The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘It is just as well, Sir Clarence. He was a priest of the Church of Rome. Any friend of Master Rawlins will be dealt with most severely.’

  ‘That does not concern me,’ said the other. ‘I am more interested in Westfield’s Men. You travelled with them from Nottingham, you say?’

  ‘An eventful journey in every way.’

  ‘It gave you time to befriend them no doubt. Who is in the company, sir? I would know their names.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Down to the meanest wight.’

  Quilley reeled off the names and his host listened intently. The visitor was then thanked and shown out. Delighted with his good fortune, he rode off at a canter in the direction of York. Coins jingled in his purse and his patron had hinted at further reward. Then there was the book that nestled in his pouch. He was so caught up with himself that he did not notice the other horseman.

  Eleanor Budden knelt in prayer in York Minster and heard confusion. It had all been so simple in Nottingham. One voice had spoken to her with one clear message and she left husband, home and children to obey it. There was no further direction from above. As her knees bussed the hassock in obeisance to God, she waited for a sign that did not come. Her heart gave her one ruling, her head another and her soul a third. It was three days before she would be able to see the Archbishop himself and take his holy counsel. What should she do in the interim?

  Had her trip to Jerusalem foundered in York?

  She recalled the words of a sermon delivered by Miles Melhuish on the Sunday morning before she left. Keyed into her own situation, it had talked about the character of a true pilgrim and the nature of life itself as a form of pilgrimage. It dealt with the celestial origin of man and of his hope of returning to the realm from which he had been expelled after his fall from grace. The vicar’s rotund phrases imprinted themselves on her anew and she was struck by his recital of the symbols of the pilgrim – the shell, the crook or staff, the well of the water-of-salvation, the road and the cloak.

  The more she thought about it, the more inescapably she was led back to Nicholas Bracewell. He had no visible shell or crook but he was both fisherman and shepherd to Westfield’s Men, their main provider and their loving protector. She had met him in the River Trent, floating naked on the water-of-salvation. They had followed the road together and, in reclaiming the costume basket, he had found not one but several cloaks. It was all there. In her simple reasoning, the truth now revealed itself. To go on a pilgrimage was to enter a labyrinth in order to understand its mystery. The Centre was not in Jerusalem at all. It was here in York.

  Nicholas Bracewell was her destination.

  Excited by her discovery, she got to her feet and tripped down the aisle towards the Great West Door. It took her a long time to thread her way through the clogged streets with their happy fairtime atmosphere, but she eventually reached the inn and began the search for him. Nicholas had been given the luxury of a room of his own, albeit only a tiny attic space, and it was here that she cornered him an hour before the performance was due.

  Her ardour was matched by his embarrassment.

  ‘I must away, mistress,’ he said.

  ‘Hear me but speak first, sir.’

  ‘We play before our audience this afternoon.’

  ‘I ask but two minutes of your time.’

  ‘Very well, then. What would you say?’

  Eleanor Budden turned her blue eyes upon him and let them talk for her. In their passion and yearning and holy urgency, he saw images that caused him severe discomfort. She was a beautiful and seductive presence but she was not for him. He carried Anne Hendrik in his heart and he did not turn aside for any other woman, particularly the estranged wife of a Nottingham lacemaker. Nicholas had great sympathy for her but it did not extend to what she so self-evidently had in mind.

  ‘Let me come to you, master,’ she begged.

  ‘It is not appropriate.’

  ‘You are my saviour.’

  ‘I am unworthy of that role.’

  ‘Do but let me warm myself at your flame.’

  ‘You mistake me, mistress.’

  ‘No, good sir. I worship you.’

  It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself and he only did that by promising to have a further debate with her that evening. He went swiftly downstairs and tried to dismiss her from his mind. With the performance at hand, he would need all his concentration for that. As he passed a chamber that was shared by some of the hired men of the company, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and forget all about the threat posed by Mistress Eleanor Budden. Lines of strident verse came through the door. It was the voice of Lawrence Firethorn in full flight as Richard the Lionheart, urging on his troops before their battle against Saladin, stiffening their resolve and making their blood surge.

