Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

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London is under siege by the Black Plague, closing its theaters and losing its frightened citizens to the countryside. Lord Westfield's Men decide upon the relative safety of the road and a tour of the North. Before they can pack up and depart, one player in the troupe is murdered. 
As they travel, the company of players managed by its bookholder, Nicholas Bracewell, learns that their arch-rivals, Banbury's Men, have been pirating their best works. Hoping to shake off Banbury's Men, actor Lawrence Firethorn eventually leads his troupe to York where all is revealed in a thrilling performance.
Originally published in the U.S. in 1990 by St. Martin's Press, The Trip to Jerusalem is the third Nicholas Bracewell Elizabethan mystery following The Queen's Head and The Merry Devils.
From Publishers Weekly
Marston ( The Merry Devils ) here skillfully develops an engaging tale of murder, politics and general mayhem focused on the travels and tribulations of Westfield's Men, a 16th-century, London-based troupe. As the Great Plague decimates the city, the right to stage plays, always precarious, has been revoked. In an effort to find work, Lawrence Firethorn, the group's leader, takes his contentious crew on the road. Misfortune dogs their every step. Banbury's Men, a rival yet inferior company, purloins Westfield's plays, costumes and even players. Westfield also finds itself enmeshed in the vicious battle raging between the Church of England and the recently disenfranchised Catholics. The climax occurs at an inn in the city of York called "The Trip to Jerusalem." Marston uses period dialogue; it is cleverly handled and easily understood. A historically authentic depiction of life in England is lightly woven into the main story, and a delightfully ribald flavor freshens many scenes. 

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Eleanor Budden emerged from the bushes on the other side of the river and watched the apparition that was floating slowly towards her. She had been sitting beside the Trent in deep contemplation when she first heard the splash. Her mind had been on her mission and she had been waiting for another sign from above.

That sign had now come. What she saw on the water was no fatigued book holder washing off the dirt of a long journey. She witnessed a miracle. Eyes closed, arms nailed to some invisible cross, body limp yet beautiful. Fair hair combed by the sunlight. Here was no stranger but her closest friend in the world. She had last seen him in the lancet window at the church of St Stephen.

Eleanor Budden waded happily into the water.

'Lord Jesus,' she cried. 'Take me to Jerusalem!'

Nottingham was the first sizeable town they had been in since they had left and it gave them an immediate sense of reassurance. It was tiny by comparison with London but that did not worry them. The place was a vast improvement on villages that turned them away and hamlets which could not raise an audience worth the bother. Nottingham was civilization. They were back in business.

Lodging his company at the Saracen's Head near the centre of the town, Lawrence Firethorn put on his best apparel and went to call on the Mayor. Permission to play was readily granted and the Town Hall was the designated venue. The Mayor was a keen playgoer himself and he was delighted that Westfield's Men were gracing the town with a visit. Money was discussed and Firethorn left in much higher spirits. The performance of Robin Hood was set for the morrow which gave them ample time to rehearse the piece, to recruit journeymen as extras and--in the event of Richard Honeydew's continued absence--recast the role of Maid Marion. All seemed to be well.

The actor-manager then returned to the inn and his world caved in around him.

'Again! This is a double insult!'

'I saw the playbill myself, Master Firethorn.'

Did you witness the performance?

'I could not bear to, sir. My loyalty is to you.'

'It does you credit, Mistress Hendrik." He thumped the settle on which he was perched. 'By heavens, I'll not bear it! Giles Randolph is as arrant a knave as ever walked the face of the earth. Sure, he cannot have come from any lawful issue but was engendered by two toads on a hot day in some slimy place or other.' He jumped to his feet. And did he really play Pompey the Great?'

'But two clays ago.'

'Treachery in the highest degree!'

Anne Hendrik had tracked the company down to the inn and reported her news. The long-faced Edmund Hoode sat in on the debate along with Barnaby Gill. All three of them waited until Firethorn had ranted his full and described fifteen different ways in which he would put his rival to death. Having departed from their original route in order to shake off Banbury's Men, it was dispiriting to find that they had come in their wake after all. Firethorn's beloved role had been purloined, Hoode's play had been misappropriated and all the kudos that should have gone to Westfield's Men had been diverted to lesser mortals.

The actor-manager would have raved for an hour or more had he not been interrupted by the landlord who told him that another guest wished to have private audience with him. Firethorn stalked off like Pompey on his way to clear the Mediterranean of pirates.

Anne Hendrik was able to ask after Nicholas.

