Edward Marston - The Roaring Boy

‘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.’

He slashed away with his weapon and Tarker jumped back involuntarily but he was not the target of the attack. Sir Godfrey Avenell was taking out his anger on the glistening armour, hacking away at the decorated breastplate until he knocked the whole suit over with a clatter, kicking the helmet free, then jabbing madly at the leg armour. Only when he had scored the metal in a hundred places did he pause to glare across at his alarmed companion.

‘Next time,’ he warned, ‘it will be you. Kill them!’

***

Emilia Brinklow was waiting for him when he returned to the house and they shared breakfast together. Nicholas Bracewell told of the visit to Orlando Reeve but divulged nothing of what passed between them and she did not press him on the matter. They simply ate and talked together quietly as if they had been doing it every day of their lives. Emilia was transformed. The pale and dispirited creature of the night before was now poised and alert. Her cheeks had colour, her eyes hope and her whole being had acquired a new definition. Sadness still rested on her but its weight was no longer quite so suffocating.

She made no reference, either by word or glance, to their brief time together in bed and Nicholas started to wonder if it had really occurred. Was it no more than a pleasant dream sent to ease his troubled mind? Or was it some waking fantasy conjured up by the intense pressures of recent days? Had she indeed come to him and now regretted her action so much that she had blotted it out of her mind? Did their moment beside each other perhaps contribute to her apparent recovery? At all events, it was not a barrier between them and he was grateful for that.

They remained happily at the table until midday when the constable and his two assistants arrived to resume their wayward investigation. After hours of questioning those who lived in the neighbouring houses, they had divined nothing of any significance. Nicholas again steered them through their halting routine. He also ensured that their interrogation of Emilia was neither too distressing nor robust.