Lawrence Firethorn roared like a dragon when George Dart banged on the door of his bedchamber at the Smith and Anvil. Reverting to the trade of his father, the actor-manager was playing the sturdy blacksmith to Mistress Susan Becket's willing anvil. He was tilling the air with sparks of joy at the very moment that the rude knuckles of his caller dared to interrupt him. Plucked untimely from the womb, he flung open the door and breathed such crackling flames of anger that the little stagekeeper was charred for life. Facing his employer was a daunting task at any time but to be at the mercy of Firethorn when he was naked, roused and deprived of consummation was like taking a stroll in the seventh circle of Hell. George Dart was sacked three times before he was even allowed to open his mouth. It was a lifetime before the message was actually delivered.
'Dick Honeydew has been taken, sir.'
'By whom, you idiot? By what, you dolt?'
'The gypsies.'
'Away with your lunacy!'
'I fear 'tis true, Master Firethorn.'
Corroboration came in the form of Nicholas Bracewell and the other apprentices, who were conducting a thorough search of the premises. They had checked every nook and cranny in the building, including attics and cellars, but there was no sign of Richard Honeydew. The boy had either run away of his own free will-which seemed unlikely-or he had been kidnapped. The second option was accepted at once by Firethorn who turned it into a personal attack upon himself and his career.
'They have stolen my Maid Marion!'
'We will find him,' said Nicholas determinedly.;
'How can Robin Hood play love scenes on his own?'
'You will have to use one of the other boys.'
'I like not that idea, Nick.'
'Sherwood Forest must have another maid.'
'Not John Tallis!' said Firethorn. 'He has a face more fit for comedy than kissing. Maid Marion cannot have a lantern jaw, sir.'
'Stephen Judd or Martin Yeo will take the part.'
'Neither is suitable.'
'Then choose another play, Master Firethorn.'
'Be thwarted out of my purpose! Never!' He stamped his foot on the bare boards and collected a few sharp splinters. 'This villainy is directed at me, Nick. They do know my Robin Hood is quite beyond compare and seek to pluck me down out of base envy.'
'We must track the boy down at once, sir.'
'Do so, Nick.'
'I will need a horse.'
'Take mine, dear heart!'
Nicholas was not at all convinced that gypsies had abducted Richard Honeydew even though the band had been seen in the vicinity, but his opinion was swept aside by a man who would brook no argument. Simultaneously robbed of his orgasm and his Maid Marion, the actor-manager was in a mood of vengeful urgency.
'To horse! To horse, Nick!'
'I will meet you in Nottingham.'
'Come not empty-handed.'
'If the boy be with the gypsies, I will get him.'
'Have a care, sir! Gypsies are slippery.'
'Adieu!'
Nicholas rushed off and missed an affecting moment. Throughout the conversation between actor-manager and book holder, George Dart stood meekly by, wondering whether he still had a job or not, and whether his little body would be needed to swell the ranks in the forthcoming performance at Nottingham.
Firethorn saw him there and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Dart's face was a study in uncertainty and apprehension.
'Shall I still be one of the Merry Men, sir?'
Nicholas saddled up and rode out of the stables just before dawn. Sword and dagger were at his side. He was an excellent horseman. The son of a prosperous merchant from Devon, he had, from an early age, accompanied his father on his travels and learned how to ride and to take care of a horse. When Nicholas grew older, his father's business commitments obliged the son to travel to Europe and he developed his great love for the sea, a passion that was to culminate in three years with Drake on the famous circumnavigation of the globe. Notwithstanding this, he had lost none of his feel in the saddle. Pacing his mount carefully, he went off at a steady canter.
It was four hours before he caught their scent and another two before he finally rode them to earth. They had stopped at a hamlet in Leicestershire to peddle their wares and to offer entertainment to the simple souls of the parish. While the gypsy women sold scarves or read the palms of the gullible, their menfolk turned acrobat to divert the locals. Nicholas tethered his horse and made his way to the little green where everyone had gathered. From behind the cover of a chestnut tree, he observed a scene that was lit with animation and colour. In spite of the circumstances, he was consumed with interest.
