The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (63 page)

‘All returned where they belong,’ said Nicholas. ‘They cannot stage our plays without these prompt books.’

‘By all, this is wonderful!’ shouted Firethorn. ‘Let me embrace you both, my lovely imps!’

He dismounted and put a congratulatory arm around each. The worst night of his life was being redeemed by one of the best days. Nicholas added even more joy.

‘Time brings in its revenges, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Master Randolph will not laugh this morning.’

‘Did you strike a blow for Westfield’s Men?’

‘I think so,’ said Nicholas.

Giles Randolph stared at the empty chest with a mixture of fear and dismay. It had been stored all night beneath
his fourposter and chained to one of the legs. Its lock was strong and apparently undamaged yet the treasure chest was bare. The company’s most priceless possessions had gone. Randolph screeched a name and Mark Scruton came running. One glance made the newcomer turn white.

‘When did you discover this, sir?’

‘Even now.’

‘You did not open the chest last night?’

‘The journey back from Lavery Grange was too tiring and much wine had been taken. I fell into bed and slept soundly until this morning.’ Randolph kicked at the empty chest. ‘Had I known of this, I’d not have closed my eyes!’

Mark Scruton thought quickly then glanced towards the door. Beckoning the other to follow, he ran out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, making for the door that led to the yard. With Randolph at his heels, he hurried across to the outhouse beyond the stables and wondered why one of its walls was damaged. He unbolted the door and flung it open to reveal a sight that might have been comical in other circumstances. The stocky ostler was bound hand and foot and tied to the bars at the window. A large apple had been placed in his mouth and held in place by a strip of material that was knotted behind his head. His eyes were as red and bulbous as tomatoes.

‘Where are they?’ demanded Scruton.

The man shook his head and hunched his shoulders.

Giles Randolph let out a howl and kneeled down. In the middle of the straw was a pile of prompt books that were
caked in manure and sodden with water. The symbolism was not lost on him. Rising up in sheer disgust, he jabbed a shaking finger at his vandalised property.

‘Mark Scruton!’ he hissed.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘This is your doing.’

‘A thousand apologies.’

‘Clean up your mess!’

He left the scene of the outrage in high dudgeon.

The blacksmith hammered in the last nail then lowered the hoof to the ground. He wiped his brow with a hairy arm and turned to the full-bodied woman who held the bridle.

‘Take more care with the animal, mistress.’

‘I have not the time, sir.’

‘He was ridden too hard over rough ground,’ said the blacksmith. ‘That is why he cast a shoe.’

‘He may cast more then before we arrive.’

‘Where do you go?’

‘To York.’

‘It is a goodly distance yet, mistress.’

‘Then do not detain us with your prattle.’

Margery Firethorn put a foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle without asking for any assistance. An imperious snap of the fingers brought one of the liveried servants scuttling across to her.

‘Pay the fellow!’ she said.

Then she rode off at an even fiercer pace.

Westfield’s Men got their first glimpse of York and paused to take in its full magnificence. Seen from that distance and that elevation, it looked like a fairytale city that was set against a painted backdrop and even those who had seen it before now marvelled afresh.

Eleanor Budden summed it all up in one word.

‘Jerusalem!’

They stopped to take refreshment and gather their strength for the last few miles of a journey that had become increasingly strenuous since they crossed the county boundary. Horses were watered and refreshment taken. Nicholas Bracewell chose the moment to have word alone with Christopher Millfield. Having disliked the actor so much at first, he now found himself warming all the more to him.

‘How did you fare in my absence, Christopher?’

‘We never lost faith in you.’

‘I am glad the business turned out so well.’

‘You brought home great bounty,’ said Millfield. ‘Master Quilley was delighted to get his horse back.’

‘A happy accident.’ Nicholas glanced across at the artist. ‘What do you make of our limner?’

‘Painters are always slightly mad.’

‘Have you noticed nothing odd about him?’

‘Several things but I put them down to his calling.’

