Avenell closed on him with the pike, using it to describe small circles in the air. He had moved his grasp down the shaft now so that he could use it more like a staff. When he lashed out and missed with the blade, he quickly brought the other end of the shaft into play and caught Nicholas a glancing blow on the shoulder. It sent him falling back into a suit of armour which collapsed on to the floor with a loud clatter. Avenell was on him at once, sensing his chance to finish off the man who had pursued him so remorselessly.
He raised the pike, leaped in and brought the blade down with devastating force. Nicholas reacted like lightning. As the weapon descended, he rolled over, flicked the concealed knife into his hand and thrust it upwards. The pike clanged harmlessly on the floor but the knife that Thomas Brinklow had made struck home. Sir Godfrey Avenell had taken possession of the discovery at last. He gave a strangled cry and dropped his weapon. The Master of the Armoury lay twitching on the ground in an island of his own blood, clutching vainly at the knife which had gone clean through his neck and which bore the proud name of his victim.
***
The spectators filled the yard of the Queen’s Head an hour before the play was even due to start. Such was the scandal that surrounded it-and the reverberations that its first attempted performance caused-The Roaring Boy was the biggest attraction in London. Lord Westfield was up in his accustomed position with his entourage. Emilia Brinklow was in the front row of the lower gallery, waiting to see how much of the second version of the play resembled her own original draft. Restored to liberty and resuscitated by the gratitude she heaped upon him, Edmund Hoode had been more than ready to resume work on the piece to rewrite it in the light of new evidence. His health improved markedly under Margery Firethorn’s care and his apprehension was greatly stilled by the news that the egregious Richard Topcliffe had actually been arrested because of his excessive cruelty to those he interrogated. Emilia was looking forward to seeing Edmund Hoode in a new role in their joint creation.
Alexander Marwood had vowed he would never let any theatre company through his portals again but the prospect of naked commercial gain soon modified his verdict. Westfield’s Men were not just a viable troupe once more. They were brave heroes, who had helped to solve two murders and uncover a shameful act of treason by no less a personage than the Master of the Armoury. The repercussions were enormous and they ensured huge audiences for anything that Westfield’s Men cared to present. In the case of The Roaring Boy, it was impossible to get even half of the would-be spectators inside the yard. They would have to wait for later performances, for the piece would surely enjoy a long and successful run.
The Roaring Boy still held to its original shape but its scope was vastly wider. Beginning as a domestic tragedy about a man with a wanton wife, it broadened out into a complex political drama. The Stranger-played by Hoode once more- was now openly called Sir Godfrey Avenell and Tarker’s role was more subordinate to his master. Emilia Brinklow herself still did not appear in the story but one other new character had been created. Glowing with pride and grinning ridiculously, Valentine the gardener was standing in the yard to see himself brought vividly to life on stage.
The play was a sensation, the performances uniformly excellent and the whole occasion memorable. The only thing which threatened to disrupt the event was a sudden recurrence of Lawrence Firethorn’s toothache. Weeks of intermittent pain had made him prod and pull at the aching molar until it was barely hanging in his mouth but it would not be dislodged completely. When he stepped on stage as Freshwell, one side of his mouth was the size of an inflated bladder. The distorted visage was very much in character and the swollen gum made him speak out of the side of his mouth. But the pain got steadily worse as the play progressed. Like the true professional that he was, he managed to turn it all to good account in the end.
Act Five brought the piece to a horrifying conclusion. As the roaring boy was dragged up to the gallows, he fought off his guard to make a moving speech of denial, freely admitting his own guilt while nobly trying to save Cecily Brinklow and Walter Dunne from their undeserved fate. Freshwell’s mouth was now a furnace of pain. The tooth burned with such intensity that it seemed to be on the point of exploding inside his mouth. Lines written in prose by Edmund Hood turned the actor into his own surgeon.
Hang this guilty man on high but spare the innocent. I’ll not go to my grave with their deaths on my conscience. Sooner than speak against them, I will pluck out my tongue so that it can speak no lies!
His hand went into his mouth, his fingers grabbed the pounding tooth and he pulled for all his worth. There was a cry of utter amazement from all who watched. He really did seem to have done what he had vowed. Blood gushed out of his mouth in a torrent and splashed forward on to the spectators in the front rows. It was accompanied by a roar so loud and so chilling that it brought hairs up on the back of every neck in the yard. At a moment of supreme pain, Lawrence Firethorn had achieved an effect that no actor in the world could match. The dripping tooth which he held up in his hand looked like the tongue he had sacrificed for his art. It was a fitting climax to the crescendo of violence and duplicity which had preceded it.
Applause of that wildness and length had never been heard at the Queen’s Head before. As Firethorn led out his company to drink it in, the blood was still streaming down his chin. He did not mind in the least. The pain had finally gone and he could float on a sea of exquisite pleasure. His companions shared the ovation. Edmund Hoode beamed up at Emilia Brinklow. Barnaby Gill bowed low to Lord Westfield. Owen Elias waved to Valentine. George Dart cried with joy. The Roaring Boy had vindicated the reputation of Westfield’s Men and carried their art to a new pinnacle. It was such an unequivocal triumph that it even brought a smile to the face of Alexander Marwood. The ultimate accolade had been achieved.
***
Nicholas Bracewell found her in the private room which she had hired at the Queen’s Head. While everyone else was moving into the tavern itself to celebrate an extraordinary event, Emilia Brinklow had withdrawn to be alone. The book holder knew where to find her. There were tears in her eyes as she admitted him to the room.
‘I hoped you would come, Nicholas,’ she said.
‘We have been waiting for you down below.’
‘There is no place for me there.’
‘Indeed, there is,’ he argued. ‘But for you, The Roaring Boy would never have come into being. Put off your modesty. This triumph is largely yours and you may bask in it. You are the only true begetter of this play.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I am content to let it stand as Edmund Hoode’s work. He has earned the right by the misery that he endured because of me. Only you and I must know the secret of The Roaring Boy. It is our bond.’
She reached up to kiss him tenderly on the lips and let him embrace her in his arms. Nicholas was moved. The event at the Queen’s Head that afternoon had been the culmination of months of hard work and setback for her. Emilia Brinklow had seen all her hopes flower in the sunshine. She was entitled to be the guest of honour at the celebrations, yet she preferred to be alone with him. He put a hand under her chin to kiss her again but she allowed the merest brushing of the lips this time before pulling gently away.
‘Have I offended you?’ he said with disquiet.
‘You have pleased me more than I can say, Nicholas.’