'They are closer to us than we thought
'Yet still a day behind us,' said Mark Scruton.
'I like not such nearness, sir.'
'They will not catch up yet.'
'Find some other way to delay them.'
'I have it already in my mind.'…
Randolph strutted around the Great Hall and watched the stage being erected. He tested the acoustics with a speech from the play and his voice had a poetic beauty to it. The tour had so far been a tale of continuing success that was all the more gratifying because it had involved the abject failure of Westfield's Men. Now, however, his rivals were on his heels and it made him nervous.
He snapped his fingers to beckon Scruton over.
'Yes, Master.'
'You have another trick, sir?'
'It will leave them naked and ashamed.'
'About it straight.'
'What, now?' said Scruton in surprise. 'Before they close in on us.'
'But there is the performance of The Renegade.'
'You will have to miss it.'
'Then I miss the best role I have,' protested the other. 'Let me but act it here this evening and I'll waylay them tomorrow and cause my mischief.'
'Tomorrow is too late.'
'How will you play without me?'
'Young Harry Paget will take on the part.'
'But it is mine!' complained Scruton angrily.
'Mind your tone, sir.'
'You do me a great injustice.'
'It is but for one performance, Mark,' soothed the other. 'When we play the piece again, you will be restored to your glory. You have my word upon it.'
'And when we reach York?'
'You sign a contract that gives you larger roles in every play we stage. If I approve it, that is.'
Mark Scruton was cornered. Despite all he had done for the company, he was still not legally a sharer. Until his elevation to that level, he was still at the mercy of Randolph's whims and commands. He fell back on the polite obsequiousness that had served him so well in the past.
'I will set off at once.'
'Cause havoc in the ranks of Westfield's Men.'
'They will not dare to play thereafter.'
'That thought contents me.
'And my reward?'
'It waits for you in York.'
The four liveried servants rode at a gentle canter along the Great North Road. They bore their masters crest upon their sleeves and his money in their purses. His orders were to be carried out to the letter and they knew the penalty for failure to comply with his wishes. It was a strange assignment but it took them out of Hertfordshire to pastures new and there was interest in that. Their leader set the pace and they rode some five yards apart like the corners of some gigantic scarf. In the middle of that scarf was the person whom they escorted with such care and concern. It was an important mission.
They came to a crossing and saw a large white stone beside the road. Carved into its face was a number that outraged their travelling companion. She shrieked aloud.
'One hundred miles to York!'
'Yes, Mistress,' said one of the men.
'We make tardy progress.'
'It is for your own comfort.'
'Mine! Ha! I'll ride the thighs off any man.'
'What is the haste, Mistress?'
'I need to get there.'
Margery Firethorn kicked her horse on and it broke into a gallop that left the others behind. The four bemused servants of Lord Westfield gave chase at once and wondered what this madwoman, sitting astride a black horse and hallooing at the top of her voice, was actually doing. Her reckless conduct was unsettling to them but she did not bother herself about that.
Margery was going to York.
She had something to say to her husband.
'Hold still, Master Firethorn, you must not move about so.'
'I am flesh and blood, sir, not a piece of marble.'
'An artist needs a motionless subject.'
'Wait till I am dead and paint me then.'
'You are being perverse, sir.'
'My neck is breaking in two!'
'Take five minutes rest.'
Oliver Quilley clicked his tongue in annoyance. They were in his bedchamber at the inn where they were spending the night. The artist had suggested a first sitting to Firethorn but his subject had been less than helpful. Not only did he talk incessantly throughout, he could not keep his head in the same position for more than a couple of minutes. It was most unsatisfactory.
Firethorn came over to see the results.
'How far have we got, Master Quilley?'
'Almost nowhere.'
'Show me your work.'
'It is hardly begun.'
'But I have been sitting there for a century!'
Quilley was at a small table with his materials in front of him. The portrait was on vellum that was stretched and stuck on a playing card. Pigments were mixed in mussel shells and applied with squirrel-hair brushes made out of quills. An animal's tooth, set in the handle of the brush, could be used for burnishing at a later stage. Limning was an exact art that required the correct materials. It was not surprising that Quilley kept them in his leather pouch and hid them beneath his doublet. His livelihood travelled next to his heart.
Firethorn studied the sketched outline of his face and head, not sure whether to feel flattered or insulted. There was a definite likeness there but it was still so insubstantial as to be meaningless to him. The actor's art could be displayed to the full in two hours' traffic on the stage and he expected similar speed from the miniaturist. Quilley's was a slower genius. It grew at the pace of a rose and took much longer to flower.
'There is not much to see, sir,' said Firethorn.
'That is your own fault.'
'Can you not hurry yourself?'
'Not if you wish for a work of art.'
'I will settle for no less.'
'Then learn to sit still.'
'I am a man of action.'
