The Trip to Jerusalem

'Master Bracewell!'

'Good morrow, Mistress Budden. And to you, sir.'

'We wish to thank you most sincerely,' said the husband, clasping him by the hand. 'We will never be able to repay you for your kindness.'

'Your happiness is payment enough, sir.'

They had arrived back at the inn to find Nicholas saddling up a horse in the yard. Eleanor was now a sober matron who hung on her husband's arm though the twinkle in her eye showed that a wistful memory still lingered. Nicholas was glad when the couple went off to collect up their belongings before returning home.

Lawrence Firethorn came hurrying into the yard.

'Nick, dear heart!'

'I am riding out to Marmion Hall.'

'Let me shower you with my gratitude first,' said the other with a bear-like embrace. 'Master Pym told me what happened last night. You lifted the burden of Susan Becket off my back when you played Cupid for her. I need not fear a meeting between her and Margery now.'

'How is Mistress Firethorn this morning?'

'Lying contentedly among my creditors.'

'I am glad that someone found happiness,' said Nicholas. 'My night was taken up with Master Quilley.'

'Poor wretch! It was a gruesome way to depart this life. Do they have any idea who might have murdered him?'

'None, sir. I am just relieved that they no longer think that I may be the culprit. The officers and the magistrate questioned me for hours.'

'I spoke up for you, Nick. My voice has weight.'

'Your help was much appreciated.'

Nicholas put a foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. His mind was still playing with all the questions that the death of Oliver Quilley had opened up. He looked down at his employer and remembered something. Lawrence Firethorn was the finest actor in London and the nobility came in droves to watch him. He was well-acquainted with those at Court and party to much of their gossip.

'May I ask you a question, sir?'

'A hundred, if it pleases you.'

'What is your view of Mr Secretary Walsingham?'

'Pah!' exclaimed Firethorn. 'I spit upon him.'

'Why so?'

'Because he is linked to the name I detest most.'

'In what way, Master?'

'Do you not know?'

'Why then would I ask?'

'Sir Francis Walsingham is now Secretary of State and our dear Queen has heaped every honour upon him that it is possible to have.' Firethorn curled his lip. 'But I remember how he began his great political career.'

'As a member of Parliament was it not?'

'Shall I tell you the town for which he sat?'

'I think I can guess.'

'Banbury!'

Marmion Hall that morning was in the grip of a deep sorrow. Sir Clarence put on a brave face in front of his family and his servants but they sensed what hung over them and it introduced a sombre air. The arrest of Robert Rawlins had been a devastating blow and they were still reeling from it. There was an additional setback for Sir Clarence. The man whom he had dispatched to York had been killed by his own intended victim. It was very alarming. The informer who had betrayed both of the accomplices was now closing in on Sir Clarence himself. Instant flight could be necessary. Preparations were made. Is everything in order?'

'Yes, Sir Clarence.'

'Keep a horse saddled and ready.'

'It is all in hand.'

You will ride with me.'

'Thar will be an honour, Sir Clarence.'

The servant bowed humbly then moved off about his duties. His master hoped that the emergency would not arise but could not rule it out. After occupying Marmion Hall with such pride for so many generations, the family now faced a tragic possibility. The incumbent head of the house might be chased out of it like a rat.

There was one small compensation. Westfield's Men were visiting them that clay and they might help to lift the veil of sadness, even to allow them a few hours of harmless pleasure. Sir Clarence knew of the company's work in London and had selected the play from their repertoire that would be most apposite. It was the same drama which had thrilled the spectators at the inn.

Soldiers of the Cross. It appealed to him because it sounded so many chords. He believed that he was engaged in another form of crusade.

Sir Clarence was in the hall to welcome Nicholas Bracewell when the latter arrived. The book holder was fatigued and explained what had kept him up most of the night. His host was dismayed.

'Master Quilley dead?'

'Murdered, sir.'

'Has the villain been apprehended?'

'Not yet, Sir Clarence.'

'This is bleak intelligence.'

'The fellow was amusing company.'

'That is what I found.'

'I believe that you commissioned him.'

'Master Quilley was to have painted my portrait. I wanted it quickly so that I could present it as a gift to my wife.' He looked up balefully at the oil painting of his father. 'I have not the time to wait for something of this order. Oliver Quilley was my only hope.'

'There are other limners for hire.'

'He came by special recommendation.'

Nicholas tried to pursue the subject but his host dismissed it with a wave of his hand, preferring instead to talk about the play and its mode of presentation. He was clearly knowledgeable about the theatre and had visited the playhouses during his occasional visits to London. It was a treat to discuss drama with him and it served to brighten his manner immeasurably. Nicholas soon decided that the stage would be erected at the far end of the hall. A panelled door opened into a room that could be used as the tiring-house. Curtains could be rigged up on a rail. Large windows let in a fair amount of light but it would need to be supplemented by candles and tapers.

While the book holder continued to work out the logistics of performance, Sir Clarence gave orders to his servants and rows of chairs were brought into the hall. Standees in abundance had watched the play at the inn but all the guests would be seated here. There would be far less sweat, swearing and jostling and a lot more refinement. At the personal invitation of Sir Clarence Marmion, all the gentry of the West Riding were coming that afternoon. It would be a select audience.

A large gilt armchair was brought in and placed at the end of the front row, directly beneath the portrait of the host's father. Evidently, it was Sir Clarence's own chair for he tried it out and glanced over at the stage. Nicholas could not understand why the master of the house did not occupy a prime position in the centre of the row. It seemed perverse to place himself at such an angle to the action of the play.

When all the arrangements were made, Nicholas was given refreshment then left alone to await the arrival of the company. He took the opportunity to stroll outside in the sunshine and admire the magnificent formal gardens. One outcrop of rhododendrons claimed his attention. They were a hundred yards or more from the house and trained into a small circle. What intrigued him was the fact that the bushes were moving about as if blown by a minor gale and yet there was no breeze at all.

Shielded by an avenue of yews, Nicholas made his way towards the rhododendrons. They were still now but a noise told him what might have caused the movement. He was hoping to confirm his theory when a thickset man stepped out to block his way. 'This part of the garden is out of bounds, sir.'