'And your undoing. You know too much, my friend.'
'Enough to see you hanged for it.'
'Enough to get you killed.'
Scruton lowered the sword and thrust at his heart but Nicholas moved like lightning. Dodging a foot to one side, he let himself fall backwards over the balustrade and somersaulted through the air before landing on his feet in the yard. Blood was oozing from his left arm where the sword had grazed him but the wound was not deep. Pulling out his own rapier, he ran back into the building and up the stairs to do battle on more equal terms but Mark Scruton had not waited for him. Though the book holder searched high and low, he could not find the man anywhere on the premises.
Gabriel Hawkes had disappeared again.
Sir Clarence Marmion sat in his chair without moving a muscle. He was a dignified figure, slim, erect and quite serene, a trifle cold perhaps but carrying his authority lightly. He wore a black doublet, slashed with red and rising to a high neck that was trimmed with a lace ruff. Oliver Quilley scrutinized him with utmost care to find the mind's construction in the face but his subject was yielding little of his inner self. The artist made some preliminary lines on the vellum oval that lay before him on the table. His sitter did not flicker an eyelid. It was an hour before Quilley broke the silence.
'The question of an inscription, Sir Clarence…'
'Inscription?'
'Most people require a few words on their portrait to give it meaning or individuality. Sometimes it is a family motto or an expression of love to the intended recipient of the miniature. I have known subjects who called for couplets of verse or even maxims in Greek.'
'That will not be my wish, sir.'
'Then what is?'
'A Latin tag.'
'Speak and it will be penned in.'
'Dat poena laudata fides.'
Quilley noted the phrase then furrowed his brow.
'A strange request, Sir Clarence. 'Loyalty, though praised, brings sufferings.' There is some association here with Marmion Hall?'
'That is not for you to know, Master Quilley.'
'The artist must have insight into everything.'
'Practise your art without more words.'
He returned to his pose and Oliver Quilley worked on until he had got all he needed from the first sitting. They were in the hall and the master of the house was seated against the far wall, his head framed by one of the gleaming oak panels. As the artist collected up his materials, he threw an admiring glance at the family portraits that hung all around them, noting with especial admiration that of the former Lady Marmion, stately mother of Sir Clarence. Dressed with controlled elegance, she was a gracious figure and prompted an outburst from Quilley.
'The lady looks so fine and dresses so well,' he said. 'Not like the women of the capital. What, sir! You cannot conceive of their monstrous fashions. Some wear doublets with pendant codpieces on the breast, full of jags and cuts, and sleeves of sundry colours. Their galligaskins are such as to bear out their bums and make their attire to fit plum around them. Their farthingales and diversely coloured nether stocks of silk, jersey and the like deform their bodies even more. I have met with some of these trulls in London, so disguised that it passed my skill to discern whether they were men or women!'
Coming from a man who minced about in flamboyant apparel himself, the attack had its comical side and Sir Clarence smiled inwardly. He then put a hand into his pocket and took out five gold coins.
'Here's payment for your work, Master Quilley.'
'Wait until I have finished, dear sir.'
'Take it on account.'
'If you insist,' said the other gratefully.
'A labourer is worthy of his hire.'
'An artist raises labour to a higher plane.'
'Did you do that for Master Anthony Rickwood?'
The question flustered Quilley but he soon recovered and answered with a noncommittal smirk, taking the money from his host and putting it quickly into his purse. Sir Clarence rang the small bell that stood on the table and a servant soon entered with a tray. It was the man who had earlier acted as a gaoler to the guest in the cellar. Instead of bearing instruments of torture, he was this time bringing two glasses of fine wine. He waited while the two of them took their first sip.
'You rode here alone, sir?' asked Sir Clarence.
'It was not a long journey,' said Quilley.
'Perils may still lurk.' He indicated a servant. 'Let my man here go back with you to York to ensure that no harm befalls you.'
'I will manage on my own, Sir Clarence. My horse will outrun any that bars my way. I have no fears.'
'You should, sir. These are dangerous times.'
'I will keep my wits about me.'
Sir Clarence excused himself for a moment and left the room with the servant. Quilley did not delay. He moved quickly towards the shelves of books that stood against the far wall. His choice was immediate. He took a small leather-bound volume with a handsome silver clasp on it. Slipping the book into the pouch alongside his artist's materials, he strolled casually across to the window to admire the view. He was still appraising the front garden when his host returned. Sir Clarence was in decisive mood.
'We shall have the second sitting tomorrow.'
'So soon?' said Quilley.
'I am anxious to press ahead with the portrait.'
'An artist may not be rushed, Sir Clarence.'
'Time is not on our side,' said the other. 'We have the visit from Westfield's Men tomorrow. Return with them and bring your belongings from the inn. You shall be a guest under my roof until your work is done.'
'That is most kind. Marmion Hall will offer me a softer lodging than the Trip to Jerusalem, and a safer one as well.' He gave a sly smile. 'The landlord tells me that one of his guests was recently carried off by officers. One Robert Rawlins.'
'I do not know the man.'
'It is just as well, Sir Clarence. He was a priest of the Church of Rome. Any friend of Master Rawlins will be dealt with most severely.'
'That does not concern me,' said the other. 'I am more interested in Westfield's Men. You travelled with them from Nottingham, you say?'
'An eventful journey in every way.'
'It gave you time to befriend them no doubt. Who is in the company, sir? I would know their names.'
'All of them?'
'Down to the meanest wight.'
Quilley reeled off the names and his host listened intently. The visitor was then thanked and shown out. Delighted with his good fortune, he rode off at a canter in the direction of York. Coins jingled in his purse and his patron had hinted at further reward. Then there was the book that nestled in his pouch. He was so caught up with himself that he did not notice the other horseman.
Eleanor Budden knelt in prayer in York Minster and heard confusion. It had all been so simple in Nottingham. One voice had spoken to her with one clear message and she left husband, home and children to obey it. There was
