Robert Rawlins shuffled quietly into York Minster through the Great West Door and walked slowly down the centre of the nave. Sunlight streamed in through the magnificent window at his back, throwing its curvilinear tracery, with its central Heart of Yorkshire, into sharper relief and freshening the colours of the stained glass. Rawlins was dwarfed by it all, a grey, inoffensive little mouse amid the huge white pillars. Almost a hundred feet above his head, the superb gold bosses in the vaulted roof portrayed critical events in the Christian story. Here was both celebration and warning, a lasting tribute to what had gone before and a clear direction as to what should come in the future.
Standing in the aisle, Rawlins looked around and took in the wonder of it all, at once inspired and abashed, as he always was, by this architectural marvel dedicated to the glory of God, and highly conscious of the number of lives that had gone into its construction. He fell to his knees on the bruising stone and offered up a prayer of supplication. Anxious and beset by danger, he came in to search for sanctuary and was soon deep in conversation with his Maker.
An hour passed. The rustling silence was then broken by the sweetest of sounds. Behind the choir screen with its row of kings surmounted by stucco angels, the Minster choristers had taken up their position in their gleaming stalls. Voices of sublime harmony were raised in a Mass. In his extremity, it seemed to Robert Rawlins as if the angels themselves were singing in unison. He listened transfixed to the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei, mouthing old Latin words that were sung with such beauty and expression by young throats, and sharing in the perfection of earthly worship. It was such balm to his ears and succour to his soul that tears of joy soon trickled down his face.
The choirmaster now decided to rehearse a hymn. When the voices rose again to fill the whole cathedral with a mellifluous sound, they achieved a different result.
All people that on earth do dwell
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell,
Come ye before him, and rejoice.
Robert Rawlins got to his feet in horror. It was not only because the singing of hymns had been introduced by the Puritans as part of their denigration of the priests and their eagerness to involve the congregation in the divine service. What stuck in his craw was this version of Psalm 100-Jubilate Deo. Rendered into the vernacular from the Latin that Rawlins loved, it was the work of one William Kethe, a hymn-writer who fled from England during Mary's reign and lived as a refugee in Geneva with such extremists as John Knox, Goodman, Whittingham and Foxe. Such names, such beliefs and such associations were quite obnoxious to Robert Rawlins and he felt it was sacrilege to sing that hymn in that place.
Spinning around, he trotted back down the nave to the Great West Door. The comfort which he sought had been denied him. God was deaf to his entreaties.
He went out once more into a hostile world.
The enormous pleasure of seeing Anne Hendrik again was tempered by the fact that he had no leisure time to spend alone with her. Nicholas Bracewell was forced to chat with her while helping to construct a makeshift tree for use in the forthcoming performance of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. In a coiner of the inn yard, the book holder was an emergency carpenter with the dubious assistance of George Dart. Conversation with Anne Hendrik was therefore punctuated by the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer. It ruled out any romantic element. 'I cannot believe my luck in meeting you,' she said.
'I told you it would happen, Anne.'
'If only the circumstances were happier.'
'Indeed.'
'Is there no news at all of Dick Honeydew?'
'None, I fear.'
'Who could have taken him?'
'All sorts of people,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'He is a comely youth and takes the eye wherever we stop. Dick would not be the first apprentice who was snatched away because someone conceived a fancy for the lad.'
'Is he in danger?'
'We must hope that he is not.'
'Where do you think he could be, Nick?'
'I have cudgelled my brain to give me an answer to that question, but it refuses. All I have is guesswork and suspicion.'
And what do they tell you?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Would they commit such a crime?'
'They have stolen both our plays and our audiences,' he argued. 'Why should they stop there? In stealing young Dick as well, they deal us a far harder blow.'
'You think the boy is with them?'
'Master Randolph is too clever for that. If he has ordered the abduction-and every instinct about me says that he did-then lie would have assigned the task to some underling and told the man to keep Dick well away from the company for fear of detection.'
Anne's maternalism was thoroughly roused by now. She knew all the apprentices well, none more so than Richard Honeydew, and she felt a mother's distress at his untimely disappearance. Imagination only increased her fright.
