Quilley rode along, one hand clutched at his breast as if trying to hold in his heart.
'Swing to the right!' he urged.
'Aye, Master.'
'We shall be shielded from the wind there.'
'Aye, Master.'
The young man had little conversation but a strength of sinew that was reassuring company. Quilley forgave him for his ignorance and raced him to the trees. They were drenched when they arrived and so relieved to be out of the bad weather at last that they dispensed with caution. It was to be their downfall.
'Ho, there, sirs!'
'Hey! Hey! Hey!'
'Fate has delivered you unto us.'
'Dismount!'
Four rogues in rough attire leapt from their hiding place with such suddenness that the riders were taken totally by surprise. Two of the robbers had swords, the third a dagger and the last a clump of wood that looked the most dangerous weapon of them all. The young man did not even manage to unsheath his rapier. Terrified by the noise and intensity of the assault, his horse reared its front legs so high that he was unsaddled in a flash. He fell backwards through the air with no control and landed awkwardly on his neck. There was a sickly crack and his body went limp. It was a death of great simplicity.
The others turned their attention to Quilley.
'Away, you murderers!' he yelled.
'Come, sir, we would speak with you.'
'Leave go of that rein!'
But Quilley's puny efforts were of no avail. He punched and kicked at them but only provoked their ridicule. The biggest ruffian reached up a hand and yanked him from his perch as if he were picking a flower from a garden. Oliver Quilley was thrown to the ground.
'They'll hang each one of you for this!'
He tried to get up but they tired of his presence. The clump of wood struck him behind his ear and he pitched forward into oblivion. Pleased with the day's handiwork, the four men assessed their takings. They were soon riding off hell for leather.
Quilley was unconscious for a long time but the rain finally licked him awake. The first thing he saw was the dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.
Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.
He began the long walk towards the next village.
The rain lashed Westfield's Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell's main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasingly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen's Head and the comforts of London.
Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could lake a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.
Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.
Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.
Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.
'What else did he say, George?'
'He talked of other companies that hired him.'
'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'
'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'
'And were they well received?'
'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'
George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times--in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways--by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.
'One thing more, George.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'
'Many times, Master.'
'What does he say?'
'That he is the better player of the two.'
'I did not think him so.'
'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'
'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'
'None, Master.'
'No tribute of a passing sigh?'
'Not once in my hearing.'
'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'
'I will, sir.'
Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.
'When we left London...'
'Yes, George?'
'We came through Bishopsgate.'
'Aye, sir.'
'There was a head upon a spike there.'
'Several, if memory serves.'
'This was the most recent.'
'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'
'What was his offence?'
'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'
