Richard Honeydew responded in kind. Pulling himself up on the bars, he swung his legs across until they just made contact with the whitewash. In the half-dark of their stinking cell, he slowly and laboriously traced a name on the wall. The letters were ragged and indistinct but their impact was Mill potent.
Nicholas Bracewell was' absolutely stunned. It was incredible.
Christopher Millfield remained cheerful in the midst of adversity. Long faces and short tempers surrounded him but his resilence was remarkable. Instead of being dragged down by the general mood of gloom, he was chirpy and positive. Sharing a room with George Dart and the three apprentices gave these qualities ample scope.
'It will all seem better in the morning,' he said.
'It could hardly be worse,' sighed Dart.
'There is a solution to every problem.'
'We have so many, Master Millfield.'
'Let hope into your heart, George.'
'There is no room for it.'
Christopher Millfield leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. Healing snores from the other bed, he lowered his voice so that he did not rouse the sleepers.
'We are players,' he argued softly, 'and nothing must be allowed to smother our art. If one of our apprentices be taken, why, then we fill his role with another voice. If all our costumes be stolen, we beg, borrow or make some more. These are setbacks only and can all be overcome.'
'You forget Master Bracewell.'
'By no means, sir. I have the utmost faith in him.'
'What if he does not come back?'
'Nick Bracewell will return,' said Millfield with confidence. 'I have never met a more capable man in the theatre. This whole company revolves around him and he would never desert it in its hour of need.'
'I thought you did not like him,' said Dart.
'There is nobody in Westfield's Men I respect more and that includes Master Firethorn. I admit that I was hurt when our book holder recommended Gabriel Hawkes in place of me but that is all past now. I have come to accept the truth of it, George.'
'Truth?'
'Gabriel was the better man.'.
'He was always kind to me.'
Millfield sighed. 'It pains me that we were such rivals. In other circumstances, Gabriel and I could have been close friends. He has been a great loss.' The positive note returned. 'That is why I am so grateful for the chance to travel with the company. I have prospered from Gabriel's death and that grieves me, but it also fills me with determination to make the most of my opportunity and to be undaunted by any mishap. We are fortunate men, George. We are employed. Think on that.'
The other did as he was advised and soon drifted off to sleep in a haze of consolation. Millfield was a true son of the theatre. Whatever disasters befell it, the company simply had to press on regardless. George Dart's snores joined the wheezing slumber of the other innocents.
Christopher Millfield waited half an hour before he moved. Then he got up, dressed quietly and left the room. A few minutes later, he was saddling a horse and leading it out into the yard with shreds of sacking around its hooves to muffle their clatter on the cobblestones.
He rode off happily into the darkness.
Nicholas Bracewell was still quite groggy. His head was pounding, his vision was impaired and blood was trickling down the back of his neck. The stench in the outhouse was almost overpowering and his stomach heaved, Trussed up tightly, every muscle in his body was aching away. What hurt him most, however, was the fact that Richard Honeydew should see him in this state. The boy was desperately in need of help and all that his would-be rescuer could do was to get himself into the same parlous condition. Guilt burned inside Nicholas like a raging fire. It served to concentrate his mind on their predicament.
The first priority was to be able to speak to the boy and that meant getting rid of the gag. Unable to brush it down with his knees, he looked around for a source of aid. A wooden rake was standing against the wall on his right. Though he could not reach it with his feet, he could scoop the straw towards him and that brought the implement ever closer. It also brought piles of dung and his shoes were soon covered with it, but he did not give up. Richard watched with interest as his friend got the rake within reach and then lifted both feet before jabbing them down hard on the prongs. The rake flipped up and Nicholas had to move his head aside as the handle smashed into the wall beside him. He trapped the implement with his shoulder then used the end of it to push his gag slowly upwards. It was agonising work that earned him several jabs in the face but he eventually managed to move it enough to be able to speak.
His words tumbled out through deep breaths. 'How are you, lad?'
The boy nodded bravely and his eyes showed spirit.
'Have they hurt you badly?'
Richard Honeydew shook his head and made a noise.
'Let's see if we can get your gag off now, Dick.'
Nicholas used his body and feet to propel the rake towards the apprentice and the latter tried to copy what he had seen. It took him much longer and collected him many more painful pokes with the end of the pole but he did finally force the gag out of his mouth. He filled his lungs gratefully then coughed violently.
'They'll stink us to death in here,' said Nicholas.
