The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (65 page)

Yet it willingly capitulated to Westfield’s Men. Ironically, they came with one of the only two medieval kings who had never visited the city. Richard I made up for that lapse now in the person of Lawrence Firethorn. He was inspirational. Fired by his example, the whole company responded with their best performance for months.
Soldiers of the Cross
flirted with magnificence. It was so enthralling that the hundreds of spectators who were jammed into the Trip to Jerusalem did not dare to blink lest they missed some of the action.

It was not only Richard the Lionheart who thrilled them. In the small but touching role of Berengaria, wife to the great crusader, Richard Honeydew found true pathos. Christopher Millfield was once more a melodic
minstrel. Edmund Hoode had written himself a telling scene as a fearless knight who was impaled on an enemy spear and who delivered a lengthy death speech about the glories of the England for which he so readily died. The prominent mention of York itself, cunningly introduced at the last moment, set off a torrent of applause.
Soldiers of the Cross
gave them all this and more, not least some unexpected but quite uproarious comedic touches from Barnaby Gill as a deaf seneschal with a fondness for the dance.

It was the most sensational theatrical event to have come to York for a decade. There was magic in the air as Richard declaimed the closing lines of the drama:

Prolonged exultation ensued. The city opened its heart to Westfield’s Men and cheered them until its throat was hoarse. Struggling actors were treated as famous heroes. Memories of rejection were obliterated beneath joyous acceptance.

This was indeed Jerusalem.

Humphrey Budden heard the roar a mile off and wondered about its source. The closer he got to York, the more desperate he became to see his wife again and take her to
him. Sustained by the hope of reconciliation, he had ridden from Nottingham at a reckless pace and was almost as foamed up as his mount. Contrition now ruled him. York was a holy city where all marital wounds might be healed. The sound that reached his ears seemed to have little to do with divine worship but it served its purpose in spurring him on through the final stage of his journey.

His horse flew in through Micklegate. A brief enquiry told him where the company performed and he clattered his way through the streets. When he got to the inn, people were coming out in a tidal wave of happiness and celebration. He tethered his horse, fought against the throng and tumbled into the yard, ending up in the arms of the surprised Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Welcome, Master Budden. You come too late, sir.’

‘Has Eleanor gone?’

‘I spoke of the performance.’

‘Where is my wife?’

‘Retired to her chamber.’

‘Take me to her, Master Bracewell.’

‘With all my heart, sir.’

Second thoughts made him pause. Eleanor Budden might not be in a mood to welcome the husband she had so calmly abandoned in Nottingham. Her sights had been set on quite another target and the sweating Humphrey, for all his good intent, might not be able to divert her from it. Nicholas stood back to appraise the man. His height and build were ideal. The florid face could yet be redeemed.

‘Come with me, Master Budden.’

‘You’ll bring me to my wife?’

‘In time, sir. In time.’

Blissful congress was also on the mind of King Richard. Exhilarated by his own performance, Lawrence Firethorn was overjoyed with its tumultuous reception and even further delighted by the large bags of money handed over to him by the gatherers.
Soldiers of the Cross
had not merely been an artistic triumph. It had done excellent business. All that remained was for him to order celebration and ride in triumph through the night.

Dozens of beautiful young ladies crowded around him at the inn and offered him favours with fluttering lids. But he already had tenants in line for his bedchamber. Mistress Susan Becket would be first. Though the lady had succumbed wondrously to him at her own tavern, their romps had so far stopped agonisingly short of the ultimate joy. It was one long tale of
coitus interruptus
with the affairs of Westfield’s Men coming between them like a naked sword to keep them chaste. All that was now over and he could take her to his heart’s content.

But it was not enough. King Richard was lionhearted in love and wanted a dessert to sweeten the taste of the meal. Susan Becket was meat and drink between the sheets but it was Eleanor Budden who was strawberries and cream. His fantasies ran wild. In an ideal world, he would have both together in a shared ecstasy, each one submitting joyfully to his carnal appetites, holiness and whoredom blending into
the very epitome of man’s desire. Unable to achieve such delight, he settled for a compromise and called one of the boys to him.