'Will they harm the boy?'
'They have no need to do so,' he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. 'Their sole aim is to harm Westfield's Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.'
'What will happen to the lad, then?'
'I believe he will be released in time.'
'And when will that be?'
'When they have thoroughly discomfited us.'
Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.
'This is no work for a book holder.'
'It is a case of all hands to the pumps.'
'Can you not assign these chores to others?'
Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.
'That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,' he said. 'Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there'd scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.'
Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice. 'Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.'
"There is nothing more to tell.'
'She accosted you in the river, you say?'
'Only because she took me for my betters.'
'You are no Lord Jesus to me.'
I am pleased to hear it.' They laughed fondly. Do not pay any heed to Mistress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.'
'Can you be sure of that, Nick?'
'She will not travel with us.'
'Master Oliver Quilley does."
'Only by special arrangement.'
'Will she not find the same dispensation?'
'It is outside the bounds of possibility,' he said with confidence. 'Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.'
'It is agreed, then,' said Firethorn. 'You come with us."
'Oh, sir!' she said effusively. 'Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.'
'Nay, Madam, I will kiss yours.'
He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield's Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let an artist and now a self-proclaimed visionary accompany them on their travels. Lawrence Firethorn persuaded himself that both decisions were the right ones.
'You will not forget the money, good Mistress.'
'I will bring it with me.'
'And there will be no dispute with your husband?', 'He will not stop me, sir.'
'Then I am content.'
'And I am truly bounden to you, Master Firethorn.'
She curtseyed again and allowed him another view of the delights which had finally changed his mind. Eleanor Budden was indeed a gorgeous woman and her religious fervour only served to bring out her qualities. He loved the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her face and the appealing curves of her body. After dismissing her plea out of hand at first, he had listened to her gentle tenacity and feasted his eyes on her long hair. The combination of the two had made him think again.
Firethorn sought to clarify their relationship.
'There will be certain conditions, Mistress.'
'I submit to anything that you devise, sir.'
'Would that you did!' he murmured.
'What must I do?'
'Refrain from interference with our calling. We will be your shield on the road but we must have freedom to practise our art along the way. You must not hinder us in rehearsal or performance in any way.'
'Nor will I, sir. I'll spend my time in prayer.'
'We might find other things for you.'
'I need none.'
The simplicity of her purpose was quite moving. At the same time, he could not accept that it would sustain her all the way to York and certainly not to Jerusalem itself. Eleanor Budden had never been more than ten miles from Nottingham in the whole of her life and that had been in the company of her husband. She would find the long ride to York both irksome and perilous, causing her to turn increasingly to Firethorn for support. The idea titillated him. He had never corrupted a saint before.
'And shall I see Master Bracewell?' she asked.
'Every day. You'll ride beside him on the waggon.'
'My cup of joy runs over!'
'Haply, mine will do so as well.'
He bestowed another kiss on her hand then escorted her to the door of the inn. She waved in gratitude then flitted off over the cobbles. Firethorn chuckled to himself then went into the taproom to acquaint Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode with the latest development. They were antagonistic.
'This is lunacy!' yelled Gill. 'I forbid it!'
'It is less than wise, Lawrence,' said Hoode.
'The venture brings us money and companionship.'
"Who wants her companionship?' retorted Gill. 'Let her keep her money and distribute it as alms. We are actors here, not bodyguards for hire by anyone. Our only privilege is our freedom and you throw that away by inviting some Virgin Mary to sit in judgement on us.'
'She's no Virgin Mary,' said Firethorn quickly.
'The lady is a distraction,' said Hoode. 'She has no place alongside us. Nor does Master Oliver Quilley. They should find some other means to travel north.'
Firethorn did his best to win them over but they were unconvinced. As a last resort, he knew that he could impose his will upon them but wished to avoid doing that if at all possible. Their acceptance was important. He wanted to be seen by Eleanor Budden as the leader of a company who studied to obey his every wish, and not as some petty tyrant who bullied the others into agreement.
His two colleagues left with stern warnings.
'I set my face against this, Lawrence!' said Gill.
'It will not improve your complexion.'
'I am with Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'You have made a move here that will bring us nothing but awkwardness.'
