The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Have you heard the good tidings, Nick?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘They played at the Three Swans today.’

  ‘They tried to, Nick, but with no success at all. It was some wretched comedy about country wenches and lusty lads. There’s a fellow just come in who witnessed this travesty.’ Hoode chuckled vengefully. ‘He says that it was a downright catastrophe. Lines forgotten, cues missed and every accident that can befall a company in full sight of all. The audience shouted them off the stage. Not even Master Randolph could hold them.’

  ‘This news is wholesome indeed.’

  ‘Soldiers of the Cross has put them in the shade.’

  ‘And rightly so, Edmund.’

  ‘It is their just desert for daring to steal my plays. They have been roundly punished.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Though I would still love to know who played Sicinius. I’ll call him a villain to his face if ever we meet.’

  ‘Why did Banbury’s Men fare so badly?’

  ‘Because their play lacked quality.’

  ‘There must have been another reason.’

  ‘There was,’ said Hoode. ‘They missed a leading actor. One of their number dropped out of a crucial role and they could not repair the damage in time. His absence brought them down where they belong.’

  Nicholas knew that the missing actor must be Mark Scruton. With his secret exposed, he dare not stay in York to be caught by the book holder. There was another result of his sudden departure. Scruton’s wiles had endeared him to Banbury’s Men but they would not tolerate his sudden defection. There would be no contract of employment for him, no elevation to the ranks of the sharers. If nothing else, he would not now climb to glory on the backs of Westfield’s Men. Consolation could be taken. Nicholas believed they would never see him again.

  As soon as he left his lodging, he knew that he was being trailed but he did not quicken his gait. That would have signalled his awareness of his shadow. Sauntering on through the streets of York, he turned down a dark lane at the same casual pace. When he reached the end, he went around the corner and stepped back into the first doorway. Pricking his ears, he could detect the stealthy approach of footsteps in his wake. He unsheathed his dagger and waited.

  A stocky figure came around the corner and stood there in dismay when he saw that he had lost his quarry. He scratched his head and looked back down the lane from which he had just emerged. It was the last thing he would ever see. Someone came up silently behind him and put a hand over his mouth. Before he could move a muscle, his throat was cut with practised ease. The man collapsed to the ground in a pool of his own blood. His assailant stayed long enough to bend down and glance briefly at his victim. The Marmion coat of arms was on the dead man’s sleeve. It was a timely warning.

  Mark Scruton vanished quickly from the scene.

  Oliver Quilley sat at the table in his room at the inn and examined the book that he had stolen from Marmion Hall. It was a missal, written in Latin and containing all the rites and ceremonies of the Roman Catholic Church. He was less interested in the contents than in the simple beauty of the volume, rubbing his hands covetously over the smooth leather and watching the silver clasp as it gleamed in the light of his candle. He opened the book to admire the artistry of its printing.

  When he had enjoyed his prize long enough, he put it away in his pouch and took out a pack of large cards with bright pictures upon them. After shuffling them with some care, he began to deal them out in a prescribed sequence.

  The last card on the table occasioned no surprise.

  Oliver Quilley picked it up with a grim smile.

  Mistress Susan Becket had a soft heart and it had been wounded by Firethorn’s treatment of her. When she sought sympathy, she turned at once to Nicholas Bracewell who listened to her tale with patient understanding. Over a drink in the taproom, she poured out her woes and reached the point where her injuries could only be soothed by one balm. She leaned her head upon his shoulder.

  ‘Take me to my chamber, sir.’

  ‘You are not well, Mistress Becket?’

  ‘Put me to bed and be my physician.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Nicholas evasively.

  ‘Do not be misled by any false loyalty to Master Firethorn,’ she purred. ‘He has rejected me and I am free to choose whomsoever I wish.’

  She turned her face to smile up to him and her head slipped off his shoulder. He steadied her and looked around. Salvation was standing on the other side of the taproom with obese readiness. Nicholas waved.

