Edward Marston - Trip to Jerusalem

'The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,' he said. 'Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!'

Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.

'Here's payment for your work, Master Quilley.'

'Wait until I have finished, dear sir.'

'Take it on account.'

'If you insist,' said the other gratefully.

'A labourer is worthy of his hire.'

'An artist raises labour to a higher plane.'

'Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?'

The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.

'You rode here alone, sir?' asked Sir Clarence.

'It was not a long journey,' said Quilley.

'Perils may still lurk.' He indicated a servant. 'Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.'

'I will manage on my own, Sir Clarence. My horse will outrun any that bars my way. I have no fears.'

'You should, sir. These are dangerous times.'

'I will keep my wits about me.'

Sir Clarence excused himself for a moment and left the room with the servant. Quilley did not delay. He moved quickly towards the shelves of books that stood against the far wall. His choice was immediate. He took a small leather-bound volume with a handsome silver clasp on it. Slipping the book into the pouch alongside his artist's materials, he strolled casually across to the window to admire the view. He was still appraising the front garden when his host returned. Sir Clarence was in decisive mood.

'We shall have the second sitting tomorrow.'

'So soon?' said Quilley.

'I am anxious to press ahead with the portrait.'

'An artist may not be rushed, Sir Clarence.'

'Time is not on our side,' said the other. 'We have the visit from Westfield's Men tomorrow. Return with them and bring your belongings from the inn. You shall be a guest under my roof until your work is done.'

'That is most kind. Marmion Hall will offer me a softer lodging than the Trip to Jerusalem, and a safer one as well.' He gave a sly smile. 'The landlord tells me that one of his guests was recently carried off by officers. One Robert Rawlins.'

'I do not know the man.'

'It is just as well, Sir Clarence. He was a priest of the Church of Rome. Any friend of Master Rawlins will be dealt with most severely.'

'That does not concern me,' said the other. 'I am more interested in Westfield's Men. You travelled with them from Nottingham, you say?'

'An eventful journey in every way.'

'It gave you time to befriend them no doubt. Who is in the company, sir? I would know their names.'

'All of them?'

'Down to the meanest wight.'

Quilley reeled off the names and his host listened intently. The visitor was then thanked and shown out. Delighted with his good fortune, he rode off at a canter in the direction of York. Coins jingled in his purse and his patron had hinted at further reward. Then there was the book that nestled in his pouch. He was so caught up with himself that he did not notice the other horseman.

Eleanor Budden knelt in prayer in York Minster and heard confusion. It had all been so simple in Nottingham. One voice had spoken to her with one clear message and she left husband, home and children to obey it. There was no further direction from above. As her knees bussed the hassock in obeisance to God, she waited for a sign that did not come. Her heart gave her one ruling, her head another and her soul a third. It was three days before she would be able to see the Archbishop himself and take his holy counsel. What should she do in the interim?

Had her trip to Jerusalem foundered in York?

She recalled the words of a sermon delivered by Miles Melhuish on the Sunday morning before she left. Keyed into her own situation, it had talked about the character of a true pilgrim and the nature of life itself as a form of pilgrimage, it dealt with the celestial origin of man and of his hope of returning to the realm from which he had been expelled after his fall from grace. The vicar's rotund phrases imprinted themselves on her anew and she was struck by his recital of the symbols of the pilgrim-the shell, the crook or staff, the well of the water-of-salvation, the road and the cloak.

The more she thought about it, the more inescapably she was led back to Nicholas Bracewell. He had no visible shell or crook but he was both fisherman and shepherd to Westfield's Men, their main provider and their loving protector. She had met him in the River Trent, floating naked on the water-of-salvation. They had followed the road together and, in reclaiming the costume basket, he had found not one but several cloaks. It was all there. In her simple reasoning, the truth now revealed itself. To go on a pilgrimage was to enter a labyrinth in order to understand its mystery. The Centre was not in Jerusalem at all. It was here in York.

Nicholas Bracewell was her destination.

Excited by her discovery, she got to her feet and tripped down the aisle towards the Great West Door. It took her a long time to thread her way through the clogged streets with their happy fairtime atmosphere, but she eventually reached the inn and began the search for him. Nicholas had been given the luxury of a room of his own, albeit only a tiny attic space, and it was here that she cornered him an hour before the performance was due.

Her ardour was matched by his embarrassment. 'I must away, Mistress,' he said. 'Hear me but speak first, sir.'

'We play before our audience this afternoon.'

'I ask but two minutes of your time.'

'Very well, then. What would you say?'

Eleanor Budden turned her blue eyes upon him and let them talk for her. In their passion and yearning and holy urgency, he saw images that caused him severe discomfort. She was a beautiful and seductive presence but she was not for him. He carried Anne Hendrik in his heart and he did not turn aside for any other woman, particularly the estranged wife of a Nottingham lacemaker. Nicholas had great sympathy for her but it did not extend to what she so self-evidently had in mind.

'Let me come to you, Master,' she begged.

'It is not appropriate.'

'You are my saviour.'

'I am unworthy of that role.'

'Do but let me warm myself at your flame.'

'You mistake me, Mistress.'

'No, good sir. I worship you.'

It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself and he only did that by promising to have a further debate with her that evening. He went swiftly downstairs and tried to dismiss her from his mind. With the performance at hand, he would need all his concentration for that. As he passed a chamber that was shared by some of the hired men of the company, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and forget all about the threat posed by Mistress Eleanor Budden. Lines of strident verse came through the door. It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn in full flight as Richard the Lionheart, urging on his troops before their battle against Saladin, stiffening their resolve and making their blood surge.