The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3 Read online

  As she reviewed their last few hours together, she saw how unkind she had been to him. Lawrence Firethorn was unique and it was her place to respect and foster that uniqueness. He was not the callous father she accused him of being, nor yet the selfish husband or the compulsive libertine. He was a great man and, taken all in all, he deserved better from her.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margery used gentle fingers to stroke the garment he had so considerately left behind for her. It was his second-best cloak, worn during his performance in the title-role of Vincentio's Revenge and redolent with memories of that triumph. Knowing what it had cost him in emotional and spiritual terms to part with the cloak, she had slept all night with it lying across her. It was her one real memento of him.

  Apart from the ruby.

  Margery sat up with a start. She had chosen to forget all about the ring. It had been the cause of their bitter disputation and she had put it out of sight and out of mind. Now it took on a new significance. It was a love token from her husband, a reaffirmation of their marriage at a time when it would be put under immense strain. Scolding herself for being so ungrateful, she ran to the drawer where she had hidden the present. She would wear it proudly until he came back home again.

  Burning with passion, she opened the drawer. But the ring had vanished. In its place was a tiny scroll. When she unrolled it, she saw a brief message from her husband.

  'Farewell, dear love. Since the ruby is not welcome in Shore-ditch, I will wear it myself in Arcadia.'

  Margery Firethorn smouldered. She knew only too well the location of Arcadia. It was the setting of a play by Edmund Hoode. Instead of gracing her finger, the ring would be worn for effect in The Lovers' Melancholy. It was demeaning. Such was the esteem in which she was held.

  Love had, literally, been snatched from her hand.

  Her scream of rage was heard a hundred yards away.

  The vestry of the parish church of St Stephen was dank and chill in the warmest weather but Humphrey Budden still felt as if he were roasting on a spit. Misery had brought him there and it deepened with every second. He had to make a shameful confession. The one consolation was that Miles Melhuish was patently as discomfited as he himself was. Inclined to be smug and unctuous for the most part, the vicar was now torn between reluctant interest and rising apprehension. Though he had married many of his parishioners and sent them off with wise words to the land of connubial delight, he had never dared to explore that fabled territory himself. This fact only served to cow the nervous Budden even more. How could any man understand his predicament, still less a rotund bachelor whose idea of nocturnal pleasure was to spend an hour on his knees beside the bed in a frenzy of prayer?

  Miles Melhuish sat in the chair opposite his visitor and reached out to him across the table. A vague smell of incense filled the air. The weight of religiosity was oppressive. Their voices echoed as in a tomb.

  'Speak to me, Humphrey', encouraged the vicar.

  'I will try, sir.'

  'Is it your wife again?'

  'I fear me, it is.'

  Not more weeping and wailing?'

  'Thankfully, no, but there is further harm.'

  'To whom?'

  Humphrey Budden was a furnace of humiliation. His cheeks Were positively glowing and he felt as if steam would issue from every orifice at any moment.

  'Did you pray? said Melhuish sternly.

  'Without ceasing.'

  'Has Eleanor prayed with you?'

  'It is the only time I may get close to her.'

  'How say you?'

  'She has put me aside, sir.'

  'Speak more plain.'

  It was a difficult request to fulfil. A man who had mastered the delicate art of lacemaking was now forced to chisel words crudely out of himself like an apprentice stonemason. Each swing of the hammer made his brain reel.

  'Eleanor...is...not...my...wife.'

  'Indeed, she is,' said the vicar. 'I solemnized the marriage myself and preached a sermon to you on the importance of walking in truth. Have you done that, my son? Have you and your wife walked in truth?'

  'Yes, sir...down by...the river.'

  'Stop holding back."

  'I... have... no... wife.'

  'Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder.'

  'A woman hath done it.'

  'Done what, man? We are going in small circles.'

  Humphrey Budden steeled himself to blurt it all out.

  'Eleanor is no longer my wife, sir. She will not share my bed or suffer my embraces. She says that the voice of God has spoken to her. It is sending her on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'

  'Wait, wait!' said Melhuish in alarm. 'You go too fast here. Let us take it one step at a time. She will not share your bed, you tell me?'

