Nicholas was so caught up in his work that he did not see the danger that threatened. With his back to the stage, he was unaware of the fact that two of his minions were struggling to dismantle the gallows that was used in the closing scene of the play. It was far too heavy and awkward for them to handle and its weight finally got the better of them. Before they could stop it, the long spar of timber toppled over and fell towards Nicholas.
Christopher Millfield responded like lightning.
‘Look out there!’
Hurling himself forward, he knocked the book holder out of the way and suffered a glancing blow from the falling prop. Nicholas picked himself up and turned to see what had happened. Millfield was now sitting on the floor and rubbing his shoulder gingerly.
‘Are you hurt, Christopher?’
‘It is nothing serious.’
‘I owe you much thanks.’
Millfield grinned. ‘I saved you from the gallows.’
‘And from certain injury.’
Nicholas upbraided the two assistants who caused the accident and got them to move the timber away. Then he offered a hand to Millfield and pulled him up. The latter dusted himself off and continued to rub his shoulder.
‘I will remember this,’ said Nicholas.
‘You would have done as much for me.’
‘In your place, I might have held back.’
‘Because you do not like me?’
‘It is reason enough.’
‘But I like you, Master Bracewell.’
It was Nicholas’s turn to grin. Millfield’s manner was quite disarming and it was hard to bear a grudge against him. The book holder made a concession.
‘Your performance was excellent, Christopher.’
‘Thank you!’
‘To speak truly, I am not sure that Gabriel Hawkes could have bettered it.’
‘I seek no higher praise than that.’
‘You will get none.’
They shared a laugh and much of the tension between them evaporated. All actors sought approval but Millfield seemed particularly anxious to win a plaudit from the book holder. It made him quite forget the pain in his shoulder. He reached out to take Nicholas by the arms.
‘I will confess something to you,’ he said.
‘Must I be your priest?’ teased the other.
‘I am in earnest, Master Bracewell.’
‘Speak on.’
‘Gabriel was the finer actor.’
‘Only in certain respects.’
‘I am honest enough to admit it,’ said Millfield seriously. ‘He had more range and more depth. When you chose between us, you were right to take Gabriel Hawkes.’
‘No other player would allow as much.’
‘Why hide the truth when the fellow is no longer with us?’ His grip tightened. ‘I hated him for standing in my way. I wished Gabriel dead so that I could take his place but I did not hasten his end, that I swear. If he was murdered, as you believe, then it was by another.’
Nicholas looked deep into his eyes and lost many of the suspicions and resentments he harboured against the man. Christopher Millfield had his faults but they were largely those of his profession. The book holder sealed their new-found friendship with a warm handshake that made the other wince. Concern took over.
‘Let me look at that shoulder of yours.’
‘It is of no account.’
‘You are still in pain, I can see.’
Millfield was eventually persuaded to take off his scarlet tunic so that Nicholas could examine the injury. The shoulder was badly grazed where the timber had struck but no blood had been drawn. Nicholas used tender fingers to explore the damage then got his companion to lift his arm straight up then rotate it. He gave his diagnosis.
‘You are lucky, Christopher. Nothing is broken.’
‘I will get away with a few bruises.’
‘And a lot of stiffness,’ said Nicholas. ‘Give me some time and I will prepare an ointment to put on your shoulder. It will ease the soreness.’
‘Then it is most welcome. How will you make it?’
‘With herbs.’
‘Are you a physician as well?’
‘I learned much from the ship’s doctor when I was at sea. Aches and pains are part of every sailor’s lot and I studied the way to soften them. The knowledge has been of use many a time.’
‘No patient will be more grateful than I.’
‘The gratitude is all on my side.’
‘Your friendship is reward enough.’
‘It comes with the ointment.’
Millfield grinned. ‘Both will be cherished.’
When the actor went off to get changed, Nicholas was soon joined by another companion. Oliver Quilley had been watching the rehearsal attentively throughout. If he was to create a miniature of the actor-manager, it must contain all of his characteristics and these were most evident when he was onstage. Quilley missed nothing.
‘Is Master Firethorn always so fierce?’
‘You saw but a muted account of him today.’
‘There’s more ferocity to come?’
‘He saves it for the audience.’
‘I wait with interest,’ said Quilley. ‘When I paint a portrait, I want it to be as complete a picture as is possible. I divine the truth of a personality.’
‘How long will this portrait take, sir?’
‘I work from three sittings,’ explained the artist with fluttering hand movements. ‘At the first, I will set down the broad outline of his features, starting with the forehead and using it to calculate the other proportions of his face. At the second sitting, I will make careful note of all the colours of flesh, hair and costume, paying especial attention – for this is the crux of my art – to the expression of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.’
‘What of the third sitting, Master Quilley?’
‘I will finish off in fine detail.’
‘You work speedily, sir.’
‘Even artists have to eat.’
‘How did you come to choose your career?’
‘It chose me,’ said Quilley. ‘I was apprenticed nearly thirty years ago now to a goldsmith in Eastcheap. My master was a wealthy man and rose to be Chamberlain of the City of London and Prime warden of his Company.’
‘You picked your master with care.’
