The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

‘They have no need to do so,’ he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. ‘Their sole aim is to harm Westfield’s Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.’

  ‘What will happen to the lad, then?’

  ‘I believe he will be released in time.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘When they have thoroughly discomfited us.’

  Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.

  ‘This is no work for a book holder.’

  ‘It is a case of all hands to the pumps.’

  ‘Can you not assign these chores to others?’

  Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.

  ‘That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,’ he said. ‘Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there’d scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.’

  Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice.

  ‘Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.’

  ‘There is nothing more to tell.’

  ‘She accosted you in the river, you say?’

  ‘Only because she took me for my betters.’

  ‘You are no Lord Jesus to me.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ They laughed fondly. ‘Do not pay any heed to Mistress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that, Nick?’

  ‘She will not travel with us.’

  ‘Master Oliver Quilley does.’

  ‘Only by special arrangement.’

  ‘Will she not find the same dispensation?’

  ‘It is outside the bounds of possibility,’ he said with confidence. ‘Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.’

  ‘It is agreed, then,’ said Firethorn. ‘You come with us.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ she said effusively. ‘Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.’

  ‘Nay, madam, I will kiss yours.’

  He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield’s Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let an artist and now a self-proclaimed visionary accompany them on their travels. Lawrence Firethorn persuaded himself that both decisions were the right ones.

  ‘You will not forget the money, good mistress.’

  ‘I will bring it with me.’

  ‘And there will be no dispute with your husband?’

  ‘He will not stop me, sir.’

  ‘Then I am content.’

  ‘And I am truly bounden to you, Master Firethorn.’

  She curtseyed again and allowed him another view of the delights which had finally changed his mind. Eleanor Budden was indeed a gorgeous woman and her religious fervour only served to bring out her qualities. He loved the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her face and the appealing curves of her body. After dismissing her plea out of hand at first, he had listened to her gentle tenacity and feasted his eyes on her long hair. The combination of the two had made him think again.

  Firethorn sought to clarify their relationship.

  ‘There will be certain conditions, mistress.’

  ‘I submit to anything that you devise, sir.’

  ‘Would that you did!’ he murmured.

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Refrain from interference with our calling. We will be your shield on the road but we must have freedom to practise our art along the way. You must not hinder us in rehearsal or performance in any way.’

  ‘Nor will I, sir. I’ll spend my time in prayer.’

  ‘We might find other things for you.’

  ‘I need none.’

  The simplicity of her purpose was quite moving. At the same time, he could not accept that it would sustain her all the way to York and certainly not to Jerusalem itself. Eleanor Budden had never been more than ten miles from Nottingham in the whole of her life and that had been in the company of her husband. She would find the long ride to York both irksome and perilous, causing her to turn increasingly to Firethorn for support. The idea titillated him. He had never corrupted a saint before.

  ‘And shall I see Master Bracewell?’ she asked.

  ‘Every day. You’ll ride beside him on the waggon.’

  ‘My cup of joy runs over!’

  ‘Haply, mine will do so as well.’

  He bestowed another kiss on her hand then escorted her to the door of the inn. She waved in gratitude then flitted off over the cobbles. Firethorn chuckled to himself then went into the taproom to acquaint Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode with the latest development. They were antagonistic.

  ‘This is lunacy!’ yelled Gill. ‘I forbid it!’

  ‘It is less than wise, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

  ‘The venture brings us money and companionship.’

  ‘Who wants her companionship?’ retorted Gill. ‘Let her keep her money and distribute it as alms. We are actors here, not bodyguards for hire by anyone. Our only privilege is our freedom and you throw that away by inviting some Virgin Mary to sit in judgement on us.’

  ‘She’s no Virgin Mary,’ said Firethorn quickly.

  ‘The lady is a distraction,’ said Hoode. ‘She has no place alongside us. Nor does Master Oliver Quilley. They should find some other means to travel north.’

  Firethorn did his best to win them over but they were unconvinced. As a last resort, he knew that he could impose his will upon them but wished to avoid doing that if at all possible. Their acceptance was important. He wanted to be seen by Eleanor Budden as the leader of a company who studied to obey his every wish, and not as some petty tyrant who bullied the others into agreement.

  His two colleagues left with stern warnings.

  ‘I set my face against this, Lawrence!’ said Gill.

  ‘It will not improve your complexion.’

  ‘I am with Barnaby,’ said Hoode. ‘You have made a move here that will bring us nothing but awkwardness.’

  The two of them went out and Firethorn was left to mull over what they had said. He was not dismayed. They always objected to his ideas. It was simply a question of giving them time to grow accustomed to the notion. When they saw what a harmless woman Eleanor Budden was, they would alter their views. Firethorn was pleased with the new transaction. He called for a pint of sherry.

