The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3

by Edward Marston

  Swishing his sword again to create more space, he then spun around and sprinted off. One of the gypsies had sneaked up behind him and tried to block his way but Nicholas knocked him our of the way with his shoulder. Pursuit was immediate and it was accompanied by all kinds of wild cries. A few dogs joined in the fun of the chase.

  Nicholas was running at full pelt but found an extra yard of pace when a long knife embedded itself in a tree only inches from his face. When he reached his horse, he had no time for a leisurely mount with the stirrup. Vaulting into the saddle, he tugged the rein free of its branch and let the horse feel his urgency.

  He galloped away with howls of anguish ringing in his ears. Three of them followed him and kept him within sight for a mile or more but he Finally managed to shake them off and gain the cover of a wood. With time at last to catch his breath, he measured the cost of his journey. It was expensive. He had wasted valuable time, created a band of dangerous enemies and collected an aching bruise on his shoulder. Irony ruled. Believing that the gypsies had stolen a young boy from him, he finished up by doing the same to them. Guilt lay exclusively with him and he had no excuse. Nicholas knew that he had deserved the bite that was still smarting on his arm. He was lucky to have escaped with his life.

  Catching up with the company was now his prime concern and he did not spare his mount on the return journey. When he reached the Smith and Anvil, he watered the horse and checked to see what time the others had left, then he was back in the saddle and riding off once more. It was now mid-afternoon and the sun was at its height, compensating for the torrential rain earlier in the week by baking the land dry. Both Nicholas and the horse were dripping with perspiration. As the River Trent came into sight, he slowed his mount to a rising trot. The cool water shimmered ahead of him. Its appeal was quite irresistible to the exhausted traveller.

  He reined in his horse when the water was lapping at its fetlocks then dismounted. After tethering the animal to the branch of an overhanging tree, he slipped behind a bush and peeled off his sticky clothes. Nobody was about as he ran naked to the edge of the bank and plunged straight into the river. It was a wonderful feeling, both relaxing and invigorating, easing his pain and restoring his vitality. He swam powerfully towards the middle of the river then rolled over on his back and floated on the surface of the water. His arms were outstretched and the sun gilded his hair and body. He let time stand still.

  Eleanor Budden emerged from the bushes on the other side of the river and watched the apparition that was floating slowly towards her. She had been sitting beside the Trent in deep contemplation when she first heard the splash. Her mind had been on her mission and she had been waiting for another sign from above.

  That sign had now come. What she saw on the water was no fatigued book holder washing off the dirt of a long journey. She witnessed a miracle. Eyes closed, arms nailed to some invisible cross, body limp yet beautiful. Fair hair combed by the sunlight. Here was no stranger but her closest friend in the world. She had last seen him in the lancet window at the church of St Stephen.

  Eleanor Budden waded happily into the water.

  'Lord Jesus,' she cried. 'Take me to Jerusalem!'

  Nottingham was the first sizeable town they had been in since they had left and it gave them an immediate sense of reassurance. It was tiny by comparison with London but that did not worry them. The place was a vast improvement on villages that turned them away and hamlets which could not raise an audience worth the bother. Nottingham was civilization. They were back in business.

  Lodging his company at the Saracen's Head near the centre of the town, Lawrence Firethorn put on his best apparel and went to call on the Mayor. Permission to play was readily granted and the Town Hall was the designated venue. The Mayor was a keen playgoer himself and he was delighted that Westfield's Men were gracing the town with a visit. Money was discussed and Firethorn left in much higher spirits. The performance of Robin Hood was set for the morrow which gave them ample time to rehearse the piece, to recruit journeymen as extras and--in the event of Richard Honeydew's continued absence--recast the role of Maid Marion. All seemed to be well.

  The actor-manager then returned to the inn and his world caved in around him.

  'Again! This is a double insult!'

  'I saw the playbill myself, Master Firethorn.'

  Did you witness the performance?

  'I could not bear to, sir. My loyalty is to you.'

