'This is for me, sir?'
'To seal our friendship and buy me safe passage.'
'It is the very perfection of art, sir.'
'My work is never less than that.'
'But will not the subject want it for himself?'
'I fear not, sir.'
'I would hate to take his personal property away.'
'The fellow has no need of it now.'
'Why?'
'Because that is Anthony Rickwood in your hand.'
'The name is familiar.'
'You have seen his portrait before, I think.'
'Have I?'
'It is the work of another famous artist.'
What is his name?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham,' said Quilley. 'He paints his subjects upon spikes. You may have seen poor Master Rickwood on display above Bishopsgate.'
'The man was a traitor?' gulped Firethorn.
'A staunch Roman Catholic'
'I am holding a corpse?'
'That is the essence of Walsingham's art.'
Quilley gave a mischievous smile that only caused the actor further discomfort. Firethorn had now changed his mind about the gift. Instead of being a treasured object, it was burning his palm like molten metal.
(*)Chapter Seven
Robert Rawlins shuffled quietly into York Minster through the Great West Door and walked slowly down the centre of the nave. Sunlight streamed in through the magnificent window at his back, throwing its curvilinear tracery, with its central Heart of Yorkshire, into sharper relief and freshening the colours of the stained glass. Rawlins was dwarfed by it all, a grey, inoffensive little mouse amid the huge white pillars. Almost a hundred feet above his head, the superb gold bosses in the vaulted roof portrayed critical events in the Christian story. Here was both celebration and warning, a lasting tribute to what had gone before and a clear direction as to what should come in the future.
Standing in the aisle, Rawlins looked around and took in the wonder of it all, at once inspired and abashed, as he always was, by this architectural marvel dedicated to the glory of God, and highly conscious of the number of lives that had gone into its construction. He fell to his knees on the bruising stone and offered up a prayer of supplication. Anxious and beset by danger, he came in to search for sanctuary and was soon deep in conversation with his Maker.
An hour passed. The rustling silence was then broken by the sweetest of sounds. Behind the choir screen with its row of kings surmounted by stucco angels, the Minster choristers had taken up their position in their gleaming stalls. Voices of sublime harmony were raised in a Mass. In his extremity, it seemed to Robert Rawlins as if the angels themselves were singing in unison. He listened transfixed to the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei, mouthing old Latin words that were sung with such beauty and expression by young throats, and sharing in the perfection of earthly worship. It was such balm to his ears and succour to his soul that tears of joy soon trickled down his face.
The choirmaster now decided to rehearse a hymn. When the voices rose again to fill the whole cathedral with a mellifluous sound, they achieved a different result.
All people that on earth do dwell
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell,
Come ye before him, and rejoice.
Robert Rawlins got to his feet in horror. It was not only because the singing of hymns had been introduced by the Puritans as part of their denigration of the priests and their eagerness to involve the congregation in the divine service. What stuck in his craw was this version of Psalm 100--Jubilate Deo. Rendered into the vernacular from the Latin that Rawlins loved, it was the work of one William Kethe, a hymn-writer who fled from England during Mary's reign and lived as a refugee in Geneva with such extremists as John Knox, Goodman, Whittingham and Foxe. Such names, such beliefs and such associations were quite obnoxious to Robert Rawlins and he felt it was sacrilege to sing that hymn in that place.
Spinning around, he trotted back down the nave to the Great West Door. The comfort which he sought had been denied him. God was deaf to his entreaties.
He went out once more into a hostile world.
The enormous pleasure of seeing Anne Hendrik again was tempered by the fact that he had no leisure time to spend alone with her. Nicholas Bracewell was forced to chat with her while helping to construct a makeshift tree for use in the forthcoming performance of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. In a coiner of the inn yard, the book holder was an emergency carpenter with the dubious assistance of George Dart. Conversation with Anne Hendrik was therefore punctuated by the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer. It ruled out any romantic element. 'I cannot believe my luck in meeting you,' she said.
'I told you it would happen, Anne.'
'If only the circumstances were happier.'
'Indeed.'
'Is there no news at all of Dick Honeydew?'
'None, I fear.'
'Who could have taken him?'
'All sorts of people,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'He is a comely youth and takes the eye wherever we stop. Dick would not be the first apprentice who was snatched away because someone conceived a fancy for the lad.'
'Is he in danger?'
'We must hope that he is not.'
'Where do you think he could be, Nick?'
'I have cudgelled my brain to give me an answer to that question, but it refuses. All I have is guesswork and suspicion.'
And what do they tell you?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Would they commit such a crime?'
'They have stolen both our plays and our audiences,' he argued. 'Why should they stop there? In stealing young Dick as well, they deal us a far harder blow.'
