Marmion Hall was an optical illusion. Because it nestled in a hollow and was fringed by a semi-circle of trees, it looked far smaller than it really was. Behind the modest facade, it was remarkably spacious with the main part of the house thrusting deep and with a sizeable wing that was hidden behind the outcrop of sycamores. A fire had caused extensive damage to the rear of the property some ten years earlier and there had been lengthy repair work. Sir Clarence Marmion took advantage of the rebuilding to add some new features to his home though they were not all apparent to the naked eye. Like its owner, Marmion Hall preserved an air of secrecy.
Sunday afternoon found Sir Clarence in the dining room, sitting alone at the head of the shining oak table as he studied his Bible. Dressed in subdued colours and wearing an expression of rapt concentration, he tended to his spiritual needs then closed his eyes in thought.
There was a knock on the door. A servant entered.
'Well?'
'The guests have arrived, Sir Clarence.'
'All of them?'
'Yes, Sir Clarence.'
'What o'clock is it?'
'Upon the stroke of four.'.
'Thank you.'
A dismissive flick of the hand sent the servant backing out of the room. Sir Clarence lifted his lids and read the passage that he had been studying. Closing the book gently, he put it under his arm and made his way out. He now felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.
The hall was a large rectangle with oak panelling along three walls and a series of high windows along the other wall with leaded panes. Gilt-framed mirrors and family portraits broke up the monotony. A moulded ceiling gave a sense of grandeur. Furniture was all of prime oak and tastefully arranged. In the vast, stone fireplace at the far end of the hall was an iron fireback bearing the Marmion coat-of-arms. Iron firedogs stood beside an iron basket piled high with logs.
When Sir Clarence entered, they were all waiting and their murmured conversations stopped at once. He looked at them all with an amalgam of pride and sorrow and then opened his arms in welcome. The whole family came across to greet him and he exchanged pleasantries with them all. Then came the moment when the baby was placed into his arms. It was a boy, barely three months old, yet strong and lusty, waving his tiny fists at the world with Marmion defiance, wriggling in his white lace robe as if anxious to be about more important business.
Sir Clarence raised the child up to plant a kiss on its forehead and almost got a box on the ear for his temerity. With a soft half-smile, he handed his first grandchild back to his daughter-in-law then led the way across to the most recent of the portraits on display. It was a painting of his father, hanging above them with a look of stern purpose and showing all the qualities of character associated with dynasty. It was a source of the utmost regret that he was no longer alive to share in family celebrations.
'Give us your blessing, Father,' said Sir Clarence.
Then he reached forward and felt behind the lower edge of the frame. There was a click and a small door opened in the panelling on oiled hinges. A narrow passage was revealed. Stone steps led downwards..
Sir Clarence indicated his tiny grandson.
'Let him lead the way.'
Carried by his mother, the child went through the entrance and down the steps. Candles provided light all the way. The rest of the family followed with the head of the house bringing up the rear. As he stepped through the door, Sir Clarence pulled it shut and it clicked tight behind him. The odour of frankincense drifted up towards him. He was drawn down the staircase and along a dank subterranean passage until he came to the room in which all the others had now gathered.
It was a chapel. Sir Clarence had commissioned die building of it and the place never ceased to give him comfort and joy. Small, cold and necessarily secret though it might be, it was as inspiring as York Minster to him and he let its wonder work on him once more. The others took up their places in the pews, then they knelt to pay homage to their maker. Sir Clarence joined them, kneeling between his wife and his grandson, crossing himself as lie did so.
The altar was ablaze with candles. Standing on its centre was a large gold crucifix that reflected the fierce light and glowed as if on fire. As the little congregation looked up, their eyes were transfixed by the sight. A steel door opened beside the altar and a figure entered in the vestments of a Catholic priest. Everyone stood up at once to show their respect. The priest moved quietly into position beside the stone font and glanced benignly at the child. From his calm and assured manner, nobody would guess that the man was about to commit a heinous crime.
