Westfield's Men set out with high hopes but they were soon blighted by circumstance. Heavy overnight rain had mired a road that was already in a bad state of repair.
Local parishes were responsible for the maintenance of any road that ran within their boundaries but in the case of a highway like the Great North Road, an intolerable burden was placed upon them. There was no way that they could find the resources for the upkeep of such a major artery and Westfield's Men suffered as a result.
'Use the whip, man!'
'It is no use!'
'Drive them on, drive them on!'
'We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.'
'I'll get you out if I have to drag the cart with my own bare hands, so I will!'
But Firethorn was thwarted. Though he took hold of the harness of one of the carthorses and pulled with all his might, neither animal moved forward. The front wheel of the waggon was sunk to its axle and the whole vehicle slanted over at an angle.
Barnaby Gill was quick to apportion blame.
'This is your doing, Master Bracewell.'
'I could not drive around the hole, sir.'
'The waggon is too heavy since you brought the whole company aboard. Their weight is your downfall.'
'I could not ask them to walk in such mud, Master Gill. It would ruin their shoes and spatter their hose.'
'That would be better than this calamity.'
'Do something, Nick!' ordered Firethorn.
'I will, sir.'
'And with all speed.'
Nicholas jumped down from the driving seat and waved everyone else off the waggon. It was then laboriously unloaded. He used an axe to cut a stout length of timber then wedged it under the side of the waggon where the wheel was encumbered. With the help of three others, he used his lever to lift the vehicle up. There was a loud sucking noise as the wheel came out of its prison. The horses were slapped, they strained between the shafts and the waggon rolled clear of its problem. As it was loaded up again, Lawrence Firethorn reached for the law.
'The parishioners should be indicted!
'They cannot mend every hole in the road,' said Hoode reasonably. 'We must travel with more care.
'I'll have them at assizes and quarter sessions.'
'And what will Westfield's Men do while you ride off to start this litigation? Must we simply wait here?'
'Do nor mock me, Edmund.'
'Then do not set yourself up for mockery, Lawrence.'
'They should be clapped in irons, every one of them.'
'How could they repair the roads, thus bound?'
They were ready to depart and trundled on with a few of the hired men now walking gingerly at the rear to avoid the worst of the mud. When they crossed the border into Huntingdonshire, they found the worst stretch of all along the Great North Road. Skirting the edge of the Fen Country, it supported more traffic than anywhere other than the immediate approaches to London, and the surface was badly broken up. Extra caution had to be exercised and progress was painfully slow. They were relieved when Huntingdon itself finally came in sight.
Richard Honeydew was bubbling with questions. Have you been to the town before, Master Bracewell? Once or twice, lad.' What sort of place is it?' There are two things of note, Dick.'
'What might they be?'
A bowling green and a gallows.'
'Shall we see a hanged man, sir?'
'Several, if Master Firethorn has his way.'
'And will they let us play there?'
'I am certain of it.'
But the book holder's assurance was too optimistic. When they rolled past St Bennet's Church to the Shire Hall, they met no official welcome. Banbury's Men had sucked the town dry with a performance of Double Deceit.
It was another play stolen from Westfield's Men and it sent Firethorn into a tigerish rage. There was worse to come. One or the Town Council had lately returned from Lincolnshire. He told them of a performance by Banbury's Men at Stamford of Marriage and Mischief-also purloined from their rivals-and of the staging of Pompey the Great at Grantham before an enthusiastic audience that included his own august self. When he went on to praise the acting of Giles Randolph in the title role, Firethorn had to be held down lest he do the man a mischief.
Foaming at the mouth, the actor-manager was borne off to the nearest inn and given a pint of sack to sweeten his disposition. Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and Nicholas Bracewell were with him. Firethorn was vengeful.
'By heaven, I'll slit him from head to toe for this!'
'We have to find him first,' reminded Nicholas.
'To filch my part in my play before my adoring audience! Ha! The man has the instincts of a jackal and the talent of a three-legged donkey with the staggers.'
Gill could not resist a thrust at his pride.
'That fellow spoke well of Master Randolph.'
'A polecat in human form!'
'Yet he carried the day with his Pompey.'
'My Pompey! My, my, my Pompey!'
