The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3

by Edward Marston

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

  'Do you so?' said Gill testily.

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

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

  None so apt as Dick Honeydew.'

  'Come, let me teach him other lessons.'

  He is not for school today, Master Gill.'

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

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

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

  'Why did Master Gill anger so?'

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

  Master Hoode will oblige you at any time.

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

  Richard Honeydew sought more education.

  Did you see that head, Master Bracewell?'

  'Head?'

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

  'I marked it, lad.'

  'The sight made me feel sick.'

  'That was partly the intention.'

  'Can any man deserve such a fate?'

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

  'Who was the man?'

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

  'How was the conspiracy uncovered?'

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

  'What of the other conspirators?'

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

  'Will he so do?'

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

  'You seem to know much about him.'

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

  'Was he?'

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

  'Why?'

  'Because they had a darker purpose.'

  'What was that, Master?'

  'Piracy.'

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

  'Sir Francis Drake a pirate!' he exclaimed.

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

  'But piracy is a terrible crime.'

  "There is a way around that problem.'

  'Is there?'

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

  'Letters of marque?'

  'They turned us from pirates into privateers.'

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

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

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

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

  'She is the symbol of our Protestant country.'

  'Is it such a crime to follow Rome?'

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

  'So am I,' said the boy.

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

  'In every possible way'

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

  Richard Honeydew thought about the head upon the spike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'Good day to you, Sir Clarence!'

  'And to you, sir.'

  'Welcome to Jerusalem.'

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

  'Your room is all ready, Sir Clarence.'

  'I will repair to it in a moment.'

  'Ring the bell if you should need service.

  'We must not be disturbed on any account.'

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

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

  Sir Clarence looked down at him with disdain.

  'I have received news from London.'

  'Indeed, Sir Clarence?'

  'A company of players is heading this way.'

  'We have actors aplenty in York this summer.'

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

  'As you wish, Sir Clarence.'

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

  'Your hospitality does you credit.'

  'They will perform one play in your yard.

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

  'Their second appearance will be at Marmion Hall."

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

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

  'None will offer the welcome of Jerusalem.'

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

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

  'Your guest is within, Sir Clarence.'

  'I hoped for no less.'

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

  'So is everything here.'

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

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

  'As we feared?'

  'Worse, much worse.'

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

  'Saints preserve us!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Tom Hawthornden was known for His bluntness.

  'You may not play here, sir.'

  'But we are Westfield's Men.'

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

  'By whom, Master Hawthornden?'

  'Such another troupe as yours.'

  'When was this?'

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

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

  'Your rivals were so entitled as well.'

  'Do but judge our work against theirs.'

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

  Nicholas stopped him as he tried to walk away.

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

  'Too late, sir. Far too late.'

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

  'What did you c
all the play?'

  'Cupid's Folly.'

  'Then is your journey really in vain.'

  'How so?'

  'We have seen this country tale, sir.'

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

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

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

  Tom Hawthornden resorted to a rude dismissal.

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

  Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.

  'What was the name of this other company?'

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

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

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