Sir Clarence raised the child up to plant a kiss on its forehead and almost got a box on the ear for his temerity. With a soft half-smile, he handed his first grandchild back to his daughter-in-law then led the way across to the most recent of the portraits on display. It was a painting of his father, hanging above them with a look of stern purpose and showing all the qualities of character associated with dynasty. It was a source of the utmost regret that he was no longer alive to share in family celebrations.
'Give us your blessing, Father,' said Sir Clarence.
Then he reached forward and felt behind the lower edge of the frame. There was a click and a small door opened in the panelling on oiled hinges. A narrow passage was revealed. Stone steps led downwards. .
Sir Clarence indicated his tiny grandson.
'Let him lead the way.'
Carried by his mother, the child went through the entrance and down the steps. Candles provided light all the way. The rest of the family followed with the head of the house bringing up the rear. As he stepped through the door, Sir Clarence pulled it shut and it clicked tight behind him. The odour of frankincense drifted up towards him. He was drawn down the staircase and along a dank subterranean passage until he came to the room in which all the others had now gathered.
It was a chapel. Sir Clarence had commissioned die building of it and the place never ceased to give him comfort and joy. Small, cold and necessarily secret though it might be, it was as inspiring as York Minster to him and he let its wonder work on him once more. The others took up their places in the pews, then they knelt to pay homage to their maker. Sir Clarence joined them, kneeling between his wife and his grandson, crossing himself as lie did so.
The altar was ablaze with candles. Standing on its centre was a large gold crucifix that reflected the fierce light and glowed as if on fire. As the little congregation looked up, their eyes were transfixed by the sight. A steel door opened beside the altar and a figure entered in the vestments of a Catholic priest. Everyone stood up at once to show their respect. The priest moved quietly into position beside the stone font and glanced benignly at the child. From his calm and assured manner, nobody would guess that the man was about to commit a heinous crime.
Robert Rawlins began the service of baptism.
'Truly, you do him wrong to put such sayings upon him.'
'I must obey the word of God.'
'But it was God who joined you in holy matrimony.'
'He has other work for me now, sir.'
'Your husband is wounded most grievously.'
'We must all suffer in the service of the Lord.'
Miles Melhuish shook his head in frustration. He was standing in the vestry beside Eleanor Budden, deeming it wise to remain on his feet so that he had the option of flight in the event of some emergency. He could not be too careful. The woman was quiescent now but he had not forgotten the overwhelming passion of which she was capable and he was anxious not to touch it off while they were alone together on consecrated ground.
He moved behind the chair on which she sat.
'I will put a question to you, Mistress.'
'I listen in all humility.'
'You tell me that you have been chaste since the voice of God whispered in your ear.'
'That is so, sir.'
'Then here is my question...'
Melhuish groped for the words. It was not a matter he had ever raised with a woman before and it tested his resolve. When he spoke with other female parishioners in the privacy of his vestry, it was usually to scold them for not attending church or to advise them on the proper Christian upbringing of their children. Duty was now compelling him to climb into bed with a married couple and effect their union. It was a foreign country to him and he did not know the language.
'Here is my question, Eleanor,' he said nervously. 'If there came a man with a sword who would strike off your husband's head if you did not take that worthy fellow back into your bed, tell me, in all conscience, for you say you will not lie, what would you do?'
'I will answer you true, sir.'
'Would you let Humphrey Budden commit the act of love with you--or have his head cut off?'
'I would rather see him being killed.'
'That is cruelty itself, woman!'
'I cannot help it, sir,' said Eleanor calmly. 'We must turn our back on all uncleanness.'
'God has ordained love between man and wife.'
'I have submitted to His purpose three times.'
'Is that all?' said the vicar in surprise. 'Yet Humphrey spoke of daily indulgence.'
'I mean that I have shared my bed with three husbands, sir. They did not find me wanting in love.'
'Until now, sister.'
'Times have changed.'
Miles Melhuish was losing control. The aim of his examination was to put sufficient pressure on Eleanor Budden to make her see the error of her ways but she was blithely unconcerned when he chastised her. What she always came back to was the word of God and it was on that subject that he must confound her. Countless years of unremitting prayer had given him his own privileged access to divine command and he felt that he knew the timbre of the
Lord's voice more intimately than any lacemaker's wife, however much she might protest her devotion. 'When did God first talk with you?" he said.
'This se'n night since.'
'And where were you at this time?'
'Buying fish at the market, sir.'
Miles Melhuish started. 'The Lord spoke to you amid the smell of mackerel?'
'I heard Him as clear as day.'
'And what words did He use in that marketplace?'
'He said: "Put aside your husband and follow me." God called me by name and I obeyed Him straight.'
'What did you then do?'
'Return to my house and go up to the bedchamber. We have a crucifix on the wall so that Jesus may watch over us. I then proclaimed my mission.'
'How was that done, good lady?'
