The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (57 page)

‘Excellent work, sir.’

‘Thank you, Master Randolph.’

‘You prosper in the role.’

‘I hope the audience shares your view.’

‘Trust it well.’

‘Have you no criticism?’

‘None,’ said Randolph languidly. ‘Except that you stayed too long upon the stage once you had stabbed me. The murder of the Duke is of more dramatic significance than the reaction of his killer. Once you have dispatched me with your dagger, quit the stage.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘My corpse will be a soliloquy in itself.’

They were in the Great Hall and the stagekeepers were scampering around moving the scenery and props. Giles Randolph was very satisfied with the way that everything was going. On and off the stage, revenge was proving to be his best suit. He was about to move away when Scruton detained him by plucking at his sleeve.

‘A word, sir.’

‘It is not a convenient time.’

‘This will take but a second.’

‘Very well.’ Randolph shrugged. ‘What is it?’

‘I am bold to put you in mind of my contract.’

‘It has not been forgot.’

‘When may I view it, sir?’

‘When I have drawn it up.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘The other sharers have to be persuaded first.’

Scruton frowned. ‘My understanding was that you could carry the business alone.’

‘Well, yes, indeed. No question but that I can.’

‘Why then the delay?’

‘I am no lawyer, Mark. The terms must be drawn up properly and the Earl himself must take note of them. It is a big translation for you.’

‘You know that I have earned it, Master Randolph.’

‘No man more so.’

‘Give me then a date. It was your promise.’

Giles Randolph gave him the enigmatic smile that was part of his stock-in-trade then walked slowly around him in a circle. Scruton did not like being kept waiting. His willing smile took on a forced look. Randolph faced him again and came to a decision.

‘York.’

‘What say you?’

‘That is when the articles will be signed.’

‘I have that for certain?’

‘My hand upon it!’ They exchanged a handshake. ‘You will become a sharer with Banbury’s Men and taste the sweeter fruit of our profession.’

‘Thank you!’ said Scruton with feeling. ‘I did not doubt you for a moment. This gives me true happiness.’

 ‘Wait but for York.’

‘It will be my place of pilgrimage.’

‘Bear your cross until then.’

Mark Scruton grinned. He was almost there.

It took Nicholas Bracewell fifteen minutes to convince her that he was not Jesus Christ and even then she had lingering reservations. When he saw her wading out to meet him in mid-river, he immediately lowered his body so that he could tread water. He had never been accosted by such a strange yet beautiful woman before, especially one who kept calling on him to baptise her in the Jordan. He took an age to persuade her to return to her bank then he swam back to where he had left his clothes and dried himself off as best he could before dressing. Restored and refreshed, he rode over the bridge and back along the bank to Eleanor Budden. Her wet shift was clinging to her body like a doting lover and he noticed that it had been repaired near the shoulder. Nicholas dismounted out of politeness and touched his cap.

‘May I see you safe home, mistress?’

‘All the way to Jerusalem.’

‘I have told you. I am with Westfield’s Men.’

‘Our meeting today was foretold.’

‘Not to me.’

‘We were destined to cross paths, Master Bracewell.’

‘In the middle of the River Trent?’

‘Tax not divine appointment.’

‘Let me escort you to your house.’

‘I have resolved to leave it for ever.’

‘Yet you spoke of a husband and of children.’

‘They will have to make shift without me.’

‘Does duty not prompt you?’ he said.

‘Aye, sir. To follow the voice of God.’

Nicholas had met religious maniacs before. More than one of his fellow-sailors on the voyage with Drake had found the privations too hard to bear. They had taken refuge in a kind of relentless Christianity that shaped their lives anew and consisted in a display of good deeds and profuse quotations from the Bible. Eleanor Budden was not of this mould. Her obsession had a quieter and more rational base. That increased its danger.

‘The Lord has brought us together,’ she said.

‘Has he?’

‘Do you not feel it?’

‘Honesty compels me to deny it.’

‘Where you lead, I will follow.’

‘That is out of the question,’ he said in alarm.

‘You have been sent as my guide.’

‘But we are not going to Jerusalem, I fear.’

‘What, then, is your destination?’