'How did you find me, Master Bracewell?'
'Never mind that, Dick. The main thing is to get you out of here safely. How many of them are there?'
'Two. They kidnapped me together.'
'At the behest of Banbury's Men.'
'Is that who stole me away? I had no idea. They keep me locked up and only come when it is time to feed me.'
'You look poorly'
'I am fine,' said the boy unconvincingly.
'They will pay for what they have done to you.'
'It is not them that I fear, Master. They have tied me up but they have not ill-treated me.' He looked around with disgust. 'What makes me afeard is the dark and the damp and the smell and, most of all, the rats.'
'Rats?'
'They come snuffling around sometimes. I am afraid that they will eat me alive!' He relaxed visibly. 'But not now that you are here. I feel safe with you.'
'No rats will harm you, Dick.'
The boy smiled. 'I knew you would come for me.'
'Tell me exactly what has happened to you.'
While he listened to Honeydew's tale, his eyes roved the outhouse in search of a means of escape but none presented itself. Then he noticed some movement under the straw beside a wooden bucket of water. When the boy caught sight of it, he flew into a panic.
'A rat! A rat! Another rat!'
The creature came out of the straw and shuffled towards the terror-stricken boy. Nicholas yelled and lashed out at the animal with his feet, putting it to flight and kicking over the bucket as well. As cold water made his discomfort even greater, he began to fret and complain but he soon checked himself. The accident might yet be turned to account. He almost smiled.
M spy some hope, Dick.'
'Do you, Master?'
'There may yet be a way out.'
'How?'
'You will see. But I need your help.'
'I will do anything I can, sir.'
'Encourage me.'
Richard Honeydew soon understood what he meant. The packed earth beneath the straw had been loosened by the deluge and gave way to urgent feet. Using his shoes as a rudimentary spade, Nicholas began to scoop out a hole close to the wall. The deeper he went, the softer was the earth and he kicked it out into a heap beside him. It was a long and laborious process which brought the sweat streaming out of every pore and made his body ache as if it was ready to split asunder. Whenever he felt like giving up, however, he glanced across at the boy and was given all the exhortation he needed.
'Keep on, sir! You are working wonders! Stay there!'
Nicholas struggled on, getting bruised and filthy in the process but making definite headway. Ultimately, the hole was big enough for him to be able to lower himself into it and take the strain.
He had undermined the wall completely. When he tested his strength against it, the stone moved slightly. Richard Honeydew giggled with delight.
'We are almost there!'
"Not yet, lad."
'I know your strength, sir. You will do it.'
Nicholas nodded wearily. The real effort now began. He pushed, felt it give some more, rested a moment then adjusted his position. Calling on all his reserves of energy, he shoved hard with his feet and let his broad shoulders attack the solidity of the wall. It was the work of several wounding minutes but his efforts were not in vain. With a low crumbling noise, the wall gave way and chunks of stone came crashing down around him. Nicholas was cut, bruised and bloodied but his hands were now free of the metal ring. He began to rub his wrists against the sharp edge of a piece of stone.
'You did it, Master Bracewell!' said the boy.
'With your help.'
'All I did was to watch you.'
'And stiffen my resolve.'
'Can you saw through the rope?'
'It is done!' said Nicholas, holding up his hands. ' He cast aside his bonds and dragged himself across to untie the boy's wrists. Before they could tackle the ropes on their ankles, however, they heard the sound of running footsteps. Nicholas pulled himself upright and bounced to the door as it was unbolted from outside. A stocky young man came rushing in with a dagger at the ready. Grabbing him by wrist and neck, Nicholas threw him hard against the remains of the wall, diving on top of him to disarm him and hold the weapon to his throat. The man was dazed and fearful.
'Do not kill me, sir!' he pleaded.
'Who are you?'
'An ostler, sir. I work here at the inn.'
'You have been our gaoler.'
'Only because I was paid. I meant no harm.'
'Do not move!'
Nicholas used the dagger to slit through the ropes that held his ankles then he cut the boy loose as well. He placed a knee on the ostler's chest and held the point of the blade just in front of the man's face.
'You struck me down from behind,' he accused.
'I was told to guard the boy.'
'What else were you told?'
'To hide the basket in the stables.'
'What basket?'
'They were costumes, sir.'
'From Westfield 's Men?'
'That was the name.'
