‘And what passed between you in former times?’
‘We shared a bed in Christian happiness, sir.’
‘And your wife was then … forthcoming?’
‘Most truly!’
‘She did not hold back from you?’
‘I was the novice at first. Eleanor had to instruct me in my duties and she did so with wondrous skill.’
Miles Melhuish reddened as a vision flashed before his eyes. He saw the naked body of an impassioned woman in the bedchamber of a parishioner. He could sniff her fragrance, feel her touch, share her madness. It took a great effort of will for him to banish her from his mind.
He asked his question through gritted teeth.
‘You say the marriage was happy?’
‘Very happy, sir.’
‘And that she instructed you willingly.’
‘Two husbands had taught her much.’
‘So you and your wife … mingled flesh?’
‘Every night, sir.’
‘The act of love is for procreation,’ said the vicar sharply. ‘It is not a source of carnal gratification.’
‘We know that, sir, and acted accordingly. Our dearest wish was that our union would be blessed with a child.’
‘I’m surprised you have not had several offspring,’ muttered the other under his breath. ‘With such regular activity, you could people an entire town!’ He sat up and
pulled himself together. ‘But all that is now past?’
‘This is what she says.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Divine command.’
‘The woman is deranged.’
‘She wishes to become a pilgrim, sir.’
‘Poor creature! She needs help.’
‘Eleanor is leaving soon.’
‘Where will she go?’
‘Jerusalem.’
‘I spy madness.’
Humphrey Budden leaned forward to make his plea.
‘Speak to her, sir!’
‘Me?’
‘You are our only hope. Eleanor will listen to you.’
‘Will she so?’
‘Speak to her!’
It was a cry from the heart and Miles Melhuish could not ignore it. Part of him wanted to shrug the problem off his own shoulders but another part of him wanted to take the full weight of the burden. The vision flashed through his mind again. Long fair hair. Round, trembling buttocks. Joyous breasts. Satin skin. Succulent lips. Total surrender in its most beautiful human form.
The answer to a prayer.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to her.’
Lawrence Firethorn pawed the ground like an angry bull. When he began his charge, nobody within striking
distance was safe. It was a terrifying spectacle.
‘What did you say, Nick?’ he bellowed.
‘They will not suffer us to play there.’
‘Not suffer us! In Lord Westfield’s own county? Where the writ of our patron runs wide? And they will not suffer us, indeed? I’ll teach them what suffering is, call me rogue if I do not!’
‘Another company got there first, master.’
‘With our play! Stolen without compunction.’
‘They would not hear
Cupid’s Folly
again,’ explained Nicholas. ‘Nor would they countenance any other play from us. They have eaten their fill.’
‘Then will I make them spew it up again!’ raged Firethorn. ‘By heaven, I’ll make their stomachs burn, the unmannerly rogues, the scurvy, lousy, beggarly knaves, the foul, ungrateful rascals, the stinking, rotting carcasses of men that live in that God-forsaken hole! Keep me from them, Nick, or I’ll carve ’em all to shreds with my sword, I will, and hang the strips on a line for kites to peck at.’
Lawrence Firethorn unsheathed his weapon and hacked at a bush to vent his spleen. The rest of the company looked on with trepidation. Nicholas had met them a mile south of Ware to break the bad news. Predictably, it had thrown the actor-manager into a fury. As he reduced the bush to a forlorn pile of twigs and leaves, they began to fear for the safety of all vegetation in the county. He was armed and dangerous.
It was Edmund Hoode who calmed him down. ‘That bush is not the enemy, Lawrence.’
‘Stand off, sir.’
‘Sheathe your sword and listen to reason.’
‘Reason? What care I for reason?’
‘We are all losers in this escapade.’
‘Indeed we are,’ said Barnaby Gill loftily from his saddle. ‘
Cupid’s Folly
was to have been my triumph. I never play Rigormortis without I leave the audience in a state of helpless mirth.’
‘It is those absurd breeches,’ sneered Firethorn.
‘My success does not lie in my breeches.’
‘That we all can confirm!’
Laughter from the others helped to ease the tension. Gill spluttered impotently then turned his horse away in a huff. Hoode took the sword from Firethorn and put it back into its sheath.
Nicholas Bracewell addressed the real problem.
