The Trip to Jerusalem

Gill looked across at the handsome profile.

'May I put a question to you, sir?'

'Do not hesitate.'

'How came it that you knew Pomeroy V nor?'

'I knew but of it, Master Gill.'

'By what means?'

'The Admiral's Men.'

'Untalented rascals!'

'They had not your quality, 'tis true,' said the other tactfully, 'but they were able enough. And they knew where to earn the next meal when we were in the country. One of their number kept a list in his mind of every house in England where players were welcome.'

'That list was not too long to memorize,' said Gill ruefully. 'Far more doors are slammed in our faces than ever open to our entertainment.'

'Even so, sir. That is why I took some pains to con the list myself. Master Neville Pomeroy was on it along with others in the county of Hertfordshire.'

'And this friend of his in York?'

'Sir Clarence Marmion was also on that list. I think the Admiral's Men did play there during the last outbreak of the pestilence. But there are other houses where we may look for friendship, both here in this county and in Yorkshire itself.'

'We'll try your list some more.'

Gill's attention was diverted by a sight which made his nose wrinkle with distaste. Lawrence Firethorn burst into ribald laughter and leaned over to squeeze the shoulders of the mirthful Susan Becket. Their joviality set them apart from Westfield's Men who were still worrying about the kidnap of Richard Honeydew and the effect it would have on the standard of their work.

'Look at them!' snorted Gill.

'Like turtle doves,' said Millfield tolerantly.

'Pigs in a trough, sir! When they have finished gobbling their own discourse, they will roll together in the slime and he will tickle the teats of that old sow.'

'Mistress Becket is neither so low nor beastly.'

'She is a monster. Put her on the stage and you would need three boys to play her, stuffed together in the one dress like rabbits in a sack. While Martin Yeo would personate her, John Tallis would serve in the office of one buttock and Stephen Judd t'other. It is a pity that Dick Honeydew is not here or he could take on the role of her left breast and wear that gross beauty spot.'

'For shame, Master Gill!'

'I speak but as I feel.'

'Her tavern gave us good food and rest.'

'So would any other where we paid.'

'I like the lady.'

'I took you for a man of finer taste.'

Millfield looked at Firethorn and his companion.

'She keeps him much amused.'

'Any woman can do that.'

'Does his wife raise no objection?'

'A hundred by the minute, sir, but she is back in Shoreditch and he is here. Were Margery to view this scene before us, she would pluck off his stones and wear them as earrings to ward off any other women. Alas, she is not here. She defends his castle in London.'

'Stoutly?'

'As any army under siege. I pity the man who tries to take her fortress, Master Millfield. Though he bring the biggest battering ram in Christendom, it will not suffice. Margery will drown him in boiling oil.'

'Out, you rogue! Away, you rascal, you hedge-bird, you pannier-man's whelp! Do not wave your paltry reckoning at me, you pimp, you dog's-head, you trendle-tail! Marry, look off, sir! Go, snuff after some other prey! Poxed already you are, I can tell by that sheep-biting face, and I hope to see you plagued one day, you snotty nose!'

'I come but for my due, good madam.'

'Hold forth thy mangy head and I will give it thee with this broom! Or bend over, and I will sink a foot of my handle where'll you'll feel it most and remember me as a tidy housewife.'

'Calm down, Mistress Firethorn.'

'Only when your greasy face has gone!'

The tailor was a small, sweating, diffident man who was no match for Margery Firethorn. When he came to present his bill to her, he walked into the same hurricane as his predecessors. Backing away from the threshold of the house in Shoreditch, he summoned up enough courage to issue a threat of legal action.

'I have the law upon my side, Mistress.'

'And you stay, I'll gum your silks with water!'

'Pay up now to stave off a worser fate.'

'Do you want that pate split open with my broom?'

'I'd bring an action of battery against you.' Your widow might for you'd not live to do so.' I am not married,' he confessed.

'What woman would take you?' she jeered. 'I can see it in your visage, you insolent slave! You're a miserable tailor's remnant of a man, a pair of breeches without a codpiece, a dunghill cock with no cause to crow or fright any hen from her modesty. Away, you gelding!'

'Leave off, you shrew!'

'Then go before I snip with your scissors!'

"Tis a cucking-stool you need,' he said. 'That's what they use for ducking scolds.'

'Yaaaaaaaa!'

Margery ran at him with her broom at the ready and he took to his heels and ran for his life. As he raced off down the road, she yelled some more abuse at him to spur him on then relaxed and went back into the house. The tailor was the fifth creditor in the last two days and he came on the heels of a diaper, a hat-maker, a cobbler and a goldsmith. All presented her with reckonings that she simply could not meet, large bills recklessly run up by Lawrence Firethorn in the knowledge that he would be leaving London soon and therefore able to outrun his debts. Margery was left in the line of fire. Five had been dispatched but all five would return again with the law to strengthen their arm. And there would be more. Her husband was nothing if not extravagant. On the eve of his departure, he had run up debts all over London.

Pulsating with fury, she stormed upstairs to their bedchamber and grabbed the cloak. It was the answer to all her problems. Not only would its sale bring in enough money to pay off all outstanding accounts, it would be a severe blow to Firethorn. The second-best cloak was much more than a mere garment. It was a due reward for his artistic endeavour, a seal of approval from his patron. The actor had worn it onstage several times and it was a glittering storehouse of theatrical memories. Though he had left it for her to sell, he had banked on her keeping it for reasons of pride and nostalgia. Those reasons now battled with feelings of outrage.

Margery was betrayed. Struggling along without him was a trial enough but he had made her predicament much more awkward. It was typical of him and she cursed herself for not foreseeing this eventuality. No word had yet come from Firethorn and, when it did, she was sure that no money would accompany it. She was on her own with mouths to feed and tradesmen to stave off.

She fingered the cloak with swirling anger. It would serve him right if he came back to find it gone. Margery crossed to the door with the garment over her arm then stopped in her tracks. Conscience troubled her. She would be meeting one betrayal with a far greater one. Whatever vices her husband had, there was one overriding virtue that drew her to him. He loved the theatre. With a passion that amounted to an obsession, he adored every aspect of his chosen profession and savoured every prize and memento that had come his way. Even at the height of her rage, she did not have the heart to stab Firethorn in the back through the silk of his second-best cloak.

Shaking with frustration, she threw it aside. 'Doll!' she yelled.

'Yes, Mistress?' called a girlish voice.

'Come here at once!'

'In haste!'

The servant girl knew better than to keep Margery waiting. She had watched through a window as each of the five creditors had been sent packing with their ears on fire. Doll lived in the house and had nowhere else to go. Total obedience was the only way to appease her mistress.

She stumbled breathlessly into the bedchamber. 'Hurry, girl!'

'I am here, Mistress.'

'Then go from me again.'

'How now?'

'Fetch me pen and ink.'

'It shall be done directly.'

'And something I may write upon.'

'I fly.'

'Faster, girl!'

Margery Firethorn would grasp another possibility.

She would write a letter.

Nicholas Bracewell was in no position to parley. Greatly outnumbered and clearly in the wrong, his only hope lay in a swift escape. Half-a-dozen brawny gypsies were closing in on him, their scowls hidden by the paint on their faces but their gestures eloquent. The boy himself continued to shout at Nicholas then grabbed a handful of dust to throw up into his face. Blinded for a second, the book holder swung his sword in a wide arc to fend off the gypsies who moved in quickly upon him. As his eyes cleared, he saw another man running towards them with a branding iron in his hand, patently intent on murder. Nicholas rightly identified him as the boy's father and did not linger to discuss the youth's skill as a dancer.

Swishing his sword again to create more space, he then spun around and sprinted off. One of the gypsies had sneaked up behind him and tried to block his way but Nicholas knocked him our of the way with his shoulder. Pursuit was immediate and it was accompanied by all kinds of wild cries. A few dogs joined in the fun of the chase.

Nicholas was running at full pelt but found an extra yard of pace when a long knife embedded itself in a tree only inches from his face. When he reached his horse, he had no time for a leisurely mount with the stirrup. Vaulting into the saddle, he tugged the rein free of its branch and let the horse feel his urgency.

He galloped away with howls of anguish ringing in his ears. Three of them followed him and kept him within sight for a mile or more but he Finally managed to shake them off and gain the cover of a wood. With time at last to catch his breath, he measured the cost of his journey. It was expensive. He had wasted valuable time, created a band of dangerous enemies and collected an aching bruise on his shoulder. Irony ruled. Believing that the gypsies had stolen a young boy from him, he finished up by doing the same to them. Guilt lay exclusively with him and he had no excuse. Nicholas knew that he had deserved the bite that was still smarting on his arm. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.

Catching up with the company was now his prime concern and he did not spare his mount on the return journey. When he reached the Smith and Anvil, he watered the horse and checked to see what time the others had left, then he was back in the saddle and riding off once more. It was now mid-afternoon and the sun was at its height, compensating for the torrential rain earlier in the week by baking the land dry. Both Nicholas and the horse were dripping with perspiration. As the River Trent came into sight, he slowed his mount to a rising trot. The cool water shimmered ahead of him. Its appeal was quite irresistible to the exhausted traveller.

He reined in his horse when the water was lapping at its fetlocks then dismounted. After tethering the animal to the branch of an overhanging tree, he slipped behind a bush and peeled off his sticky clothes. Nobody was about as he ran naked to the edge of the bank and plunged straight into the river. It was a wonderful feeling, both relaxing and invigorating, easing his pain and restoring his vitality. He swam powerfully towards the middle of the river then rolled over on his back and floated on the surface of the water. His arms were outstretched and the sun gilded his hair and body. He let time stand still.

Eleanor Budden emerged from the bushes on the other side of the river and watched the apparition that was floating slowly towards her. She had been sitting beside the Trent in deep contemplation when she first heard the splash. Her mind had been on her mission and she had been waiting for another sign from above.

That sign had now come. What she saw on the water was no fatigued book holder washing off the dirt of a long journey. She witnessed a miracle. Eyes closed, arms nailed to some invisible cross, body limp yet beautiful. Fair hair combed by the sunlight. Here was no stranger but her closest friend in the world. She had last seen him in the lancet window at the church of St Stephen.

Eleanor Budden waded happily into the water.

'Lord Jesus,' she cried. 'Take me to Jerusalem!'

Nottingham was the first sizeable town they had been in since they had left and it gave them an immediate sense of reassurance. It was tiny by comparison with London but that did not worry them. The place was a vast improvement on villages that turned them away and hamlets which could not raise an audience worth the bother. Nottingham was civilization. They were back in business.

Lodging his company at the Saracen's Head near the centre of the town, Lawrence Firethorn put on his best apparel and went to call on the Mayor. Permission to play was readily granted and the Town Hall was the designated venue. The Mayor was a keen playgoer himself and he was delighted that Westfield's Men were gracing the town with a visit. Money was discussed and Firethorn left in much higher spirits. The performance of Robin Hood was set for the morrow which gave them ample time to rehearse the piece, to recruit journeymen as extras and--in the event of Richard Honeydew's continued absence--recast the role of Maid Marion. All seemed to be well.

The actor-manager then returned to the inn and his world caved in around him.

'Again! This is a double insult!'

'I saw the playbill myself, Master Firethorn.'

Did you witness the performance?

'I could not bear to, sir. My loyalty is to you.'

'It does you credit, Mistress Hendrik." He thumped the settle on which he was perched. 'By heavens, I'll not bear it! Giles Randolph is as arrant a knave as ever walked the face of the earth. Sure, he cannot have come from any lawful issue but was engendered by two toads on a hot day in some slimy place or other.' He jumped to his feet. And did he really play Pompey the Great?'

'But two clays ago.'

'Treachery in the highest degree!'

Anne Hendrik had tracked the company down to the inn and reported her news. The long-faced Edmund Hoode sat in on the debate along with Barnaby Gill. All three of them waited until Firethorn had ranted his full and described fifteen different ways in which he would put his rival to death. Having departed from their original route in order to shake off Banbury's Men, it was dispiriting to find that they had come in their wake after all. Firethorn's beloved role had been purloined, Hoode's play had been misappropriated and all the kudos that should have gone to Westfield's Men had been diverted to lesser mortals.

The actor-manager would have raved for an hour or more had he not been interrupted by the landlord who told him that another guest wished to have private audience with him. Firethorn stalked off like Pompey on his way to clear the Mediterranean of pirates.

Anne Hendrik was able to ask after Nicholas.

'Is he not with you here?'

'Not yet, Mistress,' said Hoode. 'Dick Honeydew was taken by the gypsies and Nicholas went to rescue him.'

'Alone?'

'He would not hear of company,' said Gill.

'But there are such perils.' :

'Nicholas will make light of those,' assured Hoode then turned the question that really vexed him. 'Tell me now, for this is like a dagger in my heart, what player with Banbury's Men did dare to take my part?'

'Your part, sir? In Pompey the Great?'

'Sicinius.'

'I cannot say, Master Hoode.'

'It matters not,' said Gill dismissively. 'The role is of no account and hardly noticed in performance.'

'That is not true, Barnaby!'

'Take it away and who would miss it?'

'I would, man! I would!'

'Sicinius is a mean part for any man.'

'It is mine!' wailed Hoode. 'I wrote it and I play it. Sicinius is me. I would not have myself stolen like this. So tell me--who took the part?'

Mark Scruton lifted his dagger and stabbed his victim in the back with cruel deliberation. The man fell on to his face, twitched for a few horrifying seconds, then lay motionless. Wiping the blood from his weapon, the murderer gave a malevolent smile then strode calmly away.

Another rehearsal came to an end.

Kynaston Hall was the largest private house at which Banbury's Men had performed since the tour began and it offered them the best facilities. They had free use of the hall for rehearsal, the assistance of four liveried servants and regular maids from the kitchen. It was all very gratifying and no member of the company savoured it more than Mark Scruton. He was being given his first chance to take an important role. The play was one of their own this time, The Renegade, a dark and blood-soaked tragedy on a revenge theme. It enabled Giles Randolph to shine in a title role that really suited his talents and it brought Scruton forward into the light.

'Excellent work, sir.'

'Thank you, Master Randolph.'

'You prosper in the role.'

'I hope the audience shares your view.'

'Trust it well.'

'Have you no criticism?'

'None,' said Randolph languidly. 'Except that you stayed too long upon the stage once you had stabbed me. The murder of the Duke is of more dramatic significance than the reaction of his killer. Once you have dispatched me with your dagger, quit the stage.'

'I will, sir.'

'My corpse will be a soliloquy in itself.'

They were in the Great Hall and the stagekeepers were scampering around moving the scenery and props. Giles Randolph was very satisfied with the way that everything was going. On and off the stage, revenge was proving to be his best suit. He was about to move away when Scruton detained him by plucking at his sleeve.

'A word, sir.'

'It is not a convenient time.'

'This will take but a second.'

'Very well.' Randolph shrugged. 'What is it?' I am bold to put you in mind of my contract.'

'It has not been forgot.'

'When may I view it, sir?'

'When I have drawn it up.'

'And when will that be?'

'The other sharers have to be persuaded first.'

Scruton frowned. 'My understanding was that you could carry the business alone.'

'Well, yes, indeed. No question but that I can.'

'Why then the delay?'

'I am no lawyer, Mark. The terms must be drawn up properly and the Earl himself must take note of them. It is a big translation for you.'

'You know that I have earned it, Master Randolph.'

'No man more so.'

'Give me then a date. It was your promise.'

Giles Randolph gave him the enigmatic smile that was part of his stock-in-trade then walked slowly around him in a circle. Scruton did not like being kept waiting. His willing smile took on a forced look. Randolph faced him again and came to a decision.

'York.'

'What say you?'

'That is when the articles will be signed.'

'I have that for certain?'

'My hand upon it!' They exchanged a handshake. 'You will become a sharer with Banbury's Men and taste the sweeter fruit of our profession.'

'Thank you!' said Scruton with feeling. 'I did not doubt you for a moment. This gives me true happiness.'

'Wait but for York.'

'It will be my place of pilgrimage.'

'Bear your cross until then.'

Mark Scruton grinned. He was almost there.

It took Nicholas Bracewell fifteen minutes to convince her that he was not Jesus Christ and even then she had lingering reservations. When he saw her wading out to meet him in mid-river, he immediately lowered his body so that he could tread water. He had never been accosted by such a strange yet beautiful woman before, especially one who kept calling on him to baptize her in the Jordan. He took an age to persuade her to return to her bank then he swam back to where he had left his clothes and dried himself off as best he could before dressing. Restored and refreshed, he rode over the bridge and back along the bank to Eleanor Budden. Her wet shift was clinging to her body like a doting lover and he noticed that it had been repaired near the shoulder. Nicholas dismounted out of politeness and touched his cap.

'May I see you safe home, Mistress?'

'All the way to Jerusalem.'

'I have told you. I am with Westfield's Men.'

'Our meeting today was foretold.'

'Not to me.'

'We were destined to cross paths. Master Bracewell.'

'In the middle of the River Trent?'

'Tax not divine appointment.'

'Let me escort you to your house.'

'I have resolved to leave it for ever.'

'Yet you spoke of a husband and of children.'

'They will have to make shift without me.'

'Does duty not prompt you?' he said.

'Aye, sir. To follow the voice of God.'

Nicholas had met religious maniacs before. More than one of his fellow-sailors on the voyage with Drake had found the privations too hard to bear. They had taken refuge in a kind of relentless Christianity that shaped their lives anew and consisted in a display of good deeds and profuse quotations from the Bible. Eleanor Budden was not of this mould. Her obsession had a quieter and more rational base. That increased its danger.

'The Lord has brought us together,' she said. 'Has he?'

'Do you not feel it?'

'Honesty compels me to deny it.

'Where you lead, I will follow.'

'That is out of the question,' he said in alarm. 'You have been sent as my guide.'

'But we are not going to Jerusalem, I fear.'

'What, then, is your destination?'

'York.'

'I knew it!'

