The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3 Page 8

  Millfield chuckled and urged his horse on.

  After the disappointments in Ware and Royston, they gained adequate recompense. Hearing of their arrival, the master of the house had them brought into the room where he had been going through his accounts with his Steward.

  Neville Pomeroy was a stout, solid man of middle years with curling grey hair and slow movements. He gave them a cordial welcome, heard their business then nodded with enthusiasm. They were in luck.

  'You come at a timely hour, gentlemen,' he said. 'I am only returned from London myself today and thought to have missed you as you passed through Royston.'

  'You knew of our presence here?' said Nicholas.

  'From Lord Westfield himself. We have mutual friends in the city. I have seen his company tread the boards and warrant they nave no equal. Master Firethorn will honour me if he plays inside my house.'

  'Then we may draw up a contract? '

  'Indeed so, Master Bracewell. I will need a day to send out Word and gather in an audience but, if you can bide your time, then 1 can offer you warm applause on the morrow. How large is the company?'

  'But fifteen souls, sir.'

  'Then must you lodge at the inn nearby. The Pomeroy Arms will give you free board at my request. It is but a small place, I fear, but it should serve your purpose.'

  'We thank you heartily, sir.

  'The gratitude is all mine. I love the theatre.

  'What would you have us play?'

  'Tarquin of Rome.'

  It was an unexpected choice but Nicholas did not question it. The play was a tragedy on the theme of tyranny and betrayal. It was strange fare for a hot summer evening in the privacy of one's house yet it revealed a serious student of the drama. Tarquin of Rome was an exceptional piece of writing. It furnished its title-role with speeches that could ring the withers and fire the soul. Pomeroy had chosen shrewdly.

  Nicholas and Millfield rode back to their fellows. Their news was passed around with glee. Firethorn made decisions at once. Tarquin of Rome was not a play they had planned on staging during the tour, and they had brought neither the costumes nor properties for it, but the actor-manager was in no way discomfited.

  'They shall have it, Nick.'

  'So I told Master Pomeroy.'

  'We have a day to prepare. It is sufficient. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll be Tarquin to the life!'

  He launched into the speech at the culmination of the death scene and the verse came out in a torrent. Lawrence Firethorn had the prodigious memory of a real actor who never forgets lines once learned. He carried some fifty parts in his head, each one a leading role of great complexity, yet he could produce them on demand. Swept away on a tide of emotion, he declaimed some more of Tarquin's soliloquies and filled the air with wonder.

  Nicholas Bracewell became pensive then he clicked his fingers and nodded to himself. Edmund Hoode was close enough to mark his behaviour.

  'Why do you nod so, Nick?'

  'I think I have their secret, Edmund.'

  'Who?'

  'Banbury's Men.'

  'Scurvy knaves! They have stolen our plays.'

  'I believe I know how.'

  Grantham gave them an ovation that lasted for some minutes and Giles Randolph luxuriated in it. There was a sizeable audience, culled both from the town and from the surrounding area of Lincolnshire, and they had never witnessed anything like Pompey the Great. Having come to watch the sort of pastoral romp that touring companies usually brought to them, the spectators were at first a trifle uneasy when they were confronted with a tale of military splendour and political intrigue, but they soon rallied as the drama unfolded with compelling skill. It was one of Edmund Hoode's most stirring achievements and Banbury's Men played it for all it was worth.

  Giles Randolph gave them an intelligent and moving account of the central role but he did not have Lawrence Firethorn's martial presence or swelling power. The defects in his performance, however, were happily concealed from both himself and his audience. He was convinced that he had touched heights far beyond the reach of his hated rival, and that he had demonstrated his superiority in the most signal and humiliating way. Rippling applause fed his narcissism. In the theatre of his mind, he had left Firethorn dead and buried.

  Celebrations were in order. Pompey the Great dined in style at a local inn with his company fawning avidly around him. After years in the shadow of Westfield's Men, it was heartening to sweep them aside and step out into the full glare of the sun.

