The Trip to Jerusalem

'I need the lad to help with me with the reins.'

'Do you so?' said Gill testily.

'He must be taught how to drive the waggon.'

'You have pupils enough for that task, man.'

None so apt as Dick Honeydew.'

'Come, let me teach him other lessons.'

He is not for school today, Master Gill.'

Nicholas spoke politely but firmly and the other backed off with a hostile glare. The boy was still unawakened to the more sinister implications of the friendship which Barnaby Gill showed towards him from time to time and Nicholas had to move in as protector. Understanding nothing of what had passed between the two men, Richard Honeydew was simply disappointed to have lost the chance to ride upon the bay mare.

'Must I truly know how to drive the waggon?'

'We must all take our turn at the reins.'

'Why did Master Gill anger so?'

He was deprived of his wishes, Dick.' May I never ride upon a horse?'

Master Hoode will oblige you at any time.

The troupe rolled on its way, pausing briefly at a wayside inn for refreshment before moving on again. Had they all been mounted, they might have covered thirty miles in a day but their resources did not run to such a large stable of horses. Since they went at the rate of those walking on foot, they had to settle for much less distance. If they pushed themselves, they would have made twenty miles before nightfall but it would have wearied them and left them with neither the time nor the strength for an impromptu performance at the place where they stopped. Lawrence Firethorn and Nicholas Bracewell had discussed the itinerary m some detail. It was important to pace themselves carefully.

Richard Honeydew sought more education.

Did you see that head, Master Bracewell?'

'Head?'

'As we left London. Upon a spike at Bishopsgate.'

'I marked it, lad.'

'The sight made me feel sick.'

'That was partly the intention.'

'Can any man deserve such a fate?'

'Anthony Rickwood was a traitor and the penalty for treason is death, Whether that death should be so cruel and barbarous is another matter.'

'Who was the man?'

'Part of a Catholic conspiracy,' said Nicholas. 'He and his fellows plotted to murder the Queen during a visit she was due to make to Sussex.'

'How was the conspiracy uncovered?'

'By Sir Francis Walsingham. He has spies everywhere. One of his informers learned of the plot in the nick of time and Master Rickwood was seized at once.'

'What of the other conspirators?'

'There will be further arrests when their names are known. Mr Secretary Walsingham will not rest until every last one of them has his head upon a spike. He has vowed that he will bring all Catholic traitors to justice.'

'Will he so do?'

'Doubt it not, Dick. His spies are well-chosen and well-trained in their work. He controls them all with great skill. It was not just our naval commanders who defeated the Armada. We owe much to Mr Secretary Walsingham as well. He it was who foretold the size and armaments of the Spanish fleet.'

'You seem to know much about him.'

'I sailed with Drake,' said Nicholas, 'and he was closely acquainted with Sir Francis Walsingham.'

'Was he?'

'The Secretary of State has always taken a special interest in the exploits of our navigators.'

'Why?'

'Because they had a darker purpose.'

'What was that, Master?'

'Piracy.'

The boy's eyes widened with outrage at the idea.

'Sir Francis Drake a pirate!' he exclaimed.

'What else would you call raids on foreign vessels and towns?' said Nicholas. 'Piracy. Pure and simple. I was there, lad. I saw it.'

'But piracy is a terrible crime.'

"There is a way around that problem.'

'Is there?'

'Yes, and I suspect that Walsingham was the man who found it. He persuaded the Queen to become involved in the enterprise. In return for receiving a share in the spoils of the voyage, Her Majesty granted us letters of marque.'

'Letters of marque?'

'They turned us from pirates into privateers.'

'And this was done by our own dear Queen?'

'With the connivance of Walsingham. He urged her to encourage the lawless acts of Drake and his like. When they captured Spanish ships, they brought money into the Treasury and tweaked the nose of Roman Catholicism.'

Richard Honeydew gasped as he tried to take it all in. He was profoundly shocked by the news that a great national hero had at one time been engaged in piracy, but he did not doubt Nicholas's word. He was confused, too, by the religious aspect.

'Why do the Catholics want to kill the Queen?'

'She is the symbol of our Protestant country.'

'Is it such a crime to follow Rome?'

'Yes, lad,' said Nicholas. 'Times have changed. My father was brought up in the old religion but King Henry turned him into a Protestant, and the whole realm besides. Most people would not dare to believe what my father once believed. They are too afraid of Walsingham.'

'So am I,' said the boy.

'At all events, the Queen's life must be protected.'

'In every possible way'

'That is why we must have so many spies.'

Richard Honeydew thought about the head upon the spike.

'I am glad that I am not a Roman Catholic,' he said.

York Minster speared the sky with its three great towers and cast a long shadow of piety over the houses and shops that clustered so eagerly around it. It was the most beautiful cathedral in England as well as being the largest medieval building in the kingdom. Work on it had begun way back in 1220 and it was over two and a half centuries before it was completed. The result was truly awe-inspiring, a Gothic masterpiece which represented the full cycle of architectural styles and which was a worthy monument to the consecutive generations of Christian love and devotion that went into its construction. Visitors to York could see the Minster from several miles away, rising majestically above the city like a beacon of light in a world of secular darkness.

Sir Clarence Marmion did not even spare it a cursory glance as he rode in through Bootham Bar on his horse. A tall, distinguished, cadaverous man in his fifties, he had the kind of noble bearing and rich apparel that made people touch their caps in deference as he passed. After riding down Petergate, he turned into The Shambles and moved along its narrow confines with bold care, ducking his head beneath the overhanging roofs, brushing the walls with his shoulders and using his horse to force a gentle passage through the crowd. High above him, the bells of the cathedral mingled with the happy clamour of the working day. He clicked his tongue in irritation.

His mount now took him left along the river until he was able to cross it at Ouse Bridge. As he rode on down Micklegate, people were still streaming into the city on their way to market. He swung in through a gateway and found himself in a cobbled yard. An ostler ran out to hold his horse while he dismounted and got no more than a grunt of acknowledgement for his pains. It was exactly what he expected. Sir Clarence was no casual visitor to the inn. It had been owned by his family for centuries.

The Trip to Jerusalem was a long, low, timber-framed building that wandered off at all sorts of improbable angles with absent-minded curiosity. It dated back to the twelfth century and was said to have been the stopping place for soldiers riding south to join the Crusade in 1189. At that time, it was the brewhouse to the castle but a sense of spiritual purpose made it change its name to the Pilgrim. Under the hand of Sir Clarence Marmion, it had acquired its fuller title, though its regular patrons referred to it simply and succinctly as Jerusalem.

Bending forward under the lintel, Sir Clarence went through the doorway and into the taproom. An aroma of beer and tobacco welcomed him. When he straightened his hack, his head almost touched the undulating ceiling.