The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  He put his trust in God’s bright sunlight.

  ‘Sit down here, Eleanor.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Because I wish to speak with you.’

  ‘This grass will suit, I think.’

  She lowered herself down on to the green turf and spread her dress around her. Budden was moved. For a second, he saw the woman he had loved, courted and won for his own. Happiness came flooding back. They had returned to the spot where it had all started. Water rippled only yards away from them as the River Trent snaked its way through verdant banks. Old magic might yet be rekindled if he was patient. He sank down beside her and took her hand in his.

  ‘Eleanor …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Be my wife.’

  ‘I am such.’

  ‘Be my wife in more than name.’

  ‘You speak in riddles.’

  He slipped a hand clumsily around her waist. His mouth went dry as he asked it for help. He was painfully aware of his blundering inexperience. Eleanor had been twice married and twice widowed before she met him. He had been well past thirty before he even dared to think of taking a wife. There was a gap between them. It had been bridged on their wedding night and for several joyous months to follow, but it had now opened up again and widened into a chasm.

  He cudgelled his voice into action again. ‘When we first met …’

  ‘Yes, Humphrey?’

  ‘We talked of children.’

  ‘I had five but lost dear Harry in childbirth.’

  ‘You wanted more. My children, Eleanor.’

  ‘I do recall it, sir.’

  ‘Our children, dear wife, and the fruit of our union.’ He ran his tongue across his lips. ‘The vicar is of the same opinion in this matter. By God’s grace, a new baby will bring you back to me as I loved you best.’ He was troubled by prickly heat. ‘Be my wife again, Eleanor. Pay the due of marriage once more.’

  She gazed down the long reaches of the river and watched a kingfisher skim and dive. When she spoke, her voice was dull but her words had awesome clarity.

  ‘I will not share your bed again. Husband you have been, and as loyal a man as any woman could wish, but I have other work in other places. He has called me, sir. He has given me clear direction.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘Who else would I listen to but God?’

  ‘Clear direction, you say?’

  ‘I must go on a long journey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is ordained.’

  ‘May I make this journey with you, Eleanor?’

  ‘No, sir. I go alone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the Holy Land.’

  ‘But that cannot be, wife.’

  ‘He guides my steps. It must be.’

  ‘The Holy Land!’ exclaimed Budden.

  ‘Be not amazed, sir. I have been summoned.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘I will know when I arrive there. In Jerusalem.’

  Chapter Three

  Westfield’s Men left the pulsing world of London for the calmer pastures of Middlesex. Pangs of regret troubled them immediately. Once outside the city gates, they headed due north for Shoreditch where they passed the Curtain and then the Theatre, two custom-built playhouses in which they had given memorable performances on a number of occasions. Constructed outside the city boundary in order to escape the jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor and his Council, the two theatres were busy, boisterous, bustling centres of entertainment and hordes flocked to them. There would be no such havens for Westfield’s Men on their travels. The sophisticated facilities of a real playhouse would give way to the exigencies of an inn yard or the limitations of a room in a private house. In purely artistic terms, touring was no pilgrimage.

  It was a sudden fall from grace.

  They journeyed along the Great North Road, one of the four major highways in the kingdom. It took them past Islington Ponds, where they saw men shooting wild ducks for sport, then struck out into open country. Farms were dotted about on all sides, part of the huge agricultural belt that encircled London with green acres and which produced its wheat, hay, fruit and vegetables or fattened up cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks and geese for sale in the markets of the capital. Urban squalor had been left behind now. The air was cleaner, the sky brighter, the hues more vivid and the vistas seemingly endless. Lungs and noses which had become accustomed to the reek of a plague city could breathe salvation.

  Nicholas Bracewell kept the two carthorses plodding along at a steady gait and drank in the sights and sounds of the countryside. Sitting alongside him was Richard Honeydew, the youngest, smallest and most talented of the apprentices. The boy had long since learned that the book holder was not only his staunchest friend in the company but an inexhaustible fund of information.

  ‘Master Bracewell …’

  ‘Yes, lad?’

  ‘I have never been outside London before.’

  ‘Then you will gain much from the experience, Dick.’

  ‘Will there be great dangers ahead?’

  ‘Do not think upon such matters.’

  ‘The other boys talk of thieves and highwaymen.’

  ‘They are but teasing you, lad.’

  ‘Martin says gypsies may carry me off.’

  ‘He mocks your innocence.’

  ‘Shall we face no perils at all?’

  ‘None that should fright you too much, Dick.’

  ‘Then why do you carry swords?’

  All the men were armed and most had daggers at their belts as well as rapiers at their sides. It was a very necessary precaution for any travellers. Outlaws, rogues and vagabonds lurked along the roads in search of prey. Nicholas did not want to alarm the boy by telling him this and instead assured him that the very size and strength of the company would deter any possible attack. Richard Honeydew would be as safe in the countryside as he would be when he slept in his bed at the house in Shoreditch under the formidable but affectionate guard of Margery Firethorn. The boy relaxed visibly.

