The Trip to Jerusalem nb-3

by Edward Marston

  'The parishioners should be indicted!

  'They cannot mend every hole in the road,' said Hoode reasonably. 'We must travel with more care.

  'I'll have them at assizes and quarter sessions.'

  'And what will Westfield's Men do while you ride off to start this litigation? Must we simply wait here?'

  'Do nor mock me, Edmund.'

  'Then do not set yourself up for mockery, Lawrence.'

  'They should be clapped in irons, every one of them.'

  'How could they repair the roads, thus bound?'

  They were ready to depart and trundled on with a few of the hired men now walking gingerly at the rear to avoid the worst of the mud. When they crossed the border into Huntingdonshire, they found the worst stretch of all along the Great North Road. Skirting the edge of the Fen Country, it supported more traffic than anywhere other than the immediate approaches to London, and the surface was badly broken up. Extra caution had to be exercised and progress was painfully slow. They were relieved when Huntingdon itself finally came in sight.

  Richard Honeydew was bubbling with questions. Have you been to the town before, Master Bracewell? Once or twice, lad.' What sort of place is it?' There are two things of note, Dick.'

  'What might they be?'

  A bowling green and a gallows.'

  'Shall we see a hanged man, sir?'

  'Several, if Master Firethorn has his way.'

  'And will they let us play there?'

  'I am certain of it.'

  But the book holder's assurance was too optimistic. When they rolled past St Bennet's Church to the Shire Hall, they met no official welcome. Banbury's Men had sucked the town dry with a performance of Double Deceit.

  It was another play stolen from Westfield's Men and it sent Firethorn into a tigerish rage. There was worse to come. One or the Town Council had lately returned from Lincolnshire. He told them of a performance by Banbury's Men at Stamford of Marriage and Mischief--also purloined from their rivals--and of the staging of Pompey the Great at Grantham before an enthusiastic audience that included his own august self. When he went on to praise the acting of Giles Randolph in the title role, Firethorn had to be held down lest he do the man a mischief.

  Foaming at the mouth, the actor-manager was borne off to the nearest inn and given a pint of sack to sweeten his disposition. Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and Nicholas Bracewell were with him. Firethorn was vengeful.

  'By heaven, I'll slit him from head to toe for this!'

  'We have to find him first,' reminded Nicholas.

  'To filch my part in my play before my adoring audience! Ha! The man has the instincts of a jackal and the talent of a three-legged donkey with the staggers.'

  Gill could not resist a thrust at his pride.

  'That fellow spoke well of Master Randolph.'

  'A polecat in human form!'

  'Yet he carried the day with his Pompey.'

  'My Pompey! My, my, my Pompey!'

  'And mine,' said Hoode soulfully. 'Much work and worry went into the making of that play. It grieves me to hear that Banbury's Men play it free of charge.'

  Nicholas had sympathy with the author. His work was protected by no laws. Once he had been paid five pounds for its delivery, the work went out of his hands and into the repertoire of Westfield's Men. He had little influence over its staging and even

  The Trip to Jerusalem less over its casting. The one consolation was that he had written a cameo role for himself as an ambitious young tribune.

  'Who played Sicinius?' he mused.

  'All that matters is who played Pompey!' howled Firethorn, banging the table until their tankards bounced up and down. 'Randolph should be hanged from the nearest tree for his impertinence!'

  'How have Banbury's Men done it?' asked Gill.

  'I have the way,' said Nicholas.

  'Well, sir.'

  'They have enlisted our players against us.'

  'Monstrous!' exclaimed Firethorn.

  "There is only one complete copy of each play," said Nicholas, 'and I keep that closely guarded. Rut I cannot shield it during rehearsal or performance. If some of our fellows memorized a work between them, they could put the meat of it down with the aid of a scrivener. And it is off that meat that Master Randolph has been feeding.'

  'Who are these rogues, Nick?' said Hoode.

  'How many' of them are there?' added Gill.

  'I have neither names nor numbers,' admitted the book holder. 'But I have been going through an inventory of the hired men we have employed this year. Several left disgruntled with good cause to harm us. If enough money was put in enough pockets, they would have turned their coat and helped out Banbury's Men.'

  'Aye,' said Firethorn, 'and been given a place in that vile company by way of reward. If we but overtake them, we shall find out who these varlets are.

  'They are too far ahead,' argued Nicholas, and we will meet but further outrage if we visit towns where they have been before us. Stay your anger, Master Firethorn, until the occasion serves. We must change our route and find fresh fields.'

