The Trip to Jerusalem E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 362

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

For Lord Westfield's Men, every high road leads to death. When the deathly horrors of the Black Plague decimate the audiences in London's theatres, the acclaimed troupe of players called Lord Westfield's Men take to the high road to seek out fresh audiences. But wherever they go, they are thwarted by misfortune, and are baffled by mysteries. Their scripts are stolen, their players abducted. A dead man walks, and a beautiful woman hears the voice of God. Only one man is clever enough to match swords with the troupe's burgeoning troubles. Upon Nicholas Bracewell, the company's bookholder and mainstay, falls the burden that may cost him his life - as they head for an ancient inn called the Trip to Jerusalem, where the last act of a bloody drama is about to begin.

Leseprobe

The Trip to Jerusalem

An Elizabethan Mystery

EDWARD MARSTON

Dot poenas laudata fides

To Lord Lucas of Ormeley

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor how the worlde will censure mee for choosing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burthen, onelye if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take advantage of all idle houres, till I have honoured you with some graver labour.

She was a worthy womman al hir lyve

Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve

Withouten oother compaignye in youthe –

But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nowthe.

And thrice had she been at Jerusalem.

CHAUCER: The Canterbury Tales

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

By Edward Marston

Copyright

Chapter One

Enemies surrounded them. Though theatre flourished in London as never before, bestowing vivid entertainment upon the nation’s capital and earning daily ovations from large audiences, its practitioners were under constant threat. Acting was a perilous enterprise. Players had to walk a tightrope between fame and oblivion – with no net to soften their fall. They faced the official disapproval of the Lord Mayor and the civic worthies, and endured the outright hostility of religious leaders, who spied the hand of the Devil at work on the stage, and the hand of the lecher, the harlot and the pickpocket moving with licensed freedom among the spectators. Voices of protest were raised on all sides.

Nor could the acclaim of the onlookers be taken for granted. The public was a fickle master. Those who served it with their art were obliged to perform plays that were in vogue, in a manner that was acceptable to their patrons. Indifference was a menace. So indeed were the other theatrical companies. Naked competition was rife. Players could be poached and plays could be pirated. War could be waged between the different troupes in ways that ranged from the subtle to the blatant.

Those who survived all this could still be brought low by fire or by fighting. Tobacco smokers had more than once ignited the overhanging thatch in the theatres, and there was always the risk that drunken spectators would start an affray. If human intervention did not harm or hamper a performance, then bad weather might. Arenas that were open to the sky were vulnerable to each wind that blew and each drop of rain that fell. God in his wisdom washed away countless stabs at theatrical immortality.

But the silent enemy was the worst.

It came from nowhere and moved among its prey with easy familiarity. It showed no respect for age, rank or sex, and touched its victims with fond impartiality, like an infected whore passing on her disease in a warm embrace. Nothing could withstand its power and nobody could divine the secret of that power. It could climb mountains, swim across oceans, seep through walls and bring down the most well-fortified bastions. Its corruption was universal. Every man, woman and child on the face of the earth was at its mercy.

Here was the final enemy. Doom itself.

Lawrence Firethorn spoke for the whole profession.

‘A plague on this plague!’

‘It will rob us of our livelihood,’ said Gill.

‘If not of our lives,’ added Hoode.

‘God’s blood!’ said Firethorn, pounding the table with his fist. ‘What a damnable trade we follow. There are daggers waiting to stab us at every turn and if we avoid their points, then here comes the sharpest axe in Christendom to chop off our heads.’

‘It is a judgement,’ said Hoode mournfully.

‘We might yet be spared,’ said Gill, trying to inject a half-hearted note of optimism. ‘Plague deaths have not yet reached the required number per week.’

‘They will, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn grimly. ‘This hot weather will soon begin to unpeople the city. We must look misfortune in the eye, gentlemen, and foreswear all false hopes. ’Tis the only sensible course. This latest visitation will close every theatre in London and put our work to sleep for the whole summer. There’s but one remedy.’

