The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Atheism in our midst!’

  Nicholas did not take the claim at all seriously and she did not pursue it since she wanted to enjoy their rare moment alone. Love made her eyes sparkle like gems.

  ‘It was wonderful to see you back with us!’

  ‘I share your delight, mistress.’

  ‘I knew that God would not take you away from me.’

  ‘My place is here with the company.’

  ‘And mine is beside you.’

  ‘We will get you to York with all due speed.’

  ‘I have found the true path in you!’

  Her ardour was quite unnerving and Nicholas glanced around for help. Being attacked by robbers or captured by rivals were nowhere near as frightening as being cornered by Eleanor Budden. If he was not circumspect, she would rob him of something he did not want to lose and hold him captive in a way that did not appeal. He fended her off with questions.

  ‘How do you like the fellowship of actors?’

  ‘Yours is the only company I seek, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘Does nobody else interest you, mistress?’

  ‘They pale beside you, sir.’

  ‘What of Master Quilley? He is a famous artist. Have you and he had discourse yet?’

  ‘Only when I interrupted him,’ she said. ‘He was angry when I came upon him playing with his cards.’

  ‘Cards?’

  ‘I have never seen the like before. They had strange pictures on them and he studied each one with great care. It was almost as if he looked for some kind of message.’

  Nicholas Bracewell smiled in gratitude. Unwelcome as her attentions had been, he sensed that Eleanor Budden had unwittingly given him some valuable information.

  His suspicion of Oliver Quilley deepened.

  Days without his wife and nights without her precious bounty had wrought changes in Humphrey Budden. The house seemed empty, the children were fractious and his whole life was now hopelessly barren. Long discussions with Miles Melhuish were followed by even longer ones with the Dean. It was the latter who counselled action.

  ‘You have sinned against your wife.’

  ‘The memory of it is grievous unto me.’

  ‘You must seek her forgiveness.’

  ‘How may I do that?’

  ‘Not here in Nottingham, that is certain.’

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘In York,’ said the Dean sonorously. ‘There is no better place for you to be cleansed and reconciled. Go to York, sir. Seek your estranged wife in that monument to Christian dedication. That is where your hope lies.’

  ‘Will she take me back?’

  ‘If you deserve it, Master Budden.’

  ‘Should I travel with the children?’

  ‘Alone, sir. This is a matter between two souls.’ He lowered ecclesiastical lids. ‘And two bodies.’

  Humphrey Budden left for York the next day.

  A bell had signalled the beginning of the Whitsuntide fair and pandemonium followed. Streets that were usually crowded were now overflowing. Shops and stalls that were usually busy were now completely besieged. York was aflame with life. Tinkers, travellers, pilgrims, country folk, merchants, knights and many more streamed in through the four gates. Minstrels, mummers, acrobats and jugglers competed for attention. The shrieking of children and the yapping of dogs swelled a cacophony that was taken to deafening pitch by the constant peal of church bells. The city ran riot for three holy days.

  Westfield’s Men came in through Micklegate and made their way through the press to the Trip to Jerusalem, a name that had a special resonance for them. Lambert Pym gave them an exaggerated welcome and conducted them to their rooms with beard-scratching charm. Accommodation was also found for Oliver Quilley and Eleanor Budden. The exuberant Susan Becket appointed herself as Firethorn’s bedfellow yet again. Jerusalem was a spacious metaphor.

  Nicholas Bracewell was dispatched at once to the Lord Mayor to secure a licence for performance. When he came back with it in his hand, he found Firethorn poring over a letter from Sir Clarence Marmion that invited them to stage a play at his house. Here was good news indeed. York was proving to be a worthy shrine for pilgrimage. Not a moment was wasted. Playbills were printed and posted up, a stage was erected in the yard at the inn, and the first rehearsal was held. The hectic pace of it all made them think they were back at the Queen’s Head.

  A new drama by Edmund Hoode was to be given its first performance outside London. Soldiers of the Cross had a particular relevance to their venue because it dealt with a crusade and took Richard the Lionheart through a succession of epic battles. Westfield’s Men had presented a crusader play before, a novice work by one Roger Bartholomew, an Oxford scholar with misguided aspirations about the theatre. Hoode’s work had the mark of a true professional. It was well crafted, lit with fire and passion, and filled with soaring verse. In the play about Robin Hood, the same king had been but a minor character who slipped on near the end to knight the hero. Soldiers of the Cross made him central to the action and Firethorn’s performance made him tower even more.

  Nicholas Bracewell was industrious and watchful. He kept the rehearsal rolling along and noted any faults or omissions along the way. His stagekeepers were given a long list of jobs when it was all over. He worked well into the evening himself then adjourned to the taproom.

  Oliver Quilley was sampling the Malmsey.

  ‘Master Bracewell, let me buy you a drink, sir.’

  ‘I cannot stay.’

  ‘But I have not thanked you for finding my horse.’

  ‘There was something else I found.’