Nicholas always felt some sympathy for gypsies. They were vagabonds with an air of freedom about them. At the same time, they suffered far more severe punishment than any indigenous vagrants. In addition to being regularly fined, whipped, imprisoned or chased from a locality with sticks, stones and a posse of dogs, they were under legal threat of deportation. Throughout the reign of Henry VIII and down through that of his daughter, Elizabeth, Queen of England, the official attitude towards the so-called 'sons of Ptolemy' was consistently hostile. Bands of gypsies were shipped off to Europe and there were occasional calls for a complete extirpation of the breed.
In view of all this, their very survival was a minor miracle. Nicholas had some fellow-feeling for them. His own profession had close affinities with the lifestyle of the gypsies. Actors were also outlaws if they were not employed in the service of a noble patron such as Lord Westfield. Shorn of such livery, they could be hunted and hounded almost as ruthlessly as the gypsies and, like the latter, could often become the scapegoats for any crimes that were committed while they were passing through an area. Gypsies were far from honest and law-abiding but Nicholas always believed that tales of their inherent wickedness and sorcery were wildly overstated.
Such thoughts were still flitting through his mind when the acrobatic display came to an end. Rough palms clapped in applause and a few small coins were spared when a small child ran around the spectators holding out a large cap. Musicians now struck up and there was a display of dancing. Lithe and graceful, the men went through steps that had rarely been seen upon the green before. Nicholas admired their skill and was entranced by the elements of the fantastic. Then the boy appeared. It was evident from the first that he was not as confident as the others, going through a routine as if he were under compulsion rather than as if he were enjoying the dance.
Nicholas Bracewell had seen the jig. It was one that Barnaby. Gill had taught to the apprentices and which had been mastered by one of them straight away. As the book holder studied the willowy youth in the tattered rags and the painted face, he came rapidly to one conclusion. It was Richard Honeydew. Kidnapped at night, the boy was being made to work his passage with the gypsies. He was one of them now and had to dance for his keep, however reluctant he might be. As Nicholas ambled forward to get a closer look, the boy did a somersault that drew a patter of applause and confirmed the book holder's suspicion. He had seen the apprentices practising that somersault only days earlier. Here was firm proof.
Reason would be useless with the gypsies and the parish constable would stand no chance against a band of muscular men who could fight like fury. Nicholas had to take the lad by force while surprise was still on his side. Waiting until the dance came to an end, he let the apprentice take his applause then leapt at him from behind and threw an arm around him. In his other hand was his sword, brandished with enough purpose to keep them all at bay as he backed away towards his horse.
'Come, Dick, we'll be gone from here!'
But the boy did not seem too eager to leave. Sinking his teeth into Nicholas's arm, he prised himself free then turned on his captor to abuse him in a torrent of Romany.
The book holder was totally nonplussed.
It was not Richard Honeydew at all.
Westfield's Men were in despondent mood as they set out for Nottingham. Having been battered by Fate enough times already on tour, they were now knocked flat by one vicious punch. The disappearance of Richard Honeydew was a real disaster. He was a crucial figure in every performance. Though there was still some vestigial resentment on their part, the other apprentices had come to accept that the youngest of their number was also the cleverest. He took all the juvenile female leads and relegated them to the less attractive roles of ageing Countesses and comic serving wenches, of daunting Amazons and vapid lovers. Honeydew had another string to his bow. He was the most melodious boy soprano and songs were now written for him in almost every play. Without him, discord followed.
'Rest on my shoulder, Mistress.'
'It is my dearest wish, sir.'
'We'll travel side by side.'
'Like two oxen yoked together.'
'We'll pull in the same direction, I warrant.'
Mistress Susan Becket laughed at his sexual quibble then swung herself up into the saddle of her horse, using the solid shoulder of Lawrence Firethorn as a lever. He had been delighted when she offered to accompany them to Nottingham to watch their performance, not least because she brought a horse of her own and a second for his personal use from her stable. Leaving the tavern in the capable hands of her employees, Susan Becket rode off with the company and was an eye-catching figure on her white mare, a woman of substance in every sense, gracious yet sensual, lifting the morale of the players by her very presence and allowing Firethorn himself to indulge his fantasies at will.
She was nor, however, welcomed by all the company.
'You wonder that the horse can carry her, sir!'
'She is indeed plump, Master Gill, but well-favoured.'
'And she were courteous into the bargain, Mistress Becket would put on the saddle and carry the horse.'