Robert Rawlins began the service of baptism.
'Truly, you do him wrong to put such sayings upon him.'
'I must obey the word of God.'
'But it was God who joined you in holy matrimony.'
'He has other work for me now, sir.'
'Your husband is wounded most grievously.'
'We must all suffer in the service of the Lord.'
Miles Melhuish shook his head in frustration. He was standing in the vestry beside Eleanor Budden, deeming it wise to remain on his feet so that he had the option of flight in the event of some emergency. He could not be too careful. The woman was quiescent now but he had not forgotten the overwhelming passion of which she was capable and he was anxious not to touch it off while they were alone together on consecrated ground.
He moved behind the chair on which she sat.
'I will put a question to you, Mistress.'
'I listen in all humility.'
'You tell me that you have been chaste since the voice of God whispered in your ear.'
'That is so, sir.'
'Then here is my question…'
Melhuish groped for the words. It was not a matter he had ever raised with a woman before and it tested his resolve. When he spoke with other female parishioners in the privacy of his vestry, it was usually to scold them for not attending church or to advise them on the proper Christian upbringing of their children. Duty was now compelling him to climb into bed with a married couple and effect their union. It was a foreign country to him and he did not know the language.
'Here is my question, Eleanor,' he said nervously. 'If there came a man with a sword who would strike off your husband's head if you did not take that worthy fellow back into your bed, tell me, in all conscience, for you say you will not lie, what would you do?'
'I will answer you true, sir.'
'Would you let Humphrey Budden commit the act of love with you-or have his head cut off?'
'I would rather see him being killed.'
'That is cruelty itself, woman!'
'I cannot help it, sir,' said Eleanor calmly. 'We must turn our back on all uncleanness.'
'God has ordained love between man and wife.'
'I have submitted to His purpose three times.'
'Is that all?' said the vicar in surprise. 'Yet Humphrey spoke of daily indulgence.'
'I mean that I have shared my bed with three husbands, sir. They did not find me wanting in love.'
'Until now, sister.'
'Times have changed.'
Miles Melhuish was losing control. The aim of his examination was to put sufficient pressure on Eleanor Budden to make her see the error of her ways but she was blithely unconcerned when he chastised her. What she always came back to was the word of God and it was on that subject that he must confound her. Countless years of unremitting prayer had given him his own privileged access to divine command and he felt that he knew the timbre of the
Lord's voice more intimately than any lacemaker's wife, however much she might protest her devotion. 'When did God first talk with you?" he said.
'This se'n night since.'
'And where were you at this time?'
'Buying fish at the market, sir.'
Miles Melhuish started. 'The Lord spoke to you amid the smell of mackerel?'
'I heard Him as clear as day.'
'And what words did He use in that marketplace?'
'He said: "Put aside your husband and follow me." God called me by name and I obeyed Him straight.'
'What did you then do?'
'Return to my house and go up to the bedchamber. We have a crucifix on the wall so that Jesus may watch over us. I then proclaimed my mission.'
'How was that done, good lady?'
'That is the wonder of it,' she said with a shrug of her shoulders that made her breasts bob invitingly. 'I do not know what befell me next. But when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor and you were standing over me with my husband and all was blissful peace.'
'Yon recall nothing of a great noise you made?'
'Noise, sir?'
A most dolorous cry came from you.'
I was weeping for the death of Christ in torment. Miles Melhuish threw caution to the winds and sat opposite her. Wayward housewives had always responded to astern reproof before. It was time to stop encouraging the woman in her fancy and to put her firmly back on the straight and narrow path of wifely duty. He knitted his brows and reached for his homiletic strain.
Cast out these false notions!' he warned. If you would serve
God then do so by showing proper respect for one of His ministers.
It is within the four walls of this parish church that you will hear
His true voice and not at the fish stall in Nottingham market.'
