‘Where is my suit of blue satin and my green cloak?’
‘Be silent, sir!’ snarled Firethorn.
‘What of my cambric shirts and my lawn ruff?’
‘Cease this whining!’
The actor-manager’s roar cut short the fit of pique. Gill dropped back into his seat and stared moodily into his drink. At times of crisis, he could be relied upon to put his selfish interests before anything else. Edmund Hoode had far more compassion for his fellows.
‘My thoughts are with poor Dick!’ he said.
‘So are mine upon occasion,’ murmured Gill.
‘I would surrender every shred of clothing that we own to get the lad safe back again. Where can he be?’
‘Nick will find him,’ said Firethorn.
‘Aye,’ agreed Hoode. ‘Nick is our one bright hope.’
‘How can you think that?’ said Gill. ‘If it were not for our esteemed book holder, we would not now be in such a case as this. I lay the guilt on him.’ He spoke on over their protests. ‘Defend him all you can, sirs, but this I declare. Nicholas Bracewell must bear the guilt. He it is who was most responsible for the safety of the apprentices yet one of them was taken from under his nose.’
‘Nick cannot be everywhere,’ defended Hoode.
‘That is plain, Edmund. Were he not now gallivanting around the whole county, then our costumes would have been secure. He would have been here to do his duty and defend them properly.’ Gill sat up sulkily. ‘And I would still have my golden doublet!’
‘Someone had to go after Dick Honeydew,’ said Hoode.
‘And the only man fit for the task was Nick,’ added Firethorn. ‘He may yet extract us from this morass. I’ll not hear one word of carping about him.’
‘Then I’ll hold my tongue,’ said Gill sarcastically.
Firethorn drank deep from his cup and moaned aloud.
‘What a world of pain is this touring! I do not like it, sirs, and I fear it does not like me. Nothing but dire calamity has come of it. We have faced rain, robbery and ruin. And the worst of it is that I am far from home and can draw no comfort from the soft bosom of my wife.’
Gill and Hoode traded a glance of tired amusement. With one woman upstairs in his bed and another featuring prominently in his fantasies, Lawrence Firethorn could still indulge in a bout of marital sentimentality with every sign of complete sincerity. Happiness was his ability to expel Margery entirely from his thoughts. It was only at moments of stress that she reappeared in his considerations and reminded him that he was her husband.
His colleagues listened to his maudlin reminiscences with a measure of cynicism. Their situation was drastic but there was yet some humour to be drawn from it. As Firethorn reached a crescendo of uxoriousness, he was interrupted by the arrival of the tentative George Dart.
‘What is it?’ growled Firethorn.
‘I bring you a message from the lady, sir.’
‘Mistress Becket?’
‘Mistress Budden.’
‘Speak it forth.’
‘We sat beside each other on the waggon, master, and I was bold enough to praise you in her hearing.’ He finally put a smile on Firethorn’s face. ‘I talked about your fine voice, sir, and how you could recite the prayer book as if it were the music of Heaven.’
‘So it is, George. So it is.’
‘Mistress Budden was much taken with all this.’
‘What is her message?’
‘She sits in bed,’ said Dart. ‘It is her dearest wish that you should read to her from the psalms ere she closes her eyes in Christian slumber.’
Lawrence Firethorn felt the reassuring surge of his lust. An opportunity which he believed would never come had now presented itself to him. Eleanor Budden was lying in her bedchamber with complete trust in the sound of his voice. Psalms could lead to sighs of love. As temptation licked at his loins, he saw the obstacles. Susan Becket was waiting in the next bedchamber. A costume basket had to be traced. Plans had to be made. Work would keep him downstairs for several hours.
Disappointment gnawed at his entrails but there was no way out for him. Ignoring the smirks from Hoode and Gill, he turned to the messenger with lofty calm.
‘Tell her I may not come tonight,’ he said. ‘But I will pray for Mistress Budden most heartily.’
