The Trip to Jerusalem

Edward Marston - Trip to Jerusalem

[Nicholas Bracewell #3] (Missing Mystery #32)

Edward Marston

Copyright © 1990 by Edward Marston

First US Trade Paperback Edition 2001

ISBN: 1-890208-60-4

Poisoned Pen Press

Dat poenas laudata fides

To Lord Lucas of Ormeley

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor how the worlde will censure mee for choos ing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burthen, onelye if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take advantage of all idle homes, till I have honoured you with some graver labour.

She was a worthy worn man al hir lyve

Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve

Withouten oother compaignye in youthe--

But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nowthe.

And thrice had she been at Jerusalem.

CHAUCER : The Canterbury Tales

(*)Chapter One

Enemies surrounded them. Though theatre flourished in London as never before, bestowing vivid entertainment upon the nation's capital and earning daily ovations from large audiences, its practitioners were under constant threat. Acting was a perilous enterprise. Players had to walk a tightrope between fame and oblivion--with no net to soften their fall. They faced the official disapproval of the Lord Mayor and the civic worthies, and endured the outright hostility of religious leaders, who spied the hand of the Devil at work on the stage, and the hand of the lecher, the harlot and the pickpocket moving with licensed freedom among the spectators. Voices of protest were raised on all sides.

Nor could the acclaim of the onlookers be taken for granted. The public was a fickle master. Those who served it with their art were obliged to perform plays that were in vogue, in a manner that was acceptable to their patrons. Indifference was a menace. So indeed were the other theatrical companies. Naked competition was rife. Players could be poached and plays could be pirated. War could be waged between the different troupes in ways that ranged from the subtle to the blatant.

Those who survived all this could still be brought low by fire or by fighting. Tobacco smokers had more than once ignited the overhanging thatch in the theatres, and there was always the risk that drunken spectators would start an affray. If human intervention did not harm or hamper a performance, then bad weather might. Arenas that were open to the sky were vulnerable to each wind that blew and each drop of rain that fell. God in his wisdom washed away countless stabs at theatrical immortality.

But the silent enemy was the worst.

It came from nowhere and moved among its prey with easy familiarity. It showed no respect for age, rank or sex and touched its victims with fond impartiality, like an infected whore passing on her disease in a warm embrace. Nothing could withstand its power and nobody could divine the secret of that power. It could climb mountains, swim across oceans, seep through walls and bring down the most well-fortified bastions. Its corruption was universal. Every man, woman and child on the face of the earth was at its mercy.

Here was the final enemy. Doom itself.

Lawrence Firethorn spoke for the whole profession. 'A plague on this plague!'

'It will rob us of our livelihood,' said Gill.

'If not of our lives,' added Hoode.

'God's blood!' said Firethorn, pounding the table with his fist. 'What a damnable trade we follow. There are daggers waiting to stab us at every turn and if we avoid their points, then here comes the sharpest axe in Christendom to chop off our heads.'

'It is a judgement,' said Hoode mournfully.

'We might yet be spared,' said Gill, trying to inject a halfhearted note of optimism. 'Plague deaths have not yet reached the required number per week.'

'They will, Barnaby,' said Firethorn grimly. 'This hot weather will soon begin to unpeople the city. We must look misfortune in the eye, gentlemen, and foreswear all false hopes. 'Tis the only sensible course. This latest visitation will close every theatre in London and put our work to sleep for the whole summer. There's but one remedy.'

'Such a bitter medicine to take,' said Hoode.

Barnaby Gill let out a sigh as deep as the Thames.

The three men were sitting over cups of sack in the taproom of the Queen's Head in Gracechurch Street, the inn which was the regular venue for performances by Lord Westfield's Men, one of the leading companies in the city. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were all sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in its wide repertoire. Westfield's Men had other sharers but company policy was effectively controlled by this trio. Such, at least, was the theory. In practice, it was the ebullient and dominating figure of Lawrence Firethorn who generally held sway, allowing his two colleagues the illusion of authority when they were, in fact, simply ratifying his decisions. He bulked large.

'Gentlemen,' he announced bravely, 'we must not be crushed by fate or curbed by circumstance. Let us make virtue of necessity here.'

'Virtue, indeed!' Gill was sardonic.

'Yes, sir.'

'Show it me, Lawrence,' said the other. 'Where is the virtue in trailing ourselves around the country to spend our talents in front of ungrateful bumpkins? Poor plays for poor audiences in poor places will make our purses the poorest of all.'

'Westfield's Men never consort with poverty, said Firethorn, wagging an admonitory finger. 'However humble our theatre, our work will be rich and fulfilling. Be the audience made up of unlettered fools, they will yet have a banquet of words set before them.' His chest swelled with pride. 'In all conscience, sir, I could never demean myself by giving a poor performance!'

'Opinion may differ on that.'

'How say you, Barnaby?'

'Let it pass.'

'Do you impugn my work, sir?'

'I would lack the voice.'

'It is not the only deficiency in your senses.'

'What's that?'

'Your sight, sir. Remember the holy book. Before you dispraise me, first cast out the mote in your own eye.'

'Give me the meaning.'

'Put your own art in repair.'

'It is not needful,' said Gill, nostrils flaring. 'My public is all too cognisant of my genius.'

'Then why conceal it from your fellow-players?'

'Viper!'

The row blazed merrily and it took Edmund Hoode some minutes before he could calm down both parties. It was an all too familiar task for him. Professional jealousy was at the root of the relationship between Firethorn and Gill. Each had remarkable individual talents and their combined effect was quite dazzling. Most of the success enjoyed by Westfield's Men was due to the interplay of this unrivalled pair and yet they could not reach harmony offstage. They fought with different weapons. Firethorn used a verbal broadsword that whistled through the air as he swished it about while Gill favoured a poniard whose slender blade could slide in between the ribs. When argument was at its height, the former was all towering rage and bristling eyebrow where the latter opted for quivering indignation and pursed lips.

Edmund Hoode adopted a conciliatory tone.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, you do each other a grave disservice. We are all partners in this business. As God's my witness, we have foes enough to contend with at this troublesome time. Let not headstrong words create more dissension. Desist, sirs. Be friends once more.'

The combatants took refuge in their drinks. Hoode was grateful that he had checked the quarrel before it got to the point where Gill always hurled accusations of unbridled tyranny at Firethorn who, in turn, retaliated by pouring contempt on the other's predilection for young boys with pretty faces and firm bodies. An uneasy silence hovered over the three men. Hoode eventually broke it.

'I have no stomach for touring in the provinces.'

'Beggars cannot be choosers,' said Gill.

'In my case, they can. I'd as lief stay in London and risk the plague as walk at the cart's tail halfway across England. There's no profit in that.'

'And even less in the city,' argued Firethorn. 'How will you live when your occupation is gone? You may be a magician with words, Edmund, but you cannot conjure money out of thin air.'

'I will sell my verses.'

'Your penury's assured,' said Gill maliciously.

'There are those who will buy.'

'More fool them.'

Lawrence Firethorn gave an understanding chuckle.

'I see the truth of it, Edmund. There is only one reason that could make you linger here to taste the misery of certain starvation. Why, man, you are in love!'

'Leave off these jests.'

'See how his cheeks colour, Barnaby?'

'You have hit die mark, Lawrence.'

'He scorns his fellows so that he may lodge his bauble in a tundish. While we tread the road in search of custom, he would be bed-pressing like a lusty bridegroom.' Firethorn gave his colleague a teasing nudge. 'Who is this fair creature, Edmund? If she can tempt you from your calling, she must have charms beyond compare. Tell us, dear heart. What is her name?'

Hoode gave a dismissive shrug. In matters of love, he had learned never to confide in Lawrence Firethorn, still less in Barnaby Gill. The one was a rampant adulterer who could seduce the purest maid while the other had nothing but contempt for the entire female sex. Edmund Hoode kept his own counsel. A tall, slim, pale, clean-shaven man in his thirties, he was an actor-playwright' with the company who had somehow resisted the coarsening effects of such an unstable life. He was an irredeemable romantic for whom the pains of courtship were a higher form of pleasure and . he was not deterred by the fact that his entanglements almost invariably fell short of consummation. His latest infatuation was writ large upon his face and he lowered his head before the mocking scrutiny of his companions.

Lawrence Firethorn was built of sterner stuff, a barrel-chested man of medium height who exuded power and personality, and whose wavy black hair, pointed beard and handsome features were a frontal assault on womanhood. Gill was older, shorter, stouter and attired with a more fastidious care. Morose and self-involved offstage, he was the most superb comedian upon it and his wicked grin transformed an ugly man into one with immense appeal.

Hoode was torn between his passion and his plays.

'Westfield's Men could well spare me.'

'Gladly,' said the waspish Gill.

I might join you later in the tour.'

'Come, Edmund,' said Firethorn, clapping him on the shoulder. 'No more talk of desertion. We are dumb idiots without our poet to put words into our mouths. You'll travel with us because we love you."

'My heart is elsewhere.'

'And because we need you, sweet friend.'

Go forth without me.'

'And because you are contracted to us.'

Firethorn's curt reminder terminated the dispute. Being a sharer in the company imposed certain legal responsibilities upon Hoode. His freedom of action was limited. He blenched as yet another burgeoning romance withered on the stem.

Lawrence Firethorn sought to offer consolation.

'Courage, man!' he urged. 'Do not sit there like a lovesick shepherd. Consider what lies ahead. You forfeit one conquest in order to make others. Country girls were born for copulation. Unbutton at will. You can fornicate across seven counties until your pizzle turns blue and cries "Amen to that!" Hark ye, Edmund.' Firethorn clapped his other shoulder. 'Westfield's Men are not being driven out of London. We are journeying to paradise!'

'Who is to be our serpent?' said Gill.

Nicholas Bracewell stood in his accustomed place behind the stage and controlled the performance with his quiet authority. As the company's book holder, he was a key figure in its affairs, prompting and stage managing every play which was mounted as well as supervising rehearsals and helping with the dozens of other tasks that were thrown up. A tall, imposing, muscular man, he had a face of seasoned oak that was set off by long fair hair and a Viking beard. Striking to the eye, he could yet become completely invisible during a performance, an unseen presence in the shadows whose influence was decisive and who pulled all the strings like a master puppeteer.

The play which was delighting the audience at the Queen's Head that afternoon was The Constant Lover, a gentle comedy about the problems of fidelity. It had become a favourite piece and Westfield's Men had offered it several times already. But it had never been staged in quite this way before.

'What now, Master Bracewell?'

'The silver chalice, George.'

'Upon the table?'

'Present it to the King.'

'When is the table to be set?'

'For the next scene.'

'The silver chalice again?'

'The gold goblet.'

George Dart did not usually get quite so flustered. He was an assistant stagekeeper and occasionally got pressed into service as a non-speaking extra. His duties in The Constant Lover were light and undemanding yet he was flummoxed before the end of Act One. It was quite understandable. Everyone in the company knew that this might be their last appearance in London for a long time and, in some cases, their last appearance upon any stage. Touring would inflict economies on the company. Its size would be reduced and its weekly wages would shrink. All the sharers would take to the road but the hired men would have to be carefully sifted. George Dart was one of them. Like his fellows, he was in a state of hysteria lest lie be rejected, knowing full well that those discarded might fall by the wayside completely. He therefore played his tiny role in The Constant Lover with a kind of confused urgency, mystified as to what came next yet eager to give of his best.

Nicholas Bracewell at once stilled the general panic and made allowances for it. Some of the actors out there were, literally, fighting for their lives. In striving too hard to do well, they often marred their chances. Nicholas had great sympathy for them all but his first duty was to the audience and he concentrated on keeping the play running as smoothly as possible. It meant that he had to adjudicate at several running duels.

'Did you ever see such wanton cruelty, Nick?'

'Stand by for your next entrance.'..

'He cut my finest speech.'

'You ruined two or his.

'Gabriel is trying to savage my performance.'

'I believe he is only replying in kind.'

' The man has no honour.'

'Teach him some by example.'

'I think that you take his side.'

'No, Christopher. My concern is for the play itself

'Then why let Gabriel disfigure it?'

'You have been his able lieutenant in the business this past half-hour. It is to your mutual discredit.'

'I am the better player, Nick.'

'Your cue is at hand.'

'Speak up for me.

'Go forth and speak for yourself.'

Christopher Millfield surged back out onstage to continue his battle with Gabriel Hawkes. Both were fine actors who could carry off a wide range of supporting roles with assurance and each was a real asset to the company. But there would not be room for the two of them in the touring party. One had to give way to the other. They had never liked each other but, in all previous plays, their personal antipathy had been subdued for the sake of a common cause. Threatened with unemployment, they fell back on a raw hostility that was totally in keeping with the characters they were playing but which made for some rather alarming departures from the text.

Nicholas watched it all with a mixture of surprise and distaste. He might have expected such behaviour from Christopher Millfield, and arrogant and impulsive young man who was quick to take offence where none was intended. Gabriel Hawkes was a very different person, an unassuming and almost shy character who was ill at ease with the ribald banter of the players and who kept himself apart from the general throng. Nicholas admired the talents of both men but had much more affection for Hawkes. On a long and arduous tour, his soft-edged presence would be much more acceptable than Millfield's brashness.

Yet he was giving the worst possible account of himself. In descending to open combat, Hawkes was doing his cause irreparable harm. To the amusement of the audience--but the detriment of the play--the two of them were grappling like wrestlers, throwing each other to the ground with blank verse before pummelling away unmercifully with rhyming couplets.

Then, suddenly, it was all over.

Gabriel Hawkes seemed to concede defeat. He sagged visibly and the spirit went out of his defiance. He let Christopher Millfield walk all over him and could not even offer a token resistance. It was painful to watch.

Most of the onlookers were unaware of the intense personal conflict which had been going on in front of them. Hawkes and Millfield did not have leading parts and they melted into the scenery whenever Lawrence Firethorn came onstage. He was a true King in every sense and his regal brilliance outshone everything else in view, including the hilarious exploits of Barnaby Gill as a decrepit suitor. Firethorn's rule was paramount.

He led out the company to bask in the applause that echoed around the inn yard where they had set up their makeshift stage. Westfield's Men were due to play at the Queen's Head the following week but nobody believed that the performance would take place. The plague was closing in remorselessly. Spectators who would be deprived of entertainment for long months showed their appreciation of players who would be exiled from the city. It was a joyous yet rather wistful occasion.

Lawrence Firethorn wept genuine tears and delivered a farewell speech. Barnaby Gill snuffled, Edmund Hoode swallowed hard and the rest of the company were patently moved. Nicholas Bracewell was not carried away on the tide of emotion. His attention was fixed on Gabriel Hawkes who was strangely detached from it all. A man who loved the theatre with a deep and lasting commitment was now looking quite alienated by it all.

As they came offstage, Nicholas sought him out.

'What ails you, lad?'

'Nothing, Master Bracewell.'

'Can you be well?' I feel a sickness coming on but it is not serious.'

'What manner of sickness?'

'Do nor trouble yourself about me.'

'Shall we carry you to a physician?'

'It is of no account, I promise you.'

'Have care, Gabriel.'

The young actor smiled weakly and touched his arm.

'Thank you, Master Bracewell.'

'Why so?'

'You have been a good friend to me.'

There was an air of finality in his voice that upset Nicholas. As Gabriel Hawkes went off unsteadily to change out of his costume and make his way back to his lodgings in Bankside, the book holder had the worrying premonition that he would never see the man alive again.

