‘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 he 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 awestruck 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.’
N
ottingham converged on its Town Hall in large numbers. People of every degree came to see one of the legendary characters of English history in action once more.
Robin Hood and his Merry Men
was rather different from the usual fare offered by Westfield’s Men in its repertoire. Classical tragedy, domestic comedy and rustic farce were their main concerns. When they dipped into their glorious heritage, they came up with stirring dramas about kings and queens and mighty battles that were fought to secure the defence of the realm. Military heroism and foreign conquest always drew an audience. Robin Hood had more in common with folk memory than historical fact but the company did not serve up the accustomed blend of romance and adventure in Sherwood Forest. Investing the story with a deeper significance, they touched on themes of loyalty, patriotism and spiritual commitment. In their
portrayal of Prince John, they also drew attention to the follies of self-aggrandisement.
Packed into their Town Hall, the audience was totally mesmerised from start to finish. Lawrence Firethorn was as convincing a Robin Hood as they had ever seen. He was noble, fearless and devoted to King Richard. Powerful in the action scenes, he was yet soft and tender when alone with Maid Marion and his wooing made every woman in the house shiver with delight. Songs and swordfights moved the drama along at regular intervals and there were some clever effects, devised by Nicholas Bracewell, with bows and arrows. Dances were used cleverly throughout and the comic brilliance of Barnaby Gill was at its height when Friar Tuck lifted his skirts to dance a bare-footed jig.
Anne Hendrik sat on a bench alongside Susan Becket and joined in the applause. She had seen Westfield’s Men at their peak in London and this performance fell some way below that, but it was still a fine entertainment and the people of Nottingham clearly thought they had been in the presence of a masterpiece. They stood, clapped and shouted for all they were worth. Lawrence Firethorn led the company out several times to acknowledge the ovation with deep bows. Even George Dart enjoyed it, contriving a smile that actually made him look at home among the Merry Men. After all their mishaps, Westfield’s Men were back where they belonged and it was invigorating.
This was theatre.
Nicholas Bracewell was less satisfied than most. The performance had too many rough edges for his liking and
there were several minor mistakes that irritated him. And while the Town Hall was a marked improvement on some of the other venues where they had played it, it was worlds away from the theatres of London and a diminution in every sense. But the chief cause of Nicholas’s discontent was the absence of Richard Honeydew. Seeing the boy’s role filled, albeit adequately, by someone else only brought home to him the importance of tracking the lad down. The company would never be at its best without their star apprentice and Nicholas owed it to him to begin another search with all due speed.
‘Where will you go?’ asked Anne.
‘In pursuit of Banbury’s Men.’
‘Do you know where they are?’
‘I will find them somehow.’
‘On your own?’
‘I travel faster by myself,’ said Nicholas. ‘In any case, Master Firethorn can spare nobody to come with me. Everyone is needed here. He would not let me go again myself until we had staged
Robin Hood.
’
‘Without you there would have been no performance.’
‘Even with me, it was not a source of pride.’
‘The audience was entranced.’
‘Their standards are not high, Anne.’
‘Do not be too unkind on the company.’
The two of them were strolling through the narrow streets on their way back to the Saracen’s Head. Having organised the strike party at the Town Hall, the book holder now had a brief moment alone with Anne before
he set off on the trail of Richard Honeydew once more. He talked through the few solid facts he possessed.
‘Master Quilley has been of some help.’
‘The artist?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was in Leicester before he came on here and encountered Banbury’s Men in the town. Instead of staying on the Great North Road and going on up to Doncaster, they must have left Grantham and headed south-west.’
‘Why to Leicester?’
‘We might be the cause of that, Anne.’
‘Westfield’s Men?’
‘Thinking we would be making haste to overtake them and call them to account, they sought to shake us off by changing their itinerary. But there is a stronger reason. Leicester is a welcoming port of call for many theatre companies. They have safe harbour there. Master Quilley tells me that Banbury’s Men performed three times there and once in Ashby-de-la-Zouche.’
‘Then on to Nottingham with
Pompey the Great
.’
