'We must track the boy down at once, sir.'
'Do so, Nick.'
'I will need a horse.'
'Take mine, dear heart!'
Nicholas was not at all convinced that gypsies had abducted Richard Honeydew even though the band had been seen in the vicinity, but his opinion was swept aside by a man who would brook no argument. Simultaneously robbed of his orgasm and his Maid Marion, the actor-manager was in a mood of vengeful urgency.
'To horse! To horse, Nick!'
'I will meet you in Nottingham.'
'Come not empty-handed.'
'If the boy be with the gypsies, I will get him.'
'Have a care, sir! Gypsies are slippery.'
'Adieu!'
Nicholas rushed off and missed an affecting moment. Throughout the conversation between actor-manager and book holder, George Dart stood meekly by, wondering whether he still had a job or not, and whether his little body would be needed to swell the ranks in the forthcoming performance at Nottingham.
Firethorn saw him there and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Dart's face was a study in uncertainty and apprehension.
'Shall I still be one of the Merry Men, sir?'
Nicholas saddled up and rode out of the stables just before dawn. Sword and dagger were at his side. He was an excellent horseman. The son of a prosperous merchant from Devon, he had, from an early age, accompanied his father on his travels and learned how to ride and to take care of a horse. When Nicholas grew older, his father's business commitments obliged the son to travel to Europe and he developed his great love for the sea, a passion that was to culminate in three years with Drake on the famous circumnavigation of the globe. Notwithstanding this, he had lost none of his feel in the saddle. Pacing his mount carefully, he went off at a steady canter.
It was four hours before he caught their scent and another two before he finally rode them to earth. They had stopped at a hamlet in Leicestershire to peddle their wares and to offer entertainment to the simple souls of the parish. While the gypsy women sold scarves or read the palms of the gullible, their menfolk turned acrobat to divert the locals. Nicholas tethered his horse and made his way to the little green where everyone had gathered. From behind the cover of a chestnut tree, he observed a scene that was lit with animation and colour. In spite of the circumstances, he was consumed with interest.
Nicholas always felt some sympathy for gypsies. They were vagabonds with an air of freedom about them. At the same time, they suffered far more severe punishment than any indigenous vagrants. In addition to being regularly fined, whipped, imprisoned or chased from a locality with sticks, stones and a posse of dogs, they were under legal threat of deportation. Throughout the reign of Henry VIII and down through that of his daughter, Elizabeth, Queen of England, the official attitude towards the so-called 'sons of Ptolemy' was consistently hostile. Bands of gypsies were shipped off to Europe and there were occasional calls for a complete extirpation of the breed.
In view of all this, their very survival was a minor miracle. Nicholas had some fellow-feeling for them. His own profession had close affinities with the lifestyle of the gypsies. Actors were also outlaws if they were not employed in the service of a noble patron such as Lord Westfield. Shorn of such livery, they could be hunted and hounded almost as ruthlessly as the gypsies and, like the latter, could often become the scapegoats for any crimes that were committed while they were passing through an area. Gypsies were far from honest and law-abiding but Nicholas always believed that tales of their inherent wickedness and sorcery were wildly overstated.
Such thoughts were still flitting through his mind when the acrobatic display came to an end. Rough palms clapped in applause and a few small coins were spared when a small child ran around the spectators holding out a large cap. Musicians now struck up and there was a display of dancing. Lithe and graceful, the men went through steps that had rarely been seen upon the green before. Nicholas admired their skill and was entranced by the elements of the fantastic. Then the boy appeared. It was evident from the first that he was not as confident as the others, going through a routine as if he were under compulsion rather than as if he were enjoying the dance.
