The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3

by Edward Marston

  Creeping in ever closer, he got his first proper look at the encampment. His heart constricted. There were about a dozen of them, as reported, and they wore the gaudy apparel of travelling players but here was no London theatre company on tour. Their clothes were threadbare and their horses were spindly nags. Whatever was being roasted over the fire had not been paid for because they were patently impoverished. Gaunt faces chewed on their food. Thin bodies lounged around the flickering blaze. They were actors but of a different sort and temper to Banbury's Men. They had never performed in a real theatre in their lives or tasted the fleshpots of the capital. Lacking any noble patron, they were no better than outlaws and could be arrested for vagrancy. They scraped a bare living by keeping on the move like the gypsies.

  It was sobering to reflect on how removed their world was from that of the London companies and Nicholas felt a pang of shame that Westfield's Men had come to take their audiences from them. Then he recalled the purpose of his journey and shook off such considerations. Marching boldly into the camp, he introduced himself as a fellow-actor and was given a cheerful welcome. It waned somewhat when he asked after Banbury's Men who were seen as London predators come to swoop on the provinces. They had scorn for the other company but no knowledge of its present location. Nicholas thanked them and withdrew.

  Darkness was beginning to close in and he needed a bed for the night. He had passed a small inn a few miles back and now rode off again in that direction, his mind grappling with the problem of where Banbury's Men could be and his concern for Richard Honeydew rising all the time. Absorbed in his thoughts, he let his guard fall.

  'Hold there, sir!'

  'That is a fine horse you have.'

  'Let us guess its age by its teeth.'

  The three men came out of the woodland and ambled towards him with amiable grins. He was not fooled. Each of them had a hand on his sword. They had caught him on a deserted track that ran between the trees. Nicholas knew that they would not close in on him like that unless they had someone at his back. He swung his horse around in the nick of time. The fourth man was running silently towards him with a cudgel in his hand, ready to hack him down from behind while his attention was diverted.

  Nicholas got his kick in before the cudgel fell and the man staggered back. When he came charging in again, he felt a sword go clean through his shoulder and yelled out in agony. His accomplices sprinted in to wreak revenge but they had chosen the wrong target. As the first of them swished his sword, it met such a forceful reply from Nicholas's rapier that it was twisted out of his hand. The book holder dismounted in a flash, pulling out his dagger as he did so and daring the two armed men to come at him. They flashed and jabbed but could get nowhere near him. Unable to recover his sword from the ground, the third man produced a dagger and raised an arm to throw it but he was far too slow. Nicholas's own dagger hurtled through the air and pierced the fellow's wrist, causing him to drop his own weapon with a cry.

  The others had had enough. Now that the odds were not so heavily in their favour, they gathered up their two stricken colleagues and limped away. Nicholas gave chase and let some air into the jerkin of one of them. Three of them scrambled into their saddles but the cudgeller was too badly wounded to ride and had to be helped up behind one of his friends. Cursing their assailant, they beat a hasty retreat into the forest.

  Nicholas walked across to the horse that they had left behind and patted its neck. It was far too good a mount for common highwaymen and had clearly been stolen. In the fading light, he could just see the monogrammed gold initials on the saddlebags-- O.Q. When lie searched inside the pouches, he found some food and some articles of apparel. What really interested him, however, was the folded parchment that was tucked away at the very bottom of one of the saddlebags. It was a list of names and addresses, written out in a fair hand. Two of the names had been ticked and they leapt up at Nicholas.

  Anthony Rickwood and Neville Pomeroy.

  A third name had a question mark beside it.

  Sir Clarence Marmion.

  From the initials on the saddlebag, Nicholas knew that he had found Oliver Quilley's stolen horse. He now had the feeling that he had found something tar more important as well. The artist had told him of the arrest of Master Neville Pomeroy on a charge of high treason and how the prisoner languished in the Tower. Those events took place over a hundred and fifty miles away.

  How did Oliver Quilley know about them?