'And mine,' said Hoode soulfully. 'Much work and worry went into the making of that play. It grieves me to hear that Banbury's Men play it free of charge.'
Nicholas had sympathy with the author. His work was protected by no laws. Once he had been paid five pounds for its delivery, the work went out of his hands and into the repertoire of Westfield's Men. He had little influence over its staging and even
The Trip to Jerusalem less over its casting. The one consolation was that he had written a cameo role for himself as an ambitious young tribune.
'Who played Sicinius?' he mused.
'All that matters is who played Pompey!' howled Firethorn, banging the table until their tankards bounced up and down. 'Randolph should be hanged from the nearest tree for his impertinence!'
'How have Banbury's Men done it?' asked Gill.
'I have the way,' said Nicholas.
'Well, sir.'
'They have enlisted our players against us.'
'Monstrous!' exclaimed Firethorn.
"There is only one complete copy of each play," said Nicholas, 'and I keep that closely guarded. Rut I cannot shield it during rehearsal or performance. If some of our fellows memorized a work between them, they could put the meat of it down with the aid of a scrivener. And it is off that meat that Master Randolph has been feeding.'
'Who are these rogues, Nick?' said Hoode.
'How many' of them are there?' added Gill.
'I have neither names nor numbers,' admitted the book holder. 'But I have been going through an inventory of the hired men we have employed this year. Several left disgruntled with good cause to harm us. If enough money was put in enough pockets, they would have turned their coat and helped out Banbury's Men.'
'Aye,' said Firethorn, 'and been given a place in that vile company by way of reward. If we but overtake them, we shall find out who these varlets are.
'They are too far ahead,' argued Nicholas, and we will meet but further outrage if we visit towns where they have been before us. Stay your anger, Master Firethorn, until the occasion serves. We must change our route and find fresh fields.'
'This advice makes much sense,' said Hoode. 'Where should we go, Nick?'
'To Nottingham. We stay on this road for a while yet then head north-west through Oakham and Melton Mowbray. Haply, those towns may like some entertainment.'
Firethorn and Hoode gave their approval. Gill was the only dissenter, pointing out that the minor roads would be even worse than the one on which they had just travelled, and throwing up his usual obstruction to any idea that emanated from the book holder. He was outvoted by the others and shared his pique with his drink.
Still thirsting for blood, Firethorn accepted that he might have to wait before he could collect it by the pint from Banbury's Men. Nicholas's idea grew on him. Their new destination made its own choice of play.
' Nottingham, sirs! We'll give 'em Robin Hood!'
It was all decided.
In referring the matter to a higher authority, Miles Melhuish knew that he was doing the correct thing. Not only was he relieving himself of a problem that caused him intense personal anxiety, but he was handing it over to a man who could solve it with peremptory speed. The Dean was feared throughout Nottingham. One glance of his eye from a pulpit could quell any congregation. One taste of his displeasure could bring the most wilful apostate back into the fold. He was far older than Melhuish, with more weight, more wisdom, more conviction and more skill. He also had more relish for the joys of coercion, for the destruction of any opponent with the full might of the Church at his back. He would cure Mistress Eleanor Budden of her delusions. Five minutes with the Dean would send her racing back to her bedchamber to fornicate with her husband in God's name and to make amends for her neglect of his most sacred right of possession.
But there was an unforeseen snag. She was closeted with the Dean for over two hours. And when she emerged, it was not in any spirit of repentance. She had the same air of unassailable confidence and the same seraphic smile. It is not known in what precise state of collapse she left the learned man who had tried to bully her out of her mission. Her certitude had been adamantine proof.
Humphrey Budden was waiting outside for her.
'Well?'
'My examination is over,' she said.
'What passed between you?'
'Much talk of the Bible.'
'Did the Dean instruct you in your duty?'
'God has already done that, sir.'
'He made no headway?' said Budden in disbelief.
'He came to accept my decision.'
'Madness, more like!' Do you find your wife mad, Humphrey?' In this frame of mind.'
Then must you truly despise me.'
