‘Oxford, adieu!’ snarled Firethorn. ‘The Devil take you! We quit your foul streets for fresher pastures. What is your famous university but a set of mangy, maggot-filled colleges set up by Roman Catholic prelates! Keep your bishops and your great fat cardinal. God has sent down a plague on your popery! We are true Protestants and refuse to ply our trade in this grisly Vatican.’ He widened his attack to include the other university town. ‘Scholarship rots the mind! It breeds Puritans in Cambridge and Papists in Oxford. Show me a student and you show me a lesser breed of man. If you begged us, Westfield’s Men would not play before you.’ A waved fist accompanied his final taunt. ‘You do not turn us out: we spurn you! There is a world elsewhere.’
The words shot across the grass like a fusillade and scattered the wildlife before rebounding harmlessly off the town walls. Oxford was the target of much criticism for its vestigial Roman Catholicism, but it was in no position to defend itself against this latest theological attack. All its attention was fixed on a virulent plague that killed Christians of all denominations with random savagery. Lawrence Firethorn had merely exercised his lungs. He did nothing to revive a disconsolate company and they trundled away like outcasts.
When the man with the raven-black beard saw the road they chose, he knew where he could catch up with them. Close pursuit was unnecessary and he was anxious not to be seen by Nicholas Bracewell. The scuffle in the stables at the Fighting Cock had taught him to respect his adversary. It was vital to retain the advantage of surprise if he wanted to succeed against such a powerful man. Forewarned and forearmed, Nicholas was now a very troublesome opponent. He would have to be stabbed in the back.
While the man stayed in his hiding place, the company rolled unhappily away from Oxford. The haven of rest had been a hell of disquiet that had moved them on as fast as it could. What guarantee did they have that Marlborough would not do the same to them and manufacture some entirely new and even more jolting setback? Their tour was fast becoming a kind of penance. Lawrence Firethorn led them in search of an inn where they could spend the night, somewhere close enough to Oxford to spare them and their horses further weariness yet far enough away to be totally free from its pestilential air.
When an old shepherd stumbled out onto the road ahead of them, Firethorn called to him for advice.
‘We seek shelter, friend,’ he said.
‘So do I, sir,’ replied the shepherd, ‘for I’ve been up since dawn chasing stray sheep.’
‘Which is the nearest inn?’
‘That could be the Bull and Butcher, sir.’
‘How far is that?’
‘Two mile or more,’ said the shepherd, ‘but the Dog and Bear may be closer. Then again, it may not. Let me think.’
The old man’s ruddy face was largely obscured by a wispy grey beard and a battered hat, and he had a habit of clearing his throat and spitting absent-mindedly onto the ground. His shoulders were hunched and his legs bent by the weight of the paunch he carried beneath the torn smock. He leant on his crook as he deliberated, mumbling to himself in the local dialect while he weighed up the competing merits and locations of the two hostelries. Firethorn soon tired of the countryman’s irritating slowness.
‘Which one, man?’ he pressed. ‘Bull or Dog?’
‘Bull, sir. Yes, I’d say Bull.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’ll put you on the way to Reading in the morning.’
‘But we travel to Marlborough.’
‘Then you need the Dog.’
‘Saints preserve us! Make up your mind!’
‘Dog and Bear, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Turn right when the road forks. The Dog is a goodly inn and you will soon reach it.’
‘Thank the Lord for that!’
‘If you want my advice-’
‘Go your way,’ said Firethorn, cutting him off. ‘You have confused us enough already. We will find our Dog and you may search for your sheep.’
‘That will I, sir.’
The old shepherd tugged deferentially at the brim of his hat then lumbered away across a field. Firethorn raised a hand and signalled the company forward. They followed the winding track in a careworn mood and longed for the comforts they had left behind in London. Hired men who considered themselves blessed to be taken on the tour now felt that a curse had been laid upon them. It had only subjected them to robbery and plague so far. What further trials awaited them?
It was half an hour before they turned into the courtyard of the Dog and Bear. Though much smaller than the Fighting Cocks, it gave them a ready welcome and marked the end of a most dispiriting day’s travel. The inn sign, which swung in the light breeze, showed a bear chained to a stake, striking out with its claws at the dog who was baiting it. The violent image made Lawrence Firethorn growl in kinship. He himself was a great bear who had been chained to the stake of a cruel fate. While the animal on the sign had only one dog to contend with, the actor had a whole pack. With a surge of anger, he resolved to tear the stake from the ground and beat his enemies off with it. Westfield’s Men had suffered enough. Firethorn would assert himself against misfortune and lead his company on to the glory they so richly deserved and the payment they so badly needed.
Nicholas Bracewell judged his moment well. As he and his employer dismounted, ostlers came forward to take charge of their horses. The book holder took Firethorn aside for a moment. Dipping a hand into his purse, Nicholas brought out the coins that he had been given in Oxford. He held them on his palm and affected a mock surprise.
‘See here,’ he said. ‘That stubborn mayor would not be denied his generosity. He must have thrust the money into my purse when I was looking elsewhere.’
‘How much?’
‘Two pounds.’
‘We will not take it.’
‘Then let me hurl it away into the trough.’
‘No!’ said Firethorn, grabbing his wrist as he made to discard the coins. ‘Let us not be too rash here. There is a sense in which Westfield’s Men earned that money. We entered that verminous town with the best of intentions. It was not our fault that the plague was giving its performance there.’
‘Take it as a small reward, then,’ offered Nicholas.
‘I will not,’ decided Firethorn, folding his arms with disdain. ‘Our company cannot be bought off with Danegeld. Hurl it into the water and show our content!’ Once again, he clutched at Nicholas’s wrist to stop him. ‘Wait!’
‘Why not sleep on the matter?’
‘That is good advice, Nick.’
‘Take the money and get the feel of it.’
‘Then decide in the morning, eh?’
‘When you come to pay the reckoning.’
Lawrence Firethorn thought of his empty capcase and snatched the two pounds from his friend. Nicholas knew him so well and adapted so quickly to his caprices. Money that the actor-manager had repudiated in Oxford was legal tender now they were well clear of the town. Thanks to Nicholas, it was the first income they had managed to keep. Coins had never jingled so sweetly in Firethorn’s hands. He dropped them into his own purse then gave his book holder a hug of gratitude. The actor had enjoyed his exhibition of pique but it was heartening to know that there was still one practical man in the company. Firethorn sounded a haughty note.
‘I will merely keep it until morning,’ he said.
Nicholas smiled. ‘Of course.’
The old shepherd who directed them to Dog and Bear did not have to search long for his sheep. He found them browsing on the lush grass near the edge of a copse. Walking into the trees, he came to a clearing where two figures reclined on the ground. The fleshy young man was fast asleep but the girl jumped lightly to her feet and ran to embrace the newcomer. Israel Gunby tore off his false beard so that he could kiss his wife without impediment, then he shed both his hat and his threadbare smock. Ellen was inquisitive.