‘Master Quilley has been of some help.’
‘The artist?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was in Leicester before he came on here and encountered Banbury’s Men in the town. Instead of staying on the Great North Road and going on up to Doncaster, they must have left Grantham and headed south-west.’
‘Why to Leicester?’
‘We might be the cause of that, Anne.’
‘Westfield’s Men?’
‘Thinking we would be making haste to overtake them and call them to account, they sought to shake us off by changing their itinerary. But there is a stronger reason. Leicester is a welcoming port of call for many theatre companies. They have safe harbour there. Master Quilley tells me that Banbury’s Men performed three times there and once in Ashby-de-la-Zouche.’
‘Then on to Nottingham with Pompey the Great.’
‘That goes hard with Master Firethorn.’
‘His vanity was affronted.’
‘’Tis all too easily done.’
They shared a laugh then paused outside the main door of the Saracen’s Head. It had been wonderful to see him again so unexpectedly but Anne knew that they would have to part again now, and without the pleasure of a long and amorous leave taking. She kissed him on the cheek and he pulled her to him for a minute.
‘Take every care, Nick.’
‘I shall.’
‘Come safe home.’
‘God willing, I’ll bring Dick Honeydew with me.’
‘Where can he be?’
‘Waiting, Anne.’
‘For what?’
‘Deliverance.’
The shed was small, dark and airless. An unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation prevailed. Through the cracks in the timber walls, it was just possible to gauge the degree of sunlight. Otherwise he had no idea what time of day it was. As shadows lengthened and a deeper gloom returned to his little prison, Richard Honeydew resolved to make a greater effort to escape. What frightened him most about his kidnap was the fact that he still had no indication of who might be responsible. Whisked away from the Smith and Anvil, he had been bound hand and foot with a sack over his head. On the first stage of an indescribably uncomfortable journey, he had been strapped across a horse and taken over what felt like the most uneven terrain in the county. Bruised and breathless, he had finally been cut free and locked away.
They fed him tolerably well but gave him no freedom of movement. Still tied up, he was blindfolded whenever they came to visit him. Occasional trips to relieve himself brought further indignities because he was always under surveillance. They knew everything about him but he knew nothing about them. Except that they had not so far harmed him or threatened violence in any way. The shed was his third cell so far and he determined that it would be his last. Solitary confinement was an ordeal.
The boy got up from his stool and bounced across the floor with his ankles firmly bound together. A wooden box stood in the corner and he bent down to sweep off the pile of rhubarb leaves that covered it. His wrists were held by thick rope but his fingers were able to drag the box to the middle of the shed, directly below the central beam. Above his head was a large rusty spike that had been sunk in the timber to act as a peg. Its jagged edge was his one faint promise of release.
First of all, he had to reach the spike and that meant leaping up on to the box. It was far more difficult than he anticipated. All he had to do was to hop some eighteen inches off the ground, a paltry feat for someone with his agility and love of the dance. But his tedious incarceration had exhausted him in body and spirit, and his bonds had given him cramp in his arms and legs. The first jump was well short of the required height and the second was no better. Composing himself to make a more concerted effort, he thrust himself up from the ground only to get a partial purchase on the edge of the box. His weight tipped it off and he was thrown heavily against the side of the shed, banging his head on the rough wood and drawing a trickle of blood from his scalp.
Richard Honeydew refused to give in. He gritted his teeth and started again. Shaking himself all over like a wet dog emerging from a river, he got to his knees and righted the box before using it to lever himself up to his feet. This time he had several practise jumps before he tried to get up on to his platform. When he was fully confident, he stood beside the box, bent at the knees then shot himself upwards, bringing his feet across at just the right moment. The box rocked madly but he somehow kept his balance. Triumph was marred by disappointment. Even when he stood on his toes and stretched his arms up, he was still some six inches away from the spike.
Another, more critical jump was now needed. If he missed the spike, his fall would be even harder. If he misjudged the movement of his hands, he could easily impale himself on the rusty metal. His first instinct was to abandon the attempt altogether but then he thought about the misery of his imprisonment and the pangs of loneliness he felt away from his friends in the company. Nicholas Bracewell would never concede defeat in such a situation and nor must he. The risk had to be taken. He rehearsed it all carefully in his mind then gathered himself for the jump.
Several minutes of anxious and careful preparation were distilled into a split-second as he bent at the knees before launching himself upwards again. His hands cleared the spike, his wrists flicked forward and he was soon hanging in space with the rope bearing his weight. A new set of problems now confronted him. Fiery pain shot down his arms and settled in his shoulders. His head began to throb unbearably. His breathing was impaired. Pale, blue-veined wrists were badly chafed by the ropes. He was in agony and escape now seemed a mirage.
There was no time to waste. The longer he dangled from the beam, the more danger he was in. Putting every last ounce of his strength in the effort, he started to swing his legs, slowly at first, then with more purpose and finally with gathering momentum. The agony intensified. His slim body was awash with perspiration as he swung to and fro in the noisome shed and the rope was cutting into his wrists as if attempting to sever them completely. The first drips of blood on his face made him panic but his torment was almost over. Friction brought results. As the rope was rubbed hard against the spike, its strands broke slowly one by one. Just as he was about to lapse into unconsciousness, the last strand trembled and his own weight did the rest.
