‘All your distress is now over. Your brother and Master Chaloner have truly been avenged. They may rest at peace in their graves.’ He took her hand. ‘It is time for you to start living your own life again.’
‘It can never be separated from them.’
‘It must,’ he said. ‘You are at last free.’
‘You do not know the chains that bind me.’
‘Can they not be broken?’
‘Alas, no!’ She came to him again to look deep into his eyes. ‘If any man could do it, his name would be Nicholas Bracewell. But I could not ask you to share my burden or to be stained with my shame.’
‘Shame?’
She nodded. ‘Do you remember when you stayed the night at my house in Greenwich? Someone came into the bedchamber.’
‘I will never forget it.’
‘I need forgiveness also.’
‘Why?’ he said. ‘It answered a need in both of us and I will cherish the memory because of that. You wished to lie beside me, Emilia, and you did.’
‘I did,’ she whispered, ‘and I did not.’
‘What do you mean?’
She lowered her lids. ‘Do you know in whose bed you lay that night?’
‘You said it was your brother’s.’
‘Thomas always slept in there. But not with his wife. Cecily had another bedchamber. Though he agreed to marry her, they privately contracted to sleep apart.’
‘She with Walter Dunne, if she chose?’
‘My brother closed his eyes to their love.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because his heart had already been given to another.’
As she looked up at him again, realisation hit him with the force of a blow. Emilia Brinklow had not come into his bed to be with Nicholas himself. She was lying beside her brother again. Theirs was a passion forbidden by law and frowned upon by nature but it had withstood both. Thomas Brinklow’s extreme privacy was now explained. Marriage was just one more shield against the prying eyes of the world. He chose a woman who did not want a proper husband in her bed because he was already wholly committed to his sister.
Nicholas was deeply shocked but not disgusted. Here was a love he could not understand but neither could he condemn it. The Roaring Boy was its issue. Emilia Brinklow had not written it simply to avenge the death of a brother. She was fuelled by her enduring passion for a lover.
‘Now you may see why I was betrothed to Simon,’ she said. ‘I needed him to help me but I could never requite his love. It was a cruel irony. I loved him only as a brother while it was brother only that I loved.’ She searched his eyes. ‘Do I repel you now?’
‘No!’ he assured her.
‘Do you think me evil and corrupt?’
‘You are brave and honest.’
‘And so are you, dear Nicholas. I knew it when I first saw your kind face. Do you recall what I said?’
‘That I reminded you of your brother.’
‘It is not the only reason that I shared your bed.’
Nicholas was touched that she should confide in him but he was hurt as well. He had lost her. Emilia Brinklow could never give herself to any man now. The house in Greenwich was a monument to her brother and she would tend it lovingly for the rest of her days.
‘One thing more,’ she confessed. ‘I set fire to the workshop that night. Thomas had commanded it. He knew he was in danger and made me swear to destroy the place if anything should happen to him. He did not wish his discoveries to fall into the hands of Sir Godfrey Avenell.’
‘But you were not in Greenwich that night,’ said Nicholas. ‘You claimed that you stayed with friends.’
‘One friend, Nicholas. His name was Thomas Brinklow. We came back to the house that night by separate means. Thomas had told the servants that he would return from business in London. That intelligence was passed to the killers.’
‘By Agnes?’
‘By Cecily,’ she said. ‘She was a spy without even knowing it. That is why Sir Godfrey Avenell contrived to get her inside the house. When he wanted to know anything about Thomas, he simply had to ask his wife. That was why Cecily pestered my brother so about his work. She had no interest on her own account. It was Sir Godfrey’s curiosity that she was trying to satisfy.’
Nicholas was intrigued. ‘Agnes, then, was innocent of complicity in the murder. When she provided the key for Freshwell and Maggs, she thought she was simply letting in two thieves to borrow papers from the workshop.’
Emilia nodded. ‘She will stand trial and must take her due punishment but Agnes was only used by others. Freshwell and Maggs knew my brother would return that night. What they did not know was that I would follow soon after.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘When I got back, the house was in disarray. I knew the cause at a glance. I honoured my promise to my brother. Everything went up in flames.’
Nicholas felt as if his own plans and aspirations had just been set alight. Emilia was an even more remarkable woman than he had imagined. Her play had just thrilled a packed audience but it had drawn a complete veil over a fundamental part of the story. He now understood why she was so anxious not to appear in it as a character herself.
‘Do not think too harshly of me, Nicholas.’
‘I will never do that,’ he said gallantly.
‘You will visit me at Greenwich one day?’
‘If I may. But you will surely come here again to see Westfield’s Men perform your play.’
‘I think not.’
There was no more to be said. Nicholas placed a kiss on her hand and took his leave of her. His place was downstairs in the taproom with his fellows: hers was back in Greenwich with her brother. The book holder was wistful but not abashed. Emilia had trusted him enough to let him look into her heart and he would always be grateful to her for that.
***
Celebrations were reaching the rowdy stage when he got into the taproom. Lawrence Firethorn had bought drinks for the entire company and Barnaby Gill was entertaining them with one of his jigs. Peter Digby played the accompaniment, delighted to be working once more for a company he feared he had inadvertently betrayed. George Dart was so euphoric that he did not mind having his ear clipped by Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper. Edmund Hoode was resting on his laurels in the corner and finding them a softer couch than he had enjoyed at the Marshalsea. Owen Elias was making some of the hired men laugh at his merry tales. The spirit of Ben Skeat seemed to float above the joyous gathering.
Margery Firethorn handed a cup of wine to Nicholas. He waved away enquires about Emilia and submerged himself in the jollity. The company had been through a long, dark tunnel of pain before it emerged into this blaze of light. It was entitled to sing and shout until its lungs burst. Nicholas was so happy for them that his own sadness was forgotten.
He made his way across to Hoode and sat beside him.
‘This is your finest hour, Edmund,’ he said.
‘I want to share it with Emilia. Where is she?’
‘Too exhausted to come. The Roaring Boy thrilled her but it also drained her emotions. It was a brother’s murder she was watching on that stage.’
‘My work distressed her?’ said Hoode in alarm.
‘It pleased her beyond measure,’ said Nicholas, ‘and she asked me to tell you that. It pleased and harrowed everyone who saw it, Edmund. Today you have become the most famous playwright in London.’
‘Yet the piece is not mine.’ He clutched at the book holder’s sleeve. ‘Come, Nick. It is time to let me know the secret. You will have divined it by now, I am sure. Speak a name into my ear and it will go no further. Who is the true author of The Roaring Boy?’
‘You swear to lock the truth away?’
‘On my oath!’
‘And you will never ask me again?’
‘Tell me who he is and I am satisfied.’
‘Then hear it,’ said Nicholas, cupping his hands over his friend’s ear to whisper into it. ‘Edmund Hoode.’
‘You mock me!’ complained the other.
‘I give you right and title.’