Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

The others had had enough. Now that the odds were not so heavily in their favour, they gathered up their two stricken colleagues and limped away. Nicholas gave chase and let some air into the jerkin of one of them. Three of them scrambled into their saddles but the cudgeller was too badly wounded to ride and had to be helped up behind one of his friends. Cursing their assailant, they beat a hasty retreat into the forest.

Nicholas walked across to the horse that they had left behind and patted its neck. It was far too good a mount for common highwaymen and had clearly been stolen. In the fading light, he could just see the monogrammed gold initials on the saddlebags-- O.Q. When lie searched inside the pouches, he found some food and some articles of apparel. What really interested him, however, was the folded parchment that was tucked away at the very bottom of one of the saddlebags. It was a list of names and addresses, written out in a fair hand. Two of the names had been ticked and they leapt up at Nicholas.

Anthony Rickwood and Neville Pomeroy.

A third name had a question mark beside it.

Sir Clarence Marmion.

From the initials on the saddlebag, Nicholas knew that he had found Oliver Quilley's stolen horse. He now had the feeling that he had found something tar more important as well. The artist had told him of the arrest of Master Neville Pomeroy on a charge of high treason and how the prisoner languished in the Tower. Those events took place over a hundred and fifty miles away.

How did Oliver Quilley know about them?

Lawrence Firethorn was hoist with his own petard. After encouraging Susan Becket to accompany him to Nottingham so that she could share nights of madness with him, he could not then dismiss her when she elected to travel on with him. It was very inhibiting. At a time when he hoped to get acquainted with a new potential conquest, he was forced to ride alongside the hostess and listen to her amiable chatter. Eleanor Budden, meanwhile, was seated beside the driver of the waggon, George Dart, seeing to his spiritual needs and generally inhibiting everyone on the vehicle with her presence. Firethorn stole a glance in her direction. Eleanor and Susan were the extremes of womanhood, the respectable and the disreputable, the virtuous and the voluptuous, the sacred and the profane. If the two could blend into one, mused Firethorn, then he would finally have found perfection in human form.

The chuckling Susan Becket nudged him gently. 'She is not for you, Lawrence.'

'Such a thought never entered my mind!'

'Mistress Budden is already spoken for.'

'I met her husband when we set out.'

'It is not him, I mean, sir. The lady is enamoured elsewhere. She talks of nobody but your book holder.'

'Nicholas did make an impression on her.'

'If I saw him naked in the River Trent, he would have made an impression on me,' said Susan with a giggle. 'He is a fine figure of a man with a pleasing demeanour.'

'Nick only floated on the water,' said Firethorn testily. 'She speaks as if he walked upon it!'

They were heading north through thick woodland that was redolent with memories of the famous outlaw. Lapsing back into his role in the play, Christopher Millfield began to sing snatches from the ballad. With Nicholas out of the way, he had regained all his sprightliness. The other hired men walked beside him and grumbled about the three outsiders who travelled with them. Oliver Quilley had a lordly manner as he rode near the front of the little procession, Susan Becket reserved her favours for the actor-manager, and Eleanor Budden brought an unwanted injection of Christianity into their lives. They had lost one valuable apprentice and gained three unnecessary passengers. They were convinced that nothing good could come from it.

George Dart begged leave to differ. Embarrassed at first to have Eleanor alongside him, he soon began to take a pleasure in her company. They had a mutual hero.

'Tell me of Master Bracewell,' she said.

'He is a wonderful man and runs the company in all the ways that matter. Others may get the credit and the rewards but it is he who deserves them, yet you will not hear a boastful word on his lips.'

'His modesty becomes him.'

'He is my one true friend, Mistress.'

'That cannot be,' she said. 'What of your mother? Is not she a true friend to her son?'

'Belike she was when she was alive. I do not know. She died when I was but a tiny child.'

'How came you into this profession?'

'No other would take me, Mistress. It was Nicholas Bracewell's doing. He taught me all I knew and it has kept me from starvation ever since.'

'He is a Christian soul.'

'None more so in the company.'

'How long has he been in the theatre?'

'Four years or more. I cannot say.'

'Before that?'

'He was at sea,' said George proudly. 'He sailed with Drake around the world and saw things that most of us cannot even comprehend, such is their wonder. Master Bracewell has been everywhere.'

'Except Jerusalem.'

'Why do you say that, Mistress?' Because I would take him there with me.'

'And will he go?' said Dart in amazement.

Eleanor Budden gave him a beatific smile.

'Oh, yes. He must. He has no choice.'

Lavery Grange was in the northernmost corner of the county of Nottingham and the head of the house, Sir Duncan Lavery, was an amenable and gregarious character. Given the chance to act as host to Banbury's Men, he welcomed them with open arms and put his Great Hall at their disposal for a performance of The Renegade. Good fortune was tinged with bad news. Banbury's Men learned from a visitor to the Grange that their rivals had just scored a triumph in Nottingham with a play about Robin Hood.

Giles Randolph stamped a peevish foot

'They are closer to us than we thought

'Yet still a day behind us,' said Mark Scruton.

'I like not such nearness, sir.'

'They will not catch up yet.'

'Find some other way to delay them.'

'I have it already in my mind.'...

Randolph strutted around the Great Hall and watched the stage being erected. He tested the acoustics with a speech from the play and his voice had a poetic beauty to it. The tour had so far been a tale of continuing success that was all the more gratifying because it had involved the abject failure of Westfield's Men. Now, however, his rivals were on his heels and it made him nervous.

He snapped his fingers to beckon Scruton over.

'Yes, Master.'

'You have another trick, sir?'

'It will leave them naked and ashamed.'

'About it straight.'

'What, now?' said Scruton in surprise. 'Before they close in on us.'

'But there is the performance of The Renegade.'

'You will have to miss it.'

'Then I miss the best role I have,' protested the other. 'Let me but act it here this evening and I'll waylay them tomorrow and cause my mischief.'

'Tomorrow is too late.'

'How will you play without me?'

'Young Harry Paget will take on the part.'

'But it is mine!' complained Scruton angrily.

'Mind your tone, sir.'

'You do me a great injustice.'

'It is but for one performance, Mark,' soothed the other. 'When we play the piece again, you will be restored to your glory. You have my word upon it.'

'And when we reach York?'

'You sign a contract that gives you larger roles in every play we stage. If I approve it, that is.'

Mark Scruton was cornered. Despite all he had done for the company, he was still not legally a sharer. Until his elevation to that level, he was still at the mercy of Randolph's whims and commands. He fell back on the polite obsequiousness that had served him so well in the past.

'I will set off at once.'

'Cause havoc in the ranks of Westfield's Men.'

'They will not dare to play thereafter.'