  ‘Landlord!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Lambert Pym came waddling over.

  ‘Mistress Becket needs help to reach her chamber.’

  ‘I’ll take her there myself,’ he said with alacrity. ‘Lean on me, mistress. We’ll climb the steps together.’

  She accepted the offer and took his podgy arm.

  ‘Why, what strong muscles you have, Master Pym!’

  ‘From a lifetime of shifting barrels.’

  ‘I understand it well,’ she said as she was helped up out of the settle. ‘I have done my share of such labour. We are two of a kind, sir.’

  ‘I knew it as soon as I beheld you.’

  Lambert Pym’s heavy-handed gallantry was exactly what she needed and Nicholas was content. For the second time that night, he had guided an ardent woman into the arms of another man. Susan Becket leaned affectionately on the landlord as they ascended the stairs together. She would soon forget all about the indignity she suffered earlier. Like was calling to like. Both physically and spiritually, she had met her match in Lambert Pym.

  ‘That was craftily done, Nick.’

  ‘The lady is not for me.’

  ‘I saw the reason why in Nottingham. Mistress Anne Hendrik is indeed a handsome woman and worthy of your steadfast behaviour.’

  Christopher Millfield had watched it all from his table and come across to join his friend. Nicholas was pleased to have a moment alone with him. Since his meeting with Mark Scruton, he saw how groundless his earlier suspicions of Millfield had been. It was not the latter who had murdered Gabriel Hawkes at all. Remorse made Nicholas feel more warmth for his companion.

  The actor was in a teasing mood.

  ‘Which would be the greater ordeal?’ he said.

  ‘Ordeal?’

  ‘Mistress Budden or Mistress Becket?’

  ‘I have no curiosity in the matter.’

  ‘One would crucify you and the other crush you.’

  ‘Each has a more fit bedfellow.’

  ‘I never took you for such a coward.’

  They laughed together then Nicholas broached a subject he had been keeping to himself for some time.

  ‘Do you know anything of the Tarot?’ he said.

  ‘Only that the cards are used as a method of divination. I have seen a pack once but that is all. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I am wondering about Master Quilley.’

  ‘A curious fellow in every particular.’

  ‘According to Mistress Budden, he had a pack of cards with coloured pictures upon them. Could they not be the trump cards of the Tarot?’

  ‘I cannot say, Nick.’

  ‘Does he use them to foretell the future?’

  One of the serving wenches came into the taproom and giggled when she saw Millfield. He acknowledged her with a friendly wave then shrugged an apology to Nicholas.

  ‘I have some business to attend to, I fear.’

  ‘One thing before you go,’ said the other. ‘Mistress Budden levelled an accusation against you.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Atheism.’

  Christopher Millfield let out a peal of laughter.

  ‘The woman is absurd!’ he said in mocking tones. ‘If I were truly an atheist, I would have been arrested long ago. Yet I am still at liberty, as you see.’ He went off towards the girl. ‘Ask Mistress Budden to explain that.’

  Nicholas waited until the couple
left the room then he finished his drink. He was mystified. Something in the other’s voice had alerted him to a danger but he had no idea what it was. After brooding on it for a while, he gave up and surrendered to a yawn. It was very late and he was tired. Finding himself alone in the taproom, he got up and made his way into the yard in search of a bed for the night. The Whitsuntide fair had filled all the loose boxes with horses but there was promise of some comfort in the hayloft. He climbed the ladder and dropped down on a soft and sweet-smelling bed. Before he could even slip off his shoes, he was asleep.

  An hour passed then a noise brought him instantly awake. It was no more than a creak of a door but it took him to the open window. Down below in the yard, creeping silently towards the main gate, was a figure who was already known for his nocturnal wanderings. It was Christopher Millfield and he moved with purpose.