'That is unkind, sir.'
'Only to the white mare.'
'Has Master Firethorn known her for long?'
'An hour at a time.'
'They are old bedfellows, then?'
'Bedfellowship was their invention.'
Barnaby Gill was riding beside the waggon which was now being driven by Christopher Millfield. The other sharers and the apprentices were seated among the baggage but the hired men were forced to trudge in the rear. It was a hot day with no wind to cool the fevered brow. Gill used the occasion to unleash some tart misogyny.
'She is the very epitome of her sex, is she not?'
'Mistress Becket?'
'She'll prove a shrewd archbishop to his majesty there beside her. Though we ride to York, she'll take him on a pilgrimage to Canterbury this night and show him all her sacred relics. When Master Firethorn plunges into her baptismal font, he'll sink to his armpits in the swill of her passion and will have to pray to the holy blissful martyr to haul him out again!'
'You do not like the lady,' said Millfield drily.
'Not this, nor any other of her kind.'
'Your reasoning, Master Gill?'
'Women have no place beside players.'
'Not even underneath them?'
'They are vile distractions, sir.'
'Would you not keep them for ornament?'
'Only in a privy for that's their natural region.'
'You are harsh, Master.'
'Can any sane man truly love women?'
Christopher Millfield laughed by way of reply. He liked Barnaby Gill and had learned much from watching the comedian in action on the stage, but he could not share his disgust with womanhood. Millfield aroused feminine interest wherever he went and he basked in it, viewing it as one of the few legitimate spoils of war for an actor.
Gill looked across at the handsome profile.
'May I put a question to you, sir?'
'Do not hesitate.'
'How came it that you knew Pomeroy V nor?'
'I knew but of it, Master Gill.'
'By what means?'
'The Admiral's Men.'
'Untalented rascals!'
'They had not your quality, 'tis true,' said the other tactfully, 'but they were able enough. And they knew where to earn the next meal when we were in the country. One of their number kept a list in his mind of every house in England where players were welcome.'
'That list was not too long to memorize,' said Gill ruefully. 'Far more doors are slammed in our faces than ever open to our entertainment.'
'Even so, sir. That is why I took some pains to con the list myself. Master Neville Pomeroy was on it along with others in the county of Hertfordshire.'
'And this friend of his in York?'
'Sir Clarence Marmion was also on that list. I think the Admiral's Men did play there during the last outbreak of the pestilence. But there are other houses where we may look for friendship, both here in this county and in Yorkshire itself.'
'We'll try your list some more.'
Gill's attention was diverted by a sight which made his nose wrinkle with distaste. Lawrence Firethorn burst into ribald laughter and leaned over to squeeze the shoulders of the mirthful Susan Becket. Their joviality set them apart from Westfield's Men who were still worrying about the kidnap of Richard Honeydew and the effect it would have on the standard of their work.
'Look at them!' snorted Gill.
'Like turtle doves,' said Millfield tolerantly.
'Pigs in a trough, sir! When they have finished gobbling their own discourse, they will roll together in the slime and he will tickle the teats of that old sow.'
'Mistress Becket is neither so low nor beastly.'
'She is a monster. Put her on the stage and you would need three boys to play her, stuffed together in the one dress like rabbits in a sack. While Martin Yeo would personate her, John Tallis would serve in the office of one buttock and Stephen Judd t'other. It is a pity that Dick Honeydew is not here or he could take on the role of her left breast and wear that gross beauty spot.'
'For shame, Master Gill!'
'I speak but as I feel.'
'Her tavern gave us good food and rest.'
'So would any other where we paid.'
'I like the lady.'
'I took you for a man of finer taste.'
Millfield looked at Firethorn and his companion.
'She keeps him much amused.'
'Any woman can do that.'
'Does his wife raise no objection?'
'A hundred by the minute, sir, but she is back in Shoreditch and he is here. Were Margery to view this scene before us, she would pluck off his stones and wear them as earrings to ward off any other women. Alas, she is not here. She defends his castle in London.'
'Stoutly?'
'As any army under siege. I pity the man who tries to take her fortress, Master Millfield. Though he bring the biggest battering ram in Christendom, it will not suffice. Margery will drown him in boiling oil.'