And he left it on that ambiguous note.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It assaulted his nostrils. The outhouse had been used to stable a donkey and its droppings were mixed freely with the straw. When he tried to move, he felt as if someone were trying to pound the back of his skull to gain entrance. Nicholas Bracewell remained absolutely still until his head began to clear. Something was tickling the end of his foot. He opened a misty eye to make out the sad figure of Richard Honeydew, stretching out a leg to make contact with him. The boy was still bound and gagged. Nicholas’s first impulse was to release him and he jerked forward, only to be held by ropes of his own that were tied to an iron ring in the wall. The lump on the back of his head ached anew but the gag in his mouth muffled his groan.
Nicholas waited till the pain eased off then he took stock of the situation. He was seated upright against a rough stone wall, unable to move because of his bonds. Opposite him was Richard Honeydew, who had been secured to the iron bars across the window. His delight at seeing the boy was shadowed by the condition in which he found him. Honeydew’s face was besmirched with blood and his clothes were torn and stained. He did not look as if he had eaten very much since he had been abducted. Nicholas was seized with remorse. Instead of riding to the rescue of the apprentice, he had let himself be captured as well.
He struggled hard but his bonds held firm. When he tried to speak, his words came out as faint grunts. There was so much to ask but he had no means of asking it. He looked around for help and saw the old stone walls with their flaking coat of whitewash. An idea formed. Angling himself over so that he could swing his legs up, he used his toes to scrape one big question on the wall.
WHO?
Richard Honeydew responded in kind. Pulling himself up on the bars, he swung his legs across until they just made contact with the whitewash. In the half-dark of their stinking cell, he slowly and laboriously traced a name on the wall. The letters were ragged and indistinct but their impact was still potent.
Nicholas Bracewell was absolutely stunned.
It was incredible.
Christopher Millfield remained cheerful in the midst of adversity. Long faces and short tempers surrounded him but his resilience was remarkable. Instead of being dragged down by the general mood of gloom, he was chirpy and positive. Sharing a room with George Dart and the three apprentices gave these qualities ample scope.
‘It will all seem better in the morning,’ he said.
‘It could hardly be worse,’ sighed Dart.
‘There is a solution to every problem.’
‘We have so many, Master Millfield.’
‘Let hope into your heart, George.’
‘There is no room for it.’
Christopher Millfield leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. Hearing snores from the other bed, he lowered his voice so that he did not rouse the sleepers.
‘We are players,’ he argued softly, ‘and nothing must be allowed to smother our art. If one of our apprentices be taken, why, then we fill his role with another voice. If all our costumes be stolen, we beg, borrow or make some more. These are setbacks only and can all be overcome.’
‘You forget Master Bracewell.’
‘By no means, sir. I have the utmost faith in him.’
‘What if he does not come back?’
‘Nick Bracewell will return,’ said Millfield with confidence. ‘I have never met a more capable man in the theatre. This whole company revolves around him and he would never desert it in its hour of need.’
‘I thought you did not like him,’ said Dart.
‘There is nobody in Westfield’s Men I respect more and that includes Master Firethorn. I
admit that I was hurt when our book holder recommended Gabriel Hawkes in place of me but that is all past now. I have come to accept the truth of it, George.’
‘Truth?’
‘Gabriel was the better man.’
‘He was always kind to me.’
Millfield sighed. ‘It pains me that we were such rivals. In other circumstances, Gabriel and I could have been close friends. He has been a great loss.’ The positive note returned. ‘That is why I am so grateful for the chance to travel with the company. I have prospered from Gabriel’s death and that grieves me, but it also fills me with determination to make the most of my opportunity and to be undaunted by any mishap. We are fortunate men, George. We are employed. Think on that.’
The other did as he was advised and soon drifted off to sleep in a haze of consolation. Millfield was a true son of the theatre. Whatever disasters befell it, the company simply had to press on regardless. George Dart’s snores joined the wheezing slumber of the other innocents.