Nicholas Bracewell had seen the jig. It was one that Barnaby . Gill had taught to the apprentices and which had been mastered by one of them straight away. As the book holder studied the willowy youth in the tattered rags and the painted face, he came rapidly to one conclusion. It was Richard Honeydew. Kidnapped at night, the boy was being made to work his passage with the gypsies. He was one of them now and had to dance for his keep, however reluctant he might be. As Nicholas ambled forward to get a closer look, the boy did a somersault that drew a patter of applause and confirmed the book holder's suspicion. He had seen the apprentices practising that somersault only days earlier. Here was firm proof.
Reason would be useless with the gypsies and the parish constable would stand no chance against a band of muscular men who could fight like fury. Nicholas had to take the lad by force while surprise was still on his side. Waiting until the dance came to an end, he let the apprentice take his applause then leapt at him from behind and threw an arm around him. In his other hand was his sword, brandished with enough purpose to keep them all at bay as he backed away towards his horse.
'Come, Dick, we'll be gone from here!'
But the boy did not seem too eager to leave. Sinking his teeth into Nicholas's arm, he prised himself free then turned on his captor to abuse him in a torrent of Romany.
The book holder was totally nonplussed.
It was not Richard Honeydew at all.
Westfield's Men were in despondent mood as they set out for Nottingham. Having been battered by Fate enough times already on tour, they were now knocked flat by one vicious punch. The disappearance of Richard Honeydew was a real disaster. He was a crucial figure in every performance. Though there was still some vestigial resentment on their part, the other apprentices had come to accept that the youngest of their number was also the cleverest. He took all the juvenile female leads and relegated them to the less attractive roles of ageing Countesses and comic serving wenches, of daunting Amazons and vapid lovers. Honeydew had another string to his bow. He was the most melodious boy soprano and songs were now written for him in almost every play. Without him, discord followed.
'Rest on my shoulder, Mistress.'
'It is my dearest wish, sir.'
'We'll travel side by side.'
'Like two oxen yoked together.'
'We'll pull in the same direction, I warrant.'
Mistress Susan Becket laughed at his sexual quibble then swung herself up into the saddle of her horse, using the solid shoulder of Lawrence Firethorn as a lever. He had been delighted when she offered to accompany them to Nottingham to watch their performance, not least because she brought a horse of her own and a second for his personal use from her stable. Leaving the tavern in the capable hands of her employees, Susan Becket rode off with the company and was an eye-catching figure on her white mare, a woman of substance in every sense, gracious yet sensual, lifting the morale of the players by her very presence and allowing Firethorn himself to indulge his fantasies at will.
She was nor, however, welcomed by all the company.
'You wonder that the horse can carry her, sir!'
'She is indeed plump, Master Gill, but well-favoured.'
'And she were courteous into the bargain, Mistress Becket would put on the saddle and carry the horse.'
'That is unkind, sir.'
'Only to the white mare.'
'Has Master Firethorn known her for long?'
'An hour at a time.'
'They are old bedfellows, then?'
'Bedfellowship was their invention.'
Barnaby Gill was riding beside the waggon which was now being driven by Christopher Millfield. The other sharers and the apprentices were seated among the baggage but the hired men were forced to trudge in the rear. It was a hot day with no wind to cool the fevered brow. Gill u
sed the occasion to unleash some tart misogyny.
'She is the very epitome of her sex, is she not?'
'Mistress Becket?'
'She'll prove a shrewd archbishop to his majesty there beside her. Though we ride to York, she'll take him on a pilgrimage to Canterbury this night and show him all her sacred relics. When Master Firethorn plunges into her baptismal font, he'll sink to his armpits in the swill of her passion and will have to pray to the holy blissful martyr to haul him out again!'
'You do not like the lady,' said Millfield drily.
'Not this, nor any other of her kind.'
'Your reasoning, Master Gill?'
'Women have no place beside players.'
'Not even underneath them?'
'They are vile distractions, sir.'
'Would you not keep them for ornament?'
'Only in a privy for that's their natural region.'
'You are harsh, Master.'
'Can any sane man truly love women?'
