'I have no place up there.'
'I do,' said Nicholas. 'Lead on or lose an ear.' They went stealthily across the yard.
Lambert Pym stood in the brewhouse at the rear of his inn and watched another cask being filled. It would now be stored in his cellars for conditioning until it was ready to be tapped and drunk. Pym had grown up with the smell of beer and ale in his nostrils and it stayed with him wherever he went. His customers at the Trip to Jerusalem bought beer, or, if they had a little extra money, some ale. He imported some wine from Bordeaux but it was too costly for most people. Malmsey wine from Greece was even more expensive, as was sack, but Pym kept a supply of both for certain patrons. During the three days of Whitsuntide, he would need to draw deeply on all his stocks.
The landlord came back into the taproom as Robert Raw!ins was about to leave. Lambert Pym raised a finger in deference and beamed ingratiatingly.
'Shall you be with us at Whitsuntide, Master?' I hope so, sir. You'll sec an ocean of beer drunk in here.'
'That is not a sight which appeals.'
'Drink has its place in the affairs of men.'
'I know!' said Rawlins with frank disapproval.
'Christ Himself did sanction it, sir.'
'Do not blaspheme.'
'He turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana,' said Pym. 'That was his first miracle.'
'But open to misinterpretation.'
'Wine has its place,' mused the other, 'but you will not part an Englishman from his beer. Look at the example of Fuenterrabia.'
'Where?'
'It is northern Spain.' Pym grinned oleaginously as he told his favourite story. 'The first campaign in the reign of good King Henry, who was father to our present dear Queen. He sent an army of seven thousand English soldiers to help his father-in-law, King Ferdinand, take Navarre away from the French. Do you know what those stout- hearted men found?'
'What, sir?'
'There was no beer in Spain. Only wine and cider.' He cackled happily. 'The soldiers mutinied on the spot and their commander, the Marquis of Dorset, was forced to bring them home again. They could not fight on empty bellies, sir, and beer was their one desire.'
Robert Rawlins listened to the tale with polite impatience then turned to go but his way was now blocked. Standing in the doorway were two constables. One of them held up a warrant as he moved in on him.
'You must come with us, sir.'
'On what charge?'
'I think you know that.'
Before he could say any more, Robert Rawlins was hustled unceremoniously out. Lambert Pym was mystified but instinct guided him. He summoned his boy at once.
'Take a message to Marmion Hall.'
'Sir Clarence Marmion has commissioned a portrait.'
'Of himself, Master Quilley?'
'Yes, sir.'
'A miniature?'
'I am a limner. I paint nothing else.'
'Your fame spreads ever wider.'
'Genius is its own best recommendation.'
'Do you look forward to painting Sir Clarence?'
'No, sir. I simply hope he will pay me for my work.'
Oliver Quilley brought realism to bear upon his art. Commissions had never been a problem area. That lay in the collection of his due reward. Far too many of his subjects, especially those at Court, believed that their patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.
He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield's Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.
'How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?' said Firethorn.
'Through a friend.'
'Did you not take him for a traitor?'
'I saw it in his face.'
'Yet you accepted the commission?'
'His money was as good as anyone else's.'
'But tainted, Master Quilley.'
'How so?'
'Rickwood betrayed his Queen.'
'He paid me in gold,' said the artist. 'Not with thirty pieces of silver.'
'I could not work for such a man myself.'
'Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.'
'I deny it hotly, sir!'
'Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?'
'Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.'
'It will not be staged there again,' said Quilley complacently. 'Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.'
'Can this be true?' said Firethorn.
'I have it on good authority.'
'God save us all!'
'He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.'
Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield's Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.
The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.
'I responded to the voice of God,' she said. 'You answered some inner desire, Mistress.'
'His word is paramount.'
'If that indeed was what you heard.'
'I am certain of it, Master Millfield.'
'Certainty is everywhere,' he argued. 'The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?'
'Because I have been chosen.'
'By God--or by yourself?'
'Fie on your impertinence, sir!'
'I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.'
'Do you doubt my sincerity?'
'Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must