Having toyed with the city for a few weeks, the plague moved in for the kill. London was helpless. It suffered from pounding headaches, icy chills, agonizing back pains, quickening pulse, heavy breathing, high fever and incurable restlessness. Ugly buboes began to appear in its groin and beneath its armpits. Vomiting was quite uncontrollable. As the body surrendered, the mind began to crumble as well. Delirium set in. The mortality rate climbed inexorably and people learned to pray once more.

'When will you leave, sir?'

'As soon as it is needful.'

'Is there no hope of escape?'

'Alas, no, my love. Seven deaths were reported in this parish alone and a dozen or more in Cripplegate. When all the parishes are reckoned up, the number will be well past thirty and even as high as thrice that number.'

'God save us all!'

'There's no comfort for we wretched players, who must be the first to be sacrificed to this scourge. The Privy Council has issued an edict. All theatres, bear-baiting arenas and other places of public consort must be closed forthwith. It is iniquitous!'

'It is inconsiderate, sir.'

Margery Firethorn clasped her husband to her and let him feel the warmth of her devotion. It had not been a placid marriage by any stretch of the imagination but he had never regretted it, even when the tempests were at their fiercest. Margery was a good wife, a caring mother, a thrifty house-keeper and a sound Christian. Living with such a rumbustious partner as Lawrence Firethorn would have cowed any other woman but she had met the challenge with unflinching bravery. They were destined for each other. Kindred spirits forged from the same steel.

'How long will you be gone?' she asked.

'Until the Queen's Head can welcome us again.'

'That day will be months away.'

'Michaelmas at least.'

'It will seem like an eternity.'

'My old heart is sad at the contemplation of it.'

'I will miss you sorely, Lawrence.'

Firethorn looked down at his wife as she lay beside him in bed and saw again the voluptuous young woman whom he had first courted all those years ago. Time had etched deep lines in her face and childbirth had been unkind to her figure but she was still an astonishing creature in her own way, with generous curves to her body that could entice and excite as of old. Firethorn had aroused the love of serving wenches and the lust of court beauties in his headlong flight into adultery but he always came back to the more mature charms of his wife and wondered, as he did now, feeling a rare pang of guilt, why he had bothered to go astray in the first place.

Margery gave him a joy beyond mere satisfaction and it was something to savour. Lying there in an attitude of complete welcome, she was as irresistible as she had been on their wedding night when the bed had creaked until dawn. Shafts of moonlight came in through the window to paint an even more wondrous portrait of her.

Lawrence Firethorn pulled her to him.

'Come closer, my love. We need each other.'

'One moment, sir,' said Margery, wanting to get the practicalities out of the way beforehand. 'How am I to live while my husband is away?

'As virtuously as if he were at home.'

'I speak of household expenses, Lawrence.'

'You will be provided for, my angel.'

'In what way? she pressed.

'The establishment will be much smaller when I am gone,' he said. 'I will take the lodgers, apprentices and all with me out of the house. There'll be but you, our children and our servants left here in Shoreditch.'

'Children and servants must eat, sir.'

'And so they shall. Every day, most regularly.'

'Will I be furnished with money, then?'

'Of course, Margery, he said, stroking her thigh as a prelude to their shared delight. 'I will give you all that I am able. Let that content you.'

'And how if it should not be sufficient?

Be frugal, woman, and all will be well.

'Even frugality must come at a price.'

'Have no fear, sweeting.'

'Then put my mind at rest.'

'I will, I will,' he said, letting his hand travel up to cup her ample breast. 'While I am away, I will send you more money. And if that be not enough, why, then, you must raise some capital from elsewhere.'

'Teach me how, sir.'

'Sell my second-best cloak.'

Margery was touched. She knew how much his apparel meant to him and how he would sooner lose a limb than part with a yard of it. The cloak, a magnificent garment that was paned with yellow, green, blue and red sarcanet and lined with buckram, was a present from Lord Westfield himself and would not disgrace the wardrobe of any peer. 'Do you speak true, Lawrence? I may sell it?'

'Only if the need arises.'

'And you will not berate me for it?'

'Your comfort must come before my vanity.'

'This gladdens me more than I can say.'

It was the moment to secure his prize. Firethorn reached under the pillow for the ring which he had placed there earlier then slipped it symbolically on to the third finger of her left hand. The ruby mesmerized her.

'It is for me?'

'For whom else? Wear it till I return.'

'Nothing would make me take it off

'It is a token of my adoration,' he said, easing her thighs apart with gentle pressure. 'Let it be a perpetual reminder of the love I bear you. A precious jewel to show that you are the treasure of my existence. A lasting tribute to the fairest of her sex.' She gave him a kiss which set him aflame and which banished all commonsense. His tone was ruinously casual. And if the worst should happen-- sell the ring as well.'

A volcano erupted directly beneath him.

The bed creaked mightily but not for joy.

Bankside was kinder to its departing Thespians. Nocturnal pleasures were not squandered so readily by Nicholas Bracewell. Because they were less frequent occurrences in his life, he had schooled himself to enjoy them when they came and to lock out all thought of the real world. It was only afterwards--as they lay side by side in lazy provocation--that he turned his mind to harsher matters.

'Will you stay in London, Anne?'

'Unless the plague should worsen.'

All the signs point that way.'

'Then I will visit relatives in the country.'

'Your cousins in Dunstable?'

'Or my uncle in Bedford. Or even my other uncle in Nottingham. I'll go to one, or two, perchance all three of them before I stay here to catch the plague.'

'Is that what I am?' he teased.

'I grow feverish whenever you are near, Nick.'

Anne Hendrik was one of the more unusual residents of Bankside. In an area notorious for its brothels, its gambling dens, its taverns and its teeming low life, she owned a respectable house and ran a successful business. English by birth, she was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, a conscientious Dutchman who brought his skills as a hatmaker to London only to discover that the City Guilds were intent on keeping him and his compatriots out of their jealous brotherhoods. Forced to set up shop outside the city boundary, he chose Southwark as his home and Anne as his wife.

Fifteen happy years of marriage had produced no children. What Anne inherited was a fine house, a thriving business and her husband's belief in the dignity of work for its own sake. She also inherited Nicholas Bracewell.

'Which towns will you visit?' she asked.

'The details are yet to be decided upon.'

'In what direction do you travel?'

'North, Anne.'

'Haply, you may find your way to Dunstable, then?'

'Or to Bedford. Or to Nottingham. Or to anywhere else you should chance to be. If I am in the same county as you, I'll find a way to see you somehow.'

Anne kissed him fondly on the cheek than nestled into his shoulder. In the time that he had lodged at her house, Nicholas had become more than a friend. They shared a bed only occasionally but their lives were nevertheless intertwined. He was drawn to the tall, graceful, attractive woman who had such a refreshing sense of independence about her and she, in turn, was fascinated by his blend of humour, intelligence and quiet strength. She had never met anyone who could be so modest about his many attributes. Though he was only a hired man with the company, Nicholas had made himself indispensable and taken on duties that would normally be beyond the scope of a book holder.

Intrigued by the theatre, Anne Hendrik took a lively interest in the affairs of Westfield's Men and she was well-informed about its shifting population. Having sat through the last performance of The Constant Lover, she was curious to know which of its cast would appear in the play when it was taken on tour.

'How large will the company be, Nick?'

'But fifteen of us.'

'That calls for severe surgery.'

'Master Firethorn has made a swift incision.'

'And who has been cut out?'

'Far too many, I fear.'

'George Dart?'

'No, I saved him.'

'Thomas Skillen?'

'He was beyond rescue.'

Nicholas shook his head sadly. In choosing those who would remain with the company, Lawrence Firethorn was in close consultation with his book holder. They had spent hours in deep debate and Nicholas had fought hard to keep certain people, though not always with success. It was the actor-manager who made the final decisions and he did so with brutal efficiency, making no concessions to sentiment or to compassion. What fell to Nicholas was the gruesome task of telling good friends that their services would no longer be required and it had been a disturbing process.

Thomas Skillen was a case in point. The stagekeeper was steeped in theatre and as dependable as a rock but his old age and rheumatism told against him. Younger legs and more versatile hands were preferred. Peter Digby was another casualty. As leader of the musicians, he was a key figure in every performance but his expertise was a luxury that could not be afforded in a touring company. Actor-musicians were given priority because they had dual value. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, would see some of his fine costumes leave London while he was forced to stay behind. His infinite skill with needle and thread was not enough to secure his passage. Nathan Curtis, master carpenter, was also set aside. Only minimal scenery and properties could be taken and his craft was now superfluous.

And so it was with many others. Nicholas had tried to break the news to them as gently as possible but it did not prevent tearful entreaties and open despair and bitter recrimination. For some of those he had grown to love and admire as colleagues, he was pronouncing a death sentence. It bruised his soul.

'What of Christopher Millfield?' said Anne.

'Ah! There was argument indeed.'

'He would get my vote over Gabriel Hawkes.'

'Only because you do not know him as well as I.'

'He was the brighter talent in The Constant Lover.'

'The more forceful, I grant you,' said Nicholas. 'That is Christopher's way. He knows how to get himself attention onstage and will put great passion into his playing but I believe that Gabriel is the better man. He will learn a part quicker than anyone in the company and bring a cool brain to his work.'

'Did you say as much to Master Firethorn?'

'Incessantly.'

'With what outcome?'

'He leaned towards Christopher.'

'Then was your cause lost.'

'Not so, Anne. I reminded him of something which made him consider the matter afresh.'

'Which was?'

'That Christopher may have the more dazzling charm but he also has the greater selfishness. If anyone will to steal some of Master Firethorn's lustre, it will not be Gabriel Hawkes. He is the safer man.'

'A cunning ruse,' said Anne with a smile. I can see why it worked on Master Firethorn. Is that how it stands? Will Christopher Millfield leave the company?'

'Not without rancour,' said Nicholas. 'When I told him of the decision, he was vexed in the extreme and made all manner of dire threats. He has taken it as a gross insult. There may yet be trouble from that quarter. It is not pleasant to be the bearer of bad tidings.'

'You had good news for some.

'Indeed, yes. I spread delight as well as gloom.'

'Was Gabriel Hawkes overcome?'

'I have not been able to see him in person, Anne. He has been indisposed these last two days. But I have sent word to him. He knows his good fortune.'

'That will rally him from his sick bed.'

'I hope so.'

'You do not sound too confident.'

'Oh, I am,' said Nicholas, shaking off his fleeting anxieties. 'Gabriel is the sounder prospect for us and he will prove that on our travels. There is no man in the company I would sooner have beside me. I will visit him tomorrow and make sure that he understands that.'

'Why do you have such a high opinion of him?'

'That is the wonder of it. I do not know.'

Smorrall Lane was less than a hundred yards from Anne Hendrik's house but its dwellings were a world apart. The narrow, winding, fetid alley consisted of a series of dirty and decrepit buildings that leaned against each other for support with ramshackle companionship. Stews, taverns and ordinaries attracted a lower class of patron and those who tumbled along the lane at night were usually drunk or diseased from guzzling excess. Thieves lurked in dark corners and waited for easy pickings. Women offered their wares in doorways. Blood was often mixed with the urine and excrement that flowed over the cobbles. Smorrall Lane was easy to find. It could be located by its stench.

The tall, elegant young man who stalked along it that night was no typical visitor. Nose wrinkled in disgust, he moved along quickly and pushed away two revellers who brushed against him. When he came to the house that he sought, he looked up and saw a faint glimmer in the window of the front bedchamber. His quarry was at home.

He banged on the door but got no reply. Glancing down the lane to make sure that he was unobserved, he let himself into the house and coughed as its dust attacked his throat. He went swiftly to the staircase and crept silently up its crooked steps. Outside the bedchamber, he tapped on the door without response. All he could hear was stertorous breathing from within.

It suited his purpose. Opening the door softly, he slid into the room and crossed over to the prone figure under the ragged bedsheets. The smell of decay assailed his nostrils and his stomach hurried but he was not to be deflected from his purpose. Straddling the sleeper, he got a firm grip on the man's neck and squeezed with all his power. There was little resistance. Weakened already, his victim had barely enough strength to flail his arms and they soon hung limp and lifeless.

The visitor left with furtive speed and came out into the lane again. He used a piece of charcoal to write something on the battered door of the house.

LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US.

Then he looked up at the window once more. 'Goodbye, Gabriel. Sleep with the other angels now.'

(*)Chapter Two

Miles Melhuish believed totally in the power of prayer. As vicar of the parish church of St Stephen, he was in the ideal position to put his faith to the test and it had never been found wanting. Prayer had saved souls, cured diseases, softened tragedies, provided inspiration, secured guidance from above and generally eased the troubled mind of his congregation. If his ministry had taught him one thing, it was that ten minutes a day on his knees was far more effective than an hour on his feet in the pulpit. It was the first article in the Melhuish creed. By communing directly with God in true humility, he achieved infinitely more than he would have by haranguing the citizens of Nottingham with his sermons. He was a devout and pensive shepherd and his flock gained from it.

Ten years in the parish had confronted him with all sorts of problems and all manner of strange sights but none could compare with what lay in wait for him now. As he knelt at the altar rail in an attitude of blissful submission, the setting sun flooded in through the stained glass window to give his rubicund face a saintly glow and to encircle his bald head with a golden halo. When his prayers were done, he used the rail to lift himself up, then genuflected with portly solemnity.

The sound of running footsteps made him turn.

'Why, Humphrey! What means this haste?'

'I must speak with you, sir.'

'And so you shall but not by bursting in like a runaway bull. This is the Lord's house, Humphrey, and we must accord it all due respect. Hold there, man.'

'I obey you straight.'

And catch your breath, dear fellow.'

Humphrey Budden leaned on one of the pews as he gulped in air. A big, broad man of florid hue, he had run much further than his legs or lungs had desired and he was now bathed in perspiration. Miles Melhuish walked down the aisle towards the glistening parishioner and tried to guess at the crisis which had brought on this uncharacteristic lapse. Budden was a respected figure in the town, a conscientious lacemaker who helped to keep the name of Nottingham at the forefront of his trade. Since his marriage the previous year, he had been the happiest of men, honest, affable, upright, regular in his devotions and often given to charitable impulse. Yet here was this same Humphrey Budden, charging into church, panting like a dog and sweating like a roast pig.

The vicar put a consoling arm around him.

'Fear not, my son. God is with you.'

'I need him mightily, sir.'

'To what end, Humphrey?'

'I can hardly bring myself to tell you.'

'Succour awaits.'

'The sound still fills my ears.'

'What sound?'

'And the sight torments my mind.'

'You are trembling with the shock of it.'

'I came straight here, sir. God is my last resort.'

'How may he help you?'

Humphrey Budden bit his lip in embarrassment then cleared his throat. It had been far easier to carry his message to church than to deliver it. Words rebelled.

Miles Melhuish tried to prompt him gently.

'Are you in trouble, my son?'

'Not me, sir.'

'Your wife?

'Indeed.'

'What ails the good woman?'

'Oh, sir...'

Humphrey Budden began to weep helplessly. The calamity which had brought him so recklessly into the church had deprived him of speech. Easing him down into a pew, the vicar sat beside him and offered up a silent prayer. Budden slowly regained some control.

'Tell me about Eleanor,' said the priest.

'I love her so much!'

'Some accident perchance?'

'Worse, sir.'

'She has fallen sick?'

'Worse still.'

'Dear Lord! Has she passed away?'

'Worse even than that.'

