dead body of the young man he had paid to protect him. It made him retch. Then he remembered something else and felt the front of his doublet. Tearful with relief, he unhooked the garment and took out the large leather pouch that he had carried there for safekeeping. They had stolen his horse, his saddlebags and his purse but that did not matter. The pouch was still there.
Quilley opened it carefully to inspect its contents. A murder and a robbery on the road to Nottingham. He had been lucky. The loss of his companion was a real inconvenience but the young man was expendable. The loss of his pouch would have been a catastrophe. His art was intact.
He began the long walk towards the next village.
The rain lashed Westfield's Men unmercifully. Caught in the open as they struggled through the northern part of Leicestershire, they could not prevent themselves getting thoroughly drenched. Nicholas Bracewell's main concern was for the costumes and he pulled a tarpaulin over the large wicker hamper at the rear of the waggon but he could do nothing for his fellows, who became increasingly sodden, bedraggled and sorry for themselves. Thick mud slowed them to a crawl. High wind buffeted them and troubled the horses. It was their worst ordeal so far and it made them think fondly of the Queen's Head and the comforts of London.
Almost as quickly as it started, the storm suddenly stopped. Grey clouds took on a silver lining then the sun came blazing through to paint everything with a liquid sparkle. Lawrence Firethorn ordered a halt so that they could lake a rest and dry out their clothes somewhat.
Doublets, jerkins, shirts, hose and caps were hung out on bushes in profusion. Half-naked men capered about. The carthorses were unhitched and allowed to crop the grass.
Nicholas kept one eye on Christopher Millfield. Ever since that first night at the Pomeroy Arms, the book holder had wondered where the actor had been going at the dead of night. It seemed unlikely to have been a tryst as there were wenches enough at the inn and they had singled him out for their boldest glances and loudest giggles. He had toyed with them all expertly but taken advantage of none. His nocturnal adventure had some other cause and Nicholas knew he would never divine it by asking the man straight out. Millfield always had a ready smile and a plausible excuse.
Unable to watch the man all the time, Nicholas used the services of a friend even though the latter had no idea that he was being pumped for information.
'What else did he say, George?'
'He talked of other companies that hired him.'
'I believe he was with the Admiral's Men.'
'They went out of London a month or two ago to play in Arundel, Chichester, Rye and I know not where.'
'And were they well received?'
'Very well, Master Bracewell. They played in some of the finest houses in the county and lacked not for work at any time. They fared better than we poor souls.'
George Dart looked sad at the best of times. In his wet shirt and muddied hose, he was utterly woebegone. His delight at being included in the touring company had now evanesced into gibbering regret. As the tiniest of the assistant stage-keepers, he had always been given the biggest share of the work. Touring added even more chores to his already endless list. In addition to his duties during performance, he was ostler, porter, seamstress and general whipping boy. At Pomeroy Manor, he was forced to take on a number of non-speaking roles and was killed no less than four times-in four guises and four especially disagreeable ways-by the ruthless Tarquin. So much was thrust upon his small shoulders, that his legs buckled. It never occurred to him he now had another job.
'One thing more, George.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Has he made mention of Gabriel Hawkes?'
'Many times, Master.'
'What does he say?'
'That he is the better player of the two.'
'I did not think him so.'
'Nor I, but I dared not tell him.'
'Has he shown regret about Gabriel?'
'None, Master.'
'No tribute of a passing sigh?'
'Not once in my hearing.'
'Thank you,' said Nicholas kindly. 'Should he Say anything else of interest, let me know forthwith.'
'I will, sir.'
Having answered so many questions himself, George Dart now found one himself. It had been rolling around in his mind for days and Nicholas was the only person likely to give him a civil hearing. Dart's face puckered.
'When we left London…'
'Yes, George?'
'We came through Bishopsgate.'
'Aye, sir.'
'There was a head upon a spike there.'
'Several, if memory serves.'
'This was the most recent.'
'Ah, yes. Master Anthony Rickwood.'
'What was his offence?'
'Plotting against the life of Queen Elizabeth.'
'Was he alone in his crime?'
'No, lad. He was part of a Catholic conspiracy.'
'Why were the others not brought to justice?' 'Because they have not been apprehended yet.'
'Will they be so?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham will see to that.'
'How?'
'His men will scour the kingdom.
Before George could frame another question, there was a scream from nearby which sent Nicholas haring off with his sword in his hand. Richard Honeydew had yelled out in fear from behind the bushes where he had slipped off to relieve himself. Nicholas got to him in seconds to Find him open-mouthed in horror and pointing to something that was coming over the brow of the hill.
It was as weird and exotic a sight as any they had seen thus far on their travels. A band of some twenty or more had appeared in bizarre costumes that were made up of embroidered turbans and brightly-coloured scarves worn over shreds and patches. Their swarthy faces were painted red or yellow and bells tinkled about their feet as they rode along on their horses. They were at once frightening and fascinating. Richard Honeydew was transfixed.
Nicholas laughed and patted him on the back.
'They will not harm you, lad.'
'Who are they. Master?'
'Egyptians.'
'Who?'
'Minions of the moon.'
'Are they real?'
'As real as you or me.'
'Why do they look so strange?'
'They're gypsies.'
