The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘What else but your dear self?’

  ‘You flatter me, you rascal.’

  ‘I am like to do more than that ere I leave.’

  ‘Away, you saucy varlet!’ she said with a giggle.

  ‘Do you have good beds at your hostelry?’

  ‘No man has complained, sir.’

  ‘Then neither will I,’ said Firethorn enfolding her in his arms again. ‘Hold me tight, Mistress Susan Becket. Though you have the name of a saint, I like you best for being a sinner.’

  Her laughter set the huge breasts bobbing merrily.

  Nicholas Bracewell, as usual, organised the sleeping arrangements. The best rooms went to the sharers and the hired men had to make do with what was left. Since it was a small establishment, some of them had to bed down on straw in an outhouse. Nicholas volunteered to spend the night with a few others so that the apprentices could have the last small room. All four of them were packed into the same lumpy bed. George Dart slept at their feet.

  The book holder finished his supper in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Carrying a large candle, the hostess guided Lawrence Firethorn up to his chamber. Gill gave a sardonic snort.

  ‘She’ll burn his candle for him till he be all wax.’

  ‘They are old friends, I think,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Lawrence has friends in every tavern and trugging-house in England,’ said Gill. ‘I wonder they do not name one of their diseases after him. I know a dozen or more doxies who have caught a dose of Firethorn before now.’

  ‘He has always been popular with the ladies,’ said Nicholas diplomatically.

  ‘Ladies!’ Gill hooted. ‘There is nothing ladylike about them, Master Bracewell. As long as they give him a gallop, that is sufficient, and Mistress Becket will prove a willing mount. He’ll not have to ride side-saddle with her, I warrant.’

  ‘Leave off this carping, Barnaby,’ said Hoode.

  ‘I do it but in memory of his wife.’

  ‘Margery knows the man she married.’

  ‘And so do half the women in London.’

  ‘We all have passions, sir.’

  ‘Not of that kind!’ Gill rose from the table with an air of magisterial disdain. ‘Some of us can discern where true satisfaction lies and it is not in the arms of some whore. There is a love that surpasses that of women.’

  ‘Love of self, sir?’ said Nicholas artlessly.

  ‘Good night, gentlemen!’

  Barnaby Gill banged out of the room in disgust.

  Richard Honeydew had some difficulty getting off to sleep because of the high spirits of the other apprentices. They fought, laughed, teased and played tricks upon one another until they tired themselves out. George Dart was quite unable to control them and was usually the butt of their jokes. When they finally drifted off, it was into a deep and noisy sleep. Dart’s snore was the loudest.

  None of them yielded more readily to slumber than Richard Honeydew. Wedged into one end of the bed beside John Tallis, he did not even feel the kicks from the restless feet of his two companions who slept at the other end of the bed. Nor did he hear the latch of the door lift. Two figures entered silently and looked around in the gloom. One held a sword at the ready to ward off any interruption and the other carried a sack. When their quarry was located, the sack was slipped over his head and a hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy was pulled from the bed with careful speed and the interlopers made off with their prize.

  Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.

  ‘Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!’

  ‘What ails you, George?’

  ‘We have been robbed, sir.’

  ‘Of what?’ said Nicholas, sitting up.

  ‘I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.’

  ‘The theft was from your chamber?’

  ‘Yes, master. We have lost our biggest jewel.’

  ‘How say you?’

  ‘Dick Honeydew has gone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Beyond all doubt.’

  ‘This is not some jest of the others?’

  ‘They are as shocked as I am.’

  ‘Where can Dick be?’

  ‘I know the answer, sir.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Stolen by the gypsies.’

  Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.

  ‘This is worth ten times your fee, sir.’

  ‘What is it, master?’

  ‘A work of genius.’

  Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.

  ‘I cannot take it, sir.’

  ‘Why not? I’d sell it for three pounds or more.’

  ‘Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.’

  ‘A wife?’

  ‘Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,’ said the physician. ‘If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.’

  ‘I’ll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, master, and you need the rest.’

  ‘What rest?’

  ‘To recover from your injuries.’

  ‘They are of no account.’

  ‘A few days in bed would see them gone for good.’

  ‘I have no time to tarry,’ said Quilley fussily. ‘I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I’ve lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.’

  ‘Where, Master Quilley?’

  ‘In York.’

  Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.

  Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.

  Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.

  Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.

  ‘I did not expect you at this early hour.’

  ‘Necessity brought me hither.’

  ‘Is something amiss?’

  ‘I fear me it is. More news from London.’

  ‘What has happened, Sir Clarence?’

  ‘Information was laid against a certain person.’

  ‘Master Neville Pomeroy?’

