knowledge of its present location. Nicholas thanked them and withdrew.
Darkness was beginning to close in and he needed a bed for the night. He had passed a small inn a few miles back and now rode off again in that direction, his mind grappling with the problem of where Banbury's Men could be and his concern for Richard Honeydew rising all the time. Absorbed in his thoughts, he let his guard fall.
'Hold there, sir!'
'That is a fine horse you have.'
'Let us guess its age by its teeth.'
The three men came out of the woodland and ambled towards him with amiable grins. He was not fooled. Each of them had a hand on his sword. They had caught him on a deserted track that ran between the trees. Nicholas knew that they would not close in on him like that unless they had someone at his back. He swung his horse around in the nick of time. The fourth man was running silently towards him with a cudgel in his hand, ready to hack him down from behind while his attention was diverted.
Nicholas got his kick in before the cudgel fell and the man staggered back. When he came charging in again, he felt a sword go clean through his shoulder and yelled out in agony. His accomplices sprinted in to wreak revenge but they had chosen the wrong target. As the first of them swished his sword, it met such a forceful reply from Nicholas's rapier that it was twisted out of his hand. The book holder dismounted in a flash, pulling out his dagger as he did so and daring the two armed men to come at him. They flashed and jabbed but could get nowhere near him. Unable to recover his sword from the ground, the third man produced a dagger and raised an arm to throw it but he was far too slow. Nicholas's own dagger hurtled through the air and pierced the fellow's wrist, causing him to drop his own weapon with a cry.
The others had had enough. Now that the odds were not so heavily in their favour, they gathered up their two stricken colleagues and limped away. Nicholas gave chase and let some air into the jerkin of one of them. Three of them scrambled into their saddles but the cudgeller was too badly wounded to ride and had to be helped up behind one of his friends. Cursing their assailant, they beat a hasty retreat into the forest.
Nicholas walked across to the horse that they had left behind and patted its neck. It was far too good a mount for common highwaymen and had clearly been stolen. In the fading light, he could just see the monogrammed gold initials on the saddlebags- O.Q. When lie searched inside the pouches, he found some food and some articles of apparel. What really interested him, however, was the folded parchment that was tucked away at the very bottom of one of the saddlebags. It was a list of names and addresses, written out in a fair hand. Two of the names had been ticked and they leapt up at Nicholas.
Anthony Rickwood and Neville Pomeroy.
A third name had a question mark beside it.
Sir Clarence Marmion.
From the initials on the saddlebag, Nicholas knew that he had found Oliver Quilley's stolen horse. He now had the feeling that he had found something tar more important as well. The artist had told him of the arrest of Master Neville Pomeroy on a charge of high treason and how the prisoner languished in the Tower. Those events took place over a hundred and fifty miles away.
How did Oliver Quilley know about them?
Lawrence Firethorn was hoist with his own petard. After encouraging Susan Becket to accompany him to Nottingham so that she could share nights of madness with him, he could not then dismiss her when she elected to travel on with him. It was very inhibiting. At a time when he hoped to get acquainted with a new potential conquest, he was forced to ride alongside the hostess and listen to her amiable chatter. Eleanor Budden, meanwhile, was seated beside the driver of the waggon, George Dart, seeing to his spiritual needs and generally inhibiting everyone on the vehicle with her presence. Firethorn stole a glance in her direction. Eleanor and Susan were the extremes of womanhood, the respectable and the disreputable, the virtuous and the voluptuous, the sacred and the profane. If the two could blend into one, mused Firethorn, then he would finally have found perfection in human form.
The chuckling Susan Becket nudged him gently. 'She is not for you, Lawrence.'
'Such a thought never entered my mind!'
'Mistress Budden is already spoken for.'
'I met her husband when we set out.'
'It is not him, I mean, sir. The lady is enamoured elsewhere. She talks of nobody but your book holder.'
'Nicholas did make an impression on her.'
'If I saw him naked in the River Trent, he would have made an impression on me,' said Susan with a giggle. 'He is a fine figure of a man with a pleasing demeanour.'
'Nick only floated on the water,' said Firethorn testily. 'She speaks as if he walked upon it!'
They were heading north through thick woodland that was redolent with memories of the famous outlaw. Lapsing back into his role in the play, Christopher Millfield began to sing snatches from the ballad. With Nicholas out of the way, he had regained all his sprightliness. The other hired men walked beside him and grumbled about the three outsiders who travelled with them. Oliver Quilley had a lordly manner as he rode near the front of the little procession, Susan Becket reserved her favours for the actor-manager, and Eleanor Budden brought an unwanted injection of Christianity into their lives. They had lost one valuable apprentice and gained three unnecessary passengers. They were convinced that nothing good could come from it.
George Dart begged leave to differ. Embarrassed at first to have Eleanor alongside him, he soon began to take a pleasure in her company. They had a mutual hero.
'Tell me of Master Bracewell,' she said.
'He is a wonderful man and runs the company in all the ways that matter. Others may get the credit and the rewards but it is he who deserves them, yet you will not hear a boastful word on his lips.'
'His modesty becomes him.'
'He is my one true friend, Mistress.'
'That cannot be,' she said. 'What of your mother? Is not she a true friend to her son?'
'Belike she was when she was alive. I do not know. She died when I was but a tiny child.'
'How came you into this profession?'
'No other would take me, Mistress. It was Nicholas Bracewell's doing. He taught me all I knew and it has kept me from starvation ever since.'
'He is a Christian soul.'
'None more so in the company.'
'How long has he been in the theatre?'
'Four years or more. I cannot say.'
'Before that?'
'He was at sea,' said George proudly. 'He sailed with Drake around the world and saw things that most of us cannot even comprehend, such is their wonder. Master Bracewell has been everywhere.'
'Except Jerusalem.'
'Why do you say that, Mistress?' Because I would take him there with me.'
'And will he go?' said Dart in amazement.
Eleanor Budden gave him a beatific smile.
'Oh, yes. He must. He has no choice.'
Lavery Grange was in the northernmost corner of the county of Nottingham and the head of the house, Sir Duncan Lavery, was an amenable and gregarious character. Given the chance to act as host to Banbury's Men, he welcomed them with open arms and put his Great Hall at their disposal for a performance of The Renegade. Good fortune was tinged with bad news. Banbury's Men learned from a visitor to the Grange that their rivals had just scored a triumph in Nottingham with a play about Robin Hood.
Giles Randolph stamped a peevish foot
