The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (62 page)

‘A rat! A rat! Another rat!’

The creature came out of the straw and shuffled towards the terror-stricken boy. Nicholas yelled and lashed out at the animal with his feet, putting it to flight and kicking over the bucket as well. As cold water made his discomfort even greater, he began to fret and complain but he soon checked himself. The accident might yet be turned to account. He almost smiled.

‘I spy some hope, Dick.’

‘Do you, master?’

‘There may yet be a way out.’

‘How?’

‘You will see. But I need your help.’

‘I will do anything I can, sir.’

‘Encourage me.’

Richard Honeydew soon understood what he meant. The packed earth beneath the straw had been loosened by the deluge and gave way to urgent feet. Using his shoes as a rudimentary spade, Nicholas began to scoop out a hole close to the wall. The deeper he went, the softer was the earth and he kicked it out into a heap beside him. It was a long and laborious process which brought the sweat streaming out of every pore and made his body ache as if it was ready to split asunder. Whenever he felt like giving up, however, he glanced across at the boy and was given all the exhortation he needed.

‘Keep on, sir! You are working wonders! Stay there!’

Nicholas struggled on, getting bruised and filthy in the process but making definite headway. Ultimately, the hole was big enough for him to be able to lower himself into it and take the strain.

He had undermined the wall completely. When he tested his strength against it, the stone moved slightly. Richard Honeydew giggled with delight.

‘We are almost there!’

‘Not yet, lad.’

‘I know your strength, sir. You will do it.’

Nicholas nodded wearily. The real effort now began. He pushed, felt it give some more, rested a moment then adjusted his position. Calling on all his reserves of energy, he shoved hard with his feet and let his broad shoulders attack the solidity of the wall. It was the work of several wounding minutes but his efforts were not in vain. With a low crumbling noise, the wall gave way and chunks of stone came crashing down around him. Nicholas was cut, bruised and bloodied but his hands were now free of the metal ring. He began to rub his wrists against the sharp edge of a piece of stone.

‘You did it, Master Bracewell!’ said the boy.

‘With your help.’

‘All I did was to watch you.’

‘And stiffen my resolve.’

‘Can you saw through the rope?’

‘It is done!’ said Nicholas, holding up his hands.

He cast aside his bonds and dragged himself across to
untie the boy’s wrists. Before they could tackle the ropes on their ankles, however, they heard the sound of running footsteps. Nicholas pulled himself upright and bounced to the door as it was unbolted from outside. A stocky young man came rushing in with a dagger at the ready. Grabbing him by wrist and neck, Nicholas threw him hard against the remains of the wall, diving on top of him to disarm him and hold the weapon to his throat. The man was dazed and fearful.

‘Do not kill me, sir!’ he pleaded.

‘Who are you?’

‘An ostler, sir. I work here at the inn.’

‘You have been our gaoler.’

‘Only because I was paid. I meant no harm.’

‘Do not move!’

Nicholas used the dagger to slit through the ropes that held his ankles then he cut the boy loose as well. He placed a knee on the ostler’s chest and held the point of the blade just in front of the man’s face.

‘You struck me down from behind,’ he accused.

‘I was told to guard the boy.’

‘What else were you told?’

‘To hide the basket in the stables.’

‘What basket?’

‘They were costumes, sir.’

‘From Westfield’s Men?’

‘That was the name.’

Nicholas stood up and yanked the ostler to his feet. He did not have to threaten his captive any more. Plainly
terrified, the man led them immediately to the part of the stables where he had concealed the costume basket. Nicholas was pleased to see his two horses there as well and took the opportunity to repossess his own sword and dagger. He used his rapier to pin the man to the wall while he pondered.

‘Has the company returned?’ he said.

‘Not yet, sir. They celebrate at Lavery Grange.’

‘Take me to Master Randolph’s room.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘He will have the finest bedchamber here.’

‘’Tis at the front of the inn, sir.’

‘Teach me the way.’

‘I have no place up there.’

‘I do,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lead on or lose an ear.’

They went stealthily across the yard.

Lambert Pym stood in the brewhouse at the rear of his inn and watched another cask being filled. It would now be stored in his cellars for conditioning until it was ready to be tapped and drunk. Pym had grown up with the smell of beer and ale in his nostrils and it stayed with him wherever he went. His customers at the Trip to Jerusalem bought beer, or, if they had a little extra money, some ale. He imported some wine from Bordeaux but it was too costly for most people. Malmsey wine from Greece was even more expensive, as was sack, but Pym kept a supply of both for certain patrons. During the three days of Whitsuntide, he would need to draw deeply on all his stocks.

The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Rawlins was about to leave. Lambert Pym raised a finger in deference and beamed ingratiatingly.

‘Shall you be with us at Whitsuntide, master?’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘You’ll see an ocean of beer drunk in here.’

‘That is not a sight which appeals.’

‘Drink has its place in the affairs of men.’

‘I know!’ said Rawlins with frank disapproval.

‘Christ Himself did sanction it, sir.’

‘Do not blaspheme.’

‘He turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana,’ said Pym. ‘That was his first miracle.’

‘But open to misinterpretation.’

‘Wine has its place,’ mused the other, ‘but you will not part an Englishman from his beer. Look at the example of Fuenterrabia.’

‘Where?’

‘It is northern Spain.’ Pym grinned oleaginously as he told his favourite story. ‘The first campaign in the reign of good King Henry, who was father to our present dear Queen. He sent an army of seven thousand English soldiers to help his father-in-law, King Ferdinand, take Navarre away from the French. Do you know what those stouthearted men found?’

