'Several, if Master Firethorn has his way.'
'And will they let us play there?'
'I am certain of it.'
But the book holder's assurance was too optimistic. When they rolled past St Bennet's Church to the Shire Hall, they met no official welcome. Banbury's Men had sucked the town dry with a performance of Double Deceit.
It was another play stolen from Westfield's Men and it sent Firethorn into a tigerish rage. There was worse to come. One or the Town Council had lately returned from Lincolnshire. He told them of a performance by Banbury's Men at Stamford of Marriage and Mischief-also purloined from their rivals-and of the staging of Pompey the Great at Grantham before an enthusiastic audience that included his own august self. When he went on to praise the acting of Giles Randolph in the title role, Firethorn had to be held down lest he do the man a mischief.
Foaming at the mouth, the actor-manager was borne off to the nearest inn and given a pint of sack to sweeten his disposition. Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and Nicholas Bracewell were with him. Firethorn was vengeful.
'By heaven, I'll slit him from head to toe for this!'
'We have to find him first,' reminded Nicholas.
'To filch my part in my play before my adoring audience! Ha! The man has the instincts of a jackal and the talent of a three-legged donkey with the staggers.'
Gill could not resist a thrust at his pride.
'That fellow spoke well of Master Randolph.'
'A polecat in human form!'
'Yet he carried the day with his Pompey.'
'My Pompey! My, my, my Pompey!'
'And mine,' said Hoode soulfully. 'Much work and worry went into the making of that play. It grieves me to hear that Banbury's Men play it free of charge.'
Nicholas had sympathy with the author. His work was protected by no laws. Once he had been paid five pounds for its delivery, the work went out of his hands and into the repertoire of Westfield's Men. He had little influence over its staging and even
The Trip to Jerusalem less over its casting. The one consolation was that he had written a cameo role for himself as an ambitious young tribune.
'Who played Sicinius?' he mused.
'All that matters is who played Pompey!' howled Firethorn, banging the table until their tankards bounced up and down. 'Randolph should be hanged from the nearest tree for his impertinence!'
'How have Banbury's Men done it?' asked Gill.
'I have the way,' said Nicholas.
'Well, sir.'
'They have enlisted our players against us.'
'Monstrous!' exclaimed Firethorn.
'There is only one complete copy of each play,' said Nicholas, 'and I keep that closely guarded. Rut I cannot shield it during rehearsal or performance. If some of our fellows memorized a work between them, they could put the meat of it down with the aid of a scrivener. And it is off that meat that Master Randolph has been feeding.'
'Who are these rogues, Nick?' said Hoode.
'How many' of them are there?' added Gill.
'I have neither names nor numbers,' admitted the book holder. 'But I have been going through an inventory of the hired men we have employed this year. Several left disgruntled with good cause to harm us. If enough money was put in enough pockets, they would have turned their coat and helped out Banbury's Men.'
'Aye,' said Firethorn, 'and been given a place in that vile company by way of reward. If we but overtake them, we shall find out who these varlets are.
'They are too far ahead,' argued Nicholas, and we will meet but further outrage if we visit towns where they have been before us. Stay your anger, Master Firethorn, until the occasion serves. We must change our route and find fresh fields.'
'This advice makes much sense,' said Hoode. 'Where should we go, Nick?'
'To Nottingham. We stay on this road for a while yet then head north-west through Oakham and Melton Mowbray. Haply, those towns may like some entertainment.'
Firethorn and Hoode gave their approval. Gill was the only dissenter, pointing out that the minor roads would be even worse than the one on which they had just travelled, and throwing up his usual obstruction to any idea that emanated from the book holder. He was outvoted by the others and shared his pique with his drink.
Still thirsting for blood, Firethorn accepted that he might have to wait before he could collect it by the pint from Banbury's Men. Nicholas's idea grew on him. Their new destination made its own choice of play.
' Nottingham, sirs! We'll give 'em Robin Hood!'
It was all decided.
In referring the matter to a higher authority, Miles Melhuish knew that he was doing the correct thing. Not only was he relieving himself of a problem that caused him intense personal anxiety, but he was handing it over to a man who could solve it with peremptory speed. The Dean was feared throughout Nottingham. One glance of his eye from a pulpit could quell any congregation. One taste of his displeasure could bring the most wilful apostate back into the fold. He was far older than Melhuish, with more weight, more wisdom, more conviction and more skill. He also had more relish for the joys of coercion, for the destruction of any opponent with the full might of the Church at his back. He would cure Mistress Eleanor Budden of her delusions. Five minutes with the Dean would send her racing back to her bedchamber to fornicate with her husband in God's name and to make amends for her neglect of his most sacred right of possession.
But there was an unforeseen snag. She was closeted with the Dean for over two hours. And when she emerged, it was not in any spirit of repentance. She had the same air of unassailable confidence and the same seraphic smile. It is not known in what precise state of collapse she left the learned man who had tried to bully her out of her mission. Her certitude had been adamantine proof.
Humphrey Budden was waiting outside for her.
'Well?'
'My examination is over,' she said.
'What passed between you?'
'Much talk of the Bible.'
'Did the Dean instruct you in your duty?'
'God has already done that, sir.'
'He made no headway?' said Budden in disbelief.
'He came to accept my decision.'
'Madness, more like!' Do you find your wife mad, Humphrey?' In this frame of mind.'
Then must you truly despise me.'
They were standing among the gravestones in the churchyard. The sky was dark, the clouds swollen. The wind carried the first hints of rain. Eleanor Budden usually dressed in the fashion of burghers' wives with a bodice and full skirt of muted colour, a cap to hide her plaited hair and a lace ruff of surpassing delicacy, this last a source of professional pride to her husband who wanted her to display her demureness to the town and thereby advertise his trade, his happiness and his manhood. She had now cast off any sartorial niceties. A simple grey shift and a mob-cap were all that she wore. Her long hair hung loose down her back.
Ironically, he wanted her even more. In that dress, in that place, in that unpromising weather, he yet found his desire swelling and his sense of assertion stiffening. Mad or misguided, she was beautiful. Immune to the vicar and impervious even to the Dean, she was still the wife of Humphrey Budden and could be brought to heel.
'You will remain chaste no longer!' lie said.
'How now, sir!'