  Lawrence Firethorn was hoist with his own petard. After encouraging Susan Becket to accompany him to Nottingham so that she could share nights of madness with him, he could not then dismiss her when she elected to travel on with him. It was very inhibiting. At a time when he hoped to get acquainted with a new potential conquest, he was forced to ride alongside the hostess and listen to her amiable chatter. Eleanor Budden, meanwhile, was seated beside the driver of the waggon, George Dart, seeing to his spiritual needs and generally inhibiting everyone on the vehicle with her presence. Firethorn stole a glance in her direction. Eleanor and Susan were the extremes of womanhood, the respectable and the disreputable, the virtuous and the voluptuous, the sacred and the profane. If the two could blend into one, mused Firethorn, then he would finally have found perfection in human form.

  The chuckling Susan Becket nudged him gently. 'She is not for you, Lawrence.'

  'Such a thought never entered my mind!'

  'Mistress Budden is already spoken for.'

  'I met her husband when we set out.'

  'It is not him, I mean, sir. The lady is enamoured elsewhere. She talks of nobody but your book holder.'

  'Nicholas did make an impression on her.'

  'If I saw him naked in the River Trent, he would have made an impression on me,' said Susan with a giggle. 'He is a fine figure of a man with a pleasing demeanour.'

  'Nick only floated on the water,' said Firethorn testily. 'She speaks as if he walked upon it!'

  They were heading north through thick woodland that was redolent with memories of the famous outlaw. Lapsing back into his role in the play, Christopher Millfield began to sing snatches from the ballad. With Nicholas out of the way, he had regained all his sprightliness. The other hired men walked beside him and grumbled about the three outsiders who travelled with them. Oliver Quilley had a lordly manner as he rode near the front of the little procession, Susan Becket reserved her favours for the actor-manager, and Eleanor Budden brought an unwanted injection of Christianity into their lives. They had lost one valuable apprentice and gained three unnecessary passengers. They were convinced that nothing good could come from it.

  George Dart begged leave to differ. Embarrassed at first to have Eleanor alongside him, he soon began to take a pleasure in her company. They had a mutual hero.

  'Tell me of Master Bracewell,' she said.

  'He is a wonderful man and runs the company in all the ways that matter. Others may get the credit and the rewards but it is he who deserves them, yet you will not hear a boastful word on his lips.'

  'His modesty becomes him.'

  'He is my one true friend, Mistress.'

  'That cannot be,' she said. 'What of your mother? Is not she a true friend to her son?'

  'Belike she was when she was alive. I do not know. She died when I was but a tiny child.'

  'How came you into this profession?'

  'No other would take me, Mistress. It was Nicholas Bracewell's doing. He taught me all I knew and it has kept me from starvation ever since.'

  'He is a Christian soul.'

  'None more so in the company.'

  'How long has he been in the theatre?'

  'Four years or more. I cannot say.'

  'Before that?'

  'He was at sea,' said George proudly. 'He sailed with Drake around the world and saw things that most of us cannot even comprehend, such is their wonder. Master Bracewell has been everywhere.'

  'Except Jerusalem.'

  'Why do you say that, Mistress?' Because I would take him the
re with me.'

  'And will he go?' said Dart in amazement.

  Eleanor Budden gave him a beatific smile.

  'Oh, yes. He must. He has no choice.'

  Lavery Grange was in the northernmost corner of the county of Nottingham and the head of the house, Sir Duncan Lavery, was an amenable and gregarious character. Given the chance to act as host to Banbury's Men, he welcomed them with open arms and put his Great Hall at their disposal for a performance of The Renegade. Good fortune was tinged with bad news. Banbury's Men learned from a visitor to the Grange that their rivals had just scored a triumph in Nottingham with a play about Robin Hood.

  Giles Randolph stamped a peevish foot

  'They are closer to us than we thought

  'Yet still a day behind us,' said Mark Scruton.

  'I like not such nearness, sir.'

  'They will not catch up yet.'

  'Find some other way to delay them.'