‘Such a bitter medicine to take,’ said Hoode.

Barnaby Gill let out a sigh as deep as the Thames.

The three men were sitting over cups of sack in the taproom of the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street, the inn which was the regular venue for performances by Lord Westfield’s Men, one of the leading companies in the city. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were all sharers, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the major roles in its wide repertoire. Westfield’s Men had other sharers but company policy was effectively controlled by this trio. Such, at least, was the theory. In practice, it was the ebullient and dominating figure of Lawrence Firethorn who generally held sway, allowing his two colleagues the illusion of authority when they were, in fact, simply ratifying his decisions. He bulked large.

‘Gentlemen,’ he announced bravely, ‘we must not be crushed by fate or curbed by circumstance. Let us make virtue of necessity here.’

‘Virtue, indeed!’ Gill was sardonic.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Show it me, Lawrence,’ said the other. ‘Where is the virtue in trailing ourselves around the country to spend our talents in front of ungrateful bumpkins? Poor plays for poor audiences in poor places will make our purses the poorest of all.’

‘Westfield’s Men never consort with poverty,’ said Firethorn, wagging an admonitory finger. ‘However humble our theatre, our work will be rich and fulfilling. Be the audience made up of unlettered fools, they will yet have a banquet of words set before them.’ His chest swelled with pride. ‘In all conscience, sir, I could never demean myself by giving a poor performance!’

‘Opinion may differ on that.’

‘How say you, Barnaby?’

‘Let it pass.’

‘Do you impugn my work, sir?’

‘I would lack the voice.’

‘It is not the only deficiency in your senses.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Your sight, sir. Remember the holy book. Before you dispraise me, first cast out the mote in your own eye.’

‘Give me the meaning.’

‘Put your own art in repair.’

‘It is not needful,’ said Gill, nostrils flaring. ‘My public is all too cognisant of my genius.’

‘Then why conceal it from your fellow-players?’

‘Viper!’

The row blazed merrily and it took Edmund Hoode some minutes before he could calm down both parties. It was an all too familiar task for him. Professional jealousy was at the root of the relationship between Firethorn and Gill. Each had remarkable individual talents and their combined effect was quite dazzling. Most of the success enjoyed by Westfield’s Men was due to the interplay of this unrivalled pair and yet they could not reach harmony offstage. They fought with different weapons. Firethorn used a verbal broadsword that whistled through the air as he swished it about while Gill favoured a poniard whose slender blade could slide in between the ribs. When argument was at its height, the former was all towering rage and bristling eyebrow where the latter opted for quivering indignation and pursed lips.

Edmund Hoode adopted a conciliatory tone.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, you do each other a grave disservice. We are all partners in this business. As God’s my witness, we have foes enough to contend with at this troublesome time. Let not headstrong words create more dissension. Desist, sirs. Be friends once more.’

The combatants took refuge in their drinks. Hoode was grateful that he had checked the quarrel before it got to the point where Gill always hurled accusations of unbridled tyranny at Firethorn who, in turn, retaliated by pouring contempt on the other’s predilection for young boys with pretty faces and firm bodies. An uneasy silence hovered over the three men. Hoode eventually broke it.

‘I have no stomach for touring in the provinces.’

‘Beggars cannot be choosers,’ said Gill.

‘In my case, they can. I’d as lief stay in London and risk the plague as walk at the cart’s tail halfway across England. There’s no profit in that.’

‘And even less in the city,’ argued Firethorn. ‘How will you live when your occupation is gone? You may be a magician with words, Edmund, but you cannot conjure money out of thin air.’

‘I will sell my verses.’

‘Your penury’s assured,’ said Gill maliciously.

‘There are those who will buy.’

‘More fool them.’

Lawrence Firethorn gave an understanding chuckle.

‘I see the truth of it, Edmund. There is only one reason that could make you linger here to taste the misery of certain starvation. Why, man, you are in love!’