‘How did they get hold of the play?’
‘It was taken from you privily,’ said Firethorn.
‘That is not possible, master. The books of all our plays are locked in a chest that I keep hidden away from prying eyes. Nobody is allowed near it, least of all our rivals.
Cupid’s Revenge
was not stolen.’
‘It was pirated in some way,’ said Hoode grimly. ‘And if it can be done with one play, it can be done again with others. Who can assure the safety of my own plays?’
‘There’s but one answer for it,’ said Nicholas.
‘Revenge!’ declared Firethorn.
‘Only after we learn the truth, master.’
‘We know it full well, Nick. This is the work of Banbury’s
Men, those shambling caterpillars that call themselves a company of players. They mean to spike our guns but we will turn our cannon round and give them such a broadside as will blow them back to London.’
‘But how was it done?’ insisted Nicholas.
‘Marry, that’s the important point,’ agreed Hoode.
‘Not to me,’ said Firethorn, striking a heroic pose with one arm outstretched towards the sky. ‘Only one thing serves us here. Swift and bloody revenge! If those liveried lice belonging to the Earl of Banbury will dare to take on the might of Westfield’s Men, so be it! Let them beware the consequences.’
He ranted on in fine style for several minutes. Banbury’s Men were their arch-rivals, a talented company that strove to equal them but always fell short of their stature. Led by the wily Giles Randolph, they had made attempts to damage the reputation of Westfield’s Men before but they had never stooped to this device. In London, they would not have dared to be so bold but the anonymity of the provinces gave them a useful shield. Banbury’s Men had struck the first telling blow.
Firethorn intended to strike the last.
‘Let us pursue them with all speed, gentlemen. They deserve no quarter. Banbury’s Men have shown how low they will sink into the mire of self-advancement. There’s no room in our profession for such dishonourable wags. We must expel them once and for all.’ The sword came out to make a graphic gesture. ‘Onwards to battle, my lads! Let us fight for our lives and our good names.’
With a practised flick of the wrist, he sent the point of his rapier some inches into the ground so that the blade rocked to and fro with mesmeric power. They were still watching the weapon vibrate as he growled his final, fatal words.
‘Gentlemen – this is war!’
Giles Randolph reclined in a wooden armchair in the corner of the tavern and toyed with his glass of Canary wine. Tall, slim and dark, he had a Mediterranean cast of feature which set him apart from the average man and which made him irresistible to the feminine sections of his audiences. He had a satanic quality that excited. Randolph was the acknowledged star of Banbury’s Men and he was a shrewd businessman as well as a superb actor. Trapped in the vanity of his profession, he could not accept that any man could strut a stage with more assurance or squeeze the life-blood out of any role with more devastating effect. His feud with Lawrence Firethorn, therefore, went fathoms deeper than mere professional jealousy. It was a vendetta, at once reinforced and given more dimension by the fact that the Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies. In mortifying his rival, Giles Randolph could please his patron.
He smiled complacently at his companion.
‘We have made good speed.’
‘Banbury’s Men are ahead in every sense.’
‘It must remain that way. I like not these wearisome tours but at least we can have some sport for our pains.’
‘They will have reached Ware by now.’
‘And found the coldest welcome.’
Randolph sipped his wine then toyed with his glass. As befitted a leading actor, he was attired with all due ostentation in a doublet of blue satin with elaborate gold patterning down the front and green hose. His hat swept down over one eye to give him a conspiratorial air and its ostrich feather trembled as he spoke.
‘Firethorn must be wounded to the quick.’
‘We have drawn blood enough already.’
‘I want to hack off his limbs,’ said Randolph with sudden intensity. ‘I want to leave his gore all over the stage. If he dares to compete against my sovereignty, I will bring him down once and for all.’
‘By what means?’
‘Attacking his pride.’
‘I’ll wager it is smarting back in Ware just now.’
‘Wait until he reaches Grantham. I’ll pull a trick will make him wish he had stayed at home in Shoreditch with that termagant wife of his and listened to her scolding.’ He put his glass down. ‘Now, sir, what is his finest role?’
‘Vincentio?’ suggested the other.
‘A scurvy play with but three speeches of note.’
