'At all events, the Queen's life must be protected.'
'In every possible way'
'That is why we must have so many spies.'
Richard Honeydew thought about the head upon the spike.
'I am glad that I am not a Roman Catholic,' he said.
York Minster speared the sky with its three great towers and cast a long shadow of piety over the houses and shops that clustered so eagerly around it. It was the most beautiful cathedral in England as well as being the largest medieval building in the kingdom. Work on it had begun way back in 1220 and it was over two and a half centuries before it was completed. The result was truly awe-inspiring, a Gothic masterpiece which represented the full cycle of architectural styles and which was a worthy monument to the consecutive generations of Christian love and devotion that went into its construction. Visitors to York could see the Minster from several miles away, rising majestically above the city like a beacon of light in a world of secular darkness.
Sir Clarence Marmion did not even spare it a cursory glance as he rode in through Bootham Bar on his horse. A tall, distinguished, cadaverous man in his fifties, he had the kind of noble bearing and rich apparel that made people touch their caps in deference as he passed. After riding down Petergate, he turned into The Shambles and moved along its narrow confines with bold care, ducking his head beneath the overhanging roofs, brushing the walls with his shoulders and using his horse to force a gentle passage through the crowd. High above him, the bells of the cathedral mingled with the happy clamour of the working day. He clicked his tongue in irritation.
His mount now took him left along the river until he was able to cross it at Ouse Bridge. As he rode on down Micklegate, people were still streaming into the city on their way to market. He swung in through a gateway and found himself in a cobbled yard. An ostler ran out to hold his horse while he dismounted and got no more than a grunt of acknowledgement for his pains. It was exactly what he expected. Sir Clarence was no casual visitor to the inn. It had been owned by his family for centuries.
The Trip to Jerusalem was a long, low, timber-framed building that wandered off at all sorts of improbable angles with absent-minded curiosity. It dated back to the twelfth century and was said to have been the stopping place for soldiers riding south to join the Crusade in 1189. At that time, it was the brewhouse to the castle but a sense of spiritual purpose made it change its name to the Pilgrim. Under the hand of Sir Clarence Marmion, it had acquired its fuller title, though its regular patrons referred to it simply and succinctly as Jerusalem.
Bending forward under the lintel, Sir Clarence went through the doorway and into the taproom. An aroma of beer and tobacco welcomed him. When he straightened his hack, his head almost touched the undulating ceiling.
Mine Host responded quickly to his arrival and came scurrying out from behind the bar counter, wiping his hands on his apron and nodding obsequiously.
'Good day to you, Sir Clarence!'
'And to you, sir.'
'Welcome to Jerusalem.'
'Would that it were true!' said the other feelingly.
'Your room is all ready, Sir Clarence.'
'I will repair to it in a moment.'
'Ring the bell if you should need service.
'We must not be disturbed on any account.'
'No, Sir Clarence,' said the landlord, bowing his apologies. 'Nobody will be allowed near the room, I promise you. Leave the matter in my hands.'
Those hands, large, moist and podgy, were rubbing nervously against each other. The visitor always seemed to have that effect on Lambert Pym. Even after a decade as landlord of the inn, he had not entirely shaken off his fear of the Marmion temper. Tremors went through Pym's roly-poly frame whenever his visitor called and the bluff manner which served all his other customers vanished beneath a display of exaggerated humility.
Sir Clarence looked down at him with disdain.
'I have received news from London.'
'Indeed, Sir Clarence?'
'A company of players is heading this way.'
'We have actors aplenty in York this summer.'
'Westfleld's Men are not of common stock. They have been recommended to me by a friend and I will act upon that recommendation.'
'As you wish, Sir Clarence.'
'The company will be lodged here at my expense.'
'Your hospitality does you credit.'
'They will perform one play in your yard.
'I will give order for it, Sir Clarence.'
'Their second appearance will be at Marmion Hall.'
'I hope they know their good fortune,' said the landlord, picking at his furry black horsehoe of a beard. 'When are we to expect these players?'
'Not for ten days at least. They have other venues.'
'None will offer the welcome of Jerusalem.'
'That is my request. See to it, sir.'
Lambert Pym bowed and then hurried across the room to open a door that led to a small staircase. His chubby features were lit by a smile of appeasement.
'Your guest is within, Sir Clarence.'
'I hoped for no less.'
'The room is yours for as long as you choose.'
'So is everything here.'
And with that solemn rejoinder, Sir Clarence stooped to go through another low doorway and ascended the noisy oak stairs. After walking along a passageway, he went into a room that was at the rear of the building. His guest was seated beside a small oak table and rose when he saw the tall figure enter. Sir Clarence waved him back to his chair then strode around the room to get the feel of it and to test its privacy. Only when he was satisfied on the latter score did he sit at the table himself.
Removing his glove, he slipped a hand inside his doublet to pull out the other letter which had been sent to him from London. Its contents made his jaw tighten. 'Sad tidings, sir.'
'As we feared?'
'Worse, much worse.'
He handed the letter over and his companion took it with frightened willingness. Small, intense and soberly dressed, Robert Rawlins had the appearance and air of a scholar. The pinched face, the shrewd eyes and the rounded shoulders hinted at long years of study among learned tomes in dusty libraries. He read the letter in seconds and turned white with terror.
'Saints preserve us!'
It was a good omen. On their first night away from the comforts of the capital, Westfield's Men met with kindness and generosity. They stayed at the Fighting Cocks, a large and pleasant establishment that overlooked Enfield Chase. It was a hostelry that their patron frequented on his journeys to and from his estates near St Albans, and they were the benefactors of his fondness for the place. The landlord not only extended open arms to the company, he made sure that each of them slept in a soft bed, and would take no more than small recompense for this favour. It was a blessing for the actors. There would be times when some of them would have to sleep on straw in the stables and other occasions when they would spend a night under the stars. Real beds, even when shared with a few restless companions, were a luxury to be savoured.
