Oliver Quilley, a masterful portrait in miniature of Lawrence Firethorn that caught his essence with uncanny skill. He had intended to give it to Eleanor Budden by way of blandishment but it now served a more urgent purpose. Margery was quite overcome. He whispered in her ear.
Can you see the inscription?'
'Where, sir?'
'At the bottom there.'
She read it: our with almost girlish breathlessness.
'Amor omnia vincit.'
'Love conquers all.'
Oh, Lawrence!'
His lips sealed his hair-breadth escape. The embrace was interrupted by clumping footsteps on the stairs then Susan Becket sailed in with bold familiarity. Margery bridled at once but her husband was equal even to this emergency.
'Ah, hostess!' he said, snapping his fingers. 'Have a bottle of your finest wine sent up for myself and my wife. Be quick about it, woman!' He killed two birds with one stone. 'And keep that psalm-singing hussy, Mistress Budden, away from me. I'll none of her religion tonight!'
Susan Becket backed out of the room in a daze.
Firethorn had been baulked twice but it would not happen a third time. As his desire surged, he swept Margery off her feet and threw her impulsively on the bed, mounting her at once and riding her hell for leather through a flurry of unpaid bills.
Mistress Eleanor Budden was resting in her chamber when John Tallis brought the request from his master. It was countermanded at once by a visit from Richard Honeydew.
'I have a message for you, Mistress.'
'From Master Bracewell, I hope?'
'The same.'
'Well, sir?'
'He bids you call upon him in his room.'
'Heaven has heard my cry!'
'He'll entertain you there.
The boy withdrew politely. Eleanor Budden began to pant in anticipation. Fulfilment of her dearest wish was now at hand. She loved Nicholas Bracewell and he had sent for her. God had directed them into each other's arms.
She climbed the steps to Jerusalem.
Tapping quietly on the door of his attic room, she opened it to let herself in. He was lying in bed. The curtains were drawn and the place was half-dark but she could see Nicholas with a clarity that made her heart leap. A small candle burned beside his head, throwing its light on to the fair hair and the glistening beard. As he turned towards her, the sheet pulled away from him and she saw that he was naked.
All the fervour of her spirit prompted her. The pilgrimage ended here. Nicholas Bracewell was her chosen path. She ran towards it and flung herself upon him. He blew out the candle and they merged completely, kissing and twisting and thrusting away until their voices met on a pinnacle of total rapture. Eleanor Budden had never known such deep or divine satisfaction. The pent-up longings of her body and soul had been released in the mystery of the act of love. She was in such a state of languid intoxication that she did not mind when the beard of Nicholas Bracewell came away in her hand or when his wig was nudged awry. She did not even complain when his careful make-up rubbed off on her face. This was the acme of happiness. She was the bride of Christ.
Humphrey Budden was glad that he had come to York.
While the marital reunions were taking place, Nicholas Bracewell was sitting in the taproom with some of the other hired men and enjoying his supper. His attic room would be unavailable to him that night but he did not mind in the least. He could take credit for some skilful stage management which had enabled a wayward wife to find her spiritual goal and a discarded husband to reclaim his happiness. The book holder had more than enough to keep him occupied. Soldiers of the Cross had been an undoubted success but it was to be performed again on the morrow under vastly different conditions. He would have to ride over to Marmion Hall at first light to study the indoor playing area and make some preliminary decisions about the method of staging the play. As he half-listened to the idle conversation of his fellows, his mind was firmly fixed on the challenge of the next day.
Edmund Hoode came hurrying across to join him.
'Have you heard the good tidings, Nick?'
'Of what?'
'Banbury's Men.'
'They played at the Three Swans today.'
'They tried to, Nick, but with no success at all. It was some wretched comedy about country wenches and lusty lads. There's a fellow just conic in who witnessed this travesty.' Hoode chuckled vengefully. 'He says that it was a downright catastrophe. Lines forgotten, cues missed and every accident that can befall a company in full sight of all. The audience shouted them off the stage. Not even Master Randolph could hold them.'
'This news is wholesome indeed.'
'Soldiers of the Cross has put them in the shade.'
'And rightly so, Edmund.'
'It is their just desert for daring to steal my plays. They have been roundly punished.' He gave a sigh. 'Though I would still love to know who played Sicinius. I'll call him a villain to his face if ever we meet.'
'Why did Banbury's Men fare so badly?'
'Because their play lacked quality.'
'There must have been another reason.'
'There was,' said Hoode. 'They missed a leading actor. One of their number dropped out of a crucial role and they could not repair the damage in time. His absence brought them down where they belong.'
Nicholas knew that the missing actor must be Mark Scruton. With his secret exposed, he dare not stay in York to be caught by the book holder. There was another result of his sudden departure. Scruton's wiles had endeared him to Banbury's Men but they would not tolerate his sudden defection. There would be no contract of employment for him, no elevation to the ranks of the sharers. If nothing else, he would not now climb to glory on the backs of Westfield's Men. Consolation could be taken. Nicholas believed they would never see him again.
As soon as he left his lodging, he knew that he was being trailed but he did not quicken his gait. That would have signalled his awareness of his shadow. Sauntering on through the streets of York, he turned down a dark lane at the same casual pace. When he reached the end, he went around the corner and stepped back into the first doorway. Pricking his ears, he could detect the stealthy approach of footsteps in his wake. He unsheathed his dagger and waited.
A stocky figure came around the corner and stood there in dismay when he saw that he had lost his quarry. He scratched his head and looked back down the lane from which he had just emerged. It was the last thing he would ever see. Someone came up silently behind him and put a hand over his mouth. Before he could move a muscle, his throat was cut with practised ease. The man collapsed to the ground in a pool of his own blood. His assailant stayed long enough to bend down and glance briefly at his victim. The Marmion coat of arms was on the dead man's sleeve. It was a timely warning.
Mark Scruton vanished quickly from the scene.
Oliver Quilley sat at the table in his room at the inn and examined the book that he had stolen from Marmion Hall. It was a missal, written in Latin and containing all the rites and ceremonies of the Roman Catholic Church. He was less interested in the contents than in the simple beauty of the volume, rubbing his hands covetously over the smooth leather and watching the silver clasp as it gleamed in the light of his candle. He opened the book to admire the artistry of its printing.
When he had enjoyed his prize long enough, he put it away in his pouch and took out a pack of large cards with bright pictures upon them. After shuffling them with some care, he began to deal them out in a prescribed