  Nicholas took out the list from the saddlebag and handed it over. The artist snatched it eagerly from him.

  ‘I see that some names were ticked off, master.’

  ‘Those commissions have been completed.’

  ‘There is a question mark beside one person.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Sir Clarence Marmion.’

  ‘I cannot see it.’

  Quilley glanced at the document then folded it up and put it away. An enigmatic smile kept Nicholas at bay. The book holder met his gaze.

  ‘How did you know of Master Pomeroy’s arrest?’

  ‘Word travels fast.’

  ‘Only by special messenger.’

  ‘I have my contacts, sir.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  The artist gave nothing away. His unruffled calm was a challenge that Nicholas was unable to take up at that point. The book holder had a more pressing commitment and he excused himself. He would return to Oliver Quilley.

  Night was taking its first gentle steps towards York as Nicholas shouldered his way through the crowds. Even in the turmoil of their arrival, he had found the time to enquire after other theatre companies. Banbury’s Men had reached the city that same day. They were staying at the Three Swans in Fossgate. He went over Ouse Bridge and headed north, picking his way through clamorous streets that he half-remembered from an earlier visit some years before, and listening to the Yorkshire dialects that rang out on every side.

  The first thing he saw when he turned into Fossgate was the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, a fine triple-aisled structure with a chapel projecting towards the River Foss. Incorporating brickwork and half-timbering, it was a long, high building that emphasised the prominent place that the Merchant Adventurers took among the fifty guilds of the city. Nicholas was reminded of something that his life in London made him forget. York, too, had its wealth.

  The Three Swans was an establishment of medium size constructed around an undulating yard. Banbury’s Men were still rehearsing. Raised voices came from behind the main gates which had been locked to keep out the curious. He went into the inn and bought a tankard of ale, drifting across to a window to get a view of the yard. It was galleried at two levels and he estimated that about four hundred spectators could be crammed in on the morrow. Jerusalem, with its larger yard, had a definite advanta
ge. That would please Lawrence Firethorn.

  Light was dying visibly now but the players kept at their work, frantically trying to iron out the myriad problems caused by their damaged prompt book. Nicholas waited until nobody was looking then he slipped up a staircase and through a door. He was now standing on the gallery at the first level and able to see the last of the rehearsal. It was a pastoral romp of indifferent quality and they played it without attack or conviction. Through the gap in the curtains which had been put up in front of their tiring-house, he could see the book holder, holding his head well back from the stench of his text and turning the pages with care.

  Giles Randolph took his customary leading role and the other sharers were ranged around him. But look as he might, Nicholas could not find the face he sought above all others. He was still straining his eyes against the gloom when a voice behind him made him turn.

  ‘Have you come to see me, Nick? Here I am.’

  The book holder found himself facing a drawn sword and the young man had every intention of using it if the need arose. Even after Richard Honeydew’s warning, he was still dumbfounded. Here was the last person on earth that he had expected to meet. Nicholas had watched him being buried in a common grave in London.

  It was Gabriel Hawkes.

  Chapter Ten

  The swordpoint pricked his throat and forced him back against one of the posts that supported the upper tier. Nicholas Bracewell was helpless. He could not move an inch. Behind and below him in the yard was a company of actors engaged in a rehearsal but he could not cry for help. The rapier would rip out his voice in an instant. All that he could do was to watch the man he had once liked and respected so much. There was an additional shock to accommodate. Dangling from his assailant’s ear was the jewelled earring which had been thrown into the pit after his corpse. Nicholas gaped.

  ‘You have come back from the dead, sir,’ he said.

  ‘It is but an illusion.’

  ‘We saw Gabriel Hawkes being carted away with the other plague victims and tossed into his grave.’

  ‘Your eyes did not deceive you, Nick.’

  ‘Then how can you be here before me now?’

  ‘Because I am not Gabriel,’ said the young man. ‘My name is Mark Scruton. The poor wretch who died was indeed Gabriel Hawkes. He was a kinsman of mine who had fallen on hard times and been swept into that hideous dwelling in Smorrall Lane. It suited me to take his name and his address while yet living in a sweeter lodging.’

  ‘You were planted on Westfield’s Men,’ said Nicholas as the truth slowly dawned. ‘That memory of yours was used against us. You studied from our prompt books and gave your findings to our rivals.’

  ‘That was the bargain I struck.’

  ‘To betray your fellows?’

  ‘What future did they offer me?’ said Scruton with contempt. ‘To be a hired man at the beck and call of Master Firethorn? Fed on the scraps of parts that were left over? Employed or dismissed on a whim? There was no future for me, sir! I am a true actor!’

  ‘Your art beguiled me,’ admitted Nicholas.

