‘Is there?’
‘Sir Clarence Marmion.’
‘I cannot see it.’
Quilley glanced at the document then folded it up and put it away. An enigmatic smile kept Nicholas at bay. The book holder met his gaze.
‘How did you know of Master Pomeroy’s arrest?’
‘Word travels fast.’
‘Only by special messenger.’
‘I have my contacts, sir.’
‘So I believe.’
The artist gave nothing away. His unruffled calm was a challenge that Nicholas was unable to take up at that point. The book holder had a more pressing commitment and he excused himself. He would return to Oliver Quilley.
Night was taking its first gentle steps towards York as Nicholas shouldered his way through the crowds. Even in the turmoil of their arrival, he had found the time to enquire after other theatre companies. Banbury’s Men had reached the city that same day. They were staying at the Three Swans in Fossgate. He went over Ouse Bridge and headed north, picking his way through clamorous streets that he half-remembered from an earlier visit some years before, and listening to the Yorkshire dialects that rang out on every side.
The first thing he saw when he turned into Fossgate was the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, a fine triple-aisled structure with a chapel projecting towards the River Foss. Incorporating brickwork and half-timbering, it was a long, high building that emphasised the prominent place that the Merchant Adventurers took among the fifty guilds of the city. Nicholas was reminded of something that his life in London made him forget. York, too, had its wealth.
The Three Swans was an establishment of medium size
constructed around an undulating yard. Banbury’s Men were still rehearsing. Raised voices came from behind the main gates which had been locked to keep out the curious. He went into the inn and bought a tankard of ale, drifting across to a window to get a view of the yard. It was galleried at two levels and he estimated that about four hundred spectators could be crammed in on the morrow. Jerusalem, with its larger yard, had a definite advantage. That would please Lawrence Firethorn.
Light was dying visibly now but the players kept at their work, frantically trying to iron out the myriad problems caused by their damaged prompt book. Nicholas waited until nobody was looking then he slipped up a staircase and through a door. He was now standing on the gallery at the first level and able to see the last of the rehearsal. It was a pastoral romp of indifferent quality and they played it without attack or conviction. Through the gap in the curtains which had been put up in front of their
tiring-house
, he could see the book holder, holding his head well back from the stench of his text and turning the pages with care.
Giles Randolph took his customary leading role and the other sharers were ranged around him. But look as he might, Nicholas could not find the face he sought above all others. He was still straining his eyes against the gloom when a voice behind him made him turn.
‘Have you come to see me, Nick? Here I am.’
The book holder found himself facing a drawn sword and the young man had every intention of using it if the
need arose. Even after Richard Honeydew’s warning, he was still dumbfounded. Here was the last person on earth that he had expected to meet. Nicholas had watched him being buried in a common grave in London.
It was Gabriel Hawkes.
T
he swordpoint pricked his throat and forced him back against one of the posts that supported the upper tier. Nicholas Bracewell was helpless. He could not move an inch. Behind and below him in the yard was a company of actors engaged in a rehearsal but he could not cry for help. The rapier would rip out his voice in an instant. All that he could do was to watch the man he had once liked and respected so much. There was an additional shock to accommodate. Dangling from his assailant’s ear was the jewelled earring which had been thrown into the pit after his corpse. Nicholas gaped.
‘You have come back from the dead, sir,’ he said.
‘It is but an illusion.’
‘We saw Gabriel Hawkes being carted away with the other plague victims and tossed into his grave.’
‘Your eyes did not deceive you, Nick.’
‘Then how can you be here before me now?’
‘Because I am not Gabriel,’ said the young man. ‘My name is Mark Scruton. The poor wretch who died was indeed Gabriel Hawkes. He was a kinsman of mine who had fallen on hard times and been swept into that hideous dwelling in Smorrall Lane. It suited me to take his name and his address while yet living in a sweeter lodging.’
‘You were planted on Westfield’s Men,’ said Nicholas as the truth slowly dawned. ‘That memory of yours was used against us. You studied from our prompt books and gave your findings to our rivals.’
‘That was the bargain I struck.’
‘To betray your fellows?’
‘What future did they offer me?’ said Scruton with contempt. ‘To be a hired man at the beck and call of Master Firethorn? Fed on the scraps of parts that were left over? Employed or dismissed on a whim? There was no future for me, sir! I am a true actor!’
‘Your art beguiled me,’ admitted Nicholas.
‘Banbury’s Men held out real promise. In bringing your company low, I earned my right to be a sharer with them. That gives me the status I deserve.’ He smiled with
self-congratulation
. ‘Gabriel Hawkes had to vanish before your eyes so that he could reappear as Mark Scruton. My uncle fell sick with the plague but might have lingered a while and so delayed my plans. I helped him on his way to Heaven and spared him certain agony. You saw him taken from his foul bed and trundled off in his winding sheet.’