‘York.’

‘I knew it!’

Eleanor flung herself to her knees and bent down to kiss his shoes. Nicholas backed away in embarrassment as she tried to clutch at him. Facing up to a band of angry gypsies had been nothing to this. Eleanor was a model of persistence, a burr that stuck firmly to his clothing.

‘I must come with you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Where?’

‘To York. I must see the Archbishop.’

‘Travel to the city by some other means.’

‘You are my appointed guardian.’

‘Mistress, I am part of a company.’

‘Then I will go with you and your fellows.’

‘That is not possible.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘For a dozen reasons,’ he said, wishing he could call some of them to mind. ‘Chiefly, for that we are all men who ride together. No woman may join our train.’

‘That is a rule which God can change.’

‘Master Firethorn will not permit it.’

‘Let me but talk with him.’

‘It will be of no avail.’

Eleanor Budden got to her feet and turned her blue eyes on him with undisguised ardour. She stepped in close and her long wet strands of hair brushed his cheek.

‘You have to take me to York,’ she insisted.

‘For what reason?’

‘I love you.’

Nicholas Bracewell quailed. He foresaw trouble.

Lawrence Firethorn was slowly enthralled. More to the point, he smelled money. Oliver Quilley had invited him up to his room to put a proposition to him, and, after rejecting it out of hand, the actor-manager was slowly being won over.

The artist expatiated on his work. Strutting about the
room in his finery like a turkey-cock, the dwarfish dandy explained why he had become a miniaturist.

‘Limning is a thing apart from all other painting and drawing, and it excelleth all other art whatsoever in sundry points.’

‘Discover more to me.’

‘The technique of painting portrait miniatures comes from manuscript illumination. Hence the term “limning”. Yet Master Holbein, the first of our breed, painted in the tradition of full-size portraits that were scaled down.’

‘And you, Master Quilley?’

‘My style is unique, sir.’

‘Do you acknowledge no mentors?’

‘I take a little from Holbein and a little more from Hilliard but Oliver Quilley is a man apart from all other limners. This you shall judge for yourself.’

He opened his leather pouch and took out four tiny miniatures that were wrapped in pieces of velvet. He removed the material and set them out on the table. Firethorn was overwhelmed by their brilliance. Three were portraits of women and the fourth of a man. All were executed with stunning confidence in colours that were uncannily lifelike. Quilley read his mind and had an explanation to hand.

‘The principal part of drawing or painting after life consists in the truth of the line.’ He pointed at his work. ‘You see, sir? No shadowing is here. I believe in the sovereignty of the line and the magic of colour.’

‘They are quite magnificent!’

‘All paintings imitate nature or the life, but the perfection is to imitate the face of mankind.’

‘And womankind,’ said Firethorn, ogling the loveliest of the women. ‘Who is the lady, sir?’

‘A French Countess. And the other is her sister.’

‘The third?’

‘Lady Delahaye. I was commissioned by her husband to have it ready in time for her wedding. It is all but finished and I can deliver it when I return to London.’

Firethorn warmed to the little man, sensing that he was in the presence of a fellow-artist, one who consorted with the nobility and whose work was worn as pendants or brooches at court, and yet who had made no fortune from his wondrous talents. The actor knew that story all too well because it was his own. Exceptional ability that went unrewarded in its proper degree. That sense of living hand-to-mouth which compromised the scope of his art and silenced its true resonance.

‘Marry, sir, what a case is this!’ he said. ‘Here we are together. Men of genius who are packed off out of London to scrabble for every penny we get.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Quilley. ‘Then to have it taken from us by some murderous highwaymen. Had they taken these miniatures instead, I had been ruined.’

A thought took on form in Firethorn’s mind.

‘You wish to travel in our company, you say?’

‘Only for safety’s sake, as far as York.’

‘We do not carry passengers in our company.’

‘I’d pay my way, Master Firethorn, be assured.’

‘That is what I come to, sir.’ He tried to work out which was the better profile to present to the artist. ‘Is it possible – I ask but in the spirit of unbiased enquiry – that you could paint such a portrait of me?’

‘Of you or of any man, sir. For a fee.’