They were standing among the gravestones in the churchyard. The sky was dark, the clouds swollen. The wind carried the first hints of rain. Eleanor Budden usually dressed in the fashion of burghers' wives with a bodice and full skirt of muted colour, a cap to hide her plaited hair and a lace ruff of surpassing delicacy, this last a source of professional pride to her husband who wanted her to display her demureness to the town and thereby advertise his trade, his happiness and his manhood. She had now cast off any sartorial niceties. A simple grey shift and a mob-cap were all that she wore. Her long hair hung loose down her back.
Ironically, he wanted her even more. In that dress, in that place, in that unpromising weather, he yet found his desire swelling and his sense of assertion stiffening. Mad or misguided, she was beautiful. Immune to the vicar and impervious even to the Dean, she was still the wife of Humphrey Budden and could be brought to heel.
'You will remain chaste no longer!' lie said.
'How now, sir!'
'Return home with me this instant!'
'I like not your tone.'
'Had you heard it sooner, with a hand to back it up, we might not now be in this predicament.'
'Do you threaten me, sir?'
She was calm and unafraid and he was halted for a moment but those round blue eyes and smooth skin worked him back into resolution. He grabbed her arm.
'Leave off, sir. You hurt me.'
'Come back home and settle this argument in our bedchamber. You will not be the loser by it.'
'Unhand me, Humphrey. Mingling flesh is sinful.'
'Not in marriage.
'We arc no longer man and wile.'
He grabbed her other arm as she tried to pull free and wrestled with her. The feel of her body against his drove him on beyond the bounds of reason.
'Submit to my embraces!'
'I will not, sir.'
'It is my right and title.'
'No further,'
Her struggling only increased his frenzy the more.
'By this hand, and you will not obey, I'll take you here on the spot among the dead of Nottingham.'
'You dare not do so.'
'Do I not?' he wailed.
'God will stop you.'
Roused to breaking point, he laid rude hands on the front of her shift and tore it down to expose one smooth shoulder and the top of one smooth breast, but even as the material ripped, it was joined by another sound. The door of the church opened and Miles Melhuish emerged in a state of frank bewilderment. He could not understand how Eleanor Budden had vanquished the Dean. When he saw the scene before him, however, he understood all too well and trembled at the sacrilege of it.
'Here upon consecrated ground!' he boomed.
'I was driven to it, sir,' bleated the lacemaker.
'To use force against the gentler sex!'
'You counselled strength of purpose.'
'Not of this foul nature.'
'Forgive him, sir,' said Eleanor. 'He knows not what he does. I looked for no less. God warned me to expect much tribulation. And yet He saved me here, as you did see. He brought you from that church to be my rescue.'
Eleanor fell to her knees in earnest prayer and Melhuish took the defeated and detumescent husband aside to scold him among the chiselled inscriptions. When she was finished, the vicar helped her to her feet and nudged her spouse forward with a glance.
'Forgive me for my wickedness, Eleanor.'
'You acted but as a man.'
'I sinned against you grievously.'
'Then must you wash yourself clean. Call on God to make you a pure heart and to put out all your misdeeds.'
Humphrey Budden was desolate. Abandoned by his wife and now censured by the Church, his case was beyond hope. Instead of taking home a dutiful partner in marriage, he had lost her for ever to a voice he had never even heard.
'May I know your will, wife?'
'I follow the path of righteousness.'
'She must answer the Dean's command,' said Melhuish.
'I go to Jerusalem,' she said.
'To York,' he corrected. 'Only the holy Archbishop himself can pronounce on this. You must bear a letter to him from the Dean and seek an audience.'
'York!' Budden was distraught. 'May I come there?'
I travel alone,' she said firmly.
'What will you do for food and shelter?'
'God will provide.'
'The roads are not safe for any man, let alone for a woman such as you. Be mindful of your life!
'There is no danger for me.
'For you and for every other traveller.'
'I have the Lord's protection on my way.'
It began to rain.
Oliver Quilley cursed the downpour and spurred his horse into a canter. There was a clump of trees in the middle distance with promise of shelter for him and his young companion. Quilley was a short, slight creature in his thirties with an appealing frailty about him. Dressed in the apparel of a courtier, he was an incongruous sight beside the sturdy man in fustian who rode as his chosen bodyguard on the road from Leicester. The trees swished and swayed in the rain but their thick foliage and overhanging branches promised cover from the worst of the storm. As Quilley rode along, one hand clutched at his breast as if trying to hold in his heart.