‘Your earring was upon him.’
‘It was my parting gift.’ He flicked the jewel that now hung from his lobe. ‘I have its twin, as you now see.’
Nicholas pieced it all together in his mind.
‘You feigned illness in London to prepare us for the shock of your death,’ he said. ‘Then you travelled with Banbury’s Men and advised them how best to damage our enterprise. You snatched Dick Honeydew away then worked with that ostler to steal our costumes.’
‘You should not have found either, Nick.’
‘It was my duty.’
‘And your undoing. You know too much, my friend.’
‘Enough to see you hanged for it.’
‘Enough to get you killed.’
Scruton lowered the sword and thrust at his heart but Nicholas moved like lightning. Dodging a foot to one side, he let himself fall backwards over the balustrade and somersaulted through the air before landing on his feet in the yard. Blood was oozing from his left arm where the sword had grazed him but the wound was not deep. Pulling out his own rapier, he ran back into the building and up the stairs to do battle on more equal terms but Mark Scruton had not waited for him. Though the book holder searched high and low, he could not find the man anywhere on the premises.
Gabriel Hawkes had disappeared again.
Sir Clarence Marmion sat in his chair without moving a muscle. He was a dignified figure, slim, erect and quite
serene, a trifle cold perhaps but carrying his authority lightly. He wore a black doublet, slashed with red and rising to a high neck that was trimmed with a lace ruff. Oliver Quilley scrutinised him with utmost care to find the mind’s construction in the face but his subject was yielding little of his inner self. The artist made some preliminary lines on the vellum oval that lay before him on the table. His sitter did not flicker an eyelid. It was an hour before Quilley broke the silence.
‘The question of an inscription, Sir Clarence …’
‘Inscription?’
‘Most people require a few words on their portrait to give it meaning or individuality. Sometimes it is a family motto or an expression of love to the intended recipient of the miniature. I have known subjects who called for couplets of verse or even maxims in Greek.’
‘That will not be my wish, sir.’
‘Then what is?’
‘A Latin tag.’
‘Speak and it will be penned in.’
‘
Dat poena laudata fides
.’
Quilley noted the phrase then furrowed his brow.
‘A strange request, Sir Clarence. “Loyalty, though praised, brings sufferings.” There is some association here with Marmion Hall?’
‘That is not for you to know, Master Quilley.’
‘The artist must have insight into everything.’
‘Practise your art without more words.’
He returned to his pose and Oliver Quilley worked
on until he had got all he needed from the first sitting. They were in the hall and the master of the house was seated against the far wall, his head framed by one of the gleaming oak panels. As the artist collected up his materials, he threw an admiring glance at the family portraits that hung all around them, noting with especial admiration that of the former Lady Marmion, stately mother of Sir Clarence. Dressed with controlled elegance, she was a gracious figure and prompted an outburst from Quilley.
‘The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,’ he said. ‘Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!’
Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.
‘Here’s payment for your work, Master Quilley.’
‘Wait until I have finished, dear sir.’
‘Take it on account.’
‘If you insist,’ said the other gratefully.
‘A labourer is worthy of his hire.’
‘An artist raises labour to a higher plane.’
‘Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?’
The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.
‘You rode here alone, sir?’ asked Sir Clarence.
‘It was not a long journey,’ said Quilley.
‘Perils may still lurk.’ He indicated a servant. ‘Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.’
‘I will manage on my own, Sir Clarence. My horse will outrun any that bars my way. I have no fears.’
‘You should, sir. These are dangerous times.’
‘I will keep my wits about me.’
Sir Clarence excused himself for a moment and left the room with the servant. Quilley did not delay. He moved quickly towards the shelves of books that stood against the far wall. His choice was immediate. He took a small leather-bound volume with a handsome silver clasp on it. Slipping the book into the pouch alongside his artist’s materials, he strolled casually across to the window to admire the view. He was still appraising the front garden
when his host returned. Sir Clarence was in decisive mood.
‘We shall have the second sitting tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’ said Quilley.
‘I am anxious to press ahead with the portrait.’
‘An artist may not be rushed, Sir Clarence.’
‘Time is not on our side,’ said the other. ‘We have the visit from Westfield’s Men tomorrow. Return with them and bring your belongings from the inn. You shall be a guest under my roof until your work is done.’
‘That is most kind. Marmion Hall will offer me a softer lodging than the Trip to Jerusalem, and a safer one as well.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘The landlord tells me that one of his guests was recently carried off by officers. One Robert Rawlins.’
‘I do not know the man.’