‘A guarantee of your safety?’

‘I’d need a horse of my own.’

‘Done, sir!’

‘And a bedchamber to myself at every stop we make?’

‘It shall be the first article of our agreement.’

‘We understand each other, sir.’

‘Such a portrait would be very precious to me.’

‘And to me, Master Firethorn,’ said Quilley with elfin seriousness. ‘The terms of the work can be talked over at a later date but I give you this as a sign of good faith.’ He handed over the miniature of the man. ‘It is worth much more than I will cost you. I am but small and very light to carry.’

Firethorn looked down at the exquisite oval painting that lay in his palm. It had such fire and elegance and detail. The man stared up at him with a pride that was matched by his poise. Firethorn was overcome by the generosity of the artist.

‘This is for me, sir?’

‘To seal our friendship and buy me safe passage.’

‘It is the very perfection of art, sir.’

‘My work is never less than that.’

‘But will not the subject want it for himself?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘I would hate to take his personal property away.’

‘The fellow has no need of it now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that is Anthony Rickwood in your hand.’

‘The name is familiar.’

‘You have seen his portrait before, I think.’

‘Have I?’

‘It is the work of another famous artist.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Sir Francis Walsingham,’ said Quilley. ‘He paints his subjects upon spikes. You may have seen poor Master Rickwood on display above Bishopsgate.’

‘The man was a traitor?’ gulped Firethorn.

‘A staunch Roman Catholic.’

‘I am holding a corpse?’

‘That is the essence of Walsingham’s art.’

Quilley gave a mischievous smile that only caused the actor further discomfort. Firethorn had now changed his mind about the gift. Instead of being a treasured object, it was burning his palm like molten metal. 

R
obert Rawlins shuffled quietly into York Minster through the Great West Door and walked slowly down the centre of the nave. Sunlight streamed in through the magnificent window at his back, throwing its curvilinear tracery, with its central Heart of Yorkshire, into sharper relief and freshening the colours of the stained glass. Rawlins was dwarfed by it all, a grey, inoffensive little mouse amid the huge white pillars. Almost a hundred feet above his head, the superb gold bosses in the vaulted roof portrayed critical events in the Christian story. Here was both celebration and warning, a lasting tribute to what had gone before and a clear direction as to what should come in the future.

Standing in the aisle, Rawlins looked around and took in the wonder of it all, at once inspired and abashed, as he always was, by this architectural marvel dedicated to the glory of God, and highly conscious of the number of lives
that had gone into its construction. He fell to his knees on the bruising stone and offered up a prayer of supplication. Anxious and beset by danger, he came in to search for sanctuary and was soon deep in conversation with his Maker.

An hour passed. The rustling silence was then broken by the sweetest of sounds. Behind the choir screen with its row of kings surmounted by stucco angels, the Minster choristers had taken up their position in their gleaming stalls. Voices of sublime harmony were raised in a Mass. In his extremity, it seemed to Robert Rawlins as if the angels themselves were singing in unison. He listened transfixed to the
Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus
and
Agnus
Dei
, mouthing old Latin words that were sung with such beauty and expression by young throats, and sharing in the perfection of earthly worship. It was such balm to his ears and succour to his soul that tears of joy soon trickled down his face.

The choirmaster now decided to rehearse a hymn. When the voices rose again to fill the whole cathedral with a mellifluous sound, they achieved a different result.

Robert Rawlins got to his feet in horror. It was not only because the singing of hymns had been introduced by the
Puritans as part of their denigration of the priests and their eagerness to involve the congregation in the divine service. What stuck in his craw was this version of Psalm 100 –
Jubilate Deo
. Rendered into the vernacular from the Latin that Rawlins loved, it was the work of one William Kethe, a hymn-writer who fled from England during Mary’s reign and lived as a refugee in Geneva with such extremists as John Knox, Goodman, Whittingham and Foxe. Such names, such beliefs and such associations were quite obnoxious to Robert Rawlins and he felt it was sacrilege to sing that hymn in that place.

Spinning around, he trotted back down the nave to the Great West Door. The comfort which he sought had been denied him. God was deaf to his entreaties.

