'It is but for one performance, Mark,' soothed the other. 'When we play the piece again, you will be restored to your glory. You have my word upon it.'
'And when we reach York?'
'You sign a contract that gives you larger roles in every play we stage. If I approve it, that is.'
Mark Scruton was cornered. Despite all he had done for the company, he was still not legally a sharer. Until his elevation to that level, he was still at the mercy of Randolph's whims and commands. He fell back on the polite obsequiousness that had served him so well in the past.
'I will set off at once.'
'Cause havoc in the ranks of Westfield's Men.'
'They will not dare to play thereafter.'
'That thought contents me.
'And my reward?'
'It waits for you in York.'
The four liveried servants rode at a gentle canter along the Great North Road. They bore their masters crest upon their sleeves and his money in their purses. His orders were to be carried out to the letter and they knew the penalty for failure to comply with his wishes. It was a strange assignment but it took them out of Hertfordshire to pastures new and there was interest in that. Their leader set the pace and they rode some five yards apart like the corners of some gigantic scarf. In the middle of that scarf was the person whom they escorted with such care and concern. It was an important mission.
They came to a crossing and saw a large white stone beside the road. Carved into its face was a number that outraged their travelling companion. She shrieked aloud.
'One hundred miles to York!'
'Yes, Mistress,' said one of the men.
'We make tardy progress.'
'It is for your own comfort.'
'Mine! Ha! I'll ride the thighs off any man.'
'What is the haste, Mistress?'
'I need to get there.'
Margery Firethorn kicked her horse on and it broke into a gallop that left the others behind. The four bemused servants of Lord Westfield gave chase at once and wondered what this madwoman, sitting astride a black horse and hallooing at the top of her voice, was actually doing. Her reckless conduct was unsettling to them but she did not bother herself about that.
Margery was going to York.
She had something to say to her husband.
'Hold still, Master Firethorn, you must not move about so.'
'I am flesh and blood, sir, not a piece of marble.'
'An artist needs a motionless subject.'
'Wait till I am dead and paint me then.'
'You are being perverse, sir.'
'My neck is breaking in two!'
'Take five minutes rest.'
Oliver Quilley clicked his tongue in annoyance. They were in his bedchamber at the inn where they were spending the night. The artist had suggested a first sitting to Firethorn but his subject had been less than helpful. Not only did he talk incessantly throughout, he could not keep his head in the same position for more than a couple of minutes. It was most unsatisfactory.
Firethorn came over to see the results.
'How far have we got, Master Quilley?'
'Almost nowhere.'
'Show me your work.'
'It is hardly begun.'
'But I have been sitting there for a century!'
Quilley was at a small table with his materials in front of him. The portrait was on vellum that was stretched and stuck on a playing card. Pigments were mixed in mussel shells and applied with squirrel-hair brushes made out of quills. An animal's tooth, set in the handle of the brush, could be used for burnishing at a later stage. Limning was an exact art that required the correct materials. It was not surprising that Quilley kept them in his leather pouch and hid them beneath his doublet. His livelihood travelled next to his heart.
Firethorn studied the sketched outline of his face and head, not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted. There was a definite likeness there but it was still so insubstantial as to be meaningless to him. The actor's art could be displayed to the full in two hours' traffic on the stage and he expected similar speed from the miniaturist. Quilley's was a slower genius. It grew at the pace of a rose and took much longer to flower.
'There is not much to see, sir,' said Firethorn.
'That is your own fault.'
'Can you not hurry yourself?'
'Not if you wish for a work of art.'
'I will settle for no less.'
'Then learn to sit still.'
'I am a man of action.'
'Contemplate your greatness.'
The circle of vellum on which Quilley worked was barely two inches in diameter. Lawrence Firethorn's personality had to be caught and concentrated in that tiny area and it required the utmost care and skill. When the artist tried to explain this, his subject was diverted by another thought.
'What card have you chosen?'
'Card, sir?'
'Stuck to the vellum. The playing card.'
'Oh, that. I chose the two of hearts.'
'So low a number?'
'It betokens love, Master Firethorn,' explained the other. 'Most of my subjects want their portrait to be a gift to their beloved. Hearts is the favourite suit. I did not think you would prefer the Jack of Clubs.'
'Indeed, no, sir,' said Firethorn, warming to the idea at once. 'Two hearts entwined will be ideal. It will be the badge of my sentiments when I bestow the gift.'
'Your wife will be enchanted.'
'What does she have to do here!'
Firethorn went back to his seat and struck a pose. The artist came across to adjust it slightly before he went back to his table. Quilley changed his tack. As the actor froze into a statue before him, he heaped praise upon his performance as Robin Hood and Firethorn hardly moved. Flattery succeeded where outright abuse had not. The artist actually began to take strides forward. It did not last. Firethorn was quiescent but others were not.
Someone banged plaintively on the door.
'Are you within, sir?' called George Dart.
'Go away!' bellowed his employer.
'We must not be disturbed!' added Quilley.
'But I bring important news, Master Firethorn.'
'Good or bad?'
'Disastrous.'
'How now?'
'Send him away,' urged Quilley.
'We'll hear this first, sir.'
Firethorn dived for the door and flung it open. Dart was so scared to be the bearer of bad tidings once more