Eleanor flung herself to her knees and bent down to kiss his shoes. Nicholas backed away in embarrassment as she tried to clutch at him. Facing up to a band of angry gypsies had been nothing to this. Eleanor was a model of persistence, a burr that stuck firmly to his clothing.

'I must come with you. Master Bracewell.'

'Where?'

'To York. I must see the Archbishop.'

'Travel to the city by some other means.

'You are my appointed guardian.'

'Mistress, I am part of a company.'

'Then I will go with you and your fellows.'

'That is not possible.'

'Why, sir?'

'For a dozen reasons,' he said, wishing he could call some of them to mind. 'Chiefly, for that we are all men who ride together. No woman may join our train.'

'That is a rule which God can change.'

'Master Firethorn will not permit it.'

'Let me but talk with him.'

'It will be of no avail.'

Eleanor Budden got to her feet and turned her blue eyes on him with undisguised ardour. She stepped in close and her long wet strands of hair brushed his cheek.

'You have to take me to York,' she insisted.

'For what reason?'

'I love you.'

Nicholas Bracewell quailed. He foresaw trouble.

Lawrence Firethorn was slowly enthralled. More to the point, he smelled money. Oliver Quilley had invited him up to his room to put a proposition to him, and, after rejecting it out of hand, the actor-manager was slowly being won over.

The artist expatiated on his work. Strutting about the room in his finery like a turkey-cock, the dwarfish dandy explained why he had become a miniaturist.

'Limning is a thing apart from all other painting and drawing, and it excelleth all other art whatsoever in sundry points.'

'Discover more to me.'

'The technique of painting portrait miniatures comes from manuscript illumination. Hence the term "limning". Yet Master Holbein, the first of our breed, painted in the tradition of full-size portraits that were scaled down.'

'And you, Master Quilley?'

'My style is unique, sir.'

'Do you acknowledge no mentors?'

'I take a little from Holbein and a little more from Hilliard but Oliver Quilley is a man apart from all other limners. This you shall judge for yourself.'

He opened his leather pouch and took out four tiny miniatures that were wrapped in pieces of velvet. He removed the material and set them out on the table. Firethorn was overwhelmed by their brilliance. Three were portraits of women and the fourth of a man. All were executed with stunning confidence in colours that were uncannily lifelike. Quilley read his mind and had an explanation to hand.

'The principal part of drawing or painting after life consists in the truth of the line.' He pointed at his work. 'You see, sir? No shadowing is here. I believe in the sovereignty of the line and the magic of colour.'

'They are quite magnificent!'

'Ail paintings imitate nature or the life, but the perfection is to imitate the face of mankind.'

'And womankind,' said Firethorn, ogling the loveliest of the women. 'Who is the lady, sir?'

'A French Countess. And the other is her sister.'

'The third?'

Lady Delahaye. I was commissioned by her husband to have it ready in time for her wedding. It is all but finished and I can deliver it when I return to London.'

Firethorn warmed to the little man, sensing that he was in the presence of a fellow-artist, one who consorted with the nobility and whose work was worn as pendants or brooches at court, and yet who had made no fortune from his wondrous talents. The actor knew that story all too well because it was his own. Exceptional ability that went unrewarded in its proper degree. That sense of living hand-to-mouth which compromised the scope of his art and silenced its true resonance.

'Marry, sir, what a case is this!' he said. 'Here we are together. Men of genius who are packed off out of London to scrabble for every penny we get.'

Aye,' agreed Quilley. 'Then to have it taken from us by some murderous highwaymen. Had they taken these miniatures instead, I had been ruined.'

A thought took on form in Firethorn's mind.

'You wish to travel in our company, you say?'

'Only for safety's sake, as far as York.'

'We do not carry passengers in our company.'

'I'd pay my way, Master Firethorn, be assured.'

'That is what I come to, sir.' He tried to work out which was the better profile to present to the artist. 'Is it possible--I ask but in the spirit of unbiased enquiry--that you could paint such a portrait of me?'

'Of you or of any man, sir. For a fee.'

'A guarantee of your safety?'

'I'd need a horse of my own.'

'Done, sir!'

'And a bedchamber to myself at every stop we make?'

'It shall be the first article of our agreement.'

'We understand each other, sir.'

'Such a portrait would be very precious to me.'

'And to me, Master Firethorn,' said Quilley with elfin seriousness. 'The terms of the work can be talked over at a later date but I give you this as a sign of good faith.' He handed over the miniature of the man. 'It is worth much more than I will cost you. I am but small and very light to carry.'

Firethorn looked down at the exquisite oval painting that lay in his palm. It had such fire and elegance and detail. The man stared up at him with a pride that was matched by his poise. Firethorn was overcome by the generosity of the artist.

'This is for me, sir?'

'To seal our friendship and buy me safe passage.'

'It is the very perfection of art, sir.'

'My work is never less than that.'

'But will not the subject want it for himself?'

'I fear not, sir.'

'I would hate to take his personal property away.'

'The fellow has no need of it now.'

'Why?'

'Because that is Anthony Rickwood in your hand.'

'The name is familiar.'

'You have seen his portrait before, I think.'

'Have I?'

'It is the work of another famous artist.'

What is his name?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham,' said Quilley. 'He paints his subjects upon spikes. You may have seen poor Master Rickwood on display above Bishopsgate.'

'The man was a traitor?' gulped Firethorn.

'A staunch Roman Catholic'

'I am holding a corpse?'

'That is the essence of Walsingham's art.'

Quilley gave a mischievous smile that only caused the actor further discomfort. Firethorn had now changed his mind about the gift. Instead of being a treasured object, it was burning his palm like molten metal.

(*)Chapter Seven

Robert Rawlins shuffled quietly into York Minster through the Great West Door and walked slowly down the centre of the nave. Sunlight streamed in through the magnificent window at his back, throwing its curvilinear tracery, with its central Heart of Yorkshire, into sharper relief and freshening the colours of the stained glass. Rawlins was dwarfed by it all, a grey, inoffensive little mouse amid the huge white pillars. Almost a hundred feet above his head, the superb gold bosses in the vaulted roof portrayed critical events in the Christian story. Here was both celebration and warning, a lasting tribute to what had gone before and a clear direction as to what should come in the future.

Standing in the aisle, Rawlins looked around and took in the wonder of it all, at once inspired and abashed, as he always was, by this architectural marvel dedicated to the glory of God, and highly conscious of the number of lives that had gone into its construction. He fell to his knees on the bruising stone and offered up a prayer of supplication. Anxious and beset by danger, he came in to search for sanctuary and was soon deep in conversation with his Maker.

An hour passed. The rustling silence was then broken by the sweetest of sounds. Behind the choir screen with its row of kings surmounted by stucco angels, the Minster choristers had taken up their position in their gleaming stalls. Voices of sublime harmony were raised in a Mass. In his extremity, it seemed to Robert Rawlins as if the angels themselves were singing in unison. He listened transfixed to the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei, mouthing old Latin words that were sung with such beauty and expression by young throats, and sharing in the perfection of earthly worship. It was such balm to his ears and succour to his soul that tears of joy soon trickled down his face.

The choirmaster now decided to rehearse a hymn. When the voices rose again to fill the whole cathedral with a mellifluous sound, they achieved a different result.

All people that on earth do dwell

Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;

Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell,

Come ye before him, and rejoice.

Robert Rawlins got to his feet in horror. It was not only because the singing of hymns had been introduced by the Puritans as part of their denigration of the priests and their eagerness to involve the congregation in the divine service. What stuck in his craw was this version of Psalm 100--Jubilate Deo. Rendered into the vernacular from the Latin that Rawlins loved, it was the work of one William Kethe, a hymn-writer who fled from England during Mary's reign and lived as a refugee in Geneva with such extremists as John Knox, Goodman, Whittingham and Foxe. Such names, such beliefs and such associations were quite obnoxious to Robert Rawlins and he felt it was sacrilege to sing that hymn in that place.

Spinning around, he trotted back down the nave to the Great West Door. The comfort which he sought had been denied him. God was deaf to his entreaties.

He went out once more into a hostile world.

The enormous pleasure of seeing Anne Hendrik again was tempered by the fact that he had no leisure time to spend alone with her. Nicholas Bracewell was forced to chat with her while helping to construct a makeshift tree for use in the forthcoming performance of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. In a coiner of the inn yard, the book holder was an emergency carpenter with the dubious assistance of George Dart. Conversation with Anne Hendrik was therefore punctuated by the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer. It ruled out any romantic element. 'I cannot believe my luck in meeting you,' she said.

'I told you it would happen, Anne.'

'If only the circumstances were happier.'

'Indeed.'

'Is there no news at all of Dick Honeydew?'

'None, I fear.'

'Who could have taken him?'

'All sorts of people,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'He is a comely youth and takes the eye wherever we stop. Dick would not be the first apprentice who was snatched away because someone conceived a fancy for the lad.'

'Is he in danger?'

'We must hope that he is not.'

'Where do you think he could be, Nick?'

'I have cudgelled my brain to give me an answer to that question, but it refuses. All I have is guesswork and suspicion.'

And what do they tell you?'

'Banbury's Men.'

'Would they commit such a crime?'

'They have stolen both our plays and our audiences,' he argued. 'Why should they stop there? In stealing young Dick as well, they deal us a far harder blow.'

'You think the boy is with them?'

'Master Randolph is too clever for that. If he has ordered the abduction--and every instinct about me says that he did--then lie would have assigned the task to some underling and told the man to keep Dick well away from the company for fear of detection.'

Anne's maternalism was thoroughly roused by now. She knew all the apprentices well, none more so than Richard Honeydew, and she felt a mother's distress at his untimely disappearance. Imagination only increased her fright.

'Will they harm the boy?'

'They have no need to do so,' he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. 'Their sole aim is to harm Westfield's Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.'

'What will happen to the lad, then?'

'I believe he will be released in time.'

'And when will that be?'

'When they have thoroughly discomfited us.'

Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.

'This is no work for a book holder.'

'It is a case of all hands to the pumps.'

'Can you not assign these chores to others?'

Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.

'That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,' he said. 'Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there'd scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.'

Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice. 'Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.'

"There is nothing more to tell.'

'She accosted you in the river, you say?'

'Only because she took me for my betters.'

'You are no Lord Jesus to me.'

I am pleased to hear it.' They laughed fondly. Do not pay any heed to Mistress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.'

'Can you be sure of that, Nick?'

'She will not travel with us.'

'Master Oliver Quilley does."

'Only by special arrangement.'

'Will she not find the same dispensation?'

'It is outside the bounds of possibility,' he said with confidence. 'Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.'

'It is agreed, then,' said Firethorn. 'You come with us."

'Oh, sir!' she said effusively. 'Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.'

'Nay, Madam, I will kiss yours.'

He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield's Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let an artist and now a self-proclaimed visionary accompany them on their travels. Lawrence Firethorn persuaded himself that both decisions were the right ones.

'You will not forget the money, good Mistress.'

'I will bring it with me.'

'And there will be no dispute with your husband?' , 'He will not stop me, sir.'

'Then I am content.'

'And I am truly bounden to you, Master Firethorn.'

She curtseyed again and allowed him another view of the delights which had finally changed his mind. Eleanor Budden was indeed a gorgeous woman and her religious fervour only served to bring out her qualities. He loved the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her face and the appealing curves of her body. After dismissing her plea out of hand at first, he had listened to her gentle tenacity and feasted his eyes on her long hair. The combination of the two had made him think again.

Firethorn sought to clarify their relationship.

'There will be certain conditions, Mistress.'

'I submit to anything that you devise, sir.'

'Would that you did!' he murmured.

'What must I do?'

'Refrain from interference with our calling. We will be your shield on the road but we must have freedom to practise our art along the way. You must not hinder us in rehearsal or performance in any way.'

'Nor will I, sir. I'll spend my time in prayer.'

'We might find other things for you.'

'I need none.'

The simplicity of her purpose was quite moving. At the same time, he could not accept that it would sustain her all the way to York and certainly not to Jerusalem itself. Eleanor Budden had never been more than ten miles from Nottingham in the whole of her life and that had been in the company of her husband. She would find the long ride to York both irksome and perilous, causing her to turn increasingly to Firethorn for support. The idea titillated him. He had never corrupted a saint before.

'And shall I see Master Bracewell?' she asked.

'Every day. You'll ride beside him on the waggon.'

'My cup of joy runs over!'

'Haply, mine will do so as well.'

He bestowed another kiss on her hand then escorted her to the door of the inn. She waved in gratitude then flitted off over the cobbles. Firethorn chuckled to himself then went into the taproom to acquaint Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode with the latest development. They were antagonistic.

'This is lunacy!' yelled Gill. 'I forbid it!'

'It is less than wise, Lawrence,' said Hoode.

'The venture brings us money and companionship.'

"Who wants her companionship?' retorted Gill. 'Let her keep her money and distribute it as alms. We are actors here, not bodyguards for hire by anyone. Our only privilege is our freedom and you throw that away by inviting some Virgin Mary to sit in judgement on us.'

'She's no Virgin Mary,' said Firethorn quickly.

'The lady is a distraction,' said Hoode. 'She has no place alongside us. Nor does Master Oliver Quilley. They should find some other means to travel north.'

Firethorn did his best to win them over but they were unconvinced. As a last resort, he knew that he could impose his will upon them but wished to avoid doing that if at all possible. Their acceptance was important. He wanted to be seen by Eleanor Budden as the leader of a company who studied to obey his every wish, and not as some petty tyrant who bullied the others into agreement.

His two colleagues left with stern warnings.

'I set my face against this, Lawrence!' said Gill.

'It will not improve your complexion.'

'I am with Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'You have made a move here that will bring us nothing but awkwardness.'

The two of them went out and Firethorn was left to mull over what they had said. He was not dismayed. They always objected to his ideas. It was simply a question of giving them time to grow accustomed to the notion. When they saw what a harmless woman Eleanor Budden was, they would alter their views. Firethorn was pleased with the new transaction. He called for a pint of sherry.

He was taking his first sip when she appeared.

'I hoped to find you here, sir.' V 'Susan, my dove! Sit down and take your ease.'

'I come to inform you of my decision,' she said with a broad grin, lowering herself down into a chair. 'Your lonely nights are over, Lawrence.'

'Prove it lustily between the sheets.'

'So will I do, sir.'

'You are man's greatest comfort, Susan.'

'That is why I will not desert you now.'

'Bless you, lady!'

'Master Gill made up my mind for me.'

'Barnaby?'

'He told me even now of Mistress Budden.'

'Ah, yes,' he said dismissively. 'A holy woman who hears the voice of God, A poor, distracted creature on whom a Christian must take pity.'

'Is she young or old?'

'Ancient, I fear. And so ill-favoured that a man can scarce look fully upon her. That is the only reason I took her. Mistress Budden will be no temptation to the goatish members of my company.'

Susan Becket's eyes twinkled merrily.

'I saw the lady leave you. If she be ancient, then I am dead and buried this last ten-year. She has a bloom upon her that could seduce a bishop.'

'How came I to miss such a quality?'

'Because your mind was firmly on me, Lawrence.'

'Indeed, indeed,' he fawned.

'That is why I reached my decision. Mistress Budden is a child of nature and innocence sits upon her. I'll be a true mother to her and keep those goats from grazing on her pasture. She'll thank me well for it.'

'I do not understand your meaning, Susan.'

'Your warming-pan comes with you, sir.'

'All the way?' he said anxiously.

'Every last inch.'

'I could not put you to the trouble.'

'It is my pleasure.'

Her smile of easy determination fractured all his plans for the journey. Susan Becket was an old flame he had intended to blow out in Nottingham but she had now rekindled herself. Lawrence Firethorn could not hide his chagrin. He was taking one woman too many to York.

The pint of sherry was guzzled quickly down.

Sir Clarence Marmion strolled through his garden with his soberly-clad companion by his side. Large, formal and a blaze of colour, it was a tribute to the skill and hard work of his gardeners, but their master was not interested in their craft that morning. His mind was preoccupied with something of more immediate concern.

'He would yield up no names.'

'Are you sure that he knew any?'

'No question about that, sir.'

'Did you press him on the matter?'

'As hard as any man dare.'

Robert Rawlins rubbed his hands fastidiously.

'Let me speak to the fellow, Sir Clarence.'

It will not serve.'

'Haply, I may succeed where others have failed.'

'You have come too late for that.'

'I will lay spiritual weights upon him.'

'He would feel them not, Master Rawlins.'

'What are you telling me?'

'The man is dead.'

'Since when?'

'Since I had him killed.'

'Sir Clarence!'

Robert Rawlins put a hand to his mouth in shock and leaned upon a stone angel for support. It was not the first time that his host had taken him by surprise since lie had arrived in Yorkshire but it was easily the most disconcerting. He waved his arms weakly in protest but his companion was brutally calm.

'The man was given Christian burial,' he said.

'After he was murdered.'

'Executed, sir. Like Anthony Rickwood.'

'An eye for an eye?'

'We gave him all the justice he deserved.'

'I would have sued for clemency.'

'On behalf of such a villain as that?'

'Every man has some good in him.'

'Not this black-hearted devil,' said Sir Clarence with asperity. 'One of Walsingham's jackals. He brought dozens of Catholics to their deaths and did so without compunction. Was I to let him go free, sir, to report that I was party to the conspiracy? And that Robert Rawlins is a missionary priest of the Romish persuasion?'

'I like not this business.'

'We had no choice before us.'

'You had Christian teaching to guide you.'

'So did Anthony Rickwood and where did it land him? Upon a spike at Bishopsgate until we engineered his rescue.' His vehemence increased. 'And what of Neville Pomeroy? What guidance did his Christian teaching give him? It showed him the way directly to the Tower!'

'I did not mean to anger you so, Sir Clarence.'

'We must fight fire with fire!'

'Murder should be anathema.'

'Revenge has its own dignity.'

Robert Rawlins bit back any further comment and tried to come to terms with what had happened. Sir Clarence Marmion was a good friend and a charming host when he wished to be but a new and more callous side to his character was emerging. It was highly unsettling. Joined indissolubly by the same purpose, the two men yet had different ideas on how it could be best effected.