‘Hector, then. Master Firethorn is always boasting of his prowess in
Hector of Troy
. The part becomes him.’
‘He has not played it this last year.’
‘Then must we go to his favourite character.’
‘What’s that? You know his mind.’
‘Pompey!’
‘The very man!’
‘The play was called for time and again.’
‘By Edmund Hoode, I think.’
‘Yes, sir. It is called
Pompey the Great.’
‘Then will it feel the imprint of my greatness.’
‘We’ll play the piece in Grantham.’
‘To the hilt, sir. Lawrence Firethorn will have his reputation cut from beneath him. I’ll make the role my own and throw Westfield’s Men aside into the mire. This tour will yet repay me in full amount.’
Giles Randolph called for more wine from the cask.
It tasted sweeter than ever.
M
armion Hall was an optical illusion. Because it nestled in a hollow and was fringed by a semi-circle of trees, it looked far smaller than it really was. Behind the modest façade, it was remarkably spacious with the main part of the house thrusting deep and with a sizeable wing that was hidden behind the outcrop of sycamores. A fire had caused extensive damage to the rear of the property some ten years earlier and there had been lengthy repair work. Sir Clarence Marmion took advantage of the rebuilding to add some new features to his home though they were not all apparent to the naked eye. Like its owner, Marmion Hall preserved an air of secrecy.
Sunday afternoon found Sir Clarence in the dining room, sitting alone at the head of the shining oak table as he studied his Bible. Dressed in subdued colours and wearing an expression of rapt concentration, he tended to
his spiritual needs then closed his eyes in thought.
There was a knock on the door. A servant entered.
‘Well?’
‘The guests have arrived, Sir Clarence.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, Sir Clarence.’
‘What o’clock is it?’
‘Upon the stroke of four.’
‘Thank you.’
A dismissive flick of the hand sent the servant backing out of the room. Sir Clarence lifted his lids and read the passage that he had been studying. Closing the book gently, he put it under his arm and made his way out. He now felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.
The hall was a large rectangle with oak panelling along three walls and a series of high windows along the other wall with leaded panes. Gilt-framed mirrors and family portraits broke up the monotony. A moulded ceiling gave a sense of grandeur. Furniture was all of prime oak and tastefully arranged. In the vast stone fireplace at the far end of the hall was an iron fireback bearing the Marmion
coat-of-
arms. Iron firedogs stood beside an iron basket piled high with logs.
When Sir Clarence entered, they were all waiting and their murmured conversations stopped at once. He looked at them all with an amalgam of pride and sorrow and then opened his arms in welcome. The whole family came across to greet him and he exchanged pleasantries with them all. Then came the moment when the baby was placed into
his arms. It was a boy, barely three months old, yet strong and lusty, waving his tiny fists at the world with Marmion defiance, wriggling in his white lace robe as if anxious to be about more important business.
Sir Clarence raised the child up to plant a kiss on its forehead and almost got a box on the ear for his temerity. With a soft half-smile, he handed his first grandchild back to his daughter-in-law then led the way across to the most recent of the portraits on display. It was a painting of his father, hanging above them with a look of stern purpose and showing all the qualities of character associated with dynasty. It was a source of the utmost regret that he was no longer alive to share in family celebrations.
‘Give us your blessing, Father,’ said Sir Clarence.
Then he reached forward and felt behind the lower edge of the frame. There was a click and a small door opened in the panelling on oiled hinges. A narrow passage was revealed. Stone steps led downwards.
Sir Clarence indicated his tiny grandson.
‘Let him lead the way.’
Carried by his mother, the child went through the entrance and down the steps. Candles provided light all the way. The rest of the family followed with the head of the house bringing up the rear. As he stepped through the door, Sir Clarence pulled it shut and it clicked tight behind him. The odour of frankincense drifted up towards him. He was drawn down the staircase and along a dank subterranean passage until he came to the room in which all the others had now gathered.
It was a chapel. Sir Clarence had commissioned the building of it and the place never ceased to give him comfort and joy. Small, cold and necessarily secret though it might be, it was as inspiring as York Minster to him and he let its wonder work on him once more. The others took up their places in the pews, then they knelt to pay homage to their maker. Sir Clarence joined them, kneeling between his wife and his grandson, crossing himself as he did so.