'Swing to the right!' he urged.
'Aye, Master.'
'We shall be shielded from the wind there.'
'Aye, Master.'
The young man had little conversation but a strength of sinew that was reassuring company. Quilley forgave him for his ignorance and raced him to the trees. They were drenched when they arrived and so relieved to be out of the bad weather at last that they dispensed with caution. It was to be their downfall.
'Ho, there, sirs!'
'Hey! Hey! Hey!'
'Fate has delivered you unto us.'
'Dismount!'
Four rogues in rough attire leapt from their hiding place with such suddenness that the riders were taken totally by surprise. Two of the robbers had swords, the third a dagger and the last a clump of wood that looked the most dangerous weapon of them all. The young man did not even manage to unsheath his rapier. Terrified by the noise and intensity of the assault, his horse reared its front legs so high that he was unsaddled in a flash. He fell backwards through the air with no control and landed awkwardly on his neck. There was a sickly crack and his body went limp. It was a death of great simplicity.
The others turned their attention to Quilley.
'Away, you murderers!' he yelled.
'Come, sir, we would speak with you.'
'Leave go of that rein!'
But Quilley's puny efforts were of no avail. He punched and kicked at them but only provoked their ridicule. The biggest ruffian reached up a hand and yanked him from his perch as if he were picking a flower from a garden. Oliver Quilley was thrown to the ground.
'They'll hang each one of you for this!'
He tried to get up but they tired of his presence. The clump of wood struck him behind his ear and he pitched forward into oblivion. Pleased with the day's handiwork, the four men assessed their takings. They were soon riding off hell for leather.
Quilley was unconscious for a long time but the rain finally licked him awake. The first thing he saw was the dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.
Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.
He began the long walk towards the next village.
The rain lashed Westfield's Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell's main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasingly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen's Head and the comforts of London.
Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could lake a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.
Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.
Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.
Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.
'What else did he say, George?'
'He talked of other companies that hired him.'
'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'
'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'
'And were they well received?'
'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'
George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times-in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways-by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.
'One thing more, George.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'
'Many times, Master.'
'What does he say?'
'That he is the better player of the two.'
'I did not think him so.'
'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'
'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'
'None, Master.'
'No tribute of a passing sigh?'
'Not once in my hearing.'
'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'
'I will, sir.'
Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.
'When we left London…'
'Yes, George?'
'We came through Bishopsgate.'
'Aye, sir.'
'There was a head upon a spike there.'
'Several, if memory serves.'
'This was the most recent.'
'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'
'What was his offence?'
'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'
'Was he alone in his crime?'
'No, lad. He was part of a Catholic conspiracy.'
'Why were the others not brought to justice?" 'Because they have not been apprehended yet.'
'Will they be so?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham will see to that.'
'How?'
'His men will scour the kingdom.
Before George could frame another question, there was a scream from nearby which sent Nicholas haring off with his sword in his hand. Richard Honeydew had yelled out in fear from behind the bushes where he had slipped off to relieve himself. Nicholas got to him in seconds to Find him open-mouthed in horror and pointing to something that was coming over the brow of the hill.
It was as weird and exotic a sight as any they had seen thus far on their travels. A band of some twenty or more had appeared in bizarre costumes that were made up of embroidered turbans and brightly-coloured scarves worn over shreds and patches. Their swarthy faces were painted red or yellow and bells tinkled about their feet as they rode along on their horses. They were at once frightening and fascinating. Richard Honeydew was transfixed.
Nicholas laughed and patted him on the back.
'They will not harm you, lad.'
'Who are they. Master?'
'Egyptians.'
'Who?'
'Minions of the moon.'
'Are they real?'
'As real as you or me.'
'Why do they look so strange?'
'They're gypsies.'
Anne Hendrik had travelled by way of Watling Street to visit her cousins in Dunstable. She soon moved on to Bedford to stay with an uncle and was pleased when he invited her to accompany him on a visit to his brother in Nottingham. Though the town had not been part of the itinerary of Westfield's Men, it took her much closer to them and that brought some comfort. It was only now that she was parted from Nicholas Bracewell that she realized how important he was in her life. They had shared the same house for almost three years now and she had grown to appreciate his unusual qualities.