The two of them went out and Firethorn was left to mull over what they had said. He was not dismayed. They always objected to his ideas. It was simply a question of giving them time to grow accustomed to the notion. When they saw what a harmless woman Eleanor Budden was, they would alter their views. Firethorn was pleased with the new transaction. He called for a pint of sherry.
He was taking his first sip when she appeared.
'I hoped to find you here, sir.' V 'Susan, my dove! Sit down and take your ease.'
'I come to inform you of my decision,' she said with a broad grin, lowering herself down into a chair. 'Your lonely nights are over, Lawrence.'
'Prove it lustily between the sheets.'
'So will I do, sir.'
'You are man's greatest comfort, Susan.'
'That is why I will not desert you now.'
'Bless you, lady!'
'Master Gill made up my mind for me.'
'Barnaby?'
'He told me even now of Mistress Budden.'
'Ah, yes,' he said dismissively. 'A holy woman who hears the voice of God, A poor, distracted creature on whom a Christian must take pity.'
'Is she young or old?'
'Ancient, I fear. And so ill-favoured that a man can scarce look fully upon her. That is the only reason I took her. Mistress Budden will be no temptation to the goatish members of my company.'
Susan Becket's eyes twinkled merrily.
'I saw the lady leave you. If she be ancient, then I am dead and buried this last ten-year. She has a bloom upon her that could seduce a bishop.'
'How came I to miss such a quality?'
'Because your mind was firmly on me, Lawrence.'
'Indeed, indeed,' he fawned.
'That is why I reached my decision. Mistress Budden is a child of nature and innocence sits upon her. I'll be a true mother to her and keep those goats from grazing on her pasture. She'll thank me well for it.'
'I do not understand your meaning, Susan.'
'Your warming-pan comes with you, sir.'
'All the way?' he said anxiously.
'Every last inch.'
'I could not put you to the trouble.'
'It is my pleasure.'
Her smile of easy determination fractured all his plans for the journey. Susan Becket was an old flame he had intended to blow out in Nottingham but she had now rekindled herself. Lawrence Firethorn could not hide his chagrin. He was taking one woman too many to York.
The pint of sherry was guzzled quickly down.
Sir Clarence Marmion strolled through his garden with his soberly-clad companion by his side. Large, formal and a blaze of colour, it was a tribute to the skill and hard work of his gardeners, but their master was not interested in their craft that morning. His mind was preoccupied with something of more immediate concern.
'He would yield up no names.'
'Are you sure that he knew any?'
'No question about that, sir.'
'Did you press him on the matter?'
'As hard as any man dare.'
Robert Rawlins rubbed his hands fastidiously.
'Let me speak to the fellow, Sir Clarence.'
It will not serve.'
'Haply, I may succeed where others have failed.'
'You have come too late for that.'
'I will lay spiritual weights upon him.'
'He would feel them not, Master Rawlins.'
'What are you telling me?'
'The man is dead.'
'Since when?'
'Since I had him killed.'
'Sir Clarence!'
Robert Rawlins put a hand to his mouth in shock and leaned upon a stone angel for support. It was not the first time that his host had taken him by surprise since lie had arrived in Yorkshire but it was easily the most disconcerting. He waved his arms weakly in protest but his companion was brutally calm.
'The man was given Christian burial,' he said.
'After he was murdered.'
'Executed, sir. Like Anthony Rickwood.'
'An eye for an eye?'
'We gave him all the justice he deserved.'
'I would have sued for clemency.'
'On behalf of such a villain as that?'
'Every man has some good in him.'
'Not this black-hearted devil,' said Sir Clarence with asperity. 'One of Walsingham's jackals. He brought dozens of Catholics to their deaths and did so without compunction. Was I to let him go free, sir, to report that I was party to the conspiracy? And that Robert Rawlins is a missionary priest of the Romish persuasion?'
'I like not this business.'
'We had no choice before us.'
'You had Christian teaching to guide you.'
'So did Anthony Rickwood and where did it land him? Upon a spike at Bishopsgate until we engineered his rescue.' His vehemence increased. 'And what of Neville Pomeroy? What guidance did his Christian teaching give him? It showed him the way directly to the Tower!'