  Something prompted Nicholas to follow him. He went swiftly down the ladder and out of the stables. Keeping low and well back, he trailed the other out into the street and over Ouse Bridge. His mind was a turmoil of speculation. Had he been too ready to accept Millfield’s friendship? Could the man yet have some sinister intent? The night before the performance at Pomeroy Manor, the actor had gone for his first midnight jaunt. Not long after the performance by Westfield’s Men, their host was arrested. Nicholas recalled the list he had found in Quilley’s saddlebag. It was Millfield who knew that the names were all those of Roman Catholics.

  As his mind raced on, his feet took him on a tortuous route through the streets of York. His quarry seemed to know exactly where he was going. They went up Blake Street and on into Lop Lane before Millfield stopped to knock gently on the door of a small, gabled house. He was admitted within seconds and candlelight soon lit the chamber above. The window was ajar and Nicholas could hear the faint murmur of voices. Whatever conspiracy was going on might be uncovered if he could only get a little closer.

  Nicholas looked back to the corner of the street and saw an overhanging gable that was low enough to touch. He went straight back to it. Taking a firm grip, he hauled himself up and started to ascend the wall until he gained the roof. It did not take him long to work his way from house to house until he came to the window he sought. The voices were still too subdued but there was a chink in the curtain as he lowered himself down.

  Embarrassment seized him as he peeped in. Here was no conspiracy of any political hue. Christopher Millfield was lying naked on the bed, kissing the young man in his arms with a passion that was its own explanation. Other factors fell into place. Nicholas recalled a flirtatious manner with women that evidently went no further and the interest shown in the actor by Barnaby Gill. He also remembered the speech he had overheard at the inn. It was not just Millfield’s vanity that drove him on to learn the leading part in the play. Richard the Lionheart was a hero with whom he had some affinities. Though the world knew and admired him for his military feats, England’s most popular monarch was not without flaw. Rumours about his male lovers were too numerous and too detailed to be wholly untrue.

  Nicholas swung down from the gable and dropped to the ground. Unnatural vice was a crime which bore a severe penalty, but he would never have enforced it. He felt slightly disappointed in Millfield but bore him no ill will. The man was entitled to his private pleasures, especially as he was so discreet about them. Nicholas had made an unwarranted intrusion. Chastened and not a little annoyed with himself, he trotted back in the direction of the inn. He needed sleep against the exertions of the morrow and should not be wasting his time in futile eavesdropping on a friend. As he went back over the bridge, he cursed himself for being so misled.

  It was then that he spotted the body.

  Caught in the moonlight, it was floating face down in the river shallows. He ran to the bank and waded into the water to take hold of the sodden corpse. As soon as he felt the weight of the small body and the quality of the doublet, he knew who the man was.

  Master Oliver Quilley.

  Nicholas dragged him to the bank and rolled him over on his back. Sightless eyes stared up at him. The handle of a dagger stuck obscenely out of his throat. A deathly pallor was already creeping over the face. But it was the man’s right hand which caught the attention. It was wrapped around something as if trying to protect it at all costs. Nicholas had difficulty in prising the fingers apart and taking out the oval of vellum that was to have borne the portrait of Sir Clarence Marmion. Smudged lines could just be made out in the gloom. When Nicholas turned it over, however, he got the real shock.

  Quilley had glued the vellum to a picture cut from a Tarot card. It showed a man who dangled from a rope that was tied to his foot. Nicholas recognised the image. It was the Hanged Man. Sometimes the card was called by another name.

  The Traitor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Banbury’s Men shuffled about disconsolately in the yard of the Three Swans and loaded up their waggon. After their disgrace the previous afternoon, they were quitting York for good. They had failed abysmally and would be given no further chance to vindicate their reputation. A dignified withdrawal was their only option and Giles Randolph had taken it. As he led his horse out of the stables, he was still seething with anger against the man who had let them down. Having helped to put them firmly in the ascendant, Scruton had brought them crashing down. There would be no position for him as a sharer with the company. Banbury’s Men would manage without him from now on. Their future lay in improving their performances of their own plays.

  Randolph surveyed his ragged band of players.