  'This advice makes much sense,' said Hoode. 'Where should we go, Nick?'

  'To Nottingham. We stay on this road for a while yet then head north-west through Oakham and Melton Mowbray. Haply, those towns may like some entertainment.'

  Firethorn and Hoode gave their approval. Gill was the only dissenter, pointing out that the minor roads would be even worse than the one on which they had just travelled, and throwing up his usual obstruction to any idea that emanated from the book holder. He was outvoted by the others and shared his pique with his drink.

  Still thirsting for blood, Firethorn accepted that he might have to wait before he could collect it by the pint from Banbury's Men. Nicholas's idea grew on him. Their new destination made its own choice of play.

  'Nottingham, sirs! We'll give 'em Robin Hood!'

  It was all decided.

  In referring the matter to a higher authority, Miles Melhuish knew that he was doing the correct thing. Not only was he relieving himself of a problem that caused him intense personal anxiety, but he was handing it over to a man who could solve it with peremptory speed. The Dean was feared throughout Nottingham. One glance of his eye from a pulpit could quell any congregation. One taste of his displeasure could bring the most wilful apostate back into the fold. He was far older than Melhuish, with more weight, more wisdom, more conviction and more skill. He also had more relish for the joys of coercion, for the destruction of any opponent with the full might of the Church at his back. He would cure Mistress Eleanor Budden of her delusions. Five minutes with the Dean would send her racing back to her bedchamber to fornicate with her husband in God's name and to make amends for her neglect of his most sacred right of possession.

  But there was an unforeseen snag. She was closeted with the Dean for over two hours. And when she emerged, it was not in any spirit of repentance. She had the same air of unassailable confidence and the same seraphic smile. It is not known in what precise state of collapse she left the learned man who had tried to bully her out of her mission. Her certitude had been adamantine proof.

  Humphrey Budden was waiting outside for her.

  'Well?'

  'My examination is over,' she said.

  'What passed between you?'

  'Much talk of the Bible.'

  'Did the Dean instruct you in your duty?'

  'God has already done that, sir.'

  'He made no headway?' said Budden in disbelief.

  'He came to accept my decision.'

  'Madness, more like!' Do you find your wife mad, Humphrey?' In this frame of mind.'

  Then must you truly despise me.'

  They were standing among the gravestones in the churchyard. The sky was dark, the clouds swollen. The wind carried the first hints of rain. Eleanor Budden usually dressed in the fashion of burghers' wives with a bodice and full skirt of muted colour, a cap to hide her plaited hair and a lace ruff of surpassing delicacy, this las
t a source of professional pride to her husband who wanted her to display her demureness to the town and thereby advertise his trade, his happiness and his manhood. She had now cast off any sartorial niceties. A simple grey shift and a mob-cap were all that she wore. Her long hair hung loose down her back.

  Ironically, he wanted her even more. In that dress, in that place, in that unpromising weather, he yet found his desire swelling and his sense of assertion stiffening. Mad or misguided, she was beautiful. Immune to the vicar and impervious even to the Dean, she was still the wife of Humphrey Budden and could be brought to heel.

  'You will remain chaste no longer!' lie said.

  'How now, sir!'

  'Return home with me this instant!'

  'I like not your tone.'

  'Had you heard it sooner, with a hand to back it up, we might not now be in this predicament.'

  'Do you threaten me, sir?'

  She was calm and unafraid and he was halted for a moment but those round blue eyes and smooth skin worked him back into resolution. He grabbed her arm.

  'Leave off, sir. You hurt me.'

  'Come back home and settle this argument in our bedchamber. You will not be the loser by it.'

  'Unhand me, Humphrey. Mingling flesh is sinful.'

  'Not in marriage.

  'We arc no longer man and wile.'

  He grabbed her other arm as she tried to pull free and wrestled with her. The feel of her body against his drove him on beyond the bounds of reason.

  'Submit to my embraces!'

  'I will not, sir.'

  'It is my right and title.'

  'No further,'

  Her struggling only increased his frenzy the more.

  'By this hand, and you will not obey, I'll take you here on the spot among the dead of Nottingham.'

  'You dare not do so.'

  'Do I not?' he wailed.

  'God will stop you.'

  Roused to breaking point, he laid rude hands on the front of her shift and tore it down to expose one smooth shoulder and the top of one smooth breast, but even as the material ripped, it was joined by another sound. The door of the church opened and Miles Melhuish emerged in a state of frank bewilderment. He could not understand how Eleanor Budden had vanquished the Dean. When he saw the scene before him, however, he understood all too well and trembled at the sacrilege of it.

