with his Maker.
An hour passed. The rustling silence was then broken by the sweetest of sounds. Behind the choir screen with its row of kings surmounted by stucco angels, the Minster choristers had taken up their position in their gleaming stalls. Voices of sublime harmony were raised in a Mass. In his extremity, it seemed to Robert Rawlins as if the angels themselves were singing in unison. He listened transfixed to the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei, mouthing old Latin words that were sung with such beauty and expression by young throats, and sharing in the perfection of earthly worship. It was such balm to his ears and succour to his soul that tears of joy soon trickled down his face.
The choirmaster now decided to rehearse a hymn. When the voices rose again to fill the whole cathedral with a mellifluous sound, they achieved a different result.
All people that on earth do dwell
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell,
Come ye before him, and rejoice.
Robert Rawlins got to his feet in horror. It was not only because the singing of hymns had been introduced by the Puritans as part of their denigration of the priests and their eagerness to involve the congregation in the divine service. What stuck in his craw was this version of Psalm 100--Jubilate Deo. Rendered into the vernacular from the Latin that Rawlins loved, it was the work of one William Kethe, a hymn-writer who fled from England during Mary's reign and lived as a refugee in Geneva with such extremists as John Knox, Goodman, Whittingham and Foxe. Such names, such beliefs and such associations were quite obnoxious to Robert Rawlins and he felt it was sacrilege to sing that hymn in that place.
Spinning around, he trotted back down the nave to the Great West Door. The comfort which he sought had been denied him. God was deaf to his entreaties.
He went out once more into a hostile world.
The enormous pleasure of seeing Anne Hendrik again was tempered by the fact that he had no leisure time to spend alone with her. Nicholas Bracewell was forced to chat with her while helping to construct a makeshift tree for use in the forthcoming performance of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. In a coiner of the inn yard, the book holder was an emergency carpenter with the dubious assistance of George Dart. Conversation with Anne Hendrik was therefore punctuated by the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer. It ruled out any romantic element. 'I cannot believe my luck in meeting you,' she said.
'I told you it would happen, Anne.'
'If only the circumstances were happier.'
'Indeed.'
'Is there no news at all of Dick Honeydew?'
'None, I fear.'
'Who could have taken him?'
'All sorts of people,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'He is a comely youth and takes the eye wherever we stop. Dick would not be the first apprentice who was snatched away because someone conceived a fancy for the lad.'
'Is he in danger?'
'We must hope that he is not.'
'Where do you think he could be, Nick?'
'I have cudgelled my brain to give me an answer to that question, but it refuses. All I have is guesswork and suspicion.'
And what do they tell you?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'Would they commit such a crime?'
'They have stolen both our plays and our audiences,' he argued. 'Why should they stop there? In stealing young Dick as well, they deal us a far harder blow.'
'You think the boy is with them?'
'Master Randolph is too clever for that. If he has ordered the abduction--and every instinct about me says that he did--then lie would have assigned the task to some underling and told the man to keep Dick well away from the company for fear of detection.'
Anne's maternalism was thoroughly roused by now. She knew all the apprentices well, none more so than Richard Honeydew, and she felt a mother's distress at his untimely disappearance. Imagination only increased her fright.
'Will they harm the boy?'
'They have no need to do so,' he said, trying to reassure himself as well as her. 'Their sole aim is to harm Westfield's Men and they do that by taking from us one of our leading players.'
'What will happen to the lad, then?'
'I believe he will be released in time.'
'And when will that be?'
'When they have thoroughly discomfited us.'
Nicholas hammered in a few more nails then stood the small tree up on the square base he had just provided. It rocked slightly on the cobbles. Anne was sympathetic.
'This is no work for a book holder.'
'It is a case of all hands to the pumps.'
'Can you not assign these chores to others?'
Her reply was a yell of pain. George Dart had missed the nail he was hitting and found his thumb instead. He danced around in anguish, wringing his hand as if it were a bell then plunging it into a bucket of cold water that a groom was carrying out of the stables. Nicholas looked on with rueful amusement.
'That is why I must supervise it all, Anne,' he said. 'Our fellows are willing but unskilled. Were I not here to help and control, there'd scarce be three fingers left between the whole lot of them.'
Nicholas took over the job that Dart had abandoned. As church bells rang out nearby, Anne Hendrik turned her mind to another topic. The faintest hint of jealousy sounded in her voice. 'Tell me more of Mistress Eleanor Budden.'
'There is nothing more to tell.'
'She accosted you in the river, you say?'
'Only because she took me for my betters.'
'You are no Lord Jesus to me.'
I am pleased to hear it.' They laughed fondly. Do not pay any heed to Mistress Budden. She was but a minor encumbrance in a long and busy day. I shook her free.'
'Can you be sure of that, Nick?'
'She will not travel with us.'
'Master Oliver Quilley does.'
'Only by special arrangement.'
'Will she not find the same dispensation?'
'It is outside the bounds of possibility,' he said with confidence. 'Master Firethorn will have no time for yearning missionaries. He will turn her away straight. We are a company of players who carry our tumult with us. Warm language can be spoken by headstrong spirits. Here is no place for maiden modesty, still less for any true pilgrim. Mistress Eleanor Budden wastes her breath. There is no way that she will journey with us to York.'
'It is agreed, then,' said Firethorn. 'You come with us.'
'Oh, sir!' she said effusively. 'Your kindness will win you friends in Heaven. I kiss your hand.'
'Nay, Madam, I will kiss yours.'
He took the outstretched hand of Eleanor Budden with elaborate courtesy and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She curtseyed low before him and he responded with a bow. For a man who normally guarded Westfield's Men with a possessive care, he was being extraordinarily liberal. In the space of twenty-four hours, he had agreed to let
