The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Rawlins was about to leave. Lambert Pym raised a finger in deference and beamed ingratiatingly.

  ‘Shall you be with us at Whitsuntide, master?’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  ‘You’ll see an ocean of beer drunk in here.’

  ‘That is not a sight which appeals.’

  ‘Drink has its place in the affairs of men.’

  ‘I know!’ said Rawlins with frank disapproval.

  ‘Christ Himself did sanction it, sir.’

  ‘Do not blaspheme.’

  ‘He turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana,’ said Pym. ‘That was his first miracle.’

  ‘But open to misinterpretation.’

  ‘Wine has its place,’ mused the other, ‘but you will not part an Englishman from his beer. Look at the example of Fuenterrabia.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It is northern Spain.’ Pym grinned oleaginously as he told his favourite story. ‘The first campaign in the reign of good King Henry, who was father to our present dear Queen. He sent an army of seven thousand English soldiers to help his father-in-law, King Ferdinand, take Navarre away from the French. Do you know what those stouthearted men found?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘There was no beer in Spain. Only wine and cider.’ He cackled happily. ‘The soldiers mutinied on the spot and their commander, the Marquis of Dorset, was forced to bring them home again. They could not fight on empty bellies, sir, and beer was their one desire.’

  Robert Rawlins listened to the tale with polite impatience then turned to go but his way was now blocked. Standing in the doorway were two constables. One of them held up a warrant as he moved in on him.

  ‘You must come with us, sir.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘I think you know that.’

  Before he could say any more, Robert Rawlins was hustled unceremoniously out. Lambert Pym was mystified but instinct guided him. He summoned his boy at once.

  ‘Take a message to Marmion Hall.’

  ‘Sir Clarence Marmion has commissioned a portrait.’

  ‘Of himself, Master Quilley?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A miniature?’

  ‘I am a limner. I paint nothing else.’

  ‘Your fame spreads ever wider.’

  ‘Genius is its own best recommendation.’

  ‘Do you look forward to painting Sir Clarence?’

  ‘No, sir. I simply hope he will pay me for my work.’

  Oliver Quilley brought realism to bear upon his art. Commissions had never been a problem area. That lay in the collection of his due reward. Far too many of his subjects, especially those at Court, believed that their patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.

  He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield’s Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.

  ‘How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘Through a friend.’

  ‘Did you not take him for a traitor?’

  ‘I saw it in his face.’

  ‘Yet you accepted the commission?’

  ‘His money was as good as anyone else’s.’

  ‘But tainted, Master Quilley.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Rickwood betrayed his Queen.’

  ‘He paid me in gold,’ said the artist. ‘Not with thirty pieces of silver.’

  ‘I could not work for such a man myself.’

  ‘Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.’

  ‘I deny it hotly, sir!’

  ‘Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?’

  ‘Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.’

  ‘It will not be staged there again,’ said Quilley complacently. ‘Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.’

  ‘Can this be true?’ said Firethorn.

  ‘I have it on good authority.’

  ‘God save us all!’

  ‘He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.’

  Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield’s Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.

  The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.

  ‘I responded to the voice of God,’ she said.

  ‘You answered some inner desire, mistress.’

  ‘His word is paramount.’

  ‘If that indeed was what you heard.’

  ‘I am certain of it, Master Millfield.’

  ‘Certainty is everywhere,’ he argued. ‘The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?’

  ‘Because I have been chosen.’

  ‘By God – or by yourself?’

  ‘Fie on your impertinence, sir!’

  ‘I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.’

  ‘Do you doubt my sincerity?’

  ‘Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must indeed be sincere. What I question is this voice of God.’

  ‘I heard it plainly, sir.’

  ‘But did it come from without or within?’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘It is not for us to question God’s mystery.’

  ‘Nor yet to submit blindly to it.’

  ‘That is blasphemy!’

  ‘You have your convictions and I have mine.’

  ‘Are you an atheist, sir?’ she cried.

  Before he could reply, two figures appeared ahead of them on a chestnut stallion. A second horse was dragging a litter that had been fashioned out of some long, slender boughs. Lashed to the litter was a basket that everyone recognised immediately. Nicholas Bracewell was back. He brought the missing apprentice and the stolen costumes as well as Oliver Quilley’s horse. A cheer went up from the whole company as they hurried towards their hero.

  The newcomers were soon enveloped by friends and bombarded with questions. Eleanor Budden gazed down on her beloved and called his name. Barnaby Gill demanded to know if his golden doublet was unharmed. Edmund Hoode asked if they knew who had played his part of Sicinius. Martin Yeo, Stephen Judd and John Tallis hailed their fellow-apprentice with an enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria. Susan Becket clucked excitedly. George Dart was able to join the Merry Men once more.