She looked duly crushed and it spurred him on. 'Go back to
Humphrey Budden. He is a good husband and deserves better from his chosen companion in life. Let me hear no more about this chastity in your bedchamber. Cleave to your spouse. Give him the children he desires. Add some little parishioners to our congregation at St Stephen's. That only is your bounden duty and purpose here upon this earth.'
He had won. Eleanor Budden sat with bowed head and hunched shoulders, meek, mild and submitting to his firm instruction. It was a small victory for him and it gave him a flabby self-importance. He sat up straight in his chair to project his full ecclesiastical authority.
And all the while, she was in abject surrender.
Then she began to laugh. It began as a snigger, half-suppressed with the back of her hand. Then it became a giggle, almost girlish in its flippancy, increasing in volume every second until it was a full-throated laugh that set her whole body shaking, then it became a roar of mirth that made the vestry reverberate with sound, and, finally and inexplicably, it was a strange and uncontrollable cachinnation that built up into a crescendo and stopped dead.
Eyes that had sparkled with humour now ran with tears of remorse. Hands that had flapped about wildly now closed in prayer. Miles Melhuish writhed beneath the intensity of her gaze and vowed to refer the case to the diocesan synod. It was way beyond his competence. He was in the presence of witchcraft. The Dean alone was fit to pronounce on such a weighty matter.
The tears ceased but the wild stare remained. He endured its obsessional glow until he realized that she was not looking at him at all but at some object directly behind him. Turning around, he saw what had transfixed and transfigured her. It was a small lancet window into which some zealous craftsman had set the most affecting picture in stained glass. Christ was nailed to the cross with the crown of thorns upon His head. The round face was framed by long fair hair and a full beard, which took on a golden hue as light streamed in through the window. There was martyrdom and majesty in the image.
Eleanor Budden let out a sigh of pure enchantment.
She was in love.
Nicholas Bracewell ran wet hands through his hair and tossed back his mane as he completed his ablutions at the pump in the courtyard. He was up not long after dawn and the sun was taking its first peep at the day. There was much to do before departure.
Nicholas had to supervise the feeding and harnessing of the horses, the loading up of the waggon, the checking of valuables to make sure that nothing was missing, the payment of the landlord and the pacification of his wife, whom Lawrence Firethorn, in a moment of drunken zeal, had mistaken for a serving wench and seized in an amorous embrace. There would also be some lessons in swordplay he had promised the boys and the purchase of some provisions for the journey. The work of the book holder was never done.
'Welcome to the day, Master Bracewell!'
'The same to you, Christopher.'
'Let us hope it bears sweeter fruit than yesterday.'
'I am sure it must.'
'Where do we stop today?'
'At Royston. God willing.
'Royston…'
The name triggered off a thought. Two long days of walking on foot had taken none of the swagger out of Christopher Millfield. He looked neat and trim in his doublet and hose. Nicholas, wearing an old shirt and a buff jerkin, felt dishevelled by comparison. He had never really taken to the young actor and put it down to the latter's forced affability.
Christopher Millfield produced his annoying grin.
'May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?'
'Please do, sir.'
'If we should fail to find an audience in Royston, as we did in Ware, there may yet be employment for us.'
'From what source?'
'Pomeroy Manor.' You know the place?'
Only by repute,' said Millfield airily. 'It lies on the estates of one Neville Pomeroy, a man of true breeding and culture, not unfriendly to the theatre and like to give us a kinder word than the folk at Ware.'
Nicholas nodded his thanks. The name of Pomeroy was vaguely familiar to him. He had heard it mentioned by Lord Westfield, and in terms of praise, which was unusual for their patron. A local landowner with a liking for entertainment might be able to rill his largest room with some spectators for them.
Where is the house?' he said
"Towards Meldreth. Not far out of our way;'
'In which direction?'
'Cambridge.'