Sir Clarence tried to still the other's disquiet.

'He sleeps with God now, sir.'

'Will the Law not come searching for him?'

'He'll not be found six feet under my land.'

'I own I am distressed.'

'Would you rather we had been subjects for burial?

'Indeed not, Sir Clarence.'

'Then rejoice in the death of an enemy.'

They strolled on along a gravel path that bisected the rose garden. Robert Rawlins slowly came to see some reason in what had been said. His host sounded a note or cautious optimism.

'I have prayed for help.'

'So have I, Sir Clarence. Daily.'

'Our prayers may yet meet with a response.'

'You have a sign of this?'

'Not outwardly, Master Rawlins.'

'Then how?'

'It is no more than a feeling but it grows and grows all the time. The man we seek may not need to be hunted down after all. There may be another means to find him.'

'Tell me what it is.'

'Let the villain come to us.'

'Will he do that, Sir Clarence?'

'I am certain of it. When I trust to instinct, I am seldom misled. The man is getting closer and we must be ready for him. Keep your wits about you, sir.'

'I will.' He is on his way to York.'

Christopher Millfield knew how to cut a dash when the opportunity presented itself. He had been cast in the part of Will Scarlet and sang the ballad which began the rehearsal of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Sauntering about the stage, he let his flowing scarlet costume swish to great effect and accompanied his pleasing tenor voice with chords from a small lute. Will Scarlet truly had his moment at the Town Hall in Nottingham.

Come now and listen, gentlemen,

That be of free-born blood!

I shall tell you of a good yeoman,

His name was Robin Hood.

Robin was a proud outlaw,

Whiles he walked on ground,

So courteous a fellow as he was one,

Was never none yet found.

Robin stood in Sherwood Forest,

And leaned him to a tree.

And by him stood Little John,

The stoutest friend was he.

The rehearsal had some shaky moments. Martin Yeo, the oldest and most experienced of the apprentices, was never more than a competent replacement for Richard Honeydew in the vital role of Maid Marion. His gesture and deportment were above reproach but he had none of his colleague's radiance or supreme sense of timing. Dressed in Lincoln green, as sanctified by tradition, Lawrence Firethorn brought his usual panache to the role of Robin Hood but even he faltered slightly in the love scenes. Barnaby Gill was a droll Friar Tuck and Edmund Hoode scored in the part of Much the Miller's Son but the Merry Men were a complete shambles. Supplemented by a few journeymen brought in for the occasion, they moved about the stage like a flock of frightened sheep and scattered in utter confusion whenever Robin Hood indulged in swordplay.

Nicholas Bracewell kept the whole thing moving and minimized the effects of most errors but even he could not stop George Dart--a decidedly unmerry member of the Merry Men--from felling a tree by walking accidentally into it. Will Scarlet was one of the few to come through unscathed and he brought the proceedings to a close with another ballad sung to the music of his lute.

Then bespake good Robin,

In place whereat he stood,

'Tomorrow, I must to Kirksley,

Craftily to be let blood!'

Sir Roger of Doncaster,

By the Prioress he lay,

And there they betrayed good Robin Hood

Through their false play.

Christ have mercy on his soul!

(That died on the rood)

For Robin was a good outlaw

And did poor men much good.

Robin Hood now rounded on his Merry Men as if they had each tried to assassinate him during the performance. By the time Firethorn had finished reviling them for their incompetence and blaming them for their mere existence, their cheeks matched the colour of Will Scarlet's costume. The actor-manager spread his criticisms widely and even Barnaby Gill was made to squirm a little. Martin Yeo was totally demoralized by the attack on him. The only actor who emerged unscathed was Christopher Millfield. It put him in buoyant mood.

'How did it look to you, Master Bracewell?'

'There is much work to be done.'

'I was speaking of my own performance.'

'You sang most sweetly.'

'And my playing of Will Scarlet?'

'It was sufficient,' said Nicholas with polite evasion. 'You will not let the company down, sir.'

Millfield felt damned by faint praise. Wanting to impress the other, he had only irritated him by seeking his approval so obviously. He watched the book holder take control. Now that the rehearsal was over, Nicholas started delegating the dozens of jobs that had been thrown up in the past couple of hours. Several props had been damaged and needed repair, one of the trestles that held up the stage had to be strengthened, and two of the instruments required a new string apiece. Some of the costumes had been torn during the fight scenes and George Dart was assigned the task of mending them with needle and thread. Stephen Judd's wig was falling apart.

Nicholas was so caught up in his work that he did not see the danger that threatened. With his back to the stage, he was unaware of the fact that two of his minions were struggling to dismantle the gallows that was used in the closing scene of the play. It was far too heavy and awkward for them to handle and its weight finally got the better of them. Before they could stop it, the long spar of timber toppled over and fell towards Nicholas.

Christopher Millfield responded like lightning.

'Look out there!'

Hurling himself forward, he knocked the book holder out of the way and suffered a glancing blow from the falling prop. Nicholas picked himself up and turned to see what had happened. Millfield was now sitting on the floor and rubbing his shoulder gingerly.

'Are you hint, Christopher?

'It is nothing serious.'

'I owe you much thanks.' Millfield grinned. 'I saved you from the gallows.'

'And from certain injury.'

Nicholas upbraided the two assistants who caused the accident and got them to move the timber away. Then he offered a hand to Millfield and pulled him up. The latter dusted himself off and continued to rub his shoulder.

'I will remember this,' said Nicholas.

'You would have done as much for me.'

'In your place, I might have held back.'

'Because you do not like me?'

'It is reason enough.'

'But I like you, Master Bracewell.'

It was Nicholas's turn to grin. Millfield's manner was quite disarming and it was hard to bear a grudge against him. The book holder made a concession.

'Your performance was excellent, Christopher.'

'Thank you!'

'To speak truly, I am not sure that Gabriel Hawkes could have bettered it.'

'I seek no higher praise than that.'

'You will get none.'

They shared a laugh and much of the tension between them evaporated. All actors sought approval but Millfield seemed particularly anxious to win a plaudit from the book holder. It made him quite forget the pain in his shoulder. He reached out to take Nicholas by the arms.

'I will confess something to you,' he said.

'Must I be your priest?' teased the other.

'I am in earnest, Master Bracewell.'

'Speak on.'

'Gabriel was the finer actor.'

'Only in certain respects.'

'I am honest enough to admit it,' said Millfield seriously. 'He had more range and more depth. When you chose between us, you were right to take Gabriel Hawkes.'

'No other player would allow as much.'

'Why hide the truth when the fellow is no longer with us?' His grip tightened. 'I hated him for standing in my way. I wished Gabriel dead so that I could take his place but I did not hasten his end, that I swear. If he was murdered, as you believe, then it was by another.'

Nicholas looked deep into his eyes and lost many of the suspicions and resentments he harboured against the man. Christopher Millfield had his faults but they were largely those of his profession. The book holder sealed their newfound friendship with a warm handshake that made the other wince. Concern took over.

'Let me look at that shoulder of yours.'

'It is of no account.'

'You are still in pain, I can see.'

Millfield was eventually persuaded to take off his scarlet tunic so that Nicholas could examine the injury. The shoulder was badly grazed where the timber had struck but no blood had been drawn. Nicholas used tender fingers to explore the damage then got his companion to lift his arm straight up then rotate it. He gave his diagnosis.

'You are lucky, Christopher. Nothing is broken.'

'I will get away with a few bruises.'

'And a lot of stiffness,' said Nicholas. 'Give me some time and I will prepare an ointment to put on your shoulder. It will ease the soreness.'

'Then it is most welcome. How will you make it?'

'With herbs.'

'Are you a physician as well?'

I learned much from the ships doctor when I was at sea. Aches and pains are part of every sailor's lot and I studied the way to soften them. The knowledge has been of use many a time.'

'No patient will be more grateful than I.'

'The gratitude is all on my side.'

'Your friendship is reward enough.'

'It comes with the ointment.'

Millfield grinned. 'Both will be cherished.'

When the actor went off to get changed, Nicholas was soon joined by another companion. Oliver Quilley had been watching the rehearsal attentively throughout. If he was to create a miniature of the actor-manager, it must contain all of his characteristic and these were most evident when he was onstage. Quilley missed nothing.

'Is Master Firethorn always so fierce?'

'You saw but a muted account of him today.'

'There's more ferocity to come?'

'He saves it for the audience.'

'I wait with interest,' said Quilley. 'When I paint a portrait, I want it to be as complete a picture as is possible. I divine the truth of a personality.'

'How long will this portrait take, sir?'

'I work from three sittings,' explained the artist with fluttering hand movements. 'At the first, I will set down the broad outline of his features, starting with the forehead and using it to calculate the other proportions of his face. At the second sitting, I will make careful note of all the colours of flesh, hair and costume, paying especial attention--for this is the crux of my art--to the expression of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.'

'What of the third sitting, Master Quilley?'

'I will finish off in fine detail.'

'You work speedily, sir.'

'Even artists have to eat.'

'How did you come to choose your career?'

'It chose me,' said Quilley. 'I was apprenticed nearly thirty years ago now to a goldsmith in Eastcheap. My master was a wealthy man and rose to be Chamberlain of the City of London and Prime warden of his Company.'

'You picked your master with care.'

'Fortune was ever at my side during the seven years I spent at the sign of the Gilt Lion and Firebrand. I became very skilled in the making of jewellery and much taken with the notion of painting miniatures.'

'How did you begin, Master Quilley?'

'With a lady at court. She was a friend of my master's and easily flattered. It was my first work as a limner and not without flaw.'

'In what way?'

'The portrait was superb, as all my painting is, but I omitted a vital detail, Master Bracewell.'

'Oh?'

'I did not exact payment.' He rolled his eyes and tossed his hands in the air. 'Such is the life of an artist! We never get our due reward. Word of mouth pronounces me a genius and commissions roll in but do those same people actually pay me for my labours? Very rarely, sir. Very rarely.'

'You must have had some honest employers.'

'A few. Master Anthony Rickwood was one.'

'He that was executed?' said Nicholas in surprise.

'Yes, sir. He has suffered for his villainy but I can only speak of his kindness. Master Rickwood paid me twice what I asked and be recommended me to a number of his close friends, including Master Neville Pomeroy from Hertfordshire.'

We know the gentleman.'

'Then you will be aware of his generosity. A most courteous fellow. I lacked for nothing at his home.'

'Nor did we when we performed at Pomeroy Manor."

'He talked much of his passion for the theatre.'

'We look to visit him again on our return south.'

'Unhappily, you may not do that, sir.' But he invited us.'

'He is no longer there to receive you.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because Master Pomeroy has been arrested.'

'On what charge?'

'High treason. He conspired with Anthony Rickwood.'

'Can this be true?'

'Walsingham has him locked away in the Tower.'

'What will be his fate?'

'The worst possible.' Quilley smiled wryly. He will die the ignominious death of a traitor. I do not think that Master Millfield will be able to save him from the gallows.'

Miles Melhuish blanched. He thought he could not be astounded anew by Eleanor Budden but he was mistaken. Her latest announcement made him gape. He turned to her husband who sat in the corner of the vestry but Humphrey had no opinion. Defeated by his wife in every way, he was a poor, pale relic of the man who had married her and gloried in her favours. Humphrey Budden was to be an essentially silent presence during the interview.

Melhuish summoned up some pop-eyed indignation.

'This is not wise, Mistress. This is not good.'

'I believe it to be both, sir.'

'Travelling with a company of itinerant players!'

'They come from London,' she said proudly.

'That only makes it worse. You cannot conceive of the minds and appetites of such creatures. Players are but friends of Hell in human disguise.'

'They have used me most properly until now.'

'Wait until you are undefended on the road.'

'That cannot be. God is with me always.'

'Yes, sister,' he said condescendingly. 'God is with us all, and at all times. But there are times when even His divine protection is not enough. You do yourself a harm by exposing yourself to such danger.'

'Of what, Master Melhuish?'

The vicar cleared his throat and plucked at his collar. He tossed a glance at Budden but there was no help from there. He plucked the nettle boldly.

'Players are notorious libertines, Eleanor.'

'I never heard it so.'

'They have the morals of the lowest beasts.'

'Why then have they been so polite to me?'

"Tis but to lure you into lowering your guard.'

'Master Firethorn is not like that,' she argued with feeling. 'Nor is Master Bracewell and he is the reason that I travel with Westfield's Men.'

'Who is Master Bracewell?'

'He hangs behind you, sir.'

Miles Melhuish turned around with a start but saw nobody there. Eleanor pointed to the stained glass window whose image of Jesus Christ looked more like the book holder than ever. The vicar was given a further shock.

'You tell me this player is...like Lord Jesus?'

'As like as two peas in a pod, sir,' she said. 'But he is no player. Master Bracewell is the book holder with the company and a more upright man I have never met. I'd put my life and soul in his hands, so I would!'

'Take care he does not abuse your trust.'

'He would not.'

'Think of the long reaches of the night.'

'I have done with fornication,' she said chirpily.

Humphrey Budden twitched at the mention of the word and a wistful calm settled on his dull features as he let his mind play with a few robust memories. Melhuish tried further persuasion but it was futile. When her mind was made up, Eleanor would listen to nobody.

'Take another woman with you,' he advised. 'One of your servants to act as a chaperone.'

'God is my chaperone.'

'It may prove too onerous a duty for Him.'

'You question His powers?'

'No, no,' said Miles Melhuish quickly. 'I would never presume to do such a thing. It is just that...well, I would feel happier if you had some additional guarantee of your safety.'

'I do, sir. In Master Nicholas Bracewell.'

"That is not what I had in mind.' He looked over at the somnolent husband. 'Do you have no fears for your good lady on this journey, sir?'

'None that I know of,' he grunted.

'She will be with loose men of the theatre.'

'Good luck to them!' murmured the other.

'Rest easy, sir,' said Eleanor to the vicar. 'I will not be the only traveller with the company. An artist makes the journey to York with us as well. And so does another woman. She will ensure my safety.'

Plague hit London with renewed force each day but Doll would have preferred to take her chances in the city all the same, life at the house in Shoreditch was a spreading pestilence ever since the siege by creditors had begun. Margery Firethorn became more and more embattled and her servants felt the worst tremors. Doll always seemed to be in the firing line when her mistress exploded. The girl was small, young, tousled and quite unequal to the demands made on her by a ranting employer. Each day brought fresh pain and humiliation for her.

Margery Firethorn hailed her from the kitchen.

'Doll!'

'Yes, Mistress?'

'Can you not hear the doorbell?'

'No, Mistress.'

'Then open your ears, girl, or I'll box them!'

Doll came scuttling into the kitchen where Margery was up to her arms in flour. The girl dithered and threw a deep but raged curtsey. The doorbell rang more loudly.

'Do you hear it now, girl?"

'Yes. Mistress.'

'Then answer it.'

'What am I to say?'

'If it be a creditor, that I am not at home.'

'And if it be someone else?'

'Bring me word. Now--away!'

Doll raced out and she could be heard opening the door and talking to someone for a few moments. When she came back in, the girl was wide-eyed with amazement.

'Well?' snapped Margery.

'You have a visitor, Mistress.'

'Who is he?'

'There is a big coach outside the house.'

'Who is he?'

'His footman rang the bell.'

'His name, girl. What is my visitor's name?

'Lord Westfield.'

Doll was plainly awe-struck at the notion of a peer of the realm calling at a player's house in Shoreditch but Margery reacted as if it was an everyday occurrence. Wiping her floured hands on her apron, she crossed to the sink to thrust her hands into a pan of cold water. She swung her head to glare at her servant.

'Do not stand there like that, Doll.'

'What must I do, Mistress?'

'Show Lord Westfield in.'

(*)Chapter Eight

Nottingham converged on its Town Hall in large numbers. People of every degree came to see one of the legendary characters of English history in action once more. Robin Hood and his Merry Men was rather different from the usual fare offered by Westfield's Men in its repertoire. Classical tragedy, domestic comedy and rustic farce were their main concerns. When they dipped into their glorious heritage, they came up with stirring dramas about kings and queens and mighty battles that were fought to secure the defence of the realm. Military heroism and foreign conquest always drew an audience. Robin Hood had more in common with folk memory than historical fact but the company did not serve up the accustomed blend of romance and adventure in Sherwood Forest. Investing the story with a deeper significance, they touched on themes of loyalty, patriotism and spiritual commitment. In their portrayal of Prince John, they also drew attention to the follies of self-aggrandisement.

Packed into their Town Hall, the audience was totally mesmerized from start to finish. Lawrence Firethorn was as convincing a Robin Hood as they had ever seen. He was noble, fearless and devoted to King Richard. Powerful in the action scenes, he was yet soft and tender when alone with Maid Marion and his wooing made every woman in the house shiver with delight. Songs and swordfights moved the drama along at regular intervals and there were some clever effects, devised by Nicholas Bracewell, with bows and arrows. Dances were used cleverly throughout and the comic brilliance of Barnaby Gill was at its height when Friar Tuck lifted his skirts to dance a bare-footed jig.

Anne Hendrik sat on a bench alongside Susan Becket and joined in the applause. She had seen Westfield's Men at their peak in London and this performance fell some way below that, but it was still a fine entertainment and the people of Nottingham clearly thought they had been in the presence of a masterpiece. They stood, clapped and shouted for all they were worth. Lawrence Firethorn led the company out several times to acknowledge the ovation with deep bows. Even George Dart enjoyed it, contriving a smile that actually made him look at home among the Merry Men. After all their mishaps, Westfield's Men were back where they belonged and it was invigorating.

This was theatre.

Nicholas Bracewell was less satisfied than most. The performance had too many rough edges for his liking and there were several minor mistakes that irritated him. And while the Town Hall was a marked improvement on some of the other venues where they had played it, it was worlds away from the theatres of London and a diminution in every sense. But the chief cause of Nicholas's discontent was the absence of Richard Honeydew. Seeing the boy's role filled, albeit adequately, by someone else only brought home to him the importance of tracking the lad down. The company would never be at its best without their star apprentice and Nicholas owed it to him to begin another search with all due speed.

