'Be silent, sir!' snarled Firethorn.
'What of my cambric shirts and my lawn ruff?'
'Cease this whining!'
The actor-manager's roar cut short the fit of pique. Gill dropped back into his seat and stared moodily into his drink. At times of crisis, he could be relied upon to put his selfish interests before anything else. Edmund Hoode had far more compassion for his fellows.
'My thoughts are with poor Dick!' he said.
'So are mine upon occasion,' murmured Gill.
'I would surrender every shred of clothing that we own to get the lad safe back again. Where can he be?'
'Nick will find him,' said Firethorn.
'Aye,' agreed Hoode. 'Nick is our one bright hope.'
'How can you think that?' said Gill. 'If it were not for our esteemed book holder, we would not now be in such a case as this. I lay the guilt on him.' He spoke on over their protests. 'Defend him all you can, sirs, but this I declare. Nicholas Bracewell must bear the guilt. He it is who was most responsible for the safety of the apprentices yet one of them was taken from under his nose.'
'Nick cannot be everywhere,' defended Hoode.
'That is plain, Edmund. Were he not now gallivanting around the whole county, then our costumes would have been secure. He would have been here to do his duty and defend them properly.' Gill sat up sulkily. 'And I would still have my golden doublet!
'Someone had to go after Dick Honeydew,' said Hoode.
'And the only man fit for the task was Nick,' added Firethorn. 'He may yet extract us from this morass. I'll not hear one word of carping about him.'
'Then I'll hold my tongue,' said Gill sarcastically.
Firethorn drank deep from his cup and moaned aloud.
'What a world of pain is this touring! I do nor like it, sirs, and I fear it does not like me. Nothing but dire calamity has conic of it. We have faced rain, robbery and ruin. And the worst of it is that I am far from home and can draw no comfort from the soft bosom of my wife.'
Gill and Hoode traded a glance of tired amusement. With one woman upstairs in his bed and another featuring prominently in his fantasies, Lawrence Firethorn could still indulge in a bout of marital sentimentality with every sign of complete sincerity. Happiness was his ability to expel Margery entirely from his thoughts. It was only at moments of stress that she reappeared in his considerations and reminded him that he was her husband.
His colleagues listened to his maudlin reminiscences with a measure of cynicism. Their situation was drastic but there was yet some humour to be drawn from it. As Firethorn reached a crescendo of uxoriousness, he was interrupted by the arrival of the tentative George Dart.
'What is it?' growled Firethorn.
'I bring you a message from the lady, sir.'
'Mistress Becket?'
'Mistress Budden.'
'Speak it forth.'
'We sat beside each other on the waggon, Master, and I was bold enough to praise you in her hearing.' He finally put a smile on Firethorn's face. 'I talked about your fine voice, sir, and how you could recite the prayer book as if it were the music of Heaven.'
'So it is, George. So it is.'
'Mistress Budden was much taken with all this.'
'What is her message?'
'She sits in bed,' said Dart. 'It is her dearest wish that you should read to her from the psalms ere she closes her eyes in Christian slumber.'
Lawrence Firethorn felt the reassuring surge of his lust. An opportunity which he believed would never come had now presented itself to him. Eleanor Budden was lying in her bedchamber with complete trust in the sound of his voice. Psalms could lead to sighs of love. As temptation licked at his loins, he saw the obstacles. Susan Becket was waiting in the next bedchamber. A costume basket had to be traced. Plans had to be made. Work would keep him downstairs for several hours.
Disappointment gnawed at his entrails but there was no way out for him. Ignoring the smirks from Hoode and Gill, he turned to the messenger with lofty calm.
'Tell her I may not come tonight,' he said. 'But I will pray for Mistress Budden most heartily.'
And he left it on that ambiguous note.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It assaulted his nostrils. The outhouse had been used to stable a donkey and its droppings were mixed freely with the straw. When he tried to move, he felt as if someone were trying to pound the back of his skull to gain entrance. Nicholas Bracewell remained absolutely still until his head began to clear. Something was tickling the end of his foot. He opened a misty eye to make out the sad figure of Richard Honeydew, stretching out a leg to make contact with him. The boy was still bound and gagged. Nicholas's first impulse was to release him and he jerked forward, only to be held by ropes of his own that were tied to an iron ring in the wall. The lump on the back of his head ached anew but the gag in his mouth muffled his groan.
Nicholas waited till the pain eased off then he took stock of the situation. He was seated upright against a rough stone wall, unable to move because of his bonds. Opposite him was Richard Honeydew, who had been secured to the iron bars across the window. His delight at seeing the boy was shadowed by the condition in which he found him. Honeydew's face was besmirched with blood and his clothes were torn and stained. He did not look as if he had eaten very much since he had been abducted. Nicholas was seized with remorse. Instead of riding to the rescue of the apprentice, he had let himself be captured as well.
He struggled hard but his bonds held firm. When he tried to speak, his words came out as faint grunts. There was so much to ask but he had no means of asking it. He looked around for help and saw the old stone walls with their flaking coat of whitewash. An idea formed. Angling himself over so that he could swing his legs up, he used his toes to scrape one big question on the wall.
'Who?'
Richard Honeydew responded in kind. Pulling himself up on the bars, he swung his legs across until they just made contact with the whitewash. In the half-dark of their stinking cell, he slowly and laboriously traced a name on the wall. The letters were ragged and indistinct but their impact was Mill potent.
Nicholas Bracewell was' absolutely stunned. It was incredible.
Christopher Millfield remained cheerful in the midst of adversity. Long faces and short tempers surrounded him but his resilence was remarkable. Instead of being dragged down by the general mood of gloom, he was chirpy and positive. Sharing a room with George Dart and the three apprentices gave these qualities ample scope.
'It will all seem better in the morning,' he said.
'It could hardly be worse,' sighed Dart.
'There is a solution to every problem.'
'We have so many, Master Millfield.'
'Let hope into your heart, George.'
'There is no room for it.'
Christopher Millfield leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. Healing snores from the other bed, he lowered his voice so that he did not rouse the sleepers.
'We are players,' he argued softly, 'and nothing must be allowed to smother our art. If one of our apprentices