Melhuish coaxed the story out of him. Even in its garbled form it was enough to make the man of the cloth forget both his paunch and his place. Gathering up his belly in both hands, he led the way towards the door at a steady trot with Budden in close pursuit. They ran out into the churchyard then through the gate that opened on to Angel Row. The house was a couple of hundred yards away and the effort of reaching it took them both near exhaustion but they did not pause. Above the sound of their breathing, they heard a noise that froze their blood and put a last spurt into their legs.

It was the scream of a woman. Not the sudden yell of someone in pain nor yet the anguished cry of someone in distress. It was a weird, continuous, high-pitched howl of a wild animal, a noise so intense and unnatural that it did not seem to come from a human throat at all. Budden opened the front door and ushered the priest into a room that already had some occupants. Four terrified children were clustered around the skirts of an old servant, gazing up in horror at the bedchamber above their heads.

Humphrey Budden gave them a comforting squeeze then took his visitor up the stairs. During that short ascent, Miles Melhuish prayed more strenuously than even he had done in a long while. The sound was heart-rending. He had to force himself to follow the stricken husband into the bedchamber. What hideous sight lay within?

When his eyes beheld it, he crossed himself at once.

'Dear God in heaven!'

'Eleanor,' called Budden. 'Peace, good wife.'

But she did not even hear him. The wail continued with unabated fury and her hands clutched at her hair. Melhuish was dumbstruck. There in front of him, kneeling stark naked on the floor, swaying to and fro, staring at a crucifix on the wall, was a buxom woman in her twenties with flaxen hair trailing down her back towards a pair of round, beautiful, shuddering buttocks. It was a scene at once so frightening and erotic that Melhuish had to avert his gaze for a few seconds and call his righteousness to his aid.

Eleanor Budden was in the grip of some ineluctable passion. As her shriek soared to an even higher pitch, it spoke of pain and pleasure, of a torture suffered and a joy attained, of the misery of the damned and the joy of salvation. The mouth from which it came was twisted in a grimace but her face was luminescent with happiness.

'Eleanor,' said her husband. 'Look who is here.'

'She hears you not, Humphrey.'

'Stand forth where she may see you, sir.'

He motioned the priest forward until the latter was standing between the woman and the crucifix. The effect on her was immediate. Her howling stopped, her mouth fell shut, her hands went to her sides and her body no longer shook all over. The deafening cry was replaced by an eerie stillness that was almost as unsettling.

Eleanor Budden looked up at the parish priest with a reverential smile. The fever had broken at last. Both men dared to relax slightly but their relief was premature. A fresh paroxysm seized her. Lunging forward, she grabbed the vicar around the waist and buried her head in the ample folds of his flesh, emitting a sound that began as a low wheeze of excitement then built up quickly until it was a cry of pure elation. Firm hands were clutching his buttocks, soft breasts were pressing against his thighs and urgent lips were burrowing against him. The noise surged on to a climax then spent itself in a sigh that filled the room with carnality and made her whole frame shudder with sheer ecstasy.

She collapsed peacefully to the floor in a coma.

Miles Melhuish was still praying furiously.

Death moved through the streets of London every day and sent loved ones to an early grave but the citizens of London were still not satisfied. Private grief afflicted new families by the hour but there was still enough ghoulish interest left over to send a large crowd to Tyburn for the execution. Distraught people who had sat around doomed beds now found a sense of release as they jostled for position around the gallows. A public death carried an element of celebration. In the crude but legalized murder of some anonymous criminal, they could take a profound satisfaction and dispatch him into the afterlife with sadistic jeers. What was intended as a brutal warning to them became a source of entertainment.

Everybody was keen to get a good view.

'Stand aside, sir, I pray.'

'By your leave, Mistress.'

'I'll see nothing but your broad shoulders.'

'Come in front of me.'

'Let me through here.'

'Push hard, Mistress.'

The tall young man heaved to the left to create a space for the old woman. Having fought her way through the press to its densest point, she found that her view was still blocked. The young man recoiled from the reek of her breath but her odour was soon swallowed up in the communal stink of the multitude. She was a countrywoman of sorts, with a basket on her arm and a slope to her shoulders that told of a lifetime of drudgery. Her lips were bared in a toothless grin of anticipation.

'Have you come far, Mistress?' he said.

'Ten mile or more, sir.'

'All this way for an execution?'

'I'd skip twenty sooner than miss it.'

'Do you know who is to be hanged?'

'A traitor, sir.'

'But what is his name?'

'That does not matter.'

'It matters to him.'

'He is nothing in himself.'

'You walk ten miles for a total stranger?'

'Yes, sir,' she said with malicious glee. 'Death to all traitors!' I want to see them cut his pizzle off!'

When it was all over, Christopher Millfield afforded himself a quiet smile.

London came out in a hot sweat. Foul contagion spread throughout its maze of streets and alleys. Bells rang out their jangling requiems all day long and ministers went scurrying from one house of death to another. Undertakers prospered and a worm-eaten generation of parish clerks grew rich from exploiting the miseries of the bereaved by increasing their fees. Vultures fattened themselves on the wasted corpses of their fellow-citizens.

The exodus from the capital grew apace.

'I am loath to depart the place, Nick.'

'There's no staying here.'

'Where she is, there must I be.'

'And so you are, Edmund,' said his friend. 'If she has your verses, then she holds your essence in her hand.'

'I had not thought of that.'

'Then do so now. Absence can only make her heart grow fonder and you may nurture that fondness with sweet poems and tender letters. Your pen will have to serve where your lips may not.'

'This is consolation indeed.'

'Woo her from all over England.'

'What a welcome I will get on my return!'

Edmund Hoode brightened. Discussing his private life with Nicholas Bracewell always paid dividends. The book holder was a man of the world with a keen understanding of the vagaries of love. His advice was invariably sound and his sympathy without limit. Hoode had found cause to be grateful to him on many occasions and that gratitude surged again now. Nicholas had shown him that a happy compromise was possible. Leaving the city did not have to be an act of desertion. He could continue his assaults on the heart of his beloved from a distance. It would make for some exquisite pangs of loneliness on his part and heighten the magic of consummation when that blessed moment finally came.

'I'll send her a sonnet forthwith,' he decided.

'You have only today in which to compose it.'

"Today and tonight, Nick. I cast aside all thought of sleep in the joy of her service, and my Muse helps me best in the hours of darkness.'

'Do not weary yourself entirely, Edmund. We have a long journey to make tomorrow.'

'I embark upon it in good spirits.'

'That pleases me well.'

'Would that dear Gabriel could be with us!'

'My mind was sharing that self-same hope.'

The two men were walking together through Bankside on a sultry morning. They had come on a grim errand. Flies buzzed over piles of refuse and rats sniffed their way through rotting food. As the friends entered the most squalid part of the district, they saw signs of death and decay on every side. They were shocked to think that one of their fellows had been forced to live in such a , warren of mouldering humanity. Gabriel Hawkes had excelled at playing princes yet his own kingdom was that of a pauper.

They were only just in time. Turning into Smorrall Lane, they saw the cart trundling along about its doleful business, already piled high with its gruesome cargo. It stopped outside a door that was marked with a blue cross and another corpse was soon loaded up. The cart then went on to the house where Gabriel Hawkes had lodged. It was boarded up and the writing on the door confirmed that plague had also been a tenant. Wrapped in a dirty winding sheet, the body was carried out unceremoniously and, hurled up on top of the pile.

Nicholas started forward to protest.

'Take more care, sirs!' he said.

'Away!' snarled the driver of the cart.

'That is our friend you handle so roughly there.'

'It is our trade.'

'Practise it with more courtesy.'

The driver let out a cackle of derision then snapped the reins over the backs of the two horses. They pulled hard and the cart bumped on down the lane. It had a full consignment now and made its melancholy way to a piece of waste land beyond the labyrinth of houses. Nicholas and his companion followed it all the way, determined to share in the funeral rites of their former colleague. Both of them had respected Gabriel Hawkes enough to argue for his inclusion in the touring party and it was painful to have their happy memories of him marred by what they were now witnessing. A fund of wit, warmth and real talent was tied up in that winding sheet.

The cart creaked to a halt beside a huge pit that was still occupied by busy gravediggers. Fresh mounds of earth showed that other pits had already been dug and filled. Plague victims needed to go deep into the earth lest their infection sprout forth. The driver and his assistant unloaded the corpses with as much concern as if they were handling sacks of vegetables. Human beings were dragged off the cart and thrown along the edge of the pit to await the drop into their final resting place.

Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode were far enough away to miss the worst of the stench but close enough to observe the creature who crept out of his hiding place under a bush. The man was short, ragged and hirsute, old by every external sign yet as nimble as a monkey. While the driver and his assistant had their backs turned, the newcomer moved between the winding sheets as if he knew what he would find inside them. Using a knife to slit open the material, he groped here and grabbed there until he had quite a haul from his bold plundering. It was when he bent over the body of Gabriel Hawkes that Nicholas moved into action.

Darting forward at speed, he chased the man back to the bushes from which the latter had emerged, diving on him to bring the fellow rolling to the ground. The knife was brandished in Nicholas's face but it did not deter him. Years at sea with bellicose sailors had taught him how to handle himself in a fight and he quickly disarmed his assailant, winding him at the same time with a punch in the stomach. Hoode came running up to join him.

The man retreated in a defensive snivel.

'Leave off, good sirs. I do no harm.'

'Robbing the dead is both sin and crime,' said Nicholas. 'You have defiled the body of our friend.'

'He is past caring.'

'We are not.'

'Judge me truly,' said the man, sitting up on his haunches. 'I only take from those that have no need. These things would only end up in a pit of lime and what's the use of that. Better that they help the living than lie beneath the ground with the dead.'

'You are a scurvy rogue,' said Hoode.

'Necessity compels me, sir.' He was almost chirpy now. 'Plague is meat and drink to me. It is the only time we poor people may be rich for a day. The bodies of the deceased sustain us. Their loss is our gain. When they become naked, we are clothed. When they are hungry, we are fed. Their sickness is our health.

'Give me what you took,' demanded Nicholas.

'It is all mine.'

'Keep most of it. I want what was stolen from that last body. He was a good friend to us.'

'But not to me,' replied the man peevishly. "There was nothing on him to take. A miserable wretch indeed!'

Nicholas dispensed with further wrangling. Grabbing the man by his beard, he shook him violently until the creature howled for mercy.

'Now, sir. Give me what was taken.'

The man spat in annoyance then slowly opened the palm of his left hand. Nestling in it was the tiny jewelled earring that Gabriel Hawkes used to wear. It sparkled in the grubby hand of its thief. Nicholas took the earring and stood up to examine it. Neither he nor Hoode made any move when the man gathered up the rest of his haul and scampered away like an old sheep dog.

The two friends exchanged a glance. Gabriel had at least been spared this final indignity. He owned little enough in life and did not deserve to have it snatched from him in death. They walked back towards the pit and saw that the bodies were now being heaved into it before being covered with spadefuls of lime. The stink was overpowering but they did not turn back. As they looked down into the gaping tomb, they saw dozens of tormented bodies lying across each other at angles. It was now impossible to tell them apart.

Nicholas tossed the earring into the pit then offered up a silent prayer. Edmund Hoode was horrified by the callous anonymity of the mass burial.

'Which one is Gabriel?' he asked.

'God will know,' said Nicholas.

They lingered until the busy spades hid the shameful sight with layers of earth. It was all so functional and impersonal. Both of them were deeply affected. When they finally turned and strolled away, neither was able to speak for several minutes. Edmund Hoode eventually came out of his brooding solemnity.

'Why, what a foul contagion it is!'

'A devilish pestilence,' agreed Nicholas.

'I speak not of the plague.'

'Then what?'

'That other fatal disease. It struck down Gabriel Hawkes and, in time, it will account for us as well.'

'How say you?'

"I talk of the theatre, Nick. That fever of the blood which drives us to madness all our lives and hurries us towards our graves.' Hoode gave a mirthless laugh. 'Who else would take up this profession but a sick man? We are both infected beyond cure. We have caught the germs of false hope and empty fame. The theatre will kill us all.'

'No,' said Nicholas. 'It keeps us alive.'

'Only so that we may suffer gross affliction.'

'The loss of our friend has hurt you badly.'

'He was destroyed by his profession.'

'Or by someone in it.' Nicholas stopped. 'Gabriel Hawkes did not simply die of the plague. The disease would not have carried him off that quickly without some help from another source.'

'Help?'

'He was murdered, Edmund.'

Like a true man of the theatre, Lawrence Firethorn could not resist the opportunity to deliver a speech in front of a captive audience. Westfield's Men were summoned to the Queen's Head that morning. Since the inn was their London home, it was also the most appropriate point of departure. The company gathered in the room that was used as the tiring-house during performance. A great adventure was now in the offing.

They were all there, including Barnaby Gill, Rowland Carr, Simon Dowsett, Walter Fenby, the beaming George Dart and Richard Honeydew with the other boy apprentices. Edmund

Hoode sat pale and wan in the window. Christopher Millfield lounged in cavalier fashion against a beam. Nicholas Bracewell stood at the back so that he was out of range of the full blast of Firethorn's lecture and well-placed to gauge its effect on individual members of the company.

Also in the room, like a spectre at the feast, was the hollow-cheeked Alexander Marwood, the luckless landlord of the Queen's Head. Short, skinny and losing his hair by the week, Marwood had an uneasy relationship with Westfield's Men and only ever renewed their contract as an essay in self-torture. With no love for drama itself, he found the regular invasion by plays and players an ordeal that kept his nervous twitch in full employment. Westfield's Men brought danger to his property, to his reputation, to his serving wenches and to his sanity. He was better off without them. Yet now that they were going, now that they were quitting his hostelry for the open road, now that his yard would no longer be packed with thirsty patrons on most afternoons, now that he envisaged empty spaces and unsold beer and falling profits, he came round to the idea that they were the foundation of his livelihood.

'Do not leave me,' he said wistfully.

'We will return, Master Marwood,' promised Nicholas.

'The company will be much missed.'

'We do not leave of our own accord.'

'This plague is a curse upon us!'

'It may yet bestow some blessings.'

One of them was to shake off the gloomy landlord and escape his endless litany of complaints. Nicholas had been quick to spot that compensation. As the person who dealt most often with Alexander Marwood, he bore the brunt of the other's sustained melancholy. It was just one of the duties that Firethorn had cunningly assigned to him.

The actor-manager now got to his feet and raised up a hand. Silence fell. He held it for a full minute.

'Gentlemen,' he began, 'this is an auspicious moment in the history of our company. After conquering London and having the whole city at our feet, we will now make a triumphal tour of the kingdom to distribute our bounty more widely. Westfield's Men have a sacred mission.'

'What about me?' wailed Marwood.

'You have a mission of your own, dear sir.'

'Name it.'

'To sell bad beer at good prices.'

There was general laughter in the room. Now that they were leaving the inn, they could afford to ridicule its mean-spirited landlord. He was not a popular man. Apart from the buoyant hostility he displayed towards the players, he had another besetting sin. He guarded the chastity of his nubile daughter far too assiduously.

'Our departure from here is not without regret,' said Firethorn. 'We have been welcome guests at the Queen's Head this long time and our thanks must go to Master Marwood there for his unstinting hospitality.'

Muted laughter. They would be back one day.

'It is only when we leave something behind that we come to recognize its true value. And so it is with this fine theatre of ours.' Firethorn described the inn with a sweep of his hand. 'We shall miss it for its warmth, its magic and its several memories. By the same token, Master Marwood, I trust that you will miss Westfield's Men and hear the ghostly echoes of our work here whenever you cross the yard outside.'

Lawrence Firethorn was achieving the impossible. He was all but coaxing a tear from the landlord's eye. It was now time to put heart into his company.