‘Look at his apparel,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a very expensive suit for a man who claims that he has no money. Then there is the quality of his horse, not to mention those saddlebags of the finest leather with their gold monogram.
Master Quilley is not the pauper he pretends.’

‘Then where does his wealth come from?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Haply, he has some rich patron.’

‘One name suggests itself.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘Indeed?’ said Millfield with astonishment. ‘I find that hard to credit. Could Master Quilley really be in his service as an informer?’

‘Who is better placed, Christopher? He visits the homes of the great on a privileged footing and sees things that no other visitor could observe. His calling is the ideal cover for a spy.’

‘Do you have any proof of this?’

‘None beyond my own suspicion. Except an item that I found in his saddlebag. See it for yourself.’

Christopher Millfield took the document that was handed to him and scanned through the names. He nodded in agreement as he returned it to Nicholas.

‘You have just cause for that suspicion.’

‘Do I?’

‘Two of those names have already been ticked off by Walsingham. Three of the others are known to me from my time with the Admiral’s Men. I dare swear that they were all prosecuted for recusancy.’

‘What of Sir Clarence Marmion and the others?’

‘We can but guess.’

‘Birds of a feather flock together.’

‘Your conclusion?’

‘All of Master Quilley’s employers are Catholics.’

‘Could he be a servant of Rome himself?’

It was another possibility and they discussed it briefly before turning to other matters. Nicholas was glad that he had confided in his new friend. Millfield was now eyeing him with concern.

‘How do you feel, Nick?’

‘Much better.’

‘Are you fully recovered from your ordeal?’ said the other with anxiety. ‘It heartened us greatly when you and Dick Honeydew returned but the pair of you did look more than a little bedraggled.’

‘You should have seen us when we set out. We were caked in blood and filth with a stink on us you could have smelled a hundred yards off.’ He wrinkled his nose at the memory. ‘Dick and I stopped at a stream to clean ourselves up before coming back.’

‘Both of you must be aching all over.’

‘I will have to make some more of that ointment.’

‘It has certainly helped me.’

‘We will sleep well tonight, I think.’

Millfield smiled his agreement then looked across at Richard Honeydew. The boy still showed the effects of his incarceration but he was patently delighted to be back with the company and his face was animated.

‘He is hopelessly in your debt, Nick.’

‘I could not let them steal our best apprentice.’

‘It goes deeper than that.’

‘We are good friends.’

‘You are like a father to the lad and risked your life for him. Have you ever had a child of your own?’

‘I was never married, Christopher.’

‘The two things do not always go together.’

Nicholas laughed evasively and changed the subject. He was enjoying his chat with the actor and finding new things to like about him all the time. When Millfield moved away, however, it became clear that not everyone shared the book holder’s good opinion of him.

A worried Eleanor Budden bustled over.

‘Do not listen to him, sir,’ she begged.

‘Master Millfield?’

‘He is a very dangerous young man.’

‘Why, mistress?’

‘Because he does not believe in God.’

‘Did he attest as much?’

‘More or less, Master Bracewell.’

‘I find that hard to accept.’

‘Beware, sir!’

‘Of what?’

‘Atheism in our midst!’

Nicholas did not take the claim at all seriously and she did not pursue it since she wanted to enjoy their rare moment alone. Love made her eyes sparkle like gems.

‘It was wonderful to see you back with us!’

‘I share your delight, mistress.’

‘I knew that God would not take you away from me.’

‘My place is here with the company.’

‘And mine is beside you.’

‘We will get you to York with all due speed.’

‘I have found the true path in you!’

Her ardour was quite unnerving and Nicholas glanced around for help. Being attacked by robbers or captured by rivals were nowhere near as frightening as being cornered by Eleanor Budden. If he was not circumspect, she would rob him of something he did not want to lose and hold him captive in a way that did not appeal. He fended her off with questions.

‘How do you like the fellowship of actors?’

‘Yours is the only company I seek, Master Bracewell.’

‘Does nobody else interest you, mistress?’

‘They pale beside you, sir.’

‘What of Master Quilley? He is a famous artist. Have you and he had discourse yet?’

