Edward Marston - The Trip to Jerusalem

'I cannot say, Nick.'

'Does he use them to foretell the future?'

One of the serving wenches came into the taproom and giggled when she saw Millfield. He acknowledged her with a friendly wave then shrugged an apology to Nicholas. 'I have some business to attend to, I fear.'

'One thing before you go,' said the other. 'Mistress Budden levelled an accusation against you.'

'Of what?'

'Atheism.'

Christopher Millfield let out a peel of laughter.

'The woman is absurd!' he said in mocking tones. 'If I were truly an atheist, I would have been arrested long ago. Yet I am still at liberty, as you see.' He went off towards the girl. 'Ask Mistress Budden to explain that.'

Nicholas waited until the couple left the room then he finished his drink. He was mystified. Something in the others voice had alerted him to a danger but he had no idea what it was. After brooding on it for a while, he gave up and surrendered to a yawn. It was very late and he was tired. Finding himself alone in the taproom, he got up and made his way into the yard in search of a bed for the night. The Whitsuntide fair had filled all the loose boxes with horses but there was promise of some comfort in the hayloft. He climbed the ladder and dropped down on a soft and sweet-smelling bed. Before he could even slip off his shoes, he was asleep.

An hour passed then a noise brought him instantly awake. It was no more than a creak of a door but it took him to the open window. Down below in the yard, creeping silently towards the main gate, was a figure who was already known for his nocturnal wanderings. It was Christopher Millfield and he moved with purpose.

Something prompted Nicholas to follow him. He went swiftly down the ladder and out of the stables. Keeping low and well back, he trailed the other out into the street and over Ouse Bridge. His mind was a turmoil of speculation. Had he been too ready to accept Millfield's friendship? Could the man yet have some sinister intent? The night before the performance at Pomeroy Manor, the actor had gone for his first midnight jaunt. Not long after the performance by Westfield's Men, their host was arrested. Nicholas recalled the list he had found in Quilley's saddlebag. It was Millfield who knew that the names were all those of Roman Catholics.

As his mind raced on, his feet took him on a tortuous route through the streets of York. His quarry seemed to know exactly where he was going. They went up Blake Street and on into Lop Lane before Millfield stopped to knock gently on the door of a small, gabled house. He was admitted within seconds and candlelight soon lit the chamber above. The window was ajar and Nicholas could hear the faint murmur of voices. Whatever conspiracy was going on might be uncovered if he could only get a little closer.

Nicholas looked back to the corner of the street and saw an overhanging gable that was low enough to touch. He went straight back to it. Taking a firm grip, he hauled himself up and started to ascend the wall until he gained the roof. It did not take him long to work his way from house to house until he came to the window he sought. The voices were still too subdued but there was a chink in the curtain as he lowered himself down.

Embarrassment seized him as he peeped in. Here was no conspiracy of any political hue. Christopher Millfield was lying naked on the bed, kissing the young man in his arms with a passion that was its own explanation. Other factors fell into place. Nicholas recalled a flirtatious manner with women that evidently went no further and the interest shown in the actor by Barnaby Gill. He also remembered the speech he had overheard at the inn. It was not just Millfield's vanity that drove him on to learn the leading part in the play. Richard the Lionheart was a hero with whom he had some affinities. Though the world knew and admired him for his military feats, England's most popular monarch was not without flaw. Rumours about his male lovers were too numerous and too detailed to be wholly untrue.

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.

(*)Chapter Eleven

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.