Christopher Millfield waited half an hour before he moved. Then he got up, dressed quietly and left the room. A few minutes later, he was saddling a horse and leading it out into the yard with shreds of sacking around its hooves to muffle their clatter on the cobblestones.
He rode off happily into the darkness.
Nicholas Bracewell was still quite groggy. His head was pounding, his vision was impaired and blood was trickling down the back of his neck. The stench in the outhouse was almost overpowering and his stomach heaved. Trussed up tightly, every muscle in his body was aching away. What hurt him most, however, was the fact that Richard Honeydew should see him in this state. The boy was desperately in need of help and all that his would-be rescuer could do was to get himself into the same parlous condition. Guilt burned inside Nicholas like a raging fire. It served to concentrate his mind on their predicament.
The first priority was to be able to speak to the boy and that meant getting rid of the gag. Unable to brush it down with his knees, he looked around for a source of aid. A wooden rake was standing against the wall on his right. Though he could not reach it with his feet, he could scoop the straw towards him and that brought the implement ever closer. It also brought piles of dung and his shoes were soon covered with it, but he did not give up. Richard watched with interest as his friend got the rake within reach and then lifted both feet before jabbing them down hard on the prongs. The rake flipped up and Nicholas had to move his head aside as the handle smashed into the wall beside him. He trapped the implement with his shoulder then used the end of it to push his gag slowly upwards. It was agonising work that earned him several jabs in the face but he eventually managed to move it enough to be able to speak.
His words tumbled out through deep breaths.
‘How are you, lad?’
The boy nodded bravely and his eyes showed spirit.
‘Have they hurt you badly?’
Richard Honeydew shook his head and made a noise.
‘Let’s see if we can get your gag off now, Dick.’
Nicholas used his body and feet to propel the rake towards the apprentice and the latter tried to copy what he had seen. It took him much longer and collected him many more painful pokes with the end of the pole but he did finally force the gag out of his mouth. He filled his lungs gratefully then coughed violently.
‘They’ll stink us to death in here,’ said Nicholas.
‘How did you find me, Master Bracewell?’
‘Never mind that, Dick. The main thing is to get you out of here safely. How many of them are there?’
‘Two. They kidnapped me together.’
‘At the behest of Banbury’s Men.’
‘Is that who stole me away? I had no idea. They keep me locked up and only come when it is time to feed me.’
‘You look poorly.’
‘I am fine,’ said the boy unconvincingly.
‘They will pay for what they have done to you.’
‘It is not them that I fear, master. They have tied me up but they have not ill-treated me.’ He looked around with disgust. ‘What makes me afeard is the dark and the damp and the smell and, most of all, the rats.’
‘Rats?’
‘They come snuffling around sometimes. I am afraid that they will eat me alive!’ He relaxed visibly. ‘But not now that you are here. I feel safe with you.’
‘No rats will harm you, Dick.’
The boy smiled. ‘I knew you would come for me.’
‘Tell me exactly what has happened to you.’
While he listened to Honeydew’s tale, his eyes roved the outhouse in search of a means of escape but none presented itself. Then he noticed some movement under the straw beside a wooden bucket of water. When the boy caught sight of it, he flew into a panic.
‘A rat! A rat! Another rat!’
The creature came out of the straw and shuffled towards the terror-stricken boy. Nicholas yelled and lashed out at the animal with his feet, putting it to flight and kicking over the bucket as well. As cold water made his discomfort even greater, he began to fret and complain but he soon checked himself. The accident might yet be turned to account. He almost smiled.
‘I spy some hope, Dick.’
‘Do you, master?’
‘There may yet be a way out.’
‘How?’
‘You will see. But I need your help.’
‘I will do anything I can, sir.’
‘Encourage me.’