  Though he had heard the speech many times, Nicholas was still transported by it and by the devastating virtuosity with which it was delivered. When the door opened, however, it was not Firethorn who came out from the impromptu rehearsal of his lines.

  It was Christopher Millfield.

  York was a proud city with a mind of its own and it did not bestow its respect easily. More than one King of England had been turned away from its gates and the Earls of Northumberland, its hereditary overlords, had also met with indifference from time to time. A base for rebels during the Wars of the Roses, it had also been the focal point of the Pilgrimage of Grace, the uprising in 1536 which was directed largely against the dissolution of the monasteries and what were seen as the other dire results of the Reformation. The message of centuries was clear. York could not be taken for granted.

  Yet it willingly capitulated to Westfield’s Men. Ironically, they came with one of the only two medieval kings who had never visited the city. Richard I made up for that lapse now in the person of Lawrence Firethorn. He was inspirational. Fired by his example, the whole company responded with their best performance for months. Soldiers of the Cross flirted with magnificence. It was so enthralling that the hundreds of spectators who were jammed into the Trip to Jerusalem did not dare to blink lest they missed some of the action.

  It was not only Richard the Lionheart who thrilled them. In the small but touching role of Berengaria, wife to the great crusader, Richard Honeydew found true pathos. Christopher Millfield was once more a melodic minstrel. Edmund Hoode had written himself a telling scene as a fearless knight who was impaled on an enemy spear and who delivered a lengthy death speech about the glories of the England for which he so readily died. The prominent mention of York itself, cunningly introduced at the last moment, set off a torrent of applause. Soldiers of the Cross gave them all this and more, not least some unexpected but quite uproarious comedic touches from Barnaby Gill as a deaf seneschal with a fondness for the dance.

  It was the most sensational theatrical event to have come to York for a decade. There was magic in the air as Richard declaimed the closing lines of the drama:

  So in God’s service we must find reward

  And satisfaction of our inward souls.

  There lies true gold, all else is but the dross;

  Onward, stout hearts, ye soldiers of the cross!

  Prolonged exultation ensued. The city opened its heart to Westfield’s Men and cheered them until its throat was hoarse. Struggling actors were treated as famous heroes. Memories of rejection were obliterated beneath joyous acceptance.

  This was indeed Jerusalem.

  Humphrey Budden heard the roar a mile off and wondered about its source. The closer he got to York, the more desperate he became to see his wife again and take her to him. Sustained by the hope of reconciliation, he had ridden from Nottingham at a reckless pace and was almost as foamed up as his mount. Contrition now ruled him. York was a holy city where all marital wounds might be healed. The sound that reached his ears seemed to have little to do with divine worship but it served its purpose in spurring him on through the final stage of his journey.

  His h
orse flew in through Micklegate. A brief enquiry told him where the company performed and he clattered his way through the streets. When he got to the inn, people were coming out in a tidal wave of happiness and celebration. He tethered his horse, fought against the throng and tumbled into the yard, ending up in the arms of the surprised Nicholas Bracewell.

  ‘Welcome, Master Budden. You come too late, sir.’

  ‘Has Eleanor gone?’

  ‘I spoke of the performance.’

  ‘Where is my wife?’

  ‘Retired to her chamber.’

  ‘Take me to her, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘With all my heart, sir.’

  Second thoughts made him pause. Eleanor Budden might not be in a mood to welcome the husband she had so calmly abandoned in Nottingham. Her sights had been set on quite another target and the sweating Humphrey, for all his good intent, might not be able to divert her from it. Nicholas stood back to appraise the man. His height and build were ideal. The florid face could yet be redeemed.

  ‘Come with me, Master Budden.’

  ‘You’ll bring me to my wife?’

  ‘In time, sir. In time.’