‘That goes hard with Master Firethorn.’
‘His vanity was affronted.’
‘’Tis all too easily done.’
They shared a laugh then paused outside the main door of the Saracen’s Head. It had been wonderful to see him again so unexpectedly but Anne knew that they would have to part again now, and without the pleasure of a long and amorous leave taking. She kissed him on the cheek and he pulled her to him for a minute.
‘Take every care, Nick.’
‘I shall.’
‘Come safe home.’
‘God willing, I’ll bring Dick Honeydew with me.’
‘Where can he be?’
‘Waiting, Anne.’
‘For what?’
‘Deliverance.’
The shed was small, dark and airless. An unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation prevailed. Through the cracks in the timber walls, it was just possible to gauge the degree of sunlight. Otherwise he had no idea what time of day it was. As shadows lengthened and a deeper gloom returned to his little prison, Richard Honeydew resolved to make a greater effort to escape. What frightened him most about his kidnap was the fact that he still had no indication of who might be responsible. Whisked away from the Smith and Anvil, he had been bound hand and foot with a sack over his head. On the first stage of an indescribably uncomfortable journey, he had been strapped across a horse and taken over what felt like the most uneven terrain in the county. Bruised and breathless, he had finally been cut free and locked away.
They fed him tolerably well but gave him no freedom of movement. Still tied up, he was blindfolded whenever they came to visit him. Occasional trips to relieve himself brought further indignities because he was always under surveillance. They knew everything about him but he knew nothing about them. Except that they had not so far harmed
him or threatened violence in any way. The shed was his third cell so far and he determined that it would be his last. Solitary confinement was an ordeal.
The boy got up from his stool and bounced across the floor with his ankles firmly bound together. A wooden box stood in the corner and he bent down to sweep off the pile of rhubarb leaves that covered it. His wrists were held by thick rope but his fingers were able to drag the box to the middle of the shed, directly below the central beam. Above his head was a large rusty spike that had been sunk in the timber to act as a peg. Its jagged edge was his one faint promise of release.
First of all, he had to reach the spike and that meant leaping up on to the box. It was far more difficult than he anticipated. All he had to do was to hop some eighteen inches off the ground, a paltry feat for someone with his agility and love of the dance. But his tedious incarceration had exhausted him in body and spirit, and his bonds had given him cramp in his arms and legs. The first jump was well short of the required height and the second was no better. Composing himself to make a more concerted effort, he thrust himself up from the ground only to get a partial purchase on the edge of the box. His weight tipped it off and he was thrown heavily against the side of the shed, banging his head on the rough wood and drawing a trickle of blood from his scalp.
Richard Honeydew refused to give in. He gritted his teeth and started again. Shaking himself all over like a wet dog emerging from a river, he got to his knees and righted
the box before using it to lever himself up to his feet. This time he had several practise jumps before he tried to get up on to his platform. When he was fully confident, he stood beside the box, bent at the knees then shot himself upwards, bringing his feet across at just the right moment. The box rocked madly but he somehow kept his balance. Triumph was marred by disappointment. Even when he stood on his toes and stretched his arms up, he was still some six inches away from the spike.
Another, more critical jump was now needed. If he missed the spike, his fall would be even harder. If he misjudged the movement of his hands, he could easily impale himself on the rusty metal. His first instinct was to abandon the attempt altogether but then he thought about the misery of his imprisonment and the pangs of loneliness he felt away from his friends in the company. Nicholas Bracewell would never concede defeat in such a situation and nor must he. The risk had to be taken. He rehearsed it all carefully in his mind then gathered himself for the jump.
Several minutes of anxious and careful preparation were distilled into a split-second as he bent at the knees before launching himself upwards again. His hands cleared the spike, his wrists flicked forward and he was soon hanging in space with the rope bearing his weight. A new set of problems now confronted him. Fiery pain shot down his arms and settled in his shoulders. His head began to throb unbearably. His breathing was impaired. Pale, blue-veined wrists were badly chafed by the ropes. He was in agony and escape now seemed a mirage.