  'No, sir. She sleeps on the floor.'

  'Alone?'

  'She will not let me near her.'

  'Have you given her just cause, Humphrey?'

  'I think not.'

  'Have you caused her some injury or turned her affections from you in some other way?'

  Even as he asked the question, Miles Melhuish saw how cruel and inappropriate it was. Humphrey Budden was a strong man but he would never use that strength against a woman. No husband could have been more considerate. His wife must be to blame for what had happened.

  The vicar tried to probe into the bedchamber.

  'This problem is of recent origin?'

  'Since I called you to the house, sir.'

  'And what passed between you in former times?'

  'We shared a bed in Christian happiness, sir.'

  'And your wife was then...forthcoming?'

  'Most truly!'

  'She did not hold back from you?'

  'I was the novice at first. Eleanor had to instruct me in my duties and she did so with wondrous skill.'

  Miles Melhuish reddened as a vision flashed before his eyes. He saw the naked body of an impassioned woman in the bedchamber of a parishioner. He could sniff her fragrance, feel her touch, share her madness. It took a great effort of will for him to banish her from his mind.

  He asked his question through gritted teeth.

  'You say the marriage was happy?'

  'Very happy, sir.'

  'And that she instructed you willingly.'

  'Two husbands had taught her much.'

  'So you and your wife...mingled flesh?'

  'Every night, sir.'

  'The act of love is for procreation, said the vicar sharply. It is not a source of carnal gratification.

  'We know that, sir, and acted accordingly. Our dearest wish was that our union would be blessed with a child.

  'I'm surprised you have not had several offspring, muttered the other under his breath. 'With such regular activity, you could people an entire town!' He sat up and pulled himself together. But all that is now past?'

  'This is what she says.'.

  'For what reason?'

  'Divine command.'

  'The woman is deranged.'

  'She wishes to become a pilgrim, sir.'

  'Poor creature! She needs help.'

  'Eleanor is leaving soon.'

  'Where will she go?'

  'Jerusalem.'

  'I spy madness.'

  Humphrey Budden leaned forward to make his plea.

  'Speak to her, sir!'

  'Me?'

  'You are our only hope. Eleanor will listen to you.'

  'Will she so?'

  'Speak to her!'

  It was a cry from the heart and Miles Melhuish could not ignore it. Part of him wanted to shrug the problem off his own shoulders but another part of him wanted to take the full weight of the burden. The vision flashed through his mind again. Long fair hair. Round, trembling buttocks. Joyous breasts. Satin skin. Succulent lips. Total surrender in its most beautiful human form.

  The answer to a prayer.

  'Very well,' he said. 'I'll speak to her.'

  Lawrence Firethorn pawed the ground like an ang
ry bull. When he began his charge, nobody within striking distance was safe. It was a terrifying spectacle.

  'What did you say, Nick?' he bellowed.

  'They will not suffer us to play there.'

  'Not suffer us! In Lord Westfield's own country? Where the writ of our patron runs wide? And they will not suffer us, indeed? I'll teach them what suffering is, call me rogue if I do not!'

  'Another company got there first, Master,'

  'With our play! Stolen without compunction.'

  'They would not hear Cupid's Folly again,' explained Nicholas.; 'Nor would they countenance any other play from us. They have eaten their fill.'

  'Then will I make them spew it up again!' raged Firethorn. 'By heaven, I'll make their stomachs burn, the unmannerly rogues, the scurvy, lousy, beggarly knaves, the foul, ungrateful rascals, the stinking, rotting carcasses of men that live in that God-forsaken hole! Keep me from them, Nick, or I'll carve 'em all to shreds with my sword, I will, and hang the strips on a line for kites to peck at.'