  Seated beside Giles Randolph was a thoughtful young man with an expression of quiet self-congratulation. The leading actor sought even more applause.

  'Was I not inspired upon that stage, sir?'

  'You were the very ghost of Pompey.'

  'Did I not catch his greatness?'

  'In every line and gesture, Master Randolph.'

  'The audience loved me.'

  'How could they not?'

  'I walked in Elysium!'

  Mark Scruton gave a smile of agreement. His whole future was vested in the success of Banbury's Men and he yielded to nobody in his appreciation of the talent of its star. All that Giles Randolph lacked was material of the highest calibre. In most of the plays from his own repertoire, he was never less than hypnotic but never more than brilliant. He was held back by the limitations of the a part in which he appeared. Given a drama of true merit, handed

  Part into which he could pour himself body and soul, he could indeed approach magnificence.

  Giles Randolph was not unaware of this himself.

  'It is a well-wrought piece, ' he said grudgingly. 'Master Hoode is a fine poet.'

  'That final speech would ring tears from a stone.'

  'He has no equal in such scenes.'

  'You speak true, sir,' said Randolph. 'Away with the scribbling of apprentice playwrights! Give me men who can write a rolling line. We have good plays but none to live with the magic of this Pompey. The confession is painful to me, but I would dearly love this Master Hoode to pen his work for Banbury's Men.'

  'He does, Master. He does.'

  Giles Randolph laughed in keen appreciation.

  'When he reaches Grantham, he'll be most perplexed.'

  'And cry out like the victim of a robbery.'

  'With Master Firethorn howling "Murder!" in his wake.' He became businesslike. 'We must keep a distance ahead of them. It will not serve if Westfield's Men overtake us. We'll come to blows in that event.'

  'I have a device to slow them down completely.'

  'Tell me what it is, Master Scruton.'

  'Lend me an ear.'

  Giles Randolph leaned close so that he could catch the other's whisper. A smirk lit up his dark features. He liked the notion so much that he slipped his companion a few coins by way of gratitude. It was but small payment to a man who was proving such a friend to Banbury's Men.

  Mark Scruton was their saviour.

  Night wrapped its black cloak around the Pomeroy Arms. Secure in the knowledge that an audience awaited them on the morrow, Westfield's Men rehearsed until evening then roistered until midnight. They fell into their beds and were soon asleep, dreaming sweetly in their contentment. Nicholas Bracewell shared a room with four others at the rear of the premises. Fond thoughts of Anne Hendrik flitted their way through his slumber and he might have enjoyed them all night had not something disturbed him. He was awake at once and looking around with bleary eyes. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but he heard the others snoring in peaceful fellowship beside him. He listened carefully then realized what was wrong.

  Someone was missing.

  The distant clack of shoes on paved stone made him slip out of bed and cross to the window. He could just make out the tall figure of a man who was loping away from the inn. Nicholas shook his head to bring himself fully awake then strained his eyes against the gloom. The man reached higher ground and was silhouetted for a few seconds against the sky. It was enough. The book holder recognized him by his profile a
nd his gait.

  Christopher Millfield ran off into the night.

  Westfield's Men improvised with characteristic skill on their journey to Ancient Rome. Sheets became togas, long daggers became short swords, bushes were pillaged for laurel wreaths and a high-backed chair was borrowed from the inn itself to do duty as a throne. Under the guidance of the book holder, actors turned carpenters to build a few simple scenic devices. Edmund Hoode's woodwork was directed at the play itself and he laboured hard with his chisel, saw and plane. Tarquin of Rome was a long drama with a large cast. Had they been performing it in a town the size of Bristol or Newcastle or Exeter, they could easily have recruited journeymen to make up the numbers but that option was denied to them here. The play had to be trimmed to fit their modest company, though, even in its attenuated version, it was still a powerful drama. Only a full-blooded performance and frantic doubling could bring it off. It was the kind of challenge that they liked.