  He was taking his first sip when she appeared.

  ‘I hoped to find you here, sir.’

  ‘Susan, my dove! Sit down and take your ease.’

  ‘I come to inform you of my decision,’ she said with a broad grin, lowering herself down into a chair. ‘Your lonely nights are over, Lawrence.’

  ‘Prove it lustily between the sheets.’

  ‘So will I do, sir.’

  ‘You are man’s greatest comfort, Susan.’

  ‘That is why I will not desert you now.’

  ‘Bless you, lady!’

  ‘Master Gill made up my mind for me.’

  ‘Barnaby?’

  ‘He told me even now of Mistress Budden.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he sai
d dismissively. ‘A holy woman who hears the voice of God. A poor, distracted creature on whom a Christian must take pity.’

  ‘Is she young or old?’

  ‘Ancient, I fear. And so ill-favoured that a man can scarce look fully upon her. That is the only reason I took her. Mistress Budden will be no temptation to the goatish members of my company.’

  Susan Becket’s eyes twinkled merrily.

  ‘I saw the lady leave you. If she be ancient, then I am dead and buried this last ten-year. She has a bloom upon her that could seduce a bishop.’

  ‘How came I to miss such a quality?’

  ‘Because your mind was firmly on me, Lawrence.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he fawned.

  ‘That is why I reached my decision. Mistress Budden is a child of nature and innocence sits upon her. I’ll be a true mother to her and keep those goats from grazing on her pasture. She’ll thank me well for it.’

  ‘I do not understand your meaning, Susan.’

  ‘Your warming-pan comes with you, sir.’

  ‘All the way?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘Every last inch.’

  ‘I could not put you to the trouble.’

  ‘It is my pleasure.’

  Her smile of easy determination fractured all his plans for the journey. Susan Becket was an old flame he had intended to blow out in Nottingham but she had now rekindled herself. Lawrence Firethorn could not hide his chagrin. He was taking one woman too many to York.

  The pint of sherry was guzzled quickly down.

  Sir Clarence Marmion strolled through his garden with his soberly clad companion by his side. Large, formal and a blaze of colour, it was a tribute to the skill and hard work of his gardeners, but their master was not interested in their craft that morning. His mind was preoccupied with something of more immediate concern.

  ‘He would yield up no names.’

  ‘Are you sure that he knew any?’

  ‘No question about that, sir.’

  ‘Did you press him on the matter?’

  ‘As hard as any man dare.’

  Robert Rawlins rubbed his hands fastidiously.

  ‘Let me speak to the fellow, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘It will not serve.’

  ‘Haply, I may succeed where others have failed.’

  ‘You have come too late for that.’

  ‘I will lay spiritual weights upon him.’

  ‘He would feel them not, Master Rawlins.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘The man is dead.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since I had him killed.’

  ‘Sir Clarence!’

  Robert Rawlins put a hand to his mouth in shock and leaned upon a stone angel for support. It was not the first time that his host had taken him by surprise since he had arrived in Yorkshire but it was easily the most disconcerting. He waved his arms weakly in protest but his companion was brutally calm.

  ‘The man was given Christian burial,’ he said.

  ‘After he was murdered.’

  ‘Executed, sir. Like Anthony Rickwood.’

  ‘An eye for an eye?’

  ‘We gave him all the justice he deserved.’

  ‘I would have sued for clemency.’

  ‘On behalf of such a villain as that?’

  ‘Every man has some good in him.’

  ‘Not this black-hearted devil,’ said Sir Clarence with asperity. ‘One of Walsingham’s jackals. He brought dozens of Catholics to their deaths and did so without compunction. Was I to let him go free, sir, to report that I was party to the conspiracy? And that Robert Rawlins is a missionary priest of the Romish persuasion?’

  ‘I like not this business.’

  ‘We had no choice before us.’

  ‘You had Christian teaching to guide you.’

  ‘So did Anthony Rickwood, and where did it land him? Upon a spike at Bishopsgate until we engineered his rescue.’ His vehemence increased. ‘And what of Neville Pomeroy? What guidance did his Christian teaching give him? It showed him the way directly to the Tower!’

  ‘I did not mean to anger you so, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘We must fight fire with fire!’

  ‘Murder should be anathema.’

  ‘Revenge has its own dignity.’

  Robert Rawlins bit back any further comment and tried to come to terms with what had happened. Sir Clarence Marmion was a good friend and a charming host when he wished to be but a new and more callous side to his character was emerging. It was highly unsettling. Joined indissolubly by the same purpose, the two men yet had different ideas on how it could be best effected.

