The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  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 far 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 master’s 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 wh
ite 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 recognised 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 do
or. 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 far 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.