‘Leave off these jests.’

‘See how his cheeks colour, Barnaby?’

‘You have hit the mark, Lawrence.’

‘He scorns his fellows so that he may lodge his bauble in a tundish. While we tread the road in search of custom, he would be bed-pressing like a lusty bridegroom.’ Firethorn gave his colleague a teasing nudge. ‘Who is this fair creature, Edmund? If she can tempt you from your calling, she must have charms beyond compare. Tell us, dear heart. What is her name?’

Hoode gave a dismissive shrug. In matters of love, he had learned never to confide in Lawrence Firethorn, still less in Barnaby Gill. The one was a rampant adulterer who could seduce the purest maid while the other had nothing but contempt for the entire female sex. Edmund Hoode kept his own counsel. A tall, slim, pale, clean-shaven man in his thirties, he was an actor-playwright with the company who had somehow resisted the coarsening effects of such an unstable life. He was an irredeemable romantic for whom the pains of courtship were a higher form of pleasure and he was not deterred by the fact that his entanglements almost invariably fell short of consummation. His latest infatuation was writ large upon his face and he lowered his head before the mocking scrutiny of his companions.

Lawrence Firethorn was built of sterner stuff, a barrel-chested man of medium height who exuded power and personality, and whose wavy black hair, pointed beard and handsome features were a frontal assault on womanhood. Gill was older, shorter, stouter and attired with a more fastidious care. Morose and self-involved offstage, he was the most superb comedian upon it and his wicked grin transformed an ugly man into one with immense appeal.

Hoode was torn between his passion and his plays.

‘Westfield’s Men could well spare me.’

‘Gladly,’ said the waspish Gill.

‘I might join you later in the tour.’

‘Come, Edmund,’ said Firethorn, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘No more talk of desertion. We are dumb idiots without our poet to put words into our mouths. You’ll travel with us because we love you.’

‘My heart is elsewhere.’

‘And because we need you, sweet friend.’

‘Go forth without me.’

‘And because you are contracted to us.’

Firethorn’s curt reminder terminated the dispute. Being a sharer in the company imposed certain legal responsibilities upon Hoode. His freedom of action was limited. He blenched as yet another burgeoning romance withered on the stem.

Lawrence Firethorn sought to offer consolation.

‘Courage, man!’ he urged. ‘Do not sit there like a lovesick shepherd. Consider what lies ahead. You forfeit one conquest in order to make others. Country girls were born for copulation. Unbutton at will. You can fornicate across seven counties until your pizzle turns blue and cries “Amen to that!” Hark ye, Edmund.’ Firethorn clapped his other shoulder. ‘Westfield’s Men are not being driven out of London. We are journeying to paradise!’

‘Who is to be our serpent?’ said Gill.

Nicholas Bracewell stood in his accustomed place behind the stage and controlled the performance with his quiet authority. As the company’s book holder, he was a key figure in its affairs, prompting and stage managing every play which was mounted as well as supervising rehearsals and helping with the dozens of other tasks that were thrown up. A tall, imposing, muscular man, he had a face of seasoned oak that was set off by long fair hair and a Viking beard. Striking to the eye, he could yet become completely invisible during a performance, an unseen presence in the shadows whose influence was decisive and who pulled all the strings like a master puppeteer.

The play which was delighting the audience at the Queen’s Head that afternoon was The Constant Lover, a gentle comedy about the problems of fidelity. It had become a favourite piece and Westfield’s Men had offered it several times already. But it had never been staged in quite this way before.

‘What now, Master Bracewell?’

‘The silver chalice, George.’

‘Upon the table?’

‘Present it to the King.’

‘When is the table to be set?’

‘For the next scene.’

‘The silver chalice again?’

‘The gold goblet.’