  Lawrence Firethorn waved them all into silence with an imperious arm and called for full details. Though they looked tattered and travel-weary, the two companions had washed themselves off in a spring and found that their injuries were only minor. Reunion with their fellows put new strength and spirit into them.

  ‘Who kidnapped the lad?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘Banbury’s Men,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Scurvy knaves! We’ll have them in court for this!’

  ‘There are other ways to get even, sir.’

  ‘And the costumes, Nick?’

  ‘Taken by the same hands.’

  �
��Where did you find my horse?’ said Quilley.

  ‘That was providential.’

  Nicholas told him the story and gained fresh looks of adoration from Eleanor Budden. When he talked of putting four men to flight – and did so in such modest terms – Susan Becket also experienced a flutter. The female response was not lost on Firethorn who sought to divert some of their admiring glances his way.

  ‘By heavens!’ he roared, pulling out his sword and holding it in the air. ‘I’ll put so many holes in the hide of Giles Randolph that he’ll whistle when he walks across the stage! I’ll challenge him to a duel and cut the varlet down to size! I’ll make him pay for every crime he has committed against us. Hang him, the rogue!’

  ‘Worry not about Master Randolph,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Frogspawn in human shape!’

  ‘He has problems enough of his own.’

  ‘Prison is too good for such a wretch!’ yelled Firethorn. ‘He dared to steal Pompey the Great!’

  ‘My play,’ said Hoode. ‘My part of Sicinius.’

  ‘They will not perform it again, Edmund.’

  ‘How can you be so certain, Nick?’

  ‘Because we have stopped them.’ He winked at his companion. ‘Show them, Dick.’

  The boy ran across to the costume basket and threw back its lid to draw out a pile of plays. He read out their titles to a delighted audience.

  ‘Cupid’s Folly. Two Maids of Milchester. Double Deceit. Marriage and Mischief. Pompey the Great.’

  ‘All returned where they belong,’ said Nicholas. ‘They cannot stage our plays without these prompt books.’

  ‘By all, this is wonderful!’ shouted Firethorn. ‘Let me embrace you both, my lovely imps!’

  He dismounted and put a congratulatory arm around each. The worst night of his life was being redeemed by one of the best days. Nicholas added even more joy.

  ‘Time brings in its revenges, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Master Randolph will not laugh this morning.’

  ‘Did you strike a blow for Westfield’s Men?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Nicholas.

  Giles Randolph stared at the empty chest with a mixture of fear and dismay. It had been stored all night beneath his fourposter and chained to one of the legs. Its lock was strong and apparently undamaged yet the treasure chest was bare. The company’s most priceless possessions had gone. Randolph screeched a name and Mark Scruton came running. One glance made the newcomer turn white.

  ‘When did you discover this, sir?’

  ‘Even now.’

  ‘You did not open the chest last night?’

  ‘The journey back from Lavery Grange was too tiring and much wine had been taken. I fell into bed and slept soundly until this morning.’ Randolph kicked at the empty chest. ‘Had I known of this, I’d not have closed my eyes!’

  Mark Scruton thought quickly then glanced towards the door. Beckoning the other to follow, he ran out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, making for the door that led to the yard. With Randolph at his heels, he hurried across to the outhouse beyond the stables and wondered why one of its walls was damaged. He unbolted the door and flung it open to reveal a sight that might have been comical in other circumstances. The stocky ostler was bound hand and foot and tied to the bars at the window. A large apple had been placed in his mouth and held in place by a strip of material that was knotted behind his head. His eyes were as red and bulbous as tomatoes.

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded Scruton.

  The man shook his head and hunched his shoulders.

  Giles Randolph let out a howl and kneeled down. In the middle of the straw was a pile of prompt books that were caked in manure and sodden with water. The symbolism was not lost on him. Rising up in sheer disgust, he jabbed a shaking finger at his vandalised property.

  ‘Mark Scruton!’ he hissed.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘This is your doing.’

  ‘A thousand apologies.’

  ‘Clean up your mess!’

  He left the scene of the outrage in high dudgeon.

  The blacksmith hammered in the last nail then lowered the hoof to the ground. He wiped his brow with a hairy arm and turned to the full-bodied woman who held the bridle.

  ‘Take more care with the animal, mistress.’

  ‘I have not the time, sir.’

  ‘He was ridden too hard over rough ground,’ said the blacksmith. ‘That is why he cast a shoe.’

  ‘He may cast more then before we arrive.’

  ‘Where do you go?’

