The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3 Page 10

  'One thing more, George.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'

  'Many times, Master.'

  'What does he say?'

  'That he is the better player of the two.'

  'I did not think him so.'

  'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'

  'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'

  'None, Master.'

  'No tribute of a passing sigh?'

  'Not once in my hearing.'

  'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'

  'I will, sir.'

  Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.

  'When we left London...'

  'Yes, George?'

  'We came through Bishopsgate.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  'There was a head upon a spike there.'

  'Several, if memory serves.'

  'This was the most recent.'

  'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'

  'What was his offence?'

  'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'

  'Was he alone in his crime?'

  'No, lad. He was part of a Catholic conspiracy.'

  'Why were the others not brought to justice?" 'Because they have not been apprehended yet.'

  'Will they be so?'

  'Sir Francis Walsingham will see to that.'

  'How?'

  'His men will scour the kingdom.

  Before George could frame another question, there was a scream from nearby which sent Nicholas haring off with his sword in his hand. Richard Honeydew had yelled out in fear from behind the bushes where he had slipped off to relieve himself. Nicholas got to him in seconds to Find him open-mouthed in horror and pointing to something that was coming over the brow of the hill.

  It was as weird and exotic a sight as any they had seen thus far on their travels. A band of some twenty or more had appeared in bizarre costumes that were made up of embroidered turbans and brightly-coloured scarves worn over shreds and patches. Their swarthy faces were painted red or yellow and bells tinkled about their feet as they rode along on their horses. They were at once frightening and fascinating. Richard Honeydew was transfixed.

  Nicholas laughed and patted him on the back.

  'They will not harm you, lad.'

  'Who are they. Master?'

  'Egyptians.'

  'Who?'

  'Minions of the moon.'

  'Are they real?'

  'As real as you or me.'

  'Why do they look so strange?'

  'They're gypsies.'

  Anne Hendrik had travelled by way of Watling Street to visit her cousins in Dunstable. She soon moved on to Bedford to stay with an uncle and was pleased when he invited her to accompany him on a visit to his brother in Nottingham. Though the town had not been part of the itinerary of Westfield's Men, it took her much closer to them and that brought some comfort. It was only now that she was parted from Nicholas Bracewell that she realized how important he was in her life. They had shared the same house for almost three years now and she had grown to appreciate his unusual qualities.

  She missed his soft West Country accent and his sense of humour and his endless consideration. Many men would have been brutalized by some of the experiences he had been through, but Nicholas remained true to himself and sensitive to the needs of others. He had faults but even those produced a nostalgic smile now. As Anne wandered through the market stalls of Nottingham, her hands were busy fingering lace and leather and cambric but her mind was on her dearest friend.

  She sensed that he might not be too far away.

  'Do not buy that here, Anne.'

  'What?'

  'The finest leather is in Leicester.'

  'Oh...yes.'

  She put down the purse she had been absent-mindedly examining and took her uncle's arm. He was an old man now and there would not be many journeys left to his brother. It gave him pleasure to be able to indulge his niece along the way. She had always been his favourite.

  'What may I buy you, Anne?'

  'It is I who should give you a present, uncle.' !

  'Your visit is present enough,' he said then waved his walking stick at the stalls. 'Choose what you wish.'

  'There is nothing that I need.'

  'I must give you some treat.'

  'You have done that by bringing me here.'

  He looked around and scratched his head in thought. When the idea came forth, it brought an elderly chuckle.

  'Haply, you would like some entertainment.'

  'Of what kind, uncle?'

  'I'll take you to a play.'

  Do they have a company here?'

  'Had your head not been in the clouds, you would have seen for yourself. Playbills are up on every post.'

  Indeed?'

  Incitement stirred. Could Westfield's Men be there?

  'Let me but show you, niece.'

  'I follow you in earnest.'

  He pushed a way through the crowd until they came to Ye Old Salutation Inn, one of the taverns that nestled close to Nottingham Castle and which had quenched the thirst of needy travellers for untold generations. Nailed to a beam outside the inn was a playbill written out with a flourish. Anne Hendrik felt her pulse quicken when she saw the name of the play. Pompey the Great. Edmund Hoode's famed tragedy.

  A triumph for Westfield's Men.

  Her joy turned sour on the instant. The audience would not see Lawrence Firethorn in his most celebrated role. They were being offered the more shallow talents of Giles Randolph and his company.