  Lawrence Firethorn gave them heart and hope.

  Let's make the old house ring with exultation!'

  Pomeroy Manor became a magnet for the local gentry. They came in droves to see the unlikely sight of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, seventh and last king of Rome, in the banqueting hall of a house in Hertfordshire. It was a revelation to them. On their makeshift stage, and with minimal scenery and costumes, Westfield's Men transported their spectators back some two thousand years or more.

  Lawrence Firethorn thrilled them to the marrow with his portrayal of Tarquin, drunk with power and steeped in wickedness, enhancing the power and prosperity of Rome in order to exploit it for his own selfish ends.

  It fell to Christopher Millfield to end the play.

  Our soldiers brave subdue your coward band, Restoring peace unto our bloodied land. Beshrew your heart, foul tyrant, fade away. Honour rules upon this glorious day. Though cruel kings vile cruelties will send, Freedom's banner flutters at the end.

  Neville Pomeroy leapt to his feet to lead the sustained applause for a play that had moved as much as it had entertained. Westfield's Men were feted. It made amends for all their setbacks. As they were leaving Pomeroy Manor, they had money in their purse and a triumph under their belt. It was invigorating.

  Their host showered them with fresh thanks.

  'You do not know what joy you have brought.'

  'We are deeply gratified,' said Firethorn, still using his Tarquin voice. 'We humble wights live on the indulgence of our patrons. Pomeroy Manor has been our joy as well. We hope for like acceptance everywhere.'

  'You will find it for sure, sir.'

  'Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.'

  'Go further north towards certain victory.'

  'That is our intention.'

  'I have done my share,' said Pomeroy. 'Hearing of your plans, I wrote from London to my closest friend to warn him of your coming. Westfield's Men are assured of a hearty welcome there.'

  'We thank you, kind sir. Where is this place?'

  'Marmion Hall.'

  'In what town?'

  'Close by the city of York.'

  Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.

  'York, you say? We know it by another name.'

  'What might that be?'

  'Jerusalem!'

  The cellar was deep beneath the house. No natural light penetrated and the thick stone walls were covered with seeping damp. There was a smell of despair. The man was naked to the waist. Spread-eagled on a wooden table, he was tied in such a way as to increase his torment. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, stretching him until he was on the point of splitting asunder. Huge gobs of sweat were wrung out of him to mingle with the streaked blood across his chest and arms. His face was a pulp. As he lay in his own excrement, he barely had the strength to groan any more and did not even feel the impudent legs of the spider that ran across his forehead.

  Marmion Hall was the ancestral home of one of the most respected families in Yorkshire. Nobody would have believed that it housed such a guest beneath its roof.

  The cellar door was unlocked and unbolted from the outside and a candle brought light. A short, stocky man in the livery of a servant went across to the prisoner and held the flame where it illumined his battered features. Sir Clarence Marmion was impassive as he saw the tortured body.

  'Has he said no more?'

  'Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.' Have you tested him to the full?'

  'With steel and fire. He's bled half to death.' Would not whipping loosen his tongue?'

  Only to let him beg for mercy.'

  'They get none that give none,' said the other coldly. 'Walsingham's men are ruthless. So must we be.'

  Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, the servant banged his head on the table then leered right into his face.

  'Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!'

  A long moan came from between parched lips.

  'Who was he?' hissed Sir Clarence. 'I want the name of the spy who informed on Master Rickwood!'

  The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.

  'Tell me!' insisted the master of the house. 'Which of Walsingham's creatures sent him to his death?'

  'I cannot cut the information out of him.'

  'His name!'

  As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove.

  He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.

  'What now, Sir Clarence?' asked the servant.

  'Kill him.'

  Though the house in Shoreditch was now half-empty, with far fewer mouths to feed at table, Margery Firethorn still had plenty of domestic chores to keep her occupied. One of these was to make regular visits to market to buy the food and berate any stallholder who tried to overcharge her. Servants could not be trusted to get the choicest items at the best prices and so she : reserved the task of filling the larder for herself. It got her out of the house and stopped her from brooding on her loneliness.