  'It does you credit, Mistress Hendrik." He thumped the settle on which he was perched. 'By heavens, I'll not bear it! Giles Randolph is as arrant a knave as ever walked the face of the earth. Sure, he cannot have come from any lawful issue but was engendered by two toads on a hot day in some slimy place or other.' He jumped to his feet. And did he really play Pompey the Great?'

  'But two clays ago.'

  'Treachery in the highest degree!'

  Anne Hendrik had tracked the company down to the inn and reported her news. The long-faced Edmund Hoode sat in on the debate along with Barnaby Gill. All three of them waited until Firethorn had ranted his full and described fifteen different ways in which he would put his rival to death. Having departed from their original route in order to shake off Banbury's Men, it was dispiriting to find that they had come in their wake after all. Firethorn's beloved role had been purloined, Hoode's play had been misappropriated and all the kudos that should have gone to Westfield's Men had been diverted to lesser mortals.

  The actor-manager would have raved for an hour or more had he not been interrupted by the landlord who told him that another guest wished to have private audience with him. Firethorn stalked off like Pompey on his way to clear the Mediterranean of pirates.

  Anne Hendrik was able to ask after Nicholas.

  'Is he not with you here?'

  'Not yet, Mistress,' said Hoode. 'Dick Honeydew was taken by the gypsies and Nicholas went to rescue him.'

  'Alone?'

  'He would not hear of company,' said Gill.

  'But there are such perils.' :

  'Nicholas will make light of those,' assured Hoode then turned the question that really vexed him. 'Tell me now, for this is like a dagger in my heart, what player with Banbury's Men did dare to take my part?'

  'Your part, sir? In Pompey the Great?'

  'Sicinius.'

  'I cannot say, Master Hoode.'

  'It matters not,' said Gill dismissively. 'The role is of no account and hardly noticed in performance.'

  'That is not true, Barnaby!'

  'Take it away and who would miss it?'

  'I would, man! I would!'

  'Sicinius is a mean part for any man.'

  'It is mine!' wailed Hoode. 'I wrote it and I play it. Sicinius is me. I would not have myself stolen like this. So tell me--who took the part?'

  Mark Scruton lifted his dagger and stabbed his victim in the back with cruel deliberation. The man fell on to his face, twitched for a few horrifying seconds, then lay motionless. Wiping the blood from his weapon, the murderer gave a malevolent smile then strode calmly away.

  Another rehearsal came to an end.

  Kynaston Hall was the largest private house at which Banbury's Men had performed since the tour began and it offered them the best facilities. They had free use of the hall for rehearsal, the assistance of four liveried servants and regular maids from the kitchen. It was all very gratifying and no member of the company savoured it more than Mark Scruton. He was being given his first chance to take an important role. The play was one of their own this time, The Renegade, a dark and blood-soaked tragedy on a revenge theme. It enabled Giles Randolph to shine in a title role that really suited his talents and it brought Scruton forward into the light.

  'Excellent work, sir.'

  'Thank you, Master Randolph.'

  'You prosper in the role.'

  'I hope the audience shares your view.'

  'Trust it well.'

  'Have you no criticism?'

  'None,' said Randolph languidly. 'Except t
hat you stayed too long upon the stage once you had stabbed me. The murder of the Duke is of more dramatic significance than the reaction of his killer. Once you have dispatched me with your dagger, quit the stage.'

  'I will, sir.'

  'My corpse will be a soliloquy in itself.'

  They were in the Great Hall and the stagekeepers were scampering around moving the scenery and props. Giles Randolph was very satisfied with the way that everything was going. On and off the stage, revenge was proving to be his best suit. He was about to move away when Scruton detained him by plucking at his sleeve.

  'A word, sir.'

  'It is not a convenient time.'

  'This will take but a second.'

  'Very well.' Randolph shrugged. 'What is it?' I am bold to put you in mind of my contract.'

  'It has not been forgot.'

  'When may I view it, sir?'

  'When I have drawn it up.'

  'And when will that be?'

  'The other sharers have to be persuaded first.'