He went out once more into a hostile world.

The enormous pleasure of seeing Anne Hendrik again was tempered by the fact that he had no leisure time to spend alone with her. Nicholas Bracewell was forced to chat with her while helping to construct a makeshift tree for use in the forthcoming performance of
Robin Hood and his Merry
Men
. In a corner of the inn yard, the book holder was an emergency carpenter with the dubious assistance of George Dart. Conversation with Anne Hendrik was therefore punctuated by the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer. It ruled out any romantic element.

‘I cannot believe my luck in meeting you,’ she said.

‘I told you it would happen, Anne.’

‘If only the circumstances were happier.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Is there no news at all of Dick Honeydew?’

‘None, I fear.’

‘Who could have taken him?’

‘All sorts of people,’ said Nicholas with a sigh. ‘He is a comely youth and takes the eye wherever we stop. Dick would not be the first apprentice who was snatched away because someone conceived a fancy for the lad.’

‘Is he in danger?’

‘We must hope that he is not.’

‘Where do you think he could be, Nick?’

‘I have cudgelled my brain to give me an answer to that question, but it refuses. All I have is guesswork and suspicion.’

‘And what do they tell you?’

‘Banbury’s Men.’

‘Would they commit such a crime?’

‘They have stolen both our plays and our audiences,’ he argued. ‘Why should they stop there? In stealing young Dick as well, they deal us a far harder blow.’

‘You think the boy is with them?’

‘Master Randolph is too clever for that. If he has ordered the abduction – and every instinct about me says that he did – then he would have assigned the task to some underling and told the man to keep Dick well away from the company for fear of detection.’

Anne’s maternalism was thoroughly roused by now. She knew all the apprentices well, none more so than Richard Honeydew, and she felt a mother’s distress at
his untimely disappearance. Imagination only increased her fright.

‘Will they harm the boy?’

‘They have no need to do so,’ he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. ‘Their sole aim is to harm Westfield’s Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.’

‘What will happen to the lad, then?’

‘I believe he will be released in time.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘When they have thoroughly discomfited us.’

Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.

‘This is no work for a book holder.’

‘It is a case of all hands to the pumps.’

‘Can you not assign these chores to others?’

Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.

‘That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,’ he said. ‘Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there’d scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.’

Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her 
mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice.

‘Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.’

‘There is nothing more to tell.’

‘She accosted you in the river, you say?’

‘Only because she took me for my betters.’

‘You are no Lord Jesus to me.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ They laughed fondly. ‘Do not pay any heed to Mistress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.’

‘Can you be sure of that, Nick?’

‘She will not travel with us.’

‘Master Oliver Quilley does.’

‘Only by special arrangement.’

‘Will she not find the same dispensation?’

‘It is outside the bounds of possibility,’ he said with confidence. ‘Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.’

‘It is agreed, then,’ said Firethorn. ‘You come with us.’

‘Oh, sir!’ she said effusively. ‘Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.’

‘Nay, madam, I will kiss yours.’

He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with
elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield’s Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let an artist and now a self-proclaimed visionary accompany them on their travels. Lawrence Firethorn persuaded himself that both decisions were the right ones.

‘You will not forget the money, good mistress.’

‘I will bring it with me.’

‘And there will be no dispute with your husband?’

‘He will not stop me, sir.’

‘Then I am content.’

‘And I am truly bounden to you, Master Firethorn.’

She curtseyed again and allowed him another view of the delights which had finally changed his mind. Eleanor Budden was indeed a gorgeous woman and her religious fervour only served to bring out her qualities. He loved the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her face and the appealing curves of her body. After dismissing her plea out of hand at first, he had listened to her gentle tenacity and feasted his eyes on her long hair. The combination of the two had made him think again.

Firethorn sought to clarify their relationship.

‘There will be certain conditions, mistress.’

‘I submit to anything that you devise, sir.’

‘Would that you did!’ he murmured.

‘What must I do?’

‘Refrain from interference with our calling. We will
be your shield on the road but we must have freedom to practise our art along the way. You must not hinder us in rehearsal or performance in any way.’

‘Nor will I, sir. I’ll spend my time in prayer.’