  'Here upon consecrated ground!' he boomed.

  'I was driven to it, sir,' bleated the lacemaker.

  'To use force against the gentler sex!'

  'You counselled strength of purpose.'

  'Not of this foul nature.'

  'Forgive him, sir,' said Eleanor. 'He knows not what he does. I looked for no less. God warned me to expect much tribulation. And yet He saved me here, as you did see. He brought you from that church to be my rescue.'

  Eleanor fell to her knees in earnest prayer and Melhuish took the defeated and detumescent husband aside to scold him among the chiselled inscriptions. When she was finished, the vicar helped her to her feet and nudged her spouse forward with a glance.

  'Forgive me for my wickedness, Eleanor.'

  'You acted but as a man.'

  'I sinned against you grievously.'

  'Then must you wash yourself clean. Call on God to make you a pure heart and to put out all your misdeeds.'

  Humphrey Budden was desolate. Abandoned by his wife and now censured by the Church, his case was beyond hope. Instead of taking home a dutiful partner in marriage, he had lost her for ever to a voice he had never even heard.

  'May I know your will, wife?'

  'I follow the path of righteousness.'

  'She must answer the Dean's command,' said Melhuish.

  'I go to Jerusalem,' she said.

  'To York,' he corrected. 'Only the holy Archbishop himself can pronounce on this. You must bear a letter to him from the Dean and seek an audience.'

  'York!' Budden was distraught. 'May I come there?'

  I travel alone,' she said firmly.

  'What will you do for food and shelter?'

  'God will provide.'

  'The roads are not safe for any man, let alone for a woman such as you. Be mindful of your life!

  'There is no danger for me.

  'For you and for every other traveller.'

  'I have the Lord's protection on my way.'

  It began to rain.

  Oliver Quilley cursed the downpour and spurred his horse into a canter. There was a clump of trees in the middle distance with promise of shelter for him and his young companion. Quilley was a short, slight creature in his thirties with an appealing frailty about him. Dressed in the apparel of a courtier, he was an incongruous sight beside the sturdy man in fustian who rode as his chosen bodyguard on the road from Leicester. The trees swished and swayed in the rain but their thick foliage and overhanging branches promised cover from the worst of the storm. As Quilley rode along, one hand clutched at his breast as if trying to hold in his heart.

  'Swing to the right!' he urged.

  'Aye, Master.'

  'We shall be shielded from the wind there.'

  'Aye, Master.'

  The young man had little conversation but a strength of sinew that was reassuring company. Quilley forgave him for his ignorance and raced him to the trees. They were drenched when they arrived and so relieved to be out of the bad weather at last that they dispensed with caution. It was to be their downfall.

  'Ho, there, sirs!'

  'Hey! Hey! Hey!'

  'Fate has delivered you unto us.'

  'Dismount!'

  Four rogues in rough attire leapt from their hiding place with such suddenness that the riders were taken totally by surprise. Two of the robbers had swords, the third a dagger and the last a clump of wood that looked the most dangerous weapon of them all. The young man did not even manage to unsheath his rapier. Terrified by the noise and intensity of the assault, his horse reared its front legs so high that he was unsaddled in a flash. He fell backwards through the air with no control and landed awkwardly on his neck. There was a sickly crack and his body went limp. It was a death of great simplicity.

  The others turned their attention to Quilley.

  'Away, you murderers!' he yelled.

  'Come, sir, we would speak with you.'

  'Leave go of that rein!'

  But Quilley's puny efforts were of no avail. He punched and kicked at them but only provoked their ridicule. The biggest ruffian reached up a hand and yanked him from his perch as if he were picking a flower from a garden. Oliver Quilley was thrown to the ground.

  'They'll hang each one of you for this!'

  He tried to get up but they tired of his presence. The clump of wood struck him behind his ear and he pitched forward into oblivion. Pleased with the day's handiwork, the four men assessed their takings. They were soon riding off hell for leather.

  Quilley was unconscious for a long time but the rain finally licked him awake. The first thing he saw was the dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.

  Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.

  He began the long walk towards the next village.

  The rain lashed Westfield's Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell's main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasin
gly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen's Head and the comforts of London.

  Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could lake a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.

  Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.

  Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.

  Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.

  'What else did he say, George?'

  'He talked of other companies that hired him.'

  'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'

  'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'

  'And were they well received?'

  'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'

  George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times--in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways--by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.