  Lawrence Firethorn unsheathed his weapon and hacked at a bush to vent his spleen. The rest of the company looked on with trepidation. Nicholas had met them a mile south of Ware to break the bad news. Predictably, it had thrown the actor-manager info a fury. As be reduced the bush to a forlorn pile of twigs and leaves, they began to fear for the safety of all vegetation in the country. He was armed and dangerous.

  It was Edmund Hoode who calmed him down.

  'That bush is not the enemy, Lawrence.'

  'Stand off, sir.'

  'Sheath your sword and listen to reason.'

  'Reason? What care I for reason?'

  'We are all losers in this escapade.'

  'Indeed we are,' said Barnaby Gill loftily from his saddle. 'Cupid's Folly was to have been my triumph. I never play Rigormortis without I leave the audience in a state of helpless mirth.'

  'It is those absurd breeches,' sneered Firethorn.

  'My success does not lie in my breeches.'

  That we all can confirm!'

  Laughter from the others helped to ease the tension. Gill spluttered impotently then turned his horse away in a huff. Hoode took the sword from Firethorn and put it back into its sheath.

  Nicholas Bracewell addressed the real problem.

  How did they get hold of the play?'

  It was taken from you privily,' said Firethorn.

  'That is not possible, Master. The books of all our plays are locked in a chest that I keep hidden away from prying eyes. Nobody is allowed near it, least of all our rivals. Cupid's Revenge was not stolen.'

  'It was pirated in some way,' said Hoode grimly. 'And if it can be done with one play, it can be done again with others. Who can assure the safety of my own plays?'

  There's but one answer for it,' said Nicholas.

  'Revenge!' declared Firethorn.

  'Only after we learn the truth, Master.'

  'We know it full well, Nick. This is the work of Banbury's Men, those shambling caterpillars that call themselves a company of players. They mean to spike our guns but we will turn our cannon round and give them such a broadside as will blow them back to London.'

  But how was it done?' insisted Nicholas.

  Marry, that's the important point,' agreed Hoode.

  'Not to me,' said Firethorn, striking a heroic pose with one arm outstretched towards the sky. 'Only one thing serves us here. Swift and bloody revenge! If those liveried lice belonging to the Earl of Banbury will dare to take on the might of Westfield's Men, so be it! Let them beware the consequences.'

  He ranted on in fine style for several minutes. Banbury's Men were their arch-rivals, a talented company that strove to equal them but always fell short of their stature. Led by the wily Giles Randolph, they had made attempts to damage the reputation of Westfield's Men before but they had never stooped to this device. In London, they would not have dared to be so bold but the anonymity of the provinces gave them a useful shield. Banbury's Men had struck the first telling blow.

  Firethorn intended to strike the last.

  'Let us pursue them with all speed, gentlemen. They deserve no quarter. Banbury's Men have shown how low they will sink into the mire of self-advancement. There's no room in our profession for such dishonourable wags. We must expel them once and for all.' The sword came out to make a graphic gesture. 'Onwards to battle, my lads! Let us fight for our lives and our good names.'

  With a practised flick of the wrist, he sent the point of his rapier some inches into the ground so that the blade rocked to and fro with mesmeric power. They were still watching the weapon vibrate as he growled his final, fatal words.

  'Gentlemen--this is war!'

  Giles Randolph reclined in a wooden armchair in the corner of the tavern and toyed with his glass of Canary wine. Tall, slim and dark, he had a Mediterranean cast of feature which set him apart from the average man and which made him irresistible to the feminine sections of his audiences. He had a Satanic quality that excited. Randolph was the acknowledged star of Banbury's Men and he was a shrewd businessman as well as a superb actor. Trapped in the vanity of his profession, he could not accept that any man could strut a stage with more assurance or squeeze the life-blood out of any role with more devastating effect. His feud with Lawrence Firethorn, therefore, went fathoms deeper than mere professional jealousy. It was a vendetta, at once reinforced and given more dimension by the fact that the Earl of Banbury and Lord Westfield were sworn enemies. In mortifying his rival, Giles Randolph could please his patron.

  He smiled complacently at his companion.

  'We have made good speed.'

  'Banbury's Men are ahead in every sense.'