  ‘To York.’

  ‘It is a goodly distance yet, mistress.’

  ‘Then do not detain us with your prattle.’

  Margery Firethorn put a foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle without asking for any assistance. An imperious snap of the fingers brought one of the liveried servants scuttling across to her.

  ‘Pay the fellow!’ she said.

  Then she rode off at an even fiercer pace.

  Westfield’s Men got their first glimpse of York and paused to take in its full magnificence. Seen from that distance and that elevation, it looked like a fairytale city that was set against a painted backdrop and even those who had seen it before now marvelled afresh.

  Eleanor Budden summed it all up in one word.

  ‘Jerusalem!’

  They stopped to take refreshment and gather their strength for the last few miles of a journey that had become increasingly strenuous since they crossed the county boundary. Horses were watered and refreshment taken. Nicholas Bracewell chose the moment to have word alone with Christopher Millfield. Having disliked the actor so much at first, he now found himself warming all the more to him.

  ‘How did you fare in my absence, Christopher?’

  ‘We never lost faith in you.’

  ‘I am glad the business turned out so well.’

  ‘You brought home great bounty,’ said Millfield. ‘Master Quilley was delighted to get his horse back.’

  ‘A happy accident.’ Nicholas glanced across at the artist. ‘What do you make of our limner?’

  ‘Painters are always slightly mad.’

  ‘Have you noticed nothing odd about him?’

  ‘Several things but I put them down to his calling.’

  ‘Look at his apparel,’ said Nicholas. ‘It is a very expensive suit for a man who claims that he has no money. Then there is the quality of his horse, not to mention those saddlebags of the finest leather with their gold monogram. Master Quilley is not the pauper he pretends.’

  ‘Then where does his wealth come from?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Haply, he has some rich patron.’

  ‘One name suggests itself.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Sir Francis Walsingham.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Millfield with astonishment. ‘I find that hard to credit. Could Master Quilley really be in his service as an informer?’

  ‘Who is better placed, Christopher? He visits the homes of the great on a privileged footing and sees things that no other visitor could observe. His calling is the ideal cover for a spy.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of this?’

  ‘None beyond my own suspicion. Except an item that I found in his saddlebag. See it for yourself.’

  Christopher Millfield took the document that was handed to him and scanned through the names. He nodded in agreement as he returned it to Nicholas.

  ‘You have just cause for that suspicion.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Two of those names have already been ticked off by Walsingham. Three of the others are known to me from my time with the Admiral’s Men. I dare swear that they were all prosecuted for recusancy.’

  ‘What of Sir Clarence Marmion and the others?’

  ‘We can but guess.’

  ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’

  ‘Your conclusion?’

  ‘All of Master Qui
lley’s employers are Catholics.’

  ‘Could he be a servant of Rome himself?’

  It was another possibility and they discussed it briefly before turning to other matters. Nicholas was glad that he had confided in his new friend. Millfield was now eyeing him with concern.

  ‘How do you feel, Nick?’

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘Are you fully recovered from your ordeal?’ said the other with anxiety. ‘It heartened us greatly when you and Dick Honeydew returned but the pair of you did look more than a little bedraggled.’

  ‘You should have seen us when we set out. We were caked in blood and filth with a stink on us you could have smelled a hundred yards off.’ He wrinkled his nose at the memory. ‘Dick and I stopped at a stream to clean ourselves up before coming back.’

  ‘Both of you must be aching all over.’

  ‘I will have to make some more of that ointment.’

  ‘It has certainly helped me.’

  ‘We will sleep well tonight, I think.’

  Millfield smiled his agreement then looked across at Richard Honeydew. The boy still showed the effects of his incarceration but he was patently delighted to be back with the company and his face was animated.

  ‘He is hopelessly in your debt, Nick.’

  ‘I could not let them steal our best apprentice.’

  ‘It goes deeper than that.’

  ‘We are good friends.’

  ‘You are like a father to the lad and risked your life for him. Have you ever had a child of your own?’

  ‘I was never married, Christopher.’

  ‘The two things do not always go together.’

  Nicholas laughed evasively and changed the subject. He was enjoying his chat with the actor and finding new things to like about him all the time. When Millfield moved away, however, it became clear that not everyone shared the book holder’s good opinion of him.

  A worried Eleanor Budden bustled over.

  ‘Do not listen to him, sir,’ she begged.

  ‘Master Millfield?’

  ‘He is a very dangerous young man.’

  ‘Why, mistress?’

  ‘Because he does not believe in God.’

  ‘Did he attest as much?’

  ‘More or less, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘I find that hard to accept.’

  ‘Beware, sir!’