A new drama by Edmund Hoode was to be given its first performance outside London. Soldiers of the Cross had a particular relevance to their venue because it dealt with a crusade and took Richard the Lionheart through a succession of epic battles. Westfield's Men had presented a crusader play before, a novice work by one Roger Bartholomew, an Oxford scholar with misguided aspirations about the theatre. Hoode's work had the mark of a true professional. It was well crafted, lit with fire and passion, and filled with soaring verse. In the play about Robin Hood, the same king had been but a minor character who slipped on near the end to knight the hero. Soldiers of the Cross made him central to the action and Firethorn's performance made him tower even in ore.
Nicholas Bracewell was industrious and watchful. He kept the rehearsal rolling along and noted any faults or omissions along the way. His stagekeepers were given a long list of jobs when it was all over. He worked well into the evening himself then adjourned to the taproom.
Oliver Quilley was sampling the Malmsey. 'Master Bracewell, let me buy you a drink, sir.' 'I cannot stay.'
'But I have not thanked you for finding my horse.'
'There was something else I found.'
Nicholas took out the list from the saddlebag and handed it over. The artist snatched it eagerly from him.
'I see that some names were ticked off, Master.'
'Those commissions have been completed.'
'There is a question mark beside one person.'
'Is there?'
'Sir Clarence Marmion.'
'I cannot see it.'
Quilley glanced at the document then folded it up and put it away. An enigmatic smile kept Nicholas at bay. The book holder met his gaze.
'How did you know of Master Pomeroy's arrest?'
'Word travels fast.'
'Only by special messenger.'
'I have my contacts, sir.'
'So I believe.'
The artist gave nothing away. His unruffled calm was a challenge that Nicholas was unable to take up at that point. The book holder had a more pressing commitment and he excused himself. He would return to Oliver Quilley.
Night was taking its first gentle steps towards York as Nicholas shouldered his way through the crowds. Even in the turmoil of their arrival, he had found the time to enquire after other theatre companies. Banbury's Men had reached the city that same day. They were staying at the Three Swans in Fossgate. He went over Ouse Bridge and headed north, picking his way through clamorous streets that he half-remembered from an earlier visit some years before, and listening to the Yorkshire dialects that rang out on every side.
The first thing he saw when he turned into Fossgate was the Merchant Adventurers' Hall, a fine triple-aisled structure with a chapel projecting towards the River Foss. Incorporating brickwork and half-timbering, it was a long, high building that emphasized the prominent place that the Merchant Adventurers took among the fifty guilds of the city. Nicholas was reminded of something that his life in London made him forget. York, too, had its wealth.
The Three Swans was an establishment of medium size constructed around an undulating yard. Banbury's Men were still rehearsing. Raised voices came from behind the main gates which had been locked to keep out the curious. He went into the inn and bought a tankard of ale, drifting across to a window to get a view of the yard. It was galleried at two levels and he estimated that about four hundred spectators could be crammed in on the morrow. Jerusalem, with its larger yard, had a definite advantage. That would please Lawrence Firethorn.
Light was dying visibly now but the players kept at their work, frantically trying to iron out the myriad problems caused by their damaged prompt book. Nicholas waited until nobody was looking then he slipped up a staircase and through a door. He was now standing on the gallery at the first level and able to see the last of the rehearsal. It was a pastoral romp of indifferent quality and they played it without attack or conviction. Through the gap in the curtains which had been put up in front of their tiring-house, he could see the book holder, holding his head well back from the stench of his text and turning the pages with care.
Giles Randolph took his customary leading role and the other sharers were ranged around him. But look as he might, Nicholas could not find the face he sought above all others. He was still straining his eyes against the gloom when a voice behind him made him turn.
'Have you come to see me, Nick? Here I am.'
The book holder found himself facing a drawn sword and the young man had every intention of using it if the need arose, liven after Richard Honeydew's warning, he was still dumbfounded. Here was the last person on earth that he had expected to meet. Nicholas had watched him being buried in a common grave in London.
It was Gabriel Hawkes.
Chapter Ten
The swordpoint pricked his throat and forced him back against one of the posts that supported the upper tier. Nicholas Bracewell was helpless. He could not move an inch. Behind and below him in the yard was a company of actors engaged in a rehearsal but he could not cry for help. The rapier would rip out his voice in an instant. All that he could do was to watch the man he had once liked and respected so much. There was an additional shock to accommodate. Dangling from his assailant's ear was the jewelled earring which had been thrown into the pit after his corpse. Nicholas gaped.
'You have come back from the dead, sir,' he said. 'It is but an illusion.'
'We saw Gabriel Hawkes being carted away with the other plague victims and tossed into his grave.'
'Your eyes did not deceive you, Nick.'
'Then how can you be here before me now?'
'Because I am not Gabriel,' said the young man. 'My name is Mark Scruton. The poor wretch who died was indeed Gabriel Hawkes. He was a kinsman of mine who had fallen on hard times and been swept into that hideous dwelling in Smorrall Lane. It suited me to take his name and his address while yet living in a sweeter lodging.'
'You were planted on Westfield's Men,' said Nicholas as the truth slowly dawned. 'That memory of yours was used against us. You studied from our prompt books and gave your findings to our rivals.'
'That was the bargain I struck.'
'To betray your fellows?'
'What future did they offer me?' said Scruton with contempt. 'To be a hired man at the beck and call of Master Firethorn? Fed on the scraps of parts that were left over? Employed or dismissed on a whim? There was no future for me, sir! I am a true actor!'
'Your art beguiled me,' admitted Nicholas.
'Banbury's Men held out real promise. In bringing your company low, I earned my right to be a sharer with them. That gives me the status I deserve.' He smiled with self-congratulation. 'Gabriel Hawkes had to vanish before your eyes so that he could reappear as Mark Scruton. My uncle fell. sick with the plague but might have lingered a while and so delayed my plans. I helped him on his way to Heaven and spared him certain agony. You saw him taken from his foul bed and trundled off in his winding sheet.'
'Your earring was upon him.'
'It was my parting gift.' He flicked the jewel that now hung from his lobe. 'I have its twin, as you now see.
Nicholas pieced it all together in his mind.
'You feigned illness in London to prepare us for the shock of your death,' he said. 'Then you travelled with Banbury's Men and advised them how best to damage our enterprise. You snatched Dick Honeydew away then worked with that ostler to steal cur costumes.'
'You should not have found either, Nick.
'It was my duty.'