  'It must remain that way. I like not these wearisome tours but at least we can have some sport for our pains.'

  'They will have reached Ware by now.'

  And found the coldest welcome.

  Randolph sipped his wine then toyed with his glass. As befitted a leading actor, he was attired with all due ostentation in a doublet of blue satin with elaborate gold patterning down the front and green hose. His hat swept down over one eye to give him a conspiratorial air and its ostrich feather trembled as he spoke.

  'Firethorn must be wounded to the quick.'

  'We have drawn blood enough already.'

  'I want to hack off his limbs,' said Randolph with sudden intensity. 'I want to leave his gore all over the stage. If he dares to compete against my sovereignty, I will bring him down once and for all.'

  'By what means?'

  'Attacking his pride.'

  'I'll wager it is smarting back in Ware just now.'

  'Wait until he reaches Grantham. I'll pull a trick will make him wish he had stayed at home in Shoreditch with that termagant wife of his and listened to her scolding.' He put his glass down. Now, sir, what is his finest role?'

  'Vincentio?' suggested the other.

  'A scurvy play with but three speeches of note.'

  'Hector, then. Master Firethorn is always boasting of his prowess in Hector of Troy. The part becomes him.'

  'He has not played it this last year.'

  'Then must we go to his favourite character.'

  'What's that? You know his mind.'

  'Pompey!'

  'The very man!'

  'The play was called for time and again.'

  'By Edmund Hoode, I think.'

  'Yes, sir. It is called Pompey the Great.'

  'Then will it feel the imprint of my greatness.'

  'We'll play the piece in Grantham.'

  'To the hilt, sir. Lawrence Firethorn will have his reputation cut from beneath him. I'll make the role my own and throw Westfield's Men aside into the mire. This tour will yet repay me in full amount.'

  Giles Randolph called for more wine from the cask.

  It tasted sweeter than ever.

  (*)Chapter Four

  Marmion Hall was an optical illusion. Because it nestled in a hollow and was fringed by a semi-circle of trees, it looked far smaller than
it really was. Behind the modest facade, it was remarkably spacious with the main part of the house thrusting deep and with a sizeable wing that was hidden behind the outcrop of sycamores. A fire had caused extensive damage to the rear of the property some ten years earlier and there had been lengthy repair work. Sir Clarence Marmion took advantage of the rebuilding to add some new features to his home though they were not all apparent to the naked eye. Like its owner, Marmion Hall preserved an air of secrecy.

  Sunday afternoon found Sir Clarence in the dining room, sitting alone at the head of the shining oak table as he studied his Bible. Dressed in subdued colours and wearing an expression of rapt concentration, he tended to his spiritual needs then closed his eyes in thought.

  There was a knock on the door. A servant entered.

  'Well?'

  'The guests have arrived, Sir Clarence.'

  'All of them?'

  'Yes, Sir Clarence.'

  'What o'clock is it?'

  'Upon the stroke of four.' .

  'Thank you.'

  A dismissive flick of the hand sent the servant backing out of the room. Sir Clarence lifted his lids and read the passage that he had been studying. Closing the book gently, he put it under his arm and made his way out. He now felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.

  The hall was a large rectangle with oak panelling along three walls and a series of high windows along the other wall with leaded panes. Gilt-framed mirrors and family portraits broke up the monotony. A moulded ceiling gave a sense of grandeur. Furniture was all of prime oak and tastefully arranged. In the vast, stone fireplace at the far end of the hall was an iron fireback bearing the Marmion coat-of-arms. Iron firedogs stood beside an iron basket piled high with logs.

  When Sir Clarence entered, they were all waiting and their murmured conversations stopped at once. He looked at them all with an amalgam of pride and sorrow and then opened his arms in welcome. The whole family came across to greet him and he exchanged pleasantries with them all. Then came the moment when the baby was placed into his arms. It was a boy, barely three months old, yet strong and lusty, waving his tiny fists at the world with Marmion defiance, wriggling in his white lace robe as if anxious to be about more important business.