Like a true man of the theatre, Lawrence Firethorn could not resist the opportunity to deliver a speech in front of a captive audience. Westfield's Men were summoned to the Queen's Head that morning. Since the inn was their London home, it was also the most appropriate point of departure. The company gathered in the room that was used as the tiring-house during performance. A great adventure was now in the offing.
They were all there, including Barnaby Gill, Rowland Carr, Simon Dowsett, Walter Fenby, the beaming George Dart and Richard Honeydew with the other boy apprentices. Edmund
Hoode sat pale and wan in the window. Christopher Millfield lounged in cavalier fashion against a beam. Nicholas Bracewell stood at the back so that he was out of range of the full blast of Firethorn's lecture and well-placed to gauge its effect on individual members of the company.
Also in the room, like a spectre at the feast, was the hollow-cheeked Alexander Marwood, the luckless landlord of the Queen's Head. Short, skinny and losing his hair by the week, Marwood had an uneasy relationship with Westfield's Men and only ever renewed their contract as an essay in self-torture. With no love for drama itself, he found the regular invasion by plays and players an ordeal that kept his nervous twitch in full employment. Westfield's Men brought danger to his property, to his reputation, to his serving wenches and to his sanity. He was better off without them. Yet now that they were going, now that they were quitting his hostelry for the open road, now that his yard would no longer be packed with thirsty patrons on most afternoons, now that he envisaged empty spaces and unsold beer and falling profits, he came round to the idea that they were the foundation of his livelihood.
'Do not leave me,' he said wistfully.
'We will return, Master Marwood,' promised Nicholas.
'The company will be much missed.'
'We do not leave of our own accord.'
'This plague is a curse upon us!'
'It may yet bestow some blessings.'
One of them was to shake off the gloomy landlord and escape his endless litany of complaints. Nicholas had been quick to spot that compensation. As the person who dealt most often with Alexander Marwood, he bore the brunt of the other's sustained melancholy. It was just one of the duties that Firethorn had cunningly assigned to him.
The actor-manager now got to his feet and raised up a hand. Silence fell. He held it for a full minute.
'Gentlemen,' he began, 'this is an auspicious moment in the history of our company. After conquering London and having the whole city at our feet, we will now make a triumphal tour of the kingdom to distribute our bounty more widely. Westfield's Men have a sacred mission.'
'What about me?' wailed Marwood.
'You have a mission of your own, dear sir.'
'Name it.'
'To sell bad beer at good prices.'
There was general laughter in the room. Now that they were leaving the inn, they could afford to ridicule its mean-spirited landlord. He was not a popular man. Apart from the buoyant hostility he displayed towards the players, he had another besetting sin. He guarded the chastity of his nubile daughter far too assiduously.
'Our departure from here is not without regret,' said Firethorn. 'We have been welcome guests at the Queen's Head this long time and our thanks must go to Master Marwood there for his unstinting hospitality.'
Muted laughter. They would be back one day.
'It is only when we leave something behind that we come to recognize its true value. And so it is with this fine theatre of ours.' Firethorn described the inn with a sweep of his hand. 'We shall miss it for its warmth, its magic and its several memories. By the same token, Master Marwood, I trust that you will miss Westfield's Men and hear the ghostly echoes of our work here whenever you cross the yard outside.'
Lawrence Firethorn was achieving the impossible. He was all but coaxing a tear from the landlord's eye. It was now time to put heart into his company.
'Gentlemen,' he continued, 'when we quit London, we do so as ambassadors. We take our art along the highways and byways of England, and we do so under the banner of Lord Westfield. His name is our badge of honour and we must do nothing to besmirch it.' Firethorn pointed at an invisible map in front of him. 'We ride north, sirs. We visit many towns along the way but our real destination is York. We have special business there in the name of our patron. York beckons.'
'Then let us go,' said Gill impatiently.
'Not in that mood of resignation, Barnaby.'