  ‘He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.’

  ‘Dear God!’

  ‘Walsingham’s men are closing in.’

  ‘Can any of us now be safe?�
� said Rawlins.

  ‘We have the security of our religion and that is proof against all assault. Master Pomeroy will give them no names, whatever ordeals they put him through. We must keep our nerve and pray that we survive.’

  ‘Amen!’

  Chapter Six

  Lawrence Firethorn roared like a dragon when George Dart banged on the door of his bedchamber at the Smith and Anvil. Reverting to the trade of his father, the actor-manager was playing the sturdy blacksmith to Mistress Susan Becket’s willing anvil. He was filling the air with sparks of joy at the very moment that the rude knuckles of his caller dared to interrupt him. Plucked untimely from the womb, he flung open the door and breathed such crackling flames of anger that the little stagekeeper was charred for life. Facing his employer was a daunting task at any time but to be at the mercy of Firethorn when he was naked, roused and deprived of consummation was like taking a stroll in the seventh circle of Hell. George Dart was sacked three times before he was even allowed to open his mouth. It was a lifetime before the message was actually delivered.

  ‘Dick Honeydew has been taken, sir.’

  ‘By whom, you idiot? By what, you dolt?’

  ‘The gypsies.’

  ‘Away with your lunacy!’

  ‘I fear ’tis true, Master Firethorn.’

  Corroboration came in the form of Nicholas Bracewell and the other apprentices, who were conducting a thorough search of the premises. They had checked every nook and cranny in the building, including attics and cellars, but there was no sign of Richard Honeydew. The boy had either run away of his own free will – which seemed unlikely – or he had been kidnapped. The second option was accepted at once by Firethorn who turned it into a personal attack upon himself and his career.

  ‘They have stolen my Maid Marion!’

  ‘We will find him,’ said Nicholas determinedly.

  ‘How can Robin Hood play love scenes on his own?’

  ‘You will have to use one of the other boys.’

  ‘I like not that idea, Nick.’

  ‘Sherwood Forest must have another maid.’

  ‘Not John Tallis!’ said Firethorn. ‘He has a face more fit for comedy than kissing. Maid Marion cannot have a lantern jaw, sir.’

  ‘Stephen Judd or Martin Yeo will take the part.’

  ‘Neither is suitable.’

  ‘Then choose another play, Master Firethorn.’

  ‘Be thwarted out of my purpose! Never!’ He stamped his foot on the bare boards and collected a few sharp splinters. ‘This villainy is directed at me, Nick. They do know my Robin Hood is quite beyond compare and seek to pluck me down out of base envy.’

  ‘We must track the boy down at once, sir.’

  ‘Do so, Nick.’

  ‘I will need a horse.’

  ‘Take mine, dear heart!’

  Nicholas was not at all convinced that gypsies had abducted Richard Honeydew even though the band had been seen in the vicinity, but his opinion was swept aside by a man who would brook no argument. Simultaneously robbed of his orgasm and his Maid Marion, the actor-manager was in a mood of vengeful urgency.

  ‘To horse! To horse, Nick!’

  ‘I will meet you in Nottingham.’

  ‘Come not empty-handed.’

  ‘If the boy be with the gypsies, I will get him.’

  ‘Have a care, sir! Gypsies are slippery.’

  ‘Adieu!’

  Nicholas rushed off and missed an affecting moment. Throughout the conversation between actor-manager and book holder, George Dart stood meekly by, wondering whether he still had a job or not, and whether his little body would be needed to swell the ranks in the forthcoming performance at Nottingham. Firethorn saw him there and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Dart’s face was a study in uncertainty and apprehension.

  ‘Shall I still be one of the Merry Men, sir?’

  Nicholas saddled up and rode out of the stables just before dawn. Sword and dagger were at his side. He was an excellent horseman. The son of a prosperous merchant from Devon, he had, from an early age, accompanied his father on his travels and learned how to ride and to take care of a horse. When Nicholas grew older, his father’s business commitments obliged the son to travel to Europe and he developed his great love for the sea, a passion that was to culminate in three years with Drake on the famous circumnavigation of the globe. Notwithstanding this, he had lost none of his feel in the saddle. Pacing his mount carefully, he went off at a steady canter.

  It was four hours before he caught their scent and another two before he finally rode them to earth. They had stopped at a hamlet in Leicestershire to peddle their wares and to offer entertainment to the simple souls of the parish. While the gypsy women sold scarves or read the palms of the gullible, their menfolk turned acrobat to divert the locals. Nicholas tethered his horse and made his way to the little green where everyone had gathered. From behind the cover of a chestnut tree, he observed a scene that was lit with animation and colour. In spite of the circumstances, he was consumed with interest.