'You think the boy is with them?'
'Master Randolph is too clever for that. If he has ordered the abduction--and every instinct about me says that he did--then lie would have assigned the task to some underling and told the man to keep Dick well away from the company for fear of detection.'
Anne's maternalism was thoroughly roused by now. She knew all the apprentices well, none more so than Richard Honeydew, and she felt a mother's distress at his untimely disappearance. Imagination only increased her fright.
'Will they harm the boy?'
'They have no need to do so,' he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. 'Their sole aim is to harm Westfield's Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.'
'What will happen to the lad, then?'
'I believe he will be released in time.'
'And when will that be?'
'When they have thoroughly discomfited us.'
Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.
'This is no work for a book holder.'
'It is a case of all hands to the pumps.'
'Can you not assign these chores to others?'
Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.
'That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,' he said. 'Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there'd scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.'
Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice. 'Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.'
"There is nothing more to tell.'
'She accosted you in the river, you say?'
'Only because she took me for my betters.'
'You are no Lord Jesus to me.'
I am pleased to hear it.' They laughed fondly. Do not pay any heed to Mis
tress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.'
'Can you be sure of that, Nick?'
'She will not travel with us.'
'Master Oliver Quilley does."
'Only by special arrangement.'
'Will she not find the same dispensation?'
'It is outside the bounds of possibility,' he said with confidence. 'Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.'
'It is agreed, then,' said Firethorn. 'You come with us."
'Oh, sir!' she said effusively. 'Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.'
'Nay, Madam, I will kiss yours.'
He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield's Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let an artist and now a self-proclaimed visionary accompany them on their travels. Lawrence Firethorn persuaded himself that both decisions were the right ones.
'You will not forget the money, good Mistress.'
'I will bring it with me.'
'And there will be no dispute with your husband?' , 'He will not stop me, sir.'
'Then I am content.'
'And I am truly bounden to you, Master Firethorn.'
She curtseyed again and allowed him another view of the delights which had finally changed his mind. Eleanor Budden was indeed a gorgeous woman and her religious fervour only served to bring out her qualities. He loved the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her face and the appealing curves of her body. After dismissing her plea out of hand at first, he had listened to her gentle tenacity and feasted his eyes on her long hair. The combination of the two had made him think again.
Firethorn sought to clarify their relationship.
'There will be certain conditions, Mistress.'
'I submit to anything that you devise, sir.'
'Would that you did!' he murmured.
'What must I do?'
'Refrain from interference with our calling. We will be your shield on the road but we must have freedom to practise our art along the way. You must not hinder us in rehearsal or performance in any way.'
'Nor will I, sir. I'll spend my time in prayer.'
'We might find other things for you.'
'I need none.'
The simplicity of her purpose was quite moving. At the same time, he could not accept that it would sustain her all the way to York and certainly not to Jerusalem itself. Eleanor Budden had never been more than ten miles from Nottingham in the whole of her life and that had been in the company of her husband. She would find the long ride to York both irksome and perilous, causing her to turn increasingly to Firethorn for support. The idea titillated him. He had never corrupted a saint before.
'And shall I see Master Bracewell?' she asked.
'Every day. You'll ride beside him on the waggon.'
'My cup of joy runs over!'
'Haply, mine will do so as well.'
He bestowed another kiss on her hand then escorted her to the door of the inn. She waved in gratitude then flitted off over the cobbles. Firethorn chuckled to himself then went into the taproom to acquaint Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode with the latest development. They were antagonistic.
'This is lunacy!' yelled Gill. 'I forbid it!'
'It is less than wise, Lawrence,' said Hoode.
'The venture brings us money and companionship.'
"Who wants her companionship?' retorted Gill. 'Let her keep her money and distribute it as alms. We are actors here, not bodyguards for hire by anyone. Our only privilege is our freedom and you throw that away by inviting some Virgin Mary to sit in judgement on us.'
'She's no Virgin Mary,' said Firethorn quickly.
'The lady is a distraction,' said Hoode. 'She has no place alongside us. Nor does Master Oliver Quilley. They should find some other means to travel north.'
Firethorn did his best to win them over but they were unconvinced. As a last resort, he knew that he could impose his will upon them but wished to avoid doing that if at all possible. Their acceptance was important. He wanted to be seen by Eleanor Budden as the leader of a company who studied to obey his every wish, and not as some petty tyrant who bullied the others into agreement.
His two colleagues left with stern warnings.
'I set my face against this, Lawrence!' said Gill.
'It will not improve your complexion.'
'I am with Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'You have made a move here that will bring us nothing but awkwardness.'