'Where will you go?' asked Anne.

'In pursuit of Banbury's Men.'

'Do you know where they are?'

'I will find them somehow.'

'On your own?'

'I travel faster by myself,' said Nicholas. 'In any case, Master Firethorn can spare nobody to come with me. Everyone is needed here. He would not let me go again myself until we had staged Robin Hood.'

'Without you there would have been no performance.'

'Even with me, it was not a source of pride.'

'The audience was entranced.'

'Their standards are not high, Anne.'

'Do not be too unkind on the company.'

The two of them were strolling through the narrow streets on their way back to the Saracen's Head. Having organized the strike party at the Town Hall, the book holder now had a brief moment alone with Anne before he set off on the trail of Richard Honeydew once more. He talked through the few solid facts he possessed.

'Master Quilley has been of some help.'

'The artist?'

'Yes,' said Nicholas. 'He was in Leicester before lie came on here and encountered Banbury's Men in the town. Instead of staying on the Great North Road and going on up to Doncaster, they must have left Grantham and headed south-west.'

'Why to Leicester?'

'We might be the cause of that, Anne.'

'Westfield's Men?'

'Thinking we would be making haste to overtake them and call them to account, they sought to shake us off by changing their itinerary. But there is a stronger reason. Leicester is a welcoming port of call for many theatre companies. They have safe harbour there. Master Quilley tells me that Banbury's Men performed three times there and once in Ashby-de-la-Zouche.'

'Then on to Nottingham with Pompey the Great.'

'That goes hard with Master Firethorn.'

'His vanity was affronted.'

"Tis all too easily done.'

They shared a laugh then paused outside the main door of the Saracen's Head. It had been wonderful to see him again so unexpectedly but Anne knew that they would have to part again now, and without the pleasure of a long and amorous leavetaking. She kissed him on the cheek and he pulled her to him for a minute.

'Take every care, Nick.'

'I shall.'

'Come safe home.'

'God willing, I'll bring Dick Honeydew with me.'

'Where can he be?'

'Waiting, Anne.'

'For what?'

'Deliverance.'

The shed was small, dark and airless. An unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation prevailed. Through the cracks in the timber walls, it was just possible to gauge the degree of sunlight. Otherwise he had no idea what time or day it was. As shadows lengthened and a deeper gloom returned to his little prison, Richard Honeydew resolved to make a greater effort to escape. What frightened him most about his kidnap was the fact that he still had no indication of who might be responsible. Whisked away from the Smith and Anvil, he had been bound hand and foot with a sack over his head. On the first stage of an indescribably uncomfortable journey, he had been strapped across a horse and taken over what felt like the most uneven terrain in the county. Bruised and breathless, he had finally been cut free and locked away.

They fed him tolerably well but gave him no freedom of movement. Still tied up, he was blindfolded whenever they came to visit him. Occasional trips to relieve himself brought further indignities because he was always under surveillance. They knew everything about him but he knew nothing about them. Except that they had not so far harmed him or threatened violence in any way. The shed was his third cell so far and he determined that it would be his last. Solitary confinement was an ordeal.

The boy got up from his stool and bounced across the floor with his ankles firmly bound together. A wooden box stood in the corner and he bent down to sweep off the pile of rhubarb leaves that covered it. His wrists were held by thick rope but his fingers were able to drag the box to the middle of the shed, directly below the central beam. Above his head was a large rusty spike that had been sunk in the timber to act as a peg. Its jagged edge was his one faint promise of release.

First of all, he had to reach the spike and that meant leaping up on to the box. It was far more difficult than he anticipated. All he had to do was to hop some eighteen inches off the ground, a paltry feat for someone with his agility and love of the dance. But his tedious incarceration had exhausted him in body and spirit, and his bonds had given him cramp in his arms and legs. The first jump was well short of the required height and the second was no better. Composing himself to make a more concerted effort, he thrust himself up from the ground only to get a partial purchase on the edge of the box. His weight tipped it off and he was thrown heavily against the side of the shed, banging his head on the rough wood and drawing a trickle of blood from his scalp.

Richard Honeydew refused to give in. He gritted his teeth and started again. Shaking himself all over like a wet dog emerging from a river, he got to his knees and righted the box before using it to lever himself up to his feet. This time he had several practice jumps before he tried to get up on to his platform. When he was fully confident, he stood beside the box, bent at the knees then shot himself upwards, bringing his feet across at just the right moment. The box rocked madly but he somehow kept his balance. Triumph was marred by disappointment. Even when he stood on his toes and stretched his arms up, he was still some six inches away from the spike.

Another, more critical jump was now needed. If he missed the spike, his fall would be even harder. If he misjudged the movement of his hands, he could easily impale himself on the rusty metal. His first instinct was to abandon the attempt altogether but then he thought about the misery of his imprisonment and the pangs of loneliness he felt away from his friends in the company. Nicholas Bracewell would never concede defeat in such a situation and nor must he. The risk had to be taken. He rehearsed it all carefully in his mind then gathered himself for the jump.

Several minutes of anxious and careful preparation were distilled into a split-second as he bent at the knees before launching himself upwards again. His hands cleared the spike, his wrists flicked forward and he was soon hanging in space with the rope bearing his weight. A new set of problems now confronted him. Fiery pain shot down his arms and settled in his shoulders. His head began to throb unbearably. His breathing was impaired. Pale, blue-veined wrists were badly chafed by the ropes. He was in agony and escape now seemed a mirage.

There was no time to waste. The longer he dangled from the beam, the more danger he was in. Putting every last ounce of his strength in the effort, he started to swing his legs, slowly at first, then with more purpose and finally with gathering momentum. The agony intensified. His slim body was awash with perspiration as he swung to and fro in the noisome shed and the rope was cutting into his wrists as if attempting to sever them completely. The first drips of blood on his face made him panic but his torment was almost over. Friction brought results. As the rope was rubbed hard against the spike, its strands broke slowly one by one. Just as he was about to lapse into unconsciousness, the last strand trembled and his own weight did the rest.

Richard Honeydew dropped from the beam, kicked over the box and thudded to the floor. He was too fatigued to move for several minutes but he was smiling in triumph. His plan had worked. When strength returned, he sat up and untied his feet, stretching his legs and wiggling his ankles. Both wrists were lathered in blood but he did not mind. He was free. The door was his last obstacle. Bolted from outside, it was firm against his push but he used guile instead of force. Banging his stool against the ground until one of its three legs snapped off, he used the amputated section as a lever to insert in the door. A gap opened up that was wide enough to admit his slender arm and he slid back the bolt.

His cell door swung open. It was late evening and all he could make out were confusing shapes in the dark. The fragrance of night-scented flowers wafted into his nostrils to refresh and delight him. A light wind helped to dry the dribbling sweat. Pain fell from him and his spirits soared. Freedom was a joyous kingdom.

He had no notion where he was but knew that he had to get away from there. Breaking into a trot, he ran across uneven ground towards the outline of a large building that stood on the edge of a field. But he did not get very far. Within a dozen yards, his way was blocked by a tall figure who stepped in front of him with such determination that the boy bounced off him and fell backwards to the ground. Dazed by the impact, he looked up at the face which was partially lit by a crescent moon.

'You're staying here, lad,' said the young man.

Richard Honeydew fainted with sheer terror.

York had undeniable beauty. Set amongst the green forest of Galtres, it was encircled by three miles of white stone fortifications that were breached by four battlemented gateways. It was founded by the Romans at the confluence of the rivers Fosse and Ouse, enjoying a profitable outlet to the sea on the east coast. Ships laden with hides, wool and other goods sailed downriver to the staple port of Hull, bound for the Continent. When they returned, their holds were filled with soaps, silks, stains, perfumes, exotic spices and fine wines. York was a thriving community. It might no longer be second only to London in size but it was still so in dignity.

The streets were narrow, cobbled and overhung with gabled houses. Trades were plied noisily at every turn. Stinking midden tips added their pungent contribution to the city's distinctive atmosphere. York buzzed with life.

Robert Rawlins left his lodgings in Trinity Lane and made his way through the crowded streets to the Trip to Jerusalem. He went into the taproom and found Lambert Pym ordering his minions around with obese urgency. Mine Host gave him a smile of recognition.

'Good day to you, Master Rawlins.'

'And to you, sir.'

'These are busy days for us, I fear.'

'As I observe.'

'Whitsuntide will soon be upon us and the fair will bring in extra custom. We have to brew more beer and feed more bellies. It all needs careful preparation.'

'When will the players arrive?'

'At one and the same time,' said Pym, scratching his beard. 'We will be rushed off our feet here at Jerusalem. Every room I have will be full to bursting and my yard must serve as a playhouse.'

'I like not the drama,' said Rawlins coldly.

'Sir Clarence Marmion is a regular patron.'

'That is his choice.'

'Will you be with us long in York, sir?'

'I cannot tell, Master Pym.'

'Until your business is discharged?'

'We shall see.'

Giving nothing away, Robert Rawlins opened the door that gave access to the staircase. He was soon settling down on a chair in the private chamber above. A small black book was extracted from the folds of his coat and he began to read it in earnest. He was so absorbed by his text that it seemed a matter of minutes before he heard the familiar boots upon the oak stairs. Sir Clarence Marmion came sweeping in at such speed that Rawlins took fright and jumped to his feet.

The newcomer waved a cheerful greeting.

'I bring you glad tidings at last, sir.'

'The Queen is dead?'

'That were too great a hope,' said. Sir Clarence as he pulled a letter from his sleeve. 'But we have other causes to rejoice. Our friends have not been idle.'

'It is comforting to hear that."

'Walsingham sits in London like a great black spider at the heart of a web, waiting to catch us all. But we have our own network of spies to protect us. They have delivered up the informer.'

Rawlins took the letter that was handed to him.

'This is the man who betrayed Master Rickwood?'

'And Master Pomeroy,' said Sir Clarence. 'I knew that the trail would lead him here eventually. We shall be ready for him. He will not deliver a Marmion into the hands of Mr Secretary Walsingham.'

'Forewarned is forearmed.'

'God is sending the vile wretch to us.' Does he travel alone?'

'No, he comes with a theatre company from London. They are a convenient shield for his purposes but he will not be able to hide behind them here. The man's journey ends in York. For ever.'

Kynaston Hall was able to confirm that a performance of The Renegade had been given there by Banbury's Men but nobody at the house knew the company's next destination. Nicholas Bracewell thanked them for their help and went due north on the chestnut stallion he had borrowed from Lawrence Firethorn. The animal was full of running and it was given free rein. Nicholas stopped at every village, hamlet or wayside dwelling to enquire after the whereabouts of his quarry but he was given precious little help for his pains. Whichever way Banbury's Men had gone, they seemed to have covered their tracks very effectively. It was frustrating.

His luck eventually changed. He came upon an old shepherd who was sitting in the shade of a tree with his dog and munching an apple. Though he was no playgoer, the shepherd could recognize a theatre company when he saw one. His bony finger pointed down a bumpy track.

'They went that way, Master.'

'Are you sure, friend?'

'I sit here every day and they passed me by.'

'How many were there?'

'Oh, I don't know. Twelve or fifteen, maybe.'

'On horse or foot?'

'Both, sir. They'd a couple of horses and a cart piled high with baskets. Most of them walked behind.'

'Can you be certain they were players?'

'They were no shepherds, that I know,' said the old man with a cackle. 'Their clothes were too bright and their noise too loud. I'd frighten away my sheep if I went around making those alarums.'

'How far away were they when you saw them?'

'Not more than a hundred yards.'

The shepherd had not been deceived. Banbury's Men had evidently gone past and he had taken due note of their passing. Nicholas pressed a coin into his gnarled hand then rode off again. It was evening now and the company would soon seek shelter before nightfall. His heels sent the horse into a full gallop. Five miles later, he caught up with them.

They had camped by the roadside and lit a fire. Since it was a clear, dry night, they were obviously going to spend it under the stars. Nicholas approached with a caution borne of his misadventures with the gypsies. He did not want to be set upon by the whole company. After tethering his horse behind some bushes, he moved in on foot, hearing the telltale banter of true actors floating on the night air. He had run Banbury's Men to ground. What he now had to establish was whether or not Richard Honeydew was with them.

Creeping in ever closer, he got his first proper look at the encampment. His heart constricted. There were about a dozen of them, as reported, and they wore the gaudy apparel of travelling players but here was no London theatre company on tour. Their clothes were threadbare and their horses were spindly nags. Whatever was being roasted over the fire had not been paid for because they were patently impoverished. Gaunt faces chewed on their food. Thin bodies lounged around the flickering blaze. They were actors but of a different sort and temper to Banbury's Men. They had never performed in a real theatre in their lives or tasted the fleshpots of the capital. Lacking any noble patron, they were no better than outlaws and could be arrested for vagrancy. They scraped a bare living by keeping on the move like the gypsies.

It was sobering to reflect on how removed their world was from that of the London companies and Nicholas felt a pang of shame that Westfield's Men had come to take their audiences from them. Then he recalled the purpose of his journey and shook off such considerations. Marching boldly into the camp, he introduced himself as a fellow-actor and was given a cheerful welcome. It waned somewhat when he asked after Banbury's Men who were seen as London predators come to swoop on the provinces. They had scorn for the other company but no knowledge of its present location. Nicholas thanked them and withdrew.

Darkness was beginning to close in and he needed a bed for the night. He had passed a small inn a few miles back and now rode off again in that direction, his mind grappling with the problem of where Banbury's Men could be and his concern for Richard Honeydew rising all the time. Absorbed in his thoughts, he let his guard fall.

'Hold there, sir!'

'That is a fine horse you have.'

'Let us guess its age by its teeth.'

The three men came out of the woodland and ambled towards him with amiable grins. He was not fooled. Each of them had a hand on his sword. They had caught him on a deserted track that ran between the trees. Nicholas knew that they would not close in on him like that unless they had someone at his back. He swung his horse around in the nick of time. The fourth man was running silently towards him with a cudgel in his hand, ready to hack him down from behind while his attention was diverted.

Nicholas got his kick in before the cudgel fell and the man staggered back. When he came charging in again, he felt a sword go clean through his shoulder and yelled out in agony. His accomplices sprinted in to wreak revenge but they had chosen the wrong target. As the first of them swished his sword, it met such a forceful reply from Nicholas's rapier that it was twisted out of his hand. The book holder dismounted in a flash, pulling out his dagger as he did so and daring the two armed men to come at him. They flashed and jabbed but could get nowhere near him. Unable to recover his sword from the ground, the third man produced a dagger and raised an arm to throw it but he was far too slow. Nicholas's own dagger hurtled through the air and pierced the fellow's wrist, causing him to drop his own weapon with a cry.

The others had had enough. Now that the odds were not so heavily in their favour, they gathered up their two stricken colleagues and limped away. Nicholas gave chase and let some air into the jerkin of one of them. Three of them scrambled into their saddles but the cudgeller was too badly wounded to ride and had to be helped up behind one of his friends. Cursing their assailant, they beat a hasty retreat into the forest.

Nicholas walked across to the horse that they had left behind and patted its neck. It was far too good a mount for common highwaymen and had clearly been stolen. In the fading light, he could just see the monogrammed gold initials on the saddlebags-- O.Q. When lie searched inside the pouches, he found some food and some articles of apparel. What really interested him, however, was the folded parchment that was tucked away at the very bottom of one of the saddlebags. It was a list of names and addresses, written out in a fair hand. Two of the names had been ticked and they leapt up at Nicholas.

Anthony Rickwood and Neville Pomeroy.

A third name had a question mark beside it.

Sir Clarence Marmion.

From the initials on the saddlebag, Nicholas knew that he had found Oliver Quilley's stolen horse. He now had the feeling that he had found something tar more important as well. The artist had told him of the arrest of Master Neville Pomeroy on a charge of high treason and how the prisoner languished in the Tower. Those events took place over a hundred and fifty miles away.

How did Oliver Quilley know about them?

Lawrence Firethorn was hoist with his own petard. After encouraging Susan Becket to accompany him to Nottingham so that she could share nights of madness with him, he could not then dismiss her when she elected to travel on with him. It was very inhibiting. At a time when he hoped to get acquainted with a new potential conquest, he was forced to ride alongside the hostess and listen to her amiable chatter. Eleanor Budden, meanwhile, was seated beside the driver of the waggon, George Dart, seeing to his spiritual needs and generally inhibiting everyone on the vehicle with her presence. Firethorn stole a glance in her direction. Eleanor and Susan were the extremes of womanhood, the respectable and the disreputable, the virtuous and the voluptuous, the sacred and the profane. If the two could blend into one, mused Firethorn, then he would finally have found perfection in human form.

The chuckling Susan Becket nudged him gently. 'She is not for you, Lawrence.'

'Such a thought never entered my mind!'

'Mistress Budden is already spoken for.'

'I met her husband when we set out.'

'It is not him, I mean, sir. The lady is enamoured elsewhere. She talks of nobody but your book holder.'

'Nicholas did make an impression on her.'

'If I saw him naked in the River Trent, he would have made an impression on me,' said Susan with a giggle. 'He is a fine figure of a man with a pleasing demeanour.'

'Nick only floated on the water,' said Firethorn testily. 'She speaks as if he walked upon it!'

They were heading north through thick woodland that was redolent with memories of the famous outlaw. Lapsing back into his role in the play, Christopher Millfield began to sing snatches from the ballad. With Nicholas out of the way, he had regained all his sprightliness. The other hired men walked beside him and grumbled about the three outsiders who travelled with them. Oliver Quilley had a lordly manner as he rode near the front of the little procession, Susan Becket reserved her favours for the actor-manager, and Eleanor Budden brought an unwanted injection of Christianity into their lives. They had lost one valuable apprentice and gained three unnecessary passengers. They were convinced that nothing good could come from it.