George Dart did not usually get quite so flustered. He was an assistant stagekeeper and occasionally got pressed into service as a non-speaking extra. His duties in The Constant Lover were light and undemanding yet he was flummoxed before the end of Act One. It was quite understandable. Everyone in the company knew that this might be their last appearance in London for a long time and, in some cases, their last appearance upon any stage. Touring would inflict economies on the company. Its size would be reduced and its weekly wages would shrink. All the sharers would take to the road but the hired men would have to be carefully sifted. George Dart was one of them. Like his fellows, he was in a state of hysteria lest he be rejected, knowing full well that those discarded might fall by the wayside completely. He therefore played his tiny role in The Constant Lover with a kind of confused urgency, mystified as to what came next yet eager to give of his best.

Nicholas Bracewell at once stilled the general panic and made allowances for it. Some of the actors out there were, literally, fighting for their lives. In striving too hard to do well, they often marred their chances. Nicholas had great sympathy for them all but his first duty was to the audience and he concentrated on keeping the play running as smoothly as possible. It meant that he had to adjudicate at several running duels.

‘Did you ever see such wanton cruelty, Nick?’

‘Stand by for your next entrance.’

‘He cut my finest speech.’

‘You ruined two of his.’

‘Gabriel is trying to savage my performance.’

‘I believe he is only replying in kind.’

‘The man has no honour.’

‘Teach him some by example.’

‘I think that you take his side.’

‘No, Christopher. My concern is for the play itself.’

‘Then why let Gabriel disfigure it?’

‘You have been his able lieutenant in the business this past half-hour. It is to your mutual discredit.’

‘I am the better player, Nick.’

‘Your cue is at hand.’

‘Speak up for me.’

‘Go forth and speak for yourself.’

Christopher Millfield surged back out onstage to continue his battle with Gabriel Hawkes. Both were fine actors who could carry off a wide range of supporting roles with assurance and each was a real asset to the company. But there would not be room for the two of them in the touring party. One had to give way to the other. They had never liked each other but, in all previous plays, their personal antipathy had been subdued for the sake of a common cause. Threatened with unemployment, they fell back on a raw hostility that was totally in keeping with the characters they were playing but which made for some rather alarming departures from the text.

Nicholas watched it all with a mixture of surprise and distaste. He might have expected such behaviour from Christopher Millfield, an arrogant and impulsive young man who was quick to take offence where none was intended. Gabriel Hawkes was a very different person, an unassuming and almost shy character who was ill at ease with the ribald banter of the players and who kept himself apart from the general throng. Nicholas admired the talents of both men but had much more affection for Hawkes. On a long and arduous tour, his soft-edged presence would be much more acceptable than Millfield’s brashness.

Yet he was giving the worst possible account of himself. In descending to open combat, Hawkes was doing his cause irreparable harm. To the amusement of the audience – but the detriment of the play – the two of them were grappling like wrestlers, throwing each other to the ground with blank verse before pummelling away unmercifully with rhyming couplets.

Then, suddenly, it was all over.

Gabriel Hawkes seemed to concede defeat. He sagged visibly and the spirit went out of his defiance. He let Christopher Millfield walk all over him and could not even offer a token resistance. It was painful to watch.

Most of the onlookers were unaware of the intense personal conflict which had been going on in front of them. Hawkes and Millfield did not have leading parts and they melted into the scenery whenever Lawrence Firethorn came onstage. He was a true King in every sense and his regal brilliance outshone everything else in view, including the hilarious exploits of Barnaby Gill as a decrepit suitor. Firethorn’s rule was paramount.

He led out the company to bask in the applause that echoed around the inn yard where they had set up their makeshift stage. Westfield’s Men were due to play at the Queen’s Head the following week but nobody believed that the performance would take place. The plague was closing in remorselessly. Spectators who would be deprived of entertainment for long months showed their appreciation of players who would be exiled from the city. It was a joyous yet rather wistful occasion.