  'I have it already in my mind.'...

  Randolph strutted around the Great Hall and watched the stage being erected. He tested the acoustics with a speech from the play and his voice had a poetic beauty to it. The tour had so far been a tale of continuing success that was all the more gratifying because it had involved the abject failure of Westfield's Men. Now, however, his rivals were on his heels and it made him nervous.

  He snapped his fingers to beckon Scruton over.

  'Yes, Master.'

  'You have another trick, sir?'

  'It will leave them naked and ashamed.'

  'About it straight.'

  'What, now?' said Scruton in surprise. 'Before they close in on us.'

  'But there is the performance of The Renegade.'

  'You will have to miss it.'

  'Then I miss the best role I have,' protested the other. 'Let me but act it here this evening and I'll waylay them tomorrow and cause my mischief.'

  'Tomorrow is too late.'

  'How will you play without me?'

  'Young Harry Paget will take on the part.'

  'But it is mine!' complained Scruton angrily.

  'Mind your tone, sir.'

  'You do me a great injustice.'

  'It is but for one performance, Mark,' soothed the other. 'When we play the piece again, you will be restored to your glory. You have my word upon it.'

  'And when we reach York?'

  'You sign a contract that gives you larger roles in every play we stage. If I approve it, that is.'

  Mark Scruton was cornered. Despite all he had done for the company, he was still not legally a sharer. Until his elevation to that level, he was still at the mercy of Randolph's whims and commands. He fell back on the polite obsequiousness that had served him so well in the past.

  'I will set off at once.'

  'Cause havoc in the ranks of Westfield's Men.'

  'They will not dare to play thereafter.'

  'That thought contents me.

  'And my reward?'

  'It waits for you in York.'

  The four liveried servants rode at a gentle canter along the Great North Road. They bore their masters crest upon their sleeves and his money in their purses. His orders were to be carried out to the letter and they knew the penalty for failure to comply with his wishes. It was a strange assignment but it took them out of Hertfordshire to pastures new and there was interest in that. Their leader set the pace and they rode some five yards apart like the corners of some gigantic scarf. In the middle of that scarf was the person whom they escorted with such care and concern. It was an important mission.

  They came to a crossing and saw a large white stone beside the road. Carved into its face was a number that outraged their travelling companion. She shrieked aloud.

  'One hundred miles to York!'

  'Yes, Mistress,' said one of the men.

  'We make tardy progress.'

  'It is for your own comfort.'

  'Mine! Ha! I'll ride the thighs off any man.'

  'What is the haste, Mistress?'

  'I need to get there.'

  Margery Firethorn kicked her horse on and it broke into a gallop that left the others behind. The four bemused servants of Lord Westfield gave chase at once and wondered what this madwoman, sitting astride a black horse and hallooing at the top of her voice, was actually doing. Her reckless conduct was unsettling to them but she did not bother herself about that.

  Margery was going to York.

  She had something to say to her husband.

  'Hold still, Master Firethorn, you must not move about so.'

  'I am flesh and blood, sir, not a piece of marble.'

  'An artist needs a motionless subject.'

  'Wait till I am dead and paint me then.'

  'You are being perverse, sir.'

  'My neck is breaking in two!'

  'Take five minutes rest.'

  Oliver Quilley clicked his tongue in annoyance. They were in his bedchamber at the inn where they were spending the night. The artist had suggested a first sitting to Firethorn but his subject had been less than helpful. Not only did he talk incessantly throughout, he could not keep his head in the same position for more than a couple of minutes. It was most unsatisfactory.

  Firethorn came over to see the results.

  'How far have we got, Master Quilley?'

  'Almost nowhere.'

  'Show me your work.'

  'It is hardly begun.'

  'But I have been sitting there for a century!'