  Nicholas always felt some sympathy for gypsies. They were vagabonds with an air of freedom about them. At the same time, they suffered far more severe punishment than any indigenous vagrants. In addition to being regularly fined, whipped, imprisoned or chased from a locality with sticks, stones and a posse of dogs, they were under legal threat of deportation. Throughout the reign of Henry VIII and down through that of his daughter, Elizabeth, Queen of England, the official attitude towards the so-called ‘sons of Ptolemy’ was consistently hostile. Bands of gypsies were shipped off to Europe and there were occasional calls for a complete extirpation of the breed.

  In view of all this, their very survival was a minor miracle. Nicholas had some fellow-feeling for them. His own profession had close affinities with the lifestyle of the gypsies. Actors were also outlaws if they were not employed in the service of a noble patron such as Lord Westfield. Shorn of such livery, they could be hunted and hounded almost as ruthlessly as the gypsies and, like the latter, could often become the scapegoats for any crimes that were committed while they were passing through an area. Gypsies were far from honest and law-abiding but Nicholas always believed that tales of their inherent wickedness and sorcery were wildly overstated.

  Such thoughts were still flitting through his mind when the acrobatic display came to an end. Rough palms clapped in applause and a few small coins were spared when a small child ran around the spectators holding out a large cap. Musicians now struck up and there was a display of dancing. Lithe and graceful, the men went through steps that had rarely been seen upon the green before. Nicholas admired their skill and was entranced by the elements of the fantastic. Then the boy appeared. It was evident from the first that he was not as confident as the others, going through a routine as if he were under compulsion rather than as if he were enjoying the dance.

  Nicholas Bracewell had seen the jig. It was one that Barnaby Gill had taught to the apprentices and which had been mastered by one of them straight away. As the book holder studied the willowy youth in the tattered rags and the painted face, he came rapidly to one conclusion. It was Richard Honeydew. Kidnapped at night, the boy was being made to work his passage with the gypsies. He was one of them now and had to dance for his keep, however reluctant he might be. As Nicholas ambled forward to get a closer look, the boy did a somersault that drew a patter of applause and confirmed the book holder’s suspicion. He had seen the apprentices practising that somersault only days earlier. Here was firm proof.

  Reason would be useless with the gypsies and the parish constable would stand no chance against a band of muscular men who could fight like fury. Nicholas had to take the lad by force while surprise was still on his side. Waiting until the dance came to an end, he let the apprentice take his applause then leapt at him from behind and threw an arm around him. In his other hand was his sword, brandished with enough purpose to keep them all at bay as he backed away towards his horse.

  ‘Come, Dick, we’ll be gone from
here!’

  But the boy did not seem too eager to leave. Sinking his teeth into Nicholas’s arm, he prised himself free then turned on his captor to abuse him in a torrent of Romany.

  The book holder was totally nonplussed.

  It was not Richard Honeydew at all.

  Westfield’s Men were in despondent mood as they set out for Nottingham. Having been battered by Fate enough times already on tour, they were now knocked flat by one vicious punch. The disappearance of Richard Honeydew was a real disaster. He was a crucial figure in every performance. Though there was still some vestigial resentment on their part, the other apprentices had come to accept that the youngest of their number was also the cleverest. He took all the juvenile female leads and relegated them to the less attractive roles of ageing Countesses and comic serving wenches, of daunting Amazons and vapid lovers. Honeydew had another string to his bow. He was the most melodious boy soprano and songs were now written for him in almost every play. Without him, discord followed.

  ‘Rest on my shoulder, mistress.’

  ‘It is my dearest wish, sir.’

  ‘We’ll travel side by side.’

  ‘Like two oxen yoked together.’

  ‘We’ll pull in the same direction, I warrant.’

  Mistress Susan Becket laughed at his sexual quibble then swung herself up into the saddle of her horse, using the solid shoulder of Lawrence Firethorn as a lever. He had been delighted when she offered to accompany them to Nottingham to watch their performance, not least because she brought a horse of her own and a second for his personal use from her stable. Leaving the tavern in the capable hands of her employees, Susan Becket rode off with the company and was an eye-catching figure on her white mare, a woman of substance in every sense, gracious yet sensual, lifting the morale of the players by her very presence and allowing Firethorn himself to indulge his fantasies at will.

  She was not, however, welcomed by all the company.

  ‘You wonder that the horse can carry her, sir!’

  ‘She is indeed plump, Master Gill, but well-favoured.’

  ‘And she were courteous into the bargain, Mistress Becket would put on the saddle and carry the horse.’