  'Shall you see this play with me, Anne?'

  'Not I, uncle. I have no stomach for the piece.'

  She turned away in outrage.

  They knew that they were in Nottinghamshire as soon as they saw the woodland. Leicestershire had few forests and even fewer deer parks, the land being given over largely to agriculture. The growing of barley, pulses and wheat were familiar sights as were the fields of cattle and sheep. Once across the border, however, Westfield's Men encountered very different terrain. They were in the shire with the wood' since Sherwood Forest accounted for over a quarter of its area.

  Their morale had lifted since the sun came out. The decision to leave the Great North Road had been a mixed blessing. It gave them performances in Oakham and Melton Mowbray in front of small but committed audiences but it also acquainted them with the misery of traversing bad roads in inclement weather. Resting for the night some five miles south of Nottingham, they hoped they had put the worst of their troubles behind them.

  When Lawrence Firethorn insisted that they stay at the Smith and Anvil, the others thought that it was a rare instance of sentimentality in him. The son of a village blacksmith himself, he had the build of those who followed that trade along with the bearing of a true gentleman. The original forge was a building of napped flints with a deep thatch but the inn which had grown up around it was largely timber-framed. When they entered the taproom, they realized why the actor-manager had been so insistent that they spent the night there.

  'Master Firethorn!'

  'Come, let me embrace you, Susan!'

  'Oh, sir! This is unlooked-for joy!'

  'And all the sweeter for it.'

  The hostess was an attractive woman of ample girth and vivacious manner. Susan Becket was spilling out of her dress with welcome. The plump face was one round smile and the red tresses were tossed in delight. She came bouncing across the taproom to bestow a kiss like a clap of thunder on the lips of Lawrence Firethorn.

  'What brings you to my inn, sir?'

  'What else but your dear self?'

  'You flatter me, you rascal.'

  'I am like to do more than that ere I leave.'

  'Away, you saucy varied' she said with a giggle.

&nbs
p; 'Do you have good beds at your hostelry?'

  'No man has complained, sir.'

  'Then neither will I,' said Firethorn enfolding her in his arms again. 'Hold me tight, Mistress Susan Becket. Though you have the name of a saint, I like you best for being a sinner.'

  Her laughter set the huge breasts bobbing merrily.

  Nicholas Bracewell, as usual, organized the sleeping arrangements. The best rooms went to the sharers and the hired men had to make do with what was left. Since it was a small establishment, some of them had to bed down on straw in an outhouse. Nicholas volunteered to spend the night with a few others so that the apprentices could have the last small room. All four of them were packed into the same lumpy bed. George Dart slept at their feet.

  The book holder finished his supper in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Carrying a large candle, the hostess guided Lawrence Firethorn up to his chamber. Gill gave a sardonic snort.

  'She'll burn his candle for him till he be all wax.'

  'They are old friends, I think,' said Hoode.

  'Lawrence has friends in every tavern and trugging-house in England,' said Gill. 'I wonder they do not name one of their diseases after him. I know a dozen or more doxies who have caught a dose of Firethorn before now.'

  'He has always been popular with the ladies,' said Nicholas diplomatically.

  'Ladies!' Gill hooted. 'There is nothing ladylike about them, Master Bracewell. As long as they give him a gallop, that is sufficient, and Mistress Becket will prove a willing mount. Hell not have to ride side-saddle with her, I warrant.

  'Leave off this carping, Barnaby,' said Hoode.

  'I do it but in memory of his wife.'

  'Margery knows the man she married.'

  And so do half the women in London.'

  'We all have passions, sir.'

  Not of that kind!' Gill rose from the table with an air of magisterial disdain. 'Some of us can discern where true satisfaction lies and it is not in the arms of some whore. There is a love that surpasses that of women.'

  'Love of self, sir?' said Nicholas artlessly.

  'Good night, gentlemen!'

  Barnaby Gill banged out of the room in disgust.

  Richard Honeydew had some difficulty getting off to sleep because of the high spirits of the other apprentices. They fought, laughed, teased and played tricks upon one another until they tired themselves out. George Dart was quite unable to control them and was usually the butt of their jokes. When they finally drifted off, it was into a deep and noisy sleep. Dart's snore was the loudest.

