‘Enough of them though. Did you see the priest?’
‘What priest?’
‘The Franciscan. From the Bawn. I thought I saw him this morning, in the abbey grounds, as we were waiting for the ferry to dock. And then there was another one, a young brother I think, that I am sure thought he recognised me. He was coming straight for me down at the harbour. It was only by the intransigence of a donkey in his path that I got away.’
Andrew pushed aside his tankard and gave me his full attention for the first time since I had entered the tavern. ‘Are you sure of this?’
‘I am certain.’
He stood up. ‘Damn! I knew I should not have left you by yourself. I think we had better leave this place as soon as we can. I do not trust Mac Cuarta, and only something of great import would have brought him within the ramparts of Coleraine. As to who the other is, who knows what Sean might be to him? I am not inclined at the moment to find out.’ He threw down some coins, more than were needed for his beer and bread, and ushered me out into the street.
Andrew strode determinedly through the marketplace, in no mood to browse the stalls and booths. What did take his notice, and dishearten him greatly, was the platform being positioned towards the far end of the square. He swore softly to himself: ‘The play.’
A troupe of players had come into town, and were to perform that night in a work of the English playwright Shakespeare. It was to be the great event of the year, and Blackstone had made clear it was not to be countenanced that any guest in his house should miss it.
‘I had forgotten about the play,’ said Andrew.
‘Would our absence be noted?’
‘Oh, I think Blackstone notices more than he would tell you, or has it brought to his notice. We had better show ourselves here this evening, and first thing in the morning we will make our farewells and go.’
‘To Bushmills?’
‘We will have to discuss that tonight. Your sighting of the priest makes me anxious on that score.’
‘Whatever might befall us afterwards, I will not be sorry to leave this town.’
‘Nor I. It is a Godforsaken place.’
THIRTEEN
The Flight of the Players
The falling of night found us again in the marketplace, but it was a place transformed. Torches had been lit around the platform, a strange half-hexagon jutting into the open space, and also at intervals in a ring around the marketplace itself, so that the playgoers could see enough to put one foot in front of another without coming to grief in the mud. A canopy had been erected, so that the more exalted citizens amongst the audience might have some shelter from whatever of the elements might play upon Coleraine that night. Andrew and I preferred to stand in the open with the commons, the better to observe without ourselves being observed.
The platform was decorated with ribbons and streamers of many colours, and at its back was painted a scene that conjured up dreams of a far country, of warm winds, olive groves and vineyards, things I had heard of but would never see. Images of bright pink blossoms tumbling over balustrades of the whitest marble told us there was a place where mud and dirt and grime were not the constant lot of those who lived there. A brazier burned at the front of the stage, casting strange shadows on the picture. Other braziers had been lit where the greater dignitaries amongst the audience were to sit, but warmth found its way into the crowd in other forms, too. One vendor sold warm spiced wine from the frontage of his tavern, another hawked roasted chestnuts amongst the crowd come for the spectacle. A stand near to us sent out aromas of apples baked with figs, and hot plum tarts. The dancing anticipation in the eyes of the people as they began to fill the marketplace told its own story of how long they had waited for some entertainment, some festivity, to take them for a few hours from their endless endeavour.
Sounds of fiddles and flutes, not in any great effort at harmony, issued from taverns and the streets leading to the square as the populace streamed to their entertainment. There had been great commotions in the Blackstone house that evening as the women prepared themselves for this very public occasion. Andrew and I had happily taken our supper in the kitchen, as well out of the way as we could make ourselves, and left the house before the party of our host was ready to do so. We could stand, now, and watch as they arrived. Blackstone himself was the epitome of a sober and respectable English gentleman, but his wife and daughters had attired themselves as if for a ball at court.
‘They sparkle somewhat amongst the dirt and mud, do they not?’
‘Their finery only serves to render them all the plainer,’ Andrew answered. I saw that the Blackstone women’s treatment of Deirdre was something he would not forgive them. The family took its place amongst others of the officers of the London Companies. Lack of practice had left them doubtful as to the matter of precedence, and there was something of an unseemly scramble for what were evidently regarded as the best places.
Andrew settled himself, disgruntled, against a wall. ‘I saw such a play once, in Carrickfergus, when a troupe come to entertain the Governor performed for the townsfolk too. The thing was lewd and ridiculous, and I have never bothered since.’
‘You could still return to the Blackstone house. I doubt if it would be noticed now.’
‘And leave you alone to get into an O’Neill’s mischief? With a loose Franciscan on the prowl? I think not, my friend.’
A trio of musicians, with a singer at their head, entered the marketplace from behind us and led the players to the stage, to wild cheering and stamping from the gathered citizens, eager for the coming performance, announced by the leader of the troupe to be Much Ado About Nothing.
‘I suspect it will be,’ said Andrew, as we settled ourselves to watch. I made no sense whatsoever of what was going on before me for some time, so strange in my ear was the language and the frequent exiting and entering of characters. Andrew understood it little better than I did, and his impatience increased as the crowd laughed uproariously, and booed and hissed at those they did not like. I found in time that I began to know the characters and decipher their words for myself, but it put me in some discomfort to be a witness to so much practised deceit and, impostor that I was, to see the damage done when a man or woman makes claim to be what they are not.
As the air grew colder, Andrew and I found ourselves returning more than once to the vendor of warmed wine. As the honeyed liquid began to loosen his tongue he stepped off his guard a little and allowed, at last, that he might enjoy the play.
‘A woman the like of Beatrice, though? Could a man find happiness with one who speaks her mind so freely?’
‘Much more than with one who does not, I think.’
‘And your Sarah? Does she speak her mind?’
‘Only when she has finished blazing it at me through her eyes.’
He laughed. ‘You do not fear that another will entice her away from you?’
‘I fear it every night. I close my eyes and play out in my mind a parade of men I know would want her, and each night their attraction, the likelihood of her succumbing, seems to increase. In the light of day I tell myself it is nonsense: she will wait for me this one last time. But then, why should she? Why should she wait to know passion from one who has sometimes been almost unable to speak to her? Two years, Andrew. I have been a fool two years.’
‘I have been a fool longer, and know from this fool that passion can destroy a man.’ He finished his drink in silence, in one draught, and went to get himself another.
I noticed then that Matthew Blackstone was not in his place, but talking a little way off from the side of the stage with one of the players, the friar, who had been to conduct the marriage between Claudio and Hero. I could see little of their faces in the shadows as they were, and could get no impression of the tenor of their exchange. Then a second friar appeared at the first’s side. Unlike the other pair, he was standing in the light of one of the stage torches. It was the young man whom I had seen making his way so urgently through the crowd to me earlier, the one I had taken such pains to avoid. It was a strange occurrence, and one made all the stranger a few moments later when, as the play was approaching its end, the older friar made his entrance on the stage once more. I could see him very clearly in the light – the shape and colouring of him – but I did not need such information now to tell me that this was not the man I had seen talking with Matthew Blackstone, for that man had now left the company of my host and was hurrying away in the darkness towards Church Street and out of my view. The light caught his face as he passed out of the square and I knew him at once: it was Stephen Mac Cuarta, the Franciscan. His young companion was now nowhere to be seen.