Lawrence Firethorn wept genuine tears and delivered a farewell speech. Barnaby Gill snuffled, Edmund Hoode swallowed hard and the rest of the company were patently moved. Nicholas Bracewell was not carried away on the tide of emotion. His attention was fixed on Gabriel Hawkes who was strangely detached from it all. A man who loved the theatre with a deep and lasting commitment was now looking quite alienated by it all.

As they came off stage, Nicholas sought him out.

‘What ails you, lad?’

‘Nothing, Master Bracewell.’

‘Can you be well?’

‘I feel a sickness coming on but it is not serious.’

‘What manner of sickness?’

‘Do not trouble yourself about me.’

‘Shall we carry you to a physician?’

‘It is of no account, I promise you.’

‘Have care, Gabriel.’

The young actor smiled weakly and touched his arm.

‘Thank you, Master Bracewell.’

‘Why so?’

‘You have been a good friend to me.’

There was an air of finality in his voice that upset Nicholas. As Gabriel Hawkes went off unsteadily to change out of his costume and make his way back to his lodgings in Bankside, the book holder had the worrying premonition that he would never see the man alive again.

Having toyed with the city for a few weeks, the plague moved in for the kill. London was helpless. It suffered from pounding headaches, icy chills, agonising back pains, quickening pulse, heavy breathing, high fever and incurable restlessness. Ugly buboes began to appear in its groin and beneath its armpits. Vomiting was quite uncontrollable. As the body surrendered, the mind began to crumble as well. Delirium set in. The mortality rate climbed inexorably and people learned to pray once more.

‘When will you leave, sir?’

‘As soon as it is needful.’

‘Is there no hope of escape?’

‘Alas, no, my love. Seven deaths were reported in this parish alone and a dozen or more in Cripplegate. When all the parishes are reckoned up, the number will be well past thirty and even as high as thrice that number.’

‘God save us all!’

‘There’s no comfort for we wretched players, who must be the first to be sacrificed to this scourge. The Privy Council has issued an edict. All theatres, bear-baiting arenas and other places of public consort must be closed forthwith. It is iniquitous!’

‘It is inconsiderate, sir.’

Margery Firethorn clasped her husband to her and let him feel the warmth of her devotion. It had not been a placid marriage by any stretch of the imagination but he had never regretted it, even when the tempests were at their fiercest. Margery was a good wife, a caring mother, a thrifty housekeeper and a sound Christian. Living with such a rumbustious partner as Lawrence Firethorn would have cowed any other woman but she had met the challenge with unflinching bravery. They were destined for each other. Kindred spirits forged from the same steel.

‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.

‘Until the Queen’s Head can welcome us again.’

‘That day will be months away.’

‘Michaelmas at least.’

‘It will seem like an eternity.’

‘My old heart is sad at the contemplation of it.’

‘I will miss you sorely, Lawrence.’

Firethorn looked down at his wife as she lay beside him in bed and saw again the voluptuous young woman whom he had first courted all those years ago. Time had etched deep lines in her face and childbirth had been unkind to her figure but she was still an astonishing creature in her own way, with generous curves to her body that could entice and excite as of old. Firethorn had aroused the love of serving wenches and the lust of court beauties in his headlong flight into adultery but he always came back to the more mature charms of his wife and wondered, as he did now, feeling a rare pang of guilt, why he had bothered to go astray in the first place.

Margery gave him a joy beyond mere satisfaction and it was something to savour. Lying there in an attitude of complete welcome, she was as irresistible as she had been on their wedding night when the bed had creaked until dawn. Shafts of moonlight came in through the window to paint an even more wondrous portrait of her.

Lawrence Firethorn pulled her to him.

‘Come closer, my love. We need each other.’

‘One moment, sir,’ said Margery, wanting to get the practicalities out of the way beforehand. ‘How am I to live while my husband is away?’

‘As virtuously as if he were at home.’

‘I speak of household expenses, Lawrence.’

‘You will be provided for, my angel.’

‘In what way?’ she pressed.