'Gentlemen,' he continued, 'when we quit London, we do so as ambassadors. We take our art along the highways and byways of England, and we do so under the banner of Lord Westfield. His name is our badge of honour and we must do nothing to besmirch it.' Firethorn pointed at an invisible map in front of him. 'We ride north, sirs. We visit many towns along the way but our real destination is York. We have special business there in the name of our patron. York beckons.'

'Then let us go,' said Gill impatiently.

'Not in that mood of resignation, Barnaby.'

'My smile is not at home today.'

'It is spirit that I talk about, man. We must not set out as a band of stragglers with no firm purpose. It is there if only we will see it. This tour is a pilgrimage. We are palmers bearing our gifts towards the Holy Land. Think of York by another name mid it will raise your minds to our higher calling. I spoke of the Holy Land. York is our Jerusalem.'

George Dart was so transported by the speech that he clapped in appreciation. Barnaby Gill yawned, Edmund Hoode gazed out of the window and Christopher Millfield had to suppress a grin but the majority of the company were enthused by what they had heard. All of them had grave misgivings about the tour. It was a journey into the unknown that could be fraught with perils yet Firethorn had made it sound quite inspiring. Stirred by his words and needing the balm of an illusion, they tried to view their progress to York in a new light.

As a trip to Jerusalem.

Sweet sorrow flooded the inn yard at the Queen's Head. When the company came out to begin the first stage of their travels, they were met by moist faces and yearning sighs. Some of the players were married, others had mistresses, most had made themselves known among the impressionable maidenry of Cheapside. Sweethearts were embraced, tokens exchanged, promises made and kisses scattered with wild prodigality. Barnaby Gill turned his back on it all in disgust but George Dart watched with a mixture of envy and regret. No sweetheart came to send him off, no lover hung about his neck. It was so unfair. Christopher Millfield was flirting and laughing with five young women, each one of them patently infatuated with him. George Dart might not have the same height or elegance or stunning good looks but he was personable enough in his own way. Why were the five of them entranced by the swaggering assurance of the actor?

Could not one of them be spared for him?

Nicholas Bracewell stood apart from the general throng with Anne Hendrik. Theirs was a more composed and formal parting, the real leavetaking having occurred in the privacy of her bedchamber during the night. She had come simply to wave him off before setting out on her own journey. Nicholas was touched. I had nor expected this, Anne.'

'Do I shame you before your fellows?'

'Every one of them will be jealous.'

'You flatter me, Nicholas. There are younger and prettier ladies here, today.'

'I have not seen any.'

She touched his sleeve in gratitude. The gesture was eloquent. Nicholas was not a demonstrative man and he shunned the public display of affection, reserving his emotional commitment for more intimate moments. Anne respected that. She had just wanted to see him once more before their paths diverged.

'When will you leave?' he asked.

'At noon.'

'Take all proper care.'

'Do not be anxious for me.'

'Who minds things here in London?'

'Preben van Loew.'

'An excellent fellow.'

'He was Jacob's right hand. Business will thrive under Preben, I have no doubt. It takes all hesitation out of my own departure.'

Lawrence Firethorn reminded them of their purpose.

'We have a mission, gentlemen. About it straight!'

There was a last flurry of kisses and farewells then the players obeyed his command. Only three of the company had horses. Dressed in a superb doublet of red, figured velvet with matching breeches, and wearing a plumed hat of tasteful extravagance, Lawrence Firethorn sat astride a chestnut stallion. He wanted people to see him coming. Barnaby Gill, also attired for show, rode a bay mare. Edmund Hoode, mounted on a dappled grey, wore the more practical apparel for a traveller on dusty roads. The company's luggage was stacked into a large waggon that was drawn by two massive horses. Nicholas was to drive the waggon with the other sharers and the apprentices on board. The rest of the company was to follow on foot.

Firethorn removed his hat for a final wave.

'Adieu, sweet ladies! Wish us well!'

As the torrent of cries began, he urged his horse forward and led the small procession out through the main gate. Gracechurch Street was its usual whirlpool of activity on market day and they had to pick their way through the ranks of stalls and the surging throng. A few cheers went up from those who knew their faces and valued their work but, for the vast majority, buying, selling and haggling vigorously, the price of eggs was or more import.

The crush thinned as Gracechurch Street merged into Bishopsgate Street and they were able to move more freely. Ahead of them was one of the main exits from the city and they approached it in a welter of mixed emotions. Firethorn had spoken of a pilgrimage but nobody could really guess what lay beyond those walls. The last sight which greeted them within the city itself was less than comforting.

High above Bishopsgate itself was a series of large spikes. Stuck on to them were the decomposing heads of traitors, bleached by the sun and pecked by the birds. One in particular caught their attention. It was the head of a nobleman which was battered out of shape and which had already lost an eye to some predatory beak. Walking along behind the waggon, George Dart looked up in horror and nudged Christopher Mill field.

'Do you see there, sir?'

'An example to us all, George.'

'What manner of man would he be?'

'That is Anthony Rickwood. Late of Sussex.'

'You know him, then?'

He was executed at Tyburn but two days ago.'

Dart noticed something that made his hair stand on end. The single eye in the deformed and blood-stained face was glaring down with an anger that was frightening. It was trying to focus its evil intent on one person.

'Master Millfield...'

'Yes, George?'

'I believe he is looking at you.'

Humphrey Budden was in a fever of apprehension. He hardly dared to leave his wife's side in case she was seized by another fir. Neighbours had been scandalized by the sounds which had issued from her bedchamber and all kinds of wild rumours were now flying around Nottingham like so many bats flapping about in a belfry. It was distressing to someone in Budden's position and he had turned once more for advice from Miles Melhuish. Racked by his own ambiguous role in the domestic tragedy, the vicar urged daily resort to prayer for man and wife. He also came up with another suggestion for the suffering husband.

'Let us walk down by the river, Eleanor.'

'If you wish it, sir.'

'This was our favourite place not so long ago,' he reminded her. 'Have you so soon forgot?'

'Indeed, no.'

'You'll come with me, then?'

'I'll obey my husband.'

'This way...'

Eleanor was no longer the woman he had married. The comely young widow with such a light heart had turned into a serious introvert with her mind on higher things. That unexplained horror in the bedchamber had robbed him of his chief delight. Eleanor had recovered from her coma with no memory of what had happened. Her naked assault on the praying Miles Melhuish was unknown to her. All was lost. Gone was her warmth, her laughter and vivacity. She was subdued and preoccupied now. Humphrey Budden had been sleeping in a cold bed for nights.

He put his trust in God's bright sunlight.

'Sit down here, Eleanor.'

'Why, sir?'

'Because I wish to speak with you.'

'This grass will suit, I think.'

She lowered herself down on to the green turf and spread her dress around her. Budden was moved. For a second, he saw the woman he had loved, courted and won for his own. Happiness came flooding back. They had returned to the spot where it had all started. Water rippled only yards away from them as the River Trent snaked its way through verdant banks. Old magic might yet be rekindled if he was patient. He sank down beside her and took her hand in his.

'Eleanor...'

'Sir?'

'Be my wife.'

'I am such.'

'Be my wife in more than name.'

'You speak in riddles.'

He slipped a hand clumsily around her waist. His mouth went dry as he asked it for help. He was painfully aware of his blundering inexperience. Eleanor had been twice married and twice widowed before she met him. He had been well past thirty before he even dared to think of taking a wife. There was a gap between them. It had been bridged on their wedding night and for several joyous months to follow, but it had now opened up again and widened into a chasm.

He cudgelled his voice into action again. ;

"When we first met...'

'Yes, Humphrey?'

'We talked of children.'

'I had five but lost dear Harry in childbirth.'

'You wanted more. My children, Eleanor.' I do recall it, sir.'

Our children, dear wife, and the fruit of our union.' He ran his tongue across his lips. 'The vicar is of the same opinion in this matter. By God's grace, a new baby will bring you back to me as I loved you best. He was troubled by prickly heat. 'Be my wife again, Eleanor. Pay the due of marriage once more.'

She gazed down the long reaches of the river and watched a kingfisher skim and dive. When she spoke, her voice was dull but her words hail awesome clarity.

'I will not share your bed again. Husband you have been, and as loyal a man as any woman could wish, but I have other work in other places. He has called me, sir. He has given me clear direction.'

'Who has?'

'Who else would I listen to but God?'

'Clear direction, you say?'

I must go on a long journey.'

'Why?'

Because it is ordained.'

May I make this journey with you, Eleanor?'

No, sir. I go alone.'

'Where?'

'To the Holy land.'

But that cannot be, wife.'

He guides my steps. It must be.'

The Holy Land!' exclaimed Budden.

'Be not amazed, sir. I have been summoned.'

'For what reason?'

'I will know when I arrive there. In Jerusalem.'

(*)Chapter Three

Westfield's Men left the pulsing world of London for the calmer pastures of Middlesex. Pangs of regret troubled them immediately.' Once outside the city gates, they headed due north for Shoreditch where they passed the Curtain and then the Theatre, two custom-built playhouses in which they had given memorable performances on a number of occasions. Constructed outside the city boundary in order to escape the jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor and his Council, the two theatres were busy, boisterous, bustling centres of entertainment and hordes flocked to them. There would be no such havens for Westfield's Men on their travels.! he sophisticated facilities of a real playhouse would give way to the exigencies of an inn yard or the limitations of a room in a private house. In purely artistic terms, touring was no pilgrimage.

It was a sudden fall from grace.

They journeyed along the Great North Road, one of the four major highways in the kingdom. It took them past Islington Ponds, where they saw men shooting wild ducks for sport, then struck out into open country. Farms were dotted about on all sides, part of the huge agricultural belt that encircled London with green acres and which produced its wheat, hay, fruit and vegetables or fattened up cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks and geese for sale in the markets of the capital. Urban squalor had been left behind now. The air was cleaner, the sky brighter, the hues more vivid and the vistas seemingly endless. Lungs and noses which had become accustomed to the reek of a plague city could breathe salvation.

Nicholas Bracewell kept the two carthorses plodding along at a steady gait and drank in the sights and sounds of the countryside. Sitting alongside him was Richard Honeydew, the youngest, smallest and most talented of the apprentices. The boy had long since learned that the book holder was not only his staunchest friend in the company but an inexhaustible fund of information.

'Master Bracewell...'

'Yes, lad?'

'I have never been outside London before.'

'Then you will gain much from the experience, Dick.'

'Will there be great dangers ahead?'

'Do not think upon such matters.'

'The other boys talk of thieves and highwaymen.'

'They are but teasing you, lad.'

'Martin says gypsies may carry me off

'He mocks your innocence.'

'Shall we face no perils at all?'

'None that should fright you too much, Dick.'

'Then why do you carry swords?'

All the men were armed and most had daggers at their belts as well as rapiers at their sides. It was a very necessary precaution for any travellers. Outlaws, rogues and vagabonds lurked along the roads in search of prey. Nicholas did not want to alarm the boy by telling him this and instead assured him that the very size and strength of the company would deter any possible attack. Richard Honeydew would be as safe in the countryside as he would be when he slept in his bed at the house in Shoreditch under the formidable but affectionate guard of Margery Firethorn. The boy relaxed visibly.

Short, thin and with the bloom of youth upon his delicate features, Richard Honeydew had been carefully shaped by Nature to take on female roles. His boyish charms became even more alluring when he changed his sex and his unforced prettiness translated readily into the beauty of a young woman. A mop of blond hair that was usually hidden beneath a wig now sprouted out from under his cap. Because the boy was so unaware of his several attractions, they became even more potent.

'Would you like to ride on a horse, Dick?'

'Oh, yes, Master Gill.'

'Hop up behind me, then.'

'Will it be safe, sir?'

'If you hold on tight to my waist,'

Barnaby Gill had brought his horse alongside the waggon and was now offering a gloved hand to the boy. Nicholas intervened swiftly.

'I need the lad to help with me with the reins.'

'Do you so?' said Gill testily.

'He must be taught how to drive the waggon.'

'You have pupils enough for that task, man.'

None so apt as Dick Honeydew.'

'Come, let me teach him other lessons.'

He is not for school today, Master Gill.'

Nicholas spoke politely but firmly and the other backed off with a hostile glare. The boy was still unawakened to the more sinister implications of the friendship which Barnaby Gill showed towards him from time to time and Nicholas had to move in as protector. Understanding nothing of what had passed between the two men, Richard Honeydew was simply disappointed to have lost the chance to ride upon the bay mare.

'Must I truly know how to drive the waggon?'

'We must all take our turn at the reins.'

'Why did Master Gill anger so?'

He was deprived of his wishes, Dick.' May I never ride upon a horse?'

Master Hoode will oblige you at any time.

The troupe rolled on its way, pausing briefly at a wayside inn for refreshment before moving on again. Had they all been mounted, they might have covered thirty miles in a day but their resources did not run to such a large stable of horses. Since they went at the rate of those walking on foot, they had to settle for much less distance. If they pushed themselves, they would have made twenty miles before nightfall but it would have wearied them and left them with neither the time nor the strength for an impromptu performance at the place where they stopped. Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell had discussed the itinerary m some detail. It was important to pace themselves carefully.

Richard Honeydew sought more education.

Did you see that head, Master Bracewell?'

'Head?'

'As we left London. Upon a spike at Bishopsgate.'

'I marked it, lad.'

'The sight made me feel sick.'

'That was partly the intention.'

'Can any man deserve such a fate?'

'Anthony Rickwood was a traitor and the penalty for treason is death, Whether that death should be so cruel and barbarous is another matter.'

'Who was the man?'

'Part of a Catholic conspiracy,' said Nicholas. 'He and his fellows plotted to murder the Queen during a visit she was due to make to Sussex.'

'How was the conspiracy uncovered?'

'By Sir Francis Walsingham. He has spies everywhere. One of his informers learned of the plot in the nick of time and Master Rickwood was seized at once.'

'What of the other conspirators?'

'There will be further arrests when their names are known. Mr Secretary Walsingham will not rest until every last one of them has his head upon a spike. He has vowed that he will bring all Catholic traitors to justice.'

'Will he so do?'

'Doubt it not, Dick. His spies are well-chosen and well-trained in their work. He controls them all with great skill. It was not just our naval commanders who defeated the Armada. We owe much to Mr Secretary Walsingham as well. He it was who foretold the size and armaments of the Spanish fleet.'

'You seem to know much about him.'

'I sailed with Drake,' said Nicholas, 'and he was closely acquainted with Sir Francis Walsingham.'

'Was he?'

'The Secretary of State has always taken a special interest in the exploits of our navigators.'

'Why?'

'Because they had a darker purpose.'

'What was that, Master?'

'Piracy.'

The boy's eyes widened with outrage at the idea.

'Sir Francis Drake a pirate!' he exclaimed.

'What else would you call raids on foreign vessels and towns?' said Nicholas. 'Piracy. Pure and simple. I was there, lad. I saw it.'

'But piracy is a terrible crime.'

"There is a way around that problem.'

'Is there?'

'Yes, and I suspect that Walsingham was the man who found it. He persuaded the Queen to become involved in the enterprise. In return for receiving a share in the spoils of the voyage, Her Majesty granted us letters of marque.'

'Letters of marque?'

'They turned us from pirates into privateers.'

'And this was done by our own dear Queen?'

'With the connivance of Walsingham. He urged her to encourage the lawless acts of Drake and his like. When they captured Spanish ships, they brought money into the Treasury and tweaked the nose of Roman Catholicism.'