  Scruton frowned. 'My understanding was that you could carry the business alone.'

  'Well, yes, indeed. No question but that I can.'

  'Why then the delay?'

  'I am no lawyer, Mark. The terms must be drawn up properly and the Earl himself must take note of them. It is a big translation for you.'

  'You know that I have earned it, Master Randolph.'

  'No man more so.'

  'Give me then a date. It was your promise.'

  Giles Randolph gave him the enigmatic smile that was part of his stock-in-trade then walked slowly around him in a circle. Scruton did not like being kept waiting. His willing smile took on a forced look. Randolph faced him again and came to a decision.

  'York.'

  'What say you?'

  'That is when the articles will be signed.'

  'I have that for certain?'

  'My hand upon it!' They exchanged a handshake. 'You will become a sharer with Banbury's Men and taste the sweeter fruit of our profession.'

  'Thank you!' said Scruton with feeling. 'I did not doubt you for a moment. This gives me true happiness.'

  'Wait but for York.'

  'It will be my place of pilgrimage.'

  'Bear your cross until then.'

  Mark Scruton grinned. He was almost there.

  It took Nicholas Bracewell fifteen minutes to convince her that he was not Jesus Christ and even then she had lingering reservations. When he saw her wading out to meet him in mid-river, he immediately lowered his body so that he could tread water. He had never been accosted by such a strange yet beautiful woman before, especially one who kept calling on him to baptize her in the Jordan. He took an age to persuade her to return to her bank then he swam back to where he had left his clothes and dried himself off as best he could before dressing. Restored and refreshed, he rode over the bridge and back along the bank to Eleanor Budden. Her wet shift was clinging to her body like a doting lover and he noticed that it had been repaired near the shoulder. Nicholas dismounted out of politeness and touched his cap.

  'May I see you safe home, Mistress?'

  'All the way to Jerusalem.'

  'I have told you. I am with Westfield's Men.'

  'Our meeting today was foretold.'

  'Not to me.'

  'We were destined to cross paths. Master Bracewell.'

  'In the middle of the River Trent?'

  'Tax not divine appointment.'

  'Let me escort you to your house.'

  'I have resolved to leave it for ever.'

  'Yet you spoke of a husband and of children.'

  'They will have to make shift without me.'

  'Does duty not prompt you?' he said.

  'Aye, sir. To follow the voice of God.'

  Nicholas had met religious maniacs before. More than one of his fellow-sailors on the voyage with Drake had found the privations too hard to bear. They had taken refuge in a kind of relentless Christianity that shaped their lives anew and consisted in a display of good deeds and profuse quotations from the Bible. Eleanor Budden was not of this mould. Her obsession had a quieter and more rational base. That increased its danger.

  'The Lord has brought us together,' she said. 'Has he?'

  'Do you not feel it?'

  'Honesty compels me to deny it.

  'Where you lead, I will follow.'

  'That is out of the question,' he said in alarm. 'You have been sent as my guide.'

  'But we are not going to Jerusalem, I fear.'

  'What, then, is your destination?'

  'York.'

  'I knew it!'

  Eleanor flung herself to her knees and bent down to kiss his shoes. Nicholas backed away in embarrassment as she tried to clutch at him. Facing up to a band of angry gypsies had been nothing to this. Eleanor was a model of persistence, a burr that stuck firmly to his clothing.

  'I must come with you. Master Bracewell.'

  'Where?'

  'To York. I must see the Archbishop.'

  'Travel to the city by some other means.

  'You are my appointed guardian.'

  'Mistress, I am part of a company.'

  'Then I will go with you and your fellows.'

  'That is not possible.'

  'Why, sir?'

  'For a dozen reasons,' he said, wishing he could call some of them to mind. 'Chiefly, for that we are all men who ride together. No woman may join our train.'

  'That is a rule which God can change.'

  'Master Firethorn will not permit it.'

  'Let me but talk with him.'

  'It will be of no avail.'