  She entered the city by Bishopsgate and was caught up in a small commotion. Armed soldiers were bustling about, pushing people out of the way and dealing roughly with any complainants. Margery rid herself of a few barbed remarks at them before sauntering on towards the market in Gracechurch Street. She was soon deep in dispute with a hapless vendor about the quality of his fruit. When she had beaten him down to the price she was prepared to pay, she took her belligerence along to the next stall and set it to work.

  Her footsteps eventually took her close to the Queen's Head and it prompted wistful thoughts of Westfield's Men. Ambivalent feelings pulled at her. Still angry with her husband, she yet missed him keenly. Anxious to upbraid him severely, she would have mixed some kisses with the scolding. Margery Firethorn could not blame her spouse for everything. In marrying him, she had married the theatre and that brought special tribulation.

  She was given further evidence of the fact. Sitting outside the inn on a low stool was a thin, ascetic man with a viol between his legs, coaxing plaintive notes out of his instrument in the hopes of earning a few coins from the passers-by. Margery was saddened. It was Peter Digby. Ten days before, he bad been the proud leader or the consort of musicians employed by Westfield's Men. Now he was scratching for pennies in the street. The theatre was indeed a cruel master.

  'How now, Master Digby!' she said.

  'Mistress!'

  'Have you no other work but this, sir?'

  'None that pays me.'

  She took a coin from a purse and pressed it into his hand. He thanked her for a kindness then enquired about the company. She had yet no news to give him but talked in general terms, shouts from the distance made them look towards Bishopsgate. More soldiers milled about.

  "What means this commotion?" she said.

  'Have you not heard?'

  'No, Master Digby.'

  'One of the heads has vanished from its spike.'

  'There's grisly work indeed!'

  'Taken down i
n the night,' he said. 'And this was not in jest. When the culprit is caught, this is a hanging offence. They search for him in earnest.

  'Whose head was taken down?" she asked.

  'That of a traitor freshly executed.'

  'What was his name?'

  'Anthony Rickwood.'

  (*)Chapter Five

  Westfield's Men set out with high hopes but they were soon blighted by circumstance. Heavy overnight rain had mired a road that was already in a bad state of repair.

  Local parishes were responsible for the maintenance of any road that ran within their boundaries but in the case of a highway like the Great North Road, an intolerable burden was placed upon them. There was no way that they could find the resources for the upkeep of such a major artery and Westfield's Men suffered as a result.

  'Use the whip, man!'

  'It is no use!'

  'Drive them on, drive them on!'

  'We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.'

  'I'll get you out if I have to drag the cart with my own bare hands, so I will!'

  But Firethorn was thwarted. Though he took hold of the harness of one of the carthorses and pulled with all his might, neither animal moved forward. The front wheel of the waggon was sunk to its axle and the whole vehicle slanted over at an angle.

  Barnaby Gill was quick to apportion blame.

  'This is your doing, Master Bracewell.'

  'I could not drive around the hole, sir.'

  'The waggon is too heavy since you brought the whole company aboard. Their weight is your downfall.'

  'I could not ask them to walk in such mud, Master Gill. It would ruin their shoes and spatter their hose.'

  'That would be better than this calamity.'

  'Do something, Nick!' ordered Firethorn.

  'I will, sir.'

  'And with all speed.'

  Nicholas jumped down from the driving seat and waved everyone else off the waggon. It was then laboriously unloaded. He used an axe to cut a stout length of timber then wedged it under the side of the waggon where the wheel was encumbered. With the help of three others, he used his lever to lift the vehicle up. There was a loud sucking noise as the wheel came out of its prison. The horses were slapped, they strained between the shafts and the waggon rolled clear of its problem. As it was loaded up again, Lawrence Firethorn reached for the law.