The two of them went out and Firethorn was left to mull over what they had said. He was not dismayed. They always objected to his ideas. It was simply a question of giving them time to grow accustomed to the notion. When they saw what a harmless woman Eleanor Budden was, they would alter their views. Firethorn was pleased with the new transaction. He called for a pint of sherry.
He was taking his first sip when she appeared.
'I hoped to find you here, sir.' V 'Susan, my dove! Sit down and take your ease.'
'I come to inform you of my decision,' she said with a broad grin, lowering herself down into a chair. 'Your lonely nights are over, Lawrence.'
'Prove it lustily between the sheets.'
'So will I do, sir.'
'You are man's greatest comfort, Susan.'
'That is why I will not desert you now.'
'Bless you, lady!'
'Master Gill made up my mind for me.'
'Barnaby?'
'He told me even now of Mistress Budden.'
'Ah, yes,' he said dismissively. 'A holy woman who hears the voice of God, A poor, distracted creature on whom a Christian must take pity.'
'Is she young or old?'
'Ancient, I fear. And so ill-favoured that a man can scarce look fully upon her. That is the only reason I took her. Mistress Budden will be no temptation to the goatish members of my company.'
Susan Becket's eyes twinkled merrily.
'I saw the lady leave you. If she be ancient, then I am dead and buried this last ten-year. She has a bloom upon her that could seduce a bishop.'
'How came I to miss such a quality?'
'Because your mind was firmly on me, Lawrence.'
'Indeed, indeed,' he fawned.
'That is why I reached my decision. Mistress Budden is a child of nature and innocence sits upon her. I'll be a true mother to her and keep those goats from grazing on her pasture. She'll thank me well for it.'
'I do not understand your meaning, Susan.'
'Your warming-pan comes with you, sir.'
'All the way?' he said anxiously.
'Every last inch.'
'I could not put you to the trouble.'
'It is my pleasure.'
Her smile of easy determination fractured all his plans for the journey. Susan Becket was an old flame he had intended to blow out in Nottingham but she had now rekindled herself. Lawrence Firethorn could not hide his chagrin. He was taking one woman too many to York.
The pint of sherry was guzzled quickly down.
Sir Clarence Marmion strolled through his garden with his soberly-clad companion by his side. Large, formal and a blaze of colour, it was a tribute to the skill and hard work of his gardeners, but their master was not interested in their craft that morning. His mind was preoccupied with something of more immediate concern.
'He would yield up no names.'
'Are you sure that he knew any?'
'No question about that, sir.'
'Did you press him on the matter?'
'As hard as any man
dare.'
Robert Rawlins rubbed his hands fastidiously.
'Let me speak to the fellow, Sir Clarence.'
It will not serve.'
'Haply, I may succeed where others have failed.'
'You have come too late for that.'
'I will lay spiritual weights upon him.'
'He would feel them not, Master Rawlins.'
'What are you telling me?'
'The man is dead.'
'Since when?'
'Since I had him killed.'
'Sir Clarence!'
Robert Rawlins put a hand to his mouth in shock and leaned upon a stone angel for support. It was not the first time that his host had taken him by surprise since lie had arrived in Yorkshire but it was easily the most disconcerting. He waved his arms weakly in protest but his companion was brutally calm.
'The man was given Christian burial,' he said.
'After he was murdered.'
'Executed, sir. Like Anthony Rickwood.'
'An eye for an eye?'
'We gave him all the justice he deserved.'
'I would have sued for clemency.'
'On behalf of such a villain as that?'
'Every man has some good in him.'
'Not this black-hearted devil,' said Sir Clarence with asperity. 'One of Walsingham's jackals. He brought dozens of Catholics to their deaths and did so without compunction. Was I to let him go free, sir, to report that I was party to the conspiracy? And that Robert Rawlins is a missionary priest of the Romish persuasion?'
'I like not this business.'
'We had no choice before us.'
'You had Christian teaching to guide you.'
'So did Anthony Rickwood and where did it land him? Upon a spike at Bishopsgate until we engineered his rescue.' His vehemence increased. 'And what of Neville Pomeroy? What guidance did his Christian teaching give him? It showed him the way directly to the Tower!'
'I did not mean to anger you so, Sir Clarence.'
'We must fight fire with fire!'
'Murder should be anathema.'
'Revenge has its own dignity.'
Robert Rawlins bit back any further comment and tried to come to terms with what had happened. Sir Clarence Marmion was a good friend and a charming host when he wished to be but a new and more callous side to his character was emerging. It was highly unsettling. Joined indissolubly by the same purpose, the two men yet had different ideas on how it could be best effected.
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