George Dart begged leave to differ. Embarrassed at first to have Eleanor alongside him, he soon began to take a pleasure in her company. They had a mutual hero.

'Tell me of Master Bracewell,' she said.

'He is a wonderful man and runs the company in all the ways that matter. Others may get the credit and the rewards but it is he who deserves them, yet you will not hear a boastful word on his lips.'

'His modesty becomes him.'

'He is my one true friend, Mistress.'

'That cannot be,' she said. 'What of your mother? Is not she a true friend to her son?'

'Belike she was when she was alive. I do not know. She died when I was but a tiny child.'

'How came you into this profession?'

'No other would take me, Mistress. It was Nicholas Bracewell's doing. He taught me all I knew and it has kept me from starvation ever since.'

'He is a Christian soul.'

'None more so in the company.'

'How long has he been in the theatre?'

'Four years or more. I cannot say.'

'Before that?'

'He was at sea,' said George proudly. 'He sailed with Drake around the world and saw things that most of us cannot even comprehend, such is their wonder. Master Bracewell has been everywhere.'

'Except Jerusalem.'

'Why do you say that, Mistress?' Because I would take him there with me.'

'And will he go?' said Dart in amazement.

Eleanor Budden gave him a beatific smile.

'Oh, yes. He must. He has no choice.'

Lavery Grange was in the northernmost corner of the county of Nottingham and the head of the house, Sir Duncan Lavery, was an amenable and gregarious character. Given the chance to act as host to Banbury's Men, he welcomed them with open arms and put his Great Hall at their disposal for a performance of The Renegade. Good fortune was tinged with bad news. Banbury's Men learned from a visitor to the Grange that their rivals had just scored a triumph in Nottingham with a play about Robin Hood.

Giles Randolph stamped a peevish foot

'They are closer to us than we thought

'Yet still a day behind us,' said Mark Scruton.

'I like not such nearness, sir.'

'They will not catch up yet.'

'Find some other way to delay them.'

'I have it already in my mind.'...

Randolph strutted around the Great Hall and watched the stage being erected. He tested the acoustics with a speech from the play and his voice had a poetic beauty to it. The tour had so far been a tale of continuing success that was all the more gratifying because it had involved the abject failure of Westfield's Men. Now, however, his rivals were on his heels and it made him nervous.

He snapped his fingers to beckon Scruton over.

'Yes, Master.'

'You have another trick, sir?'

'It will leave them naked and ashamed.'

'About it straight.'

'What, now?' said Scruton in surprise. 'Before they close in on us.'

'But there is the performance of The Renegade.'

'You will have to miss it.'

'Then I miss the best role I have,' protested the other. 'Let me but act it here this evening and I'll waylay them tomorrow and cause my mischief.'

'Tomorrow is too late.'

'How will you play without me?'

'Young Harry Paget will take on the part.'

'But it is mine!' complained Scruton angrily.

'Mind your tone, sir.'

'You do me a great injustice.'

'It is but for one performance, Mark,' soothed the other. 'When we play the piece again, you will be restored to your glory. You have my word upon it.'

'And when we reach York?'

'You sign a contract that gives you larger roles in every play we stage. If I approve it, that is.'

Mark Scruton was cornered. Despite all he had done for the company, he was still not legally a sharer. Until his elevation to that level, he was still at the mercy of Randolph's whims and commands. He fell back on the polite obsequiousness that had served him so well in the past.

'I will set off at once.'

'Cause havoc in the ranks of Westfield's Men.'

'They will not dare to play thereafter.'

'That thought contents me.

'And my reward?'

'It waits for you in York.'

The four liveried servants rode at a gentle canter along the Great North Road. They bore their masters crest upon their sleeves and his money in their purses. His orders were to be carried out to the letter and they knew the penalty for failure to comply with his wishes. It was a strange assignment but it took them out of Hertfordshire to pastures new and there was interest in that. Their leader set the pace and they rode some five yards apart like the corners of some gigantic scarf. In the middle of that scarf was the person whom they escorted with such care and concern. It was an important mission.

They came to a crossing and saw a large white stone beside the road. Carved into its face was a number that outraged their travelling companion. She shrieked aloud.

'One hundred miles to York!'

'Yes, Mistress,' said one of the men.

'We make tardy progress.'

'It is for your own comfort.'

'Mine! Ha! I'll ride the thighs off any man.'

'What is the haste, Mistress?'

'I need to get there.'

Margery Firethorn kicked her horse on and it broke into a gallop that left the others behind. The four bemused servants of Lord Westfield gave chase at once and wondered what this madwoman, sitting astride a black horse and hallooing at the top of her voice, was actually doing. Her reckless conduct was unsettling to them but she did not bother herself about that.

Margery was going to York.

She had something to say to her husband.

'Hold still, Master Firethorn, you must not move about so.'

'I am flesh and blood, sir, not a piece of marble.'

'An artist needs a motionless subject.'

'Wait till I am dead and paint me then.'

'You are being perverse, sir.'

'My neck is breaking in two!'

'Take five minutes rest.'

Oliver Quilley clicked his tongue in annoyance. They were in his bedchamber at the inn where they were spending the night. The artist had suggested a first sitting to Firethorn but his subject had been less than helpful. Not only did he talk incessantly throughout, he could not keep his head in the same position for more than a couple of minutes. It was most unsatisfactory.

Firethorn came over to see the results.

'How far have we got, Master Quilley?'

'Almost nowhere.'

'Show me your work.'

'It is hardly begun.'

'But I have been sitting there for a century!'

Quilley was at a small table with his materials in front of him. The portrait was on vellum that was stretched and stuck on a playing card. Pigments were mixed in mussel shells and applied with squirrel-hair brushes made out of quills. An animal's tooth, set in the handle of the brush, could be used for burnishing at a later stage. Limning was an exact art that required the correct materials. It was not surprising that Quilley kept them in his leather pouch and hid them beneath his doublet. His livelihood travelled next to his heart.

Firethorn studied the sketched outline of his face and head, not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted. There was a definite likeness there but it was still so insubstantial as to be meaningless to him. The actor's art could be displayed to the full in two hours' traffic on the stage and he expected similar speed from the miniaturist. Quilley's was a slower genius. It grew at the pace of a rose and took much longer to flower.

'There is not much to see, sir,' said Firethorn.

'That is your own fault.'

'Can you not hurry yourself?'

'Not if you wish for a work of art.'

'I will settle for no less.'

'Then learn to sit still.'

'I am a man of action.'

'Contemplate your greatness.'

The circle of vellum on which Quilley worked was barely two inches in diameter. Lawrence Firethorn's personality had to be caught and concentrated in that tiny area and it required the utmost care and skill. When the artist tried to explain this, his subject was diverted by another thought.

'What card have you chosen?'

'Card, sir?'

'Stuck to the vellum. The playing card.'

'Oh, that. I chose the two of hearts.'

'So low a number?'

'It betokens love, Master Firethorn,' explained the other. 'Most of my subjects want their portrait to be a gift to their beloved. Hearts is the favourite suit. I did not think you would prefer the Jack of Clubs.'

'Indeed, no, sir,' said Firethorn, warming to the idea at once. 'Two hearts entwined will be ideal. It will be the badge of my sentiments when I bestow the gift.'

'Your wife will be enchanted."

'What does she have to do here!'

Firethorn went back to his seat and struck a pose. The artist came across to adjust it slightly before he went back to his table. Quilley changed his tack. As the actor froze into a statue before him, he heaped praise upon his performance as Robin Hood and Firethorn hardly moved. Flattery succeeded where outright abuse had not. The artist actually began to take strides forward. It did not last. Firethorn was quiescent but others were not.

Someone banged plaintively on the door.

'Are you within, sir?' called George Dart.

'Go away!' bellowed his employer.

'We must not be disturbed!' added Quilley.

'But I bring important news, Master Firethorn.'

'Good or bad?'

'Disastrous.'

'How now?'

'Send him away,' urged Quilley.

'We'll hear this first, sir.'

Firethorn dived for the door and flung it open. Dart was so scared to be the bearer of bad tidings once more that he was gibbering wildly. Firethorn took him by the shoulders and shook him into coherence.

'What has happened, man?'

'We have been robbed again.'

'Another apprentice?'

'No, Master. Our costumes have gone.' ,; 'Gone where?'

'Into thin air, sir. The basket has vanished.'

Lawrence Firethorn reached for his neck to throttle him then thought better of it. Charging downstairs to the room where the costume basket had been stored, he was shocked to see that it had, in fact, been taken. Their entire stock had gone. The cost involved was enormous but the consequences of the theft were much more crippling. Without their costumes, they could not stage a single play. Someone was trying to put Westfield's Men right out of business.

Firethorn clutched at his hair in desperation.

'Oh, Nick!' he howled. 'Where are you now!'

A full day in the saddle finally brought its reward. With two horses at his disposal, he could ride much faster and much further afield, changing his mounts to keep them fresh and towing one of them behind him. Nicholas Bracewell was tireless in his pursuit. Endless questioning and riding eventually brought him to Lavery Grange. There was no mistake this time. Banbury's Men were in the act of presenting The Renegade to an attentive audience. Posing as a late arrival, Nicholas gained admission to the Great Hall and lurked at the rear. Giles Randolph dominated the proceedings but the book holder was much more interested in those around him, searching for people who had betrayed Westfield's Men by yielding up the secrets of their repertoire. Nicholas recognized several faces but none had ever been employed by his company. He was mystified.

Who had stolen their major plays?

He did not expect Richard Honeydew to be anywhere on the premises. Banbury's Men were far too clever to be caught red-handed. If they were holding the boy, they would do so in some other place that was not too distant. Nicholas sidled out and chatted to one of the servants. The man spoke of three inns within an easy ride. Nicholas set off at once to check them out. He drew a blank with the first two but his conviction did not waver. He was now certain that he was closing in on Richard Honeydew.

His third call bore fruit. Though there was no sign of the boy inside the place, the landlord told him that the company would be staying there for the night. Most of them had rooms but a few would be sleeping with their luggage in the stables. Nicholas went out to inspect the alternative accommodation and could still find nothing untoward. He was about to give up and move away when he heard the noise.

It was a tapping sound, low but regular, and it seemed to come from a stone outhouse adjoining the stable block. When he got closer, he could hear it clearly enough to identify what it was. Someone was trying to kick against the heavy timber of the door. Nicholas ran forward and threw back the bolt. Opening the door, he stared into the gloom to see the sorry figure of Richard Honeydew, all trussed up and lying in the straw. With the very last of his energy, the boy had been trying to beat a tattoo on the door. Rescue was now at hand.

'Thank God I've found you, Dick!'

The gag in the boy's mouth prevented his reply but his eyes were liquid pools of eloquence. Nicholas read their dreadful message much too late. Something very hard and blunt hit him on the back of the head and he plunged forward into the straw.

(*)Chapter Nine

It was the worst night of his life. A man who had scaled the heights of nocturnal bliss so often and with such joyous confidence now fell backwards through space into the abyss. Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. His book holder was gone, his apprentice was kidnapped, his costume basket was stolen and his company was in disarray. Susan Becket lay upstairs in his bed unsatisfied and Eleanor Budden slept between her sheets untouched. They were so near and yet so tar from him. Firethorn was undone.

Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode shared his panic. 'They have cut off our heads, sirs,' said Firethorn.

'And our pizzles,' said Hoode.

'Mine is still in place,' insisted Gill haughtily.

'I did not think they would stoop so low.'

'Can we be sure this is their work, Lawrence?' asked Hoode. 'Some common thieves may have taken our basket.'

'Why should they take that when there were purses to be cut?' said Firethorn. 'No, Edmund. The footprints of Banbury's Men are stamped all over this enterprise. Only another company would know how best to imperil us. And that is by stealing the very clothes that we wear.'

They were in the taproom of their inn, sitting over cups of sack with collective melancholy, Barnaby Gill suddenly jumped to his feet, tossed his head, folded his arms and stood on his considerable dignity.

'I'll not play without my golden doublet,' he said huffily. 'If they find not my green velvet breeches and my yellow stockings and my shoes with the silver buckles and my hat with the three feathers in it, I'll stir not a step upon the stage!'

'We are all in this together, Barnaby,' said Hoode.

'Where is my suit of blue satin and my green cloak?'

'Be silent, sir!' snarled Firethorn.

'What of my cambric shirts and my lawn ruff?'

'Cease this whining!'

The actor-manager's roar cut short the fit of pique. Gill dropped back into his seat and stared moodily into his drink. At times of crisis, he could be relied upon to put his selfish interests before anything else. Edmund Hoode had far more compassion for his fellows.

'My thoughts are with poor Dick!' he said.

'So are mine upon occasion,' murmured Gill.

'I would surrender every shred of clothing that we own to get the lad safe back again. Where can he be?'

'Nick will find him,' said Firethorn.

'Aye,' agreed Hoode. 'Nick is our one bright hope.'

'How can you think that?' said Gill. 'If it were not for our esteemed book holder, we would not now be in such a case as this. I lay the guilt on him.' He spoke on over their protests. 'Defend him all you can, sirs, but this I declare. Nicholas Bracewell must bear the guilt. He it is who was most responsible for the safety of the apprentices yet one of them was taken from under his nose.'

'Nick cannot be everywhere,' defended Hoode.

'That is plain, Edmund. Were he not now gallivanting around the whole county, then our costumes would have been secure. He would have been here to do his duty and defend them properly.' Gill sat up sulkily. 'And I would still have my golden doublet!

'Someone had to go after Dick Honeydew,' said Hoode.

'And the only man fit for the task was Nick,' added Firethorn. 'He may yet extract us from this morass. I'll not hear one word of carping about him.'

'Then I'll hold my tongue,' said Gill sarcastically.

Firethorn drank deep from his cup and moaned aloud.

'What a world of pain is this touring! I do nor like it, sirs, and I fear it does not like me. Nothing but dire calamity has conic of it. We have faced rain, robbery and ruin. And the worst of it is that I am far from home and can draw no comfort from the soft bosom of my wife.'

Gill and Hoode traded a glance of tired amusement. With one woman upstairs in his bed and another featuring prominently in his fantasies, Lawrence Firethorn could still indulge in a bout of marital sentimentality with every sign of complete sincerity. Happiness was his ability to expel Margery entirely from his thoughts. It was only at moments of stress that she reappeared in his considerations and reminded him that he was her husband.

His colleagues listened to his maudlin reminiscences with a measure of cynicism. Their situation was drastic but there was yet some humour to be drawn from it. As Firethorn reached a crescendo of uxoriousness, he was interrupted by the arrival of the tentative George Dart.

'What is it?' growled Firethorn.

'I bring you a message from the lady, sir.'

'Mistress Becket?'

'Mistress Budden.'

'Speak it forth.'

'We sat beside each other on the waggon, Master, and I was bold enough to praise you in her hearing.' He finally put a smile on Firethorn's face. 'I talked about your fine voice, sir, and how you could recite the prayer book as if it were the music of Heaven.'

'So it is, George. So it is.'

'Mistress Budden was much taken with all this.'

'What is her message?'

'She sits in bed,' said Dart. 'It is her dearest wish that you should read to her from the psalms ere she closes her eyes in Christian slumber.'

Lawrence Firethorn felt the reassuring surge of his lust. An opportunity which he believed would never come had now presented itself to him. Eleanor Budden was lying in her bedchamber with complete trust in the sound of his voice. Psalms could lead to sighs of love. As temptation licked at his loins, he saw the obstacles. Susan Becket was waiting in the next bedchamber. A costume basket had to be traced. Plans had to be made. Work would keep him downstairs for several hours.

Disappointment gnawed at his entrails but there was no way out for him. Ignoring the smirks from Hoode and Gill, he turned to the messenger with lofty calm.

'Tell her I may not come tonight,' he said. 'But I will pray for Mistress Budden most heartily.'

And he left it on that ambiguous note.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It assaulted his nostrils. The outhouse had been used to stable a donkey and its droppings were mixed freely with the straw. When he tried to move, he felt as if someone were trying to pound the back of his skull to gain entrance. Nicholas Bracewell remained absolutely still until his head began to clear. Something was tickling the end of his foot. He opened a misty eye to make out the sad figure of Richard Honeydew, stretching out a leg to make contact with him. The boy was still bound and gagged. Nicholas's first impulse was to release him and he jerked forward, only to be held by ropes of his own that were tied to an iron ring in the wall. The lump on the back of his head ached anew but the gag in his mouth muffled his groan.

Nicholas waited till the pain eased off then he took stock of the situation. He was seated upright against a rough stone wall, unable to move because of his bonds. Opposite him was Richard Honeydew, who had been secured to the iron bars across the window. His delight at seeing the boy was shadowed by the condition in which he found him. Honeydew's face was besmirched with blood and his clothes were torn and stained. He did not look as if he had eaten very much since he had been abducted. Nicholas was seized with remorse. Instead of riding to the rescue of the apprentice, he had let himself be captured as well.

He struggled hard but his bonds held firm. When he tried to speak, his words came out as faint grunts. There was so much to ask but he had no means of asking it. He looked around for help and saw the old stone walls with their flaking coat of whitewash. An idea formed. Angling himself over so that he could swing his legs up, he used his toes to scrape one big question on the wall.

WHO?

Richard Honeydew responded in kind. Pulling himself up on the bars, he swung his legs across until they just made contact with the whitewash. In the half-dark of their stinking cell, he slowly and laboriously traced a name on the wall. The letters were ragged and indistinct but their impact was Mill potent.

Nicholas Bracewell was' absolutely stunned. It was incredible.

Christopher Millfield remained cheerful in the midst of adversity. Long faces and short tempers surrounded him but his resilence was remarkable. Instead of being dragged down by the general mood of gloom, he was chirpy and positive. Sharing a room with George Dart and the three apprentices gave these qualities ample scope.

'It will all seem better in the morning,' he said.

'It could hardly be worse,' sighed Dart.

'There is a solution to every problem.'

'We have so many, Master Millfield.'

'Let hope into your heart, George.'