She missed his soft West Country accent and his sense of humour and his endless consideration. Many men would have been brutalized by some of the experiences he had been through, but Nicholas remained true to himself and sensitive to the needs of others. He had faults but even those produced a nostalgic smile now. As Anne wandered through the market stalls of Nottingham, her hands were busy fingering lace and leather and cambric but her mind was on her dearest friend.
She sensed that he might not be too far away.
'Do not buy that here, Anne.'
'What?'
'The finest leather is in Leicester.'
'Oh…yes.'
She put down the purse she had been absent-mindedly examining and took her uncle's arm. He was an old man now and there would not be many journeys left to his brother. It gave him pleasure to be able to indulge his niece along the way. She had always been his favourite.
'What may I buy you, Anne?'
'It is I who should give you a present, uncle.'!
'Your visit is present enough,' he said then waved his walking stick at the stalls. 'Choose what you wish.'
'There is nothing that I need.'
'I must give you some treat.'
'You have done that by bringing me here.'
He looked around and scratched his head in thought. When the idea came forth, it brought an elderly chuckle.
'Haply, you would like some entertainment.'
'Of what kind, uncle?'
'I'll take you to a play.'
Do they have a company here?'
'Had your head not been in the clouds, you would have seen for yourself. Playbills are up on every post.'
Indeed?'
Incitement stirred. Could Westfield's Men be there?
'Let me but show you, niece.'
'I follow you in earnest.'
He pushed a way through the crowd until they came to Ye Old Salutation Inn, one of the taverns that nestled close to Nottingham Castle and which had quenched the thirst of needy travellers for untold generations. Nailed to a beam outside the inn was a playbill written out with a flourish. Anne Hendrik felt her pulse quicken when she saw the name of the play. Pompey the Great. Edmund Hoode's famed tragedy.
A triumph for Westfield 's Men.
Her joy turned sour on the instant. The audience would not see Lawrence Firethorn in his most celebrated role. They were being offered the more shallow talents of Giles Randolph and his company.
'Shall you see this play with me, Anne?'
'Not I, uncle. I have no stomach for the piece.'
She turned away in outrage.
They knew that they were in Nottinghamshire as soon as they saw the woodland. Leicestershire had few forests and even fewer deer parks, the land being given over largely to agriculture. The growing of barley, pulses and wheat were familiar sights as were the fields of cattle and sheep. Once across the border, however, Westfield's Men encountered very different terrain. They were in the shire with the wood' since Sherwood Forest accounted for over a quarter of its area.
Their morale had lifted since the sun came out. The decision to leave the Great North Road had been a mixed blessing. It gave them performances in Oakham and Melton Mowbray in front of small but committed audiences but it also acquainted them with the misery of traversing bad roads in inclement weather. Resting for the night some five miles south of Nottingham, they hoped they had put the worst of their troubles behind them.
When Lawrence Firethorn insisted that they stay at the Smith and Anvil, the others thought that it was a rare instance of sentimentality in him. The son of a village blacksmith himself, he had the build of those who followed that trade along with the bearing of a true gentleman. The original forge was a building of napped flints with a deep thatch but the inn which had grown up around it was largely timber-framed. When they entered the taproom, they realized why the actor-manager had been so insistent that they spent the night there.
'Master Firethorn!'
'Come, let me embrace you, Susan!'
'Oh, sir! This is unlooked-for joy!'
'And all the sweeter for it.'
The hostess was an attractive woman of ample girth and vivacious manner. Susan Becket was spilling out of her dress with welcome. The plump face was one round smile and the red tresses were tossed in delight. She came bouncing across the taproom to bestow a kiss like a clap of thunder on the lips of Lawrence Firethorn.
'What brings you to my inn, sir?'
'What else but your dear self?'
'You flatter me, you rascal.'
'I am like to do more than that ere I leave.'
'Away, you saucy varied' she said with a giggle.
'Do you have good beds at your hostelry?'
'No man has complained, sir.'
'Then neither will I,' said Firethorn enfolding her in his arms again. 'Hold me tight, Mistress Susan Becket. Though you have the name of a saint, I like you best for being a sinner.'