'Out, you rogue! Away, you rascal, you hedge-bird, you pannier-man's whelp! Do not wave your paltry reckoning at me, you pimp, you dog's-head, you trendle-tail! Marry, look off, sir! Go, snuff after some other prey! Poxed already you are, I can tell by that sheep-biting face, and I hope to see you plagued one day, you snotty nose!'
'I come but for my due, good madam.'
'Hold forth thy mangy head and I will give it thee with this broom! Or bend over, and I will sink a foot of my handle where'll you'll feel it most and remember me as a tidy housewife.'
'Calm down, Mistress Firethorn.'
'Only when your greasy face has gone!'
The tailor was a small, sweating, diffident man who was no match for Margery Firethorn. When he came to present his bill to her, he walked into the same hurricane as his predecessors. Backing away from the threshold of the house in Shoreditch, he summoned up enough courage to issue a threat of legal action.
'I have the law upon my side, Mistress.'
'And you stay, I'll gum your silks with water!'
'Pay up now to stave off a worser fate.'
'Do you want that pate split open with my broom?'
'I'd bring an action of battery against you.' Your widow might for you'd not live to do so.' I am not married,' he confessed.
'What woman would take you?' she jeered. 'I can see it in your visage, you insolent slave! You're a miserable tailor's remnant of a man, a pair of breeches without a codpiece, a dunghill cock with no cause to crow or fright any hen from her modesty. Away, you gelding!'
'Leave off, you shrew!'
'Then go before I snip with your scissors!'
"Tis a cucking-stool you need,' he said. ' That's what they use for ducking scolds.'
'Yaaaaaaaa!'
Margery ran at him with her broom at the ready and he took to his heels and ran for his life. As he raced off down the road, she yelled some more abuse at him to spur him on then relaxed and went back into the house. The tailor was the fifth creditor in the last two days and he came on the heels of a diaper, a hat-maker, a cobbler and a goldsmith. All presented her with reckonings that she simply could not meet, large bills recklessly run up by Lawrence Firethorn in the knowledge that he would be leaving London soon and therefore able to outrun his debts. Margery was left in the line of fire. Five had been dispatched but all five would return again with the law to strengthen their arm. And there would be more. Her husband was nothing if not extravagant. On the eve of his departure, he had run up debts all over London.
Pulsating with fury, she stormed upstairs to their bedchamber and grabbed the cloak. It was the answer to all her problems. Not only would its sale bring in enough money to pay off all outstanding accounts, it would be a severe blow to Firethorn. The second-best cloak was much more than a mere garment. It was a due reward for his artistic endeavour, a seal of approval from his patron. The actor had worn it onstage several times and it was a glittering storehouse of theatrical memories. Though he had left it for her to sell, he had banked on her keeping it for reasons of pride and nostalgia. Those reasons now battled with feelings of outrage.
Margery was betrayed. Struggling along without him was a trial enough but he had made her predicament much more awkward. It was typical of him and she cursed herself for not foreseeing this eventuality. No word had yet come from Firethorn and, when it did, she was sure that no money would accompany it. She was on her own with mouths to feed and tradesmen to stave off.
She fingered the cloak with swirling anger. It would serve him right if he came back to find it gone. Margery crossed to the door with the garment over her arm then stopped in her tracks. Conscience troubled her. She would be meeting one betrayal with a far greater one. Whatever vices her husband had, there was one overriding virtue that drew her to him. He loved the theatre. With a passion that amounted to an obsession, he adored every aspect of his chosen profession and savoured every prize and memento that had come his way. Even at the height of her rage, she did not have the heart to stab Firethorn in the back through the silk of his second-best cloak.
Shaking with frustration, she threw it aside. 'Doll!' she yelled.
'Yes, Mistress?' called a girlish voice.
'Come here at once!'
'In haste!'
The servant girl knew better than to keep Margery waiting. She had watched through a window as each of the five creditors had been sent packing with their ears on fire. Doll lived in the house and had nowhere else to go. Total obedience was the only way to appease her mistress.
She stumbled breathlessly into the bedchamber. 'Hurry, girl!'
'I am here, Mistress.'
'Then go from me again.'
'How now?'
'Fetch me pen and ink.'
'It shall be done directly.'
'And something I may write upon.'
'I fly.'
'Faster, girl!'
Margery Firethorn would grasp another possibility.