'There is no room for it.'

Christopher Millfield leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. Healing snores from the other bed, he lowered his voice so that he did not rouse the sleepers.

'We are players,' he argued softly, 'and nothing must be allowed to smother our art. If one of our apprentices be taken, why, then we fill his role with another voice. If all our costumes be stolen, we beg, borrow or make some more. These are setbacks only and can all be overcome.'

'You forget Master Bracewell.'

'By no means, sir. I have the utmost faith in him.'

'What if he does not come back?'

'Nick Bracewell will return,' said Millfield with confidence. 'I have never met a more capable man in the theatre. This whole company revolves around him and he would never desert it in its hour of need.'

'I thought you did not like him,' said Dart.

'There is nobody in Westfield's Men I respect more and that includes Master Firethorn. I admit that I was hurt when our book holder recommended Gabriel Hawkes in place of me but that is all past now. I have come to accept the truth of it, George.'

'Truth?'

'Gabriel was the better man.' .

'He was always kind to me.'

Millfield sighed. 'It pains me that we were such rivals. In other circumstances, Gabriel and I could have been close friends. He has been a great loss.' The positive note returned. 'That is why I am so grateful for the chance to travel with the company. I have prospered from Gabriel's death and that grieves me, but it also fills me with determination to make the most of my opportunity and to be undaunted by any mishap. We are fortunate men, George. We are employed. Think on that.'

The other did as he was advised and soon drifted off to sleep in a haze of consolation. Millfield was a true son of the theatre. Whatever disasters befell it, the company simply had to press on regardless. George Dart's snores joined the wheezing slumber of the other innocents.

Christopher Millfield waited half an hour before he moved. Then he got up, dressed quietly and left the room. A few minutes later, he was saddling a horse and leading it out into the yard with shreds of sacking around its hooves to muffle their clatter on the cobblestones.

He rode off happily into the darkness.

Nicholas Bracewell was still quite groggy. His head was pounding, his vision was impaired and blood was trickling down the back of his neck. The stench in the outhouse was almost overpowering and his stomach heaved, Trussed up tightly, every muscle in his body was aching away. What hurt him most, however, was the fact that Richard Honeydew should see him in this state. The boy was desperately in need of help and all that his would-be rescuer could do was to get himself into the same parlous condition. Guilt burned inside Nicholas like a raging fire. It served to concentrate his mind on their predicament.

The first priority was to be able to speak to the boy and that meant getting rid of the gag. Unable to brush it down with his knees, he looked around for a source of aid. A wooden rake was standing against the wall on his right. Though he could not reach it with his feet, he could scoop the straw towards him and that brought the implement ever closer. It also brought piles of dung and his shoes were soon covered with it, but he did not give up. Richard watched with interest as his friend got the rake within reach and then lifted both feet before jabbing them down hard on the prongs. The rake flipped up and Nicholas had to move his head aside as the handle smashed into the wall beside him. He trapped the implement with his shoulder then used the end of it to push his gag slowly upwards. It was agonising work that earned him several jabs in the face but he eventually managed to move it enough to be able to speak.

His words tumbled out through deep breaths. 'How are you, lad?'

The boy nodded bravely and his eyes showed spirit.

'Have they hurt you badly?'

Richard Honeydew shook his head and made a noise.

'Let's see if we can get your gag off now, Dick.'

Nicholas used his body and feet to propel the rake towards the apprentice and the latter tried to copy what he had seen. It took him much longer and collected him many more painful pokes with the end of the pole but he did finally force the gag out of his mouth. He filled his lungs gratefully then coughed violently.

'They'll stink us to death in here,' said Nicholas.

'How did you find me, Master Bracewell?'

'Never mind that, Dick. The main thing is to get you out of here safely. How many of them are there?'

'Two. They kidnapped me together.'

'At the behest of Banbury's Men.'

'Is that who stole me away? I had no idea. They keep me locked up and only come when it is time to feed me.'

'You look poorly'

'I am fine,' said the boy unconvincingly.

'They will pay for what they have done to you.'

'It is not them that I fear, Master. They have tied me up but they have not ill-treated me.' He looked around with disgust. 'What makes me afeard is the dark and the damp and the smell and, most of all, the rats.'

'Rats?'

'They come snuffling around sometimes. I am afraid that they will eat me alive!' He relaxed visibly. 'But not now that you are here. I feel safe with you.'

'No rats will harm you, Dick.'

The boy smiled. 'I knew you would come for me.'

'Tell me exactly what has happened to you.'

While he listened to Honeydew's tale, his eyes roved the outhouse in search of a means of escape but none presented itself. Then he noticed some movement under the straw beside a wooden bucket of water. When the boy caught sight of it, he flew into a panic.

'A rat! A rat! Another rat!'

The creature came out of the straw and shuffled towards the terror-stricken boy. Nicholas yelled and lashed out at the animal with his feet, putting it to flight and kicking over the bucket as well. As cold water made his discomfort even greater, he began to fret and complain but he soon checked himself. The accident might yet be turned to account. He almost smiled.

M spy some hope, Dick.'

'Do you, Master?'

'There may yet be a way out.'

'How?'

'You will see. But I need your help.'

'I will do anything I can, sir.'

'Encourage me.'

Richard Honeydew soon understood what he meant. The packed earth beneath the straw had been loosened by the deluge and gave way to urgent feet. Using his shoes as a rudimentary spade, Nicholas began to scoop out a hole close to the wall. The deeper he went, the softer was the earth and he kicked it out into a heap beside him. It was a long and laborious process which brought the sweat streaming out of every pore and made his body ache as if it was ready to split asunder. Whenever he felt like giving up, however, he glanced across at the boy and was given all the exhortation he needed.

'Keep on, sir! You are working wonders! Stay there!'

Nicholas struggled on, getting bruised and filthy in the process but making definite headway. Ultimately, the hole was big enough for him to be able to lower himself into it and take the strain.

He had undermined the wall completely. When he tested his strength against it, the stone moved slightly. Richard Honeydew giggled with delight.

'We are almost there!'

"Not yet, lad."

'I know your strength, sir. You will do it.'

Nicholas nodded wearily. The real effort now began. He pushed, felt it give some more, rested a moment then adjusted his position. Calling on all his reserves of energy, he shoved hard with his feet and let his broad shoulders attack the solidity of the wall. It was the work of several wounding minutes but his efforts were not in vain. With a low crumbling noise, the wall gave way and chunks of stone came crashing down around him. Nicholas was cut, bruised and bloodied but his hands were now free of the metal ring. He began to rub his wrists against the sharp edge of a piece of stone.

'You did it, Master Bracewell!' said the boy.

'With your help.'

'All I did was to watch you.'

'And stiffen my resolve.'

'Can you saw through the rope?'

'It is done!' said Nicholas, holding up his hands. ' He cast aside his bonds and dragged himself across to untie the boy's wrists. Before they could tackle the ropes on their ankles, however, they heard the sound of running footsteps. Nicholas pulled himself upright and bounced to the door as it was unbolted from outside. A stocky young man came rushing in with a dagger at the ready. Grabbing him by wrist and neck, Nicholas threw him hard against the remains of the wall, diving on top of him to disarm him and hold the weapon to his throat. The man was dazed and fearful.

'Do not kill me, sir!' he pleaded.

'Who are you?'

'An ostler, sir. I work here at the inn.'

'You have been our gaoler.'

'Only because I was paid. I meant no harm.'

'Do not move!'

Nicholas used the dagger to slit through the ropes that held his ankles then he cut the boy loose as well. He placed a knee on the ostler's chest and held the point of the blade just in front of the man's face.

'You struck me down from behind,' he accused.

'I was told to guard the boy.'

'What else were you told?'

'To hide the basket in the stables.'

'What basket?'

'They were costumes, sir.'

'From Westfield's Men?'

'That was the name.'

Nicholas stood up and yanked the ostler to his feet. He did not have to threaten his captive any more. Plainly terrified, Human led them immediately to the part of the stables where he had concealed the costume basket. Nicholas was pleased to see his two horses there as well and took the opportunity to repossess his own sword and dagger. He used his rapier to pin the man to the wall while he pondered.

'Has the company returned?' he said.

'Not yet, sir. They celebrate at Lavery Grange.'

'Take me to Master Randolph's room.'

'Who, sir?'

'He will have the finest bedchamber here.'

"Tis at the front of the inn, sir.'

'Teach me the way.'

'I have no place up there.'

'I do,' said Nicholas. 'Lead on or lose an ear.' They went stealthily across the yard.

Lambert Pym stood in the brewhouse at the rear of his inn and watched another cask being filled. It would now be stored in his cellars for conditioning until it was ready to be tapped and drunk. Pym had grown up with the smell of beer and ale in his nostrils and it stayed with him wherever he went. His customers at the Trip to Jerusalem bought beer, or, if they had a little extra money, some ale. He imported some wine from Bordeaux but it was too costly for most people. Malmsey wine from Greece was even more expensive, as was sack, but Pym kept a supply of both for certain patrons. During the three days of Whitsuntide, he would need to draw deeply on all his stocks.

The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Raw!ins was about to leave. Lambert Pym raised a finger in deference and beamed ingratiatingly.

'Shall you be with us at Whitsuntide, Master?' I hope so, sir. You'll sec an ocean of beer drunk in here.'

'That is not a sight which appeals.'

'Drink has its place in the affairs of men.'

'I know!' said Rawlins with frank disapproval.

'Christ Himself did sanction it, sir.'

'Do not blaspheme.'

'He turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana,' said Pym. 'That was his first miracle.'

'But open to misinterpretation.'

'Wine has its place,' mused the other, 'but you will not part an Englishman from his beer. Look at the example of Fuenterrabia.'

'Where?'

'It is northern Spain.' Pym grinned oleaginously as he told his favourite story. 'The first campaign in the reign of good King Henry, who was father to our present dear Queen. He sent an army of seven thousand English soldiers to help his father-in-law, King Ferdinand, take Navarre away from the French. Do you know what those stout-hearted men found?'

'What, sir?'

'There was no beer in Spain. Only wine and cider.' He cackled happily. 'The soldiers mutinied on the spot and their commander, the Marquis of Dorset, was forced to bring them home again. They could not fight on empty bellies, sir, and beer was their one desire.'

Robert Rawlins listened to the tale with polite impatience then turned to go but his way was now blocked. Standing in the doorway were two constables. One of them held up a warrant as he moved in on him.

'You must come with us, sir.'

'On what charge?'

'I think you know that.'

Before he could say any more, Robert Rawlins was hustled unceremoniously out. Lambert Pym was mystified but instinct guided him. He summoned his boy at once.

'Take a message to Marmion Hall.'

'Sir Clarence Marmion has commissioned a portrait.'

'Of himself, Master Quilley?'

'Yes, sir.'

'A miniature?'

'I am a limner. I paint nothing else.'

'Your fame spreads ever wider.'

'Genius is its own best recommendation.'

'Do you look forward to painting Sir Clarence?'

'No, sir. I simply hope he will pay me for my work.'

Oliver Quilley brought realism to bear upon his art. Commissions had never been a problem area. That lay in the collection of his due reward. Far too many of his subjects, especially those at Court, believed that their patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.

He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield's Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.

'How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?' said Firethorn.

'Through a friend.'

'Did you not take him for a traitor?'

'I saw it in his face.'

'Yet you accepted the commission?'

'His money was as good as anyone else's.'

'But tainted, Master Quilley.'

'How so?'

'Rickwood betrayed his Queen.'

'He paid me in gold,' said the artist. 'Not with thirty pieces of silver.'

'I could not work for such a man myself.'

'Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.'

'I deny it hotly, sir!'

'Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?'

'Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.'

'It will not be staged there again,' said Quilley complacently. 'Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.'

'Can this be true?' said Firethorn.

'I have it on good authority.'

'God save us all!'

'He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.'

Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield's Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.

The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.

'I responded to the voice of God,' she said. 'You answered some inner desire, Mistress.'

'His word is paramount.'

'If that indeed was what you heard.'

'I am certain of it, Master Millfield.'

'Certainty is everywhere,' he argued. 'The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?'

'Because I have been chosen.'

'By God--or by yourself?'

'Fie on your impertinence, sir!'

'I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.'

'Do you doubt my sincerity?'

'Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must indeed be sincere. What I question is this voice of God.'

'I heard it plainly, sir.'

'But did it come from without or within?'

'Does that matter?'

'I believe so.'

'It is not for us to question God's mystery.'

'Nor yet to submit blindly to it.'

'That is blasphemy!'

'You have your convictions and I have mine.'

'Are you an atheist, sir?!' she cried.

Before he could reply, two figures appeared ahead of them on a chestnut stallion. A second horse was dragging a litter that had been fashioned out of some long, slender boughs. Lashed to the litter was a basket that everyone recognized immediately. Nicholas Bracewell was back. He brought the missing apprentice and the stolen costumes as well as Oliver Quilley's horse. A cheer went up horn the whole company as they hurried towards their hero.

The newcomers were soon enveloped by friends and bombarded with questions. Eleanor Budden gazed down on her beloved and called his name. Barnaby Gill demanded to know if his golden doublet was unharmed. Edmund Hoode asked if they knew who had played his part of Sicinius. Martin Yeo, Stephen Judd and John Tallis hailed their fellow-apprentice with an enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria. Susan Becket chicked excitedly. George Dart was able to join the Merry Men once more.

Lawrence Firethorn waved them all into silence with an imperious arm and called for full details. Though they looked tattered and travel-weary, the two companions had washed themselves off in a spring and found that their injuries were only minor. Reunion with their fellows put new strength and spirit into them. 'Who kidnapped the lad?' asked Firethorn.

'Banbury's Men.' said Nicholas.

'Scurvy knaves! We'll have them in court for this!'

'There are other ways to get even, sir.'

'And the costumes, Nick?'

'Taken by the same hands.'

'Where did you find my horse?' said Quilley.

'That was providential.'

Nicholas told him the story and gained fresh looks of adoration from Eleanor Budden. When he talked of putting four men to flight--and did so in such modest terms--Susan Becket also experienced a flutter. The female response was not lost on Firethorn who sought to divert some of their admiring glances his way.

'By heavens!' he roared, pulling out his sword and holding it in the air. 'I'll put so many holes in the hide of Giles Randolph that he'll whistle when he walks across the stage! I'll challenge him to a duel and cut the varlet down to size! I'll make him pay for every crime he has committed against us. Hang him, the rogue!'

'Worry not about Master Randolph,' said Nicholas.

'Frogspawn in human shape!'

'He has problems enough of his own.'

'Prison is too good for such a wretch!' yelled Firethorn. 'He dared to steal Pompey the Great?'

'My play,' said Hoode. 'My part of Sicinius.'

'They will not perform it again, Edmund.'

'How can you be so certain, Nick?'

'Because we have stopped them.' He winked at his companion. 'Show them, Dick.'

The boy ran across to the costume basket and threw back its lid to draw out a pile of plays. He read out their titles to a delighted audience.

'Cupid's Folly. Two Maids of Milchester. Double Deceit. Marriage and Mischief. Pompey the Great?

'All returned where they belong,' said Nicholas. 'They cannot stage our plays without these prompt books.'

'By all, this is wonderful!' shouted Firethorn. 'Let me embrace you both, my lovely imps!'

He dismounted and put a congratulatory arm around each. The worst night of his life was being redeemed by one of the best days. Nicholas added even more joy.

'Time brings in its revenges, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'Master Randolph will not laugh this morning.'

'Did you strike a blow for Westfield's Men.'

'I think so,' said Nicholas.

Giles Randolph stared at the empty chest with a mixture of fear and dismay. It had been stored all night beneath his fourposter and chained to one of the legs. Its lock was strong and apparently undamaged yet the treasure chest was bare. The company's most priceless possessions had gone. Randolph screeched a name and Mark Scruton came running. One glance made the newcomer turn white.

'When did you discover this, sir?'

'Even now.'

'You did not open the chest last night?'

"The journey back from Lavery Grange was too tiring and much wine had been taken. I fell into bed and slept soundly until this morning.' Randolph kicked at the empty chest. 'Had I known of this, I'd not have closed my eyes!'

Mark Scruton thought quickly then glanced towards the door. Beckoning the other to follow, he ran out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, making for the door that led to the yard. With Randolph at his heels, he hurried across to the outhouse beyond the stables and wondered why one of its walls was damaged. He unbolted the door and flung it open to reveal a sight that might have been comical in other circumstances. The stocky ostler was bound hand and foot and tied to the bars at the window. A large apple had been placed in his mouth and held in place by a strip of material that was knotted behind his head. His eyes were as red and bulbous as tomatoes.

'Where are they?' demanded Scruton.

The man shook his head and hunched his shoulders.

Giles Randolph let out a howl and kneeled down. In the middle of the straw was a pile of prompt books that were caked in manure and sodden with water. The symbolism was not lost on him. Rising up in sheer disgust, he jabbed a shaking finger at his vandalized property.

'Mark Scruton!' he hissed.

'Yes, sir?'

'This is your doing.'

'A thousand apologies.'

'Clean up your mess!'

He left the scene of the outrage in high dudgeon.

The blacksmith hammered in the last nail then lowered the hoof to the ground. He wiped his brow with a hairy arm and turned to the full-bodied woman who held the bridle.

'Take more care with the animal, Mistress.'

'I have not the time, sir.'

'He was ridden too hard over rough ground,' said the blacksmith. 'That is why he cast a shoe.'

He may cast more then before we arrive.

'Where do you go?'

'To York.'

'It is a goodly distance yet, Mistress.'

'Then do not detain us with your prattle.'

Margery Firethorn put a foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle without asking for any assistance. An imperious snap of the fingers brought one of the liveried servants scuttling across to her.

'Pay the fellow!' she said.

Then she rode off at an even fiercer pace.

Westfield's Men got their first glimpse of York and paused to take in its full magnificence. Seen from that distance and that elevation, it looked like a fairytale city that was set against a painted backdrop and even those who had seen it before now marvelled afresh. Eleanor Budden summed it all up in one word. 'Jerusalem!'