Nicholas stood up and yanked the ostler to his feet. He did not have to threaten his captive any more. Plainly terrified, Human led them immediately to the part of the stables where he had concealed the costume basket. Nicholas was pleased to see his two horses there as well and took the opportunity to repossess his own sword and dagger. He used his rapier to pin the man to the wall while he pondered.
'Has the company returned?' he said.
'Not yet, sir. They celebrate at Lavery Grange.'
'Take me to Master Randolph's room.'
'Who, sir?'
'He will have the finest bedchamber here.'
"Tis at the front of the inn, sir.'
'Teach me the way.'
'I have no place up there.'
'I do,' said Nicholas. 'Lead on or lose an ear.' They went stealthily across the yard.
Lambert Pym stood in the brewhouse at the rear of his inn and watched another cask being filled. It would now be stored in his cellars for conditioning until it was ready to be tapped and drunk. Pym had grown up with the smell of beer and ale in his nostrils and it stayed with him wherever he went. His customers at the Trip to Jerusalem bought beer, or, if they had a little extra money, some ale. He imported some wine from Bordeaux but it was too costly for most people. Malmsey wine from Greece was even more expensive, as was sack, but Pym kept a supply of both for certain patrons. During the three days of Whitsuntide, he would need to draw deeply on all his stocks.
The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Raw! ins was about to leave. Lambert Pym raised a finger in deference and beamed ingratiatingly.
'Shall you be with us at Whitsuntide, Master?' I hope so, sir. You'll sec an ocean of beer drunk in here.'
'That is not a sight which appeals.'
'Drink has its place in the affairs of men.'
'I know!' said Rawlins with frank disapproval.
'Christ Himself did sanction it, sir.'
'Do not blaspheme.'
'He turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana,' said Pym. 'That was his first miracle.'
'But open to misinterpretation.'
'Wine has its place,' mused the other, 'but you will not part an Englishman from his beer. Look at the example of Fuenterrabia.'
'Where?'
'It is northern Spain.' Pym grinned oleaginously as he told his favourite story. 'The first campaign in the reign of good King Henry, who was father to our present dear Queen. He sent an army of seven thousand English soldiers to help his father-in-law, King Ferdinand, take Navarre away from the French. Do you know what those stout-hearted men found?'
'What, sir?'
'There was no beer in Spain. Only wine and cider.' He cackled happily. 'The soldiers mutinied on the spot and their commander, the Marquis of Dorset, was forced to bring them home again. They could not fight on empty bellies, sir, and beer was their one desire.'
Robert Rawlins listened to the tale with polite impatience then turned to go but his way was now blocked. Standing in the doorway were two constables. One of them held up a warrant as he moved in on him.
'You must come with us, sir.'
'On what charge?'
'I think you know that.'
Before he could say any more, Robert Rawlins was hustled unceremoniously out. Lambert Pym was mystified but instinct guided him. He summoned his boy at once.
'Take a message to Marmion Hall.'
'Sir Clarence Marmion has commissioned a portrait.'
'Of himself, Master Quilley?'
'Yes, sir.'
'A miniature?'
'I am a limner. I paint nothing else.'
'Your fame spreads ever wider.'
'Genius is its own best recommendation.'
'Do you look forward to painting Sir Clarence?'
'No, sir. I simply hope he will pay me for my work.'
Oliver Quilley brought realism to bear upon his art. Commissions had never been a problem area. That lay in the collection of his due reward. Far too many of his subjects, especially those at Court, believed that their patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.
He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield's Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.
'How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?' said Firethorn.
'Through a friend.'
'Did you not take him for a traitor?'
'I saw it in his face.'
'Yet you accepted the commission?'
'His money was as good as anyone else's.'
'But tainted, Master Quilley.'
'How so?'
'Rickwood betrayed his Queen.'
'He paid me in gold,' said the artist. 'Not with thirty pieces of silver.'
'I could not work for such a man myself.'
'Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.'
'I deny it hotly, sir!'
'Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?'
'Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.'
'It will not be staged there again,' said Quilley complacently. 'Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.'
'Can this be true?' said Firethorn.
'I have it on good authority.'
'God save us all!'
'He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.'
Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield's Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.
The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.
'I responded to the voice of God,' she said. 'You answered some inner desire, Mistress.'
'His word is paramount.'
'If that indeed was what you heard.'
'I am certain of it, Master Millfield.'
'Certainty is everywhere,' he argued. 'The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?'
'Because I have been chosen.'
'By God-or by yourself?'
