patronage was payment enough and Quilley had collected dozens of glowing tributes in place of hard-earned fees. It gave him a cynical edge that never quite left him.
He was riding beside Lawrence Firethorn as the company rolled north once more. Westfield's Men were in a state of depression. Deprived of their costumes, their apprentice and their book holder, they saw no hope of survival. It was a grim procession.
'How did you meet Anthony Rickwood?' said Firethorn.
'Through a friend.'
'Did you not take him for a traitor?'
'I saw it in his face.'
'Yet you accepted the commission?'
'His money was as good as anyone else's.'
'But tainted, Master Quilley.'
'How so?'
'Rickwood betrayed his Queen.'
'He paid me in gold,' said the artist. 'Not with thirty pieces of silver.'
'I could not work for such a man myself.'
'Your sentiments do you credit, Master Firethorn, but they are misplaced. You have played to men like Anthony Rickwood a hundred times, yea, and to worse than he.'
'I deny it hotly, sir!'
'Did you not visit Pomeroy Manor?'
'Indeed, we did. My Tarquin overwhelmed them.'
'It will not be staged there again,' said Quilley complacently. 'Master Neville Pomeroy lies in fetters in the Tower. It seems you have entertained traitors.'
'Can this be true?' said Firethorn.
'I have it on good authority.'
'God save us all!'
'He may be too late for Master Pomeroy.'
Firethorn drew apart to consider the implications of what he had just heard. It caused more than a ripple in the pool of his vanity. The visit to Pomeroy Manor was a triumph he hoped to repeat on his way back to London. It did nothing for the reputation of Westfield's Men to admit that one of their most appreciative patrons was an enemy of the state. Neville Pomeroy would not watch any more plays from a spike above Bishopsgate.
The actor-manager sought consolation in the prospect of Eleanor Budden but he found none. Though her beauty now had a ripeness that was glorious to behold, he was not given access to it. Frowning deeply, she was in the middle of a dispute with Christopher Millfield as he drove the waggon. The couple sat side by side in lively argument.
'I responded to the voice of God,' she said. 'You answered some inner desire, Mistress.'
'His word is paramount.'
'If that indeed was what you heard.'
'I am certain of it, Master Millfield.'
'Certainty is everywhere,' he argued. 'The Puritans, the Presbyterians, the Roman Catholics and many others besides, all these are certain that they hear the word of God more clearly than anyone else. Why should you have any special access to divine command?'
'Because I have been chosen.'
'By God-or by yourself?'
'Fie on your impertinence, sir!'
'I ask in all politeness, Mistress Budden.'
'Do you doubt my sincerity?'
'Not in the least. A woman who would abandon a home and a family to face the hardship of travel must indeed be sincere. What I question is this voice of God.'
'I heard it plainly, sir.'
'But did it come from without or within?'
'Does that matter?'
'I believe so.'
'It is not for us to question God's mystery.'
'Nor yet to submit blindly to it.'
'That is blasphemy!'
'You have your convictions and I have mine.'
'Are you an atheist, sir?!' she cried.
Before he could reply, two figures appeared ahead of them on a chestnut stallion. A second horse was dragging a litter that had been fashioned out of some long, slender boughs. Lashed to the litter was a basket that everyone recognized immediately. Nicholas Bracewell was back. He brought the missing apprentice and the stolen costumes as well as Oliver Quilley's horse. A cheer went up horn the whole company as they hurried towards their hero.
The newcomers were soon enveloped by friends and bombarded with questions. Eleanor Budden gazed down on her beloved and called his name. Barnaby Gill demanded to know if his golden doublet was unharmed. Edmund Hoode asked if they knew who had played his part of Sicinius. Martin Yeo, Stephen Judd and John Tallis hailed their fellow-apprentice with an enthusiasm that bordered on hysteria. Susan Becket chicked excitedly. George Dart was able to join the Merry Men once more.
Lawrence Firethorn waved them all into silence with an imperious arm and called for full details. Though they looked tattered and travel-weary, the two companions had washed themselves off in a spring and found that their injuries were only minor. Reunion with their fellows put new strength and spirit into them. 'Who kidnapped the lad?' asked Firethorn.
'Banbury's Men.' said Nicholas.
'Scurvy knaves! We'll have them in court for this!'
'There are other ways to get even, sir.'
'And the costumes, Nick?'
'Taken by the same hands.'
'Where did you find my horse?' said Quilley.
'That was providential.'
Nicholas told him the story and gained fresh looks of adoration from Eleanor Budden. When he talked of putting four men to flight-and did so in such modest terms-Susan Becket also experienced a flutter. The female response was not lost on Firethorn who sought to divert some of their admiring glances his way.
'By heavens!' he roared, pulling out his sword and holding it in the air. 'I'll put so many holes in the hide of Giles Randolph that he'll whistle when he walks across the stage! I'll challenge him to a duel and cut the varlet down to size! I'll make him pay for every crime he has committed against us. Hang him, the rogue!'
'Worry not about Master Randolph,' said Nicholas.
'Frogspawn in human shape!'
'He has problems enough of his own.'
'Prison is too good for such a wretch!' yelled Firethorn. 'He dared to steal Pompey the Great?'
'My play,' said Hoode. 'My part of Sicinius.'
'They will not perform it again, Edmund.'
'How can you be so certain, Nick?'
'Because we have stopped them.' He winked at his companion. 'Show them, Dick.'
The boy ran across to the costume basket and threw back its lid to draw out a pile of plays. He read out their titles to a delighted audience.
'Cupid's Folly. Two Maids of Milchester. Double Deceit. Marriage and Mischief. Pompey the Great?
'All returned where they belong,' said Nicholas. 'They cannot stage our plays without these prompt books.'
'By all, this is wonderful!' shouted Firethorn. 'Let me embrace you both, my lovely imps!'