  Blissful congress was also on the mind of King Richard. Exhilarated by his own performance, Lawrence Firethorn was overjoyed with its tumultuous reception and even further delighted by the large bags of money handed over to him by the gatherers. Soldiers of the Cross had not merely been an artistic triumph. It had done excellent business. All that remained was for him to order celebration and ride in triumph through the night.

  Dozens of beautiful young ladies crowded around him at the inn and offered him favours with fluttering lids. But he already had tenants in line for his bedchamber. Mistress Susan Becket would be first. Though the lady had succumbed wondrously to him at her own tavern, their romps had so far stopped agonisingly short of the ultimate joy. It was one long tale of coitus interruptus with the affairs of Westfield’s Men coming between them like a naked sword to keep them chaste. All that was now over and he could take her to his heart’s content.

  But it was not enough. King Richard was lionhearted in love and wanted a dessert to sweeten the taste of the meal. Susan Becket was meat and drink between the sheets but it was Eleanor Budden who was strawberries and cream. His fantasies ran wild. In an ideal world, he would have both together in a shared ecstasy, each one submitting joyfully to his carnal appetites, holiness and whoredom blending into the very epitome of man’s desire. Unable to achieve such delight, he settled for a compromise and called one of the boys to him.

  ‘John Tallis!’

  ‘Yes, master?’

  ‘Bid Mistress Becket come unto my chamber.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then bid the same of Mistress Budden. Tell her I am ready to read psalms to her now.’

  John Tallis’s lantern dropped open with a thud.

  ‘Are they to come together, sir?’

  ‘The one first and the other an hour later.’

  Leaving the apprentice to get on with his work, he went off upstairs to prepare for a night of sensual abandon. He flung open the door of his bedchamber and gazed across at the fourposter which would accommodate his lechery. His laughter died in his throat.

  The bed was occupied. Laid out on the coverlet was his second-best cloak. Scattered all over it were bills from his creditors. Defeat stared King Richard in the face. The hostile enemy stepped out from an alcove.

  ‘Lawrence!’

  Margery Firethorn had arrived that afternoon. She had not cooled down from the long ride and the steam was still rising from her. She was at her most bellicose.

  ‘You betrayed me, sir!’ she howled.

  ‘That is not strictly true, my love …’

  ‘Look!’ she said, pointing to the bed. ‘No sooner did you leave London than the vultures descended on me to pick my bones clean. Your debts have been my ruin, sir. I cannot pay them. Your creditors threaten distraint upon the house itself. We’ll all be put out on the street.’

  Firethorn recovered with commendable speed.

  ‘Not so, my sweetness,’ he said soothingly. ‘And have you come all the way to York in your distress? It shall be remedied at once.’ He tossed a purse on to the bed. ‘There’s gold for you, Margery. Enough to pay a hundred bills and still leave something over. By the gods, but it is a miracle to see you again. Come, let me kiss away your worries and ease your pains.’

  Though softening, she kept him at arm’s length.

  ‘Why did you not write to me, sir?’

  ‘But I did so!’ he lied. ‘Every day.’

  ‘No letters came to Shoreditch.’

  ‘Belike they passed you on the way.’

  ‘We have been in a parlous state, sir.’

  ‘I sent you love and money to hide my absence,’ he said with ringing conviction. ‘But how came you here?’

  ‘On horseback.’

  ‘Surely, not alone?’

  ‘Lord Westfield gave me four companions,’ she said. ‘I turned to him in my plight and he was generous.’

  ‘Too generous!’ muttered Firethorn under his breath.

  ‘And did you really send me money?’

  ‘Nick Bracewell will vouch for it!’

  Margery Firethorn relaxed. The one man she could trust in the company was the book holder. If he could support her husband’s claim then she would be content. Her belligerence was wearing off now and Firethorn noted the fact. He moved in swiftly to seize the initiative.

  ‘Your coming could not have been more timely.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? Why?’

