The Trip to Jerusalem

Nicholas Bracewell was curled up in the straw in the outhouse when his shoulder was grabbed by someone. He came awake at once and saw George Dart beside him.

'Master Bracewell! Master Bracewell!'

'What ails you, George?'

'We have been robbed, sir.'

'Of what?' said Nicholas, sitting up.

'I did not hear a thing. Nor did the others.'

'The theft was from your chamber?'

'Yes, Master. We have lost our biggest jewel.'

'How say you?'

'Dick Honeydew has gone.'

'Are you sure?'

'Beyond all doubt.'

'This is not some jest of the others?'

'They are as shocked as I am.'

'Where can Dick be?'

'I know the answer, sir.'

'Do you?'

'Stolen by the gypsies.'

Oliver Quilley sat impatiently on the chair as the physician attended to him. His brush with the highway robbers had left him bruised and battered and he felt it wise to have himself patched up by a medical man before he continued his journey. The physician helped him back on with his doublet then asked for his fee. Quilley had no money left to pay him. Instead he reached into his leather pouch and took something out.

'This is worth ten times your fee, sir.'

'What is it, Master?'

'A work of genius.'

Quilley opened his hand to reveal the most exquisite miniature. The face of a young woman had been painted with such skill that she was almost lifelike. The detail which had been packed into the tiny area was astounding. Quilley offered it to the physician.

'I cannot take it, sir.'

'Why not? I'd sell it for three pounds or more.'

'Then do so, Master Quilley, and pay me what you owe. It is too rich a reward for my purse, sir, and I have a wife to consider besides.'

'A wife?'

'Women are jealous creatures whether they have cause or no,' said the physician. 'If my wife saw me harbouring such beauty, she would think I loved the lady more than her, and bring her action accordingly. Keep it, sir. I will not take more than I have earned.'

'I'll sell it in Nottingham and fetch you your fee.'

'There's no hurry, Master, and you need the rest.'

'What rest?'

'To recover from your injuries.'

'They are of no account.'

'A few days in bed would see them gone for good.'

'I have no time to tarry,' said Quilley fussily. I am needed elsewhere. There are those who seek the magic of my art. I've lost good time already in telling the magistrate what befell me and watching my companion buried in the ground. I must go in haste for they expect me there.'

'Where, Master Quilley?'

'In York.'

Foul weather, bad roads and hilly country could force a lethargic pace upon a troupe of travelling players but there were faster ways to cover distance. A messenger who had fresh relays of horses at staging posts some twenty or thirty miles apart could eat up the ground. Word sent from London could reach any part of the kingdom within a few days. Urgency could shrink the length of any road.

Sir Clarence Marmion received the message at his home then called for his own horse to be saddled. He was soon galloping towards the city. Ouse Bridge was the only one that crossed the river in York. Hump-backed and made of wood, it had six arches. Hooves pounded it. Spurring his horse on past the fifty houses on the bridge, Sir Clarence did not check the animal until he turned into the yard of the Trip to Jerusalem. An ostler raced out to perform his usual duty and the newcomer dismounted.

Marching into the taproom, Sir Clarence ignored the fawning welcome of Lambert Pym and went straight to the staircase. He was soon tapping on the door of an upstairs room and letting himself in.

Robert Rawlins sat up in alarm.

'I did not expect you at this early hour.'

'Necessity brought me hither.'

'Is something amiss?'

'I fear me it is. More news from London.'

'What has happened, Sir Clarence?'

'Information was laid against a certain person.'

'Master Neville Pomeroy?'

'He has been arrested and taken to the Tower.'

'Dear God!'

'Walsingham's men are closing in.'

'Can any of us now be safe?' said Rawlins.

'We have the security of our religion and that is proof against all assault. Master Pomeroy will give them no names, whatever ordeals they put him through. We must keep our nerve and pray that we survive.'

'Amen!'

(*)Chapter Six

Lawrence Firethorn roared like a dragon when George Dart banged on the door of his bedchamber at the Smith and Anvil. Reverting to the trade of his father, the actor-manager was playing the sturdy blacksmith to Mistress Susan Becket's willing anvil. He was tilling the air with sparks of joy at the very moment that the rude knuckles of his caller dared to interrupt him. Plucked untimely from the womb, he flung open the door and breathed such crackling flames of anger that the little stagekeeper was charred for life. Facing his employer was a daunting task at any time but to be at the mercy of Firethorn when he was naked, roused and deprived of consummation was like taking a stroll in the seventh circle of Hell. George Dart was sacked three times before he was even allowed to open his mouth. It was a lifetime before the message was actually delivered.

'Dick Honeydew has been taken, sir.'

'By whom, you idiot? By what, you dolt?'

'The gypsies.'

'Away with your lunacy!'

'I fear 'tis true, Master Firethorn.'

Corroboration came in the form of Nicholas Bracewell and the other apprentices, who were conducting a thorough search of the premises. They had checked every nook and cranny in the building, including attics and cellars, but there was no sign of Richard Honeydew. The boy had either run away of his own free will--which seemed unlikely--or he had been kidnapped.The second option was accepted at once by Firethorn who turned it into a personal attack upon himself and his career.

'They have stolen my Maid Marion!'

'We will find him,' said Nicholas determinedly. ;

'How can Robin Hood play love scenes on his own?'

'You will have to use one of the other boys.'

'I like not that idea, Nick.'

'Sherwood Forest must have another maid.'

'Not John Tallis!' said Firethorn. 'He has a face more fit for comedy than kissing. Maid Marion cannot have a lantern jaw, sir.'

'Stephen Judd or Martin Yeo will take the part.'

'Neither is suitable.'

'Then choose another play, Master Firethorn.'

'Be thwarted out of my purpose! Never!' He stamped his foot on the bare boards and collected a few sharp splinters. 'This villainy is directed at me, Nick. They do know my Robin Hood is quite beyond compare and seek to pluck me down out of base envy.'

'We must track the boy down at once, sir.'

'Do so, Nick.'

'I will need a horse.'

'Take mine, dear heart!'

Nicholas was not at all convinced that gypsies had abducted Richard Honeydew even though the band had been seen in the vicinity, but his opinion was swept aside by a man who would brook no argument. Simultaneously robbed of his orgasm and his Maid Marion, the actor-manager was in a mood of vengeful urgency.

'To horse! To horse, Nick!'

'I will meet you in Nottingham.'

'Come not empty-handed.'

'If the boy be with the gypsies, I will get him.'

'Have a care, sir! Gypsies are slippery.'

'Adieu!'

Nicholas rushed off and missed an affecting moment. Throughout the conversation between actor-manager and book holder, George Dart stood meekly by, wondering whether he still had a job or not, and whether his little body would be needed to swell the ranks in the forthcoming performance at Nottingham.