Her laughter set the huge breasts bobbing merrily.
Nicholas Bracewell, as usual, organized the sleeping arrangements. The best rooms went to the sharers and the hired men had to make do with what was left. Since it was a small establishment, some of them had to bed down on straw in an outhouse. Nicholas volunteered to spend the night with a few others so that the apprentices could have the last small room. All four of them were packed into the same lumpy bed. George Dart slept at their feet.
The book holder finished his supper in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Carrying a large candle, the hostess guided Lawrence Firethorn up to his chamber. Gill gave a sardonic snort.
'She'll burn his candle for him till he be all wax.'
'They are old friends, I think,' said Hoode.
'Lawrence has friends in every tavern and trugging-house in England,' said Gill. 'I wonder they do not name one of their diseases after him. I know a dozen or more doxies who have caught a dose of Firethorn before now.'
'He has always been popular with the ladies,' said Nicholas diplomatically.
'Ladies!' Gill hooted. 'There is nothing ladylike about them, Master Bracewell. As long as they give him a gallop, that is sufficient, and Mistress Becket will prove a willing mount. Hell not have to ride side-saddle with her, I warrant.
'Leave off this carping, Barnaby,' said Hoode.
'I do it but in memory of his wife.'
'Margery knows the man she married.'
And so do half the women in London.'
'We all have passions, sir.'
Not of that kind!' Gill rose from the table with an air of magisterial disdain. 'Some of us can discern where true satisfaction lies and it is not in the arms of some whore. There is a love that surpasses that of women.'
'Love of self, sir?' said Nicholas artlessly.
'Good night, gentlemen!'
Barnaby Gill banged out of the room in disgust.
Richard Honeydew had some difficulty getting off to sleep because of the high spirits of the other apprentices. They fought, laughed, teased and played tricks upon one another until they tired themselves out. George Dart was quite unable to control them and was usually the butt of their jokes. When they finally drifted off, it was into a deep and noisy sleep. Dart's snore was the loudest.
None of them yielded more readily to slumber than Richard Honeydew. Wedged into one end of the bed beside John Tallis, he did not even feel the kicks from the restless feet of his two companions who slept at the other end of the bed. Nor did he hear the latch of the door lift. Two figures entered silently and looked around in the gloom. One held a sword at the ready to ward off any interruption and the other carried a sack. When their quarry was located, the sack was slipped over his head and a hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy was pulled from the bed with careful speed and the interlopers made off with their prize.
Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.
'Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!'
'What ails you, George?'
'We have been robbed, sir.'
'Of what?' said Nicholas, sitting up.
'I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.'
'The theft was from your chamber?'
'Yes, Master. We have lost our biggest jewel.'
'How say you?'
'Dick Honeydew has gone.'
'Are you sure?'
'Beyond all doubt.'
'This is not some jest of the others?'
'They are as shocked as I am.'
'Where can Dick be?'
'I know the answer, sir.'
'Do you?'
'Stolen by the gypsies.'
Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.
'This is worth ten times your fee, sir.'
'What is it, Master?'
'A work of genius.'
Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.
'I cannot take it, sir.'
'Why not? I'd sell it for three pounds or more.'
'Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.'
'A wife?'
'Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,' said the physician. 'If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.'
'I'll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.'
'There's no hurry, Master, and you need the rest.'
'What rest?'
'To recover from your injuries.'
'They are of no account.'
'A few days in bed would see them gone for good.'
'I have no time to tarry,' said Quilley fussily. I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I've lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.'
'Where, Master Quilley?'
'In York.'
Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.
Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.
Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.
Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.
'I did not expect you at this early hour.'
'Necessity brought me hither.'
'Is something amiss?'
'I fear me it is. More news from London.'
'What has happened, Sir Clarence?'
'Information was laid against a certain person.'
'Master Neville Pomeroy?'
'He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.'
'Dear God!'
'Walsingham's men are closing in.'
'Can any of us now be safe?' said Rawlins.
'We have the security of our religion and that is proof against all assault. Master Pomeroy will give them no names, whatever ordeals they put him through. We must keep our nerve and pray that we survive.'
'Amen!'