Richard Honeydew dropped from the beam, kicked over the box and thudded to the floor. He was too fatigued to move for several minutes but he was smiling in triumph. His plan had worked. When strength returned, he sat up and untied his feet, stretching his legs and wiggling his ankles. Both wrists were lathered in blood but he did not mind. He was free. The door was his last obstacle. Bolted from outside, it was firm against his push but he used guile instead of force. Banging his stool against the ground until one of its three legs snapped off, he used the amputated section as a lever to insert in the door. A gap opened up that was wide enough to admit his slender arm and he slid back the bolt.
His cell door swung open. It was late evening and all he could make out were confusing shapes in the dark. The fragrance of night-scented flowers wafted into his nostrils to refresh and delight him. A light wind helped to dry the dribbling sweat. Pain fell from him and his spirits soared. Freedom was a joyous kingdom.
He had no notion where he was but knew that he had to get away from there. Breaking into a trot, he ran across uneven ground towards the outline of a large building that stood on the edge of a field. But he did not get very far. Within a dozen yards, his way was blocked by a tall figure who stepped in front of him with such determination that the boy bounced off him and fell backwards to the ground. Dazed by the impact, he looked up at the face which was partially lit by a crescent moon.
‘You’re staying here, lad,’ said the young man. Richard Honeydew fainted with sheer terror.
York had undeniable beauty. Set amongst the green forest of Galtres, it was encircled by three miles of white stone fortifications that were breached by four battlemented gateways. It was founded by the Roma
ns at the confluence of the rivers Fosse and Ouse, enjoying a profitable outlet to the sea on the east coast. Ships laden with hides, wool and other goods sailed downriver to the staple port of Hull, bound for the Continent. When they returned, their holds were filled with soaps, silks, stains, perfumes, exotic spices and fine wines. York was a thriving community. It might no longer be second only to London in size but it was still so in dignity.
The streets were narrow, cobbled and overhung with gabled houses. Trades were plied noisily at every turn. Stinking midden tips added their pungent contribution to the city’s distinctive atmosphere. York buzzed with life.
Robert Rawlins left his lodgings in Trinity Lane and made his way through the crowded streets to the Trip to Jerusalem. He went into the taproom and found Lambert Pym ordering his minions around with obese urgency. Mine Host gave him a smile of recognition.
‘Good day to you, Master Rawlins.’
‘And to you, sir.’
‘These are busy days for us, I fear.’
‘As I observe.’
‘Whitsuntide will soon be upon us and the fair will bring in extra custom. We have to brew more beer and feed more bellies. It all needs careful preparation.’
‘When will the players arrive?’
‘At one and the same time,’ said Pym, scratching his beard. ‘We will be rushed off our feet here at Jerusalem. Every room I have will be full to bursting and my yard must serve as a playhouse.’
‘I like not the drama,’ said Rawlins coldly.
‘Sir Clarence Marmion is a regular patron.’
‘That is his choice.’
‘Will you be with us long in York, sir?’
‘I cannot tell, Master Pym.’
‘Until your business is discharged?’
‘We shall see.’
Giving nothing away, Robert Rawlins opened the door that gave access to the staircase. He was soon settling down on a chair in the private chamber above. A small black book was extracted from the folds of his coat and he began to read it in earnest. He was so absorbed by his text that it seemed a matter of minutes before he heard the familiar boots upon the oak stairs. Sir Clarence Marmion came sweeping in at such speed that Rawlins took fright and jumped to his feet.
The newcomer waved a cheerful greeting.
‘I bring you glad tidings at last, sir.’
‘The Queen is dead?’
‘That were too great a hope,’ said Sir Clarence as he pulled a letter from his sleeve. ‘But we have other causes to rejoice. Our friends have not been idle.’
‘It is comforting to hear that.’
‘Walsingham sits in London like a great black spider at the heart of a web, waiting to catch us all. But we have our own network of spies to protect us. They have delivered up the informer.’
Rawlins took the letter that was handed to him.
‘This is the man who betrayed Master Rickwood?’
‘And Master Pomeroy,’ said Sir Clarence. ‘I knew that the trail would lead him here eventually. We shall be ready for him. He will not deliver a Marmion into the hands of Mr Secretary Walsingham.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed.’
‘God is sending the vile wretch to us.’
‘Does he travel alone?’
‘No, he comes with a theatre company from London. They are a convenient shield for his purposes but he will not be able to hide behind them here. The man’s journey ends in York. For ever.’
Kynaston Hall was able to confirm that a performance of The Renegade had been given there by Banbury’s Men but nobody at the house knew the company’s next destination. Nicholas Bracewell thanked them for their help and went due north on the chestnut stallion he had borrowed from Lawrence Firethorn. The animal was full of running and it was given free rein. Nicholas stopped at every village, hamlet or wayside dwelling to enquire after the whereabouts of his quarry but he was given precious little help for his pains. Whichever way Banbury’s Men had gone, they seemed to have covered their tracks very effectively. It was frustrating.