‘Fortune was ever at my side during the seven years I spent at the sign of the Gilt Lion and Firebrand. I became very skilled in the making of jewellery and much taken with the notion of painting miniatures.’
‘How did you begin, Master Quilley?’
‘With a lady at court. She was a friend of my master’s and easily flattered. It was my first work as a limner and not without flaw.’
‘In what way?’
‘The portrait was superb, as all my painting is, but I omitted a vital detail, Master Bracewell.’
‘Oh?’
‘I did not exact payment.’ He rolled his eyes and tossed his hands in the air. ‘Such is the life of an artist! We never get our due reward. Word of mouth pronounces me a genius and commissions roll in but do those same people actually pay me for my labours? Very rarely, sir. Very rarely.’
‘You must have had some honest employers.’
‘A few. Master Anthony Rickwood was one.’
‘He that was executed?’ said Nicholas in surprise.
‘Yes, sir. He has suffered for his villainy but I can only speak of his kindness. Master Rickwood paid me twice what I asked and he recommended me to a number of his close friends, including Master Neville Pomeroy from Hertfordshire.’
‘We know the gentleman.’
‘Then you will be aware of his generosity. A most courteous fellow. I lacked for nothing at his home.’
‘Nor did we when we performed at Pomeroy Manor.’
‘He talked much of his passion for the theatre.’
‘We look to visit him again on our return south.’
‘Unhappily, you may not do that, sir.’
‘But he invited us.’
‘He is no longer there to receive you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because Master Pomeroy has been arrested.’
‘On what charge?’
‘High treason. He conspired with Anthony Rickwood.’
‘Can this be true?’
‘Walsingham has him locked away in the Tower.’
‘What will be his fate?’
‘The worst possible.’ Quilley smiled wryly. ‘He will die the ignominious death of a traitor. I do not think that Master Millfield will be able to save him from the gallows.’
Miles Melhuish blanched. He thought he could not be astounded anew by Eleanor Budden but he was mistaken. Her latest announcement made him gape. He turned to her husband who sat in the corner of the vestry but Humphrey had no opinion. Defeated by his wife in every way, he was a poor, pale relic of the man who had married her and gloried in her favours. Humphrey Budden was to be an essentially silent presence during the interview.
Melhuish summoned up some pop-eyed indignation.
‘This is not wise, mistress. This is not good.’
‘I believe it to be both, sir.’
‘Travelling with a company of itinerant players!’
‘They come from London,’ she said proudly.
‘That only makes it worse. You cannot conceive of the minds and appetites of such creatures. Players are but friends of Hell in human disguise.’
‘They have used me most properly until now.’
‘Wait until you are undefended on the road.’
‘That cannot be. God is with me always.’
‘Yes, sister,’ he said condescendingly. ‘God is with us all, and at all times. But there are times when even His divine protection is not enough. You do yourself a harm by exposing yourself to such danger.’
‘Of what, Master Melhuish?’
The vicar cleared his throat and plucked at his collar. He tossed a glance at Budden but there was no help from there. He plucked the nettle boldly.
‘Players are notorious libertines, Eleanor.’
‘I never heard it so.’
‘They have the morals of the lowest beasts.’
‘Why then have they been so polite to me?’
‘’Tis but to lure you into lowering your guard.’
‘Master Firethorn is not like that,’ she argued with feeling. ‘Nor is Master Bracewell and he is the reason that I travel with Westfield’s Men.’
‘Who is Master Bracewell?’
‘He hangs behind you, sir.’
Miles Melhuish turned around with a start but saw nobody there. Eleanor pointed to the stained glass window whose image of Jesus Christ looked more like the book holder than ever. The vicar was given a further shock.
‘You tell me this player is … like Lord Jesus?’
‘As like as two peas in a pod, sir,’ she said. ‘But he is no player. Master Bracewell is the book holder with the company and a more upright man I have never met. I’d put my life and soul in his hands, so I would!’
‘Take care he does not abuse your trust.’
‘He would not.’
‘Think of the long reaches of the night.’
‘I have done with fornication,’ she said chirpily.
Humphrey Budden twitched at the mention of the word and a wistful calm settled on his dull features as he let his mind play with a few robust memories. Melhuish tried further persuasion but it was futile. When her mind was made up, Eleanor would listen to nobody.
‘Take another woman with you,’ he advised. ‘One of your servants to act as a chaperone.’
‘God is my chaperone.’
‘It may prove too onerous a duty for Him.’
‘You question His powers?’
‘No, no,’ said Miles Melhuish quickly. ‘I would never presume to do such a thing. It is just that … well, I would feel happier if you had some additional guarantee of your safety.’
‘I do, sir. In Master Nicholas Bracewell.’
‘That is not what I had in mind.’ He looked over at the somnolent husband. ‘Do you have no fears for your good lady on this journey, sir?’
‘None that I know of,’ he grunted.
‘She will be with loose men of the theatre.’
‘Good luck to them!’ murmured the other.
‘Rest easy, sir,’ said Eleanor to the vicar. ‘I will not be the only traveller with the company. An artist makes the journey to York with us as well. And so does another woman. She will ensure my safety.’