'Is he not with you here?'

'Not yet, Mistress,' said Hoode. 'Dick Honeydew was taken by the gypsies and Nicholas went to rescue him.'

'Alone?'

'He would not hear of company,' said Gill.

'But there are such perils.' :

'Nicholas will make light of those,' assured Hoode then turned the question that really vexed him. 'Tell me now, for this is like a dagger in my heart, what player with Banbury's Men did dare to take my part?'

'Your part, sir? In Pompey the Great?'

'Sicinius.'

'I cannot say, Master Hoode.'

'It matters not,' said Gill dismissively. 'The role is of no account and hardly noticed in performance.'

'That is not true, Barnaby!'

'Take it away and who would miss it?'

'I would, man! I would!'

'Sicinius is a mean part for any man.'

'It is mine!' wailed Hoode. 'I wrote it and I play it. Sicinius is me. I would not have myself stolen like this. So tell me--who took the part?'

Mark Scruton lifted his dagger and stabbed his victim in the back with cruel deliberation. The man fell on to his face, twitched for a few horrifying seconds, then lay motionless. Wiping the blood from his weapon, the murderer gave a malevolent smile then strode calmly away.

Another rehearsal came to an end.

Kynaston Hall was the largest private house at which Banbury's Men had performed since the tour began and it offered them the best facilities. They had free use of the hall for rehearsal, the assistance of four liveried servants and regular maids from the kitchen. It was all very gratifying and no member of the company savoured it more than Mark Scruton. He was being given his first chance to take an important role. The play was one of their own this time, The Renegade, a dark and blood-soaked tragedy on a revenge theme. It enabled Giles Randolph to shine in a title role that really suited his talents and it brought Scruton forward into the light.

'Excellent work, sir.'

'Thank you, Master Randolph.'

'You prosper in the role.'

'I hope the audience shares your view.'

'Trust it well.'

'Have you no criticism?'

'None,' said Randolph languidly. 'Except that you stayed too long upon the stage once you had stabbed me. The murder of the Duke is of more dramatic significance than the reaction of his killer. Once you have dispatched me with your dagger, quit the stage.'

'I will, sir.'

'My corpse will be a soliloquy in itself.'

They were in the Great Hall and the stagekeepers were scampering around moving the scenery and props. Giles Randolph was very satisfied with the way that everything was going. On and off the stage, revenge was proving to be his best suit. He was about to move away when Scruton detained him by plucking at his sleeve.

'A word, sir.'

'It is not a convenient time.'

'This will take but a second.'

'Very well.' Randolph shrugged. 'What is it?' I am bold to put you in mind of my contract.'

'It has not been forgot.'

'When may I view it, sir?'

'When I have drawn it up.'

'And when will that be?'

'The other sharers have to be persuaded first.'

Scruton frowned. 'My understanding was that you could carry the business alone.'

'Well, yes, indeed. No question but that I can.'

'Why then the delay?'

'I am no lawyer, Mark. The terms must be drawn up properly and the Earl himself must take note of them. It is a big translation for you.'

'You know that I have earned it, Master Randolph.'

'No man more so.'

'Give me then a date. It was your promise.'

Giles Randolph gave him the enigmatic smile that was part of his stock-in-trade then walked slowly around him in a circle. Scruton did not like being kept waiting. His willing smile took on a forced look. Randolph faced him again and came to a decision.

'York.'

'What say you?'

'That is when the articles will be signed.'

'I have that for certain?'

'My hand upon it!' They exchanged a handshake. 'You will become a sharer with Banbury's Men and taste the sweeter fruit of our profession.'

'Thank you!' said Scruton with feeling. 'I did not doubt you for a moment. This gives me true happiness.'

'Wait but for York.'

'It will be my place of pilgrimage.'

'Bear your cross until then.'

Mark Scruton grinned. He was almost there.

It took Nicholas Bracewell fifteen minutes to convince her that he was not Jesus Christ and even then she had lingering reservations. When he saw her wading out to meet him in mid-river, he immediately lowered his body so that he could tread water. He had never been accosted by such a strange yet beautiful woman before, especially one who kept calling on him to baptize her in the Jordan. He took an age to persuade her to return to her bank then he swam back to where he had left his clothes and dried himself off as best he could before dressing. Restored and refreshed, he rode over the bridge and back along the bank to Eleanor Budden. Her wet shift was clinging to her body like a doting lover and he noticed that it had been repaired near the shoulder. Nicholas dismounted out of politeness and touched his cap.

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