The Trip to Jerusalem

'Too late, sir. Far too late.'

'Do but see Cupid's Folly and you will not rue it.'

'What did you call the play?'

'Cupid's Folly.'

'Then is your journey really in vain.'

'How so?'

'We have seen this country tale, sir.'

'That cannot be, Master Hawthornden,' said Nicholas confidently. 'We hold the licence of that play. I have the book under lock and key. What you saw, perchance, was another play with the same title. Our comedy tells the story of one Rigormortis, an old man who is pierced by Cupid's arrow.'

'Aye,' said Hawthornden. 'He falls in love with every wench he sees yet spurns the one who loves him. Her name was Ursula and she did make us laugh most heartily.'

Nicholas gaped. It sounded like the same play. When Tom Hawthornden furnished more details of the action, the case was certain. Ware had definitely seen a performance of Cupid's Folly even though the play was the exclusive property of Westfield's Men. It was baffling.

Tom Hawthornden resorted to a rude dismissal.

'Go your way, sir. There's nothing for you here.'

Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and held him.

'What was the name of this other company?'

Within twenty-four hours of his departure, remorse set in. Margery Firethorn began to wish that she had given her husband a more joyful farewell. They would not then have parted in such a strained manner. Had she not repelled his advances, they could have spent their last night together in a state of married bliss that would have kept her heart warm and put her mind at ease. As it was, she now felt hurt, fractious and unsettled. Long, lonely months would pass before she saw her husband again.

The house in Shoreditch already felt cold and empty. Pour apprentices and two hired men had lodged there and she had mothered them all with her brisk affection. Now she was left with only a part of her extended family. The most painful loss was that of Lawrence Firethorn. As man and actor, he was a glorious presence who left a gap in nature when he was not there. He had his faults and no one knew them as intimately as his wife. But they faded into insignificance when she thought of the life and noise and colour that he brought to the house, and when she recalled the thousand impetuous acts of love he had bestowed upon her in the fullness of his ardour.

Caught up in a mood of sadness, she tripped upstairs to the bedchamber she shared with a man she now saw as a species of paragon. What other husband could retain her interest and excite her passions for so many years? What other member of such an insecure profession could take such fond care of his wife and children? That he was loved and desired by other women was no secret to her but even that could be a source of pride. She was the object of intense envy. Where notorious beauties had failed to possess him even for a night, she had secured him for a lifetime. Their pursuit of him only served her purpose.

As she reviewed their last few hours together, she saw how unkind she had been to him. Lawrence Firethorn was unique and it was her place to respect and foster that uniqueness. He was not the callous father she accused him of being, nor yet the selfish husband or the compulsive libertine. He was a great man and, taken all in all, he deserved better from her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Margery used gentle fingers to stroke the garment he had so considerately left behind for her. It was his second-best cloak, worn during his performance in the title-role of Vincentio's Revenge and redolent with memories of that triumph. Knowing what it had cost him in emotional and spiritual terms to part with the cloak, she had slept all night with it lying across her. It was her one real memento of him.

Apart from the ruby.

Margery sat up with a start. She had chosen to forget all about the ring. It had been the cause of their bitter disputation and she had put it out of sight and out of mind. Now it took on a new significance. It was a love token from her husband, a reaffirmation of their marriage at a time when it would be put under immense strain. Scolding herself for being so ungrateful, she ran to the drawer where she had hidden the present. She would wear it proudly until he came back home again.

Burning with passion, she opened the drawer. But the ring had vanished. In its place was a tiny scroll. When she unrolled it, she saw a brief message from her husband.

'Farewell, dear love. Since the ruby is not welcome in Shore-ditch, I will wear it myself in Arcadia.'

Margery Firethorn smouldered. She knew only too well the location of Arcadia. It was the setting of a play by Edmund Hoode. Instead of gracing her finger, the ring would be worn for effect in The Lovers' Melancholy. It was demeaning. Such was the esteem in which she was held.

Love had, literally, been snatched from her hand.

Her scream of rage was heard a hundred yards away.

The vestry of the parish church of St Stephen was dank and chill in the warmest weather but Humphrey Budden still felt as if he were roasting on a spit. Misery had brought him there and it deepened with every second. He had to make a shameful confession. The one consolation was that Miles Melhuish was patently as discomfited as he himself was. Inclined to be smug and unctuous for the most part, the vicar was now torn between reluctant interest and rising apprehension. Though he had married many of his parishioners and sent them off with wise words to the land of connubial delight, he had never dared to explore that fabled territory himself. This fact only served to cow the nervous Budden even more. How could any man understand his predicament, still less a rotund bachelor whose idea of nocturnal pleasure was to spend an hour on his knees beside the bed in a frenzy of prayer?

Miles Melhuish sat in the chair opposite his visitor and reached out to him across the table. A vague smell of incense filled the air. The weight of religiosity was oppressive. Their voices echoed as in a tomb.

'Speak to me, Humphrey', encouraged the vicar.

'I will try, sir.'

'Is it your wife again?'

'I fear me, it is.'

Not more weeping and wailing?'

'Thankfully, no, but there is further harm.'

'To whom?'

Humphrey Budden was a furnace of humiliation. His cheeks Were positively glowing and he felt as if steam would issue from every orifice at any moment.

'Did you pray? said Melhuish sternly.

'Without ceasing.'

'Has Eleanor prayed with you?'

'It is the only time I may get close to her.'

'How say you?'

'She has put me aside, sir.'

'Speak more plain.'

It was a difficult request to fulfil. A man who had mastered the delicate art of lacemaking was now forced to chisel words crudely out of himself like an apprentice stonemason. Each swing of the hammer made his brain reel.

'Eleanor...is...not...my...wife.'

'Indeed, she is,' said the vicar. 'I solemnized the marriage myself and preached a sermon to you on the importance of walking in truth. Have you done that, my son? Have you and your wife walked in truth?'

'Yes, sir...down by...the river.'

'Stop holding back."

'I... have... no... wife.'

'Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder.'

'A woman hath done it.'

'Done what, man? We are going in small circles.'

Humphrey Budden steeled himself to blurt it all out.

'Eleanor is no longer my wife, sir. She will not share my bed or suffer my embraces. She says that the voice of God has spoken to her. It is sending her on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.'

'Wait, wait!' said Melhuish in alarm. 'You go too fast here. Let us take it one step at a time. She will not share your bed, you tell me?'

'No, sir. She sleeps on the floor.'