It was worth considering. If Banbury's Men were intent on queering their pitch, then Royston might well be closed to their art. Giles Randolph would not have ruined their chances at Pomeroy Manor. He might yet be thwarted.
Christopher Millfield stood with arms akimbo.
'Why do you not like me, Master Bracewell?'
'Have I said as much?'
'I read it in your manner.'
'You are deceived. I like you well enough.'
'But not as much as Gabriel Hawkes.'
'I gave the matter no thought.'
'That is not what Master Gill believes. He tells me that you urged the name of Gabriel over mine.'
'I will not deny it.'
'May I know your reason?'
'I took him to be the finer actor.'
Millfield winced. 'You are mistaken there, sir.'
'I can only give you my true opinion.'
'It may be changed ere long,' said the other with a flash of pride. 'But was that the only cause of your preference for Gabriel? That you rated him more highly?'
'No, Christopher.'
'What else?'
'I found him more honest company.'
Nicholas gave a straightforward answer that was not to Millfield's taste at all. After shooting a hostile glare at the book I holder, he invented a nonchalant smile.
'It is of no moment,' he said.
'How so?'
'Gabriel is gone to Heaven. I am here in his place.'
'Can you spare the dead no respect?'
'He was my rival. I do not mourn him.'
'Even though he was murdered?'
Christopher Millfield was taken aback for a second but he retrieved his composure very quickly. Unable to determine if the man's reaction arose from guilt or surprise, Nicholas tried to probe.
'Did his death not strike you as sudden?'
'He was afflicted by the plague.'
'It does not usually kill its victims so fast.'
'I have seen men snuffed out in a single day.'
'The old or the weak,' said Nicholas. ' The young and the fit are able to put up some sort of struggle.'
'What are you saying, Master Bracewell?'
'Until the day when fever broke out, Gabriel was a healthy young man in the prime of life. He should have not have been carried off so speedily.'
'Your conclusion?'…
'Someone helped him on his way'
'You have proof of this?';;:
'I have a strong feeling.'
'Is that all?' said Millfield with a smirk. 'You will need more than that to make your case. Besides, what does it matter now? Gabriel was marked for death. If someone did kill him, then he rendered the man a service by sparing him the agonies of a lingering end.'
You take this too lightly, Christopher.' It is idle contemplation.'
'When a good man is murdered?'
'By whom?' challenged the other.
Someone who stood to gain from his early demise.',
Millfield met his searching gaze without a tremor.
Royston was no more than a glorified village with a bevy of thatched cottages huddled around the church like anxious children clutching at their mother's skirts. Westfield's Men had once more come too late. Their rivals had performed in the yard of the Barley Mow to an audience drawn from all the villages in the area. What enraged Lawrence Firethorn to bursting point was the fact that Banbury's Men had again filched a play from his own repertoire, The Two Maids of Milchester, another rustic comedy that was suitable for the lower sort. They were poisoning the very water from which Westfield's Men drank.
After abusing everyone in sight in the roundest terms, the actor-manager withdrew his company to a field nearby to consider their next move. Nicholas Bracewell put forward the idea mooted by Christopher Millfield and it found ready acceptance. Rather than struggle on to the next possible playing location, they elected to look for somewhere nearer. Pomeroy Manor sounded an interesting possibility and Firethorn warmed to the notion.
'Master Pomeroy is not unknown to me,' he said with casual arrogance. 'Lord Westfield presented him after one of my performances at the Rose. He knows my worth.'
'As who does not?' asked Nicholas, 'Ware does not! Royston-be damned-does not!'
'To their eternal shame, Master.'
'I would not play before these dolts if they offered me a king's ransom. Palates that have been jaded by a taste of Giles Randolph would choke on the rich food of my talent. There is a world elsewhere!'
'Shall I ride on to Pomeroy Manor?'
'With all haste, Nick,' said Firethorn, scenting the chance of a performance at last. 'Take Master Millfield with you. He knows the way and will ease your solitude.'