‘John Tallis!’

‘Yes, master?’

‘Bid Mistress Becket come unto my chamber.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then bid the same of Mistress Budden. Tell her I am ready to read psalms to her now.’

John Tallis’s lantern dropped open with a thud.

‘Are they to come together, sir?’

‘The one first and the other an hour later.’

Leaving the apprentice to get on with his work, he went off upstairs to prepare for a night of sensual abandon. He flung open the door of his bedchamber and gazed across at the fourposter which would accommodate his lechery. His laughter died in his throat.

The bed was occupied. Laid out on the coverlet was his second-best cloak. Scattered all over it were bills from his creditors. Defeat stared King Richard in the face. The hostile enemy stepped out from an alcove.

‘Lawrence!’

Margery Firethorn had arrived that afternoon. She had not cooled down from the long ride and the steam was still rising from her. She was at her most bellicose.

‘You betrayed me, sir!’ she howled.

‘That is not strictly true, my love …’

‘Look!’ she said, pointing to the bed. ‘No sooner did you leave London than the vultures descended on me to pick
my bones clean. Your debts have been my ruin, sir. I cannot pay them. Your creditors threaten distraint upon the house itself. We’ll all be put out on the street.’

Firethorn recovered with commendable speed.

‘Not so, my sweetness,’ he said soothingly. ‘And have you come all the way to York in your distress? It shall be remedied at once.’ He tossed a purse on to the bed. ‘There’s gold for you, Margery. Enough to pay a hundred bills and still leave something over. By the gods, but it is a miracle to see you again. Come, let me kiss away your worries and ease your pains.’

Though softening, she kept him at arm’s length.

‘Why did you not write to me, sir?’

‘But I did so!’ he lied. ‘Every day.’

‘No letters came to Shoreditch.’

‘Belike they passed you on the way.’

‘We have been in a parlous state, sir.’

‘I sent you love and money to hide my absence,’ he said with ringing conviction. ‘But how came you here?’

‘On horseback.’

‘Surely, not alone?’

‘Lord Westfield gave me four companions,’ she said. ‘I turned to him in my plight and he was generous.’

‘Too generous!’ muttered Firethorn under his breath.

‘And did you really send me money?’

‘Nick Bracewell will vouch for it!’

Margery Firethorn relaxed. The one man she could trust in the company was the book holder. If he could support her husband’s claim then she would be content. Her
belligerence was wearing off now and Firethorn noted the fact. He moved in swiftly to seize the initiative.

‘Your coming could not have been more timely.’

‘Indeed, sir? Why?’

‘Because I have a gift for you.’

‘Another ring that I may sell if times are hard?’

‘Be not so cruel to me, Margery.’

‘I want no gifts that are not wholly mine.’

‘Take this and see how your husband loves you.’

Margery looked down at the object he put into her hand and felt an upsurge of real joy. It was the work of Oliver Quilley, a masterful portrait in miniature of Lawrence Firethorn that caught his essence with uncanny skill. He had intended to give it to Eleanor Budden by way of blandishment but it now served a more urgent purpose. Margery was quite overcome. He whispered in her ear.

‘Can you see the inscription?’

‘Where, sir?’

‘At the bottom there.’

She read it out with almost girlish breathlessness.

‘
Amor omnia vincit
.’

‘Love conquers all.’

‘Oh, Lawrence!’

His lips sealed his hair-breadth escape. The embrace was interrupted by clumping footsteps on the stairs then Susan Becket sailed in with bold familiarity. Margery bridled at once but her husband was equal even to this emergency.

‘Ah, hostess!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘Have a bottle
of your finest wine sent up for myself and my wife. Be quick about it, woman!’ He killed two birds with one stone. ‘And keep that psalm-singing hussy, Mistress Budden, away from me. I’ll none of her religion tonight!’

Susan Becket backed out of the room in a daze.

