The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (54 page)

‘God will provide.’

‘The roads are not safe for any man, let alone for a woman such as you. Be mindful of your life!’

‘There is no danger for me.’

‘For you and for every other traveller.’

‘I have the Lord’s protection on my way.’

It began to rain.

Oliver Quilley cursed the downpour and spurred his horse into a canter. There was a clump of trees in the middle distance with promise of shelter for him and his young companion. Quilley was a short, slight creature in his thirties with an appealing frailty about him. Dressed in the apparel of a courtier, he was an incongruous sight beside the sturdy man in fustian who rode as his chosen bodyguard on the road from Leicester. The trees swished and swayed in the rain but their thick foliage and overhanging branches promised cover from the worst of the storm. As Quilley rode along, one hand clutched at his breast as if trying to hold in his heart.

 ‘Swing to the right!’ he urged.

‘Aye, master.’

‘We shall be shielded from the wind there.’

‘Aye, master.’

The young man had little conversation but a strength of sinew that was reassuring company. Quilley forgave him for his ignorance and raced him to the trees. They were drenched when they arrived and so relieved to be out of the bad weather at last that they dispensed with caution. It was to be their downfall.

‘Ho, there, sirs!’

‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’

‘Fate has delivered you unto us.’

‘Dismount!’

Four rogues in rough attire leapt from their hiding place with such suddenness that the riders were taken totally by surprise. Two of the robbers had swords, the third a dagger and the last a clump of wood that looked the most dangerous weapon of them all. The young man did not even manage to unsheathe his rapier. Terrified by the noise and intensity of the assault, his horse reared its front legs so high that he was unsaddled in a flash. He fell backwards through the air with no control and landed awkwardly on his neck. There was a sickly crack and his body went limp. It was a death of great simplicity.

The others turned their attention to Quilley.

‘Away, you murderers!’ he yelled.

‘Come, sir, we would speak with you.’

‘Leave go of that rein!’

But Quilley’s puny efforts were of no avail. He punched and kicked at them but only provoked their ridicule. The biggest ruffian reached up a hand and yanked him from his perch as if he were picking a flower from a garden. Oliver Quilley was thrown to the ground.

‘They’ll hang each one of you for this!’

He tried to get up but they tired of his presence. The clump of wood struck him behind his ear and he pitched forward into oblivion. Pleased with the day’s handiwork, the four men assessed their takings. They were soon riding off hell for leather.

Quilley was unconscious for a long time but the rain finally licked him awake. The first thing he saw was the dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.

Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.

He began the long walk towards the next village.

The rain lashed Westfield’s Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of
Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell’s main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasingly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen’s Head and the comforts of London.

Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could take a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.

Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.

Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.

Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.

‘What else did he say, George?’

‘He talked of other companies that hired him.’

‘I believe he was with the Admiral’s Men.’

‘They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.’

‘And were they well received?’

‘Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county, and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.’

George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stagekeepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times – in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways – by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled.

It never occurred to him he now had another job.

‘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 realised 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 brutalised 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?’

Excitement 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 realised 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.