The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (61 page)

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Authors: Edward Marston

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BOOK: The Nicholas Bracewell Collection
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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 master’s 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 recognised several faces but none had ever been employed by his company. He was mystified.

Who had stolen their major plays?

He did not expect Richard Honeydew to be anywhere on the premises. Banbury’s Men were far too clever to be caught red-handed. If they were holding the boy, they would do so in some other place that was not too distant. Nicholas sidled out and chatted to one of the servants. The man spoke of three inns within an easy ride. Nicholas set off at once to check them out. He drew a blank with the first two but his conviction did not waver. He was now certain that he was closing in on Richard Honeydew.

His third call bore fruit. Though there was no sign of the
boy inside the place, the landlord told him that the company would be staying there for the night. Most of them had rooms but a few would be sleeping with their luggage in the stables. Nicholas went out to inspect the alternative accommodation and could still find nothing untoward. He was about to give up and move away when he heard the noise.

It was a tapping sound, low but regular, and it seemed to come from a stone outhouse adjoining the stable block. When he got closer, he could hear it clearly enough to identify what it was. Someone was trying to kick against the heavy timber of the door. Nicholas ran forward and threw back the bolt. Opening the door, he stared into the gloom to see the sorry figure of Richard Honeydew, all trussed up and lying in the straw. With the very last of his energy, the boy had been trying to beat a tattoo on the door. Rescue was now at hand.

‘Thank God I’ve found you, Dick!’

The gag in the boy’s mouth prevented his reply but his eyes were liquid pools of eloquence. Nicholas read their dreadful message much too late. Something very hard and blunt hit him on the back of the head and he plunged forward into the straw.

I
t was the worst night of his life. A man who had scaled the heights of nocturnal bliss so often and with such joyous confidence now fell backwards through space into the abyss. Lawrence Firethorn was in despair. His book holder was gone, his apprentice was kidnapped, his costume basket was stolen and his company was in disarray. Susan Becket lay upstairs in his bed unsatisfied and Eleanor Budden slept between her sheets untouched. They were so near and yet so far from him. Firethorn was undone.

Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode shared his panic.

‘They have cut off our heads, sirs,’ said Firethorn.

‘And our pizzles,’ said Hoode.

‘Mine is still in place,’ insisted Gill haughtily.

‘I did not think they would stoop so low.’

‘Can we be sure this is their work, Lawrence?’ asked Hoode. ‘Some common thieves may have taken our basket.’

‘Why should they take that when there were purses to be cut?’ said Firethorn. ‘No, Edmund. The footprints of Banbury’s Men are stamped all over this enterprise. Only another company would know how best to imperil us. And that is by stealing the very clothes that we wear.’

They were in the taproom of their inn, sitting over cups of sack with collective melancholy. Barnaby Gill suddenly jumped to his feet, tossed his head, folded his arms and stood on his considerable dignity.

‘I’ll not play without my golden doublet,’ he said huffily. ‘If they find not my green velvet breeches and my yellow stockings and my shoes with the silver buckles and my hat with the three feathers in it, I’ll stir not a step upon the stage!’

‘We are all in this together, Barnaby,’ said Hoode.

‘Where is my suit of blue satin and my green cloak?’

‘Be silent, sir!’ snarled Firethorn.

‘What of my cambric shirts and my lawn ruff?’

‘Cease this whining!’

The actor-manager’s roar cut short the fit of pique. Gill dropped back into his seat and stared moodily into his drink. At times of crisis, he could be relied upon to put his selfish interests before anything else. Edmund Hoode had far more compassion for his fellows.

‘My thoughts are with poor Dick!’ he said.

‘So are mine upon occasion,’ murmured Gill.

‘I would surrender every shred of clothing that we own to get the lad safe back again. Where can he be?’

‘Nick will find him,’ said Firethorn.

‘Aye,’ agreed Hoode. ‘Nick is our one bright hope.’

‘How can you think that?’ said Gill. ‘If it were not for our esteemed book holder, we would not now be in such a case as this. I lay the guilt on him.’ He spoke on over their protests. ‘Defend him all you can, sirs, but this I declare. Nicholas Bracewell must bear the guilt. He it is who was most responsible for the safety of the apprentices yet one of them was taken from under his nose.’

‘Nick cannot be everywhere,’ defended Hoode.

‘That is plain, Edmund. Were he not now gallivanting around the whole county, then our costumes would have been secure. He would have been here to do his duty and defend them properly.’ Gill sat up sulkily. ‘And I would still have my golden doublet!’

‘Someone had to go after Dick Honeydew,’ said Hoode.

‘And the only man fit for the task was Nick,’ added Firethorn. ‘He may yet extract us from this morass. I’ll not hear one word of carping about him.’