Plague hit London with renewed force each day but Doll would have preferred to take her chances in the city all the same. Life at the house in Shoreditch was a spreading pestilence ever since the siege by creditors had begun. Margery Firethorn became more and more embattled and her servants felt the worst tremors. Doll always seemed to be in the firing line when her mistress exploded. The girl was small, young, tousled and quite unequal to the demands made on her by a ranting employer. Each day brought fresh pain and humiliation for her.
Margery Firethorn hailed her from the kitchen. ‘Doll!’
‘Yes, mistress?’
‘Can you not hear the doorbell?’
‘No, mistress.’
‘Then open your ears, girl, or I’ll box them!’
Doll came scuttling into the kitchen where Margery was up to her arms in flour. The girl dithered and threw a deep but raged curtsey. The doorbell rang more loudly.
‘Do you hear it now, girl?’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Then answer it.’
‘What am I to say?’
‘If it be a creditor, that I am not at home.’
‘And if it be someone else?’
‘Bring me word. Now – away.’
Doll raced out and she could be heard opening the door and talking to someone for a few moments. When she came back in, the girl was wide-eyed with amazement.
‘Well?’ snapped Margery.
‘You have a visitor, mistress.’
‘Who is he?’
‘There is a big coach outside the house.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His footman rang the bell.’
‘His name, girl. What is my visitor’s name?’
‘Lord Westfield.’
Doll was plainly awestruck at the notion of a peer of the realm calling at a player’s house in Shoreditch but Margery reacted as if it was an everyday occurrence. Wiping her floured hands on her apron, she crossed to the sink to thrust her hands into a pan of cold water. She swung her head to glare at her servant.
‘Do not stand there like that, Doll.’
‘What must I do, mistress?’
‘Show Lord Westfield in.’
Chapter Eight
Nottingham converged on its Town Hall in large numbers. People of every degree came to see one of the legendary characters of English history in action once more. Robin Hood and his Merry Men was rather different from the usual fare offered by Westfield’s Men in its repertoire. Classical tragedy, domestic comedy and rustic farce were their main concerns. When they dipped into their glorious heritage, they came up with stirring dramas about kings and queens and mighty battles that were fought to secure the defence of the realm. Military heroism and foreign conquest always drew an audience. Robin Hood had more in common with folk memory than historical fact but the company did not serve up the accustomed blend of romance and adventure in Sherwood Forest. Investing the story with a deeper significance, they touched on themes of loyalty, patriotism and spiritual commitment. In their portrayal of Prince John, they also drew attention to the follies of self-aggrandisement.
Packed into their Town Hall, the audience was totally mesmerised from start to finish. Lawrence Firethorn was as convincing a Robin Hood as they had ever seen. He was noble, fearless and devoted to King Richard. Powerful in the action scenes, he was yet soft and tender when alone with Maid Marion and his wooing made every woman in the house shiver with delight. Son
gs and swordfights moved the drama along at regular intervals and there were some clever effects, devised by Nicholas Bracewell, with bows and arrows. Dances were used cleverly throughout and the comic brilliance of Barnaby Gill was at its height when Friar Tuck lifted his skirts to dance a bare-footed jig.
Anne Hendrik sat on a bench alongside Susan Becket and joined in the applause. She had seen Westfield’s Men at their peak in London and this performance fell some way below that, but it was still a fine entertainment and the people of Nottingham clearly thought they had been in the presence of a masterpiece. They stood, clapped and shouted for all they were worth. Lawrence Firethorn led the company out several times to acknowledge the ovation with deep bows. Even George Dart enjoyed it, contriving a smile that actually made him look at home among the Merry Men. After all their mishaps, Westfield’s Men were back where they belonged and it was invigorating.
This was theatre.
Nicholas Bracewell was less satisfied than most. The performance had too many rough edges for his liking and there were several minor mistakes that irritated him. And while the Town Hall was a marked improvement on some of the other venues where they had played it, it was worlds away from the theatres of London and a diminution in every sense. But the chief cause of Nicholas’s discontent was the absence of Richard Honeydew. Seeing the boy’s role filled, albeit adequately, by someone else only brought home to him the importance of tracking the lad down. The company would never be at its best without their star apprentice and Nicholas owed it to him to begin another search with all due speed.
‘Where will you go?’ asked Anne.
‘In pursuit of Banbury’s Men.’
‘Do you know where they are?’
‘I will find them somehow.’
‘On your own?’
‘I travel faster by myself,’ said Nicholas. ‘In any case, Master Firethorn can spare nobody to come with me. Everyone is needed here. He would not let me go again myself until we had staged Robin Hood.’
‘Without you there would have been no performance.’
‘Even with me, it was not a source of pride.’
‘The audience was entranced.’
‘Their standards are not high, Anne.’
‘Do not be too unkind on the company.’
The two of them were strolling through the narrow streets on their way back to the Saracen’s Head. Having organised the strike party at the Town Hall, the book holder now had a brief moment alone with Anne before he set off on the trail of Richard Honeydew once more. He talked through the few solid facts he possessed.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 60