She would write a letter.
Nicholas Bracewell was in no position to parley. Greatly outnumbered and clearly in the wrong, his only hope lay in a swift escape. Half-a-dozen brawny gypsies were closing in on him, their scowls hidden by the paint on their faces but their gestures eloquent. The boy himself continued to shout at Nicholas then grabbed a handful of dust to throw up into his face. Blinded for a second, the book holder swung his sword in a wide arc to fend off the gypsies who moved in quickly upon him. As his eyes cleared, he saw another man running towards them with a branding iron in his hand, patently intent on murder. Nicholas rightly identified him as the boy's father and did not linger to discuss the youth's skill as a dancer.
Swishing his sword again to create more space, he then spun around and sprinted off. One of the gypsies had sneaked up behind him and tried to block his way but Nicholas knocked him our of the way with his shoulder. Pursuit was immediate and it was accompanied by all kinds of wild cries. A few dogs joined in the fun of the chase.
Nicholas was running at full pelt but found an extra yard of pace when a long knife embedded itself in a tree only inches from his face. When he reached his horse, he had no time for a leisurely mount with the stirrup. Vaulting into the saddle, he tugged the rein free of its branch and let the horse feel his urgency.
He galloped away with howls of anguish ringing in his ears. Three of them followed him and kept him within sight for a mile or more but he Finally managed to shake them off and gain the cover of a wood. With time at last to catch his breath, he measured the cost of his journey. It was expensive. He had wasted valuable time, created a band of dangerous enemies and collected an aching bruise on his shoulder. Irony ruled. Believing that the gypsies had stolen a young boy from him, he finished up by doing the same to them. Guilt lay exclusively with him and he had no excuse. Nicholas knew that he had deserved the bite that was still smarting on his arm. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.
Catching up with the company was now his prime concern and he did not spare his mount on the return journey. When he reached the Smith and Anvil, he watered the horse and checked to see what time the others had left, then he was back in the saddle and riding off once more. It was now mid-afternoon and the sun was at its height, compensating for the torrential rain earlier in the week by baking the land dry. Both Nicholas and the horse were dripping with perspiration. As the River Trent came into sight, he slowed his mount to a rising trot. The cool water shimmered ahead of him. Its appeal was quite irresistible to the exhausted traveller.
He reined in his horse when the water was lapping at its fetlocks then dismounted. After tethering the animal to the branch of an overhanging tree, he slipped behind a bush and peeled off his sticky clothes. Nobody was about as he ran naked to the edge of the bank and plunged straight into the river. It was a wonderful feeling, both relaxing and invigorating, easing his pain and restoring his vitality. He swam powerfully towards the middle of the river then rolled over on his back and floated on the surface of the water. His arms were outstretched and the sun gilded his hair and body. He let time stand still.
Eleanor Budden emerged from the bushes on the other side of the river and watched the apparition that was floating slowly towards her. She had been sitting beside the Trent in deep contemplation when she first heard the splash. Her mind had been on her mission and she had been waiting for another sign from above.
That sign had now come. What she saw on the water was no fatigued book holder washing off the dirt of a long journey. She witnessed a miracle. Eyes closed, arms nailed to some invisible cross, body limp yet beautiful. Fair hair combed by the sunlight. Here was no stranger but her closest friend in the world. She had last seen him in the lancet window at the church of St Stephen.
Eleanor Budden waded happily into the water.
'Lord Jesus,' she cried. 'Take me to Jerusalem!'
Nottingham was the first sizeable town they had been in since they had left and it gave them an immediate sense of reassurance. It was tiny by comparison with London but that did not worry them. The place was a vast improvement on villages that turned them away and hamlets which could not raise an audience worth the bother. Nottingham was civilization. They were back in business.
Lodging his company at the Saracen's Head near the centre of the town, Lawrence Firethorn put on his best apparel and went to call on the Mayor. Permission to play was readily granted and the Town Hall was the designated venue. The Mayor was a keen playgoer himself and he was delighted that Westfield's Men were gracing the town with a visit. Money was discussed and Firethorn left in much higher spirits. The performance of Robin Hood was set for the morrow which gave them ample time to rehearse the piece, to recruit journeymen as extras and-in the event of Richard Honeydew's continued absence-recast the role of Maid Marion. All seemed to be well.