'I did not mean to anger you so, Sir Clarence.'
'We must fight fire with fire!'
'Murder should be anathema.'
'Revenge has its own dignity.'
Robert Rawlins bit back any further comment and tried to come to terms with what had happened. Sir Clarence Marmion was a good friend and a charming host when he wished to be but a new and more callous side to his character was emerging. It was highly unsettling. Joined indissolubly by the same purpose, the two men yet had different ideas on how it could be best effected.
Sir Clarence tried to still the other's disquiet.
'He sleeps with God now, sir.'
'Will the Law not come searching for him?'
'He'll not be found six feet under my land.'
'I own I am distressed.'
'Would you rather we had been subjects for burial?
'Indeed not, Sir Clarence.'
'Then rejoice in the death of an enemy.'
They strolled on along a gravel path that bisected the rose garden. Robert Rawlins slowly came to see some reason in what had been said. His host sounded a note or cautious optimism.
'I have prayed for help.'
'So have I, Sir Clarence. Daily.'
'Our prayers may yet meet with a response.'
'You have a sign of this?'
'Not outwardly, Master Rawlins.'
'Then how?'
'It is no more than a feeling but it grows and grows all the time. The man we seek may not need to be hunted down after all. There may be another means to find him.'
'Tell me what it is.'
'Let the villain come to us.'
'Will he do that, Sir Clarence?'
'I am certain of it. When I trust to instinct, I am seldom misled. The man is getting closer and we must be ready for him. Keep your wits about you, sir.'
'I will.' He is on his way to York.'
Christopher Millfield knew how to cut a dash when the opportunity presented itself. He had been cast in the part of Will Scarlet and sang the ballad which began the rehearsal of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Sauntering about the stage, he let his flowing scarlet costume swish to great effect and accompanied his pleasing tenor voice with chords from a small lute. Will Scarlet truly had his moment at the Town Hall in Nottingham.
Come now and listen, gentlemen,
That be of free-born blood!
I shall tell you of a good yeoman,
His name was Robin Hood.
Robin was a proud outlaw,
Whiles he walked on ground,
So courteous a fellow as he was one,
Was never none yet found.
Robin stood in Sherwood Forest,
And leaned him to a tree.
And by him stood Little John,
The stoutest friend was he.
The rehearsal had some shaky moments. Martin Yeo, the oldest and most experienced of the apprentices, was never more than a competent replacement for Richard Honeydew in the vital role of Maid Marion. His gesture and deportment were above reproach but he had none of his colleague's radiance or supreme sense of timing. Dressed in Lincoln green, as sanctified by tradition, Lawrence Firethorn brought his usual panache to the role of Robin Hood but even he faltered slightly in the love scenes. Barnaby Gill was a droll Friar Tuck and Edmund Hoode scored in the part of Much the Miller's Son but the Merry Men were a complete shambles. Supplemented by a few journeymen brought in for the occasion, they moved about the stage like a flock of frightened sheep and scattered in utter confusion whenever Robin Hood indulged in swordplay.
Nicholas Bracewell kept the whole thing moving and minimized the effects of most errors but even he could not stop George Dart-a decidedly unmerry member of the Merry Men-from felling a tree by walking accidentally into it. Will Scarlet was one of the few to come through unscathed and he brought the proceedings to a close with another ballad sung to the music of his lute.
Then bespake good Robin,
In place whereat he stood,
'Tomorrow, I must to Kirksley,
Craftily to be let blood!'
Sir Roger of Doncaster,
By the Prioress he lay,
And there they betrayed good Robin Hood
Through their false play.
Christ have mercy on his soul!
(That died on the rood)
For Robin was a good outlaw
And did poor men much good.
Robin Hood now rounded on his Merry Men as if they had each tried to assassinate him during the performance. By the time Firethorn had finished reviling them for their incompetence and blaming them for their mere existence, their cheeks matched the colour of Will Scarlet's costume. The actor-manager spread his criticisms widely and even Barnaby Gill was made to squirm a little. Martin Yeo was totally demoralized by the attack on him. The only actor who emerged unscathed was Christopher Millfield. It put him in buoyant mood.