Nicholas could have wished for another companion but he had no choice in the matter. Edmund Hoode was quick to offer the loan of his horse to the book holder and-what was more astonishing-Barnaby Gill handed over the bay mare to Millfield with something approaching willingness. It was a gesture that Nicholas was to remember later.
The two riders set off on their expedition. Though Millfield had never been to the house before, he seemed to have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.
The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.
'It is just as I imagined,' said Millfield.
'A rare sight in this county,' observed Nicholas.
'What's that, sir?'
'Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country. '
'So I am led to believe.'
'Where did you glean all your information?'
'From listening in the right places.'
Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.
After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his Steward.
Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.
'You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.'
'You knew of our presence here?' said Nicholas.
'From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they nave no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.'
'Then we may draw up a contract? '
'Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out Word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then 1 can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?'
'But fifteen souls, sir.'
'Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.'
'We thank you heartily, sir.
'The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.
'What would you have us play?'
'Tarquin of Rome.'
It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one's house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.
Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.
'They shall have it, Nick.'
'So I told Master Pomeroy.'
'We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll be Tarquin to the life!'
He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand. Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin's soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.
Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.
'Why do you nod so, Nick?'
'I think I have their secret, Edmund.'
'Who?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.'
'I believe I know how.'
Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode's most stirring achievements and Banbury's Men played it for all it was worth.
Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn's martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.
Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield's Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.
Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.
'Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?'
'You were the very ghost of Pompey.'
'Did I not catch his greatness?'
'In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.'
'The audience loved me.'
'How could they not?'
'I walked in Elysium!'
Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury's Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the a part in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed
Part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.
Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.
'It is a well-wrought piece, ' he said grudgingly. 'Master Hoode is a fine poet.'
'That final speech would ring tears from a stone.'
'He has no equal in such scenes.'
'You speak true, sir,' said Randolph. 'Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury's Men.'
'He does, Master. He does.'
Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.
'When he reaches Grantham, he'll be most perplexed.'
'And cry out like the victim of a robbery.'
'With Master Firethorn howling "Murder!" in his wake.' He became businesslike. 'We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield's Men overtake us. We'll come to blows in that event.'
'I have a device to slow them down completely.'
'Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.'
'Lend me an ear.'
Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other's whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury's Men.
Mark Scruton was their saviour.
Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield's Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realized what was wrong.
Someone was missing.
The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognized him by his profile and his gait.
Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.
Westfield's Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode's woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.
Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.
Let's make the old house ring with exultation!'
Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield's Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.
Lawrence Firethorn thrilled them to the marrow with his portrayal of Tarquin, drunk with power and steeped in wickedness, enhancing the power and prosperity of Rome in order to exploit it for his own selfish ends.
It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.
Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band, Restoring peace unto our bloodied land. Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away. Honour rules upon this glorious day. Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send, Freedom's banner flutters at the end.
Neville Pomeroy leapt to his feet to lead the sustained applause for a play that had moved as much as it had entertained. Westfield's Men were feted. It made amends for all their setbacks. As they were leaving Pomeroy Manor, they had money in their purse and a triumph under their belt. It was invigorating.
Their host showered them with fresh thanks.
'You do not know what joy you have brought.'
'We are deeply gratified,' said Firethorn, still using his Tarquin voice. 'We humble wights live on the indulgence of our patrons. Pomeroy Manor has been our joy as well. We hope for like acceptance everywhere.'
'You will find it for sure, sir.'
'Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.'
'Go further north towards certain victory.'
'That is our intention.'
'I have done my share,' said Pomeroy. 'Hearing of your plans, I wrote from London to my closest friend to warn him of your coming. Westfield's Men are assured of a hearty welcome there.'
'We thank you, kind sir. Where is this place?'
'Marmion Hall.'
'In what town?'
'Close by the city of York.'
Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.
'York, you say? We know it by another name.'
'What might that be?'
'Jerusalem!'
