'Noise, sir?'
A most dolorous cry came from you.'
I was weeping for the death of Christ in torment. Miles Melhuish threw caution to the winds and sat opposite her. Wayward housewives had always responded to astern reproof before. It was time to stop encouraging the woman in her fancy and to put her firmly back on the straight and narrow path of wifely duty. He knitted his brows and reached for his homiletic strain.
Cast out these false notions!' he warned. If you would serve
God then do so by showing proper respect for one of His ministers.
It is within the four walls of this parish church that you will hear
His true voice and not at the fish stall in Nottingham market.'
She looked duly crushed and it spurred him on. 'Go back to
Humphrey Budden. He is a good husband and deserves better from his chosen companion in life. Let me hear no more about this chastity in your bedchamber. Cleave to your spouse. Give him the children he desires. Add some little parishioners to our congregation at St Stephen's. That only is your bounden duty and purpose here upon this earth.'
He had won. Eleanor Budden sat with bowed head and hunched shoulders, meek, mild and submitting to his firm instruction. It was a small victory for him and it gave him a flabby self-importance. He sat up straight in his chair to project his full ecclesiastical authority.
And all the while, she was in abject surrender.
Then she began to laugh. It began as a snigger, half-suppressed with the back of her hand. Then it became a giggle, almost girlish in its flippancy, increasing in volume every second until it was a full-throated laugh that set her whole body shaking, then it became a roar of mirth that made the vestry reverberate with sound, and, finally and inexplicably, it was a strange and uncontrollable cachinnation that built up into a crescendo and stopped dead.
Eyes that had sparkled with humour now ran with tears of remorse. Hands that had flapped about wildly now closed in prayer. Miles Melhuish writhed beneath the intensity of her gaze and vowed to refer the case to the diocesan synod. It was way beyond his competence. He was in the presence of witchcraft. The Dean alone was fit to pronounce on such a weighty matter.
The tears ceased but the wild stare remained. He endured its obsessional glow until he realized that she was not looking at him at all but at some object directly behind him. Turning around, he saw what had transfixed and transfigured her. It was a small lancet window into which some zealous craftsman had set the most affecting picture in stained glass. Christ was nailed to the cross with the crown of thorns upon His head. The round face was framed by long fair hair and a full beard, which took on a golden hue as light streamed in through the window. There was martyrdom and majesty in the image.
Eleanor Budden let out a sigh of pure enchantment.
She was in love.
Nicholas Bracewell ran wet hands through his hair and tossed back his mane as he completed his ablutions at the pump in the courtyard. He was up not long after dawn and the sun was taking its first peep at the day. There was much to do before departure.
Nicholas had to supervise the feeding and harnessing of the horses, the loading up of the waggon, the checking of valuables to make sure that nothing was missing, the payment of the landlord and the pacification of his wife, whom Lawrence Firethorn, in a moment of drunken zeal, had mistaken for a serving wench and seized in an amorous embrace. There would also be some lessons in swordplay he had promised the boys and the purchase of some provisions for the journey. The work of the book holder was never done.
'Welcome to the day, Master Bracewell!'
'The same to you, Christopher.'
'Let us hope it bears sweeter fruit than yesterday.'
'I am sure it must.'
'Where do we stop today?'
'At Royston. God willing.
'Royston...'
The name triggered off a thought. Two long days of walking on foot had taken none of the swagger out of Christopher Millfield. He looked neat and trim in his doublet and hose. Nicholas, wearing an old shirt and a buff jerkin, felt dishevelled by comparison. He had never really taken to the young actor and put it down to the latter's forced affability.
Christopher Millfield produced his annoying grin.
'May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?'
'Please do, sir.'
'If we should fail to find an audience in Royston, as we did in Ware, there may yet be employment for us.'
'From what source?'
'Pomeroy Manor.' You know the place?'
Only by repute,' said Millfield airily. 'It lies on the estates of one Neville Pomeroy, a man of true breeding and culture, not unfriendly to the theatre and like to give us a kinder word than the folk at Ware.'
Nicholas nodded his thanks. The name of Pomeroy was vaguely familiar to him. He had heard it mentioned by Lord Westfield, and in terms of praise, which was unusual for their patron. A local landowner with a liking for entertainment might be able to rill his largest room with some spectators for them.
Where is the house?' he said
'Towards Meldreth. Not far out of our way;'
'In which direction?'
'Cambridge.'
It was worth considering. If Banbury's Men were intent on queering their pitch, then Royston might well be closed to their art. Giles Randolph would not have ruined their chances at Pomeroy Manor. He might yet be thwarted.
Christopher Millfield stood with arms akimbo.
'Why do you not like me, Master Bracewell?'
'Have I said as much?'
'I read it in your manner.'
'You are deceived. I like you well enough.'
'But not as much as Gabriel Hawkes.'
'I gave the matter no thought.'
'That is not what Master Gill believes. He tells me that you urged the name of Gabriel over mine.'
'I will not deny it.'
'May I know your reason?'
'I took him to be the finer actor.'
Millfield winced. 'You are mistaken there, sir.'
'I can only give you my true opinion.'
'It may be changed ere long,' said the other with a flash of pride. 'But was that the only cause of your preference for Gabriel? That you rated him more highly?'
'No, Christopher.'
'What else?'
'I found him more honest company.'
Nicholas gave a straightforward answer that was not to Millfield's taste at all. After shooting a hostile glare at the book I holder, he invented a nonchalant smile.
'It is of no moment,' he said.
'How so?'
'Gabriel is gone to Heaven. I am here in his place.'
'Can you spare the dead no respect?'
'He was my rival. I do not mourn him.'