'That is the wonder of it,' she said with a shrug of her shoulders that made her breasts bob invitingly. 'I do not know what befell me next. But when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor and you were standing over me with my husband and all was blissful peace.'
'Yon recall nothing of a great noise you made?'
'Noise, sir?'
A most dolorous cry came from you.'
I was weeping for the death of Christ in torment. Miles Melhuish threw caution to the winds and sat opposite her. Wayward housewives had always responded to astern reproof before. It was time to stop encouraging the woman in her fancy and to put her firmly back on the straight and narrow path of wifely duty. He knitted his brows and reached for his homiletic strain.
Cast out these false notions!' he warned. If you would serve
God then do so by showing proper respect for one of His ministers.
It is within the four walls of this parish church that you will hear
His true voice and not at the fish stall in Nottingham market.'
She looked duly crushed and it spurred him on. 'Go back to
Humphrey Budden. He is a good husband and deserves better from his chosen companion in life. Let me hear no more about this chastity in your bedchamber. Cleave to your spouse. Give him the children he desires. Add some little parishioners to our congregation at St Stephen's. That only is your bounden duty and purpose here upon this earth.'
He had won. Eleanor Budden sat with bowed head and hunched shoulders, meek, mild and submitting to his firm instruction. It was a small victory for him and it gave him a flabby self-importance. He sat up straight in his chair to project his full ecclesiastical authority.
And all the while, she was in abject surrender.
Then she began to laugh. It began as a snigger, half-suppressed with the back of her hand. Then it became a giggle, almost girlish in its flippancy, increasing in volume every second until it was a full-throated laugh that set her whole body shaking, then it became a roar of mirth that made the vestry re
verberate with sound, and, finally and inexplicably, it was a strange and uncontrollable cachinnation that built up into a crescendo and stopped dead.
Eyes that had sparkled with humour now ran with tears of remorse. Hands that had flapped about wildly now closed in prayer. Miles Melhuish writhed beneath the intensity of her gaze and vowed to refer the case to the diocesan synod. It was way beyond his competence. He was in the presence of witchcraft. The Dean alone was fit to pronounce on such a weighty matter.
The tears ceased but the wild stare remained. He endured its obsessional glow until he realized that she was not looking at him at all but at some object directly behind him. Turning around, he saw what had transfixed and transfigured her. It was a small lancet window into which some zealous craftsman had set the most affecting picture in stained glass. Christ was nailed to the cross with the crown of thorns upon His head. The round face was framed by long fair hair and a full beard, which took on a golden hue as light streamed in through the window. There was martyrdom and majesty in the image.
Eleanor Budden let out a sigh of pure enchantment.
She was in love.
Nicholas Bracewell ran wet hands through his hair and tossed back his mane as he completed his ablutions at the pump in the courtyard. He was up not long after dawn and the sun was taking its first peep at the day. There was much to do before departure.
Nicholas had to supervise the feeding and harnessing of the horses, the loading up of the waggon, the checking of valuables to make sure that nothing was missing, the payment of the landlord and the pacification of his wife, whom Lawrence Firethorn, in a moment of drunken zeal, had mistaken for a serving wench and seized in an amorous embrace. There would also be some lessons in swordplay he had promised the boys and the purchase of some provisions for the journey. The work of the book holder was never done.
'Welcome to the day, Master Bracewell!'
'The same to you, Christopher.'
'Let us hope it bears sweeter fruit than yesterday.'
'I am sure it must.'
'Where do we stop today?'
'At Royston. God willing.
'Royston...'
The name triggered off a thought. Two long days of walking on foot had taken none of the swagger out of Christopher Millfield. He looked neat and trim in his doublet and hose. Nicholas, wearing an old shirt and a buff jerkin, felt dishevelled by comparison. He had never really taken to the young actor and put it down to the latter's forced affability.
Christopher Millfield produced his annoying grin.
'May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?'
'Please do, sir.'
'If we should fail to find an audience in Royston, as we did in Ware, there may yet be employment for us.'
'From what source?'
'Pomeroy Manor.' You know the place?'
Only by repute,' said Millfield airily. 'It lies on the estates of one Neville Pomeroy, a man of true breeding and culture, not unfriendly to the theatre and like to give us a kinder word than the folk at Ware.'
Nicholas nodded his thanks. The name of Pomeroy was vaguely familiar to him. He had heard it mentioned by Lord Westfield, and in terms of praise, which was unusual for their patron. A local landowner with a liking for entertainment might be able to rill his largest room with some spectators for them.
Where is the house?' he said
"Towards Meldreth. Not far out of our way;'
'In which direction?'
'Cambridge.'
It was worth considering. If Banbury's Men were intent on queering their pitch, then Royston might well be closed to their art. Giles Randolph would not have ruined their chances at Pomeroy Manor. He might yet be thwarted.
Christopher Millfield stood with arms akimbo.
'Why do you not like me, Master Bracewell?'
'Have I said as much?'
'I read it in your manner.'
'You are deceived. I like you well enough.'