  Quilley was at a small table with his materials in front of him. The portrait was on vellum that was stretched and stuck on a playing card. Pigments were mixed in mussel shells and applied with squirrel-hair brushes made out of quills. An animal's tooth, set in the handle of the brush, could be used for burnishing at a later stage. Limning was an exact art that required the correct materials. It was not surprising that Quilley kept them in his leather pouch and hid them beneath his doublet. His livelihood travelled next to his heart.

  Firethorn studied the sketched outline of his face and head, not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted. There was a definite likeness there but it was still so insubstantial as to be meaningless to him. The actor's art could be displayed to the full in two hours' traffic on the stage and he expected similar speed from the miniaturist. Quilley's was a slower genius. It grew at the pace of a rose and took much longer to flower.

  'There is not much to see, sir,' said Firethorn.

  'That is your own fault.'

  'Can you not hurry yourself?'

  'Not if you wish for a work of art.'

  'I will settle for no less.'

  'Then learn to sit still.'

  'I am a man of action.'

  'Contemplate your greatness.'

  The circle of vellum on which Quilley worked was barely two inches in diameter. Lawrence Firethorn's personality had to be caught and concentrated in that tiny area and it required the utmost care and skill. When the artist tried to explain this, his subject was diverted by another thought.

  'What card have you chosen?'

  'Card, sir?'

  'Stuck to the vellum. The playing card.'

  'Oh, that. I chose the two of hearts.'

  'So low a number?'

  'It betokens love, Master Firethorn,' explained the other. 'Most of my subjects want their portrait to be a gift to their beloved. Hearts is the favourite suit. I did not think you would prefer the Jack of Clubs.'

  'Indeed, no, sir,' said Firethorn, warming to the idea at once. 'Two hearts entwined will be ideal. It will be the badge of my sentiments when I bestow the gift.'

  'Your wife will be enchanted."

  'What does she have to do here!'

  Firethorn went back to his seat and struck a pose. The artist came across to adjust it slightly before he went back to his table. Quilley changed his tack. As the actor froze into a statue before him, he heaped praise upon his performance as Robin Hood and Firethorn hardly moved. Flattery succeeded where outright abuse had not. The artist actually began to
take strides forward. It did not last. Firethorn was quiescent but others were not.

  Someone banged plaintively on the door.

  'Are you within, sir?' called George Dart.

  'Go away!' bellowed his employer.

  'We must not be disturbed!' added Quilley.

  'But I bring important news, Master Firethorn.'

  'Good or bad?'

  'Disastrous.'

  'How now?'

  'Send him away,' urged Quilley.

  'We'll hear this first, sir.'

  Firethorn dived for the door and flung it open. Dart was so scared to be the bearer of bad tidings once more that he was gibbering wildly. Firethorn took him by the shoulders and shook him into coherence.

  'What has happened, man?'

  'We have been robbed again.'

  'Another apprentice?'

  'No, Master. Our costumes have gone.' ,; 'Gone where?'

  'Into thin air, sir. The basket has vanished.'

  Lawrence Firethorn reached for his neck to throttle him then thought better of it. Charging downstairs to the room where the costume basket had been stored, he was shocked to see that it had, in fact, been taken. Their entire stock had gone. The cost involved was enormous but the consequences of the theft were much more crippling. Without their costumes, they could not stage a single play. Someone was trying to put Westfield's Men right out of business.

  Firethorn clutched at his hair in desperation.

  'Oh, Nick!' he howled. 'Where are you now!'

  A full day in the saddle finally brought its reward. With two horses at his disposal, he could ride much faster and much further afield, changing his mounts to keep them fresh and towing one of them behind him. Nicholas Bracewell was tireless in his pursuit. Endless questioning and riding eventually brought him to Lavery Grange. There was no mistake this time. Banbury's Men were in the act of presenting The Renegade to an attentive audience. Posing as a late arrival, Nicholas gained admission to the Great Hall and lurked at the rear. Giles Randolph dominated the proceedings but the book holder was much more interested in those around him, searching for people who had betrayed Westfield's Men by yielding up the secrets of their repertoire. Nicholas recognized several faces but none had ever been employed by his company. He was mystified.