‘The establishment will be much smaller when I am gone,’ he said. ‘I will take the lodgers, apprentices and all with me out of the house. There’ll be but you, our children and our servants left here in Shoreditch.’

‘Children and servants must eat, sir.’

‘And so they shall. Every day, most regularly.’

‘Will I be furnished with money, then?’

‘Of course, Margery,’ he said, stroking her thigh as a prelude to their shared delight. ‘I will give you all that I am able. Let that content you.’

‘And how if it should not be sufficient?’

‘Be frugal, woman, and all will be well.’

‘Even frugality must come at a price.’

‘Have no fear, sweeting.’

‘Then put my mind at rest.’

‘I will, I will,’ he said, letting his hand travel up to cup her ample breast. ‘While I am away, I will send you more money. And if that be not enough, why, then, you must raise some capital from elsewhere.’

‘Teach me how, sir.’

‘Sell my second-best cloak.’

Margery was touched. She knew how much his apparel meant to him and how he would sooner lose a limb than part with a yard of it. The cloak, a magnificent garment that was paned with yellow, green, blue and red sarcanet and lined with buckram, was a present from Lord Westfield himself and would not disgrace the wardrobe of any peer.

‘Do you speak true, Lawrence? I may sell it?’

‘Only if the need arises.’

‘And you will not berate me for it?’

‘Your comfort must come before my vanity.’

‘This gladdens me more than I can say.’

It was the moment to secure his prize. Firethorn reached under the pillow for the ring which he had placed there earlier then slipped it symbolically on to the third finger of her left hand. The ruby mesmerised her.

‘It is for me?’

‘For whom else? Wear it till I return.’

‘Nothing would make me take it off.’

‘It is a token of my adoration,’ he said, easing her thighs apart with gentle pressure. ‘Let it be a perpetual reminder of the love I bear you. A precious jewel to show that you are the treasure of my existence. A lasting tribute to the fairest of her sex.’ She gave him a kiss which set him aflame and which banished all common sense. His tone was ruinously casual. ‘And if the worst should happen – sell the ring as well.’

A volcano erupted directly beneath him.

The bed creaked mightily but not for joy.

Bankside was kinder to its departing Thespians. Nocturnal pleasures were not squandered so readily by Nicholas Bracewell. Because they were less frequent occurrences in his life, he had schooled himself to enjoy them when they came and to lock out all thought of the real world. It was only afterwards – as they lay side by side in lazy provocation – that he turned his mind to harsher matters.

‘Will you stay in London, Anne?’

‘Unless the plague should worsen.’

‘All the signs point that way.’

‘Then I will visit relatives in the country.’

‘Your cousins in Dunstable?’

‘Or my uncle in Bedford. Or even my other uncle in Nottingham. I’ll go to one, or two, perchance all three of them before I stay here to catch the plague.’

‘Is that what I am?’ he teased.

‘I grow feverish whenever you are near, Nick.’

Anne Hendrik was one of the more unusual residents of Bankside. In an area notorious for its brothels, its gambling dens, its taverns and its teeming low life, she owned a respectable house and ran a successful business. English by birth, she was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, a conscientious Dutchman who brought his skills as a hatmaker to London only to discover that the City Guilds were intent on keeping him and his compatriots out of their jealous brotherhoods. Forced to set up shop outside the city boundary, he chose Southwark as his home and Anne as his wife.

Fifteen happy years of marriage had produced no children. What Anne inherited was a fine house, a thriving business and her husband’s belief in the dignity of work for its own sake. She also inherited Nicholas Bracewell.

‘Which towns will you visit?’ she asked.

‘The details are yet to be decided upon.’

‘In what direction do you travel?’

‘North, Anne.’

‘Haply, you may find your way to Dunstable, then?’

‘Or to Bedford. Or to Nottingham. Or to anywhere else you should chance to be. If I am in the same county as you, I’ll find a way to see you somehow.’

