stage. If he dares to compete against my sovereignty, I will bring him down once and for all.'
'By what means?'
'Attacking his pride.'
'I'll wager it is smarting back in Ware just now.'
'Wait until he reaches Grantham. I'll pull a trick will make him wish he had stayed at home in Shoreditch with that termagant wife of his and listened to her scolding.' He put his glass down. Now, sir, what is his finest role?'
'Vincentio?' suggested the other.
'A scurvy play with but three speeches of note.'
'Hector, then. Master Firethorn is always boasting of his prowess in Hector of Troy. The part becomes him.'
'He has not played it this last year.'
'Then must we go to his favourite character.'
'What's that? You know his mind.'
'Pompey!'
'The very man!'
'The play was called for time and again.'
'By Edmund Hoode, I think.'
'Yes, sir. It is called Pompey the Great.'
'Then will it feel the imprint of my greatness.'
'We'll play the piece in Grantham.'
'To the hilt, sir. Lawrence Firethorn will have his reputation cut from beneath him. I'll make the role my own and throw Westfield's Men aside into the mire. This tour will yet repay me in full amount.'
Giles Randolph called for more wine from the cask.
It tasted sweeter than ever.
Chapter Four
Marmion Hall was an optical illusion. Because it nestled in a hollow and was fringed by a semi-circle of trees, it looked far smaller than it really was. Behind the modest facade, it was remarkably spacious with the main part of the house thrusting deep and with a sizeable wing that was hidden behind the outcrop of sycamores. A fire had caused extensive damage to the rear of the property some ten years earlier and there had been lengthy repair work. Sir Clarence Marmion took advantage of the rebuilding to add some new features to his home though they were not all apparent to the naked eye. Like its owner, Marmion Hall preserved an air of secrecy.
Sunday afternoon found Sir Clarence in the dining room, sitting alone at the head of the shining oak table as he studied his Bible. Dressed in subdued colours and wearing an expression of rapt concentration, he tended to his spiritual needs then closed his eyes in thought.
There was a knock on the door. A servant entered.
'Well?'
'The guests have arrived, Sir Clarence.'
'All of them?'
'Yes, Sir Clarence.'
'What o'clock is it?'
'Upon the stroke of four.'.
'Thank you.'
A dismissive flick of the hand sent the servant backing out of the room. Sir Clarence lifted his lids and read the passage that he had been studying. Closing the book gently, he put it under his arm and made his way out. He now felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.
The hall was a large rectangle with oak panelling along three walls and a series of high windows along the other wall with leaded panes. Gilt-framed mirrors and family portraits broke up the monotony. A moulded ceiling gave a sense of grandeur. Furniture was all of prime oak and tastefully arranged. In the vast, stone fireplace at the far end of the hall was an iron fireback bearing the Marmion coat-of-arms. Iron firedogs stood beside an iron basket piled high with logs.
When Sir Clarence entered, they were all waiting and their murmured conversations stopped at once. He looked at them all with an amalgam of pride and sorrow and then opened his arms in welcome. The whole family came across to greet him and he exchanged pleasantries with them all. Then came the moment when the baby was placed into his arms. It was a boy, barely three months old, yet strong and lusty, waving his tiny fists at the world with Marmion defiance, wriggling in his white lace robe as if anxious to be about more important business.
Sir Clarence raised the child up to plant a kiss on its forehead and almost got a box on the ear for his temerity. With a soft half-smile, he handed his first grandchild back to his daughter-in-law then led the way across to the most recent of the portraits on display. It was a painting of his father, hanging above them with a look of stern purpose and showing all the qualities of character associated with dynasty. It was a source of the utmost regret that he was no longer alive to share in family celebrations.
'Give us your blessing, Father,' said Sir Clarence.
Then he reached forward and felt behind the lower edge of the frame. There was a click and a small door opened in the panelling on oiled hinges. A narrow passage was revealed. Stone steps led downwards..
Sir Clarence indicated his tiny grandson.
'Let him lead the way.'
Carried by his mother, the child went through the entrance and down the steps. Candles provided light all the way. The rest of the family followed with the head of the house bringing up the rear. As he stepped through the door, Sir Clarence pulled it shut and it clicked tight behind him. The odour of frankincense drifted up towards him. He was drawn down the staircase and along a dank subterranean passage until he came to the room in which all the others had now gathered.
It was a chapel. Sir Clarence had commissioned die building of it and the place never ceased to give him comfort and joy. Small, cold and necessarily secret though it might be, it was as inspiring as York Minster to him and he let its wonder work on him once more. The others took up their places in the pews, then they knelt to pay homage to their maker. Sir Clarence joined them, kneeling between his wife and his grandson, crossing himself as lie did so.
The altar was ablaze with candles. Standing on its centre was a large gold crucifix that reflected the fierce light and glowed as if on fire. As the little congregation looked up, their eyes were transfixed by the sight. A steel door opened beside the altar and a figure entered in the vestments of a Catholic priest. Everyone stood up at once to show their respect. The priest moved quietly into position beside the stone font and glanced benignly at the child. From his calm and assured manner, nobody would guess that the man was about to commit a heinous crime.
Robert Rawlins began the service of baptism.
'Truly, you do him wrong to put such sayings upon him.'
'I must obey the word of God.'
'But it was God who joined you in holy matrimony.'
'He has other work for me now, sir.'
'Your husband is wounded most grievously.'
'We must all suffer in the service of the Lord.'
Miles Melhuish shook his head in frustration. He was standing in the vestry beside Eleanor Budden, deeming it wise to remain on his feet so that he had the option of flight in the event of some emergency. He could not be too careful. The woman was quiescent now but he had not forgotten the overwhelming passion of which she was capable and he was anxious not to touch it off while they were alone together on consecrated ground.
