Anne Hendrik had travelled by way of Watling Street to visit her cousins in Dunstable. She soon moved on to Bedford to stay with an uncle and was pleased when he invited her to accompany him on a visit to his brother in Nottingham. Though the town had not been part of the itinerary of Westfield's Men, it took her much closer to them and that brought some comfort. It was only now that she was parted from Nicholas Bracewell that she realized how important he was in her life. They had shared the same house for almost three years now and she had grown to appreciate his unusual qualities.
She missed his soft West Country accent and his sense of humour and his endless consideration. Many men would have been brutalized by some of the experiences he had been through, but Nicholas remained true to himself and sensitive to the needs of others. He had faults but even those produced a nostalgic smile now. As Anne wandered through the market stalls of Nottingham, her hands were busy fingering lace and leather and cambric but her mind was on her dearest friend.
She sensed that he might not be too far away.
'Do not buy that here, Anne.'
'What?'
'The finest leather is in Leicester.'
'Oh…yes.'
She put down the purse she had been absent-mindedly examining and took her uncle's arm. He was an old man now and there would not be many journeys left to his brother. It gave him pleasure to be able to indulge his niece along the way. She had always been his favourite.
'What may I buy you, Anne?'
'It is I who should give you a present, uncle.'!
'Your visit is present enough,' he said then waved his walking stick at the stalls. 'Choose what you wish.'
'There is nothing that I need.'
'I must give you some treat.'
'You have done that by bringing me here.'
He looked around and scratched his head in thought. When the idea came forth, it brought an elderly chuckle.
'Haply, you would like some entertainment.'
'Of what kind, uncle?'
'I'll take you to a play.'
Do they have a company here?'
'Had your head not been in the clouds, you would have seen for yourself. Playbills are up on every post.'
Indeed?'
Incitement stirred. Could Westfield's Men be there?
'Let me but show you, niece.'
'I follow you in earnest.'
He pushed a way through the crowd until they came to Ye Old Salutation Inn, one of the taverns that nestled close to Nottingham Castle and which had quenched the thirst of needy travellers for untold generations. Nailed to a beam outside the inn was a playbill written out with a flourish. Anne Hendrik felt her pulse quicken when she saw the name of the play. Pompey the Great. Edmund Hoode's famed tragedy.
A triumph for Westfield 's Men.
Her joy turned sour on the instant. The audience would not see Lawrence Firethorn in his most celebrated role. They were being offered the more shallow talents of Giles Randolph and his company.
'Shall you see this play with me, Anne?'
'Not I, uncle. I have no stomach for the piece.'
She turned away in outrage.
They knew that they were in Nottinghamshire as soon as they saw the woodland. Leicestershire had few forests and even fewer deer parks, the land being given over largely to agriculture. The growing of barley, pulses and wheat were familiar sights as were the fields of cattle and sheep. Once across the border, however, Westfield's Men encountered very different terrain. They were in the shire with the wood' since Sherwood Forest accounted for over a quarter of its area.
Their morale had lifted since the sun came out. The decision to leave the Great North Road had been a mixed blessing. It gave them performances in Oakham and Melton Mowbray in front of small but committed audiences but it also acquainted them with the misery of traversing bad roads in inclement weather. Resting for the night some five miles south of Nottingham, they hoped they had put the worst of their troubles behind them.
When Lawrence Firethorn insisted that they stay at the Smith and Anvil, the others thought that it was a rare instance of sentimentality in him. The son of a village blacksmith himself, he had the build of those who followed that trade along with the bearing of a true gentleman. The original forge was a building of napped flints with a deep thatch but the inn which had grown up around it was largely timber-framed. When they entered the taproom, they realized why the actor-manager had been so insistent that they spent the night there.
'Master Firethorn!'
'Come, let me embrace you, Susan!'
'Oh, sir! This is unlooked-for joy!'
'And all the sweeter for it.'
The hostess was an attractive woman of ample girth and vivacious manner. Susan Becket was spilling out of her dress with welcome. The plump face was one round smile and the red tresses were tossed in delight. She came bouncing across the taproom to bestow a kiss like a clap of thunder on the lips of Lawrence Firethorn.
'What brings you to my inn, sir?'
'What else but your dear self?'
'You flatter me, you rascal.'
'I am like to do more than that ere I leave.'
'Away, you saucy varied' she said with a giggle.
'Do you have good beds at your hostelry?'
'No man has complained, sir.'
'Then neither will I,' said Firethorn enfolding her in his arms again. 'Hold me tight, Mistress Susan Becket. Though you have the name of a saint, I like you best for being a sinner.'
Her laughter set the huge breasts bobbing merrily.
Nicholas Bracewell, as usual, organized the sleeping arrangements. The best rooms went to the sharers and the hired men had to make do with what was left. Since it was a small establishment, some of them had to bed down on straw in an outhouse. Nicholas volunteered to spend the night with a few others so that the apprentices could have the last small room. All four of them were packed into the same lumpy bed. George Dart slept at their feet.
The book holder finished his supper in the taproom with Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode. Carrying a large candle, the hostess guided Lawrence Firethorn up to his chamber. Gill gave a sardonic snort.
'She'll burn his candle for him till he be all wax.'
'They are old friends, I think,' said Hoode.
'Lawrence has friends in every tavern and trugging-house in England,' said Gill. 'I wonder they do not name one of their diseases after him. I know a dozen or more doxies who have caught a dose of Firethorn before now.'
'He has always been popular with the ladies,' said Nicholas diplomatically.
'Ladies!' Gill hooted. 'There is nothing ladylike about them, Master Bracewell. As long as they give him a gallop, that is sufficient, and Mistress Becket will prove a willing mount. Hell not have to ride side-saddle with her, I warrant.
'Leave off this carping, Barnaby,' said Hoode.