  Eleanor Budden got to her feet and turned her blue eyes on him with undisguised ardour. She stepped in close and her long wet strands of hair brushed his cheek.

  'You have to take me to York,' she insisted.

  'For what reason?'

  'I love you.'

  Nicholas Bracewell quailed. He foresaw trouble.

  Lawrence Firethorn was slowly enthralled. More to the point, he smelled money. Oliver Quilley had invited him up to his room to put a proposition to him, and, after rejecting it out of hand, the actor-manager was slowly being won over.

  The artist expatiated on his work. Strutting about the room in his finery like a turkey-cock, the dwarfish dandy explained why he had become a miniaturist.

  'Limning is a thing apart from all other painting and drawing, and it excelleth all other art whatsoever in sundry points.'

  'Discover more to me.'

  'The technique of painting portrait miniatures comes from manuscript illumination. Hence the term "limning". Yet Master Holbein, the first of our breed, painted in the tradition of full-size portraits that were scaled down.'

  'And you, Master Quilley?'

  'My style is unique, sir.'

  'Do you acknowledge no mentors?'

  'I take a little from Holbein and a little more from Hilliard but Oliver Quilley is a man apart from all other limners. This you shall judge for yourself.'

  He opened his leather pouch and took out four tiny miniatures that were wrapped in pieces of velvet. He removed the material and set them out on the table. Firethorn was overwhelmed by their brilliance. Three were portraits of women and the fourth of a man. All were executed with stunning confidence in colours that were uncannily lifelike. Quilley read his mind and had an explanation to hand.

  'The principal part of drawing or painting after life consists in the truth of the line.' He pointed at his work. 'You see, sir? No shadowing is here. I believe in the sovereignty of the line and the magic of colour.'

  'They are quite magnificent!'

  'Ail paintings imitate nature or the life, but the perfection is to imitate the face of mankind.'

  'And womankind,' said Firethorn, ogling the loveliest of the women. 'Who is the lady, sir?'

  'A French Countess. And the other is her sister.'

  'The third?'

  Lady Delahaye. I was commissioned by her husband to have it ready in time
for her wedding. It is all but finished and I can deliver it when I return to London.'

  Firethorn warmed to the little man, sensing that he was in the presence of a fellow-artist, one who consorted with the nobility and whose work was worn as pendants or brooches at court, and yet who had made no fortune from his wondrous talents. The actor knew that story all too well because it was his own. Exceptional ability that went unrewarded in its proper degree. That sense of living hand-to-mouth which compromised the scope of his art and silenced its true resonance.

  'Marry, sir, what a case is this!' he said. 'Here we are together. Men of genius who are packed off out of London to scrabble for every penny we get.'

  Aye,' agreed Quilley. 'Then to have it taken from us by some murderous highwaymen. Had they taken these miniatures instead, I had been ruined.'

  A thought took on form in Firethorn's mind.

  'You wish to travel in our company, you say?'

  'Only for safety's sake, as far as York.'

  'We do not carry passengers in our company.'

  'I'd pay my way, Master Firethorn, be assured.'

  'That is what I come to, sir.' He tried to work out which was the better profile to present to the artist. 'Is it possible--I ask but in the spirit of unbiased enquiry--that you could paint such a portrait of me?'

  'Of you or of any man, sir. For a fee.'

  'A guarantee of your safety?'

  'I'd need a horse of my own.'

  'Done, sir!'

  'And a bedchamber to myself at every stop we make?'

  'It shall be the first article of our agreement.'

  'We understand each other, sir.'

  'Such a portrait would be very precious to me.'

  'And to me, Master Firethorn,' said Quilley with elfin seriousness. 'The terms of the work can be talked over at a later date but I give you this as a sign of good faith.' He handed over the miniature of the man. 'It is worth much more than I will cost you. I am but small and very light to carry.'

  Firethorn looked down at the exquisite oval painting that lay in his palm. It had such fire and elegance and detail. The man stared up at him with a pride that was matched by his poise. Firethorn was overcome by the generosity of the artist.