The altar was ablaze with candles. Standing on its centre was a large gold crucifix that reflected the fierce light and glowed as if on fire. As the little congregation looked up, their eyes were transfixed by the sight. A steel door opened beside the altar and a figure entered in the vestments of a Catholic priest. Everyone stood up at once to show their respect. The priest moved quietly into position beside the stone font and glanced benignly at the child. From his calm and assured manner, nobody would guess that the man was about to commit a heinous crime.
Robert Rawlins began the service of baptism.
‘Truly, you do him wrong to put such sayings upon him.’
‘I must obey the word of God.’
‘But it was God who joined you in holy matrimony.’
‘He has other work for me now, sir.’
‘Your husband is wounded most grievously.’
‘We must all suffer in the service of the Lord.’
Miles Melhuish shook his head in frustration. He was standing in the vestry beside Eleanor Budden, deeming it wise to remain on his feet so that he had the option of flight
in the event of some emergency. He could not be too careful. The woman was quiescent now but he had not forgotten the overwhelming passion of which she was capable and he was anxious not to touch it off while they were alone together on consecrated ground.
He moved behind the chair on which she sat.
‘I will put a question to you, mistress.’
‘I listen in all humility.’
‘You tell me that you have been chaste since the voice of God whispered in your ear.’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘Then here is my question …’
Melhuish groped for the words. It was not a matter he had ever raised with a woman before and it tested his resolve. When he spoke with other female parishioners in the privacy of his vestry, it was usually to scold them for not attending church or to advise them on the proper Christian upbringing of their children. Duty was now compelling him to climb into bed with a married couple and effect their union. It was a foreign country to him and he did not know the language.
‘Here is my question, Eleanor,’ he said nervously. ‘If there came a man with a sword who would strike off your husband’s head if you did not take that worthy fellow back into your bed, tell me, in all conscience, for you say you will not lie, what would you do?’
‘I will answer you true, sir.’
‘Would you let Humphrey Budden commit the act of love with you – or have his head cut off?’
‘I would rather see him being killed.’
‘That is cruelty itself, woman!’
‘I cannot help it, sir,’ said Eleanor calmly. ‘We must turn our back on all uncleanness.’
‘God has ordained love between man and wife.’
‘I’ve submitted to His purpose three times.’
‘Is that all?’ said the vicar in surprise. ‘Yet Humphrey spoke of daily indulgence.’
‘I mean that I have shared my bed with three husbands, sir. They did not find me wanting in love.’
‘Until now, sister.’
‘Times have changed.’
Miles Melhuish was losing control. The aim of his examination was to put sufficient pressure on Eleanor Budden to make her see the error of her ways but she was blithely unconcerned when he chastised her. What she always came back to was the word of God and it was on that subject that he must confound her. Countless years of unremitting prayer had given him his own privileged access to divine command and he felt that he knew the timbre of the Lord’s voice more intimately than any lacemaker’s wife, however much she might protest her devotion.
‘When did God first talk with you?’ he said.
‘This se’nnight since.’
‘And where were you at this time?’
‘Buying fish at the market, sir.’
Miles Melhuish started. ‘The Lord spoke to you amid the smell of mackerel?’
‘I heard Him as clear as day.’
‘And what words did He use in that marketplace?’
‘He said: “Put aside your husband and follow me.” God called me by name and I obeyed Him straight.’
‘What did you then do?’
‘Return to my house and go up to the bedchamber. We have a crucifix on the wall so that Jesus may watch over us. I then proclaimed my mission.’
‘How was that done, good lady?’
‘That is the wonder of it,’ she said with a shrug of her shoulders that made her breasts bob invitingly. ‘I do not know what befell me next. But when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor and you were standing over me with my husband and all was blissful peace.’
‘You recall nothing of a great noise you made?’
‘Noise, sir?’
‘A most dolorous cry came from you.’
‘I was weeping for the death of Christ in torment.’
Miles Melhuish threw caution to the winds and sat opposite her. Wayward housewives had always responded to a stern reproof before. It was time to stop encouraging the woman in her fancy and to put her firmly back on the straight and narrow path of wifely duty. He knitted his brows and reached for his homiletic strain.