'How did it look to you, Master Bracewell?'
'There is much work to be done.'
'I was speaking of my own performance.'
'You sang most sweetly.'
'And my playing of Will Scarlet?'
'It was sufficient,' said Nicholas with polite evasion. 'You will not let the company down, sir.'
Millfield felt damned by faint praise. Wanting to impress the other, he had only irritated him by seeking his approval so obviously. He watched the book holder take control. Now that the rehearsal was over, Nicholas started delegating the dozens of jobs that had been thrown up in the past couple of hours. Several props had been damaged and needed repair, one of the trestles that held up the stage had to be strengthened, and two of the instruments required a new string apiece. Some of the costumes had been torn during the fight scenes and George Dart was assigned the task of mending them with needle and thread. Stephen Judd's wig was falling apart.
Nicholas was so caught up in his work that he did not see the danger that threatened. With his back to the stage, he was unaware of the fact that two of his minions were struggling to dismantle the gallows that was used in the closing scene of the play. It was far too heavy and awkward for them to handle and its weight finally got the better of them. Before they could stop it, the long spar of timber toppled over and fell towards Nicholas.
Christopher Millfield responded like lightning.
'Look out there!'
Hurling himself forward, he knocked the book holder out of the way and suffered a glancing blow from the falling prop. Nicholas picked himself up and turned to see what had happened. Millfield was now sitting on the floor and rubbing his shoulder gingerly.
'Are you hint, Christopher?
'It is nothing serious.'
'I owe you much thanks.' Millfield grinned. 'I saved you from the gallows.'
'And from certain injury.'
Nicholas upbraided the two assistants who caused the accident and got them to move the timber away. Then he offered a hand to Millfield and pulled him up. The latter dusted himself off and continued to rub his shoulder.
'I will remember this,' said Nicholas.
'You would have done as much for me.'
'In your place, I might have held back.'
'Because you do not like me?'
'It is reason enough.'
'But I like you, Master Bracewell.'
It was Nicholas's turn to grin. Millfield's manner was quite disarming and it was hard to bear a grudge against him. The book holder made a concession.
'Your performance was excellent, Christopher.'
'Thank you!'
'To speak truly, I am not sure that Gabriel Hawkes could have bettered it.'
'I seek no higher praise than that.'
'You will get none.'
They shared a laugh and much of the tension between them evaporated. All actors sought approval but Millfield seemed particularly anxious to win a plaudit from the book holder. It made him quite forget the pain in his shoulder. He reached out to take Nicholas by the arms.
'I will confess something to you,' he said.
'Must I be your priest?' teased the other.
'I am in earnest, Master Bracewell.'
'Speak on.'
'Gabriel was the finer actor.'
'Only in certain respects.'
'I am honest enough to admit it,' said Millfield seriously. 'He had more range and more depth. When you chose between us, you were right to take Gabriel Hawkes.'
'No other player would allow as much.'
'Why hide the truth when the fellow is no longer with us?' His grip tightened. 'I hated him for standing in my way. I wished Gabriel dead so that I could take his place but I did not hasten his end, that I swear. If he was murdered, as you believe, then it was by another.'
Nicholas looked deep into his eyes and lost many of the suspicions and resentments he harboured against the man. Christopher Millfield had his faults but they were largely those of his profession. The book holder sealed their newfound friendship with a warm handshake that made the other wince. Concern took over.
'Let me look at that shoulder of yours.'
'It is of no account.'
'You are still in pain, I can see.'
Millfield was eventually persuaded to take off his scarlet tunic so that Nicholas could examine the injury. The shoulder was badly grazed where the timber had struck but no blood had been drawn. Nicholas used tender fingers to explore the damage then got his companion to lift his arm straight up then rotate it. He gave his diagnosis.
'You are lucky, Christopher. Nothing is broken.'
'I will get away with a few bruises.'
'And a lot of stiffness,' said Nicholas. 'Give me some time and I will prepare an ointment to put on your shoulder. It will ease the soreness.'
'Then it is most welcome. How will you make it?'
'With herbs.'
'Are you a physician as well?'