‘Then I’ll hold my tongue,’ said Gill sarcastically.

Firethorn drank deep from his cup and moaned aloud.

‘What a world of pain is this touring! I do not like it, sirs, and I fear it does not like me. Nothing but dire calamity has come of it. We have faced rain, robbery and ruin. And the worst of it is that I am far from home and can draw no comfort from the soft bosom of my wife.’

Gill and Hoode traded a glance of tired amusement. With one woman upstairs in his bed and another featuring prominently in his fantasies, Lawrence Firethorn could still indulge in a bout of marital sentimentality with every sign
of complete sincerity. Happiness was his ability to expel Margery entirely from his thoughts. It was only at moments of stress that she reappeared in his considerations and reminded him that he was her husband.

His colleagues listened to his maudlin reminiscences with a measure of cynicism. Their situation was drastic but there was yet some humour to be drawn from it. As Firethorn reached a crescendo of uxoriousness, he was interrupted by the arrival of the tentative George Dart.

‘What is it?’ growled Firethorn.

‘I bring you a message from the lady, sir.’

‘Mistress Becket?’

‘Mistress Budden.’

‘Speak it forth.’

‘We sat beside each other on the waggon, master, and I was bold enough to praise you in her hearing.’ He finally put a smile on Firethorn’s face. ‘I talked about your fine voice, sir, and how you could recite the prayer book as if it were the music of Heaven.’

‘So it is, George. So it is.’

‘Mistress Budden was much taken with all this.’

‘What is her message?’

‘She sits in bed,’ said Dart. ‘It is her dearest wish that you should read to her from the psalms ere she closes her eyes in Christian slumber.’

Lawrence Firethorn felt the reassuring surge of his lust. An opportunity which he believed would never come had now presented itself to him. Eleanor Budden was lying in her bedchamber with complete trust in the sound of his
voice. Psalms could lead to sighs of love. As temptation licked at his loins, he saw the obstacles. Susan Becket was waiting in the next bedchamber. A costume basket had to be traced. Plans had to be made. Work would keep him downstairs for several hours.

Disappointment gnawed at his entrails but there was no way out for him. Ignoring the smirks from Hoode and Gill, he turned to the messenger with lofty calm.

‘Tell her I may not come tonight,’ he said. ‘But I will pray for Mistress Budden most heartily.’

And he left it on that ambiguous note.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It assaulted his nostrils. The outhouse had been used to stable a donkey and its droppings were mixed freely with the straw. When he tried to move, he felt as if someone were trying to pound the back of his skull to gain entrance. Nicholas Bracewell remained absolutely still until his head began to clear. Something was tickling the end of his foot. He opened a misty eye to make out the sad figure of Richard Honeydew, stretching out a leg to make contact with him. The boy was still bound and gagged. Nicholas’s first impulse was to release him and he jerked forward, only to be held by ropes of his own that were tied to an iron ring in the wall. The lump on the back of his head ached anew but the gag in his mouth muffled his groan.

Nicholas waited till the pain eased off then he took stock of the situation. He was seated upright against a rough stone wall, unable to move because of his bonds. Opposite
him was Richard Honeydew, who had been secured to the iron bars across the window. His delight at seeing the boy was shadowed by the condition in which he found him. Honeydew’s face was besmirched with blood and his clothes were torn and stained. He did not look as if he had eaten very much since he had been abducted. Nicholas was seized with remorse. Instead of riding to the rescue of the apprentice, he had let himself be captured as well.

He struggled hard but his bonds held firm. When he tried to speak, his words came out as faint grunts. There was so much to ask but he had no means of asking it. He looked around for help and saw the old stone walls with their flaking coat of whitewash. An idea formed. Angling himself over so that he could swing his legs up, he used his toes to scrape one big question on the wall.

WHO?

Richard Honeydew responded in kind. Pulling himself up on the bars, he swung his legs across until they just made contact with the whitewash. In the half-dark of their stinking cell, he slowly and laboriously traced a name on the wall. The letters were ragged and indistinct but their impact was still potent.

Nicholas Bracewell was absolutely stunned.

It was incredible.

Christopher Millfield remained cheerful in the midst of adversity. Long faces and short tempers surrounded him but his resilience was remarkable. Instead of being dragged down by the general mood of gloom, he was chirpy and
positive. Sharing a room with George Dart and the three apprentices gave these qualities ample scope.

‘It will all seem better in the morning,’ he said.

‘It could hardly be worse,’ sighed Dart.

‘There is a solution to every problem.’

‘We have so many, Master Millfield.’

‘Let hope into your heart, George.’

‘There is no room for it.’

Christopher Millfield leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. Hearing snores from the other bed, he lowered his voice so that he did not rouse the sleepers.

