‘Stand ready!’ whispered Tarker.
‘I have the cloth in my hand.’
‘Then use it!’
Tarker eased the door open and they saw the outline of the sleeper in the bed against the wall. A few swift steps got them to the place of execution. Karl held the piece of cloth over the mouth of their prey to silence him while Tarker stabbed repeatedly with his dagger. No human being could survive an attack of such savagery. Had he been in the bed, Nicholas Bracewell would have been dead within seconds.
As it was, the joint ferocity of the attackers was wasted on a pillow and a sack of hay. Before the two men realised that they had been duped, light poured in from half a dozen candles and the room was boiling with bodies. Owen Elias and Lawrence Firethorn grappled with the armourer and quickly managed to disarm him. Nicholas Bracewell launched himself at Tarker, grabbing the wrist that held the knife and smashing it down across his knee so that the weapon was knocked free. The two of them rolled on to the bed and fought with their bare fists.
The ostler and the three manservants each held a candle in one hand and a sword or club in the other. The local constable held another, while his assistant carried two. They illumined a scene of vigorous activity. Sir John Tarker was fighting hard but Nicholas was the stronger and the more athletic. Without his weapon, the former could never master his assailant. He made a supreme effort to push Nicholas off him and struggled to his feet, dodging the club that was swung at him by a servant and grabbing a small table to swing at all and sundry.
Nicholas dived beneath it and tackled him around the legs, bringing him crashing to the floor before raining blows to his body. Tarker punched, gouged and bit his opponent but his energy was starting to wane. He was riding no fine horse in the tiltyard now. He had no magnificent armour for defence and no lance for attack. In unarmed combat with Nicholas Bracewell, he was being comprehensively beaten.
The book holder rolled over until he was on top of his man. Sitting astride Tarker’s chest, he grabbed the black hair and began to pound the head against the floor. Dazed and weary, his adversary was unable to unseat him.
‘Why did you come here?’ demanded Nicholas.
‘To kill you!’ gasped Tarker.
‘The same way that you murdered Master Chaloner?’
‘With even more pleasure!’
Sir John Tarker tapped a last reserve of strength and heaved upwards with all his might but Nicholas was equal to the manoeuvre. As he was forced back, he jumped quickly to his feet, hauled Tarker after him, then delivered a punch to the jaw that took all resistance away. As the man slumped to the floor, the two constables gave a ragged cheer.
Fighting was not yet over, however. Firethorn and Elias had overpowered the armourer and pushed him against a wall. Karl saw the situation all too clearly. He and Sir John Tarker had been lured into a trap with law officers present to act as witnesses. What galled him was that Agnes had been part of the deception. Rage at her betrayal gave him fresh energy and he suddenly burst from the grasp of the two men who held him and raced to the window. Throwing it up, he flung himself out and landed on soft ground below.
Firethorn roared his annoyance and sought to go after the man but pursuit was unnecessary. As the armourer tried to make his escape, the flat of a spade swung at him out of the darkness and hit him full in the face. Valentine stepped into the pool of light thrown down by the candles and looked up at the faces in the window.
There was a wealth of indignation in his apology.
‘He jumped in my flower-beds!’
***
Edmund Hoode shrank back against the wall as he heard the tread of the keeper’s feet. They sounded more urgent than usual. The playwright was being sent for again by Richard Topcliffe. He was going to be torn slowly apart on the rack while the torturer searched in vain for a name that Hoode had never even heard. It was better to die swiftly in the prison than in such agony on the murderous contraption at Topcliffe’s house. When the door opened, therefore, Hoode tried to hurl himself at the keeper in the hope that the latter would draw his dagger and relieve him of his agonies with one sharp thrust. The plan soon foundered. He was now so weak that his violent assault was no more than a drunken fall against the keeper, who steadied him with his arm.
‘Be careful, sir,’ he said. ‘I warned you to eat more.’
‘I refuse to go,’ mumbled Hoode.
‘You have no choice. Orders have come.’
‘I will never go back to that accursed house again.’
‘Lean on me and you will find it easier.’
‘Let me stay here,’ pleaded Hoode. ‘Lock the door and throw away the key. Or lend me your dagger that I may do the deed myself. Do not make me go!’
The keeper was used to such protests. He got the prisoner in a firm grasp and more or less carried him along the dark passageway before ascending a flight of stone steps. An iron door was opened by another keeper and Hoode was taken through it. The Marshalsea was a barrage of noise but the playwright could only hear the voice of Topcliffe in his ear. When he thought about the device he had been shown at the house, his fingers began to throb in protest.
‘One more flight of steps, sir,’ said the keeper.
‘Spare me, friend. Take pity on me.’
‘Out we go!’
The man kicked a door at the top of the steps and it was opened by a colleague. Hoode came into a room where the prison sergeant sat behind a desk. The man looked up before consulting a paper in front of him.
‘Edmund Hoode?’ he asked.
‘No, no!’ denied the latter. ‘I am someone else.’
‘This is the man,’ confirmed the keeper.
‘You are released,’ said the sergeant.
‘To go to that abominable house again?’
‘I do not know where they will take you, sir.’
Hoode threw himself to the floor in front of the desk and put his hands together in prayer. Humiliated when he was thrown into the Marshalsea, he was now begging to stay there.
‘Do not let them take me! Please! Let me stay!’
‘Get him out!’ said the sergeant impassively.
The keeper picked him up bodily and hustled him through another door into an antechamber. Two figures converged on Hoode at once. He thought they were the gaolers who had taken him to Topcliffe on the previous occasion. This time they would not bring him back alive. With the last ounce of his strength, he tried to beat the two of them away.
‘Edmund, dear heart!’ said Lawrence Firethorn. ‘You are free. We are here to take you home.’
‘Look at the state of him!’ said his wife in horror. ‘You poor creature! Come to me!’
She enfolded him in an embrace that knocked all the breath out of him but her warmth and maternal affection soon began to have an effect. Hoode blinked at them in disbelief.
‘They will not take me to Master Topcliffe again?’
‘No, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘You are safe now.’
‘Your suffering is at an end,’ added Margery. ‘We will take you home to wash and feed you. Then you will have the softest bed in the house on which to lie your head.’
‘Welcome back, Edmund. Welcome back to Westfield’s Men!’
***
Nicholas Bracewell arrived at Avenell Court before any of them. Officers would soon be sent with a warrant for the arrest of its owner but he was determined to have a private interview with him first. Lawrence Firethorn had been left to implement the release of Edmund Hoode. Nicholas reserved a more dangerous assignment for himself. Leaving his horse in the stableyard, he made his way to the front door and rang the bell. A massive door swung open. Nicholas gave his name and was invited to step inside. He was taking an immense risk in arriving alone at the house of Sir Godfrey Avenell but he knew enough about the man’s character to believe that he would at least be admitted to his presence.