The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

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

  It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.

  Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band,

  Restoring peace unto our bloodied land.

  Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away.

  Honour rules upon this glorious day.

  Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send,

  Freedom’s banner flutters at the end.

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

  Their host showered them with fresh thanks.

  ‘You do not know what joy you have brought.’

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

  ‘You will find it for sure, sir.’

  ‘Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.’

  ‘Go further north towards certain victory.’

  ‘That is our intention.’

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

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

  ‘Marmion Hall.’

  ‘In what town?’

  ‘Close by the city of York.’

  Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.

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

  ‘What might that be?’

  ‘Jerusalem!’

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

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

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

  ‘Has he said no more?’

  ‘Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Have you tested him to the full?’

  ‘With steel and fire. He’s bled half to death.’

  ‘Would not whipping loosen his tongue?’

  ‘Only to let him beg for mercy.’

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

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

  ‘Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!’

  A long moan came from between parched lips.

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

  The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.

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

  ‘I cannot cut the information out of him.’

  ‘His name!’

  As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove. He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.

  ‘What now, Sir Clarence?’ asked the servant.

  ‘Kill him.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘How now, Master Digby!’ she said.

  ‘Mistress!’

  ‘Have you no other work but this, sir?’

  ‘None that pays me.’

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

  ‘What means this commotion?’ she said.

  ‘Have you not heard?’

  ‘No, Master Digby.’

  ‘One of the heads has vanished from its spike.’

  ‘There’s grisly work indeed!’

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

  ‘Whose head was taken down?’ she asked.

  ‘That of a traitor freshly executed.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Anthony Rickwood.’

  Chapter Five

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

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

  ‘Use the whip, man!’

  ‘It is no use!’

  ‘Drive them on, drive them on!’

  ‘We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.’

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

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

  Barnaby Gill was quick to apportion blame.

  ‘This is your doing, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘I could not drive around the hole, sir.’

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

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

  ‘That would be better than this calamity.’

  ‘Do something, Nick!’ ordered Firethorn.

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘And with all speed.’

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

  ‘The parishioners should be indicted!’

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

  ‘I’ll have them at assizes and quarter sessions.’

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

  ‘Do not mock me, Edmund.’

  ‘Then do not set yourself up for mockery, Lawrence.’

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

  ‘How could they repair the roads, thus bound?’

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

  Richard Honeydew was bubbling with questions.

  ‘Have you been to the town before, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Once or twice, lad.’

  ‘What sort of place is it?’

  ‘There are two things of note, Dick.’

  ‘What might they be?’

  ‘A bowling green and a gallows.’

  ‘Shall we see a hanged man, sir?’

  ‘Several, if Master Firethorn has his way.’

  ‘And will they let us play there?’

  ‘I am certain of it.’

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

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

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

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

  ‘We have to find him first,’ reminded Nicholas.

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

  Gill could not resist a thrust at his pride.

  ‘That fellow spoke well of Master Randolph.’

  ‘A polecat in human form!’

  ‘Yet he carried the day with his Pompey.’

  ‘My Pompey! My, my, my Pompey!’

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

  Nicholas had sympathy with the author. His work was protected by no laws. Once he had been paid five pounds for its delivery, the work went out of his hands and into the repertoire of Westfield’s Men. He had little influence over its staging and even less over its casting. The one consolation was that he had written a cameo role for himself as an ambitious young tribune.

  ‘Who played Sicinius?’ he mused.

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

  ‘How have Banbury’s Men done it?’ asked Gill.

  ‘I have the way,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Well, sir.’

  ‘They have enlisted our players against us.’

  ‘Monstrous!’ exclaimed Firethorn.

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

  ‘Who are these rogues, Nick?’ said Hoode.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ added Gill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Nottingham, sirs! We’ll give ’em Robin Hood!’

  It was all decided.

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

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

  Humphrey Budden was waiting outside for her. ‘Well?’

  ‘My examination is over,’ she said.

  ‘What passed between you?’

  ‘Much talk of the Bible.’

  ‘Did the Dean instruct you in your duty?’

  ‘God has already done that, sir.’

  ‘He made no headway?’ said Budden in disbelief.

  ‘He came to accept my decision.’

  ‘Madness, more like!’

  ‘Do you find your wife mad, Humphrey?’

  ‘In this frame of mind.’

  ‘Then must you truly despise me.’

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

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