The actor-manager then returned to the inn and his world caved in around him.
'Again! This is a double insult!'
'I saw the playbill myself, Master Firethorn.'
Did you witness the performance?
'I could not bear to, sir. My loyalty is to you.'
'It does you credit, Mistress Hendrik." He thumped the settle on which he was perched. 'By heavens, I'll not bear it! Giles Randolph is as arrant a knave as ever walked the face of the earth. Sure, he cannot have come from any lawful issue but was engendered by two toads on a hot day in some slimy place or other.' He jumped to his feet. And did he really play Pompey the Great?'
'But two clays ago.'
'Treachery in the highest degree!'
Anne Hendrik had tracked the company down to the inn and reported her news. The long-faced Edmund Hoode sat in on the debate along with Barnaby Gill. All three of them waited until Firethorn had ranted his full and described fifteen different ways in which he would put his rival to death. Having departed from their original route in order to shake off Banbury's Men, it was dispiriting to find that they had come in their wake after all. Firethorn's beloved role had been purloined, Hoode's play had been misappropriated and all the kudos that should have gone to Westfield's Men had been diverted to lesser mortals.
The actor-manager would have raved for an hour or more had he not been interrupted by the landlord who told him that another guest wished to have private audience with him. Firethorn stalked off like Pompey on his way to clear the Mediterranean of pirates.
Anne Hendrik was able to ask after Nicholas.
'Is he not with you here?'
'Not yet, Mistress,' said Hoode. 'Dick Honeydew was taken by the gypsies and Nicholas went to rescue him.'
'Alone?'
'He would not hear of company,' said Gill.
'But there are such perils.':
'Nicholas will make light of those,' assured Hoode then turned the question that really vexed him. 'Tell me now, for this is like a dagger in my heart, what player with Banbury's Men did dare to take my part?'
'Your part, sir? In Pompey the Great?'
'Sicinius.'
'I cannot say, Master Hoode.'
'It matters not,' said Gill dismissively. 'The role is of no account and hardly noticed in performance.'
'That is not true, Barnaby!'
'Take it away and who would miss it?'
'I would, man! I would!'
'Sicinius is a mean part for any man.'
'It is mine!' wailed Hoode. 'I wrote it and I play it. Sicinius is me. I would not have myself stolen like this. So tell me-who took the part?'
Mark Scruton lifted his dagger and stabbed his victim in the back with cruel deliberation. The man fell on to his face, twitched for a few horrifying seconds, then lay motionless. Wiping the blood from his weapon, the murderer gave a malevolent smile then strode calmly away.
Another rehearsal came to an end.
Kynaston Hall was the largest private house at which Banbury's Men had performed since the tour began and it offered them the best facilities. They had free use of the hall for rehearsal, the assistance of four liveried servants and regular maids from the kitchen. It was all very gratifying and no member of the company savoured it more than Mark Scruton. He was being given his first chance to take an important role. The play was one of their own this time, The Renegade, a dark and blood-soaked tragedy on a revenge theme. It enabled Giles Randolph to shine in a title role that really suited his talents and it brought Scruton forward into the light.
'Excellent work, sir.'
'Thank you, Master Randolph.'
'You prosper in the role.'
'I hope the audience shares your view.'
'Trust it well.'
'Have you no criticism?'
'None,' said Randolph languidly. 'Except that you stayed too long upon the stage once you had stabbed me. The murder of the Duke is of more dramatic significance than the reaction of his killer. Once you have dispatched me with your dagger, quit the stage.'
'I will, sir.'
'My corpse will be a soliloquy in itself.'
They were in the Great Hall and the stagekeepers were scampering around moving the scenery and props. Giles Randolph was very satisfied with the way that everything was going. On and off the stage, revenge was proving to be his best suit. He was about to move away when Scruton detained him by plucking at his sleeve.
'A word, sir.'
'It is not a convenient time.'
'This will take but a second.'
'Very well.' Randolph shrugged. 'What is it?' I am bold to put you in mind of my contract.'
'It has not been forgot.'
'When may I view it, sir?'
'When I have drawn it up.'
'And when will that be?'
'The other sharers have to be persuaded first.'
Scruton frowned. 'My understanding was that you could carry the business alone.'
'Well, yes, indeed. No question but that I can.'