Richard Honeydew soon understood what he meant. The packed earth beneath the straw had been loosened by the deluge and gave way to urgent feet. Using his shoes as a rudimentary spade, Nicholas began to scoop out a hole close to the wall. The deeper he went, the softer was the earth and he kicked it out into a heap beside him. It was a long and laborious process which brought the sweat streaming out of every pore and made his body ache as if it was ready to split asunder. Whenever he felt like giving up, however, he glanced across at the boy and was given all the exhortation he needed.
‘Keep on, sir! You are working wonders! Stay there!’
Nicholas struggled on, getting bruised and filthy in the process but making definite headway. Ultimately, the hole was big enough for him to be able to lower himself into it and take the strain.
He had undermined the wall completely. When he tested his strength against it, the stone moved slightly. Richard Honeydew giggled with delight.
‘We are almost there!’
‘Not yet, lad.’
‘I know your strength, sir. You will do it.’
Nicholas nodded wearily. The real effort now began. He pushed, felt it give some more, rested a moment then adjusted his position. Calling on all his reserves of energy, he shoved hard with his feet and let his broad shoulders attack the solidity of the wall. It was the work of several wounding minutes but his efforts were not in vain. With a low crumbling noise, the wall gave way and chunks of stone came crashing down around him. Nicholas was cut, bruised and bloodied but his hands were now free of the metal ring. He began to rub his wrists against the sharp edge of a piece of stone.
‘You did it, Master Bracewell!’ said the boy.
‘With your help.’
‘All I did was to watch you.’
‘And stiffen my resolve.’
‘Can you saw through the rope?’
‘It is done!’ said Nicholas, holding up his hands.
He cast aside his bonds and dragged himself across to untie the boy’s wrists. Before they could tackle the ropes on their ankles, however, they heard the sound of running footsteps. Nicholas pulled himself upright and bounced to the door as it was unbolted from outside. A stocky young man came rushing in with a dagger at the ready. Grabbing him by wrist and neck, Nicholas threw him hard against the remains of the wall, diving on top of him to disarm him and hold the weapon to his throat. The man was dazed and fearful.
‘Do not kill me, sir!’ he pleaded.
‘Who are you?’
‘An ostler, sir. I work here at the
inn.’
‘You have been our gaoler.’
‘Only because I was paid. I meant no harm.’
‘Do not move!’
Nicholas used the dagger to slit through the ropes that held his ankles then he cut the boy loose as well. He placed a knee on the ostler’s chest and held the point of the blade just in front of the man’s face.
‘You struck me down from behind,’ he accused.
‘I was told to guard the boy.’
‘What else were you told?’
‘To hide the basket in the stables.’
‘What basket?’
‘They were costumes, sir.’
‘From Westfield’s Men?’
‘That was the name.’
Nicholas stood up and yanked the ostler to his feet. He did not have to threaten his captive any more. Plainly terrified, the man led them immediately to the part of the stables where he had concealed the costume basket. Nicholas was pleased to see his two horses there as well and took the opportunity to repossess his own sword and dagger. He used his rapier to pin the man to the wall while he pondered.
‘Has the company returned?’ he said.
‘Not yet, sir. They celebrate at Lavery Grange.’
‘Take me to Master Randolph’s room.’
‘Who, sir?’
‘He will have the finest bedchamber here.’
‘’Tis at the front of the inn, sir.’
‘Teach me the way.’
‘I have no place up there.’
‘I do,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lead on or lose an ear.’
They went stealthily across the yard.
Lambert Pym stood in the brewhouse at the rear of his inn and watched another cask being filled. It would now be stored in his cellars for conditioning until it was ready to be tapped and drunk. Pym had grown up with the smell of beer and ale in his nostrils and it stayed with him wherever he went. His customers at the Trip to Jerusalem bought beer, or, if they had a little extra money, some ale. He imported some wine from Bordeaux but it was too costly for most people. Malmsey wine from Greece was even more expensive, as was sack, but Pym kept a supply of both for certain patrons. During the three days of Whitsuntide, he would need to draw deeply on all his stocks.
The Nicholas Bracewell Collection Page 63
