The prisoner twitched in agony but said nothing.
'Tell me!' insisted the master of the house. 'Which of Walsingham's creatures sent him to his death?'
'I cannot cut the information out of him.'
'His name!'
As his control faltered, Sir Clarence hit the man across the face with vicious blows until the blood was spurting all over his glove.
He withdrew his hand and moved back to the door, his composure now returned.
'What now, Sir Clarence?' asked the servant.
'Kill him.'
Though the house in Shoreditch was now half-empty, with far fewer mouths to feed at table, Margery Firethorn still had plenty of domestic chores to keep her occupied. One of these was to make regular visits to market to buy the food and berate any stallholder who tried to overcharge her. Servants could not be trusted to get the choicest items at the best prices and so she: reserved the task of filling the larder for herself. It got her out of the house and stopped her from brooding on her loneliness.
She entered the city by Bishopsgate and was caught up in a small commotion. Armed soldiers were bustling about, pushing people out of the way and dealing roughly with any complainants. Margery rid herself of a few barbed remarks at them before sauntering on towards the market in Gracechurch Street. She was soon deep in dispute with a hapless vendor about the quality of his fruit. When she had beaten him down to the price she was prepared to pay, she took her belligerence along to the next stall and set it to work.
Her footsteps eventually took her close to the Queen's Head and it prompted wistful thoughts of Westfield's Men. Ambivalent feelings pulled at her. Still angry with her husband, she yet missed him keenly. Anxious to upbraid him severely, she would have mixed some kisses with the scolding. Margery Firethorn could not blame her spouse for everything. In marrying him, she had married the theatre and that brought special tribulation.
She was given further evidence of the fact. Sitting outside the inn on a low stool was a thin, ascetic man with a viol between his legs, coaxing plaintive notes out of his instrument in the hopes of earning a few coins from the passers-by. Margery was saddened. It was Peter Digby. Ten days before, he bad been the proud leader or the consort of musicians employed by Westfield's Men. Now he was scratching for pennies in the street. The theatre was indeed a cruel master.
'How now, Master Digby!' she said.
'Mistress!'
'Have you no other work but this, sir?'
'None that pays me.'
She took a coin from a purse and pressed it into his hand. He thanked her for a kindness then enquired about the company. She had yet no news to give him but talked in general terms, shouts from the distance made them look towards Bishopsgate. More soldiers milled about.
'What means this commotion?' she said.
'Have you not heard?'
'No, Master Digby.'
'One of the heads has vanished from its spike.'
'There's grisly work indeed!'
'Taken down in the night,' he said. 'And this was not in jest. When the culprit is caught, this is a hanging offence. They search for him in earnest.
'Whose head was taken down?' she asked.
'That of a traitor freshly executed.'
'What was his name?'
'Anthony Rickwood.'
Chapter Five
Westfield's Men set out with high hopes but they were soon blighted by circumstance. Heavy overnight rain had mired a road that was already in a bad state of repair.
Local parishes were responsible for the maintenance of any road that ran within their boundaries but in the case of a highway like the Great North Road, an intolerable burden was placed upon them. There was no way that they could find the resources for the upkeep of such a major artery and Westfield's Men suffered as a result.
'Use the whip, man!'
'It is no use!'
'Drive them on, drive them on!'
'We are stuck fast, Master Firethorn.'
'I'll get you out if I have to drag the cart with my own bare hands, so I will!'
But Firethorn was thwarted. Though he took hold of the harness of one of the carthorses and pulled with all his might, neither animal moved forward. The front wheel of the waggon was sunk to its axle and the whole vehicle slanted over at an angle.
Barnaby Gill was quick to apportion blame.
'This is your doing, Master Bracewell.'
'I could not drive around the hole, sir.'
'The waggon is too heavy since you brought the whole company aboard. Their weight is your downfall.'
'I could not ask them to walk in such mud, Master Gill. It would ruin their shoes and spatter their hose.'
'That would be better than this calamity.'
'Do something, Nick!' ordered Firethorn.
'I will, sir.'
'And with all speed.'
Nicholas jumped down from the driving seat and waved everyone else off the waggon. It was then laboriously unloaded. He used an axe to cut a stout length of timber then wedged it under the side of the waggon where the wheel was encumbered. With the help of three others, he used his lever to lift the vehicle up. There was a loud sucking noise as the wheel came out of its prison. The horses were slapped, they strained between the shafts and the waggon rolled clear of its problem. As it was loaded up again, Lawrence Firethorn reached for the law.
'The parishioners should be indicted!
'They cannot mend every hole in the road,' said Hoode reasonably. 'We must travel with more care.
'I'll have them at assizes and quarter sessions.'
'And what will Westfield's Men do while you ride off to start this litigation? Must we simply wait here?'
'Do nor mock me, Edmund.'
'Then do not set yourself up for mockery, Lawrence.'
'They should be clapped in irons, every one of them.'
'How could they repair the roads, thus bound?'
They were ready to depart and trundled on with a few of the hired men now walking gingerly at the rear to avoid the worst of the mud. When they crossed the border into Huntingdonshire, they found the worst stretch of all along the Great North Road. Skirting the edge of the Fen Country, it supported more traffic than anywhere other than the immediate approaches to London, and the surface was badly broken up. Extra caution had to be exercised and progress was painfully slow. They were relieved when Huntingdon itself finally came in sight.
Richard Honeydew was bubbling with questions. Have you been to the town before, Master Bracewell? Once or twice, lad.' What sort of place is it?' There are two things of note, Dick.'
'What might they be?'
A bowling green and a gallows.'
'Shall we see a hanged man, sir?'