Christopher Millfield laughed by way of reply. He liked Barnaby Gill and had learned much from watching the comedian in action on the stage, but he could not share his disgust with womanhood. Millfield aroused feminine interest wherever he went and he basked in it, viewing it as one of the few legitimate spoils of war for an actor.
Gill looked across at the handsome profile.
'May I put a question to you, sir?'
'Do not hesitate.'
'How came it that you knew Pomeroy V nor?'
'I knew but of it, Master Gill.'
'By what means?'
'The Admiral's Men.'
'Untalented rascals!'
'They had not your quality, 'tis true,' said the other tactfully, 'but they were able enough. And they knew where to earn the next meal when we were in the country. One of their number kept a list in his mind of every house in England where players were welcome.'
'That list was not too long to memorize,' said Gill ruefully. 'Far more doors are slammed in our faces than ever open to our entertainment.'
'Even so, sir. That is why I took some pains to con the list myself. Master Neville Pomeroy was on it along with others in the county of Hertfordshire.'
'And this friend of his in York?'
'Sir Clarence Marmion was also on that list. I think the Admiral's Men did play there during the last outbreak of the pestilence. But there are other houses where we may look for friendship, both here in this county and in Yorkshire itself.'
'We'll try your list some more.'
Gill's attention was diverted by a sight which made his nose wrinkle with distaste. Lawrence Firethorn burst into ribald laughter and leaned over to squeeze the shoulders of the mirthful Susan Becket. Their joviality set them apart from Westfield's Men who were still worrying about the kidnap of Richard Honeydew and the effect it would have on the standard of their work.
'Look at them!' snorted Gill.
'Like turtle doves,' said Millfield tolerantly.
'Pigs in a trough, sir! When they have finished gobbling their own discourse, they will roll together in the slime and he will tickle the teats of that old sow.'
'Mistress Becket is neither so low nor beastly.'
'She is a monster. Put her on the stage and you would need three boys to play her, stuffed together in the one dress like rabbits in a sack. While Martin Yeo would personate her, John Tallis would serve in the office of one buttock and Stephen Judd t'other. It is a pity that Dick Honeydew is not here or he could take on the role of her left breast and wear that gross beauty spot.'
'For shame, Master Gill!'
'I speak but as I feel.'
'Her tavern gave us good food and rest.'
'So would any other where we paid.'
'I like the lady.'
'I took you for a man of finer taste.'
Millfield looked at Firethorn and his companion.
'She keeps him much amused.'
'Any woman can do that.'
'Does his wife raise no objection?'
'A hundred by the minute, sir, but she is back in Shoreditch and he is here. Were Margery to view this scene before us, she would pluck off his stones and wear them as earrings to ward off any other women. Alas, she is not here. She defends his castle in London.'
'Stoutly?'
'As any army under siege. I pity the man who tries to take her fortress, Master Millfield. Though he bring the biggest battering ram in Christendom, it will not suffice. Margery will drown him in boiling oil.'
'Out, you rogue! Away, you rascal, you hedge-bird, you pannier-man's whelp! Do not wave your paltry reckoning at me, you pimp, you dog's-head, you trendle-tail! Marry, look off, sir! Go, snuff after some other prey! Poxed already you are, I can tell by that sheep-biting face, and I hope to see you plagued one day, you snotty nose!'
'I come but for my due, good madam.'
'Hold forth thy mangy head and I will give it thee with this broom! Or bend over, and I will sink a foot of my handle where'll you'll feel it most and remember me as a tidy housewife.'
'Calm down, Mistress Firethorn.'
'Only when your greasy face has gone!'
The tailor was a small, sweating, diffident man who was no match for Margery Firethorn. When he came to present his bill to her, he walked into the same hurricane as his predecessors. Backing away from the threshold of the house in Shoreditch, he summoned up enough courage to issue a threat of legal action.
'I have the law upon my side, Mistress.'
'And you stay, I'll gum your silks with water!'
'Pay up now to stave off a worser fate.'
'Do you want that pate split open with my broom?'