They stopped to take refreshment and gather their strength for the last few miles of a journey that had become increasingly strenuous since they crossed the county boundary. Horses were watered and refreshment taken. Nicholas Bracewell chose the moment to have word alone with Christopher Millfield. Having disliked the actor so much at first, he now found himself warming all the more to him.

'How did you fare in my absence, Christopher?'

'We never lost faith in you.'

'I am glad the business turned out so well.'

'You brought home great bounty,' said Millfield. 'Master Quilley was delighted to get his horse back.'

'A happy accident.' Nicholas glanced across at the artist. 'What do you make of our limner?'

'Painters are always slightly mad.'

'Have you noticed nothing odd about him?'

'Several things but I put them down to his calling.'

'Look at his apparel,' said Nicholas. 'It is a very expensive suit for a man who claims that he has no money. Then there is the quality of his horse, not to mention those saddlebags of the finest leather with their gold monogram. Master Quilley is not the pauper he pretends.'

'Then where does his wealth come from?'

'I wish I knew.'

'Haply, he has some rich patron.'

'One name suggests itself.'

'Who is that?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham.'

'Indeed?' said Millfield with astonishment. 'I find that hard to credit. Could Master Quilley really be in his service as an informer?'

'Who is better placed, Christopher? He visits the homes of the great on a privileged footing and sees things that no other visitor could observe. His calling is the ideal cover for a spy.'

'Do you have any proof of this?'

'None beyond my own suspicion. Except an item that I found in his saddlebag. See it for yourself

Christopher Millfield took the document that was handed to him and scanned through the names. He nodded in agreement as he returned it to Nicholas.

'You have just cause for that suspicion.

'Do I?'

'Two of those names have already been ticked off by Walsingham. Three of the others are known to me from my time with the Admiral's Men. I dare swear that they were all prosecuted for recusancy.'

'What of Sir Clarence Marmion and the others?'

'We can but guess.'

'Birds of a feather flock together.'

'Your conclusion?'

'All of Master Quilley's employers are Catholics.'

'Could he be a servant of Rome himself?'

It was another possibility and they discussed it briefly before turning to other matters. Nicholas was glad that he had confided in his new friend. Millfield was now eyeing him with concern.

How do you feel, Nick?'

'Much better.'

'Are you fully recovered from your ordeal?' said the other with anxiety. 'It heartened us greatly when you and Dick Honeydew returned but the pair of you did look more than a little bedraggled.'

'You should have seen us when we set out. We were caked in blood and filth with a stink on us you could have smelled a hundred yards off.' He wrinkled his nose at the memory. 'Dick and I stopped at a stream to clean ourselves up before coming back.'

'Both of you must be aching all over.'

'I will have to make some more of that ointment.'

'It has certainly helped me.'

'We will sleep well tonight, I think.'

Millfield smiled his agreement then looked across at Richard Honeydew. The boy still showed the effects of his incarceration but he was patently delighted to be back with the company and his face was animated.

'He is hopelessly in your debt, Nick.'

'I could not let them steal our best apprentice.'

'It goes deeper than that.'

'We are good friends.'

'You are like a father to the lad and risked your life for him. Have you ever had a child of your own?'

'I was never married, Christopher.'

'The two things do not always go together.'

Nicholas laughed evasively and changed the subject. He was enjoying his chat with the actor and finding new things to like about him all the time. When Millfield moved away, however, it became clear that not everyone shared the book holder's good opinion of him.

A worried Eleanor Budden bustled over.

'Do not listen to him, sir,' she begged.

'Master Millfield?'

'He is a very dangerous young man."

'Why, Mistress?'

'Because he does not believe in God.'

'Did he attest as much?'

'More or less, Master Bracewell.'

'I find that hard to accept.'

'Beware, sir!'

'Of what?'

'Atheism in our midst!'

Nicholas did not take the claim at all seriously and she did not pursue it since she wanted to enjoy their rare moment alone. Love made her eyes sparkle like gems.

'It was wonderful to see you back with us!'

'I share your delight, Mistress.' I knew that God would not take you away from me.'

'My place is here with the company.'

And mine is beside you.'

'We will get you to York with all due speed.'

'I have found the true path in you!'

Her ardour was quite unnerving and Nicholas glanced around for help. Being attacked by robbers or captured by rivals were nowhere near as frightening as being cornered by Eleanor Budden. If he was not circumspect, she would rob him of something he did not want to lose and hold him captive in a way that did not appeal. He fended her off with questions.

'How do you like the fellowship of actors?'

'Yours is the only company I seek, Master Bracewell.'

'Does nobody else interest you. Mistress?

'They pale beside you, sir.'

'What of Master Quilley. He is a famous artist. Have you and he had discourse yet?'

'Only when I interrupted him,' she said. 'He was angry when I came upon him playing with his cards.'

'Cards?'

'I have never seen the like before. They had strange pictures on them and he studied each one with great care. It was almost as if he looked for some kind of message.'

Nicholas Bracewell smiled in gratitude. Unwelcome as her attentions had been, he sensed that Eleanor Budden had unwittingly given him some valuable information.

His suspicion of Oliver Quilley deepened.

Days without his wife and nights without her precious bounty had wrought changes in Humphrey Budden. The house seemed empty, the children were fractious and his whole life was now hopelessly barren. Long discussions with Miles Melhuish were followed by even longer ones with the Dean. It was the latter who counselled action.

You have sinned against your wife.'

'The memory of it is grievous unto me.'

'You must seek her forgiveness.'

How may I do that?'

'Not here in Nottingham, that is certain.'

'Then where?'

'In York,' said the Dean sonorously. 'There is no better place for you to be cleansed and reconciled. Go to York, sir. Seek your estranged wife in that monument to Christian dedication. That is where your hope lies.'

'Will she take me back?'

'If you deserve it, Master Budden.'

'Should I travel with the children?'

'Alone, sir. This is a matter between two souls.' He lowered ecclesiastical lids. 'And two bodies.'

Humphrey Budden left for York the next day.

A bell had signalled the beginning of the Whitsuntide fair and pandemonium followed. Streets that were usually crowded were now overflowing. Shops and stalls that were usually busy were now completely besieged. York was aflame with life. Tinkers, travellers, pilgrims, country folk, merchants, knights and many more streamed in through the four gates. Minstrels, mummers, acrobats and jugglers competed for attention. The shrieking of children and the yapping of dogs swelled a cacophony that was taken to deafening pitch by the constant peal of church bells. The city ran riot for three holy days.

Westfield's Men came in through Micklegate and made their way through the press to the Trip to Jerusalem, a name that had a special resonance for them. Lambert Pym gave them an exaggerated welcome and conducted them to their rooms with beard-scratching charm. Accommodation was also found for Oliver Quilley and Eleanor Budden. The exuberant Susan Becket appointed herself as Firethorn's bedfellow yet again. Jerusalem was a spacious metaphor.

Nicholas Bracewell was dispatched at once to the Lord Mayor to secure a licence for performance. When he came back with it in his hand, he found Firethorn poring over a letter from Sir Clarence Marmion that invited them to stage a play at his house. Here was good news indeed. York was proving to be a worthy shrine for pilgrimage. Not a moment was wasted. Playbills were printed and posted up, a stage was erected in the yard at the inn, and the first rehearsal was held. The hectic pace of it all made them think they were back at the Queen's Head.

A new drama by Edmund Hoode was to be given its first performance outside London. Soldiers of the Cross had a particular relevance to their venue because it dealt with a crusade and took Richard the Lionheart through a succession of epic battles. Westfield's Men had presented a crusader play before, a novice work by one Roger Bartholomew, an Oxford scholar with misguided aspirations about the theatre. Hoode's work had the mark of a true professional. It was well crafted, lit with fire and passion, and filled with soaring verse. In the play about Robin Hood, the same king had been but a minor character who slipped on near the end to knight the hero. Soldiers of the Cross made him central to the action and Firethorn's performance made him tower even in ore.

Nicholas Bracewell was industrious and watchful. He kept the rehearsal rolling along and noted any faults or omissions along the way. His stagekeepers were given a long list of jobs when it was all over. He worked well into the evening himself then adjourned to the taproom.

Oliver Quilley was sampling the Malmsey. 'Master Bracewell, let me buy you a drink, sir." 'I cannot stay.'

'But I have not thanked you for finding my horse.'

'There was something else I found.'

Nicholas took out the list from the saddlebag and handed it over. The artist snatched it eagerly from him.

'I see that some names were ticked off, Master.'

'Those commissions have been completed.'

'There is a question mark beside one person.'

'Is there?'

'Sir Clarence Marmion.'

'I cannot see it.'

Quilley glanced at the document then folded it up and put it away. An enigmatic smile kept Nicholas at bay. The book holder met his gaze.

'How did you know of Master Pomeroy's arrest?'

"Word travels fast.'

'Only by special messenger.'

'I have my contacts, sir.'

'So I believe.'

The artist gave nothing away. His unruffled calm was a challenge that Nicholas was unable to take up at that point. The book holder had a more pressing commitment and he excused himself. He would return to Oliver Quilley.

Night was taking its first gentle steps towards York as Nicholas shouldered his way through the crowds. Even in the turmoil of their arrival, he had found the time to enquire after other theatre companies. Banbury's Men had reached the city that same day. They were staying at the Three Swans in Fossgate. He went over Ouse Bridge and headed north, picking his way through clamorous streets that he half-remembered from an earlier visit some years before, and listening to the Yorkshire dialects that rang out on every side.

The first thing he saw when he turned into Fossgate was the Merchant Adventurers' Hall, a fine triple-aisled structure with a chapel projecting towards the River Foss. Incorporating brickwork and half-timbering, it was a long, high building that emphasized the prominent place that the Merchant Adventurers took among the fifty guilds of the city. Nicholas was reminded of something that his life in London made him forget. York, too, had its wealth.

The Three Swans was an establishment of medium size constructed around an undulating yard. Banbury's Men were still rehearsing. Raised voices came from behind the main gates which had been locked to keep out the curious. He went into the inn and bought a tankard of ale, drifting across to a window to get a view of the yard. It was galleried at two levels and he estimated that about four hundred spectators could be crammed in on the morrow. Jerusalem, with its larger yard, had a definite advantage. That would please Lawrence Firethorn.

Light was dying visibly now but the players kept at their work, frantically trying to iron out the myriad problems caused by their damaged prompt book. Nicholas waited until nobody was looking then he slipped up a staircase and through a door. He was now standing on the gallery at the first level and able to see the last of the rehearsal. It was a pastoral romp of indifferent quality and they played it without attack or conviction. Through the gap in the curtains which had been put up in front of their tiring-house, he could see the book holder, holding his head well back from the stench of his text and turning the pages with care.

Giles Randolph took his customary leading role and the other sharers were ranged around him. But look as he might, Nicholas could not find the face he sought above all others. He was still straining his eyes against the gloom when a voice behind him made him turn.

'Have you come to see me, Nick? Here I am.'

The book holder found himself facing a drawn sword and the young man had every intention of using it if the need arose, liven after Richard Honeydew's warning, he was still dumbfounded. Here was the last person on earth that he had expected to meet. Nicholas had watched him being buried in a common grave in London.

It was Gabriel Hawkes.

(*)Chapter Ten

The swordpoint pricked his throat and forced him back against one of the posts that supported the upper tier. Nicholas Bracewell was helpless. He could not move an inch. Behind and below him in the yard was a company of actors engaged in a rehearsal but he could not cry for help. The rapier would rip out his voice in an instant. All that he could do was to watch the man he had once liked and respected so much. There was an additional shock to accommodate. Dangling from his assailant's ear was the jewelled earring which had been thrown into the pit after his corpse. Nicholas gaped.

'You have come back from the dead, sir,' he said. 'It is but an illusion.'

'We saw Gabriel Hawkes being carted away with the other plague victims and tossed into his grave.'

'Your eyes did not deceive you, Nick.'

'Then how can you be here before me now?'

'Because I am not Gabriel,' said the young man. 'My name is Mark Scruton. The poor wretch who died was indeed Gabriel Hawkes. He was a kinsman of mine who had fallen on hard times and been swept into that hideous dwelling in Smorrall Lane. It suited me to take his name and his address while yet living in a sweeter lodging.'

'You were planted on Westfield's Men,' said Nicholas as the truth slowly dawned. 'That memory of yours was used against us. You studied from our prompt books and gave your findings to our rivals.'

'That was the bargain I struck.'

'To betray your fellows?'

'What future did they offer me?' said Scruton with contempt. 'To be a hired man at the beck and call of Master Firethorn? Fed on the scraps of parts that were left over? Employed or dismissed on a whim? There was no future for me, sir! I am a true actor!'

'Your art beguiled me,' admitted Nicholas.

'Banbury's Men held out real promise. In bringing your company low, I earned my right to be a sharer with them. That gives me the status I deserve.' He smiled with self-congratulation. 'Gabriel Hawkes had to vanish before your eyes so that he could reappear as Mark Scruton. My uncle fell .sick with the plague but might have lingered a while and so delayed my plans. I helped him on his way to Heaven and spared him certain agony. You saw him taken from his foul bed and trundled off in his winding sheet.'

'Your earring was upon him.'

'It was my parting gift.' He flicked the jewel that now hung from his lobe. 'I have its twin, as you now see.

Nicholas pieced it all together in his mind.

'You feigned illness in London to prepare us for the shock of your death,' he said. 'Then you travelled with Banbury's Men and advised them how best to damage our enterprise. You snatched Dick Honeydew away then worked with that ostler to steal cur costumes.'

'You should not have found either, Nick.

'It was my duty.'

'And your undoing. You know too much, my friend.'

'Enough to see you hanged for it.'

'Enough to get you killed.'

Scruton lowered the sword and thrust at his heart but Nicholas moved like lightning. Dodging a foot to one side, he let himself fall backwards over the balustrade and somersaulted through the air before landing on his feet in the yard. Blood was oozing from his left arm where the sword had grazed him but the wound was not deep. Pulling out his own rapier, he ran back into the building and up the stairs to do battle on more equal terms but Mark Scruton had not waited for him. Though the book holder searched high and low, he could not find the man anywhere on the premises.

Gabriel Hawkes had disappeared again.

Sir Clarence Marmion sat in his chair without moving a muscle. He was a dignified figure, slim, erect and quite serene, a trifle cold perhaps but carrying his authority lightly. He wore a black doublet, slashed with red and rising to a high neck that was trimmed with a lace ruff. Oliver Quilley scrutinized him with utmost care to find the mind's construction in the face but his subject was yielding little of his inner self. The artist made some preliminary lines on the vellum oval that lay before him on the table. His sitter did not flicker an eyelid. It was an hour before Quilley broke the silence.

'The question of an inscription, Sir Clarence...'

'Inscription?'

'Most people require a few words on their portrait to give it meaning or individuality. Sometimes it is a family motto or an expression of love to the intended recipient of the miniature. I have known subjects who called for couplets of verse or even maxims in Greek.'

'That will not be my wish, sir.'

'Then what is?'

'A Latin tag.'

'Speak and it will be penned in.'

'Dat poena laudata fides.'

Quilley noted the phrase then furrowed his brow.

'A strange request, Sir Clarence. "Loyalty, though praised, brings sufferings." There is some association here with Marmion Hall?'

'That is not for you to know, Master Quilley.'

'The artist must have insight into everything.'

'Practise your art without more words.'

He returned to his pose and Oliver Quilley worked on until he had got all he needed from the first sitting. They were in the hall and the master of the house was seated against the far wall, his head framed by one of the gleaming oak panels. As the artist collected up his materials, he threw an admiring glance at the family portraits that hung all around them, noting with especial admiration that of the former Lady Marmion, stately mother of Sir Clarence. Dressed with controlled elegance, she was a gracious figure and prompted an outburst from Quilley.

'The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,' he said. 'Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!'

Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.

'Here's payment for your work, Master Quilley.'

'Wait until I have finished, dear sir.'

'Take it on account.'

'If you insist,' said the other gratefully.

'A labourer is worthy of his hire.'

'An artist raises labour to a higher plane.'

'Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?'

The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.

'You rode here alone, sir?' asked Sir Clarence.

'It was not a long journey,' said Quilley.

'Perils may still lurk.' He indicated a servant. 'Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.'

'I will manage on my own, Sir Clarence. My horse will outrun any that bars my way. I have no fears.'

'You should, sir. These are dangerous times.'

'I will keep my wits about me.'

Sir Clarence excused himself for a moment and left the room with the servant. Quilley did not delay. He moved quickly towards the shelves of books that stood against the far wall. His choice was immediate. He took a small leather-bound volume with a handsome silver clasp on it. Slipping the book into the pouch alongside his artist's materials, he strolled casually across to the window to admire the view. He was still appraising the front garden when his host returned. Sir Clarence was in decisive mood.

'We shall have the second sitting tomorrow.'

'So soon?' said Quilley.

'I am anxious to press ahead with the portrait.'

'An artist may not be rushed, Sir Clarence.'

'Time is not on our side,' said the other. 'We have the visit from Westfield's Men tomorrow. Return with them and bring your belongings from the inn. You shall be a guest under my roof until your work is done.'

'That is most kind. Marmion Hall will offer me a softer lodging than the Trip to Jerusalem, and a safer one as well.' He gave a sly smile. 'The landlord tells me that one of his guests was recently carried off by officers. One Robert Rawlins.'

'I do not know the man.'

'It is just as well, Sir Clarence. He was a priest of the Church of Rome. Any friend of Master Rawlins will be dealt with most severely.'

'That does not concern me,' said the other. 'I am more interested in Westfield's Men. You travelled with them from Nottingham, you say?'

'An eventful journey in every way.'

'It gave you time to befriend them no doubt. Who is in the company, sir? I would know their names.'

'All of them?'

'Down to the meanest wight.'