'My smile is not at home today.'
'It is spirit that I talk about, man. We must not set out as a band of stragglers with no firm purpose. It is there if only we will see it. This tour is a pilgrimage. We are palmers bearing our gifts towards the Holy Land. Think of York by another name mid it will raise your minds to our higher calling. I spoke of the Holy Land. York is our Jerusalem.'
George Dart was so transported by the speech that he clapped in appreciation. Barnaby Gill yawned, Edmund Hoode gazed out of the window and Christopher Millfield had to suppress a grin but the majority of the company were enthused by what they had heard. All of them had grave misgivings about the tour. It was a journey into the unknown that could be fraught with perils yet Firethorn had made it sound quite inspiring. Stirred by his words and needing the balm of an illusion, they tried to view their progress to York in a new light.
As a trip to Jerusalem.
Sweet sorrow flooded the inn yard at the Queen's Head. When the company came out to begin the first stage of their travels, they were met by moist faces and yearning sighs. Some of the players were married, others had mistresses, most had made themselves known among the impressionable maidenry of Cheapside. Sweethearts were embraced, tokens exchanged, promises made and kisses scattered with wild prodigality. Barnaby Gill turned his back on it all in disgust but George Dart watched with a mixture of envy and regret. No sweetheart came to send him off, no lover hung about his neck. It was so unfair. Christopher Millfield was flirting and laughing with five young women, each one of them patently infatuated with him. George Dart might not have the same height or elegance or stunning good looks but he was personable enough in his own way. Why were the five of them entranced by the swaggering assurance of the actor?
Could not one of them be spared for him?
Nicholas Bracewell stood apart from the general throng with Anne Hendrik. Theirs was a more composed and formal parting, the real leavetaking having occurred in the privacy of her bedchamber during the night. She had come simply to wave him off before setting out on her own journey. Nicholas was touched. I had nor expected this, Anne.'
'Do I shame you before your fellows?'
'Every one of them will be jealous.'
'You flatter me, Nicholas. There are younger and prettier ladies here, today.'
'I have not seen any.'
She touched his sleeve in gratitude. The gesture was eloquent. Nicholas was not a demonstrative man and he shunned the public display of affection, reserving his emotional commitment for more intimate moments. Anne respected that. She had just wanted to see him once more before their paths diverged.
'When will you leave?' he asked.
'At noon.'
'Take all proper care.'
'Do not be anxious for me.'
'Who minds things here in London?'
'Preben van Loew.'
'An excellent fellow.'
'He was Jacob's right hand. Business will thrive under Preben, I have no doubt. It takes all hesitation out of my own departure.'
Lawrence Firethorn reminded them of their purpose.
'We have a mission, gentlemen. About it straight!'
There was a last flurry of kisses and farewells then the players obeyed his command. Only three of the company had horses. Dressed in a superb doublet of red, figured velvet with matching breeches, and wearing a plumed hat of tasteful extravagance, Lawrence Firethorn sat astride a chestnut stallion. He wanted people to see him coming. Barnaby Gill, also attired for show, rode a bay mare. Edmund Hoode
, mounted on a dappled grey, wore the more practical apparel for a traveller on dusty roads. The company's luggage was stacked into a large waggon that was drawn by two massive horses. Nicholas was to drive the waggon with the other sharers and the apprentices on board. The rest of the company was to follow on foot.
Firethorn removed his hat for a final wave.
'Adieu, sweet ladies! Wish us well!'
As the torrent of cries began, he urged his horse forward and led the small procession out through the main gate. Gracechurch Street was its usual whirlpool of activity on market day and they had to pick their way through the ranks of stalls and the surging throng. A few cheers went up from those who knew their faces and valued their work but, for the vast majority, buying, selling and haggling vigorously, the price of eggs was or more import.