There was no time to waste. The longer he dangled from the beam, the more danger he was in. Putting every last ounce of his strength in the effort, he started to swing his legs, slowly at first, then with more purpose and finally with gathering momentum. The agony intensified. His slim body was awash with perspiration as he swung to and fro in the noisome shed and the rope was cutting into his wrists as if attempting to sever them completely. The first drips of blood on his face made him panic but his torment was almost over. Friction brought results. As the rope was rubbed hard against the spike, its strands broke slowly one by one. Just as he was about to lapse into unconsciousness, the last strand trembled and his own weight did the rest.
Richard Honeydew dropped from the beam, kicked over the box and thudded to the floor. He was too fatigued to move for several minutes but he was smiling in triumph. His plan had worked. When strength returned, he sat up and untied his feet, stretching his legs and wiggling his ankles. Both wrists were lathered in blood but he did not mind. He was free. The door was his last obstacle. Bolted from outside, it was firm against his push but he used guile instead of force. Banging his stool against the ground until one of its three legs snapped off, he used the amputated section as a lever to insert in the door. A gap opened up that was wide enough to admit his slender arm and he slid back the bolt.
His cell door swung open. It was late evening and all he could make out were confusing shapes in the dark. The fragrance of night-scented flowers wafted into his nostrils to refresh and delight him. A light wind helped to dry the
dribbling sweat. Pain fell from him and his spirits soared. Freedom was a joyous kingdom.
He had no notion where he was but knew that he had to get away from there. Breaking into a trot, he ran across uneven ground towards the outline of a large building that stood on the edge of a field. But he did not get very far. Within a dozen yards, his way was blocked by a tall figure who stepped in front of him with such determination that the boy bounced off him and fell backwards to the ground. Dazed by the impact, he looked up at the face which was partially lit by a crescent moon.
‘You’re staying here, lad,’ said the young man. Richard Honeydew fainted with sheer terror.
York had undeniable beauty. Set amongst the green forest of Galtres, it was encircled by three miles of white stone fortifications that were breached by four battlemented gateways. It was founded by the Romans at the confluence of the rivers Fosse and Ouse, enjoying a profitable outlet to the sea on the east coast. Ships laden with hides, wool and other goods sailed downriver to the staple port of Hull, bound for the Continent. When they returned, their holds were filled with soaps, silks, stains, perfumes, exotic spices and fine wines. York was a thriving community. It might no longer be second only to London in size but it was still so in dignity.
The streets were narrow, cobbled and overhung with gabled houses. Trades were plied noisily at every turn. Stinking midden tips added their pungent contribution to the city’s distinctive atmosphere. York buzzed with life.
Robert Rawlins left his lodgings in Trinity Lane and made his way through the crowded streets to the Trip to Jerusalem. He went into the taproom and found Lambert Pym ordering his minions around with obese urgency. Mine Host gave him a smile of recognition.
‘Good day to you, Master Rawlins.’
‘And to you, sir.’
‘These are busy days for us, I fear.’
‘As I observe.’
‘Whitsuntide will soon be upon us and the fair will bring in extra custom. We have to brew more beer and feed more bellies. It all needs careful preparation.’
‘When will the players arrive?’
‘At one and the same time,’ said Pym, scratching his beard. ‘We will be rushed off our feet here at Jerusalem. Every room I have will be full to bursting and my yard must serve as a playhouse.’
‘I like not the drama,’ said Rawlins coldly.
‘Sir Clarence Marmion is a regular patron.’
‘That is his choice.’
‘Will you be with us long in York, sir?’
‘I cannot tell, Master Pym.’
‘Until your business is discharged?’
‘We shall see.’
Giving nothing away, Robert Rawlins opened the door that gave access to the staircase. He was soon settling down on a chair in the private chamber above. A small black book was extracted from the folds of his coat and he began to read it in earnest. He was so absorbed by his
text that it seemed a matter of minutes before he heard the familiar boots upon the oak stairs. Sir Clarence Marmion came sweeping in at such speed that Rawlins took fright and jumped to his feet.