‘We are players,’ he argued softly, ‘and nothing must be allowed to smother our art. If one of our apprentices be taken, why, then we fill his role with another voice. If all our costumes be stolen, we beg, borrow or make some more. These are setbacks only and can all be overcome.’

‘You forget Master Bracewell.’

‘By no means, sir. I have the utmost faith in him.’

‘What if he does not come back?’

‘Nick Bracewell will return,’ said Millfield with confidence. ‘I have never met a more capable man in the theatre. This whole company revolves around him and he would never desert it in its hour of need.’

‘I thought you did not like him,’ said Dart.

‘There is nobody in Westfield’s Men I respect more and that includes Master Firethorn. I admit that I was hurt when our book holder recommended Gabriel Hawkes in place of me but that is all past now. I have come to accept the truth of it, George.’

‘Truth?’

‘Gabriel was the better man.’

‘He was always kind to me.’

Millfield sighed. ‘It pains me that we were such rivals. In other circumstances, Gabriel and I could have been close friends. He has been a great loss.’ The positive note returned. ‘That is why I am so grateful for the chance to travel with the company. I have prospered from Gabriel’s death and that grieves me, but it also fills me with determination to make the most of my opportunity and to be undaunted by any mishap. We are fortunate men, George. We are employed. Think on that.’

The other did as he was advised and soon drifted off to sleep in a haze of consolation. Millfield was a true son of the theatre. Whatever disasters befell it, the company simply had to press on regardless. George Dart’s snores joined the wheezing slumber of the other innocents.

Christopher Millfield waited half an hour before he moved. Then he got up, dressed quietly and left the room. A few minutes later, he was saddling a horse and leading it out into the yard with shreds of sacking around its hooves to muffle their clatter on the cobblestones.

He rode off happily into the darkness.

Nicholas Bracewell was still quite groggy. His head was pounding, his vision was impaired and blood was trickling down the back of his neck. The stench in the outhouse was almost overpowering and his stomach heaved. Trussed up tightly, every muscle in his body was aching away. What hurt
him most, however, was the fact that Richard Honeydew should see him in this state. The boy was desperately in need of help and all that his would-be rescuer could do was to get himself into the same parlous condition. Guilt burned inside Nicholas like a raging fire. It served to concentrate his mind on their predicament.

The first priority was to be able to speak to the boy and that meant getting rid of the gag. Unable to brush it down with his knees, he looked around for a source of aid. A wooden rake was standing against the wall on his right. Though he could not reach it with his feet, he could scoop the straw towards him and that brought the implement ever closer. It also brought piles of dung and his shoes were soon covered with it, but he did not give up. Richard watched with interest as his friend got the rake within reach and then lifted both feet before jabbing them down hard on the prongs. The rake flipped up and Nicholas had to move his head aside as the handle smashed into the wall beside him. He trapped the implement with his shoulder then used the end of it to push his gag slowly upwards. It was agonising work that earned him several jabs in the face but he eventually managed to move it enough to be able to speak.

His words tumbled out through deep breaths.

‘How are you, lad?’

The boy nodded bravely and his eyes showed spirit.

‘Have they hurt you badly?’

Richard Honeydew shook his head and made a noise.

‘Let’s see if we can get your gag off now, Dick.’

Nicholas used his body and feet to propel the rake
towards the apprentice and the latter tried to copy what he had seen. It took him much longer and collected him many more painful pokes with the end of the pole but he did finally force the gag out of his mouth. He filled his lungs gratefully then coughed violently.

‘They’ll stink us to death in here,’ said Nicholas.

‘How did you find me, Master Bracewell?’

‘Never mind that, Dick. The main thing is to get you out of here safely. How many of them are there?’

‘Two. They kidnapped me together.’

‘At the behest of Banbury’s Men.’

‘Is that who stole me away? I had no idea. They keep me locked up and only come when it is time to feed me.’

‘You look poorly.’

‘I am fine,’ said the boy unconvincingly.

‘They will pay for what they have done to you.’

‘It is not them that I fear, master. They have tied me up but they have not ill-treated me.’ He looked around with disgust. ‘What makes me afeard is the dark and the damp and the smell and, most of all, the rats.’

‘Rats?’

‘They come snuffling around sometimes. I am afraid that they will eat me alive!’ He relaxed visibly. ‘But not now that you are here. I feel safe with you.’

‘No rats will harm you, Dick.’

The boy smiled. ‘I knew you would come for me.’

‘Tell me exactly what has happened to you.’

While he listened to Honeydew’s tale, his eyes roved the outhouse in search of a means of escape but none presented
itself. Then he noticed some movement under the straw beside a wooden bucket of water. When the boy caught sight of it, he flew into a panic.

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