The crush thinned as Gracechurch Street merged into Bishopsgate Street and they were able to move more freely. Ahead of them was one of the main exits from the city and they approached it in a welter of mixed emotions. Firethorn had spoken of a pilgrimage but nobody could really guess what lay beyond those walls. The last sight which greeted them within the city itself was less than comforting.
High above Bishopsgate itself was a series of large spikes. Stuck on to them were the decomposing heads of traitors, bleached by the sun and pecked by the birds. One in particular caught their attention. It was the head of a nobleman which was battered out of shape and which had already lost an eye to some predatory beak. Walking along behind the waggon, George Dart looked up in horror and nudged Christopher Mill field.
'Do you see there, sir?'
'An example to us all, George.'
'What manner of man would he be?'
'That is Anthony Rickwood. Late of Sussex.'
'You know him, then?'
He was executed at Tyburn but two days ago.'
Dart noticed something that made his hair stand on end. The single eye in the deformed and blood-stained face was glaring down with an anger that was frightening. It was trying to focus its evil intent on one person.
'Master Millfield...'
'Yes, George?'
'I believe he is looking at you.'
Humphrey Budden was in a fever of apprehension. He hardly dared to leave his wife's side in case she was seized by another fir. Neighbours had been scandalized by the sounds which had issued from her bedchamber and all kinds of wild rumours were now flying around Nottingham like so many bats flapping about in a belfry. It was distressing to someone in Budden's position and he had turned once more for advice from Miles Melhuish. Racked by his own ambiguous role in the domestic tragedy, the vicar urged daily resort to prayer for man and wife. He also came up with another suggestion for the suffering husband.
'Let us walk down by the river, Eleanor.'
'If you wish it, sir.'
'This was our favourite place not so long ago,' he reminded her. 'Have you so soon forgot?'
'Indeed, no.'
'You'll come with me, then?'
'I'll obey my husband.'
'This way...'
Eleanor was no longer the woman he had married. The comely young widow with such a light heart had turned into a serious introvert with her mind on higher things. That unexplained horror in the bedchamber had robbed him of his chief delight. Eleanor had recovered from her coma with no memory of what had happened. Her naked assault on the praying Miles Melhuish was unknown to her. All was lost. Gone was her warmth, her laughter and vivacity. She was subdued and preoccupied now. Humphrey Budden had been sleeping in a cold bed for nights.
He put his trust in God's bright sunlight.
'Sit down here, Eleanor.'
'Why, sir?'
'Because I wish to speak with you.'
'This grass will suit, I think.'
She lowered herself down on to the green turf and spread her dress around her. Budden was moved. For a second, he saw the woman he had loved, courted and won for his own. Happiness came flooding back. They had returned to the spot where it had all started. Water rippled only yards away from them as the River Trent snaked its way through verdant banks. Old magic might yet be rekindled if he was patient. He sank down beside her and took her hand in his.
'Eleanor...'
'Sir?'
'Be my wife.'
'I am such.'
'Be my wife in more than name.'
'You speak in riddles.'
He slipped a hand clumsily around her waist. His mouth went dry as he asked it for help. He was painfully aware of his blundering inexperience. Eleanor had been twice married and twice widowed before she met him. He had been well past thirty before he even dared to think of taking a wife. There was a gap between them. It had been bridged on their wedding night and for several joyous months to follow, but it had now opened up again and widened into a chasm.
He cudgelled his voice into action again. ;
"When we first met...'
'Yes, Humphrey?'
'We talked of children.'
'I had five but lost dear Harry in childbirth.'
'You wanted more. My children, Eleanor.' I do recall it, sir.'
Our children, dear wife, and the fruit of our union.' He ran his tongue across his lips. 'The vicar is of the same opinion in this matter. By God's grace, a new baby will bring you back to me as I loved you best. He was troubled by prickly heat. 'Be my wife again, Eleanor. Pay the due of marriage once more.'
She gazed down the long reaches of the river and watched a kingfisher skim and dive. When she spoke, her voice was dull but her words hail awesome clarity.
