The Trip to Jerusalem

Humphrey Budden was in a fever of apprehension. He hardly dared to leave his wife's side in case she was seized by another fir. Neighbours had been scandalized by the sounds which had issued from her bedchamber and all kinds of wild rumours were now flying around Nottingham like so many bats flapping about in a belfry. It was distressing to someone in Budden's position and he had turned once more for advice from Miles Melhuish. Racked by his own ambiguous role in the domestic tragedy, the vicar urged daily resort to prayer for man and wife. He also came up with another suggestion for the suffering husband.

'Let us walk down by the river, Eleanor.'

'If you wish it, sir.'

'This was our favourite place not so long ago,' he reminded her. 'Have you so soon forgot?'

'Indeed, no.'

'You'll come with me, then?'

'I'll obey my husband.'

'This way...'

Eleanor was no longer the woman he had married. The comely young widow with such a light heart had turned into a serious introvert with her mind on higher things. That unexplained horror in the bedchamber had robbed him of his chief delight. Eleanor had recovered from her coma with no memory of what had happened. Her naked assault on the praying Miles Melhuish was unknown to her. All was lost. Gone was her warmth, her laughter and vivacity. She was subdued and preoccupied now. Humphrey Budden had been sleeping in a cold bed for nights.

He put his trust in God's bright sunlight.

'Sit down here, Eleanor.'

'Why, sir?'

'Because I wish to speak with you.'

'This grass will suit, I think.'

She lowered herself down on to the green turf and spread her dress around her. Budden was moved. For a second, he saw the woman he had loved, courted and won for his own. Happiness came flooding back. They had returned to the spot where it had all started. Water rippled only yards away from them as the River Trent snaked its way through verdant banks. Old magic might yet be rekindled if he was patient. He sank down beside her and took her hand in his.

'Eleanor...'

'Sir?'

'Be my wife.'

'I am such.'

'Be my wife in more than name.'

'You speak in riddles.'

He slipped a hand clumsily around her waist. His mouth went dry as he asked it for help. He was painfully aware of his blundering inexperience. Eleanor had been twice married and twice widowed before she met him. He had been well past thirty before he even dared to think of taking a wife. There was a gap between them. It had been bridged on their wedding night and for several joyous months to follow, but it had now opened up again and widened into a chasm.

He cudgelled his voice into action again. ;

"When we first met...'

'Yes, Humphrey?'

'We talked of children.'

'I had five but lost dear Harry in childbirth.'

'You wanted more. My children, Eleanor.' I do recall it, sir.'

Our children, dear wife, and the fruit of our union.' He ran his tongue across his lips. 'The vicar is of the same opinion in this matter. By God's grace, a new baby will bring you back to me as I loved you best. He was troubled by prickly heat. 'Be my wife again, Eleanor. Pay the due of marriage once more.'

She gazed down the long reaches of the river and watched a kingfisher skim and dive. When she spoke, her voice was dull but her words hail awesome clarity.

'I will not share your bed again. Husband you have been, and as loyal a man as any woman could wish, but I have other work in other places. He has called me, sir. He has given me clear direction.'

'Who has?'

'Who else would I listen to but God?'

'Clear direction, you say?'

I must go on a long journey.'

'Why?'

Because it is ordained.'

May I make this journey with you, Eleanor?'

No, sir. I go alone.'

'Where?'

'To the Holy land.'

But that cannot be, wife.'

He guides my steps. It must be.'

The Holy Land!' exclaimed Budden.

'Be not amazed, sir. I have been summoned.'

'For what reason?'

'I will know when I arrive there. In Jerusalem.'

(*)Chapter Three

Westfield's Men left the pulsing world of London for the calmer pastures of Middlesex. Pangs of regret troubled them immediately.' Once outside the city gates, they headed due north for Shoreditch where they passed the Curtain and then the Theatre, two custom-built playhouses in which they had given memorable performances on a number of occasions. Constructed outside the city boundary in order to escape the jurisdiction of the Lord Mayor and his Council, the two theatres were busy, boisterous, bustling centres of entertainment and hordes flocked to them. There would be no such havens for Westfield's Men on their travels.! he sophisticated facilities of a real playhouse would give way to the exigencies of an inn yard or the limitations of a room in a private house. In purely artistic terms, touring was no pilgrimage.

It was a sudden fall from grace.

They journeyed along the Great North Road, one of the four major highways in the kingdom. It took them past Islington Ponds, where they saw men shooting wild ducks for sport, then struck out into open country. Farms were dotted about on all sides, part of the huge agricultural belt that encircled London with green acres and which produced its wheat, hay, fruit and vegetables or fattened up cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks and geese for sale in the markets of the capital. Urban squalor had been left behind now. The air was cleaner, the sky brighter, the hues more vivid and the vistas seemingly endless. Lungs and noses which had become accustomed to the reek of a plague city could breathe salvation.

Nicholas Bracewell kept the two carthorses plodding along at a steady gait and drank in the sights and sounds of the countryside. Sitting alongside him was Richard Honeydew, the youngest, smallest and most talented of the apprentices. The boy had long since learned that the book holder was not only his staunchest friend in the company but an inexhaustible fund of information.

'Master Bracewell...'

'Yes, lad?'

'I have never been outside London before.'

'Then you will gain much from the experience, Dick.'

'Will there be great dangers ahead?'

'Do not think upon such matters.'

'The other boys talk of thieves and highwaymen.'

'They are but teasing you, lad.'

'Martin says gypsies may carry me off

'He mocks your innocence.'

'Shall we face no perils at all?'

'None that should fright you too much, Dick.'

'Then why do you carry swords?'

All the men were armed and most had daggers at their belts as well as rapiers at their sides. It was a very necessary precaution for any travellers. Outlaws, rogues and vagabonds lurked along the roads in search of prey. Nicholas did not want to alarm the boy by telling him this and instead assured him that the very size and strength of the company would deter any possible attack. Richard Honeydew would be as safe in the countryside as he would be when he slept in his bed at the house in Shoreditch under the formidable but affectionate guard of Margery Firethorn. The boy relaxed visibly.

Short, thin and with the bloom of youth upon his delicate features, Richard Honeydew had been carefully shaped by Nature to take on female roles. His boyish charms became even more alluring when he changed his sex and his unforced prettiness translated readily into the beauty of a young woman. A mop of blond hair that was usually hidden beneath a wig now sprouted out from under his cap. Because the boy was so unaware of his several attractions, they became even more potent.

'Would you like to ride on a horse, Dick?'

'Oh, yes, Master Gill.'

'Hop up behind me, then.'

'Will it be safe, sir?'

'If you hold on tight to my waist,'

Barnaby Gill had brought his horse alongside the waggon and was now offering a gloved hand to the boy. Nicholas intervened swiftly.