Edward Marston - Trip to Jerusalem

Scruton dismounted and a servant took care of his horse. The actor walked with an upright gait, leaning on his cane for support. He was part of a crowd that swept in through the main door of the house. Waiting to greet them in the entrance hall was Sir Clarence Marmion and his wife, both attired in their finery for the occasion.

Giving them a false name and a confident smile, the old man with the grey beard withstood their scrutiny without a flicker of concern. Host and hostess bestowed a welcome on the next influx of guests.

The first test was over and he had come through it with perfect aplomb. Mark Scruton was in. It was now only a question of biding his time.

Christopher Millfield returned ten minutes before the play began and faced a tirade from Lawrence Firethorn and a stern reproach from Nicholas Bracewell. He apologized profusely and claimed that he had got lost in the garden but the book holder did not entirely believe him. With the performance at hand, however, Nicholas was in no position to press him on the matter. He did his rounds and made a final check before taking up his position behind the curtains. It enabled him to see most of the stage and a little of the audience. He was in time to watch Sir Clarence filing into his seat beside his wife and family. Directly behind the host was a distinguished old man in a black doublet and breeches. As the guest scratched his grey beard, Nicholas had a sense of knowing the man but he could not put a name to the face. Nor did he have any time for reflection. Audience and actors were ready. The book holder gave the signal to begin.

A trumpet sounded and the Prologue was spoken by Edmund Hoode in shining armour. Music played and the action commenced. It never ceased for a second. Westfield's Men adapted their style superbly to the conditions and to the spectators, working on both to get maximum return. Their audience was much quieter than at the inn but their concentration did not waver.

The seneschal made them laugh, Berengaria made them sigh, the impaled crusader made them weep and King Richard himself made them proud to be English and Christian. The performance by Lawrence Firethorn touched the heights and swept everyone away, including Sir Clarence himself who was patently enraptured. As the play moved into its final gripping climax, Nicholas stole a glance at their host and saw something that he had missed before. The old man who sat behind Sir Clarence was wearing a familiar earring. A brilliant disguise was spoiled by an actor's vanity.

Alarums and excursions brought the stage battle to a close and Firethorn delivered his address to the troops in his most compelling vein. He was calling them to arms in the service of the Lord when the main door of the hall opened and they poured in. At first, the audience thought that the intrusion was part of the play and they marvelled at the number of extras who had been dressed in uniform and armed, but they soon saw that the newcomers were the real thing.

Sir Clarence Marmion was ahead of them. Darting out of his seat, he clicked open the. secret door in the oak panelling and dived through it. The old man went after him with astonishing sprightliness and got to the door before it closed. As he went through the aperture, he shut the door behind him. Nicholas observed it all and now understood why his host had taken the seat at the end of the row. He was right next to his escape route.

There was complete chaos in the hall as guests stood up to protest and soldiers pushed them roughly aside in their search. Firethorn finished his concluding speech but the play was already over. The real drama was now taking place elsewhere. Nicholas Bracewell was off at full pelt. Guided by instinct, he went out into the garden and sprinted along the avenue of yews. If the secret panel was a means of escape then there had to be an exit somewhere outside. He believed he knew where it was.

He reached the circle of rhododendron bushes and went through a gap in the foliage. What he had heard earlier was the whinny of a horse and he found two of them tethered to a post. Behind them lay a man in the Marmion livery with blood gushing from a wound in his chest. Nicholas stepped over the corpse to the thickest part of the bushes and pulled them back. A small door was revealed, cleverly set in a mound that was screened by foliage. He opened it and went in, finding himself in an underground passage that was lit at intervals by a few guttering candles. There was a pervading smell of damp and decay.

Abandoning all caution, Nicholas went blundering off down the tunnel at full speed. He felt certain that the explanation of all the mystery lay at the far end of the passage and he ran furiously towards the truth. His dash was far too reckless and he soon came to grief tripping on some loose stones and pitching forward to strike his head on a small boulder. Dazed and hurt, he spat out a mouthful of earth then felt the blood that was running down his face from the gash in his temple. As he pulled himself slowly upright, he became aware of the clanger he was in. Nicholas was completely unarmed.

It was not just Sir Clarence and Mark Scruton who posed a problem. Evidently, someone had entered the tunnel before him and the corpse in the rhododendrons bore ugly witness to the man's sense of purpose. Nicholas had to be more circumspect, especially as the passage ahead of him was in complete darkness. He crept along with the utmost care and caught the faint whiff of burning tallow. The candles in this section of the tunnel had just been extinguished. It put him even more on his guard.

Feeling his way along, he discovered how many spiders and insects had made their homes down there. When he felt something brush against his ankle, he stepped back in horror then heard the telltale patter behind him. It was a large rat. He was grateful that Richard Honeydew was not with him. Straining his eyes against the blackness, he inched his way along, finding the tunnel more and more oppressive. Its walls narrowed and his sense of being imprisoned became more acute. Something else troubled him and he lashed out with an arm.; 'Who's there?' he called.

There was no answer but he knew he was not alone.

Sounds of a struggle came from up ahead and he heard Sir Clarence yell with rage. It forced him into a run that had him virtually bouncing off the walls as he hared along. Light surrounded a steel door ahead of him. He flung it open to find himself in a tiny chapel. Two men were locked in a desperate struggle.

Sir Clarence Marmion grappled with the old man who had pursued him and tore off his false beard. Mark Scruton tried to shake himself free and use his dagger. Before Nicholas could intercede, the actor seized the advantage. Getting a firm grip on his adversary, he threw him hard against the stone wall. Sir Clarence's head made contact with solid granite and he subsided to the floor with a groan, lapsing at once into unconsciousness. Mark Scruton stood over him then he swung around to confront the intruder. He began to circle Nicholas with his dagger at the ready.

'You have followed me once too often, Nick.'

'I had not thought to see you again.'

'It will be the last time.'

He made a pass with his weapon but the book holder eluded its point with ease. The actor laughed.

'This was not your fight,' he said. 'It had nothing to do with you, Nick. You should have kept out.'

'Villainy must not go unchecked.'

'You know too much for your own good yet not nearly enough to understand the truth.'

'I know that you are Walsingham's man.'

'I was,' conceded the other. 'Until today, I was. It should have ended here at Marmion Hall. I gave them Rickwood. I gave them Pomeroy. This was to be my last employment as a spy. I would have been free to follow my real profession in the theatre.'