‘Cast out these false notions!’ he warned. ‘If you would serve God then do so by showing proper respect for one of His ministers. It is within the four walls of this parish church that you will hear His true voice and not at the fish stall in Nottingham market.’ She looked duly crushed and it spurred him on. ‘Go back to Humphrey Budden.
He is a good husband and deserves better from his chosen companion in life. Let me hear no more about this chastity in your bedchamber. Cleave to your spouse. Give him the children he desires. Add some little parishioners to our congregation at St Stephen’s. That only is your bounden duty and purpose here upon this earth.’
He had won. Eleanor Budden sat with bowed head and hunched shoulders, meek, mild and submitting to his firm instruction. It was a small victory for him and it gave him a flabby self-importance. He sat up straight in his chair to project his full ecclesiastical authority.
And all the while, she was in abject surrender.
Then she began to laugh. It began as a snigger, half-suppressed with the back of her hand. Then it became a giggle, almost girlish in its flippancy, increasing in volume every second until it was a full-throated laugh that set her whole body shaking, then it became a roar of mirth that made the vestry reverberate with sound, and, finally and inexplicably, it was a strange and uncontrollable cachinnation that built up into a crescendo and stopped dead.
Eyes that had sparkled with humour now ran with tears of remorse. Hands that had flapped about wildly now closed in prayer. Miles Melhuish writhed beneath the intensity of her gaze and vowed to refer the case to the diocesan synod. It was way beyond his competence. He was in the presence of witchcraft. The Dean alone was fit to pronounce on such a weighty matter.
The tears ceased but the wild stare remained. He endured its obsessional glow until he realised that she
was not looking at him at all but at some object directly behind him. Turning around, he saw what had transfixed and transfigured her. It was a small lancet window into which some zealous craftsman had set the most affecting picture in stained glass. Christ was nailed to the cross with the crown of thorns upon His head. The round face was framed by long fair hair and a full beard, which took on a golden hue as light streamed in through the window. There was martyrdom and majesty in the image.
Eleanor Budden let out a sigh of pure enchantment.
She was in love.
Nicholas Bracewell ran wet hands through his hair and tossed back his mane as he completed his ablutions at the pump in the courtyard. He was up not long after dawn and the sun was taking its first peep at the day. There was much to do before departure. Nicholas had to supervise the feeding and harnessing of the horses, the loading up of the waggon, the checking of valuables to make sure that nothing was missing, the payment of the landlord and the pacification of his wife, whom Lawrence Firethorn, in a moment of drunken zeal, had mistaken for a serving wench and seized in an amorous embrace. There would also be some lessons in swordplay he had promised the boys and the purchase of some provisions for the journey. The work of the book holder was never done.
‘Welcome to the day, Master Bracewell!’
‘The same to you, Christopher.’
‘Let us hope it bears sweeter fruit than yesterday.’
‘I am sure it must.’
‘Where do we stop today?’
‘At Royston. God willing.’
‘Royston …’
The name triggered off a thought. Two long days of walking on foot had taken none of the swagger out of Christopher Millfield. He looked neat and trim in his doublet and hose. Nicholas, wearing an old shirt and a buff jerkin, felt dishevelled by comparison. He had never really taken to the young actor and put it down to the latter’s forced affability.
Christopher Millfield produced his annoying grin.
‘May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?’
‘Please do, sir.’
‘If we should fail to find an audience in Royston, as we did in Ware, there may yet be employment for us.’
‘From what source?’
‘Pomeroy Manor.’
‘You know the place?’
‘Only by repute,’ said Millfield airily. ‘It lies on the estates of one Neville Pomeroy, a man of true breeding and culture, not unfriendly to the theatre and like to give us a kinder word than the folk at Ware.’
Nicholas nodded his thanks. The name of Pomeroy was vaguely familiar to him. He had heard it mentioned by Lord Westfield, and in terms of praise, which was unusual for their patron. A local landowner with a liking for entertainment might be able to fill his largest room with some spectators for them.
‘Where is the house?’ he said.
‘Towards Meldreth. Not far out of our way.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Cambridge.’
It was worth considering. If Banbury’s Men were intent on queering their pitch, then Royston might well be closed to their art. Giles Randolph would not have ruined their chances at Pomeroy Manor. He might yet be thwarted.