I learned much from the ships doctor when I was at sea. Aches and pains are part of every sailor's lot and I studied the way to soften them. The knowledge has been of use many a time.'
'No patient will be more grateful than I.'
'The gratitude is all on my side.'
'Your friendship is reward enough.'
'It comes with the ointment.'
Millfield grinned. 'Both will be cherished.'
When the actor went off to get changed, Nicholas was soon joined by another companion. Oliver Quilley had been watching the rehearsal attentively throughout. If he was to create a miniature of the actor-manager, it must contain all of his characteristic and these were most evident when he was onstage. Quilley missed nothing.
'Is Master Firethorn always so fierce?'
'You saw but a muted account of him today.'
'There's more ferocity to come?'
'He saves it for the audience.'
'I wait with interest,' said Quilley. 'When I paint a portrait, I want it to be as complete a picture as is possible. I divine the truth of a personality.'
'How long will this portrait take, sir?'
'I work from three sittings,' explained the artist with fluttering hand movements. 'At the first, I will set down the broad outline of his features, starting with the forehead and using it to calculate the other proportions of his face. At the second sitting, I will make careful note of all the colours of flesh, hair and costume, paying especial attention-for this is the crux of my art-to the expression of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.'
'What of the third sitting, Master Quilley?'
'I will finish off in fine detail.'
'You work speedily, sir.'
'Even artists have to eat.'
'How did you come to choose your career?'
'It chose me,' said Quilley. 'I was apprenticed nearly thirty years ago now to a goldsmith in Eastcheap. My master was a wealthy man and rose to be Chamberlain of the City of London and Prime warden of his Company.'
'You picked your master with care.'
'Fortune was ever at my side during the seven years I spent at the sign of the Gilt Lion and Firebrand. I became very skilled in the making of jewellery and much taken with the notion of painting miniatures.'
'How did you begin, Master Quilley?'
'With a lady at court. She was a friend of my master's and easily flattered. It was my first work as a limner and not without flaw.'
'In what way?'
'The portrait was superb, as all my painting is, but I omitted a vital detail, Master Bracewell.'
'Oh?'
'I did not exact payment.' He rolled his eyes and tossed his hands in the air. 'Such is the life of an artist! We never get our due reward. Word of mouth pronounces me a genius and commissions roll in but do those same people actually pay me for my labours? Very rarely, sir. Very rarely.'
'You must have had some honest employers.'
'A few. Master Anthony Rickwood was one.'
'He that was executed?' said Nicholas in surprise.
'Yes, sir. He has suffered for his villainy but I can only speak of his kindness. Master Rickwood paid me twice what I asked and be recommended me to a number of his close friends, including Master Neville Pomeroy from Hertfordshire.'
We know the gentleman.'
'Then you will be aware of his generosity. A most courteous fellow. I lacked for nothing at his home.'
'Nor did we when we performed at Pomeroy Manor."
'He talked much of his passion for the theatre.'
'We look to visit him again on our return south.'
'Unhappily, you may not do that, sir.' But he invited us.'
'He is no longer there to receive you.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because Master Pomeroy has been arrested.'
'On what charge?'
'High treason. He conspired with Anthony Rickwood.'
'Can this be true?'
'Walsingham has him locked away in the Tower.'
'What will be his fate?'
'The worst possible.' Quilley smiled wryly. He will die the ignominious death of a traitor. I do not think that Master Millfield will be able to save him from the gallows.'
Miles Melhuish blanched. He thought he could not be astounded anew by Eleanor Budden but he was mistaken. Her latest announcement made him gape. He turned to her husband who sat in the corner of the vestry but Humphrey had no opinion. Defeated by his wife in every way, he was a poor, pale relic of the man who had married her and gloried in her favours. Humphrey Budden was to be an essentially silent presence during the interview.
Melhuish summoned up some pop-eyed indignation.
'This is not wise, Mistress. This is not good.'
'I believe it to be both, sir.'
'Travelling with a company of itinerant players!'
'They come from London,' she said proudly.
'That only makes it worse. You cannot conceive of the minds and appetites of such creatures. Players are but friends of Hell in human disguise.'
'They have used me most properly until now.'
'Wait until you are undefended on the road.'
