your audience?’ He stepped in close. ‘Do you hate Peter Digby so much that you would see him thrown out like a beggar? Will you set no price at all on friendship?’
Orlando Reeve was shaken to the core. There had been a certain pleasure in worming the required information out of the gullible Peter Digby and he had been handsomely rewarded for his pains. For him, the matter ended there. He did not realise that such dire consequences might follow and he was astute enough to realise that Sir John Tarker would not have wrecked the performance of a play unless he had cause to fear its content. Reeve quailed. What had he got himself drawn into and how could he possibly get out of it?
Nicholas Bracewell glowered down at him in disgust.
‘Where might I find Sir John Tarker now?’
‘Nearby, sir. He stays at the palace.’
‘And Sir Godfrey Avenell?’
‘He is there, too. Practise for a tournament is afoot.’
‘They’ll stay for a day or two?’
‘All week.’
Nicholas was content. He had found out what he needed to know and given Orlando Reeve a scare into the bargain. He left the cottage and mounted his horse. He was soon trotting back towards the Brinklow house. Nicholas felt that he was now able to enjoy his breakfast.
***
Noon found Sir Godfrey Avenell in one of the workshops at Greenwich Palace. Hammers pounded and fire raged all around him but he was not perturbed. Nor did the swirling smoke offend his eyes or nostrils. He enjoyed the clang of metal and the forging of new weapons. The workshop was his natural habitat.
The Master of the Armoury held an important post. His chief responsibility was to have a sufficient store of armour and weapons to fit out an army in the event of war. When the Spanish Armada sailed for England a few years earlier, Sir Godfrey Avenell had worked at full stretch to equip the force which had been hastily thrown together to guard strategic points on the mainland against the threat of invasion. When that crisis passed, he was able to concentrate on his other main duty, which was the organising and staging of Court tournaments.
Some Masters of the Armoury would have stood on the dignity of their position and delegated most of the mundane tasks to subordinates but Avenell liked to be involved at each stage. Instead of consorting only with the knights who used his weapons, he befriended those who made them as well.
‘Is all ready here?’ he said.
‘I have the inventory in my hand, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Read the items as they load them up.’
Under the supervision of a clerk, men were carrying piles of weapons across to a series of wooden boxes. A consignment was about to be stored in preparation for the forthcoming tournament. Avenell stood at the man’s shoulder as the clerk read the inventory.
‘One hundred pikes…two hundred tilt staves…eighty-five swords for barriers…sixty vamplates…one hundred coronels… one hundred and twenty puncheon staves…’
‘Where are the mornes?’ asked Avenell.
‘Already in store, Sir Godfrey. Two hundred of them.’
‘Good. We need them to blunt our lances. We must not fright the ladies with the sight of blood.’
‘Our armour prevents that.’
Avenell waited until the full consignment had been checked and stored. He then took the clerk aside and whispered something to him. The man produced a second inventory from inside his doublet. Taking it from him, the Master of the Armoury read it to himself.
‘Five hundred pikes, four hundred spear staves, one hundred two-handed swords, one hundred rapiers…’
The list was long and comprehensive. Avenell handed it back to the clerk with a nod of approval. The man secreted it inside the doublet once again.
‘Delivery is in hand?’
‘Yes, Sir Godfrey. They’ll be at Deptford by evening.’
‘When will they leave?’
‘Tomorrow on the morning tide.’
Sir Godfrey Avenell was pleased. Efficient and industrious himself, he set high standards for his many underlings. He demanded complete loyalty and commitment from them. Discretion was also imperative. Those who fell short in any way were soon discharged. The clerk had been with him long enough to be trusted. It was good to have such men around him as part of a smooth-running system which had evolved over the years. The workshops at Greenwich Palace were a source of continual joy to the Master of the Armoury.
A small shadow suddenly fell across that joy. As he left the workshop and came out into the fresh air, Avenell was met by a servant bearing a message. It was delivered at the main gate of the palace with a request for urgent attention. Avenell dismissed the servant and tore off the crude seal on the letter. Two lines of spidery script made him hiss with rage.
Marching back into the workshop, he tossed the missive into the burning coals of a brazier and continued on down the room. A door at the far end gave access to an antechamber used for the fitting of armour. Sir John Tarker was preening himself in a mirror while his squire was polishing the new suit of armour. Avenell stormed in with murder in his eyes. The squire did not need to be told to leave at once. He bolted from the chamber to leave the two men alone together. Tarker was bewildered by the dramatic intrusion and the blistering anger.
‘What ails you?’ he said.
‘Maggs.’
‘He cannot harm us. Who will listen to the word of a hunted outlaw? His spite can never touch us.’
‘Maggs is dead,’ said Avenell.
Tarker grinned. ‘Then we have reason to celebrate, not to quarrel. If the rogue lies in his grave, all fear is gone. What benefactor took the life of that little rat for us?’
‘I did.’
‘You?’
‘By indirect means,’ said Avenell. ‘I could not rely on you. When you hired those men, they failed us badly.’
‘That is why I threw them to the law.’
‘You could not even do that properly. Freshwell was put in chains but Maggs broke free and ran.’
‘To the Isle of Dogs. What harm could he do us there?’
‘None until today. As long as Maggs stayed there and kept his mouth shut, I was content to let him live. But I took the precaution that you should have taken.’
‘Precaution?’
‘I had him watched.’
Tarker grew uneasy. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone tracked him down. They came to question him this morning about the murder. They may have wrung something out of him before my man could shut the villain’s mouth forever.’ He drew his rapier. ‘In other words, they are still sniffing after our scent.’
‘Maggs knew only part of the truth.’
‘He knew enough to keep them coming after us.’
‘Who are they?’
‘People you swore would never bother us again,’ snarled Avenell. ‘People who stand between me and my peace of mind.’ He advanced on Tarker with his sword raised. ‘People I would have put down once and for all.’