'I'd bring an action of battery against you.' Your widow might for you'd not live to do so.' I am not married,' he confessed.
'What woman would take you?' she jeered. 'I can see it in your visage, you insolent slave! You're a miserable tailor's remnant of a man, a pair of breeches without a codpiece, a dunghill cock with no cause to crow or fright any hen from her modesty. Away, you gelding!'
'Leave off, you shrew!'
'Then go before I snip with your scissors!'
"Tis a cucking-stool you need,' he said. 'That's what they use for ducking scolds.'
'Yaaaaaaaa!'
Margery ran at him with her broom at the ready and he took to his heels and ran for his life. As he raced off down the road, she yelled some more abuse at him to spur him on then relaxed and went back into the house. The tailor was the fifth creditor in the last two days and he came on the heels of a diaper, a hat-maker, a cobbler and a goldsmith. All presented her with reckonings that she simply could not meet, large bills recklessly run up by Lawrence Firethorn in the knowledge that he would be leaving London soon and therefore able to outrun his debts. Margery was left in the line of fire. Five had been dispatched but all five would return again with the law to strengthen their arm. And there would be more. Her husband was nothing if not extravagant. On the eve of his departure, he had run up debts all over London.
Pulsating with fury, she stormed upstairs to their bedchamber and grabbed the cloak. It was the answer to all her problems. Not only would its sale bring in enough money to pay off all outstanding accounts, it would be a severe blow to Firethorn. The second-best cloak was much more than a mere garment. It was a due reward for his artistic endeavour, a seal of approval from his patron. The actor had worn it onstage several times and it was a glittering storehouse of theatrical memories. Though he had left it for her to sell, he had banked on her keeping it for reasons of pride and nostalgia. Those reasons now battled with feelings of outrage.
Margery was betrayed. Struggling along without him was a trial enough but he had made her predicament much more awkward. It was typical of him and she cursed herself for not foreseeing this eventuality. No word had yet come from Firethorn and, when it did, she was sure that no money would accompany it. She was on her own with mouths to feed and tradesmen to stave off.
She fingered the cloak with swirling anger. It
would serve him right if he came back to find it gone. Margery crossed to the door with the garment over her arm then stopped in her tracks. Conscience troubled her. She would be meeting one betrayal with a far greater one. Whatever vices her husband had, there was one overriding virtue that drew her to him. He loved the theatre. With a passion that amounted to an obsession, he adored every aspect of his chosen profession and savoured every prize and memento that had come his way. Even at the height of her rage, she did not have the heart to stab Firethorn in the back through the silk of his second-best cloak.
Shaking with frustration, she threw it aside. 'Doll!' she yelled.
'Yes, Mistress?' called a girlish voice.
'Come here at once!'
'In haste!'
The servant girl knew better than to keep Margery waiting. She had watched through a window as each of the five creditors had been sent packing with their ears on fire. Doll lived in the house and had nowhere else to go. Total obedience was the only way to appease her mistress.
She stumbled breathlessly into the bedchamber. 'Hurry, girl!'
'I am here, Mistress.'
'Then go from me again.'
'How now?'
'Fetch me pen and ink.'
'It shall be done directly.'
'And something I may write upon.'
'I fly.'
'Faster, girl!'
Margery Firethorn would grasp another possibility.
She would write a letter.
Nicholas Bracewell was in no position to parley. Greatly outnumbered and clearly in the wrong, his only hope lay in a swift escape. Half-a-dozen brawny gypsies were closing in on him, their scowls hidden by the paint on their faces but their gestures eloquent. The boy himself continued to shout at Nicholas then grabbed a handful of dust to throw up into his face. Blinded for a second, the book holder swung his sword in a wide arc to fend off the gypsies who moved in quickly upon him. As his eyes cleared, he saw another man running towards them with a branding iron in his hand, patently intent on murder. Nicholas rightly identified him as the boy's father and did not linger to discuss the youth's skill as a dancer.
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