'Fie on your impertinence, sir!'
'I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.'
'Do you doubt my sincerity?'
'Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must indeed be sincere. What I question is this voice of God.'
'I heard it plainly, sir.'
'But did it come from without or within?'
'Does that matter?'
'I believe so.'
'It is not for us to question God's mystery.'
'Nor yet to submit blindly to it.'
'That is blasphemy!'
'You have your convictions and I have mine.'
'Are you an atheist, sir?!' she cried.
Before he could reply, two figures appeared ahead of them on a chestnut stallion. A second horse was dragging a litter that had been fashioned out of some long, slender boughs. Lashed to the litter was a basket that everyone recognized immediately. Nicholas Bracewell was back. He brought the missing apprentice and the stolen costumes as well as Oliver Quilley's horse. A cheer went up horn the whole company as they hurried towards their hero.
The newcomers were soon enveloped by friends and bombarded with questions. Eleanor Budden gazed down on her beloved and called his name. Barnaby Gill demanded to know if his golden doublet was unharmed. Edmund Hoode asked if they knew who had played his part of Sicinius. Martin Yeo, Stephen Judd and John Tallis hailed their fellow-apprentice with an enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria. Susan Becket chicked excitedly. George Dart was able to join the Merry Men once more.
Lawrence Firethorn waved them all into silence with an imperious arm and called for full details. Though they looked tattered and travel-weary, the two companions had washed themselves off in a spring and found that their injuries were only minor. Reunion with their fellows put new strength and spirit into them. 'Who kidnapped the lad?' asked Firethorn.
'Banbury's Men.' said Nicholas.
'Scurvy knaves! We'll have them in court for this!'
'There are other ways to get even, sir.'
'And the costumes, Nick?'
'Taken by the same hands.'
'Where did you find my horse?' said Quilley.
'That was providential.'
Nicholas told him the story and gained fresh looks of adoration from Eleanor Budden. When he talked of putting four men to flight-and did so in such modest terms-Susan Becket also experienced a flutter. The female response was not lost on Firethorn who sought to divert some of their admiring glances his way.
'By heavens!' he roared, pulling out his sword and holding it in the air. 'I'll put so many holes in the hide of Giles Randolph that he'll whistle when he walks across the stage! I'll challenge him to a duel and cut the varlet down to size! I'll make him pay for every crime he has committed against us. Hang him, the rogue!'
'Worry not about Master Randolph,' said Nicholas.
'Frogspawn in human shape!'
'He has problems enough of his own.'
'Prison is too good for such a wretch!' yelled Firethorn. 'He dared to steal Pompey the Great?'
'My play,' said Hoode. 'My part of Sicinius.'
'They will not perform it again, Edmund.'
'How can you be so certain, Nick?'
'Because we have stopped them.' He winked at his companion. 'Show them, Dick.'
The boy ran across to the costume basket and threw back its lid to draw out a pile of plays. He read out their titles to a delighted audience.
'Cupid's Folly. Two Maids of Milchester. Double Deceit. Marriage and Mischief. Pompey the Great?
'All returned where they belong,' said Nicholas. 'They cannot stage our plays without these prompt books.'
'By all, this is wonderful!' shouted Firethorn. 'Let me embrace you both, my lovely imps!'
He dismounted and put a congratulatory arm around each. The worst night of his life was being redeemed by one of the best days. Nicholas added even more joy.
'Time brings in its revenges, sir.'
'What do you mean?'
'Master Randolph will not laugh this morning.'
'Did you strike a blow for Westfield's Men. '
'I think so,' said Nicholas.
Giles Randolph stared at the empty chest with a mixture of fear and dismay. It had been stored all night beneath his fourposter and chained to one of the legs. Its lock was strong and apparently undamaged yet the treasure chest was bare. The company's most priceless possessions had gone. Randolph screeched a name and Mark Scruton came running. One glance made the newcomer turn white.
'When did you discover this, sir?'
'Even now.'
'You did not open the chest last night?'
"The journey back from Lavery Grange was too tiring and much wine had been taken. I fell into bed and slept soundly until this morning.' Randolph kicked at the empty chest. 'Had I known of this, I'd not have closed my eyes!'