Richard Honeydew gasped as he tried to take it all in. He was profoundly shocked by the news that a great national hero had at one time been engaged in piracy, but he did not doubt Nicholas's word. He was confused, too, by the religious aspect.

'Why do the Catholics want to kill the Queen?'

'She is the symbol of our Protestant country.'

'Is it such a crime to follow Rome?'

'Yes, lad,' said Nicholas. 'Times have changed. My father was brought up in the old religion but King Henry turned him into a Protestant, and the whole realm besides. Most people would not dare to believe what my father once believed. They are too afraid of Walsingham.'

'So am I,' said the boy.

'At all events, the Queen's life must be protected.'

'In every possible way'

'That is why we must have so many spies.'

Richard Honeydew thought about the head upon the spike.

'I am glad that I am not a Roman Catholic,' he said.

York Minster speared the sky with its three great towers and cast a long shadow of piety over the houses and shops that clustered so eagerly around it. It was the most beautiful cathedral in England as well as being the largest medieval building in the kingdom. Work on it had begun way back in 1220 and it was over two and a half centuries before it was completed. The result was truly awe-inspiring, a Gothic masterpiece which represented the full cycle of architectural styles and which was a worthy monument to the consecutive generations of Christian love and devotion that went into its construction. Visitors to York could see the Minster from several miles away, rising majestically above the city like a beacon of light in a world of secular darkness.

Sir Clarence Marmion did not even spare it a cursory glance as he rode in through Bootham Bar on his horse. A tall, distinguished, cadaverous man in his fifties, he had the kind of noble bearing and rich apparel that made people touch their caps in deference as he passed. After riding down Petergate, he turned into The Shambles and moved along its narrow confines with bold care, ducking his head beneath the overhanging roofs, brushing the walls with his shoulders and using his horse to force a gentle passage through the crowd. High above him, the bells of the cathedral mingled with the happy clamour of the working day. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

His mount now took him left along the river until he was able to cross it at Ouse Bridge. As he rode on down Micklegate, people were still streaming into the city on their way to market. He swung in through a gateway and found himself in a cobbled yard. An ostler ran out to hold his horse while he dismounted and got no more than a grunt of acknowledgement for his pains. It was exactly what he expected. Sir Clarence was no casual visitor to the inn. It had been owned by his family for centuries.

The Trip to Jerusalem was a long, low, timber-framed building that wandered off at all sorts of improbable angles with absent-minded curiosity. It dated back to the twelfth century and was said to have been the stopping place for soldiers riding south to join the Crusade in 1189. At that time, it was the brewhouse to the castle but a sense of spiritual purpose made it change its name to the Pilgrim. Under the hand of Sir Clarence Marmion, it had acquired its fuller title, though its regular patrons referred to it simply and succinctly as Jerusalem.

Bending forward under the lintel, Sir Clarence went through the doorway and into the taproom. An aroma of beer and tobacco welcomed him. When he straightened his hack, his head almost touched the undulating ceiling.

Mine Host responded quickly to his arrival and came scurrying out from behind the bar counter, wiping his hands on his apron and nodding obsequiously.

'Good day to you, Sir Clarence!'

'And to you, sir.'

'Welcome to Jerusalem.'

'Would that it were true!' said the other feelingly.

'Your room is all ready, Sir Clarence.'

'I will repair to it in a moment.'

'Ring the bell if you should need service.

'We must not be disturbed on any account.'

'No, Sir Clarence,' said the landlord, bowing his apologies. 'Nobody will be allowed near the room, I promise you. Leave the matter in my hands.'

Those hands, large, moist and podgy, were rubbing nervously against each other. The visitor always seemed to have that effect on Lambert Pym. Even after a decade as landlord of the inn, he had not entirely shaken off his fear of the Marmion temper. Tremors went through Pym's roly-poly frame whenever his visitor called and the bluff manner which served all his other customers vanished beneath a display of exaggerated humility.

Sir Clarence looked down at him with disdain.

'I have received news from London.'

'Indeed, Sir Clarence?'

'A company of players is heading this way.'

'We have actors aplenty in York this summer.'

'Westfleld's Men are not of common stock. They have been recommended to me by a friend and I will act upon that recommendation.'

'As you wish, Sir Clarence.'

'The company will be lodged here at my expense.'

'Your hospitality does you credit.'

'They will perform one play in your yard.

'I will give order for it, Sir Clarence.'

'Their second appearance will be at Marmion Hall."

'I hope they know their good fortune,' said the landlord, picking at his furry black horsehoe of a beard. 'When are we to expect these players?'

'Not for ten days at least. They have other venues.'

'None will offer the welcome of Jerusalem.'

'That is my request. See to it, sir.'

Lambert Pym bowed and then hurried across the room to open a door that led to a small staircase. His chubby features were lit by a smile of appeasement.

'Your guest is within, Sir Clarence.'

'I hoped for no less.'

'The room is yours for as long as you choose.'

'So is everything here.'

And with that solemn rejoinder, Sir Clarence stooped to go through another low doorway and ascended the noisy oak stairs. After walking along a passageway, he went into a room that was at the rear of the building. His guest was seated beside a small oak table and rose when he saw the tall figure enter. Sir Clarence waved him back to his chair then strode around the room to get the feel of it and to test its privacy. Only when he was satisfied on the latter score did he sit at the table himself.

Removing his glove, he slipped a hand inside his doublet to pull out the other letter which had been sent to him from London. Its contents made his jaw tighten. 'Sad tidings, sir.'

'As we feared?'

'Worse, much worse.'

He handed the letter over and his companion took it with frightened willingness. Small, intense and soberly dressed, Robert Rawlins had the appearance and air of a scholar. The pinched face, the shrewd eyes and the rounded shoulders hinted at long years of study among learned tomes in dusty libraries. He read the letter in seconds and turned white with terror.

'Saints preserve us!'

It was a good omen. On their first night away from the comforts of the capital, Westfield's Men met with kindness and generosity. They stayed at the Fighting Cocks, a large and pleasant establishment that overlooked Enfield Chase. It was a hostelry that their patron frequented on his journeys to and from his estates near St Albans, and they were the benefactors of his fondness for the place. The landlord not only extended open arms to the company, he made sure that each of them slept in a soft bed, and would take no more than small recompense for this favour. It was a blessing for the actors. There would be times when some of them would have to sleep on straw in the stables and other occasions when they would spend a night under the stars. Real beds, even when shared with a few restless companions, were a luxury to be savoured.

There was further bounty that night. Other guests were staying at the Fighting Cocks, wealthy merchants who were breaking their journey on their way home to Kent and who wanted to celebrate their business successes with some entertainment. Westfield's Men obliged with an extempore recital. Lawrence Firethorn declaimed speeches from his favourite plays, Barnaby Gill danced his famous comic jigs and Richard Honeydew sang country airs to the accompaniment of a lute. Fine wine and admiration helped the merchants to part with ten shillings between them, a rich gift that went straight into the company coffers.

Fortune favoured them next morning as well. The weather was fine and the landlord gave them free beer and victuals to carry with them on their journey. They set out with a rising step. In Hertfordshire, they had every expectation of a welcome. Lord Westfield's name was known throughout the county of his birth and it was bound to purchase them special indulgence.

Nicholas Bracewell was sent on ahead to prepare the way. Borrowing the dapple grey from Edmund Hoode, he set off at a canter in the direction of Ware. It was not only because the book holder was such a fine horseman that he was given the responsibility. His ability to look after himself was also paramount. Lone travellers were easy game on some stretches of the road but even the most desperate villains would think twice about taking on someone as solid and capable as Nicholas Bracewell. He exuded a strength that was its own safeguard.

One of the smallest counties, Hertfordshire was the watershed for several rivers and Nicholas was often within earshot of running water. Beef cattle grazed on the pastures and the last of the hay was being gathered in by bending figures with swinging sickles. He rode on past a wood and a deer park until he came to a market garden that specialized in watercress beds. The county was renowned, for the excellence of its watercress which was used as an antidote to the scurvy which afflicted so many Londoners. Nicholas took directions from a helpful gardener and then spurred the grey on.

He arrived in Ware to find, a small, amiable community going about its daily business without undue complaint. Theatre companies could not just appear in a town and perform at will. Permission had to be sought first and a licence granted. In larger towns, the Mayor was the person to grant such a licence but Ware was too small to support such an august personage. Nicholas instead sought out one of its local council.

Tom Hawthornden was known for His bluntness.

'You may not play here, sir.'

'But we are Westfield's Men.'

'It matters not if you were the Queen's own company of actors, Master Bracewell. We have but small appetite for entertainment and it has been truly satisfied.'

'By whom, Master Hawthornden?'

'Such another troupe as yours.'

'When was this?'

'But two days since. The memory is fresh.'

'Ours will be the better offering,' argued Nicholas. 'We are no wandering band of players, sir. Master Lawrence Firethorn is the toast of his profession. Westfield's Men are the finest company in London.'

'Your rivals were so entitled as well.'

'Do but judge our work against theirs.'

'It will not suffice,' said Hawthornden, hands upon his hips. 'Move on, sir. Ware has witnessed as merry a comedy as we are ever likely to see. It will keep us in good humour for weeks. We need no further diversion.'

Nicholas stopped him as he tried to walk away.

'Hear me out, Master. We offer you a play that has enough laughter, dancing, singing and swordplay to last the people of Ware for a year. It is a lively comedy that only Westfield's Men may stage.'

'Too late, sir. Far too late.'

'Do but see Cupid's Folly and you will not rue it.'

'What did you call the play?'

'Cupid's Folly.'

'Then is your journey really in vain.'

'How so?'

'We have seen this country tale, sir.'

'That cannot be, Master Hawthornden,' said Nicholas confidently. 'We hold the licence of that play. I have the book under lock and key. What you saw, perchance, was another play with the same title. Our comedy tells the story of one Rigormortis, an old man who is pierced by Cupid's arrow.'

'Aye,' said Hawthornden. 'He falls in love with every wench he sees yet spurns the one who loves him. Her name was Ursula and she did make us laugh most heartily.'

Nicholas gaped. It sounded like the same play. When Tom Hawthornden furnished more details of the action, the case was certain. Ware had definitely seen a performance of Cupid's Folly even though the play was the exclusive property of Westfield's Men. It was baffling.

Tom Hawthornden resorted to a rude dismissal.

'Go your way, sir. There's nothing for you here.'

Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.

'What was the name of this other company?'

Within twenty-four hours of his departure, remorse set in. Margery Firethorn began to wish that she had given her husband a more joyful farewell. They would not then have parted in such a strained manner. Had she not repelled his advances, they could have spent their last night together in a state of married bliss that would have kept her heart warm and put her mind at ease. As it was, she now felt hurt, fractious and unsettled. Long, lonely months would pass before she saw her husband again.

The house in Shoreditch already felt cold and empty. Pour apprentices and two hired men had lodged there and she had mothered them all with her brisk affection. Now she was left with only a part of her extended family. The most painful loss was that of Lawrence Firethorn. As man and actor, he was a glorious presence who left a gap in nature when he was not there. He had his faults and no one knew them as intimately as his wife. But they faded into insignificance when she thought of the life and noise and colour that he brought to the house, and when she recalled the thousand impetuous acts of love he had bestowed upon her in the fullness of his ardour.

Caught up in a mood of sadness, she tripped upstairs to the bedchamber she shared with a man she now saw as a species of paragon. What other husband could retain her interest and excite her passions for so many years? What other member of such an insecure profession could take such fond care of his wife and children? That he was loved and desired by other women was no secret to her but even that could be a source of pride. She was the object of intense envy. Where notorious beauties had failed to possess him even for a night, she had secured him for a lifetime. Their pursuit of him only served her purpose.

As she reviewed their last few hours together, she saw how unkind she had been to him. Lawrence Firethorn was unique and it was her place to respect and foster that uniqueness. He was not the callous father she accused him of being, nor yet the selfish husband or the compulsive libertine. He was a great man and, taken all in all, he deserved better from her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margery used gentle fingers to stroke the garment he had so considerately left behind for her. It was his second-best cloak, worn during his performance in the title-role of Vincentio's Revenge and redolent with memories of that triumph. Knowing what it had cost him in emotional and spiritual terms to part with the cloak, she had slept all night with it lying across her. It was her one real memento of him.

Apart from the ruby.

Margery sat up with a start. She had chosen to forget all about the ring. It had been the cause of their bitter disputation and she had put it out of sight and out of mind. Now it took on a new significance. It was a love token from her husband, a reaffirmation of their marriage at a time when it would be put under immense strain. Scolding herself for being so ungrateful, she ran to the drawer where she had hidden the present. She would wear it proudly until he came back home again.

Burning with passion, she opened the drawer. But the ring had vanished. In its place was a tiny scroll. When she unrolled it, she saw a brief message from her husband.

'Farewell, dear love. Since the ruby is not welcome in Shore-ditch, I will wear it myself in Arcadia.'

Margery Firethorn smouldered. She knew only too well the location of Arcadia. It was the setting of a play by Edmund Hoode. Instead of gracing her finger, the ring would be worn for effect in The Lovers' Melancholy. It was demeaning. Such was the esteem in which she was held.

Love had, literally, been snatched from her hand.

Her scream of rage was heard a hundred yards away.

The vestry of the parish church of St Stephen was dank and chill in the warmest weather but Humphrey Budden still felt as if he were roasting on a spit. Misery had brought him there and it deepened with every second. He had to make a shameful confession. The one consolation was that Miles Melhuish was patently as discomfited as he himself was. Inclined to be smug and unctuous for the most part, the vicar was now torn between reluctant interest and rising apprehension. Though he had married many of his parishioners and sent them off with wise words to the land of connubial delight, he had never dared to explore that fabled territory himself. This fact only served to cow the nervous Budden even more. How could any man understand his predicament, still less a rotund bachelor whose idea of nocturnal pleasure was to spend an hour on his knees beside the bed in a frenzy of prayer?

Miles Melhuish sat in the chair opposite his visitor and reached out to him across the table. A vague smell of incense filled the air. The weight of religiosity was oppressive. Their voices echoed as in a tomb.

'Speak to me, Humphrey', encouraged the vicar.

'I will try, sir.'

'Is it your wife again?'

'I fear me, it is.'

Not more weeping and wailing?'

'Thankfully, no, but there is further harm.'

'To whom?'

Humphrey Budden was a furnace of humiliation. His cheeks Were positively glowing and he felt as if steam would issue from every orifice at any moment.

'Did you pray? said Melhuish sternly.

'Without ceasing.'

'Has Eleanor prayed with you?'

'It is the only time I may get close to her.'

'How say you?'

'She has put me aside, sir.'

'Speak more plain.'

It was a difficult request to fulfil. A man who had mastered the delicate art of lacemaking was now forced to chisel words crudely out of himself like an apprentice stonemason. Each swing of the hammer made his brain reel.

'Eleanor...is...not...my...wife.'

'Indeed, she is,' said the vicar. 'I solemnized the marriage myself and preached a sermon to you on the importance of walking in truth. Have you done that, my son? Have you and your wife walked in truth?'

'Yes, sir...down by...the river.'

'Stop holding back."

'I... have... no... wife.'

'Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder.'

'A woman hath done it.'

'Done what, man? We are going in small circles.'

Humphrey Budden steeled himself to blurt it all out.

'Eleanor is no longer my wife, sir. She will not share my bed or suffer my embraces. She says that the voice of God has spoken to her. It is sending her on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'

'Wait, wait!' said Melhuish in alarm. 'You go too fast here. Let us take it one step at a time. She will not share your bed, you tell me?'

