Chapter Eleven
Banbury's Men shuffled about disconsolately in the yard of the Three Swans and loaded up their waggon. After their disgrace the previous afternoon, they were quitting York for good. They had failed abysmally and would be given no further chance to vindicate their reputation. A dignified withdrawal was their only option and Giles Randolph had taken it. As he led his horse out of the stables, he was still seething with anger against the man who had let them down. Having helped to put them firmly in the ascendant, Scruton had brought them crashing down. There would be no position for him as a sharer with the company. Banbury's Men would manage without him from now on. Their future lay in improving their performances of their own plays.
Randolph surveyed his ragged band of players. 'Are we all ready, sirs?'
'Aye,' came the dispirited reply. 'Then let us ride out of this unholy city.'
He mounted his horse and rode towards the main gate. As he was about to go through it, the stately figure of an old man walked in. He wore an elegant black doublet with matching breeches and had a feathered hat swept down to hide half his face. The neat grey beard suggested age and distinction. He carried a cane and lifted it when he saw the horse bearing down on him.
Randolph reined in his mount to let the man pass.:
'Good day to you, sir,' he said politely.
'Good day,' said the other. 'Where do you travel?'
'Anywhere to get away from this place.'
'Has York been so unwelcoming to you?'
'A foul prison!'
Giles Randolph urged his horse on and the procession Went out through the gate. The old man waved them off as they passed but they paid little attention to him. He gave a wry smile and congratulated himself on the cunning of his disguise. If his fellow-actors did not recognize him, then he was safe horn discovery.
Mark Scruton went off into the taproom.
Humphrey Budden and his wife rose early and went straight to York Minster to attend Matins. While still on their knees, they pledged themselves to each other once more and held hands as an act of commitment. Eleanor was a changed woman. The night with her husband had been a revelation. An ineluctable urge brought her to York in the service of God but it had somehow fastened her on to the book holder of Westfield's Men. Whatever the origin of that intense and powerful feeling, it had left her. Jerusalem was no longer a distant target for a pilgrimage. She found it in the arms of her husband and longed for nothing more than to be back with her children in Nottingham.
'Master Bracewell!'
'Good morrow, Mistress Budden. And to you, sir.'
'We wish to thank you most sincerely,' said the husband, clasping him by the hand. 'We will never be able to repay you for your kindness.'
'Your happiness is payment enough, sir.'
They had arrived back at the inn to find Nicholas saddling up a horse in the yard. Eleanor was now a sober matron who hung on her husband's arm though the twinkle in her eye showed that a wistful memory still lingered. Nicholas was glad when the couple went off to collect up their belongings before returning home.
Lawrence Firethorn came hurrying into the yard.
'Nick, dear heart!'
'I am riding out to Marmion Hall.'
'Let me shower you with my gratitude first,' said the other with a bear-like embrace. 'Master Pym told me what happened last night. You lifted the burden of Susan Becket off my back when you played Cupid for her. I need not fear a meeting between her and Margery now.'
'How is Mistress Firethorn this morning?'
'Lying contentedly among my creditors.'
'I am glad that someone found happiness,' said Nicholas. 'My night was taken up with Master Quilley.'
'Poor wretch! It was a gruesome way to depart this life. Do they have any idea who might have murdered him?'
'None, sir. I am just relieved that they no longer think that I may be the culprit. The officers and the magistrate questioned me for hours.'
'I spoke up for you, Nick. My voice has weight.'
'Your help was much appreciated.'
Nicholas put a foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. His mind was still playing with all the questions that the death of Oliver Quilley had opened up. He looked down at his employer and remembered something. Lawrence Firethorn was the finest actor in London and the nobility came in droves to watch him. He was well-acquainted with those at Court and party to much of their gossip.
'May I ask you a question, sir?'
'A hundred, if it pleases you.'
'What is your view of Mr Secretary Walsingham?'
'Pah!' exclaimed Firethorn. 'I spit upon him.'
'Why so?'
'Because he is linked to the name I detest most.'
'In what way, Master?'
'Do you not know?'
'Why then would I ask?'
'Sir Francis Walsingham is now Secretary of State and our dear Queen has heaped every honour upon him that it is possible to have.' Firethorn curled his lip. 'But I remember how he began his great political career.'
'As a member of Parliament was it not?'
'Shall I tell you the town for which he sat?'
'I think I can guess.'
'Banbury!'
Marmion Hall that morning was in the grip of a deep sorrow. Sir Clarence put on a brave face in front of his family and his servants but they sensed what hung over them and it introduced a sombre air. The arrest of Robert Rawlins had been a devastating blow and they were still reeling from it. There was an additional setback for Sir Clarence. The man whom he had dispatched to York had been killed by his own intended victim. It was very alarming. The informer who had betrayed both of the accomplices was now closing in on Sir Clarence himself. Instant flight could be necessary. Preparations were made. Is everything in order?'
'Yes, Sir Clarence.'
'Keep a horse saddled and ready.'
'It is all in hand.'
You will ride with me.'
'Thar will be an honour, Sir Clarence.'
The servant bowed humbly then moved off about his duties. His master hoped that the emergency would not arise but could not rule it out. After occupying Marmion Hall with such pride for so many generations, the family now faced a tragic possibility. The incumbent head of the house might be chased out of it like a rat.
There was one small compensation. Westfield's Men were visiting them that clay and they might help to lift the veil of sadness, even to allow them a few hours of harmless pleasure. Sir Clarence knew of the company's work in London and had selected the play from their repertoire that would be most apposite. It was the same drama which had thrilled the spectators at the inn.
Soldiers of the Cross. It appealed to him because it sounded so many chords. He believed that he was
