Their host showered them with fresh thanks.
'You do not know what joy you have brought.'
'We are deeply gratified,' said Firethorn, still using his Tarquin voice. 'We humble wights live on the indulgence of our patrons. Pomeroy Manor has been our joy as well. We hope for like acceptance everywhere.'
'You will find it for sure, sir.'
'Not in Ware or Royston, I fear.'
'Go further north towards certain victory.'
'That is our intention.'
'I have done my share,' said Pomeroy. 'Hearing of your plans, I wrote from London to my closest friend to warn him of your coming. Westfield's Men are assured of a hearty welcome there.'
'We thank you, kind sir. Where is this place?'
'Marmion Hall.'
'In what town?'
'Close by the city of York.'
Lawrence Firethorn played the crusader again.
'York, you say? We know it by another name.'
'What might that be?'
'Jerusalem!'
The cellar was deep beneath the house. No natural light penetrated and the thick stone walls were covered with seeping damp. There was a smell of despair. The man was naked to the waist. Spread-eagled on a wooden table, he was tied in such a way as to increase his torment. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles, stretching him until he was on the point of splitting asunder. Huge gobs of sweat were wrung out of him to mingle with the streaked blood across his chest and arms. His face was a pulp. As he lay in his own excrement, he barely had the strength to groan any more and did not even feel the impudent legs of the spider that ran across his forehead.
Marmion Hall was the ancestral home of one of the most respected families in Yorkshire. Nobody would have believed that it housed such a guest beneath its roof.
The cellar door was unlocked and unbolted from the outside and a candle brought light. A short, stocky man in the livery of a servant went across to the prisoner and held the flame where it illumined his battered features. Sir Clarence Marmion was impassive as he saw the tortured body.
'Has he said no more?'
'Nothing beyond cries of pain, Sir Clarence.' Have you tested him to the full?'
'With steel and fire. He's bled half to death.' Would not whipping loosen his tongue?'
Only to let him beg for mercy.'
'They get none that give none,' said the other coldly. 'Walsingham's men are ruthless. So must we be.'
Grabbing the prisoner by the hair, the servant banged his head on the table then leered right into his face.
'Speak up, sir! We cannot hear you!'
A long moan came from between parched lips.
'Who was he?' hissed Sir Clarence. 'I want the name of the spy who informed on Master Rickwood!'
The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.
'Tell me!' insisted the master of the house. 'Which of Walsingham's creatures sent him to his death?'
'I cannot cut the information out of him.'
'His name!'
As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove.
He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.
'What now, Sir Clarence?' asked the servant.
'Kill him.'
Though the house in Shoreditch was now half-empty, with far fewer mouths to feed at table, Margery Firethorn still had plenty of domestic chores to keep her occupied. One of these was to make regular visits to market to buy the food and berate any stallholder who tried to overcharge her. Servants could not be trusted to get the choicest items at the best prices and so she : reserved the task of filling the larder for herself. It got her out of the house and stopped her from brooding on her loneliness.
She entered the city by Bishopsgate and was caught up in a small commotion. Armed soldiers were bustling about, pushing people out of the way and dealing roughly with any complainants. Margery rid herself of a few barbed remarks at them before sauntering on towards the market in Gracechurch Street. She was soon deep in dispute with a hapless vendor about the quality of his fruit. When she had beaten him down to the price she was prepared to pay, she took her belligerence along to the next stall and set it to work.
Her footsteps eventually took her close to the Queen's Head and it prompted wistful thoughts of Westfield's Men. Ambivalent feelings pulled at her. Still angry with her husband, she yet missed him keenly. Anxious to upbraid him severely, she would have mixed some kisses with the scolding. Margery Firethorn could not blame her spouse for everything. In marrying him, she had married the theatre and that brought special tribulation.
She was given further evidence of the fact. Sitting outside the inn on a low stool was a thin, ascetic man with a viol between his legs, coaxing plaintive notes out of his instrument in the hopes of earning a few coins from the passers-by. Margery was saddened. It was Peter Digby. Ten days before, he bad been the proud leader or the consort of musicians employed by Westfield's Men. Now he was scratching for pennies in the street. The theatre was indeed a cruel master.
'How now, Master Digby!' she said.
'Mistress!'
'Have you no other work but this, sir?'
'None that pays me.'
She took a coin from a purse and pressed it into his hand. He thanked her for a kindness then enquired about the company. She had yet no news to give him but talked in general terms, shouts from the distance made them look towards Bishopsgate. More soldiers milled about.
'What means this commotion?' she said.
'Have you not heard?'
'No, Master Digby.'
'One of the heads has vanished from its spike.'
'There's grisly work indeed!'
'Taken down in the night,' he said. 'And this was not in jest. When the culprit is caught, this is a hanging offence. They search for him in earnest.
'Whose head was taken down?' she asked.
'That of a traitor freshly executed.'
'What was his name?'
'Anthony Rickwood.'
(*)Chapter Five
Westfield's Men set out with high hopes but they were soon blighted by circumstance. Heavy overnight rain had mired a road that was already in a bad state of repair.
Local parishes were responsible for the maintenance of any road that ran within their boundaries but in the case of a highway like the Great North Road, an intolerable burden was placed upon them. There was no way that they could find the resources for the upkeep of such a major artery and Westfield's Men suffered as a result.
'Use the whip, man!'
'It is no use!'
'Drive them on, drive them on!'
'We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.'
'I'll get you out if I have to drag the cart with my own bare hands, so I will!'
But Firethorn was thwarted. Though he took hold of the harness of one of the carthorses and pulled with all
