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 he 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 of 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 minimised 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 demoralised 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 hurt, 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 new-found 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 ship’s 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 characteristics 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.’