His luck eventually changed. He came upon an old shepherd who was sitting in the shade of a tree with his dog and munching an apple. Though he was no playgoer, the shepherd could recognise a theatre company when he saw one. His bony finger pointed down a bumpy track.
‘They went that way, master.’
‘Are you sure, friend?’
‘I sit here every day and they passed me by.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Twelve or fifteen, maybe.’
‘On horse or foot?’
‘Both, sir. They’d a couple of horses and a cart piled high with baskets. Most of them walked behind.’
‘Can you be certain they were players?’
‘They were no shepherds, that I know,’ said the old man with a cackle. ‘Their clothes were too bright and their noise too loud. I’d frighten away my sheep if I went around making those alarums.’
‘How far away were they when you saw them?’
‘Not more than a hundred yards.’
The shepherd had not been deceived. Banbury’s Men had evidently gone past and he had taken due note of their passing. Nicholas pressed a coin into his gnarled hand then rode off again. It was evening now and the company would soon seek shelter before nightfall. His heels sent the horse into a full gallop. Five miles later, he caught up with them.
They had camped by the roadside and lit a fire. Since it was a clear, dry night, they were obviously going to spend it under the stars. Nicholas approached with a caution borne of his misadventures with the gypsies. He did not want to be set upon by the whole company. After tethering his horse behind some bushes, he moved in on foot, hearing the telltale banter of true actors floating on the night air. He had run Banbury’s Men to ground. What he now had to establish was whether or not Richard Honeydew was with them.
Creeping in ever closer, he got his first proper look at the encampment. His heart constricted. There were about a dozen of them, as reported, and they wore the gaudy apparel of travelling players but here was no London theatre company on tour. Their clothes were threadbare and their horses were spindly nags. Whatever was being roasted over the fire had not been paid for because they were patently impoverished. Gaunt faces chewed on their food. Thin bodies lounged around the flickering blaze. They were actors but of a different sort and temper to Banbury’s Men. They had never performed in a real theatre in their lives or tasted the fleshpots of the capital. Lacking any noble patron, they were no better than outlaws and could be arrested for vagrancy. They scraped a bare living by keeping on the move like the gypsies.
It was sobering to reflect on how removed their world was from that of the London companies and Nicholas felt a pang of shame that Westfield’s Men had come to take their audiences from them. Then he recalled the purpose of his journey and shook off such considerations. Marching boldly into the camp, he introduced himself as a fellow-actor and was given a cheerful welcome. It waned somewhat when he asked after Banbury’s Men who were seen as London predators come to swoop on the provinces. They had scorn for the other company but no knowledge of its present location. Nicholas thanked them and withdrew.
Darkness was beginning to close in and he needed a bed for the night. He had passed a small inn a few miles back and now rode off again in that direction, his mind grappling with the problem of where Banbury’s Men could be and his concern for Richard Honeydew rising all the time. Absorbed in his thoughts, he let his guard fall.
‘Hold there, sir!’
‘That is a fine horse you have.’
‘Let us guess its age by its teeth.’
The three men came out of the woodland and ambled towards him with amiable grins. He was not fooled. Each of them had a hand on his sword. They had caught him on a deserted track that ran between the trees. Nicholas knew that they would not close in on him like that unless they had someone at his back. He swung his horse around in the nick of time. The fourth man was running silently
towards him with a cudgel in his hand, ready to hack him down from behind while his attention was diverted.
Nicholas got his kick in before the cudgel fell and the man staggered back. When he came charging in again, he felt a sword go clean through his shoulder and yelled out in agony. His accomplices sprinted in to wreak revenge but they had chosen the wrong target. As the first of them swished his sword, it met such a forceful reply from Nicholas’s rapier that it was twisted out of his hand. The book holder dismounted in a flash, pulling out his dagger as he did so and daring the two armed men to come at him. They flashed and jabbed but could get nowhere near him. Unable to recover his sword from the ground, the third man produced a dagger and raised an arm to throw it but he was far too slow. Nicholas’s own dagger hurtled through the air and pierced the fellow’s wrist, causing him to drop his own weapon with a cry.
The others had had enough. Now that the odds were not so heavily in their favour, they gathered up their two stricken colleagues and limped away. Nicholas gave chase and let some air into the jerkin of one of them. Three of them scrambled into their saddles but the cudgeller was too badly wounded to ride and had to be helped up behind one of his friends. Cursing their assailant, they beat a hasty retreat into the forest.
Nicholas walked across to the horse that they had left behind and patted its neck. It was far too good a mount for common highwaymen and had clearly been stolen. In the fading light, he could just see the monogrammed gold initials on the saddlebags – O.Q. When he searched inside the pouches, he found some food and some articles of apparel. What really interested him, however, was the folded parchment that was tucked away at the very bottom of one of the saddlebags. It was a list of names and addresses, written out in a fair hand. Two of the names had been ticked and they leapt up at Nicholas.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 61