The cellar was deep beneath the house. No natural light penetrated and the thick stone walls were covered with seeping damp. There was a smell of despair. The man was naked to the waist. Spread-eagled on a wooden table, he was tied in such a way as to increase his torment. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, stretching him until he was on the point of splitting asunder. Huge gobs of sweat were wrung out of him to mingle with the streaked blood across his chest and arms. His face was a pulp. As he lay in his own excrement, he barely had the strength to groan any more and did not even feel the impudent legs of the spider that ran across his forehead.
Marmion Hall was the ancestral home of one of the most respected families in Yorkshire. Nobody would have believed that it housed such a guest beneath its roof.
The cellar door was unlocked and unbolted from the outside and a candle brought light. A short, stocky man in the livery of a servant went across to the prisoner and held the flame where it illumined his battered features. Sir Clarence Marmion was impassive as he saw the tortured body.
'Has he said no more?'
'Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.' Have you tested him to the full?'
'With steel and fire. He's bled half to death.' Would not whipping loosen his tongue?'
Only to let him beg for mercy.'
'They get none that give none,' said the other coldly. 'Walsingham's men are ruthless. So must we be.'
Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, the servant banged his head on the table then leered right into his face.
'Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!'
A long moan came from between parched lips.
'Who was he?' hissed Sir Clarence. 'I want the name of the spy who informed on Master Rickwood!'
The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.
'Tell me!' insisted the master of the house. 'Which of Walsingham's creatures sent him to his death?'
'I cannot cut the information out of him.'
'His name!'
As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove.
He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.
'What now, Sir Clarence?' asked the servant.
'Kill him.'
Though the house in Shoreditch was now half-empty, with far fewer mouths to feed at table, Margery Firethorn still had plenty of domestic chores to keep her occupied. One of these was to make regular visits to market to buy the food and berate any stallholder who tried to overcharge her. Servants could not be trusted to get the choicest items at the best prices and so she: reserved the task of filling the larder for herself. It got her out of the house and stopped her from brooding on her loneliness.
She entered the city by Bishopsgate and was caught up in a small commotion. Armed soldiers were bustling about, pushing people out of the way and dealing roughly with any complainants. Margery rid herself of a few barbed remarks at them before sauntering on towards the market in Gracechurch Street. She was soon deep in dispute with a hapless vendor about the quality of his fruit. When she had beaten him down to the price she was prepared to pay, she took her belligerence along to the next stall and set it to work.
Her footsteps eventually took her close to the Queen's Head and it prompted wistful thoughts of Westfield's Men. Ambivalent feelings pulled at her. Still angry with her husband, she yet missed him keenly. Anxious to upbraid him severely, she would have mixed some kisses with the scolding. Margery Firethorn could not blame her spouse for everything. In marrying him, she had married the theatre and that brought special tribulation.
She was given further evidence of the fact. Sitting outside the inn on a low stool was a thin, ascetic man with a viol between his legs, coaxing plaintive notes out of his instrument in the hopes of earning a few coins from the passers-by. Margery was saddened. It was Peter Digby. Ten days before, he bad been the proud leader or the consort of musicians employed by Westfield's Men. Now he was scratching for pennies in the street. The theatre was indeed a cruel master.
'How now, Master Digby!' she said.
'Mistress!'
'Have you no other work but this, sir?'
'None that pays me.'
She took a coin from a purse and pressed it into his hand. He thanked her for a kindness then enquired about the company. She had yet no news to give him but talked in general terms, shouts from the distance made them look towards Bishopsgate. More soldiers milled about.
"What means this commotion?" she said.
'Have you not heard?'
'No, Master Digby.'
'One of the heads has vanished from its spike.'
'There's grisly work indeed!'
'Taken down in the night,' he said. 'And this was not in jest. When the culprit is caught, this is a hanging offence. They search for him in earnest.
'Whose head was taken down?" she asked.
'That of a traitor freshly executed.'
'What was his name?'
'Anthony Rickwood.'