'Why then the delay?'
'I am no lawyer, Mark. The terms must be drawn up properly and the Earl himself must take note of them. It is a big translation for you.'
'You know that I have earned it, Master Randolph.'
'No man more so.'
'Give me then a date. It was your promise.'
Giles Randolph gave him the enigmatic smile that was part of his stock-in-trade then walked slowly around him in a circle. Scruton did not like being kept waiting. His willing smile took on a forced look. Randolph faced him again and came to a decision.
'York.'
'What say you?'
'That is when the articles will be signed.'
'I have that for certain?'
'My hand upon it!' They exchanged a handshake. 'You will become a sharer with Banbury's Men and taste the sweeter fruit of our profession.'
'Thank you!' said Scruton with feeling. 'I did not doubt you for a moment. This gives me true happiness.'
'Wait but for York.'
'It will be my place of pilgrimage.'
'Bear your cross until then.'
Mark Scruton grinned. He was almost there.
It took Nicholas Bracewell fifteen minutes to convince her that he was not Jesus Christ and even then she had lingering reservations. When he saw her wading out to meet him in mid-river, he immediately lowered his body so that he could tread water. He had never been accosted by such a strange yet beautiful woman before, especially one who kept calling on him to baptize her in the Jordan. He took an age to persuade her to return to her bank then he swam back to where he had left his clothes and dried himself off as best he could before dressing. Restored and refreshed, he rode over the bridge and back along the bank to Eleanor Budden. Her wet shift was clinging to her body like a doting lover and he noticed that it had been repaired near the shoulder. Nicholas dismounted out of politeness and touched his cap.
'May I see you safe home, Mistress?'
'All the way to Jerusalem.'
'I have told you. I am with Westfield's Men.'
'Our meeting today was foretold.'
'Not to me.'
'We were destined to cross paths. Master Bracewell.'
'In the middle of the River Trent?'
'Tax not divine appointment.'
'Let me escort you to your house.'
'I have resolved to leave it for ever.'
'Yet you spoke of a husband and of children.'
'They will have to make shift without me.'
'Does duty not prompt you?' he said.
'Aye, sir. To follow the voice of God.'
Nicholas had met religious maniacs before. More than one of his fellow-sailors on the voyage with Drake had found the privations too hard to bear. They had taken refuge in a kind of relentless Christianity that shaped their lives anew and consisted in a display of good deeds and profuse quotations from the Bible. Eleanor Budden was not of this mould. Her obsession had a quieter and more rational base. That increased its danger.
'The Lord has brought us together,' she said. 'Has he?'
'Do you not feel it?'
'Honesty compels me to deny it.
'Where you lead, I will follow.'
'That is out of the question,' he said in alarm. 'You have been sent as my guide.'
'But we are not going to Jerusalem, I fear.'
'What, then, is your destination?'
'York.'
'I knew it!'
Eleanor flung herself to her knees and bent down to kiss his shoes. Nicholas backed away in embarrassment as she tried to clutch at him. Facing up to a band of angry gypsies had been nothing to this. Eleanor was a model of persistence, a burr that stuck firmly to his clothing.
'I must come with you. Master Bracewell.'
'Where?'
'To York. I must see the Archbishop.'
'Travel to the city by some other means.
'You are my appointed guardian.'
'Mistress, I am part of a company.'
'Then I will go with you and your fellows.'
'That is not possible.'
'Why, sir?'
'For a dozen reasons,' he said, wishing he could call some of them to mind. 'Chiefly, for that we are all men who ride together. No woman may join our train.'
'That is a rule which God can change.'
'Master Firethorn will not permit it.'
'Let me but talk with him.'
'It will be of no avail.'
Eleanor Budden got to her feet and turned her blue eyes on him with undisguised ardour. She stepped in close and her long wet strands of hair brushed his cheek.
'You have to take me to York,' she insisted.
'For what reason?'
'I love you.'
Nicholas Bracewell quailed. He foresaw trouble.
Lawrence Firethorn was slowly enthralled. More to the point, he smelled money. Oliver Quilley had invited him up to his room to put a proposition to him, and, after rejecting it out of hand, the actor-manager was slowly being won over.
The artist expatiated on his work. Strutting about the room in his finery like a turkey-cock, the dwarfish dandy explained why he had become a miniaturist.