'No, sir. She sleeps on the floor.'

'Alone?'

'She will not let me near her.'

'Have you given her just cause, Humphrey?'

'I think not.'

'Have you caused her some injury or turned her affections from you in some other way?'

Even as he asked the question, Miles Melhuish saw how cruel and inappropriate it was. Humphrey Budden was a strong man but he would never use that strength against a woman. No husband could have been more considerate. His wife must be to blame for what had happened.

The vicar tried to probe into the bedchamber.

'This problem is of recent origin?'

'Since I called you to the house, sir.'

'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 country? 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 info a fury. As be reduced the bush to a forlorn pile of twigs and leaves, they began to fear for the safety of all vegetation in the country. He was armed and dangerous.

It was Edmund Hoode who calmed him down.

'That bush is not the enemy, Lawrence.'

'Stand off, sir.'

'Sheath 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.

(*)Chapter Four

Marmion 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 facade, 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 die 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 lie 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 have 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'n night 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.'

'Yon 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 astern 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 realized 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 rill 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.

Christopher Millfield stood with arms akimbo.

'Why do you not like me, Master Bracewell?'

'Have I said as much?'

'I read it in your manner.'

'You are deceived. I like you well enough.'

'But not as much as Gabriel Hawkes.'

'I gave the matter no thought.'

'That is not what Master Gill believes. He tells me that you urged the name of Gabriel over mine.'

'I will not deny it.'

'May I know your reason?'

'I took him to be the finer actor.'

Millfield winced. 'You are mistaken there, sir.'

'I can only give you my true opinion.'

'It may be changed ere long,' said the other with a flash of pride. 'But was that the only cause of your preference for Gabriel? That you rated him more highly?'

'No, Christopher.'

'What else?'

'I found him more honest company.'

Nicholas gave a straightforward answer that was not to Millfield's taste at all. After shooting a hostile glare at the book I holder, he invented a nonchalant smile.

'It is of no moment,' he said.

'How so?'

'Gabriel is gone to Heaven. I am here in his place.'

'Can you spare the dead no respect?'

'He was my rival. I do not mourn him.'

'Even though he was murdered?'

Christopher Millfield was taken aback for a second but he retrieved his composure very quickly. Unable to determine if the man's reaction arose from guilt or surprise, Nicholas tried to probe.

'Did his death not strike you as sudden?'

'He was afflicted by the plague.'

'It does not usually kill its victims so fast.'

'I have seen men snuffed out in a single day.'

'The old or the weak,' said Nicholas. ' The young and the fit are able to put up some sort of struggle.'

'What are you saying, Master Bracewell?'

'Until the day when fever broke out, Gabriel was a healthy young man in the prime of life. He should have not have been carried off so speedily.'

'Your conclusion?'...

'Someone helped him on his way'

'You have proof of this?' ;;:

'I have a strong feeling.'

'Is that all?' said Millfield with a smirk. 'You will need more than that to make your case. Besides, what does it matter now? Gabriel was marked for death. If someone did kill him, then he rendered the man a service by sparing him the agonies of a lingering end.'

You take this too lightly, Christopher.' It is idle contemplation.'

'When a good man is murdered?'

'By whom?' challenged the other.

Someone who stood to gain from his early demise.' ,

Millfield met his searching gaze without a tremor.

Royston was no more than a glorified village with a bevy of thatched cottages huddled around the church like anxious children clutching at their mother's skirts. Westfield's Men had once more come too late. Their rivals had performed in the yard of the Barley Mow to an audience drawn from all the villages in the area. What enraged Lawrence Firethorn to bursting point was the fact that Banbury's Men had again filched a play from his own repertoire, The Two Maids of Milchester, another rustic comedy that was suitable for the lower sort. They were poisoning the very water from which Westfield's Men drank.

After abusing everyone in sight in the roundest terms, the actor-manager withdrew his company to a field nearby to consider their next move. Nicholas Bracewell put forward the idea mooted by Christopher Millfield and it found ready acceptance. Rather than struggle on to the next possible playing location, they elected to look for somewhere nearer. Pomeroy Manor sounded an interesting possibility and Firethorn warmed to the notion.

'Master Pomeroy is not unknown to me,' he said with casual arrogance. 'Lord Westfield presented him after one of my performances at the Rose. He knows my worth.'

'As who does not?' asked Nicholas, 'Ware does not! Royston--be damned--does not!'

'To their eternal shame, Master.'

'I would not play before these dolts if they offered me a king's ransom. Palates that have been jaded by a taste of Giles Randolph would choke on the rich food of my talent. There is a world elsewhere!'

'Shall I ride on to Pomeroy Manor?'

'With all haste, Nick,' said Firethorn, scenting the chance of a performance at last. 'Take Master Millfield with you. He knows the way and will ease your solitude.'

Nicholas could have wished for another companion but he had no choice in the matter. Edmund Hoode was quick to offer the loan of his horse to the book holder and--what was more astonishing--Barnaby Gill handed over the bay mare to Millfield with something approaching willingness. It was a gesture that Nicholas was to remember later.

The two riders set off on their expedition. Though Millfield had never been to the house before, he seemed to have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.

The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.

'It is just as I imagined,' said Millfield.

'A rare sight in this county,' observed Nicholas.

'What's that, sir?'

'Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country.'

'So I am led to believe.'

'Where did you glean all your information?'

'From listening in the right places.'

Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.

After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his Steward.

Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.

'You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.'

'You knew of our presence here?' said Nicholas.

'From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they nave no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.'

'Then we may draw up a contract? '

'Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out Word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then 1 can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?'

'But fifteen souls, sir.'

'Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.'

'We thank you heartily, sir.

'The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.

'What would you have us play?'

'Tarquin of Rome.'

It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one's house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.

Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.

'They shall have it, Nick.'

'So I told Master Pomeroy.'

'We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll be Tarquin to the life!'

He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand. Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin's soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.

Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.

'Why do you nod so, Nick?'

'I think I have their secret, Edmund.'

'Who?'

'Banbury's Men.'

'Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.'

'I believe I know how.'

Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode's most stirring achievements and Banbury's Men played it for all it was worth.

Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn's martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.

Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield's Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.

Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.

'Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?'

'You were the very ghost of Pompey.'

'Did I not catch his greatness?'

'In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.'

'The audience loved me.'

'How could they not?'

'I walked in Elysium!'

Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury's Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the a part in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed

Part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.

Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.

'It is a well-wrought piece, ' he said grudgingly. 'Master Hoode is a fine poet.'

'That final speech would ring tears from a stone.'

'He has no equal in such scenes.'

'You speak true, sir,' said Randolph. 'Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury's Men.'

'He does, Master. He does.'

Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.

'When he reaches Grantham, he'll be most perplexed.'

'And cry out like the victim of a robbery.'

'With Master Firethorn howling "Murder!" in his wake.' He became businesslike. 'We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield's Men overtake us. We'll come to blows in that event.'

'I have a device to slow them down completely.'

'Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.'

'Lend me an ear.'

Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other's whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury's Men.

Mark Scruton was their saviour.

Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield's Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realized what was wrong.

Someone was missing.

The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognized him by his profile and his gait.

Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.

Westfield's Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode's woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.

Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.

Let's make the old house ring with exultation!'

Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield's Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.

Lawrence Firethorn thrilled them to the marrow with his portrayal of Tarquin, drunk with power and steeped in wickedness, enhancing the power and prosperity of Rome in order to exploit it for his own selfish ends.

It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.

Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band, Restoring peace unto our bloodied land. Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away. Honour rules upon this glorious day. Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send, Freedom's banner flutters at the end.

Neville Pomeroy leapt to his feet to lead the sustained applause for a play that had moved as much as it had entertained. Westfield's Men were feted. It made amends for all their setbacks. As they were leaving Pomeroy Manor, they had money in their purse and a triumph under their belt. It was invigorating.

Their host showered them with fresh thanks.

'You do not know what joy you have brought.'

'We are deeply gratified,' said Firethorn, still using his Tarquin voice. 'We humble wights live on the indulgence of our patrons. Pomeroy Manor has been our joy as well. We hope for like acceptance everywhere.'

'You will find it for sure, sir.'

'Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.'

'Go further north towards certain victory.'

'That is our intention.'

'I have done my share,' said Pomeroy. 'Hearing of your plans, I wrote from London to my closest friend to warn him of your coming. Westfield's Men are assured of a hearty welcome there.'

'We thank you, kind sir. Where is this place?'

'Marmion Hall.'

'In what town?'

'Close by the city of York.'

Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.

'York, you say? We know it by another name.'

'What might that be?'

'Jerusalem!'

The cellar was deep beneath the house. No natural light penetrated and the thick stone walls were covered with seeping damp. There was a smell of despair. The man was naked to the waist. Spread-eagled on a wooden table, he was tied in such a way as to increase his torment. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, stretching him until he was on the point of splitting asunder. Huge gobs of sweat were wrung out of him to mingle with the streaked blood across his chest and arms. His face was a pulp. As he lay in his own excrement, he barely had the strength to groan any more and did not even feel the impudent legs of the spider that ran across his forehead.

Marmion Hall was the ancestral home of one of the most respected families in Yorkshire. Nobody would have believed that it housed such a guest beneath its roof.

The cellar door was unlocked and unbolted from the outside and a candle brought light. A short, stocky man in the livery of a servant went across to the prisoner and held the flame where it illumined his battered features. Sir Clarence Marmion was impassive as he saw the tortured body.

'Has he said no more?'

'Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.' Have you tested him to the full?'

'With steel and fire. He's bled half to death.' Would not whipping loosen his tongue?'

Only to let him beg for mercy.'

'They get none that give none,' said the other coldly. 'Walsingham's men are ruthless. So must we be.'

Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, the servant banged his head on the table then leered right into his face.

'Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!'

A long moan came from between parched lips.

'Who was he?' hissed Sir Clarence. 'I want the name of the spy who informed on Master Rickwood!'

The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.

'Tell me!' insisted the master of the house. 'Which of Walsingham's creatures sent him to his death?'

'I cannot cut the information out of him.'

'His name!'

As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove.

He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.

'What now, Sir Clarence?' asked the servant.

'Kill him.'

Though the house in Shoreditch was now half-empty, with far fewer mouths to feed at table, Margery Firethorn still had plenty of domestic chores to keep her occupied. One of these was to make regular visits to market to buy the food and berate any stallholder who tried to overcharge her. Servants could not be trusted to get the choicest items at the best prices and so she : reserved the task of filling the larder for herself. It got her out of the house and stopped her from brooding on her loneliness.

She entered the city by Bishopsgate and was caught up in a small commotion. Armed soldiers were bustling about, pushing people out of the way and dealing roughly with any complainants. Margery rid herself of a few barbed remarks at them before sauntering on towards the market in Gracechurch Street. She was soon deep in dispute with a hapless vendor about the quality of his fruit. When she had beaten him down to the price she was prepared to pay, she took her belligerence along to the next stall and set it to work.

Her footsteps eventually took her close to the Queen's Head and it prompted wistful thoughts of Westfield's Men. Ambivalent feelings pulled at her. Still angry with her husband, she yet missed him keenly. Anxious to upbraid him severely, she would have mixed some kisses with the scolding. Margery Firethorn could not blame her spouse for everything. In marrying him, she had married the theatre and that brought special tribulation.

She was given further evidence of the fact. Sitting outside the inn on a low stool was a thin, ascetic man with a viol between his legs, coaxing plaintive notes out of his instrument in the hopes of earning a few coins from the passers-by. Margery was saddened. It was Peter Digby. Ten days before, he bad been the proud leader or the consort of musicians employed by Westfield's Men. Now he was scratching for pennies in the street. The theatre was indeed a cruel master.

'How now, Master Digby!' she said.

'Mistress!'

'Have you no other work but this, sir?'

'None that pays me.'

She took a coin from a purse and pressed it into his hand. He thanked her for a kindness then enquired about the company. She had yet no news to give him but talked in general terms, shouts from the distance made them look towards Bishopsgate. More soldiers milled about.

"What means this commotion?" she said.

'Have you not heard?'

'No, Master Digby.'

'One of the heads has vanished from its spike.'

'There's grisly work indeed!'

'Taken down in the night,' he said. 'And this was not in jest. When the culprit is caught, this is a hanging offence. They search for him in earnest.

'Whose head was taken down?" she asked.

'That of a traitor freshly executed.'

'What was his name?'

'Anthony Rickwood.'

(*)Chapter Five

Westfield's Men set out with high hopes but they were soon blighted by circumstance. Heavy overnight rain had mired a road that was already in a bad state of repair.

Local parishes were responsible for the maintenance of any road that ran within their boundaries but in the case of a highway like the Great North Road, an intolerable burden was placed upon them. There was no way that they could find the resources for the upkeep of such a major artery and Westfield's Men suffered as a result.

'Use the whip, man!'

'It is no use!'

'Drive them on, drive them on!'

'We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.'

'I'll get you out if I have to drag the cart with my own bare hands, so I will!'

But Firethorn was thwarted. Though he took hold of the harness of one of the carthorses and pulled with all his might, neither animal moved forward. The front wheel of the waggon was sunk to its axle and the whole vehicle slanted over at an angle.

Barnaby Gill was quick to apportion blame.

'This is your doing, Master Bracewell.'

'I could not drive around the hole, sir.'

'The waggon is too heavy since you brought the whole company aboard. Their weight is your downfall.'

'I could not ask them to walk in such mud, Master Gill. It would ruin their shoes and spatter their hose.'

'That would be better than this calamity.'

'Do something, Nick!' ordered Firethorn.

'I will, sir.'

'And with all speed.'

Nicholas jumped down from the driving seat and waved everyone else off the waggon. It was then laboriously unloaded. He used an axe to cut a stout length of timber then wedged it under the side of the waggon where the wheel was encumbered. With the help of three others, he used his lever to lift the vehicle up. There was a loud sucking noise as the wheel came out of its prison. The horses were slapped, they strained between the shafts and the waggon rolled clear of its problem. As it was loaded up again, Lawrence Firethorn reached for the law.

'The parishioners should be indicted!

'They cannot mend every hole in the road,' said Hoode reasonably. 'We must travel with more care.

'I'll have them at assizes and quarter sessions.'

'And what will Westfield's Men do while you ride off to start this litigation? Must we simply wait here?'

'Do nor mock me, Edmund.'

'Then do not set yourself up for mockery, Lawrence.'

'They should be clapped in irons, every one of them.'

'How could they repair the roads, thus bound?'

They were ready to depart and trundled on with a few of the hired men now walking gingerly at the rear to avoid the worst of the mud. When they crossed the border into Huntingdonshire, they found the worst stretch of all along the Great North Road. Skirting the edge of the Fen Country, it supported more traffic than anywhere other than the immediate approaches to London, and the surface was badly broken up. Extra caution had to be exercised and progress was painfully slow. They were relieved when Huntingdon itself finally came in sight.

Richard Honeydew was bubbling with questions. Have you been to the town before, Master Bracewell? Once or twice, lad.' What sort of place is it?' There are two things of note, Dick.'

'What might they be?'

A bowling green and a gallows.'

'Shall we see a hanged man, sir?'

'Several, if Master Firethorn has his way.'

'And will they let us play there?'

'I am certain of it.'

But the book holder's assurance was too optimistic. When they rolled past St Bennet's Church to the Shire Hall, they met no official welcome. Banbury's Men had sucked the town dry with a performance of Double Deceit.