‘It is just as well, Sir Clarence. He was a priest of the Church of Rome. Any friend of Master Rawlins will be dealt with most severely.’
‘That does not concern me,’ said the other. ‘I am more interested in Westfield’s Men. You travelled with them from Nottingham, you say?’
‘An eventful journey in every way.’
‘It gave you time to befriend them no doubt. Who is in the company, sir? I would know their names.’
‘All of them?’
‘Down to the meanest wight.’
Quilley reeled off the names and his host listened intently. The visitor was then thanked and shown out.
Delighted with his good fortune, he rode off at a canter in the direction of York. Coins jingled in his purse and his patron had hinted at further reward. Then there was the book that nestled in his pouch. He was so caught up with himself that he did not notice the other horseman.
Eleanor Budden knelt in prayer in York Minster and heard confusion. It had all been so simple in Nottingham. One voice had spoken to her with one clear message and she left husband, home and children to obey it. There was no further direction from above. As her knees bussed the hassock in obeisance to God, she waited for a sign that did not come. Her heart gave her one ruling, her head another and her soul a third. It was three days before she would be able to see the Archbishop himself and take his holy counsel. What should she do in the interim?
Had her trip to Jerusalem foundered in York?
She recalled the words of a sermon delivered by Miles Melhuish on the Sunday morning before she left. Keyed into her own situation, it had talked about the character of a true pilgrim and the nature of life itself as a form of pilgrimage. It dealt with the celestial origin of man and of his hope of returning to the realm from which he had been expelled after his fall from grace. The vicar’s rotund phrases imprinted themselves on her anew and she was struck by his recital of the symbols of the pilgrim – the shell, the crook or staff, the well of the water-of-salvation, the road and the cloak.
The more she thought about it, the more inescapably
she was led back to Nicholas Bracewell. He had no visible shell or crook but he was both fisherman and shepherd to Westfield’s Men, their main provider and their loving protector. She had met him in the River Trent, floating naked on the water-of-salvation. They had followed the road together and, in reclaiming the costume basket, he had found not one but several cloaks. It was all there. In her simple reasoning, the truth now revealed itself. To go on a pilgrimage was to enter a labyrinth in order to understand its mystery. The Centre was not in Jerusalem at all. It was here in York.
Nicholas Bracewell was her destination.
Excited by her discovery, she got to her feet and tripped down the aisle towards the Great West Door. It took her a long time to thread her way through the clogged streets with their happy fairtime atmosphere, but she eventually reached the inn and began the search for him. Nicholas had been given the luxury of a room of his own, albeit only a tiny attic space, and it was here that she cornered him an hour before the performance was due.
Her ardour was matched by his embarrassment.
‘I must away, mistress,’ he said.
‘Hear me but speak first, sir.’
‘We play before our audience this afternoon.’
‘I ask but two minutes of your time.’
‘Very well, then. What would you say?’
Eleanor Budden turned her blue eyes upon him and let them talk for her. In their passion and yearning and holy urgency, he saw images that caused him severe discomfort.
She was a beautiful and seductive presence but she was not for him. He carried Anne Hendrik in his heart and he did not turn aside for any other woman, particularly the estranged wife of a Nottingham lacemaker. Nicholas had great sympathy for her but it did not extend to what she so self-evidently had in mind.
‘Let me come to you, master,’ she begged.
‘It is not appropriate.’
‘You are my saviour.’
‘I am unworthy of that role.’
‘Do but let me warm myself at your flame.’
‘You mistake me, mistress.’
‘No, good sir. I worship you.’
It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself and he only did that by promising to have a further debate with her that evening. He went swiftly downstairs and tried to dismiss her from his mind. With the performance at hand, he would need all his concentration for that. As he passed a chamber that was shared by some of the hired men of the company, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and forget all about the threat posed by Mistress Eleanor Budden. Lines of strident verse came through the door. It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn in full flight as Richard the Lionheart, urging on his troops before their battle against Saladin, stiffening their resolve and making their blood surge.
Though he had heard the speech many times, Nicholas was still transported by it and by the devastating virtuosity with which it was delivered. When the door opened,
however, it was not Firethorn who came out from the impromptu rehearsal of his lines.
It was Christopher Millfield.
York was a proud city with a mind of its own and it did not bestow its respect easily. More than one King of England had been turned away from its gates and the Earls of Northumberland, its hereditary overlords, had also met with indifference from time to time. A base for rebels during the Wars of the Roses, it had also been the focal point of the Pilgrimage of Grace, the uprising in 1536 which was directed largely against the dissolution of the monasteries and what were seen as the other dire results of the Reformation. The message of centuries was clear. York could not be taken for granted.