  None of them yielded more readily to slumber than Richard Honeydew. Wedged into one end of the bed beside John Tallis, he did not even feel the kicks from the restless feet of his two companions who slept at the other end of the bed. Nor did he hear the latch of the door lift. Two figures entered silently and looked around in the gloom. One held a sword at the ready to ward off any interruption and the other carried a sack. When their quarry was located, the sack was slipped over his head and a hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy was pulled from the bed with careful speed and the interlopers made off with their prize.

  Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.

  'Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!'

  'What ails you, George?'

  'We have been robbed, sir.'

  'Of what?' said Nicholas, sitting up.

  'I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.'

  'The theft was from your chamber?'

  'Yes, Master. We have lost our biggest jewel.'

  'How say you?'

  'Dick Honeydew has gone.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Beyond all doubt.'

  'This is not some jest of the others?'

  'They are as shocked as I am.'

  'Where can Dick be?'

  'I know the answer, sir.'

  'Do you?'

  'Stolen by the gypsies.'

  Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.

  'This is worth ten times your fee, sir.'

  'What is it, Master?'

  'A work of genius.'

  Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.

  'I cannot take it, sir.'

  'Why not? I'd sell it for three pounds or more.'

  'Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.'

  'A wife?'

  'Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,' said the physician. 'If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.'

  'I'll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.'

  'There's no hurry, Master, and you need the rest.'

  'What rest?'

  'To recover from your injuries.'

  'They are of no account.'

  'A few days in bed would see them gone for good.'

  'I have no time to tarry,' said Quilley fussily. I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I've lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.'

  'Where, Master Quilley?'

  'In York.'

  Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.

  Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.

  Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.

  Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.

  'I did not expect you at this early hour.'

  'Necessity brought me hither.'

  'Is something amiss?'

  'I fear me it is. More news from London.'

  'What has happened, Sir Clarence?'

  'Information was laid against a certain person.'

  'Master Neville Pomeroy?'

  'He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.'

  'Dear God!'

  'Walsingham's men are closing in.'

  'Can any of us now be safe?' said Rawlins.

  'We have the security of our religion and that is proof against all assault. Master Pomeroy will give them no names, whatever ordeals they put him through. We must keep our nerve and pray that we survive.'

  'Amen!'

  (*)Chapter Six

  Lawrence Firethorn roared like a dragon when George Dart banged on the door of his bedchamber at the Smith and Anvil. Reverting to the trade of his father, the actor-manager was playing the sturdy blacksmith to Mistress Susan Becket's
willing anvil. He was tilling the air with sparks of joy at the very moment that the rude knuckles of his caller dared to interrupt him. Plucked untimely from the womb, he flung open the door and breathed such crackling flames of anger that the little stagekeeper was charred for life. Facing his employer was a daunting task at any time but to be at the mercy of Firethorn when he was naked, roused and deprived of consummation was like taking a stroll in the seventh circle of Hell. George Dart was sacked three times before he was even allowed to open his mouth. It was a lifetime before the message was actually delivered.

  'Dick Honeydew has been taken, sir.'

  'By whom, you idiot? By what, you dolt?'

  'The gypsies.'

  'Away with your lunacy!'

  'I fear 'tis true, Master Firethorn.'

  Corroboration came in the form of Nicholas Bracewell and the other apprentices, who were conducting a thorough search of the premises. They had checked every nook and cranny in the building, including attics and cellars, but there was no sign of Richard Honeydew. The boy had either run away of his own free will--which seemed unlikely--or he had been kidnapped.The second option was accepted at once by Firethorn who turned it into a personal attack upon himself and his career.

  'They have stolen my Maid Marion!'

  'We will find him,' said Nicholas determinedly. ;

  'How can Robin Hood play love scenes on his own?'

  'You will have to use one of the other boys.'

  'I like not that idea, Nick.'

  'Sherwood Forest must have another maid.'

  'Not John Tallis!' said Firethorn. 'He has a face more fit for comedy than kissing. Maid Marion cannot have a lantern jaw, sir.'

  'Stephen Judd or Martin Yeo will take the part.'

  'Neither is suitable.'

  'Then choose another play, Master Firethorn.'

  'Be thwarted out of my purpose! Never!' He stamped his foot on the bare boards and collected a few sharp splinters. 'This villainy is directed at me, Nick. They do know my Robin Hood is quite beyond compare and seek to pluck me down out of base envy.'