'I do it but in memory of his wife.'
'Margery knows the man she married.'
And so do half the women in London.'
'We all have passions, sir.'
Not of that kind!' Gill rose from the table with an air of magisterial disdain. 'Some of us can discern where true satisfaction lies and it is not in the arms of some whore. There is a love that surpasses that of women.'
'Love of self, sir?' said Nicholas artlessly.
'Good night, gentlemen!'
Barnaby Gill banged out of the room in disgust.
Richard Honeydew had some difficulty getting off to sleep because of the high spirits of the other apprentices. They fought, laughed, teased and played tricks upon one another until they tired themselves out. George Dart was quite unable to control them and was usually the butt of their jokes. When they finally drifted off, it was into a deep and noisy sleep. Dart's snore was the loudest.
None of them yielded more readily to slumber than Richard Honeydew. Wedged into one end of the bed beside John Tallis, he did not even feel the kicks from the restless feet of his two companions who slept at the other end of the bed. Nor did he hear the latch of the door lift. Two figures entered silently and looked around in the gloom. One held a sword at the ready to ward off any interruption and the other carried a sack. When their quarry was located, the sack was slipped over his head and a hand pressed firmly over his mouth. The boy was pulled from the bed with careful speed and the interlopers made off with their prize.
Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.
'Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!'
'What ails you, George?'
'We have been robbed, sir.'
'Of what?' said Nicholas, sitting up.
'I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.'
'The theft was from your chamber?'
'Yes, Master. We have lost our biggest jewel.'
'How say you?'
'Dick Honeydew has gone.'
'Are you sure?'
'Beyond all doubt.'
'This is not some jest of the others?'
'They are as shocked as I am.'
'Where can Dick be?'
'I know the answer, sir.'
'Do you?'
'Stolen by the gypsies.'
Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.
'This is worth ten times your fee, sir.'
'What is it, Master?'
'A work of genius.'
Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.
'I cannot take it, sir.'
'Why not? I'd sell it for three pounds or more.'
'Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.'
'A wife?'
'Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,' said the physician. 'If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.'
'I'll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.'
'There's no hurry, Master, and you need the rest.'
'What rest?'
'To recover from your injuries.'
'They are of no account.'
'A few days in bed would see them gone for good.'
'I have no time to tarry,' said Quilley fussily. I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I've lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.'
'Where, Master Quilley?'
'In York.'
Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.
Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.
Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.
Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.
'I did not expect you at this early hour.'
'Necessity brought me hither.'
'Is something amiss?'
'I fear me it is. More news from London.'
'What has happened, Sir Clarence?'
'Information was laid against a certain person.'
'Master Neville Pomeroy?'
'He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.'
'Dear God!'
'Walsingham's men are closing in.'
'Can any of us now be safe?' said Rawlins.
