Edward Marston: Trip to Jerusalem

Nicholas swung down from the gable and dropped to the ground. Unnatural vice was a crime which bore a severe penalty, but he would never have enforced it. He felt slightly disappointed in Millfield but bore him no ill will. The man was entitled to his private pleasures, especially as he was so discreet about them. Nicholas had made an unwarranted intrusion. Chastened and not a little annoyed with himself, he trotted back in the direction of the inn. He needed sleep against the exertions of the morrow and should not be wasting his time in futile eavesdropping on a friend. As he went back over the bridge, he cursed himself for being so misled.

It was then that he spotted the body.

Caught in the moonlight, it was floating face down in the river shallows. He ran to the bank and waded into the water to take hold of the sodden corpse. As soon as he felt the weight of the small body and the quality of the doublet, he knew who the man was.

Master Oliver Quilley.

Nicholas dragged him to the bank and rolled him over on his back. Sightless eyes stared up at him. The handle of a dagger stuck obscenely out of his throat. A deathly pallor was already creeping over the face. But it was the man's right hand which caught the attention. It was wrapped around something as if trying to protect it at all costs. Nicholas had difficulty in prising the fingers apart and taking out the oval of vellum that was to have borne the portrait of Sir Clarence Marmion. Smudged lines could just be made out in the gloom. When Nicholas turned it over, however, lie got the real shock.

Quilley had glued the vellum to a picture cut from a Tarot card. It showed a man who dangled from a rope that was tied to his foot. Nicholas recognized the image. It was the Hanged Man. Sometimes the card was called by another name.

The Traitor.

Banbury's Men shuffled about disconsolately in the yard of the Three Swans and loaded up their waggon. After their disgrace the previous afternoon, they were quitting York for good. They had failed abysmally and would be given no further chance to vindicate their reputation. A dignified withdrawal was their only option and Giles Randolph had taken it. As he led his horse out of the stables, he was still seething with anger against the man who had let them down. Having helped to put them firmly in the ascendant, Scruton had brought them crashing down. There would be no position for him as a sharer with the company. Banbury's Men would manage without him from now on. Their future lay in improving their performances of their own plays.

Randolph surveyed his ragged band of players. 'Are we all ready, sirs?'

'Aye,' came the dispirited reply. 'Then let us ride out of this unholy city.'

He mounted his horse and rode towards the main gate. As he was about to go through it, the stately figure of an old man walked in. He wore an elegant black doublet with matching breeches and had a feathered hat swept down to hide half his face. The neat grey beard suggested age and distinction. He carried a cane and lifted it when he saw the horse bearing down on him.

Randolph reined in his mount to let the man pass.:

'Good day to you, sir,' he said politely.

'Good day,' said the other. 'Where do you travel?'

'Anywhere to get away from this place.'

'Has York been so unwelcoming to you?'

'A foul prison!'

Giles Randolph urged his horse on and the procession Went out through the gate. The old man waved them off as they passed but they paid little attention to him. He gave a wry smile and congratulated himself on the cunning of his disguise. If his fellow-actors did not recognize him, then he was safe horn discovery.

Mark Scruton went off into the taproom.

Humphrey Budden and his wife rose early and went straight to York Minster to attend Matins. While still on their knees, they pledged themselves to each other once more and held hands as an act of commitment. Eleanor was a changed woman. The night with her husband had been a revelation. An ineluctable urge brought her to York in the service of God but it had somehow fastened her on to the book holder of Westfield's Men. Whatever the origin of that intense and powerful feeling, it had left her. Jerusalem was no longer a distant target for a pilgrimage. She found it in the arms of her husband and longed for nothing more than to be back with her children in Nottingham.

'Master Bracewell!'

'Good morrow, Mistress Budden. And to you, sir.'

'We wish to thank you most sincerely,' said the husband, clasping him by the hand. 'We will never be able to repay you for your kindness.'

'Your happiness is payment enough, sir.'

They had arrived back at the inn to find Nicholas saddling up a horse in the yard. Eleanor was now a sober matron who hung on her husband's arm though the twinkle in her eye showed that a wistful memory still lingered. Nicholas was glad when the couple went off to collect up their belongings before returning home.

Lawrence Firethorn came hurrying into the yard.

'Nick, dear heart!'

'I am riding out to Marmion Hall.'

'Let me shower you with my gratitude first,' said the other with a bear-like embrace. 'Master Pym told me what happened last night. You lifted the burden of Susan Becket off my back when you played Cupid for her. I need not fear a meeting between her and Margery now.'

'How is Mistress Firethorn this morning?'

'Lying contentedly among my creditors.'

'I am glad that someone found happiness,' said Nicholas. 'My night was taken up with Master Quilley.'

'Poor wretch! It was a gruesome way to depart this life. Do they have any idea who might have murdered him?'

'None, sir. I am just relieved that they no longer think that I may be the culprit. The officers and the magistrate questioned me for hours.'

'I spoke up for you, Nick. My voice has weight.'

'Your help was much appreciated.'

Nicholas put a foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. His mind was still playing with all the questions that the death of Oliver Quilley had opened up. He looked down at his employer and remembered something. Lawrence Firethorn was the finest actor in London and the nobility came in droves to watch him. He was well-acquainted with those at Court and party to much of their gossip.

'May I ask you a question, sir?'

'A hundred, if it pleases you.'

'What is your view of Mr Secretary Walsingham?'

'Pah!' exclaimed Firethorn. 'I spit upon him.'

'Why so?'

'Because he is linked to the name I detest most.'

'In what way, Master?'

'Do you not know?'

'Why then would I ask?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham is now Secretary of State and our dear Queen has heaped every honour upon him that it is possible to have.' Firethorn curled his lip. 'But I remember how he began his great political career.'

'As a member of Parliament was it not?'

'Shall I tell you the town for which he sat?'

'I think I can guess.'

'Banbury!'

Marmion Hall that morning was in the grip of a deep sorrow. Sir Clarence put on a brave face in front of his family and his servants but they sensed what hung over them and it introduced a sombre air. The arrest of Robert Rawlins had been a devastating blow and they were still reeling from it. There was an additional setback for Sir Clarence. The man whom he had dispatched to York had been killed by his own intended victim. It was very alarming. The informer who had betrayed both of the accomplices was now closing in on Sir Clarence himself. Instant flight could be necessary. Preparations were made. Is everything in order?'

'Yes, Sir Clarence.'

'Keep a horse saddled and ready.'

'It is all in hand.'

You will ride with me.'

'Thar will be an honour, Sir Clarence.'