  Sir Clarence tried to still the other’s disquiet.

  ‘He sleeps with God now, sir.’

  ‘Will the Law not come searching for him?’

  ‘He’ll not be found six feet under my land.’

  ‘I own I am distressed.’

  ‘Would you rather we had been subjects for burial?’

  ‘Indeed not, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Then rejoice in the death of an enemy.’

  They strolled on along a gravel path that bisected the rose garden. Robert Rawlins slowly came to see some reason in what had been said. His host sounded a note of cautious optimism.

  ‘I have prayed for help.’

  ‘So have I, Sir Clarence. Daily.’

  ‘Our prayers may yet meet with a response.’

  ‘You have a sign of this?’

  ‘Not outwardly, Master Rawlins.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘It is no more than a feeling but it grows and grows all the time. The man we seek may not need to be hunted down after all. There may be another means to find him.’

  ‘Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Let the villain come to us.’

  ‘Will he do that, Sir Clarence?’

  ‘I am certain of it. When I trust to instinct, I am seldom misled. The man is getting closer and we must be ready for him. Keep your wits about you, sir.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘He is on his way to York.’

  Christopher Millfield knew how to cut a dash when the opportunity presented itself. He had been cast in the part of Will Scarlet and sang the ballad which began the rehearsal of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Sauntering about the stage, he let his flowing scarlet costume swish to great effect and accompanied his pleasing tenor voice with chords from a small lute. Will Scarlet truly had his moment at the Town Hall in Nottingham.

  Come now and listen, gentlemen,

  That be of free-born blood!

  I shall tell you of a good yeoman,

  His name was Robin Hood.

  Robin was a proud outlaw,

  Whiles he walked on ground,

  So courteous a fellow as he was one,

  Was never none yet found.

  Robin stood in Sherwood Forest,

  And leaned him to a tree.

  And by him stood Little John,

  The stoutest friend was he.

  The rehearsal had some shaky moments. Martin Yeo, the oldest and most experienced of the apprentices, was never more than a competent replacement for Richard Honeydew in the vital role of Maid Marion. His gesture and deportment were above reproach but he had none of his colleague’s radiance or supreme sense of timing. Dressed in Lincoln green, as sanctified by tradition, Lawrence Firethorn brought his usual panache to the role of Robin Hood but even he faltered slightly in the love scenes. Barnaby Gill was a droll Friar Tuck and Edmund Hoode scored in the part of Much the Miller’s Son but the Merry Men were a complete shambles. Supplemented by a few journeymen brought in for the occasion, they moved about the stage like a flock of frightened sheep and scattered in utter confusion whenever Robin Hood indulged in swordplay.

  Nicholas Bracewell kept the whole thing moving and minimised the effects of most errors but even he could not stop George Dart – a decidedly unmerry member of the Merry Men – from felling a tree by walking accidentally into it. Will Scarlet wa
s one of the few to come through unscathed and he brought the proceedings to a close with another ballad sung to the music of his lute.

  Then bespake good Robin,

  In place whereat he stood,

  ‘Tomorrow, I must to Kirksley,

  Craftily to be let blood!’

  Sir Roger of Doncaster,

  By the Prioress he lay,

  And there they betrayed good Robin Hood

  Through their false play.

  Christ have mercy on his soul!

  (That died on the rood)

  For Robin was a good outlaw

  And did poor men much good.

  Robin Hood now rounded on his Merry Men as if they had each tried to assassinate him during the performance. By the time Firethorn had finished reviling them for their incompetence and blaming them for their mere existence, their cheeks matched the colour of Will Scarlet’s costume. The actor-manager spread his criticisms widely and even Barnaby Gill was made to squirm a little. Martin Yeo was totally demoralised by the attack on him. The only actor who emerged unscathed was Christopher Millfield. It put him in buoyant mood.

  ‘How did it look to you, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘There is much work to be done.’

  ‘I was speaking of my own performance.’

  ‘You sang most sweetly.’

  ‘And my playing of Will Scarlet?’

  ‘It was sufficient,’ said Nicholas with polite evasion. ‘You will not let the company down, sir.’

  Millfield felt damned by faint praise. Wanting to impress the other, he had only irritated him by seeking his approval so obviously. He watched the book holder take control. Now that the rehearsal was over, Nicholas started delegating the dozens of jobs that had been thrown up in the past couple of hours. Several props had been damaged and needed repair, one of the trestles that held up the stage had to be strengthened, and two of the instruments required a new string apiece. Some of the costumes had been torn during the fight scenes and George Dart was assigned the task of mending them with needle and thread. Stephen Judd’s wig was falling apart.