  Short, thin and with the bloom of youth upon his delicate features, Richard Honeydew had been carefully shaped by Nature to take on female roles. His boyish charms became even more alluring when he changed his sex and his unforced prettiness translated readily into the beauty of a young woman. A mop of blond hair that was usually hidden beneath a wig now sprouted out from under his cap. Because the boy was so unaware of his several attractions, they became even more potent.

  ‘Would you like to ride on a horse, Dick?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Master Gill.’

  ‘Hop up behind me, then.’

  ‘Will it be safe, sir?’

  ‘If you hold on tight to my waist.’

  Barnaby Gill had brought his horse alongside the waggon and was now offering a gloved hand to the boy. Nicholas intervened swiftly.

  ‘I need the lad to help with me with the reins.’

  ‘Do you so?’ said Gill testily.

  ‘He must be taught how to drive the waggon.’

  ‘You have pupils enough for that task, man.’

  ‘None so apt as Dick Honeydew.’

  ‘Come, let me teach him other lessons.’

  ‘He is not for school today, Master Gill.’

  Nicholas spoke politely but firmly and the other backed off with a hostile glare. The boy was still unawakened to the more sinister implications of the friendship which Barnaby Gill showed towards him from time to time and Nicholas had to move in as protector. Understanding nothing of what had passed between the two men, Richard Honeydew was simply disappointed to have lost the chance to ride upon the bay mare.

  ‘Must I truly know how to drive the waggon?’

  ‘We must all take our turn at the reins.’

  ‘Why did Master Gill anger so?’

  ‘He was deprived of his wishes, Dick.’

  ‘May I never ride upon a horse?’

  ‘Master Hoode will oblige you at any time.’

 
; The troupe rolled on its way, pausing briefly at a wayside inn for refreshment before moving on again. Had they all been mounted, they might have covered thirty miles in a day but their resources did not run to such a large stable of horses. Since they went at the rate of those walking on foot, they had to settle for much less distance. If they pushed themselves, they would have made twenty miles before nightfall but it would have wearied them and left them with neither the time nor the strength for an impromptu performance at the place where they stopped. Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell had discussed the itinerary in some detail. It was important to pace themselves carefully.

  Richard Honeydew sought more education.

  ‘Did you see that head, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Head?’

  ‘As we left London. Upon a spike at Bishopsgate.’

  ‘I marked it, lad.’

  ‘The sight made me feel sick.’

  ‘That was partly the intention.’

  ‘Can any man deserve such a fate?’

  ‘Anthony Rickwood was a traitor and the penalty for treason is death. Whether that death should be so cruel and barbarous is another matter.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Part of a Catholic conspiracy,’ said Nicholas. ‘He and his fellows plotted to murder the Queen during a visit she was due to make to Sussex.’

  ‘How was the conspiracy uncovered?’

  ‘By Sir Francis Walsingham. He has spies everywhere. One of his informers learned of the plot in the nick of time and Master Rickwood was seized at once.’

  ‘What of the other conspirators?’

  ‘There will be further arrests when their names are known. Mr Secretary Walsingham will not rest until every last one of them has his head upon a spike. He has vowed that he will bring all Catholic traitors to justice.’

  ‘Will he so do?’

  ‘Doubt it not, Dick. His spies are well-chosen and well-trained in their work. He controls them all with great skill. It was not just our naval commanders who defeated the Armada. We owe much to Mr Secretary Walsingham as well. He it was who foretold the size and armaments of the Spanish fleet.’

  ‘You seem to know much about him.’

  ‘I sailed with Drake,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he was closely acquainted with Sir Francis Walsingham.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘The Secretary of State has always taken a special interest in the exploits of our navigators.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they had a darker purpose.’

  ‘What was that, master?’

  ‘Piracy.’

  The boy’s eyes widened with outrage at the idea.

  ‘Sir Francis Drake a pirate!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What else would you call raids on foreign vessels and towns?’ said Nicholas. ‘Piracy. Pure and simple. I was there, lad. I saw it.’

  ‘But piracy is a terrible crime.’

  ‘There is a way around that problem.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Yes, and I suspect that Walsingham was the man who found it. He persuaded the Queen to become involved in the enterprise. In return for receiving a share in the spoils of the voyage, Her Majesty granted us letters of marque.’

  ‘Letters of marque?’

  ‘They turned us from pirates into privateers.’

  ‘And this was done by our own dear Queen?’

  ‘With the connivance of Walsingham. He urged her to encourage the lawless acts of Drake and his like. When they captured Spanish ships, they brought money into the Treasury and tweaked the nose of Roman Catholicism.’

  Richard Honeydew gasped as he tried to take it all in. He was profoundly shocked by the news that a great national hero had at one time been engaged in piracy, but he did not doubt Nicholas’s word. He was confused, too, by the religious aspect.

  ‘Why do the Catholics want to kill the Queen?’

  ‘She is the symbol of our Protestant country.’

  ‘Is it such a crime to follow Rome?’