Firethorn had been baulked twice but it would not happen a third time. As his desire surged, he swept Margery off her feet and threw her impulsively on the bed, mounting her at once and riding her hell for leather through a flurry of unpaid bills.

Mistress Eleanor Budden was resting in her chamber when John Tallis brought the request from his master. It was countermanded at once by a visit from Richard Honeydew.

‘I have a message for you, mistress.’

‘From Master Bracewell, I hope?’

‘The same.’

‘Well, sir?’

‘He bids you call upon him in his room.’

‘Heaven has heard my cry!’

‘He’ll entertain you there.’

The boy withdrew politely. Eleanor Budden began to pant in anticipation. Fulfilment of her dearest wish was now at hand. She loved Nicholas Bracewell and he had sent for her. God had directed them into each other’s arms.

She climbed the steps to Jerusalem.

Tapping quietly on the door of his attic room, she opened it to let herself in. He was lying in bed. The curtains were drawn and the place was half-dark but she could see
Nicholas with a clarity that made her heart leap. A small candle burned beside his head, throwing its light on to the fair hair and the glistening beard. As he turned towards her, the sheet pulled away from him and she saw that he was naked.

All the fervour of her spirit prompted her. The pilgrimage ended here. Nicholas Bracewell was her chosen path. She ran towards it and flung herself upon him. He blew out the candle and they merged completely, kissing and twisting and thrusting away until their voices met on a pinnacle of total rapture. Eleanor Budden had never known such deep or divine satisfaction. The pent-up longings of her body and soul had been released in the mystery of the act of love. She was in such a state of languid intoxication that she did not mind when the beard of Nicholas Bracewell came away in her hand or when his wig was nudged awry. She did not even complain when his careful make-up rubbed off on her face. This was the acme of happiness. She was the bride of Christ.

Humphrey Budden was glad that he had come to York.

While the marital reunions were taking place, Nicholas Bracewell was sitting in the taproom with some of the other hired men and enjoying his supper. His attic room would be unavailable to him that night but he did not mind in the least. He could take credit for some skilful stage management which had enabled a wayward wife to find her spiritual goal and a discarded husband to reclaim his happiness. The book holder had more than enough to keep
him occupied.
Soldiers of the Cross
had been an undoubted success but it was to be performed again on the morrow under vastly different conditions. He would have to ride over to Marmion Hall at first light to study the indoor playing area and make some preliminary decisions about the method of staging the play. As he half-listened to the idle conversation of his fellows, his mind was firmly fixed on the challenge of the next day.

Edmund Hoode came hurrying across to join him.

‘Have you heard the good tidings, Nick?’

‘Of what?’

‘Banbury’s Men.’

‘They played at the Three Swans today.’

‘They tried to, Nick, but with no success at all. It was some wretched comedy about country wenches and lusty lads. There’s a fellow just come in who witnessed this travesty.’ Hoode chuckled vengefully. ‘He says that it was a downright catastrophe. Lines forgotten, cues missed and every accident that can befall a company in full sight of all. The audience shouted them off the stage. Not even Master Randolph could hold them.’

‘This news is wholesome indeed.’

‘
Soldiers of the Cross
has put them in the shade.’

‘And rightly so, Edmund.’

‘It is their just desert for daring to steal my plays. They have been roundly punished.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Though I would still love to know who played Sicinius. I’ll call him a villain to his face if ever we meet.’

‘Why did Banbury’s Men fare so badly?’

‘Because their play lacked quality.’

‘There must have been another reason.’

‘There was,’ said Hoode. ‘They missed a leading actor. One of their number dropped out of a crucial role and they could not repair the damage in time. His absence brought them down where they belong.’

Nicholas knew that the missing actor must be Mark Scruton. With his secret exposed, he dare not stay in York to be caught by the book holder. There was another result of his sudden departure. Scruton’s wiles had endeared him to Banbury’s Men but they would not tolerate his sudden defection. There would be no contract of employment for him, no elevation to the ranks of the sharers. If nothing else, he would not now climb to glory on the backs of Westfield’s Men. Consolation could be taken. Nicholas believed they would never see him again.