'But not as much as Gabriel Hawkes.'
'I gave the matter no thought.'
'That is not what Master Gill believes. He tells me that you urged the name of Gabriel over mine.'
'I will not deny it.'
'May I know your reason?'
'I took him to be the finer actor.'
Millfield winced. 'You are mistaken there, sir.'
'I can only give you my true opinion.'
'It may be changed ere long,' said the other with a flash of pride. 'But was that the only cause of your preference for Gabriel? That you rated him more highly?'
'No, Christopher.'
'What else?'
'I found him more honest company.'
Nicholas gave a straightforward answer that was not to Millfield's taste at all. After shooting a hostile glare at the book I holder, he invented a nonchalant smile.
'It is of no moment,' he said.
'How so?'
'Gabriel is gone to Heaven. I am here in his place.'
'Can you spare the dead no respect?'
'He was my rival. I do not mourn him.'
'Even though he was murdered?'
Christopher Millfield was taken aback for a second but he retrieved his composure very quickly. Unable to determine if the man's reaction arose from guilt or surprise, Nicholas tried to probe.
'Did his death not strike you as sudden?'
'He was afflicted by the plague.'
'It does not usually kill its victims so fast.'
'I have seen men snuffed out in a single day.'
'The old or the weak,' said Nicholas. ' The young and the fit are able to put up some sort of struggle.'
'What are you saying, Master Bracewell?'
'Until the day when fever broke out, Gabriel was a healthy young man in the prime of life. He should have not have been carried off so speedily.'
'Your conclusion?'...
'Someone helped him on his way'
'You have proof of this?' ;;:
'I have a strong feeling.'
'Is that all?' said Millfield with a smirk. 'You will need more than that to make your case. Besides, what does it matter now? Gabriel was marked for death. If someone did kill him, then he rendered the man a service by sparing him the agonies of a lingering end.'
You take this too lightly, Christopher.' It is idle contemplation.'
'When a good man is murdered?'
'By whom?' challenged the other.
Someone who stood to gain from his early demise.' ,
Millfield met his searching gaze without a tremor.
Royston was no more than a glorified village with a bevy of thatched cottages huddled around the church like anxious children clutching at their mother's skirts. Westfield's Men had once more come too late. Their rivals had performed in the yard of the Barley Mow to an audience drawn from all the villages in the area. What enraged Lawrence Firethorn to bursting point was the fact that Banbury's Men had again filched a play from his own repertoire, The Two Maids of Milchester, another rustic comedy that was suitable for the lower sort. They were poisoning the very water from which Westfield's Men drank.
After abusing everyone in sight in the roundest terms, the actor-manager withdrew his company to a field nearby to consider their next move. Nicholas Bracewell put forward the idea mooted by Christopher Millfield and it found ready acceptance. Rather than struggle on to the next possible playing location, they elected to look for somewhere nearer. Pomeroy Manor sounded an interesting possibility and Firethorn warmed to the notion.
'Master Pomeroy is not unknown to me,' he said with casual arrogance. 'Lord Westfield presented him after one of my performances at the Rose. He knows my worth.'
'As who does not?' asked Nicholas, 'Ware does not! Royston--be damned--does not!'
'To their eternal shame, Master.'
'I would not play before these dolts if they offered me a king's ransom. Palates that have been jaded by a taste of Giles Randolph would choke on the rich food of my talent. There is a world elsewhere!'
'Shall I ride on to Pomeroy Manor?'
'With all haste, Nick,' said Firethorn, scenting the chance of a performance at last. 'Take Master Millfield with you. He knows the way and will ease your solitude.'
Nicholas could have wished for another companion but he had no choice in the matter. Edmund Hoode was quick to offer the loan of his horse to the book holder and--what was more astonishing--Barnaby Gill handed over the bay mare to Millfield with something approaching willingness. It was a gesture that Nicholas was to remember later.
The two riders set off on their expedition. Though Millfield had never been to the house before, he seemed to have a mental map as to its whereabouts. Four miles of cantering along rutted tracks brought them to the crest of a hill which presented them with a perfect view of Pomeroy Manor and they reined in their mounts to enjoy the prospect. It was truly impressive.
The property was built on the site of an ancient moated manor house which had belonged to the Church. On the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII, it had been acquired by the Pomeroy family who rebuilt it in Tudor bricks, with eight octagonal chimneys having star tops, rising from crow-stepped gable-ends. The windows were low-mullioned and transomed, formed from moulded bricks that were rendered in a smooth grey clay that had been dredged from a river estuary. A porch added to the overall symmetry and acted as a trellis for an explosion of roses. Ivy had got a finger-hold on the front walls.
'It is just as I imagined,' said Millfield.
'A rare sight in this county,' observed Nicholas.
'What's that, sir?'
'Brick-built houses of this type are only found in East Anglia as a rule. Does Master Neville Pomeroy have connections with that part of the country.'
'So I am led to believe.'
'Where did you glean all your information?'
'From listening in the right places.'
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