‘We might find other things for you.’

‘I need none.’

The simplicity of her purpose was quite moving. At the same time, he could not accept that it would sustain her all the way to York and certainly not to Jerusalem itself. Eleanor Budden had never been more than ten miles from Nottingham in the whole of her life and that had been in the company of her husband. She would find the long ride to York both irksome and perilous, causing her to turn increasingly to Firethorn for support. The idea titillated him. He had never corrupted a saint before.

‘And shall I see Master Bracewell?’ she asked.

‘Every day. You’ll ride beside him on the waggon.’

‘My cup of joy runs over!’

‘Haply, mine will do so as well.’

He bestowed another kiss on her hand then escorted her to the door of the inn. She waved in gratitude then flitted off over the cobbles. Firethorn chuckled to himself then went into the taproom to acquaint Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode with the latest development. They were antagonistic.

‘This is lunacy!’ yelled Gill. ‘I forbid it!’

‘It is less than wise, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘The venture brings us money and companionship.’

‘Who wants her companionship?’ retorted Gill. ‘Let her
keep her money and distribute it as alms. We are actors here, not bodyguards for hire by anyone. Our only privilege is our freedom and you throw that away by inviting some Virgin Mary to sit in judgement on us.’

‘She’s no Virgin Mary,’ said Firethorn quickly.

‘The lady is a distraction,’ said Hoode. ‘She has no place alongside us. Nor does Master Oliver Quilley. They should find some other means to travel north.’

Firethorn did his best to win them over but they were unconvinced. As a last resort, he knew that he could impose his will upon them but wished to avoid doing that if at all possible. Their acceptance was important. He wanted to be seen by Eleanor Budden as the leader of a company who studied to obey his every wish, and not as some petty tyrant who bullied the others into agreement.

His two colleagues left with stern warnings.

‘I set my face against this, Lawrence!’ said Gill.

‘It will not improve your complexion.’

‘I am with Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘You have made a move here that will bring us nothing but awkwardness.’

The two of them went out and Firethorn was left to mull over what they had said. He was not dismayed. They always objected to his ideas. It was simply a question of giving them time to grow accustomed to the notion. When they saw what a harmless woman Eleanor Budden was, they would alter their views. Firethorn was pleased with the new transaction. He called for a pint of sherry.

He was taking his first sip when she appeared.

‘I hoped to find you here, sir.’

‘Susan, my dove! Sit down and take your ease.’

‘I come to inform you of my decision,’ she said with a broad grin, lowering herself down into a chair. ‘Your lonely nights are over, Lawrence.’

‘Prove it lustily between the sheets.’

‘So will I do, sir.’

‘You are man’s greatest comfort, Susan.’

‘That is why I will not desert you now.’

‘Bless you, lady!’

‘Master Gill made up my mind for me.’

‘Barnaby?’

‘He told me even now of Mistress Budden.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said dismissively. ‘A holy woman who hears the voice of God. A poor, distracted creature on whom a Christian must take pity.’

‘Is she young or old?’

‘Ancient, I fear. And so ill-favoured that a man can scarce look fully upon her. That is the only reason I took her. Mistress Budden will be no temptation to the goatish members of my company.’

Susan Becket’s eyes twinkled merrily.

‘I saw the lady leave you. If she be ancient, then I am dead and buried this last ten-year. She has a bloom upon her that could seduce a bishop.’

‘How came I to miss such a quality?’

‘Because your mind was firmly on me, Lawrence.’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ he fawned.

‘That is why I reached my decision. Mistress Budden is a child of nature and innocence sits upon her. I’ll be a true
mother to her and keep those goats from grazing on her pasture. She’ll thank me well for it.’

‘I do not understand your meaning, Susan.’

‘Your warming-pan comes with you, sir.’

‘All the way?’ he said anxiously.

‘Every last inch.’

‘I could not put you to the trouble.’

‘It is my pleasure.’

Her smile of easy determination fractured all his plans for the journey. Susan Becket was an old flame he had intended to blow out in Nottingham but she had now rekindled herself. Lawrence Firethorn could not hide his chagrin. He was taking one woman too many to York.