possible. I divine the truth of a personality.'
'How long will this portrait take, sir?'
'I work from three sittings,' explained the artist with fluttering hand movements. 'At the first, I will set down the broad outline of his features, starting with the forehead and using it to calculate the other proportions of his face. At the second sitting, I will make careful note of all the colours of flesh, hair and costume, paying especial attention--for this is the crux of my art--to the expression of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.'
'What of the third sitting, Master Quilley?'
'I will finish off in fine detail.'
'You work speedily, sir.'
'Even artists have to eat.'
'How did you come to choose your career?'
'It chose me,' said Quilley. 'I was apprenticed nearly thirty years ago now to a goldsmith in Eastcheap. My master was a wealthy man and rose to be Chamberlain of the City of London and Prime warden of his Company.'
'You picked your master with care.'
'Fortune was ever at my side during the seven years I spent at the sign of the Gilt Lion and Firebrand. I became very skilled in the making of jewellery and much taken with the notion of painting miniatures.'
'How did you begin, Master Quilley?'
'With a lady at court. She was a friend of my master's and easily flattered. It was my first work as a limner and not without flaw.'
'In what way?'
'The portrait was superb, as all my painting is, but I omitted a vital detail, Master Bracewell.'
'Oh?'
'I did not exact payment.' He rolled his eyes and tossed his hands in the air. 'Such is the life of an artist! We never get our due reward. Word of mouth pronounces me a genius and commissions roll in but do those same people actually pay me for my labours? Very rarely, sir. Very rarely.'
'You must have had some honest employers.'
'A few. Master Anthony Rickwood was one.'
'He that was executed?' said Nicholas in surprise.
'Yes, sir. He has suffered for his villainy but I can only speak of his kindness. Master Rickwood paid me twice what I asked and be recommended me to a number of his close friends, including Master Neville Pomeroy from Hertfordshire.'
We know the gentleman.'
'Then you will be aware of his generosity. A most courteous fellow. I lacked for nothing at his home.'
'Nor did we when we performed at Pomeroy Manor.'
'He talked much of his passion for the theatre.'
'We look to visit him again on our return south.'
'Unhappily, you may not do that, sir.' But he invited us.'
'He is no longer there to receive you.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because Master Pomeroy has been arrested.'
'On what charge?'
'High treason. He conspired with Anthony Rickwood.'
'Can this be true?'
'Walsingham has him locked away in the Tower.'
'What will be his fate?'
'The worst possible.' Quilley smiled wryly. He will die the ignominious death of a traitor. I do not think that Master Millfield will be able to save him from the gallows.'
Miles Melhuish blanched. He thought he could not be astounded anew by Eleanor Budden but he was mistaken. Her latest announcement made him gape. He turned to her husband who sat in the corner of the vestry but Humphrey had no opinion. Defeated by his wife in every way, he was a poor, pale relic of the man who had married her and gloried in her favours. Humphrey Budden was to be an essentially silent presence during the interview.
Melhuish summoned up some pop-eyed indignation.
'This is not wise, Mistress. This is not good.'
'I believe it to be both, sir.'
'Travelling with a company of itinerant players!'
'They come from London,' she said proudly.
'That only makes it worse. You cannot conceive of the minds and appetites of such creatures. Players are but friends of Hell in human disguise.'
'They have used me most properly until now.'
'Wait until you are undefended on the road.'
'That cannot be. God is with me always.'
'Yes, sister,' he said condescendingly. 'God is with us all, and at all times. But there are times when even His divine protection is not enough. You do yourself a harm by exposing yourself to such danger.'
'Of what, Master Melhuish?'
The vicar cleared his throat and plucked at his collar. He tossed a glance at Budden but there was no help from there. He plucked the nettle boldly.
'Players are notorious libertines, Eleanor.'
'I never heard it so.'
'They have the morals of the lowest beasts.'
'Why then have they been so polite to me?'
'Tis but to lure you into lowering your guard.'
'Master Firethorn is not like that,' she argued with feeling. 'Nor is Master Bracewell and he is the reason that I travel with Westfield's Men.'
'Who is Master Bracewell?'
'He hangs behind you, sir.'
Miles Melhuish turned around with a start but saw nobody there. Eleanor pointed to the stained glass window whose image of Jesus Christ looked more like the book holder than ever. The vicar was given a further shock.
'You tell me this player is...like Lord Jesus?'
'As like as two peas in a pod, sir,' she said. 'But he is no player. Master Bracewell is the book holder with the company and a more upright man I have never met. I'd put my life and soul in his hands, so I would!'
'Take care he does not abuse your trust.'
'He would not.'
'Think of the long reaches of the night.'
'I have done with fornication,' she said chirpily.
Humphrey Budden twitched at the mention of the word and a wistful calm settled on his dull features as he let his mind play with a few robust memories. Melhuish tried further persuasion but it was futile. When her mind was made up, Eleanor would listen to nobody.
'Take another woman with you,' he advised. 'One of your servants to act as a chaperone.'
'God is my chaperone.'
'It may prove too onerous a duty for Him.'
'You question His powers?'
'No, no,' said Miles Melhuish quickly. 'I would never presume to do such a thing. It is just that...well, I would feel happier if you had some additional guarantee of your safety.'
'I do, sir. In Master Nicholas Bracewell.'
'That is not what I had in mind.' He looked over at the somnolent husband. 'Do you have no fears for your good lady on this journey, sir?'