Mark Scruton thought quickly then glanced towards the door. Beckoning the other to follow, he ran out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, making for the door that led to the yard. With Randolph at his heels, he hurried across to the outhouse beyond the stables and wondered why one of its walls was damaged. He unbolted the door and flung it open to reveal a sight that might have been comical in other circumstances. The stocky ostler was bound hand and foot and tied to the bars at the window. A large apple had been placed in his mouth and held in place by a strip of material that was knotted behind his head. His eyes were as red and bulbous as tomatoes.
'Where are they?' demanded Scruton.
The man shook his head and hunched his shoulders.
Giles Randolph let out a howl and kneeled down. In the middle of the straw was a pile of prompt books that were caked in manure and sodden with water. The symbolism was not lost on him. Rising up in sheer disgust, he jabbed a shaking finger at his vandalized property.
'Mark Scruton!' he hissed.
'Yes, sir?'
'This is your doing.'
'A thousand apologies.'
'Clean up your mess!'
He left the scene of the outrage in high dudgeon.
The blacksmith hammered in the last nail then lowered the hoof to the ground. He wiped his brow with a hairy arm and turned to the full-bodied woman who held the bridle.
'Take more care with the animal, Mistress.'
'I have not the time, sir.'
'He was ridden too hard over rough ground,' said the blacksmith. 'That is why he cast a shoe.'
He may cast more then before we arrive.
'Where do you go?'
'To York.'
'It is a goodly distance yet, Mistress.'
'Then do not detain us with your prattle.'
Margery Firethorn put a foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle without asking for any assistance. An imperious snap of the fingers brought one of the liveried servants scuttling across to her.
'Pay the fellow!' she said.
Then she rode off at an even fiercer pace.
Westfield's Men got their first glimpse of York and paused to take in its full magnificence. Seen from that distance and that elevation, it looked like a fairytale city that was set against a painted backdrop and even those who had seen it before now marvelled afresh. Eleanor Budden summed it all up in one word. 'Jerusalem!'
They stopped to take refreshment and gather their strength for the last few miles of a journey that had become increasingly strenuous since they crossed the county boundary. Horses were watered and refreshment taken. Nicholas Bracewell chose the moment to have word alone with Christopher Millfield. Having disliked the actor so much at first, he now found himself warming all the more to him.
'How did you fare in my absence, Christopher?'
'We never lost faith in you.'
'I am glad the business turned out so well.'
'You brought home great bounty,' said Millfield. 'Master Quilley was delighted to get his horse back.'
'A happy accident.' Nicholas glanced across at the artist. 'What do you make of our limner?'
'Painters are always slightly mad.'
'Have you noticed nothing odd about him?'
'Several things but I put them down to his calling.'
'Look at his apparel,' said Nicholas. 'It is a very expensive suit for a man who claims that he has no money. Then there is the quality of his horse, not to mention those saddlebags of the finest leather with their gold monogram. Master Quilley is not the pauper he pretends.'
'Then where does his wealth come from?'
'I wish I knew.'
'Haply, he has some rich patron.'
'One name suggests itself.'
'Who is that?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham.'
'Indeed?' said Millfield with astonishment. 'I find that hard to credit. Could Master Quilley really be in his service as an informer?'
'Who is better placed, Christopher? He visits the homes of the great on a privileged footing and sees things that no other visitor could observe. His calling is the ideal cover for a spy.'
'Do you have any proof of this?'
'None beyond my own suspicion. Except an item that I found in his saddlebag. See it for yourself
Christopher Millfield took the document that was handed to him and scanned through the names. He nodded in agreement as he returned it to Nicholas.
'You have just cause for that suspicion.
'Do I?'
'Two of those names have already been ticked off by Walsingham. Three of the others are known to me from my time with the Admiral's Men. I dare swear that they were all prosecuted for recusancy.'
'What of Sir Clarence Marmion and the others?'
'We can but guess.'
'Birds of a feather flock together.'
'Your conclusion?'
'All of Master Quilley's employers are Catholics.'
'Could he be a servant of Rome himself?'
It was another possibility and they discussed it briefly before turning to other matters. Nicholas was glad that he had confided in his new friend. Millfield was now eyeing him with concern.
How do you feel, Nick?'
'Much better.'
'Are you fully recovered from your ordeal?' said the other with anxiety. 'It heartened us greatly when you and Dick Honeydew returned but the pair of you did look more than a little bedraggled.'
'You should have seen us when we set out. We were caked in blood and filth with a stink on us you could have smelled a hundred yards off.' He wrinkled his nose at the memory. 'Dick and I stopped at a stream to clean ourselves up before coming back.'