'Limning is a thing apart from all other painting and drawing, and it excelleth all other art whatsoever in sundry points.'
'Discover more to me.'
'The technique of painting portrait miniatures comes from manuscript illumination. Hence the term "limning". Yet Master Holbein, the first of our breed, painted in the tradition of full-size portraits that were scaled down.'
'And you, Master Quilley?'
'My style is unique, sir.'
'Do you acknowledge no mentors?'
'I take a little from Holbein and a little more from Hilliard but Oliver Quilley is a man apart from all other limners. This you shall judge for yourself.'
He opened his leather pouch and took out four tiny miniatures that were wrapped in pieces of velvet. He removed the material and set them out on the table. Firethorn was overwhelmed by their brilliance. Three were portraits of women and the fourth of a man. All were executed with stunning confidence in colours that were uncannily lifelike. Quilley read his mind and had an explanation to hand.
'The principal part of drawing or painting after life consists in the truth of the line.' He pointed at his work. 'You see, sir? No shadowing is here. I believe in the sovereignty of the line and the magic of colour.'
'They are quite magnificent!'
'Ail paintings imitate nature or the life, but the perfection is to imitate the face of mankind.'
'And womankind,' said Firethorn, ogling the loveliest of the women. 'Who is the lady, sir?'
'A French Countess. And the other is her sister.'
'The third?'
Lady Delahaye. I was commissioned by her husband to have it ready in time for her wedding. It is all but finished and I can deliver it when I return to London.'
Firethorn warmed to the little man, sensing that he was in the presence of a fellow-artist, one who consorted with the nobility and whose work was worn as pendants or brooches at court, and yet who had made no fortune from his wondrous talents. The actor knew that story all too well because it was his own. Exceptional ability that went unrewarded in its proper degree. That sense of living hand-to-mouth which compromised the scope of his art and silenced its true resonance.
'Marry, sir, what a case is this!' he said. 'Here we are together. Men of genius who are packed off out of London to scrabble for every penny we get.'
Aye,' agreed Quilley. 'Then to have it taken from us by some murderous highwaymen. Had they taken these miniatures instead, I had been ruined.'
A thought took on form in Firethorn's mind.
'You wish to travel in our company, you say?'
'Only for safety's sake, as far as York.'
'We do not carry passengers in our company.'
'I'd pay my way, Master Firethorn, be assured.'
'That is what I come to, sir.' He tried to work out which was the better profile to present to the artist. 'Is it possible-I ask but in the spirit of unbiased enquiry-that you could paint such a portrait of me?'
'Of you or of any man, sir. For a fee.'
'A guarantee of your safety?'
'I'd need a horse of my own.'
'Done, sir!'
'And a bedchamber to myself at every stop we make?'
'It shall be the first article of our agreement.'
'We understand each other, sir.'
'Such a portrait would be very precious to me.'
'And to me, Master Firethorn,' said Quilley with elfin seriousness. 'The terms of the work can be talked over at a later date but I give you this as a sign of good faith.' He handed over the miniature of the man. 'It is worth much more than I will cost you. I am but small and very light to carry.'
Firethorn looked down at the exquisite oval painting that lay in his palm. It had such fire and elegance and detail. The man stared up at him with a pride that was matched by his poise. Firethorn was overcome by the generosity of the artist.
'This is for me, sir?'
'To seal our friendship and buy me safe passage.'
'It is the very perfection of art, sir.'
'My work is never less than that.'
'But will not the subject want it for himself?'
'I fear not, sir.'
'I would hate to take his personal property away.'
'The fellow has no need of it now.'
'Why?'
'Because that is Anthony Rickwood in your hand.'
'The name is familiar.'
'You have seen his portrait before, I think.'
'Have I?'
'It is the work of another famous artist.'
What is his name?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham,' said Quilley. 'He paints his subjects upon spikes. You may have seen poor Master Rickwood on display above Bishopsgate.'
'The man was a traitor?' gulped Firethorn.
'A staunch Roman Catholic'
'I am holding a corpse?'
'That is the essence of Walsingham's art.'
Quilley gave a mischievous smile that only caused the actor further discomfort. Firethorn had now changed his mind about the gift. Instead of being a treasured object, it was burning his palm like molten metal.