  ‘Because I have a gift for you.’

  ‘Another ring that I may sell if times are hard?’

  ‘Be not so cruel to me, Margery.’

  ‘I want no gifts that are not wholly mine.’

  ‘Take this and see how your husband loves you.’

  Margery looked down at the object he put into her hand and felt an upsurge of real joy. It was the work of Oliver Quilley, a masterful portrait in miniature of Lawrence Firethorn that caught his essence with uncanny skill. He had intended to give it to Eleanor Budden by way of blandishment but it now served a more urgent purpose. Margery was quite overcome. He whispered in her ear.

  ‘Can you see the inscription?’

  ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘At the bottom there.’

  She read it out with almost girlish breathlessness.

  ‘Amor omnia vincit.’

  ‘Love conquers all.’

  ‘Oh, Lawrence!’

  His lips sealed his hair-breadth escape. The embrace was interrupted by clumping footsteps on the stairs then Susan Becket sailed in with bold familiarity. Margery bridled at once but her husband was equal even to this emergency.

  ‘Ah, hostess!’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘Have a bottle of your finest wine sent up for myself and my wife. Be quick about it, woman!’ He killed two birds with one stone. ‘And keep that psalm-singing hussy, Mistress Budden, away from me. I’ll none of her religion tonight!’

  Susan Becket backed out of the room in a daze.

  Firethorn had been baulked twice but it would not happen a third time. As his desire surged, he swept Margery off her feet and threw her impulsively on the bed, mounting her at once and riding her hell for leather through a flurry of unpaid bills.

  Mistress Eleanor Budden was resting in her chamber when John Tallis brought the request from his master. It was countermanded at once by a visit from Richard Honeydew.

  ‘I have a message for you, mistress.’

  ‘From Master Bracewell, I hope?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Well, sir?’

  ‘He bids you call upon him in his room.’

  ‘Heaven has heard my cry!’

  ‘He’ll entertain you there.’

  The boy withdrew politely. Eleanor Budden began to pant in anticipation. Fulfilment of her dearest wish was now at hand. She loved Nicholas Bracewell and he had sent for her. God had directed the
m into each other’s arms.

  She climbed the steps to Jerusalem.

  Tapping quietly on the door of his attic room, she opened it to let herself in. He was lying in bed. The curtains were drawn and the place was half-dark but she could see Nicholas with a clarity that made her heart leap. A small candle burned beside his head, throwing its light on to the fair hair and the glistening beard. As he turned towards her, the sheet pulled away from him and she saw that he was naked.

  All the fervour of her spirit prompted her. The pilgrimage ended here. Nicholas Bracewell was her chosen path. She ran towards it and flung herself upon him. He blew out the candle and they merged completely, kissing and twisting and thrusting away until their voices met on a pinnacle of total rapture. Eleanor Budden had never known such deep or divine satisfaction. The pent-up longings of her body and soul had been released in the mystery of the act of love. She was in such a state of languid intoxication that she did not mind when the beard of Nicholas Bracewell came away in her hand or when his wig was nudged awry. She did not even complain when his careful make-up rubbed off on her face. This was the acme of happiness. She was the bride of Christ.

  Humphrey Budden was glad that he had come to York.

  While the marital reunions were taking place, Nicholas Bracewell was sitting in the taproom with some of the other hired men and enjoying his supper. His attic room would be unavailable to him that night but he did not mind in the least. He could take credit for some skilful stage management which had enabled a wayward wife to find her spiritual goal and a discarded husband to reclaim his happiness. The book holder had more than enough to keep him occupied. Soldiers of the Cross had been an undoubted success but it was to be performed again on the morrow under vastly different conditions. He would have to ride over to Marmion Hall at first light to study the indoor playing area and make some preliminary decisions about the method of staging the play. As he half-listened to the idle conversation of his fellows, his mind was firmly fixed on the challenge of the next day.

  Edmund Hoode came hurrying across to join him.