'Both of you must be aching all over.'
'I will have to make some more of that ointment.'
'It has certainly helped me.'
'We will sleep well tonight, I think.'
Millfield smiled his agreement then looked across at Richard Honeydew. The boy still showed the effects of his incarceration but he was patently delighted to be back with the company and his face was animated.
'He is hopelessly in your debt, Nick.'
'I could not let them steal our best apprentice.'
'It goes deeper than that.'
'We are good friends.'
'You are like a father to the lad and risked your life for him. Have you ever had a child of your own?'
'I was never married, Christopher.'
'The two things do not always go together.'
Nicholas laughed evasively and changed the subject. He was enjoying his chat with the actor and finding new things to like about him all the time. When Millfield moved away, however, it became clear that not everyone shared the book holder's good opinion of him.
A worried Eleanor Budden bustled over.
'Do not listen to him, sir,' she begged.
'Master Millfield?'
'He is a very dangerous young man."
'Why, Mistress?'
'Because he does not believe in God.'
'Did he attest as much?'
'More or less, Master Bracewell.'
'I find that hard to accept.'
'Beware, sir!'
'Of what?'
'Atheism in our midst!'
Nicholas did not take the claim at all seriously and she did not pursue it since she wanted to enjoy their rare moment alone. Love made her eyes sparkle like gems.
'It was wonderful to see you back with us!'
'I share your delight, Mistress.' I knew that God would not take you away from me.'
'My place is here with the company.'
And mine is beside you.'
'We will get you to York with all due speed.'
'I have found the true path in you!'
Her ardour was quite unnerving and Nicholas glanced around for help. Being attacked by robbers or captured by rivals were nowhere near as frightening as being cornered by Eleanor Budden. If he was not circumspect, she would rob him of something he did not want to lose and hold him captive in a way that did not appeal. He fended her off with questions.
'How do you like the fellowship of actors?'
'Yours is the only company I seek, Master Bracewell.'
'Does nobody else interest you. Mistress?
'They pale beside you, sir.'
'What of Master Quilley. He is a famous artist. Have you and he had discourse yet?'
'Only when I interrupted him,' she said. 'He was angry when I came upon him playing with his cards.'
'Cards?'
'I have never seen the like before. They had strange pictures on them and he studied each one with great care. It was almost as if he looked for some kind of message.'
Nicholas Bracewell smiled in gratitude. Unwelcome as her attentions had been, he sensed that Eleanor Budden had unwittingly given him some valuable information.
His suspicion of Oliver Quilley deepened.
Days without his wife and nights without her precious bounty had wrought changes in Humphrey Budden. The house seemed empty, the children were fractious and his whole life was now hopelessly barren. Long discussions with Miles Melhuish were followed by even longer ones with the Dean. It was the latter who counselled action.
You have sinned against your wife.'
'The memory of it is grievous unto me.'
'You must seek her forgiveness.'
How may I do that?'
'Not here in Nottingham, that is certain.'
'Then where?'
'In York,' said the Dean sonorously. 'There is no better place for you to be cleansed and reconciled. Go to York, sir. Seek your estranged wife in that monument to Christian dedication. That is where your hope lies.'
'Will she take me back?'
'If you deserve it, Master Budden.'
'Should I travel with the children?'
'Alone, sir. This is a matter between two souls.' He lowered ecclesiastical lids. 'And two bodies.'
Humphrey Budden left for York the next day.
A bell had signalled the beginning of the Whitsuntide fair and pandemonium followed. Streets that were usually crowded were now overflowing. Shops and stalls that were usually busy were now completely besieged. York was aflame with life. Tinkers, travellers, pilgrims, country folk, merchants, knights and many more streamed in through the four gates. Minstrels, mummers, acrobats and jugglers competed for attention. The shrieking of children and the yapping of dogs swelled a cacophony that was taken to deafening pitch by the constant peal of church bells. The city ran riot for three holy days.
Westfield's Men came in through Micklegate and made their way through the press to the Trip to Jerusalem, a name that had a special resonance for them. Lambert Pym gave them an exaggerated welcome and conducted them to their rooms with beard-scratching charm. Accommodation was also found for Oliver Quilley and Eleanor Budden. The exuberant Susan Becket appointed herself as Firethorn's bedfellow yet again. Jerusalem was a spacious metaphor.