  ‘Yes, lad,’ said Nicholas. ‘Times have changed. My father was brought up in the old religion but King Henry turned him into a Protestant, and the whole realm besides. Most people would not dare to believe what my father once believed. They are too afraid of Walsingham.’

  ‘So am I,’ said the boy.

  ‘At all events, the Queen’s life must be protected.’

  ‘In every possible way.’

  ‘That is why we must have so many spies.’

  Richard Honeydew thought about the head upon the spike.

  ‘I am glad that I am not a Roman Catholic,’ he said.

  York Minster speared the sky with its three great towers and cast a long shadow of piety over the houses and shops that clustered so eagerly around it. It was the most beautiful cathedral in England as well as being the largest medieval building in the kingdom. Work on it had begun way back in 1220 and it was over two and a half centuries before it was completed. The result was truly awe-inspiring, a Gothic masterpiece which represented the full cycle of architectural styles and which was a worthy monument to the consecutive generations of Christian love and devotion that went into its construction. Visitors to York could see the Minster from several miles away, rising majestically above the city like a beacon of light in a world of secular darkness.

  Sir Clarence Marmion did not even spare it a cursory glance as he rode in through Bootham Bar on his horse. A tall, distinguished, cadaverous man in his fifties, he had the kind of noble bearing and rich apparel that made people touch their caps in deference as he passed. After riding down Petergate, he turned into The Shambles and moved along its narrow confines with bold care, ducking his head beneath the overhanging roofs, brushing the walls with his shoulders and using his horse to force a gentle passage through the crowd. High above him, the bells of the cathedral mingled with the happy clamour of the working day. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

  His mount now took him left along the river until he was able to cross it at Ouse Bridge. As he rode on down Micklegate, people were still streaming into the city on their way to market. He swung in through a gateway and found himself in a cobbled yard. An ostler ran out to hold his horse while he dismounted and got no more than a grunt of acknowledgement for his pains. It was exactly what he expected. Sir Clarence was no casual visitor to the inn. It had been owned by his family for centuries.

  The Trip to Jerusalem was a long, low, timber-framed building that wandered off at all sorts of improbable angles with absent-minded curiosity. It dated back to the twelfth century and was said to have been the stopping place for soldiers riding south to join the Crusade in 1189. At that time, it was the brewhouse to the castle but a sense of spiritual purpose made it change its name to the Pilgrim. Under the hand of Sir Clarence Marmion, it had acquired its fuller title, though its regular patrons referred to it simply and succinctly as Jerusalem.

  Bending forward under the lintel, Sir Clarence went through the doorway and into the taproom. An aroma of beer and tobacco welcomed him. When he straightened his back, his head almost touched the undulating ceiling.

  Mine Host responded quickly to his arrival and came scurrying out from behind the bar counter, wiping his hands on his apron and nodding obsequiously.

  ‘Good day to you, Sir Clarence!’

  ‘And to you, sir.’

  ‘Welcome to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Would that it were true!’ said the other feelingly.

  ‘Your room is all ready, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘I will repair to it in a moment.’

  ‘Ring the bell if you should need service.’

  ‘We must not be disturbed on any account.’

  ‘No, Sir Clarence,’ said the landlord, bowing his apologies. ‘Nobody will be allowed near the room, I promise you. Leave the matter in my hands.’

  Those hands, large, moist and podgy, were rubbing nervously against each other. The visitor always seemed to have that effect on Lambert Pym. Even after a decade as landlord of th
e inn, he had not entirely shaken off his fear of the Marmion temper. Tremors went through Pym’s roly-poly frame whenever his visitor called and the bluff manner which served all his other customers vanished beneath a display of exaggerated humility.

  Sir Clarence looked down at him with disdain.

  ‘I have received news from London.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Clarence?’

  ‘A company of players is heading this way.’

  ‘We have actors aplenty in York this summer.’

  ‘Westfield’s Men are not of common stock. They have been recommended to me by a friend and I will act upon that recommendation.’

  ‘As you wish, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘The company will be lodged here at my expense.’

  ‘Your hospitality does you credit.’

  ‘They will perform one play in your yard.’

  ‘I will give order for it, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Their second appearance will be at Marmion Hall.’

  ‘I hope they know their good fortune,’ said the landlord, picking at his furry black horseshoe of a beard. ‘When are we to expect these players?’

  ‘Not for ten days at least. They have other venues.’

  ‘None will offer the welcome of Jerusalem.’

  ‘That is my request. See to it, sir.’

  Lambert Pym bowed and then hurried across the room to open a door that led to a small staircase. His chubby features were lit by a smile of appeasement.

  ‘Your guest is within, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘I hoped for no less.’

  ‘The room is yours for as long as you choose.’

  ‘So is everything here.’

  And with that solemn rejoinder, Sir Clarence stooped to go through another low doorway and ascended the noisy oak stairs. After walking along a passageway, he went into a room that was at the rear of the building. His guest was seated beside a small oak table and rose when he saw the tall figure enter. Sir Clarence waved him back to his chair then strode around the room to get the feel of it and to test its privacy. Only when he was satisfied on the latter score did he sit at the table himself.