It was another play stolen from Westfield's Men and it sent Firethorn into a tigerish rage. There was worse to come. One or the Town Council had lately returned from Lincolnshire. He told them of a performance by Banbury's Men at Stamford of Marriage and Mischief--also purloined from their rivals--and of the staging of Pompey the Great at Grantham before an enthusiastic audience that included his own august self. When he went on to praise the acting of Giles Randolph in the title role, Firethorn had to be held down lest he do the man a mischief.

Foaming at the mouth, the actor-manager was borne off to the nearest inn and given a pint of sack to sweeten his disposition. Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and Nicholas Bracewell were with him. Firethorn was vengeful.

'By heaven, I'll slit him from head to toe for this!'

'We have to find him first,' reminded Nicholas.

'To filch my part in my play before my adoring audience! Ha! The man has the instincts of a jackal and the talent of a three-legged donkey with the staggers.'

Gill could not resist a thrust at his pride.

'That fellow spoke well of Master Randolph.'

'A polecat in human form!'

'Yet he carried the day with his Pompey.'

'My Pompey! My, my, my Pompey!'

'And mine,' said Hoode soulfully. 'Much work and worry went into the making of that play. It grieves me to hear that Banbury's Men play it free of charge.'

Nicholas had sympathy with the author. His work was protected by no laws. Once he had been paid five pounds for its delivery, the work went out of his hands and into the repertoire of Westfield's Men. He had little influence over its staging and even

The Trip to Jerusalem less over its casting. The one consolation was that he had written a cameo role for himself as an ambitious young tribune.

'Who played Sicinius?' he mused.

'All that matters is who played Pompey!' howled Firethorn, banging the table until their tankards bounced up and down. 'Randolph should be hanged from the nearest tree for his impertinence!'

'How have Banbury's Men done it?' asked Gill.

'I have the way,' said Nicholas.

'Well, sir.'

'They have enlisted our players against us.'

'Monstrous!' exclaimed Firethorn.

"There is only one complete copy of each play," said Nicholas, 'and I keep that closely guarded. Rut I cannot shield it during rehearsal or performance. If some of our fellows memorized a work between them, they could put the meat of it down with the aid of a scrivener. And it is off that meat that Master Randolph has been feeding.'

'Who are these rogues, Nick?' said Hoode.

'How many' of them are there?' added Gill.

'I have neither names nor numbers,' admitted the book holder. 'But I have been going through an inventory of the hired men we have employed this year. Several left disgruntled with good cause to harm us. If enough money was put in enough pockets, they would have turned their coat and helped out Banbury's Men.'

'Aye,' said Firethorn, 'and been given a place in that vile company by way of reward. If we but overtake them, we shall find out who these varlets are.

'They are too far ahead,' argued Nicholas, and we will meet but further outrage if we visit towns where they have been before us. Stay your anger, Master Firethorn, until the occasion serves. We must change our route and find fresh fields.'

'This advice makes much sense,' said Hoode. 'Where should we go, Nick?'

'To Nottingham. We stay on this road for a while yet then head north-west through Oakham and Melton Mowbray. Haply, those towns may like some entertainment.'

Firethorn and Hoode gave their approval. Gill was the only dissenter, pointing out that the minor roads would be even worse than the one on which they had just travelled, and throwing up his usual obstruction to any idea that emanated from the book holder. He was outvoted by the others and shared his pique with his drink.

Still thirsting for blood, Firethorn accepted that he might have to wait before he could collect it by the pint from Banbury's Men. Nicholas's idea grew on him. Their new destination made its own choice of play.

'Nottingham, sirs! We'll give 'em Robin Hood!'

It was all decided.

In referring the matter to a higher authority, Miles Melhuish knew that he was doing the correct thing. Not only was he relieving himself of a problem that caused him intense personal anxiety, but he was handing it over to a man who could solve it with peremptory speed. The Dean was feared throughout Nottingham. One glance of his eye from a pulpit could quell any congregation. One taste of his displeasure could bring the most wilful apostate back into the fold. He was far older than Melhuish, with more weight, more wisdom, more conviction and more skill. He also had more relish for the joys of coercion, for the destruction of any opponent with the full might of the Church at his back. He would cure Mistress Eleanor Budden of her delusions. Five minutes with the Dean would send her racing back to her bedchamber to fornicate with her husband in God's name and to make amends for her neglect of his most sacred right of possession.

But there was an unforeseen snag. She was closeted with the Dean for over two hours. And when she emerged, it was not in any spirit of repentance. She had the same air of unassailable confidence and the same seraphic smile. It is not known in what precise state of collapse she left the learned man who had tried to bully her out of her mission. Her certitude had been adamantine proof.

Humphrey Budden was waiting outside for her.

'Well?'

'My examination is over,' she said.

'What passed between you?'

'Much talk of the Bible.'

'Did the Dean instruct you in your duty?'

'God has already done that, sir.'

'He made no headway?' said Budden in disbelief.

'He came to accept my decision.'

'Madness, more like!' Do you find your wife mad, Humphrey?' In this frame of mind.'

Then must you truly despise me.'

They were standing among the gravestones in the churchyard. The sky was dark, the clouds swollen. The wind carried the first hints of rain. Eleanor Budden usually dressed in the fashion of burghers' wives with a bodice and full skirt of muted colour, a cap to hide her plaited hair and a lace ruff of surpassing delicacy, this last a source of professional pride to her husband who wanted her to display her demureness to the town and thereby advertise his trade, his happiness and his manhood. She had now cast off any sartorial niceties. A simple grey shift and a mob-cap were all that she wore. Her long hair hung loose down her back.

Ironically, he wanted her even more. In that dress, in that place, in that unpromising weather, he yet found his desire swelling and his sense of assertion stiffening. Mad or misguided, she was beautiful. Immune to the vicar and impervious even to the Dean, she was still the wife of Humphrey Budden and could be brought to heel.

'You will remain chaste no longer!' lie said.

'How now, sir!'

'Return home with me this instant!'

'I like not your tone.'

'Had you heard it sooner, with a hand to back it up, we might not now be in this predicament.'

'Do you threaten me, sir?'

She was calm and unafraid and he was halted for a moment but those round blue eyes and smooth skin worked him back into resolution. He grabbed her arm.

'Leave off, sir. You hurt me.'

'Come back home and settle this argument in our bedchamber. You will not be the loser by it.'

'Unhand me, Humphrey. Mingling flesh is sinful.'

'Not in marriage.

'We arc no longer man and wile.'

He grabbed her other arm as she tried to pull free and wrestled with her. The feel of her body against his drove him on beyond the bounds of reason.

'Submit to my embraces!'

'I will not, sir.'

'It is my right and title.'

'No further,'

Her struggling only increased his frenzy the more.

'By this hand, and you will not obey, I'll take you here on the spot among the dead of Nottingham.'

'You dare not do so.'

'Do I not?' he wailed.

'God will stop you.'

Roused to breaking point, he laid rude hands on the front of her shift and tore it down to expose one smooth shoulder and the top of one smooth breast, but even as the material ripped, it was joined by another sound. The door of the church opened and Miles Melhuish emerged in a state of frank bewilderment. He could not understand how Eleanor Budden had vanquished the Dean. When he saw the scene before him, however, he understood all too well and trembled at the sacrilege of it.

'Here upon consecrated ground!' he boomed.

'I was driven to it, sir,' bleated the lacemaker.

'To use force against the gentler sex!'

'You counselled strength of purpose.'

'Not of this foul nature.'

'Forgive him, sir,' said Eleanor. 'He knows not what he does. I looked for no less. God warned me to expect much tribulation. And yet He saved me here, as you did see. He brought you from that church to be my rescue.'

Eleanor fell to her knees in earnest prayer and Melhuish took the defeated and detumescent husband aside to scold him among the chiselled inscriptions. When she was finished, the vicar helped her to her feet and nudged her spouse forward with a glance.

'Forgive me for my wickedness, Eleanor.'

'You acted but as a man.'

'I sinned against you grievously.'

'Then must you wash yourself clean. Call on God to make you a pure heart and to put out all your misdeeds.'

Humphrey Budden was desolate. Abandoned by his wife and now censured by the Church, his case was beyond hope. Instead of taking home a dutiful partner in marriage, he had lost her for ever to a voice he had never even heard.

'May I know your will, wife?'

'I follow the path of righteousness.'

'She must answer the Dean's command,' said Melhuish.

'I go to Jerusalem,' she said.

'To York,' he corrected. 'Only the holy Archbishop himself can pronounce on this. You must bear a letter to him from the Dean and seek an audience.'

'York!' Budden was distraught. 'May I come there?'

I travel alone,' she said firmly.

'What will you do for food and shelter?'

'God will provide.'

'The roads are not safe for any man, let alone for a woman such as you. Be mindful of your life!

'There is no danger for me.

'For you and for every other traveller.'

'I have the Lord's protection on my way.'

It began to rain.

Oliver Quilley cursed the downpour and spurred his horse into a canter. There was a clump of trees in the middle distance with promise of shelter for him and his young companion. Quilley was a short, slight creature in his thirties with an appealing frailty about him. Dressed in the apparel of a courtier, he was an incongruous sight beside the sturdy man in fustian who rode as his chosen bodyguard on the road from Leicester. The trees swished and swayed in the rain but their thick foliage and overhanging branches promised cover from the worst of the storm. As Quilley rode along, one hand clutched at his breast as if trying to hold in his heart.

'Swing to the right!' he urged.

'Aye, Master.'

'We shall be shielded from the wind there.'

'Aye, Master.'

The young man had little conversation but a strength of sinew that was reassuring company. Quilley forgave him for his ignorance and raced him to the trees. They were drenched when they arrived and so relieved to be out of the bad weather at last that they dispensed with caution. It was to be their downfall.

'Ho, there, sirs!'

'Hey! Hey! Hey!'

'Fate has delivered you unto us.'

'Dismount!'

Four rogues in rough attire leapt from their hiding place with such suddenness that the riders were taken totally by surprise. Two of the robbers had swords, the third a dagger and the last a clump of wood that looked the most dangerous weapon of them all. The young man did not even manage to unsheath his rapier. Terrified by the noise and intensity of the assault, his horse reared its front legs so high that he was unsaddled in a flash. He fell backwards through the air with no control and landed awkwardly on his neck. There was a sickly crack and his body went limp. It was a death of great simplicity.

The others turned their attention to Quilley.

'Away, you murderers!' he yelled.

'Come, sir, we would speak with you.'

'Leave go of that rein!'

But Quilley's puny efforts were of no avail. He punched and kicked at them but only provoked their ridicule. The biggest ruffian reached up a hand and yanked him from his perch as if he were picking a flower from a garden. Oliver Quilley was thrown to the ground.

'They'll hang each one of you for this!'

He tried to get up but they tired of his presence. The clump of wood struck him behind his ear and he pitched forward into oblivion. Pleased with the day's handiwork, the four men assessed their takings. They were soon riding off hell for leather.

Quilley was unconscious for a long time but the rain finally licked him awake. The first thing he saw was the dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.

Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.

He began the long walk towards the next village.

The rain lashed Westfield's Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell's main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasingly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen's Head and the comforts of London.

Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could lake a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.

Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.

Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.

Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.

'What else did he say, George?'

'He talked of other companies that hired him.'

'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'

'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'

'And were they well received?'

'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'

George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times--in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways--by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.

'One thing more, George.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'

'Many times, Master.'

'What does he say?'

'That he is the better player of the two.'

'I did not think him so.'

'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'

'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'

'None, Master.'

'No tribute of a passing sigh?'

'Not once in my hearing.'

'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'

'I will, sir.'

Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.

'When we left London...'

'Yes, George?'

'We came through Bishopsgate.'

'Aye, sir.'

'There was a head upon a spike there.'

'Several, if memory serves.'

'This was the most recent.'

'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'

'What was his offence?'

'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'

'Was he alone in his crime?'

'No, lad. He was part of a Catholic conspiracy.'

'Why were the others not brought to justice?" 'Because they have not been apprehended yet.'

'Will they be so?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham will see to that.'

'How?'

'His men will scour the kingdom.

Before George could frame another question, there was a scream from nearby which sent Nicholas haring off with his sword in his hand. Richard Honeydew had yelled out in fear from behind the bushes where he had slipped off to relieve himself. Nicholas got to him in seconds to Find him open-mouthed in horror and pointing to something that was coming over the brow of the hill.

It was as weird and exotic a sight as any they had seen thus far on their travels. A band of some twenty or more had appeared in bizarre costumes that were made up of embroidered turbans and brightly-coloured scarves worn over shreds and patches. Their swarthy faces were painted red or yellow and bells tinkled about their feet as they rode along on their horses. They were at once frightening and fascinating. Richard Honeydew was transfixed.

Nicholas laughed and patted him on the back.

'They will not harm you, lad.'

'Who are they. Master?'

'Egyptians.'

'Who?'

'Minions of the moon.'

'Are they real?'

'As real as you or me.'

'Why do they look so strange?'

'They're gypsies.'

Anne Hendrik had travelled by way of Watling Street to visit her cousins in Dunstable. She soon moved on to Bedford to stay with an uncle and was pleased when he invited her to accompany him on a visit to his brother in Nottingham. Though the town had not been part of the itinerary of Westfield's Men, it took her much closer to them and that brought some comfort. It was only now that she was parted from Nicholas Bracewell that she realized how important he was in her life. They had shared the same house for almost three years now and she had grown to appreciate his unusual qualities.

She missed his soft West Country accent and his sense of humour and his endless consideration. Many men would have been brutalized by some of the experiences he had been through, but Nicholas remained true to himself and sensitive to the needs of others. He had faults but even those produced a nostalgic smile now. As Anne wandered through the market stalls of Nottingham, her hands were busy fingering lace and leather and cambric but her mind was on her dearest friend.

She sensed that he might not be too far away.

'Do not buy that here, Anne.'

'What?'

'The finest leather is in Leicester.'

'Oh...yes.'

She put down the purse she had been absent-mindedly examining and took her uncle's arm. He was an old man now and there would not be many journeys left to his brother. It gave him pleasure to be able to indulge his niece along the way. She had always been his favourite.

'What may I buy you, Anne?'

'It is I who should give you a present, uncle.' !

'Your visit is present enough,' he said then waved his walking stick at the stalls. 'Choose what you wish.'

'There is nothing that I need.'

'I must give you some treat.'

'You have done that by bringing me here.'

He looked around and scratched his head in thought. When the idea came forth, it brought an elderly chuckle.

'Haply, you would like some entertainment.'

'Of what kind, uncle?'

'I'll take you to a play.'

Do they have a company here?'

'Had your head not been in the clouds, you would have seen for yourself. Playbills are up on every post.'

Indeed?'

Incitement stirred. Could Westfield's Men be there?

'Let me but show you, niece.'

'I follow you in earnest.'

He pushed a way through the crowd until they came to Ye Old Salutation Inn, one of the taverns that nestled close to Nottingham Castle and which had quenched the thirst of needy travellers for untold generations. Nailed to a beam outside the inn was a playbill written out with a flourish. Anne Hendrik felt her pulse quicken when she saw the name of the play. Pompey the Great. Edmund Hoode's famed tragedy.

A triumph for Westfield's Men.

Her joy turned sour on the instant. The audience would not see Lawrence Firethorn in his most celebrated role. They were being offered the more shallow talents of Giles Randolph and his company.

'Shall you see this play with me, Anne?'

'Not I, uncle. I have no stomach for the piece.'

She turned away in outrage.

They knew that they were in Nottinghamshire as soon as they saw the woodland. Leicestershire had few forests and even fewer deer parks, the land being given over largely to agriculture. The growing of barley, pulses and wheat were familiar sights as were the fields of cattle and sheep. Once across the border, however, Westfield's Men encountered very different terrain. They were in the shire with the wood' since Sherwood Forest accounted for over a quarter of its area.