‘What, sir?’

‘There was no beer in Spain. Only wine and cider.’ He cackled happily. ‘The soldiers mutinied on the spot and their commander, the Marquis of Dorset, was forced to
bring them home again. They could not fight on empty bellies, sir, and beer was their one desire.’

Robert Rawlins listened to the tale with polite impatience then turned to go but his way was now blocked. Standing in the doorway were two constables. One of them held up a warrant as he moved in on him.

‘You must come with us, sir.’

‘On what charge?’

‘I think you know that.’

Before he could say any more, Robert Rawlins was hustled unceremoniously out. Lambert Pym was mystified but instinct guided him. He summoned his boy at once.

‘Take a message to Marmion Hall.’

‘Sir Clarence Marmion has commissioned a portrait.’

‘Of himself, Master Quilley?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A miniature?’

‘I am a limner. I paint nothing else.’

‘Your fame spreads ever wider.’

‘Genius is its own best recommendation.’

‘Do you look forward to painting Sir Clarence?’

‘No, sir. I simply hope he will pay me for my work.’

Oliver Quilley brought realism to bear upon his art. Commissions had never been a problem area. That lay in the collection of his due reward. Far too many of his subjects, especially those at Court, believed that their patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It
gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.

He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield’s Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.

‘How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?’ said Firethorn.

‘Through a friend.’

‘Did you not take him for a traitor?’

‘I saw it in his face.’

‘Yet you accepted the commission?’

‘His money was as good as anyone else’s.’

‘But tainted, Master Quilley.’

‘How so?’

‘Rickwood betrayed his Queen.’

‘He paid me in gold,’ said the artist. ‘Not with thirty pieces of silver.’

‘I could not work for such a man myself.’

‘Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.’

‘I deny it hotly, sir!’

‘Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?’

‘Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.’

‘It will not be staged there again,’ said Quilley complacently. ‘Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.’

‘Can this be true?’ said Firethorn.

‘I have it on good authority.’

‘God save us all!’

‘He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.’

Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield’s Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.

The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.

‘I responded to the voice of God,’ she said.

‘You answered some inner desire, mistress.’

‘His word is paramount.’

‘If that indeed was what you heard.’

‘I am certain of it, Master Millfield.’

‘Certainty is everywhere,’ he argued. ‘The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?’

‘Because I have been chosen.’

‘By God – or by yourself?’

‘Fie on your impertinence, sir!’

‘I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.’

‘Do you doubt my sincerity?’

‘Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must indeed be sincere. What I question is this voice of God.’

‘I heard it plainly, sir.’

‘But did it come from without or within?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘I believe so.’

‘It is not for us to question God’s mystery.’

‘Nor yet to submit blindly to it.’

‘That is blasphemy!’

‘You have your convictions and I have mine.’

‘Are you an atheist, sir?’ she cried.

Before he could reply, two figures appeared ahead of them on a chestnut stallion. A second horse was dragging a litter that had been fashioned out of some long, slender boughs. Lashed to the litter was a basket that everyone recognised immediately. Nicholas Bracewell was back. He brought the missing apprentice and the stolen costumes as well as Oliver Quilley’s horse. A cheer went up from the whole company as they hurried towards their hero.

The newcomers were soon enveloped by friends and bombarded with questions. Eleanor Budden gazed down on her beloved and called his name. Barnaby Gill demanded to know if his golden doublet was unharmed. Edmund Hoode asked if they knew who had played his part of Sicinius. Martin Yeo, Stephen Judd and John Tallis hailed their fellow-apprentice with an enthusiasm that bordered on
hysteria. Susan Becket clucked excitedly. George Dart was able to join the Merry Men once more.

Lawrence Firethorn waved them all into silence with an imperious arm and called for full details. Though they looked tattered and travel-weary, the two companions had washed themselves off in a spring and found that their injuries were only minor. Reunion with their fellows put new strength and spirit into them.

‘Who kidnapped the lad?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Banbury’s Men,’ said Nicholas.

‘Scurvy knaves! We’ll have them in court for this!’

‘There are other ways to get even, sir.’

‘And the costumes, Nick?’

‘Taken by the same hands.’

‘Where did you find my horse?’ said Quilley.

‘That was providential.’

Nicholas told him the story and gained fresh looks of adoration from Eleanor Budden. When he talked of putting four men to flight – and did so in such modest terms – Susan Becket also experienced a flutter. The female response was not lost on Firethorn who sought to divert some of their admiring glances his way.

‘By heavens!’ he roared, pulling out his sword and holding it in the air. ‘I’ll put so many holes in the hide of Giles Randolph that he’ll whistle when he walks across the stage! I’ll challenge him to a duel and cut the varlet down to size! I’ll make him pay for every crime he has committed against us. Hang him, the rogue!’

‘Worry not about Master Randolph,’ said Nicholas.

‘Frogspawn in human shape!’

‘He has problems enough of his own.’

‘Prison is too good for such a wretch!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘He dared to steal
Pompey the Great
!’

‘My play,’ said Hoode. ‘My part of Sicinius.’

‘They will not perform it again, Edmund.’

‘How can you be so certain, Nick?’

‘Because we have stopped them.’ He winked at his companion. ‘Show them, Dick.’

The boy ran across to the costume basket and threw back its lid to draw out a pile of plays. He read out their titles to a delighted audience.

‘
Cupid’s Folly. Two Maids of Milchester. Double Deceit. Marriage and Mischief. Pompey the Great
.’