'I will not share your bed again. Husband you have been, and as loyal a man as any woman could wish, but I have other work in other places. He has called me, sir. He has given me clear direction.'
'Who has?'
'Who else would I listen to but God?'
'Clear direction, you say?'
I must go on a long journey.'
'Why?'
Because it is ordained.'
May I make this journey with you, Eleanor?'
No, sir. I go alone.'
'Where?'
'To the Holy land.'
But that cannot be, wife.'
He guides my steps. It must be.'
The Holy Land!' exclaimed Budden.
'Be not amazed, sir. I have been summoned.'
'For what reason?'
'I will know when I arrive there. In Jerusalem.'
(*)Chapter Three
Westfield's Men left the pulsing world of London for the calmer pastures of Middlesex. Pangs of regret troubled them immediately.' Once outside the city gates, they headed due north for Shoreditch where they passed the Curtain and then the Theatre, two custom-built playhouses in which they had given memorable performances on a number of occasions. Constructed outside the city boundary in order to escape the jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor and his Council, the two theatres were busy, boisterous, bustling centres of entertainment and hordes flocked to them. There would be no such havens for Westfield's Men on their travels.! he sophisticated facilities of a real playhouse would give way to the exigencies of an inn yard or the limitations of a room in a private house. In purely artistic terms, touring was no pilgrimage.
It was a sudden fall from grace.
They journeyed along the Great North Road, one of the four major highways in the kingdom. It took them past Islington Ponds, where they saw men shooting wild ducks for sport, then struck out into open country. Farms were dotted about on all sides, part of the huge agricultural belt that encircled London with green acres and which produced its wheat, hay, fruit and vegetables or fattened up cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks and geese for sale in the markets of the capital. Urban squalor had been left behind now. The air was cleaner, the sky brighter, the hues more vivid and the vistas seemingly endless. Lungs and noses which had become accustomed to the reek of a plague city could breathe salvation.
Nicholas Bracewell kept the two carthorses plodding along at a steady gait and drank in the
sights and sounds of the countryside. Sitting alongside him was Richard Honeydew, the youngest, smallest and most talented of the apprentices. The boy had long since learned that the book holder was not only his staunchest friend in the company but an inexhaustible fund of information.
'Master Bracewell...'
'Yes, lad?'
'I have never been outside London before.'
'Then you will gain much from the experience, Dick.'
'Will there be great dangers ahead?'
'Do not think upon such matters.'
'The other boys talk of thieves and highwaymen.'
'They are but teasing you, lad.'
'Martin says gypsies may carry me off
'He mocks your innocence.'
'Shall we face no perils at all?'
'None that should fright you too much, Dick.'
'Then why do you carry swords?'
All the men were armed and most had daggers at their belts as well as rapiers at their sides. It was a very necessary precaution for any travellers. Outlaws, rogues and vagabonds lurked along the roads in search of prey. Nicholas did not want to alarm the boy by telling him this and instead assured him that the very size and strength of the company would deter any possible attack. Richard Honeydew would be as safe in the countryside as he would be when he slept in his bed at the house in Shoreditch under the formidable but affectionate guard of Margery Firethorn. The boy relaxed visibly.
Short, thin and with the bloom of youth upon his delicate features, Richard Honeydew had been carefully shaped by Nature to take on female roles. His boyish charms became even more alluring when he changed his sex and his unforced prettiness translated readily into the beauty of a young woman. A mop of blond hair that was usually hidden beneath a wig now sprouted out from under his cap. Because the boy was so unaware of his several attractions, they became even more potent.
'Would you like to ride on a horse, Dick?'
'Oh, yes, Master Gill.'
'Hop up behind me, then.'
'Will it be safe, sir?'
'If you hold on tight to my waist,'
Barnaby Gill had brought his horse alongside the waggon and was now offering a gloved hand to the boy. Nicholas intervened swiftly.
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