Their morale had lifted since the sun came out. The decision to leave the Great North Road had been a mixed blessing. It gave them performances in Oakham and Melton Mowbray in front of small but committed audiences but it also acquainted them with the misery of traversing bad roads in inclement weather. Resting for the night some five miles south of Nottingham, they hoped they had put the worst of their troubles behind them.

When Lawrence Firethorn insisted that they stay at the Smith and Anvil, the others thought that it was a rare instance of sentimentality in him. The son of a village blacksmith himself, he had the build of those who followed that trade along with the bearing of a true gentleman. The original forge was a building of napped flints with a deep thatch but the inn which had grown up around it was largely timber-framed. When they entered the taproom, they realized why the actor-manager had been so insistent that they spent the night there.

'Master Firethorn!'

'Come, let me embrace you, Susan!'

'Oh, sir! This is unlooked-for joy!'

'And all the sweeter for it.'

The hostess was an attractive woman of ample girth and vivacious manner. Susan Becket was spilling out of her dress with welcome. The plump face was one round smile and the red tresses were tossed in delight. She came bouncing across the taproom to bestow a kiss like a clap of thunder on the lips of Lawrence Firethorn.

'What brings you to my inn, sir?'

'What else but your dear self?'

'You flatter me, you rascal.'

'I am like to do more than that ere I leave.'

'Away, you saucy varied' she said with a giggle.

'Do you have good beds at your hostelry?'

'No man has complained, sir.'

'Then neither will I,' said Firethorn enfolding her in his arms again. 'Hold me tight, Mistress Susan Becket. Though you have the name of a saint, I like you best for being a sinner.'

Her laughter set the huge breasts bobbing merrily.

Nicholas Bracewell, as usual, organized the sleeping arrangements. The best rooms went to the sharers and the hired men had to make do with what was left. Since it was a small establishment, some of them had to bed down on straw in an outhouse. Nicholas volunteered to spend the night with a few others so that the apprentices could have the last small room. All four of them were packed into the same lumpy bed. George Dart slept at their feet.

The book holder finished his supper in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Carrying a large candle, the hostess guided Lawrence Firethorn up to his chamber. Gill gave a sardonic snort.

'She'll burn his candle for him till he be all wax.'

'They are old friends, I think,' said Hoode.

'Lawrence has friends in every tavern and trugging-house in England,' said Gill. 'I wonder they do not name one of their diseases after him. I know a dozen or more doxies who have caught a dose of Firethorn before now.'

'He has always been popular with the ladies,' said Nicholas diplomatically.

'Ladies!' Gill hooted. 'There is nothing ladylike about them, Master Bracewell. As long as they give him a gallop, that is sufficient, and Mistress Becket will prove a willing mount. Hell not have to ride side-saddle with her, I warrant.

'Leave off this carping, Barnaby,' said Hoode.

'I do it but in memory of his wife.'

'Margery knows the man she married.'

And so do half the women in London.'

'We all have passions, sir.'

Not of that kind!' Gill rose from the table with an air of magisterial disdain. 'Some of us can discern where true satisfaction lies and it is not in the arms of some whore. There is a love that surpasses that of women.'

'Love of self, sir?' said Nicholas artlessly.

'Good night, gentlemen!'

Barnaby Gill banged out of the room in disgust.

Richard Honeydew had some difficulty getting off to sleep because of the high spirits of the other apprentices. They fought, laughed, teased and played tricks upon one another until they tired themselves out. George Dart was quite unable to control them and was usually the butt of their jokes. When they finally drifted off, it was into a deep and noisy sleep. Dart's snore was the loudest.

None of them yielded more readily to slumber than Richard Honeydew. Wedged into one end of the bed beside John Tallis, he did not even feel the kicks from the restless feet of his two companions who slept at the other end of the bed. Nor did he hear the latch of the door lift. Two figures entered silently and looked around in the gloom. One held a sword at the ready to ward off any interruption and the other carried a sack. When their quarry was located, the sack was slipped over his head and a hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy was pulled from the bed with careful speed and the interlopers made off with their prize.

Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.

'Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!'

'What ails you, George?'

'We have been robbed, sir.'

'Of what?' said Nicholas, sitting up.

'I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.'

'The theft was from your chamber?'

'Yes, Master. We have lost our biggest jewel.'

'How say you?'

'Dick Honeydew has gone.'

'Are you sure?'

'Beyond all doubt.'

'This is not some jest of the others?'

'They are as shocked as I am.'

'Where can Dick be?'

'I know the answer, sir.'

'Do you?'

'Stolen by the gypsies.'

Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.

'This is worth ten times your fee, sir.'

'What is it, Master?'

'A work of genius.'

Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.

'I cannot take it, sir.'

'Why not? I'd sell it for three pounds or more.'

'Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.'

'A wife?'

'Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,' said the physician. 'If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.'

'I'll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.'

'There's no hurry, Master, and you need the rest.'

'What rest?'

'To recover from your injuries.'

'They are of no account.'

'A few days in bed would see them gone for good.'

'I have no time to tarry,' said Quilley fussily. I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I've lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.'

'Where, Master Quilley?'

'In York.'

Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.

Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.

Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.

Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.

'I did not expect you at this early hour.'

'Necessity brought me hither.'

'Is something amiss?'

'I fear me it is. More news from London.'

'What has happened, Sir Clarence?'

'Information was laid against a certain person.'

'Master Neville Pomeroy?'

'He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.'

'Dear God!'

'Walsingham's men are closing in.'

'Can any of us now be safe?' said Rawlins.

'We have the security of our religion and that is proof against all assault. Master Pomeroy will give them no names, whatever ordeals they put him through. We must keep our nerve and pray that we survive.'

'Amen!'

(*)Chapter Six

Lawrence Firethorn roared like a dragon when George Dart banged on the door of his bedchamber at the Smith and Anvil. Reverting to the trade of his father, the actor-manager was playing the sturdy blacksmith to Mistress Susan Becket's willing anvil. He was tilling the air with sparks of joy at the very moment that the rude knuckles of his caller dared to interrupt him. Plucked untimely from the womb, he flung open the door and breathed such crackling flames of anger that the little stagekeeper was charred for life. Facing his employer was a daunting task at any time but to be at the mercy of Firethorn when he was naked, roused and deprived of consummation was like taking a stroll in the seventh circle of Hell. George Dart was sacked three times before he was even allowed to open his mouth. It was a lifetime before the message was actually delivered.

'Dick Honeydew has been taken, sir.'

'By whom, you idiot? By what, you dolt?'

'The gypsies.'

'Away with your lunacy!'

'I fear 'tis true, Master Firethorn.'

Corroboration came in the form of Nicholas Bracewell and the other apprentices, who were conducting a thorough search of the premises. They had checked every nook and cranny in the building, including attics and cellars, but there was no sign of Richard Honeydew. The boy had either run away of his own free will--which seemed unlikely--or he had been kidnapped.The second option was accepted at once by Firethorn who turned it into a personal attack upon himself and his career.

'They have stolen my Maid Marion!'

'We will find him,' said Nicholas determinedly. ;

'How can Robin Hood play love scenes on his own?'

'You will have to use one of the other boys.'

'I like not that idea, Nick.'

'Sherwood Forest must have another maid.'

'Not John Tallis!' said Firethorn. 'He has a face more fit for comedy than kissing. Maid Marion cannot have a lantern jaw, sir.'

'Stephen Judd or Martin Yeo will take the part.'

'Neither is suitable.'

'Then choose another play, Master Firethorn.'

'Be thwarted out of my purpose! Never!' He stamped his foot on the bare boards and collected a few sharp splinters. 'This villainy is directed at me, Nick. They do know my Robin Hood is quite beyond compare and seek to pluck me down out of base envy.'

'We must track the boy down at once, sir.'

'Do so, Nick.'

'I will need a horse.'

'Take mine, dear heart!'

Nicholas was not at all convinced that gypsies had abducted Richard Honeydew even though the band had been seen in the vicinity, but his opinion was swept aside by a man who would brook no argument. Simultaneously robbed of his orgasm and his Maid Marion, the actor-manager was in a mood of vengeful urgency.

'To horse! To horse, Nick!'

'I will meet you in Nottingham.'

'Come not empty-handed.'

'If the boy be with the gypsies, I will get him.'

'Have a care, sir! Gypsies are slippery.'

'Adieu!'

Nicholas rushed off and missed an affecting moment. Throughout the conversation between actor-manager and book holder, George Dart stood meekly by, wondering whether he still had a job or not, and whether his little body would be needed to swell the ranks in the forthcoming performance at Nottingham.

Firethorn saw him there and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Dart's face was a study in uncertainty and apprehension.

'Shall I still be one of the Merry Men, sir?'

Nicholas saddled up and rode out of the stables just before dawn. Sword and dagger were at his side. He was an excellent horseman. The son of a prosperous merchant from Devon, he had, from an early age, accompanied his father on his travels and learned how to ride and to take care of a horse. When Nicholas grew older, his father's business commitments obliged the son to travel to Europe and he developed his great love for the sea, a passion that was to culminate in three years with Drake on the famous circumnavigation of the globe. Notwithstanding this, he had lost none of his feel in the saddle. Pacing his mount carefully, he went off at a steady canter.

It was four hours before he caught their scent and another two before he finally rode them to earth. They had stopped at a hamlet in Leicestershire to peddle their wares and to offer entertainment to the simple souls of the parish. While the gypsy women sold scarves or read the palms of the gullible, their menfolk turned acrobat to divert the locals. Nicholas tethered his horse and made his way to the little green where everyone had gathered. From behind the cover of a chestnut tree, he observed a scene that was lit with animation and colour. In spite of the circumstances, he was consumed with interest.

Nicholas always felt some sympathy for gypsies. They were vagabonds with an air of freedom about them. At the same time, they suffered far more severe punishment than any indigenous vagrants. In addition to being regularly fined, whipped, imprisoned or chased from a locality with sticks, stones and a posse of dogs, they were under legal threat of deportation. Throughout the reign of Henry VIII and down through that of his daughter, Elizabeth, Queen of England, the official attitude towards the so-called 'sons of Ptolemy' was consistently hostile. Bands of gypsies were shipped off to Europe and there were occasional calls for a complete extirpation of the breed.

In view of all this, their very survival was a minor miracle. Nicholas had some fellow-feeling for them. His own profession had close affinities with the lifestyle of the gypsies. Actors were also outlaws if they were not employed in the service of a noble patron such as Lord Westfield. Shorn of such livery, they could be hunted and hounded almost as ruthlessly as the gypsies and, like the latter, could often become the scapegoats for any crimes that were committed while they were passing through an area. Gypsies were far from honest and law-abiding but Nicholas always believed that tales of their inherent wickedness and sorcery were wildly overstated.

Such thoughts were still flitting through his mind when the acrobatic display came to an end. Rough palms clapped in applause and a few small coins were spared when a small child ran around the spectators holding out a large cap. Musicians now struck up and there was a display of dancing. Lithe and graceful, the men went through steps that had rarely been seen upon the green before. Nicholas admired their skill and was entranced by the elements of the fantastic. Then the boy appeared. It was evident from the first that he was not as confident as the others, going through a routine as if he were under compulsion rather than as if he were enjoying the dance.

Nicholas Bracewell had seen the jig. It was one that Barnaby . Gill had taught to the apprentices and which had been mastered by one of them straight away. As the book holder studied the willowy youth in the tattered rags and the painted face, he came rapidly to one conclusion. It was Richard Honeydew. Kidnapped at night, the boy was being made to work his passage with the gypsies. He was one of them now and had to dance for his keep, however reluctant he might be. As Nicholas ambled forward to get a closer look, the boy did a somersault that drew a patter of applause and confirmed the book holder's suspicion. He had seen the apprentices practising that somersault only days earlier. Here was firm proof.

Reason would be useless with the gypsies and the parish constable would stand no chance against a band of muscular men who could fight like fury. Nicholas had to take the lad by force while surprise was still on his side. Waiting until the dance came to an end, he let the apprentice take his applause then leapt at him from behind and threw an arm around him. In his other hand was his sword, brandished with enough purpose to keep them all at bay as he backed away towards his horse.

'Come, Dick, we'll be gone from here!'

But the boy did not seem too eager to leave. Sinking his teeth into Nicholas's arm, he prised himself free then turned on his captor to abuse him in a torrent of Romany.

The book holder was totally nonplussed.

It was not Richard Honeydew at all.

Westfield's Men were in despondent mood as they set out for Nottingham. Having been battered by Fate enough times already on tour, they were now knocked flat by one vicious punch. The disappearance of Richard Honeydew was a real disaster. He was a crucial figure in every performance. Though there was still some vestigial resentment on their part, the other apprentices had come to accept that the youngest of their number was also the cleverest. He took all the juvenile female leads and relegated them to the less attractive roles of ageing Countesses and comic serving wenches, of daunting Amazons and vapid lovers. Honeydew had another string to his bow. He was the most melodious boy soprano and songs were now written for him in almost every play. Without him, discord followed.

'Rest on my shoulder, Mistress.'

'It is my dearest wish, sir.'

'We'll travel side by side.'

'Like two oxen yoked together.'

'We'll pull in the same direction, I warrant.'

Mistress Susan Becket laughed at his sexual quibble then swung herself up into the saddle of her horse, using the solid shoulder of Lawrence Firethorn as a lever. He had been delighted when she offered to accompany them to Nottingham to watch their performance, not least because she brought a horse of her own and a second for his personal use from her stable. Leaving the tavern in the capable hands of her employees, Susan Becket rode off with the company and was an eye-catching figure on her white mare, a woman of substance in every sense, gracious yet sensual, lifting the morale of the players by her very presence and allowing Firethorn himself to indulge his fantasies at will.

She was nor, however, welcomed by all the company.

'You wonder that the horse can carry her, sir!'

'She is indeed plump, Master Gill, but well-favoured.'

'And she were courteous into the bargain, Mistress Becket would put on the saddle and carry the horse.'

'That is unkind, sir.'

'Only to the white mare.'

'Has Master Firethorn known her for long?'

'An hour at a time.'

'They are old bedfellows, then?'

'Bedfellowship was their invention.'

Barnaby Gill was riding beside the waggon which was now being driven by Christopher Millfield. The other sharers and the apprentices were seated among the baggage but the hired men were forced to trudge in the rear. It was a hot day with no wind to cool the fevered brow. Gill used the occasion to unleash some tart misogyny.

'She is the very epitome of her sex, is she not?'

'Mistress Becket?'

'She'll prove a shrewd archbishop to his majesty there beside her. Though we ride to York, she'll take him on a pilgrimage to Canterbury this night and show him all her sacred relics. When Master Firethorn plunges into her baptismal font, he'll sink to his armpits in the swill of her passion and will have to pray to the holy blissful martyr to haul him out again!'

'You do not like the lady,' said Millfield drily.

'Not this, nor any other of her kind.'

'Your reasoning, Master Gill?'

'Women have no place beside players.'

'Not even underneath them?'

'They are vile distractions, sir.'

'Would you not keep them for ornament?'

'Only in a privy for that's their natural region.'

'You are harsh, Master.'

'Can any sane man truly love women?'

Christopher Millfield laughed by way of reply. He liked Barnaby Gill and had learned much from watching the comedian in action on the stage, but he could not share his disgust with womanhood. Millfield aroused feminine interest wherever he went and he basked in it, viewing it as one of the few legitimate spoils of war for an actor.