Quilley reeled off the names and his host listened intently. The visitor was then thanked and shown out. Delighted with his good fortune, he rode off at a canter in the direction of York. Coins jingled in his purse and his patron had hinted at further reward. Then there was the book that nestled in his pouch. He was so caught up with himself that he did not notice the other horseman.

Eleanor Budden knelt in prayer in York Minster and heard confusion. It had all been so simple in Nottingham. One voice had spoken to her with one clear message and she left husband, home and children to obey it. There was no further direction from above. As her knees bussed the hassock in obeisance to God, she waited for a sign that did not come. Her heart gave her one ruling, her head another and her soul a third. It was three days before she would be able to see the Archbishop himself and take his holy counsel. What should she do in the interim?

Had her trip to Jerusalem foundered in York?

She recalled the words of a sermon delivered by Miles Melhuish on the Sunday morning before she left. Keyed into her own situation, it had talked about the character of a true pilgrim and the nature of life itself as a form of pilgrimage, it dealt with the celestial origin of man and of his hope of returning to the realm from which he had been expelled after his fall from grace. The vicar's rotund phrases imprinted themselves on her anew and she was struck by his recital of the symbols of the pilgrim--the shell, the crook or staff, the well of the water-of-salvation, the road and the cloak.

The more she thought about it, the more inescapably she was led back to Nicholas Bracewell. He had no visible shell or crook but he was both fisherman and shepherd to Westfield's Men, their main provider and their loving protector. She had met him in the River Trent, floating naked on the water-of-salvation. They had followed the road together and, in reclaiming the costume basket, he had found not one but several cloaks. It was all there. In her simple reasoning, the truth now revealed itself. To go on a pilgrimage was to enter a labyrinth in order to understand its mystery. The Centre was not in Jerusalem at all. It was here in York.

Nicholas Bracewell was her destination.

Excited by her discovery, she got to her feet and tripped down the aisle towards the Great West Door. It took her a long time to thread her way through the clogged streets with their happy fairtime atmosphere, but she eventually reached the inn and began the search for him. Nicholas had been given the luxury of a room of his own, albeit only a tiny attic space, and it was here that she cornered him an hour before the performance was due.

Her ardour was matched by his embarrassment. 'I must away, Mistress,' he said. 'Hear me but speak first, sir.'

'We play before our audience this afternoon.'

'I ask but two minutes of your time.'

'Very well, then. What would you say?'

Eleanor Budden turned her blue eyes upon him and let them talk for her. In their passion and yearning and holy urgency, he saw images that caused him severe discomfort. She was a beautiful and seductive presence but she was not for him. He carried Anne Hendrik in his heart and he did not turn aside for any other woman, particularly the estranged wife of a Nottingham lacemaker. Nicholas had great sympathy for her but it did not extend to what she so self-evidently had in mind.

'Let me come to you, Master,' she begged.

'It is not appropriate.'

'You are my saviour.'

'I am unworthy of that role.'

'Do but let me warm myself at your flame.'

'You mistake me, Mistress.'

'No, good sir. I worship you.'

It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself and he only did that by promising to have a further debate with her that evening. He went swiftly downstairs and tried to dismiss her from his mind. With the performance at hand, he would need all his concentration for that. As he passed a chamber that was shared by some of the hired men of the company, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and forget all about the threat posed by Mistress Eleanor Budden. Lines of strident verse came through the door. It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn in full flight as Richard the Lionheart, urging on his troops before their battle against Saladin, stiffening their resolve and making their blood surge.

Though he had heard the speech many times, Nicholas was still transported by it and by the devastating virtuosity with which it was delivered. When the door opened, however, it was not Firethorn who came out from the impromptu rehearsal of his lines.

It was Christopher Millfield.

York was a proud city with a mind of its own and it did not bestow its respect easily. More than one King of England had been turned away from its gates and the Earls of Northumberland, its hereditary overlords, had also met with indifference from time to time. A base for rebels during the Wars of the Roses, it had also been the focal point of the Pilgrimage of Grace, the uprising in 1536 which was directed largely against the dissolution of the monasteries and what were seen as the other dire results of the Reformation. The message of centuries was clear. York could not be taken for granted.

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

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

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

So in God's service we must find reward And satisfaction of our inward souls. There lies true gold, all else is but the dross; Onward, stout hearts, ye soldiers of the cross!

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

This was indeed Jerusalem.

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

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

'Welcome, Master Budden. You come too late, sir.'

'Has Eleanor gone?'

'I spoke of the performance.'

'Where is my wife?'

'Retired to her chamber.'

'Take me to her, Master Bracewell.'

'With all my heart, sir.'

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

'Come with me, Master Budden.'

'You'll bring me to my wife?'

'In time, sir. In time.'

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

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

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

'John Tallis!'

'Yes, Master?'

Bid Mistress Becket come unto my chamber. 'Yes, sir.'

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

John Tallis's lantern dropped open with a thud.

Are they to come together, sir?'

'The one first and the other an hour later.'

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

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

'Lawrence!'

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

'You betrayed me, sir!' she howled.

'That is not strictly true, my love...'

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

Firethorn recovered with commendable speed.

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

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

'Why did you not write to me, sir?'

'But I did so!' he lied. 'Every day.'

'No letters came to Shoreditch.'

'Belike they passed you on the way.'

'We have been in a parlous state, sir.'

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

'On horseback.'

'Surely, not alone?'

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

'Too generous!' muttered Firethorn under his breath.

'And did you really send me money?'

'Nick Bracewell will vouch for it!'

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

'Your coming could not have been more timely.'

'Indeed, sir? Why?'

'Because I have a gift for you?'

'Another ring that I may sell if times are hard?'

'Be not so cruel to me, Margery.'

'I want no gifts that are not wholly mine'

'Take this and see how your husband loves you.'

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

Can you see the inscription?'

'Where, sir?'

'At the bottom there.'

She read it: our with almost girlish breathlessness.

'Amor omnia vincit.'

'Love conquers all.'

Oh, Lawrence!'

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

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

Susan Becket backed out of the room in a daze.

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

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

'I have a message for you, Mistress.'

'From Master Bracewell, I hope?'

'The same.'

'Well, sir?'

'He bids you call upon him in his room.'

'Heaven has heard my cry!'

'He'll entertain you there.

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

She climbed the steps to Jerusalem.

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

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

Humphrey Budden was glad that he had come to York.

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

Edmund Hoode came hurrying across to join him.

'Have you heard the good tidings, Nick?'

'Of what?'

'Banbury's Men.'

'They played at the Three Swans today.'

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

'This news is wholesome indeed.'

'Soldiers of the Cross has put them in the shade.'

'And rightly so, Edmund.'

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

'Why did Banbury's Men fare so badly?'

'Because their play lacked quality.'

'There must have been another reason.'

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

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

As soon as he left his lodging, he knew that he was being trailed but he did not quicken his gait. That would have signalled his awareness of his shadow. Sauntering on through the streets of York, he turned down a dark lane at the same casual pace. When he reached the end, he went around the corner and stepped back into the first doorway. Pricking his ears, he could detect the stealthy approach of footsteps in his wake. He unsheathed his dagger and waited.

A stocky figure came around the corner and stood there in dismay when he saw that he had lost his quarry. He scratched his head and looked back down the lane from which he had just emerged. It was the last thing he would ever see. Someone came up silently behind him and put a hand over his mouth. Before he could move a muscle, his throat was cut with practised ease. The man collapsed to the ground in a pool of his own blood. His assailant stayed long enough to bend down and glance briefly at his victim. The Marmion coat of arms was on the dead man's sleeve. It was a timely warning.

Mark Scruton vanished quickly from the scene.

Oliver Quilley sat at the table in his room at the inn and examined the book that he had stolen from Marmion Hall. It was a missal, written in Latin and containing all the rites and ceremonies of the Roman Catholic Church. He was less interested in the contents than in the simple beauty of the volume, rubbing his hands covetously over the smooth leather and watching the silver clasp as it gleamed in the light of his candle. He opened the book to admire the artistry of its printing.

When he had enjoyed his prize long enough, he put it away in his pouch and took out a pack of large cards with bright pictures upon them. After shuffling them with some care, he began to deal them out in a prescribed sequence.

The last card on the table occasioned no surprise.

Oliver Quilley picked it up with a grim smile.

Mistress Susan Becket had a soft heart and it had been wounded by Firethorn's treatment of her. When she sought sympathy, she turned at once to Nicholas Bracewell who listened to her tale with patient understanding. Over a drink in the taproom, she poured out her woes and reached the point where her injuries could only be soothed by one balm. She leaned her head upon his shoulder.

'Take me to my chamber, sir.'

'You are not well, Mistress Becket?'

'Put me to bed and be my physician.'

'That is not possible,' said Nicholas evasively.

'Do not be misled by any false loyalty to Master Firethorn,' she purred. 'He has rejected me and I am free to choose whomsoever I wish.'

She turned her face to smile up to him and her head slipped off his shoulder. He steadied her and looked around. Salvation was standing on the other side of the taproom with obese readiness. Nicholas waved.

'Landlord!'

'Yes, sir?' Lambert Pym came waddling over.

'Mistress Becket needs help to reach her chamber.'

'I'll take her there myself,' he said with alacrity. 'Lean on me, Mistress. We'll climb the steps together.'

She accepted the offer and took his podgy arm.

'Why, what strong muscles you have, Master Pym!'

'From a lifetime of shifting barrels.'

'I understand it well,' she said as she was helped up out of the settle. 'I have done my share of such labour. We are two of a kind, sir.'

'I knew it as soon as I beheld you.'

Lambert Pym's heavy-handed gallantry was exactly what she needed and Nicholas was content. For the second time that night, he had guided an ardent woman into the arms of another man. Susan Becket leaned affectionately on the landlord as they ascended the stairs together. She would soon forget all about the indignity she suffered earlier. Like was calling to like. Both physically and spiritually, she had met her match in Lambert Pym.

'That was craftily done, Nick.'

'The lady is not for me.

'I saw the reason why in Nottingham. Mistress Anne Hendrik is indeed a handsome woman and worthy of your steadfast behaviour.'

Christopher Millfield had watched it all from his table and come across to join his friend. Nicholas was pleased to have a moment alone with him. Since his meeting with Mark Scruton, he saw how groundless his earlier suspicions of Millfield had been. It was not the latter who had murdered Gabriel Hawkes at all. Remorse made Nicholas feel more warmth for his companion.

The actor was in a teasing mood. 'Which would be the greater ordeal?' he said.

'Ordeal?'

'Mistress Budden or Mistress Becket?'

'I have no curiosity in the matter.'

'One would crucify you and the other crush you.'

'Each has a more fit bedfellow.'

'I never took you for such a coward.'

They laughed together then Nicholas broached a subject he had been keeping to himself for some time. 'Do you know anything of the Tarot?' he said.

'Only that the cards are used as a method of divination. I have seen a pack once but that is all. Why do you ask?'

'I am wondering about Master Quilley.'

'A curious fellow in every particular.'

'According to Mistress Budden, he had a pack of cards with coloured pictures upon them. Could they not be the trump cards of the Tarot?'

'I cannot say, Nick.'

'Does he use them to foretell the future?'

One of the serving wenches came into the taproom and giggled when she saw Millfield. He acknowledged her with a friendly wave then shrugged an apology to Nicholas. 'I have some business to attend to, I fear.'

'One thing before you go,' said the other. 'Mistress Budden levelled an accusation against you.'

'Of what?'

'Atheism.'

Christopher Millfield let out a peel of laughter.

'The woman is absurd!' he said in mocking tones. 'If I were truly an atheist, I would have been arrested long ago. Yet I am still at liberty, as you see.' He went off towards the girl. 'Ask Mistress Budden to explain that.'

Nicholas waited until the couple left the room then he finished his drink. He was mystified. Something in the others voice had alerted him to a danger but he had no idea what it was. After brooding on it for a while, he gave up and surrendered to a yawn. It was very late and he was tired. Finding himself alone in the taproom, he got up and made his way into the yard in search of a bed for the night. The Whitsuntide fair had filled all the loose boxes with horses but there was promise of some comfort in the hayloft. He climbed the ladder and dropped down on a soft and sweet-smelling bed. Before he could even slip off his shoes, he was asleep.

An hour passed then a noise brought him instantly awake. It was no more than a creak of a door but it took him to the open window. Down below in the yard, creeping silently towards the main gate, was a figure who was already known for his nocturnal wanderings. It was Christopher Millfield and he moved with purpose.

Something prompted Nicholas to follow him. He went swiftly down the ladder and out of the stables. Keeping low and well back, he trailed the other out into the street and over Ouse Bridge. His mind was a turmoil of speculation. Had he been too ready to accept Millfield's friendship? Could the man yet have some sinister intent? The night before the performance at Pomeroy Manor, the actor had gone for his first midnight jaunt. Not long after the performance by Westfield's Men, their host was arrested. Nicholas recalled the list he had found in Quilley's saddlebag. It was Millfield who knew that the names were all those of Roman Catholics.

As his mind raced on, his feet took him on a tortuous route through the streets of York. His quarry seemed to know exactly where he was going. They went up Blake Street and on into Lop Lane before Millfield stopped to knock gently on the door of a small, gabled house. He was admitted within seconds and candlelight soon lit the chamber above. The window was ajar and Nicholas could hear the faint murmur of voices. Whatever conspiracy was going on might be uncovered if he could only get a little closer.

Nicholas looked back to the corner of the street and saw an overhanging gable that was low enough to touch. He went straight back to it. Taking a firm grip, he hauled himself up and started to ascend the wall until he gained the roof. It did not take him long to work his way from house to house until he came to the window he sought. The voices were still too subdued but there was a chink in the curtain as he lowered himself down.

Embarrassment seized him as he peeped in. Here was no conspiracy of any political hue. Christopher Millfield was lying naked on the bed, kissing the young man in his arms with a passion that was its own explanation. Other factors fell into place. Nicholas recalled a flirtatious manner with women that evidently went no further and the interest shown in the actor by Barnaby Gill. He also remembered the speech he had overheard at the inn. It was not just Millfield's vanity that drove him on to learn the leading part in the play. Richard the Lionheart was a hero with whom he had some affinities. Though the world knew and admired him for his military feats, England's most popular monarch was not without flaw. Rumours about his male lovers were too numerous and too detailed to be wholly untrue.

Nicholas swung down from the gable and dropped to the ground. Unnatural vice was a crime which bore a severe penalty, but he would never have enforced it. He felt slightly disappointed in Millfield but bore him no ill will. The man was entitled to his private pleasures, especially as he was so discreet about them. Nicholas had made an unwarranted intrusion. Chastened and not a little annoyed with himself, he trotted back in the direction of the inn. He needed sleep against the exertions of the morrow and should not be wasting his time in futile eavesdropping on a friend. As he went back over the bridge, he cursed himself for being so misled.

It was then that he spotted the body.

Caught in the moonlight, it was floating face down in the river shallows. He ran to the bank and waded into the water to take hold of the sodden corpse. As soon as he felt the weight of the small body and the quality of the doublet, he knew who the man was.

Master Oliver Quilley.

Nicholas dragged him to the bank and rolled him over on his back. Sightless eyes stared up at him. The handle of a dagger stuck obscenely out of his throat. A deathly pallor was already creeping over the face. But it was the man's right hand which caught the attention. It was wrapped around something as if trying to protect it at all costs. Nicholas had difficulty in prising the fingers apart and taking out the oval of vellum that was to have borne the portrait of Sir Clarence Marmion. Smudged lines could just be made out in the gloom. When Nicholas turned it over, however, lie got the real shock.

Quilley had glued the vellum to a picture cut from a Tarot card. It showed a man who dangled from a rope that was tied to his foot. Nicholas recognized the image. It was the Hanged Man. Sometimes the card was called by another name.

The Traitor.

(*)Chapter Eleven

Banbury's Men shuffled about disconsolately in the yard of the Three Swans and loaded up their waggon. After their disgrace the previous afternoon, they were quitting York for good. They had failed abysmally and would be given no further chance to vindicate their reputation. A dignified withdrawal was their only option and Giles Randolph had taken it. As he led his horse out of the stables, he was still seething with anger against the man who had let them down. Having helped to put them firmly in the ascendant, Scruton had brought them crashing down. There would be no position for him as a sharer with the company. Banbury's Men would manage without him from now on. Their future lay in improving their performances of their own plays.

Randolph surveyed his ragged band of players. 'Are we all ready, sirs?'

'Aye,' came the dispirited reply. 'Then let us ride out of this unholy city.'

He mounted his horse and rode towards the main gate. As he was about to go through it, the stately figure of an old man walked in. He wore an elegant black doublet with matching breeches and had a feathered hat swept down to hide half his face. The neat grey beard suggested age and distinction. He carried a cane and lifted it when he saw the horse bearing down on him.

Randolph reined in his mount to let the man pass. :

'Good day to you, sir,' he said politely.

'Good day,' said the other. 'Where do you travel?'

'Anywhere to get away from this place.'

'Has York been so unwelcoming to you?'

'A foul prison!'

Giles Randolph urged his horse on and the procession Went out through the gate. The old man waved them off as they passed but they paid little attention to him. He gave a wry smile and congratulated himself on the cunning of his disguise. If his fellow-actors did not recognize him, then he was safe horn discovery.

Mark Scruton went off into the taproom.

Humphrey Budden and his wife rose early and went straight to York Minster to attend Matins. While still on their knees, they pledged themselves to each other once more and held hands as an act of commitment. Eleanor was a changed woman. The night with her husband had been a revelation. An ineluctable urge brought her to York in the service of God but it had somehow fastened her on to the book holder of Westfield's Men. Whatever the origin of that intense and powerful feeling, it had left her. Jerusalem was no longer a distant target for a pilgrimage. She found it in the arms of her husband and longed for nothing more than to be back with her children in Nottingham.

'Master Bracewell!'

'Good morrow, Mistress Budden. And to you, sir.'

'We wish to thank you most sincerely,' said the husband, clasping him by the hand. 'We will never be able to repay you for your kindness.'

'Your happiness is payment enough, sir.'