Nicholas Bracewell was dispatched at once to the Lord Mayor to secure a licence for performance. When he came back with it in his hand, he found Firethorn poring over a letter from Sir Clarence Marmion that invited them to stage a play at his house. Here was good news indeed. York was proving to be a worthy shrine for pilgrimage. Not a moment was wasted. Playbills were printed and posted up, a stage was erected in the yard at the inn, and the first rehearsal was held. The hectic pace of it all made them think they were back at the Queen's Head.
A new drama by Edmund Hoode was to be given its first performance outside London. Soldiers of the Cross had a particular relevance to their venue because it dealt with a crusade and took Richard the Lionheart through a succession of epic battles. Westfield's Men had presented a crusader play before, a novice work by one Roger Bartholomew, an Oxford scholar with misguided aspirations about the theatre. Hoode's work had the mark of a true professional. It was well crafted, lit with fire and passion, and filled with soaring verse. In the play about Robin Hood, the same king had been but a minor character who slipped on near the end to knight the hero. Soldiers of the Cross made him central to the action and Firethorn's performance made him tower even in ore.
Nicholas Bracewell was industrious and watchful. He kept the rehearsal rolling along and noted any faults or omissions along the way. His stagekeepers were given a long list of jobs when it was all over. He worked well into the evening himself then adjourned to the taproom.
Oliver Quilley was sampling the Malmsey. 'Master Bracewell, let me buy you a drink, sir." 'I cannot stay.'
'But I have not thanked you for finding my horse.'
'There was something else I found.'
Nicholas took out the list from the saddlebag and handed it over. The artist snatched it eagerly from him.
'I see that some names were ticked off, Master.'
'Those commissions have been completed.'
'There is a question mark beside one person.'
'Is there?'
'Sir Clarence Marmion.'
'I cannot see it.'
Quilley glanced at the document then folded it up and put it away. An enigmatic smile kept Nicholas at bay. The book holder met his gaze.
'How did you know of Master Pomeroy's arrest?'
"Word travels fast.'
'Only by special messenger.'
'I have my contacts, sir.'
'So I believe.'
The artist gave nothing away. His unruffled calm was a challenge that Nicholas was unable to take up at that point. The book holder had a more pressing commitment and he excused himself. He would return to Oliver Quilley.
Night was taking its first gentle steps towards York as Nicholas shouldered his way through the crowds. Even in the turmoil of their arrival, he had found the time to enquire after other theatre companies. Banbury's Men had reached the city that same day. They were staying at the Three Swans in Fossgate. He went over Ouse Bridge and headed north, picking his way through clamorous streets that he half-remembered from an earlier visit some years before, and listening to the Yorkshire dialects that rang out on every side.
The first thing he saw when he turned into Fossgate was the Merchant Adventurers' Hall, a fine triple-aisled structure with a chapel projecting towards the River Foss. Incorporating brickwork and half-timbering, it was a long, high building that emphasized the prominent place that the Merchant Adventurers took among the fifty guilds of the city. Nicholas was reminded of something that his life in London made him forget. York, too, had its wealth.
The Three Swans was an establishment of medium size constructed around an undulating yard. Banbury's Men were still rehearsing. Raised voices came from behind the main gates which had been locked to keep out the curious. He went into the inn and bought a tankard of ale, drifting across to a window to get a view of the yard. It was galleried at two levels and he estimated that about four hundred spectators could be crammed in on the morrow. Jerusalem, with its larger yard, had a definite advantage. That would please Lawrence Firethorn.
Light was dying visibly now but the players kept at their work, frantically trying to iron out the myriad problems caused by their damaged prompt book. Nicholas waited until nobody was looking then he slipped up a staircase and through a door. He was now standing on the gallery at the first level and able to see the last of the rehearsal. It was a pastoral romp of indifferent quality and they played it without attack or conviction. Through the gap in the curtains which had been put up in front of their tiring-house, he could see the book holder, holding his head well back from the stench of his text and turning the pages with care.
Giles Randolph took his customary leading role and the other sharers were ranged around him. But look as he might, Nicholas could not find the face he sought above all others. He was still straining his eyes against the gloom when a voice behind him made him turn.
'Have you come to see me, Nick? Here I am.'
The book holder found himself facing a drawn sword and the young man had every intention of using it if the need arose, liven after Richard Honeydew's warning, he was still dumbfounded. Here was the last person on earth that he had expected to meet. Nicholas had watched him being buried in a common grave in London.
It was Gabriel Hawkes.