  ‘Banbury’s Men held out real promise. In bringing your company low, I earned my right to be a sharer with them. That gives me the status I deserve.’ He smiled with self-congratulation. ‘Gabriel Hawkes had to vanish before your eyes so that he could reappear as Mark Scruton. My uncle fell sick with the plague but might have lingered a while and so delayed my plans. I helped him on his way to Heaven and spared him certain agony. You saw him taken from his foul bed and trundled off in his winding sheet.’

  ‘Your earring was upon him.’

  ‘It was my parting gift.’ He flicked the jewel that now hung from his lobe. ‘I have its twin, as you now see.’

  Nicholas pieced it all together in his mind.

  ‘You feigned illness in London to prepare us for the shock of your death,’ he said. ‘Then you travelled with Banbury’s Men and advised them how best to damage our enterprise. You snatched Dick Honeydew away then worked with that ostler to steal our costumes.’

  ‘You should not have found either, Nick.’

  ‘It was my duty.’

  ‘And your undoing. You know too much, my friend.’

  ‘Enough to see you hanged for it.’

  ‘Enough to get you killed.’

  Scruton lowered the sword and thrust at his heart but Nicholas moved like lightning. Dodging a foot to one side, he let himself fall backwards over the balustrade and somersaulted through the air before landing on his feet in the yard. Blood was oozing from his left arm where the sword had grazed him but the wound was not deep. Pulling out his own rapier, he ran back into the building and up the stairs to do battle on more equal terms but Mark Scruton had not waited for him. Though the book holder searched high and low, he could not find the man anywhere on the premises.

  Gabriel Hawkes had disappeared again.

  Sir Clarence Marmion sat in his chair without moving a muscle. He was a dignified figure, slim, erect and quite serene, a trifle cold perhaps but carrying his authority lightly. He wore a black doublet, slashed with red and rising to a high neck that was trimmed with a lace ruff. Oliver Quilley scrutinised him with utmost care to find the mind’s construction in the face but his subject was yielding little of his inner self. The artist made some preliminary lines on the vellum oval that lay before him on the table. His sitter did not flicker an eyelid. It was an hour before Quilley broke the silence.

  ‘The question of an inscription, Sir Clarence …’

  ‘Inscription?’

  ‘Most people require a few words on their portrait to give it meaning or individuality. Sometimes it is a family motto or an expression of love to the intended recipient of the miniature. I have known subjects who called for couplets of verse or even maxims in Greek.’

  ‘That will not be my wish, sir.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘A Latin tag.’

  ‘Speak and it will be penned in.’

  ‘Dat poena laudata fides.’

  Quilley noted the phrase then furrowed his brow.

  ‘A strange request, Sir Clarence. “Loyalty, though praised, brings sufferings.” There is some association here with Marmion Hall?’

  ‘That is not for you to know, Master Quilley.’

  ‘The artist must have insight into everything.’

  ‘Practise your art without more words.’

  He returned to his pose and Oliver Quilley worked on until he had got all he needed from the first sitting. They were in the hall and the master of the house was seated against the far wall, his head framed by one of the gleaming oak panels. As the artist collected up his materials, he threw an admiring glance at the family portraits that hung all around them, noting with especial admiration that of the former Lady Marmion, stately mother of Sir Clarence. Dressed with controlled elegance, she was a gracious figure and prompted an outburst from Quilley.

  ‘The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,’ he said. ‘Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!’

  Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.

  ‘Here’s payment for your work, Master Quilley.’

  ‘Wait until I have finished, dear sir.’

  ‘Take it on account.’

  ‘If you insist,’ said the other gratefully.

  ‘A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

  ‘An artist raises labour to a higher plane.’


  ‘Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?’

  The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.

  ‘You rode here alone, sir?’ asked Sir Clarence.

  ‘It was not a long journey,’ said Quilley.

  ‘Perils may still lurk.’ He indicated a servant. ‘Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.’

  ‘I will manage on my own, Sir Clarence. My horse will outrun any that bars my way. I have no fears.’

  ‘You should, sir. These are dangerous times.’

  ‘I will keep my wits about me.’

  Sir Clarence excused himself for a moment and left the room with the servant. Quilley did not delay. He moved quickly towards the shelves of books that stood against the far wall. His choice was immediate. He took a small leather-bound volume with a handsome silver clasp on it. Slipping the book into the pouch alongside his artist’s materials, he strolled casually across to the window to admire the view. He was still appraising the front garden when his host returned. Sir Clarence was in decisive mood.

  ‘We shall have the second sitting tomorrow.’

  ‘So soon?’ said Quilley.

  ‘I am anxious to press ahead with the portrait.’

  ‘An artist may not be rushed, Sir Clarence.’

  ‘Time is not on our side,’ said the other. ‘We have the visit from Westfield’s Men tomorrow. Return with them and bring your belongings from the inn. You shall be a guest under my roof until your work is done.’

  ‘That is most kind. Marmion Hall will offer me a softer lodging than the Trip to Jerusalem, and a safer one as well.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘The landlord tells me that one of his guests was recently carried off by officers. One Robert Rawlins.’

  ‘I do not know the man.’