'That cannot be. God is with me always.'
'Yes, sister,' he said condescendingly. 'God is with us all, and at all times. But there are times when even His divine protection is not enough. You do yourself a harm by exposing yourself to such danger.'
'Of what, Master Melhuish?'
The vicar cleared his throat and plucked at his collar. He tossed a glance at Budden but there was no help from there. He plucked the nettle boldly.
'Players are notorious libertines, Eleanor.'
'I never heard it so.'
'They have the morals of the lowest beasts.'
'Why then have they been so polite to me?'
"Tis but to lure you into lowering your guard.'
'Master Firethorn is not like that,' she argued with feeling. 'Nor is Master Bracewell and he is the reason that I travel with Westfield's Men.'
'Who is Master Bracewell?'
'He hangs behind you, sir.'
Miles Melhuish turned around with a start but saw nobody there. Eleanor pointed to the stained glass window whose image of Jesus Christ looked more like the book holder than ever. The vicar was given a further shock.
'You tell me this player is…like Lord Jesus?'
'As like as two peas in a pod, sir,' she said. 'But he is no player. Master Bracewell is the book holder with the company and a more upright man I have never met. I'd put my life and soul in his hands, so I would!'
'Take care he does not abuse your trust.'
'He would not.'
'Think of the long reaches of the night.'
'I have done with fornication,' she said chirpily.
Humphrey Budden twitched at the mention of the word and a wistful calm settled on his dull features as he let his mind play with a few robust memories. Melhuish tried further persuasion but it was futile. When her mind was made up, Eleanor would listen to nobody.
'Take another woman with you,' he advised. 'One of your servants to act as a chaperone.'
'God is my chaperone.'
'It may prove too onerous a duty for Him.'
'You question His powers?'
'No, no,' said Miles Melhuish quickly. 'I would never presume to do such a thing. It is just that…well, I would feel happier if you had some additional guarantee of your safety.'
'I do, sir. In Master Nicholas Bracewell.'
"That is not what I had in mind.' He looked over at the somnolent husband. 'Do you have no fears for your good lady on this journey, sir?'
'None that I know of,' he grunted.
'She will be with loose men of the theatre.'
'Good luck to them!' murmured the other.
'Rest easy, sir,' said Eleanor to the vicar. 'I will not be the only traveller with the company. An artist makes the journey to York with us as well. And so does another woman. She will ensure my safety.'
Plague hit London with renewed force each day but Doll would have preferred to take her chances in the city all the same, life at the house in Shoreditch was a spreading pestilence ever since the siege by creditors had begun. Margery Firethorn became more and more embattled and her servants felt the worst tremors. Doll always seemed to be in the firing line when her mistress exploded. The girl was small, young, tousled and quite unequal to the demands made on her by a ranting employer. Each day brought fresh pain and humiliation for her.
Margery Firethorn hailed her from the kitchen.
'Doll!'
'Yes, Mistress?'
'Can you not hear the doorbell?'
'No, Mistress.'
'Then open your ears, girl, or I'll box them!'
Doll came scuttling into the kitchen where Margery was up to her arms in flour. The girl dithered and threw a deep but raged curtsey. The doorbell rang more loudly.
'Do you hear it now, girl?''
'Yes. Mistress.'
'Then answer it.'
'What am I to say?'
'If it be a creditor, that I am not at home.'
'And if it be someone else?'
'Bring me word. Now-away!'
Doll raced out and she could be heard opening the door and talking to someone for a few moments. When she came back in, the girl was wide-eyed with amazement.
'Well?' snapped Margery.
'You have a visitor, Mistress.'
'Who is he?'
'There is a big coach outside the house.'
'Who is he?'
'His footman rang the bell.'
'His name, girl. What is my visitor's name?
'Lord Westfield.'
Doll was plainly awe-struck at the notion of a peer of the realm calling at a player's house in Shoreditch but Margery reacted as if it was an everyday occurrence. Wiping her floured hands on her apron, she crossed to the sink to thrust her hands into a pan of cold water. She swung her head to glare at her servant.
'Do not stand there like that, Doll.'
'What must I do, Mistress?'
'Show Lord Westfield in.'