'As hard as any man dare.'
Robert Rawlins rubbed his hands fastidiously.
'Let me speak to the fellow, Sir Clarence.'
It will not serve.'
'Haply, I may succeed where others have failed.'
'You have come too late for that.'
'I will lay spiritual weights upon him.'
'He would feel them not, Master Rawlins.'
'What are you telling me?'
'The man is dead.'
'Since when?'
'Since I had him killed.'
'Sir Clarence!'
Robert Rawlins put a hand to his mouth in shock and leaned upon a stone angel for support. It was not the first time that his host had taken him by surprise since lie had arrived in Yorkshire but it was easily the most disconcerting. He waved his arms weakly in protest but his companion was brutally calm.
'The man was given Christian burial,' he said.
'After he was murdered.'
'Executed, sir. Like Anthony Rickwood.'
'An eye for an eye?'
'We gave him all the justice he deserved.'
'I would have sued for clemency.'
'On behalf of such a villain as that?'
'Every man has some good in him.'
'Not this black-hearted devil,' said Sir Clarence with asperity. 'One of Walsingham's jackals. He brought dozens of Catholics to their deaths and did so without compunction. Was I to let him go free, sir, to report that I was party to the conspiracy? And that Robert Rawlins is a missionary priest of the Romish persuasion?'
'I like not this business.'
'We had no choice before us.'
'You had Christian teaching to guide you.'
'So did Anthony Rickwood and where did it land him? Upon a spike at Bishopsgate until we engineered his rescue.' His vehemence increased. 'And what of Neville Pomeroy? What guidance did his Christian teaching give him? It showed him the way directly to the Tower!'
'I did not mean to anger you so, Sir Clarence.'
'We must fight fire with fire!'
'Murder should be anathema.'
'Revenge has its own dignity.'
Robert Rawlins bit back any further comment and tried to come to terms with what had happened. Sir Clarence Marmion was a good friend and a charming host when he wished to be but a new and more callous side to his character was emerging. It was highly unsettling. Joined indissolubly by the same purpose, the two men yet had different ideas on how it could be best effected.
Sir Clarence tried to still the other's disquiet.
'He sleeps with God now, sir.'
'Will the Law not come searching for him?'
'He'll not be found six feet under my land.'
'I own I am distressed.'
'Would you rather we had been subjects for burial?
'Indeed not, Sir Clarence.'
'Then rejoice in the death of an enemy.'
They strolled on along a gravel path that bisected the rose garden. Robert Rawlins slowly came to see some reason in what had been said. His host sounded a note or cautious optimism.
'I have prayed for help.'
'So have I, Sir Clarence. Daily.'
'Our prayers may yet meet with a response.'
'You have a sign of this?'
'Not outwardly, Master Rawlins.'
'Then how?'
'It is no more than a feeling but it grows and grows all the time. The man we seek may not need to be hunted down after all. There may be another means to find him.'
'Tell me what it is.'
'Let the villain come to us.'
'Will he do that, Sir Clarence?'
'I am certain of it. When I trust to instinct, I am seldom misled. The man is getting closer and we must be ready for him. Keep your wits about you, sir.'
'I will.' He is on his way to York.'
Christopher Millfield knew how to cut a dash when the opportunity presented itself. He had been cast in the part of Will Scarlet and sang the ballad which began the rehearsal of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Sauntering about the stage, he let his flowing scarlet costume swish to great effect and accompanied his pleasing tenor voice with chords from a small lute. Will Scarlet truly had his moment at the Town Hall in Nottingham.
Come now and listen, gentlemen,
That be of free-born blood!
I shall tell you of a good yeoman,
His name was Robin Hood.
Robin was a proud outlaw,
Whiles he walked on ground,
So courteous a fellow as he was one,
Was never none yet found.
Robin stood in Sherwood Forest,
And leaned him to a tree.
And by him stood Little John,
The stoutest friend was he.
The rehearsal had some shaky moments. Martin Yeo, the oldest and most experienced of the apprentices, was never more than a competent replacement for Richard Honeydew in the vital role of Maid Marion. His gesture and deportment were above reproach but he had none of his colleague's radiance or supreme sense of timing. Dressed in Lincoln green, as sanctified by tradition, Lawrence Firethorn brought his usual panache to the role of Robin Hood but even he faltered slightly in the love scenes. Barnaby Gill was a droll Friar Tuck and Edmund Hoode scored in the part of Much the Miller's Son but the Merry Men were a complete shambles. Supplemented by a few journeymen brought in for the occasion, they moved about the stage like a flock of frightened sheep and scattered in utter confusion whenever Robin Hood indulged in swordplay.
Nicholas Bracewell kept the whole thing moving and minimized the effects of most errors but even he could not stop George Dart--a decidedly unmerry member of the Merry Men--from felling a tree by walking accidentally into it. Will Scarlet was one of the few to come through unscathed and he brought the proceedings to a close with another ballad sung to the music of his lute.
Then bespake good Robin,
In place whereat he stood,
'Tomorrow, I must to Kirksley,
Craftily to be let blood!'
Sir Roger of Doncaster,
