He dismounted and put a congratulatory arm around each. The worst night of his life was being redeemed by one of the best days. Nicholas added even more joy.
'Time brings in its revenges, sir.'
'What do you mean?'
'Master Randolph will not laugh this morning.'
'Did you strike a blow for Westfield's Men. '
'I think so,' said Nicholas.
Giles Randolph stared at the empty chest with a mixture of fear and dismay. It had been stored all night beneath his fourposter and chained to one of the legs. Its lock was strong and apparently undamaged yet the treasure chest was bare. The company's most priceless possessions had gone. Randolph screeched a name and Mark Scruton came running. One glance made the newcomer turn white.
'When did you discover this, sir?'
'Even now.'
'You did not open the chest last night?'
'The journey back from Lavery Grange was too tiring and much wine had been taken. I fell into bed and slept soundly until this morning.' Randolph kicked at the empty chest. 'Had I known of this, I'd not have closed my eyes!'
Mark Scruton thought quickly then glanced towards the door. Beckoning the other to follow, he ran out of the bedchamber and down the stairs, making for the door that led to the yard. With Randolph at his heels, he hurried across to the outhouse beyond the stables and wondered why one of its walls was damaged. He unbolted the door and flung it open to reveal a sight that might have been comical in other circumstances. The stocky ostler was bound hand and foot and tied to the bars at the window. A large apple had been placed in his mouth and held in place by a strip of material that was knotted behind his head. His eyes were as red and bulbous as tomatoes.
'Where are they?' demanded Scruton.
The man shook his head and hunched his shoulders.
Giles Randolph let out a howl and kneeled down. In the middle of the straw was a pile of prompt books that were caked in manure and sodden with water. The symbolism was not lost on him. Rising up in sheer disgust, he jabbed a shaking finger at his vandalized property.
'Mark Scruton!' he hissed.
'Yes, sir?'
'This is your doing.'
'A thousand apologies.'
'Clean up your mess!'
He left the scene of the outrage in high dudgeon.
The blacksmith hammered in the last nail then lowered the hoof to the ground. He wiped his brow with a hairy arm and turned to the full-bodied woman who held the bridle.
'Take more care with the animal, Mistress.'
'I have not the time, sir.'
'He was ridden too hard over rough ground,' said the blacksmith. 'That is why he cast a shoe.'
He may cast more then before we arrive.
'Where do you go?'
'To York.'
'It is a goodly distance yet, Mistress.'
'Then do not detain us with your prattle.'
Margery Firethorn put a foot in the stirrup and hauled herself up into the saddle without asking for any assistance. An imperious snap of the fingers brought one of the liveried servants scuttling across to her.
'Pay the fellow!' she said.
Then she rode off at an even fiercer pace.
Westfield's Men got their first glimpse of York and paused to take in its full magnificence. Seen from that distance and that elevation, it looked like a fairytale city that was set against a painted backdrop and even those who had seen it before now marvelled afresh. Eleanor Budden summed it all up in one word. 'Jerusalem!'
They stopped to take refreshment and gather their strength for the last few miles of a journey that had become increasingly strenuous since they crossed the county boundary. Horses were watered and refreshment taken. Nicholas Bracewell chose the moment to have word alone with Christopher Millfield. Having disliked the actor so much at first, he now found himself warming all the more to him.
'How did you fare in my absence, Christopher?'
'We never lost faith in you.'
'I am glad the business turned out so well.'
'You brought home great bounty,' said Millfield. 'Master Quilley was delighted to get his horse back.'
'A happy accident.' Nicholas glanced across at the artist. 'What do you make of our limner?'
'Painters are always slightly mad.'
'Have you noticed nothing odd about him?'
'Several things but I put them down to his calling.'
'Look at his apparel,' said Nicholas. 'It is a very expensive suit for a man who claims that he has no money. Then there is the quality of his horse, not to mention those saddlebags of the finest leather with their gold monogram. Master Quilley is not the pauper he pretends.'
'Then where does his wealth come from?'
'I wish I knew.'
'Haply, he has some rich patron.'
'One name suggests itself.'
'Who is that?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham.'
'Indeed?' said Millfield with astonishment. 'I find that hard to credit. Could Master Quilley really be in his service as an informer?'
'Who is better placed, Christopher? He visits the homes of the great on a privileged footing and sees things that no other visitor could observe. His calling is the ideal cover for a spy.'
'Do you have any proof of this?'
'None beyond my own suspicion. Except an item that I found in his saddlebag. See it for yourself
Christopher Millfield took the document that was handed to him and scanned through the names. He nodded in agreement as he returned it to Nicholas.
'You have just cause for that suspicion.
'Do I?'
'Two of those names have already been ticked off by Walsingham. Three of the others are known to me from my time with the Admiral's Men. I dare swear that they were all prosecuted for recusancy.'
'What of Sir Clarence Marmion and the others?'
'We can but guess.'
'Birds of a feather flock together.'
'Your conclusion?'
'All of Master Quilley's employers are Catholics.'
'Could he be a servant of Rome himself?'
