Edward Marston - Trip to Jerusalem

The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Raw! ins 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 sec 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 stout-hearted 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 recognized 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 horn 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 chicked 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!'