Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.

Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.

Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.

'What else did he say, George?'

'He talked of other companies that hired him.'

'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'

'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'

'And were they well received?'

'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'

George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times--in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways--by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.

'One thing more, George.'

'Yes, sir?'

'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'

'Many times, Master.'

'What does he say?'

'That he is the better player of the two.'

'I did not think him so.'

'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'

'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'

'None, Master.'

'No tribute of a passing sigh?'

'Not once in my hearing.'

'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'

'I will, sir.'

Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.

'When we left London...'

'Yes, George?'

'We came through Bishopsgate.'

'Aye, sir.'

'There was a head upon a spike there.'

'Several, if memory serves.'

'This was the most recent.'

'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'

'What was his offence?'

'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'

'Was he alone in his crime?'

'No, lad. He was part of a Catholic conspiracy.'

'Why were the others not brought to justice?" 'Because they have not been apprehended yet.'

'Will they be so?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham will see to that.'

'How?'

'His men will scour the kingdom.

Before George could frame another question, there was a scream from nearby which sent Nicholas haring off with his sword in his hand. Richard Honeydew had yelled out in fear from behind the bushes where he had slipped off to relieve himself. Nicholas got to him in seconds to Find him open-mouthed in horror and pointing to something that was coming over the brow of the hill.

It was as weird and exotic a sight as any they had seen thus far on their travels. A band of some twenty or more had appeared in bizarre costumes that were made up of embroidered turbans and brightly-coloured scarves worn over shreds and patches. Their swarthy faces were painted red or yellow and bells tinkled about their feet as they rode along on their horses. They were at once frightening and fascinating. Richard Honeydew was transfixed.

Nicholas laughed and patted him on the back.

'They will not harm you, lad.'

'Who are they. Master?'

'Egyptians.'

'Who?'

'Minions of the moon.'

'Are they real?'

'As real as you or me.'

'Why do they look so strange?'

'They're gypsies.'

Anne Hendrik had travelled by way of Watling Street to visit her cousins in Dunstable. She soon moved on to Bedford to stay with an uncle and was pleased when he invited her to accompany him on a visit to his brother in Nottingham. Though the town had not been part of the itinerary of Westfield's Men, it took her much closer to them and that brought some comfort. It was only now that she was parted from Nicholas Bracewell that she realized how important he was in her life. They had shared the same house for almost three years now and she had grown to appreciate his unusual qualities.

She missed his soft West Country accent and his sense of humour and his endless consideration. Many men would have been brutalized by some of the experiences he had been through, but Nicholas remained true to himself and sensitive to the needs of others. He had faults but even those produced a nostalgic smile now. As Anne wandered through the market stalls of Nottingham, her hands were busy fingering lace and leather and cambric but her mind was on her dearest friend.

She sensed that he might not be too far away.

'Do not buy that here, Anne.'

'What?'

'The finest leather is in Leicester.'

'Oh...yes.'

She put down the purse she had been absent-mindedly examining and took her uncle's arm. He was an old man now and there would not be many journeys left to his brother. It gave him pleasure to be able to indulge his niece along the way. She had always been his favourite.

'What may I buy you, Anne?'

'It is I who should give you a present, uncle.' !

'Your visit is present enough,' he said then waved his walking stick at the stalls. 'Choose what you wish.'

'There is nothing that I need.'

'I must give you some treat.'

'You have done that by bringing me here.'

He looked around and scratched his head in thought. When the idea came forth, it brought an elderly chuckle.

'Haply, you would like some entertainment.'

'Of what kind, uncle?'

'I'll take you to a play.'

Do they have a company here?'

'Had your head not been in the clouds, you would have seen for yourself. Playbills are up on every post.'

Indeed?'

Incitement stirred. Could Westfield's Men be there?

'Let me but show you, niece.'

'I follow you in earnest.'

He pushed a way through the crowd until they came to Ye Old Salutation Inn, one of the taverns that nestled close to Nottingham Castle and which had quenched the thirst of needy travellers for untold generations. Nailed to a beam outside the inn was a playbill written out with a flourish. Anne Hendrik felt her pulse quicken when she saw the name of the play. Pompey the Great. Edmund Hoode's famed tragedy.

A triumph for Westfield's Men.

Her joy turned sour on the instant. The audience would not see Lawrence Firethorn in his most celebrated role. They were being offered the more shallow talents of Giles Randolph and his company.

'Shall you see this play with me, Anne?'

'Not I, uncle. I have no stomach for the piece.'

She turned away in outrage.

They knew that they were in Nottinghamshire as soon as they saw the woodland. Leicestershire had few forests and even fewer deer parks, the land being given over largely to agriculture. The growing of barley, pulses and wheat were familiar sights as were the fields of cattle and sheep. Once across the border, however, Westfield's Men encountered very different terrain. They were in the shire with the wood' since Sherwood Forest accounted for over a quarter of its area.