  ‘Are we all ready, sirs?’

  ‘Aye,’ came the dispirited reply.

  ‘Then let us ride out of this unholy city.’

  He mounted his horse and rode towards the main gate. As he was about to go through it, the stately figure of an old man walked in. He wore an elegant black doublet with matching breeches and had a feathered hat swept down to hide half his face. The neat grey beard suggested age and distinction. He carried a cane and lifted it when he saw the horse bearing down on him.

  Randolph reined in his mount to let the man pass.

  ‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said politely.

  ‘Good day,’ said the other. ‘Where do you travel?’

  ‘Anywhere to get away from this place.’

  ‘Has York been so unwelcoming to you?’

  ‘A foul prison!’

  Giles Randolph urged his horse on and the procession went out through the gate. The old man waved them off as they passed but they paid little attention to him. He gave a wry smile and congratulated himself on the cunning of his disguise. If his fellow-actors did not recognise him, then he was safe from discovery.

  Mark Scruton went off into the taproom.

  Humphrey Budden and his wife rose early and went straight to York Minster to attend Matins. While still on their knees, they pledged themselves to each other once more and held hands as an act of commitment. Eleanor was a changed woman. The night with her husband had been a revelation. An ineluctable urge brought her to York in the service of God but it had somehow fastened her on to the book holder of Westfield’s Men. Whatever the origin of that intense and powerful feeling, it had left her. Jerusalem was no longer a distant target for a pilgrimage. She found it in the arms of her husband and longed for nothing more than to be back with her children in Nottingham.

  ‘Master Bracewell!’

  ‘Good morrow, Mistress Budden. And to you, sir.’

  ‘We wish to thank you most sincerely,’ said the husband, clasping him by the hand. ‘We will never be able to repay you for your kindness.’

  ‘Your happiness is payment enough, sir.’

  They had arrived back at the inn to find Nicholas saddling up a horse in the yard. Eleanor was now a sober matron who hung on her husband’s arm though the twinkle in her eye showed that a wistful memory still lingered. Nicholas was glad when the couple went off to collect up their belongings before returning home.

  Lawrence Firethorn came
hurrying into the yard.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’

  ‘I am riding out to Marmion Hall.’

  ‘Let me shower you with my gratitude first,’ said the other with a bear-like embrace. ‘Master Pym told me what happened last night. You lifted the burden of Susan Becket off my back when you played Cupid for her. I need not fear a meeting between her and Margery now.’

  ‘How is Mistress Firethorn this morning?’

  ‘Lying contentedly among my creditors.’

  ‘I am glad that someone found happiness,’ said Nicholas. ‘My night was taken up with Master Quilley.’

  ‘Poor wretch! It was a gruesome way to depart this life. Do they have any idea who might have murdered him?’

  ‘None, sir. I am just relieved that they no longer think that I may be the culprit. The officers and the magistrate questioned me for hours.’

  ‘I spoke up for you, Nick. My voice has weight.’

  ‘Your help was much appreciated.’

  Nicholas put a foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. His mind was still playing with all the questions that the death of Oliver Quilley had opened up. He looked down at his employer and remembered something. Lawrence Firethorn was the finest actor in London and the nobility came in droves to watch him. He was well-acquainted with those at Court and party to much of their gossip.

  ‘May I ask you a question, sir?’

  ‘A hundred, if it pleases you.’

  ‘What is your view of Mr Secretary Walsingham?’

  ‘Pah!’ exclaimed Firethorn. ‘I spit upon him.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because he is linked to the name I detest most.’

  ‘In what way, master?’

  ‘Do you not know?’

  ‘Why then would I ask?’

  ‘Sir Francis Walsingham is now Secretary of State and our dear Queen has heaped every honour upon him that it is possible to have.’ Firethorn curled his lip. ‘But I remember how he began his great political career.’

  ‘As a member of Parliament was it not?’

  ‘Shall I tell you the town for which he sat?’