‘Only when I interrupted him,’ she said. ‘He was angry when I came upon him playing with his cards.’

‘Cards?’

‘I have never seen the like before. They had strange pictures on them and he studied each one with great care. It was almost as if he looked for some kind of message.’

Nicholas Bracewell smiled in gratitude. Unwelcome as her attentions had been, he sensed that Eleanor Budden had unwittingly given him some valuable information.

His suspicion of Oliver Quilley deepened.

Days without his wife and nights without her precious bounty had wrought changes in Humphrey Budden. The
house seemed empty, the children were fractious and his whole life was now hopelessly barren. Long discussions with Miles Melhuish were followed by even longer ones with the Dean. It was the latter who counselled action.

‘You have sinned against your wife.’

‘The memory of it is grievous unto me.’

‘You must seek her forgiveness.’

‘How may I do that?’

‘Not here in Nottingham, that is certain.’

‘Then where?’

‘In York,’ said the Dean sonorously. ‘There is no better place for you to be cleansed and reconciled. Go to York, sir. Seek your estranged wife in that monument to Christian dedication. That is where your hope lies.’

‘Will she take me back?’

‘If you deserve it, Master Budden.’

‘Should I travel with the children?’

‘Alone, sir. This is a matter between two souls.’ He lowered ecclesiastical lids. ‘And two bodies.’

Humphrey Budden left for York the next day.

A bell had signalled the beginning of the Whitsuntide fair and pandemonium followed. Streets that were usually crowded were now overflowing. Shops and stalls that were usually busy were now completely besieged. York was aflame with life. Tinkers, travellers, pilgrims, country folk, merchants, knights and many more streamed in through the four gates. Minstrels, mummers, acrobats and jugglers competed for attention. The shrieking of children and the
yapping of dogs swelled a cacophony that was taken to deafening pitch by the constant peal of church bells. The city ran riot for three holy days.

Westfield’s Men came in through Micklegate and made their way through the press to the Trip to Jerusalem, a name that had a special resonance for them. Lambert Pym gave them an exaggerated welcome and conducted them to their rooms with beard-scratching charm. Accommodation was also found for Oliver Quilley and Eleanor Budden. The exuberant Susan Becket appointed herself as Firethorn’s bedfellow yet again. Jerusalem was a spacious metaphor.

Nicholas Bracewell was dispatched at once to the Lord Mayor to secure a licence for performance. When he came back with it in his hand, he found Firethorn poring over a letter from Sir Clarence Marmion that invited them to stage a play at his house. Here was good news indeed. York was proving to be a worthy shrine for pilgrimage. Not a moment was wasted. Playbills were printed and posted up, a stage was erected in the yard at the inn, and the first rehearsal was held. The hectic pace of it all made them think they were back at the Queen’s Head.

A new drama by Edmund Hoode was to be given its first performance outside London.
Soldiers of the Cross
had a particular relevance to their venue because it dealt with a crusade and took Richard the Lionheart through a succession of epic battles. Westfield’s Men had presented a crusader play before, a novice work by one Roger Bartholomew, an Oxford scholar with misguided
aspirations about the theatre. Hoode’s work had the mark of a true professional. It was well crafted, lit with fire and passion, and filled with soaring verse. In the play about Robin Hood, the same king had been but a minor character who slipped on near the end to knight the hero.
Soldiers of the Cross
made him central to the action and Firethorn’s performance made him tower even more.

Nicholas Bracewell was industrious and watchful. He kept the rehearsal rolling along and noted any faults or omissions along the way. His stagekeepers were given a long list of jobs when it was all over. He worked well into the evening himself then adjourned to the taproom.

Oliver Quilley was sampling the Malmsey.

‘Master Bracewell, let me buy you a drink, sir.’

‘I cannot stay.’

‘But I have not thanked you for finding my horse.’

‘There was something else I found.’

Nicholas took out the list from the saddlebag and handed it over. The artist snatched it eagerly from him.

‘I see that some names were ticked off, master.’

‘Those commissions have been completed.’

‘There is a question mark beside one person.’