Events at the creek continued to puzzle him. He could not decide whether Gill’s ordeal was intended as a prelude to death or simply as a means of humiliation. If the former were the case, why had someone risked being seen when he could have killed his victim in the privacy of his room? If it was a cruel jest, had it been the work of the same person who had locked Gill in a privy and thrown a snarling cat onto his chest as he lay in his room? Nicholas was perplexed. Westfield’s Men were being stalked by an unknown enemy. It was only a matter of time before he struck again.
Sheer fatigue eventually claimed Nicholas but, as soon as the first finger of light poked through the shutters, he came awake with a start. Owen Elias nudged him.
‘Have no fear, Nick,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘He’ll not escape me to answer a call of nature.’
Elias pulled back the blanket to reveal the piece of cord that was twisted around his hand. The other end was tied to Mussett’s ankle. The clown was quite unaware that he was tethered to the Welshman. It was ironic. While two of his guards had a disturbed night, Mussett slept like a baby.
Lawrence Firethorn was not happy to lose both his book holder and his clown for some hours but he accepted the necessity of it. If the danger came from Conway’s Men, then it needed to be identified as soon as possible, and there might never be a time when they were quite so close to their rivals. Firethorn gave the expedition his blessing. The absence of Nicholas and Mussett would impede the rehearsal but it removed one thorny problem. Barnaby Gill would not be able to taunt the man who had replaced him against his will. When he watched the others at work, he would have no excuse to carp or cavil.
Undeterred by dark clouds, Nicholas Bracewell and Giddy Mussett set out after breakfast on borrowed horses. Both were armed with sword and dagger, confident that they could either beat off any attack or outrun any highwaymen. In fact, it proved an uneventful journey. After maintaining a steady canter until they reached Boughton-under-Blean, they slowed to a trot that made conversation easier.
‘Did you not think her a fine woman?’ asked Mussett.
‘Who?’
‘Kate Humble. My witness.’
Nicholas was amused. ‘Is that her name? I saw no humility in her.’
‘No, Kate has too much spirit for it to be cowed.’
‘She seemed very fond of you, Giddy.’
‘With every reason.’
‘You must have given her sweet memories.’
‘Oh, I did,’ said Mussett with a cackle. ‘But I own that I was worried.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve seen my face, Nick. It’s so ugly that I dare not look in a mirror. I feared that Kate would not even recognise me. Or, if she did, that she would be so scared that she’d not let me touch her.’
‘Your fears were unfounded, then.’
‘Oh, yes. It was not my face that mattered to her.’ He let out another cackle. ‘Kate loved me for something else.’
They quickened their pace and rode on until they saw Harbledown Hill rising before them. It was a long climb but the reward more than justified the effort. When they paused at the summit, they got their first view of Canterbury Cathedral, spearing the sky with its soaring magnificence and dominating the city with Christian certitude. Encircled by a high stone wall, Canterbury had a dignity that set it apart from the other places they had so far visited. Maidstone might be the shire town but here was the acknowledged seat of government of the whole Church of England. It exuded real significance. As they descended the hill, their eyes never left the cathedral, using it as their guide. When they entered the city through Westgate, however, it was lost behind intervening buildings.
It was market day and the streets were filled with people. Nicholas was reminded of the daily bustle in Gracechurch Street except that everything here was on a much smaller scale than in London. The haphazard line of stalls had narrowed an already limited space. With Mussett behind him, Nicholas elbowed his way gently through the crowd in St Peter’s Street, taking stock of his surroundings as he did so. When they crossed the little bridge over the river, he turned to his companion.
‘Where will we find them, Giddy?’ he asked.
‘Close by The Mercery.’
‘Is that where they will rehearse?’
‘No,’ said Mussett. ‘Tobias is too lazy to rehearse as early as this. He’ll still be abed with a warm woman, if I know him. We’ll head for the Crown.’
‘Will Conway’s Men stay there?’
‘I doubt it, Nick. The inn is far too small to hold them. They’ll sleep elsewhere, at the Three Tuns, most like. But the Crown sells the finest ale in the city so that is where I expect him to be.’
‘Who?’
‘My good friend, Martin Ling.’
‘An actor with the company?’
‘More important than any actor,’ said Mussett with a grin. ‘As you should know, if anyone does. Martin’s their book holder.’
Picking their way past the various stalls, they walked on up the High Street until they came to The Mercery, a lane to their left that was lined with shops and houses. So narrow was the thoroughfare, and so much did each story of a building jetty out above the one below, that it was possible for occupants of attic rooms to reach out and touch the fingertips of their neighbours opposite. Silks, satins and other rich fabrics were on sale in the shops and business among merchants was brisk.
Nicholas thought of Pieter Hendrik, the weaver, who dealt in much simpler materials. He would never aspire to such commercial heights. When they reached the end of the lane, they were confronted by the sheer majesty of Christ Church Gate, the main entrance to the cathedral precincts. Nicholas paused to admire the sculptured beauty of the stone work, and to study the coats of arms above the gate, but Mussett went across to the Buttermarket. He waited outside a small inn until his friend caught up with him. Nicholas looked up at the golden crown emblazoned on the sign above their heads.
‘Is this the place, Giddy?’
‘I got to know it well when Rutland’s Men were in the city.’
‘Let’s go in.’
‘No,’ said Mussett, restraining him with a hand. ‘This is work for me alone. Martin is as close as the grave. I’ll not get much from him, if I’m seen with a stranger.’
‘What if he’s not inside?’
‘Then we’ll search elsewhere for him. Mingle with the crowd and wait out here.’
‘I want you where I can see you,’ said Nicholas.
‘Learn to trust me.’
‘After what happened in Maidstone? How can I?’
‘You have no choice, Nick.’
With a mischievous grin, Mussett darted in through the door of the inn. Nicholas was annoyed but there was little that he could do. He retreated to the gate so that he could watch the inn from a short distance away. It was a popular hostelry. Customers went in at regular intervals. Those who tumbled out had the happy look of people who had enjoyed the Crown’s ale. Nicholas waited patiently. It was only when the cathedral bell chimed again that he realised how long he had been there. Suspicions began to gnaw at him. Was Mussett really talking to a friend at the inn or had he surrendered once again to the lure of strong drink? Could it be that the clown was not even inside the building? Mussett was closely acquainted with a woman in Maidstone and with another in Faversham. Had he slipped out of the rear of the Crown for an assignation with a third female friend?