Anne kissed him fondly on the cheek than nestled into his shoulder. In the time that he had lodged at her house, Nicholas had become more than a friend. They shared a bed only occasionally but their lives were nevertheless intertwined. He was drawn to the tall, graceful, attractive woman who had such a refreshing sense of independence about her and she, in turn, was fascinated by his blend of humour, intelligence and quiet strength. She had never met anyone who could be so modest about his many attributes. Though he was only a hired man with the company, Nicholas had made himself indispensable and taken on duties that would normally be beyond the scope of a book holder.

Intrigued by the theatre, Anne Hendrik took a lively interest in the affairs of Westfield’s Men and she was well-informed about its shifting population. Having sat through the last performance of The Constant Lover, she was curious to know which of its cast would appear in the play when it was taken on tour.

‘How large will the company be, Nick?’

‘But fifteen of us.’

‘That calls for severe surgery.’

‘Master Firethorn has made a swift incision.’

‘And who has been cut out?’

‘Far too many, I fear.’

‘George Dart?’

‘No, I saved him.’

‘Thomas Skillen?’

‘He was beyond rescue.’

Nicholas shook his head sadly. In choosing those who would remain with the company, Lawrence Firethorn was in close consultation with his book holder. They had spent hours in deep debate and Nicholas had fought hard to keep certain people, though not always with success. It was the actor-manager who made the final decisions and he did so with brutal efficiency, making no concessions to sentiment or to compassion. What fell to Nicholas was the gruesome task of telling good friends that their services would no longer be required and it had been a disturbing process.

Thomas Skillen was a case in point. The stagekeeper was steeped in theatre and as dependable as a rock but his old age and rheumatism told against him. Younger legs and more versatile hands were preferred. Peter Digby was another casualty. As leader of the musicians, he was a key figure in every performance but his expertise was a luxury that could not be afforded in a touring company. Actor-musicians were given priority because they had dual value. Hugh Wegges, the tireman, would see some of his fine costumes leave London while he was forced to stay behind. His infinite skill with needle and thread was not enough to secure his passage. Nathan Curtis, master carpenter, was also set aside. Only minimal scenery and properties could be taken and his craft was now superfluous.

And so it was with many others. Nicholas had tried to break the news to them as gently as possible but it did not prevent tearful entreaties and open despair and bitter recrimination. For some of those he had grown to love and admire as colleagues, he was pronouncing a death sentence. It bruised his soul.

‘What of Christopher Millfield?’ said Anne.

‘Ah! There was argument indeed.’

‘He would get my vote over Gabriel Hawkes.’

‘Only because you do not know him as well as I.’

‘He was the brighter talent in The Constant Lover.’

‘The more forceful, I grant you,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is Christopher’s way. He knows how to get himself attention onstage and will put great passion into his playing but I believe that Gabriel is the better man. He will learn a part quicker than anyone in the company and bring a cool brain to his work.’

‘Did you say as much to Master Firethorn?’

‘Incessantly.’

‘With what outcome?’

‘He leaned towards Christopher.’

‘Then was your cause lost.’

‘Not so, Anne. I reminded him of something which made him consider the matter afresh.’

‘Which was?’

‘That Christopher may have the more dazzling charm but he also has the greater selfishness. If anyone will to steal some of Master Firethorn’s lustre, it will not be Gabriel Hawkes. He is the safer man.’

‘A cunning ruse,’ said Anne with a smile. ‘I can see why it worked on Master Firethorn. Is that how it stands? Will Christopher Millfield leave the company?’

‘Not without rancour,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I told him of the decision, he was vexed in the extreme and made all manner of dire threats. He has taken it as a gross insult. There may yet be trouble from that quarter. It is not pleasant to be the bearer of bad tidings.’

‘You had good news for some.’

‘Indeed, yes. I spread delight as well as gloom.’

‘Was Gabriel Hawkes overcome?’

‘I have not been able to see him in person, Anne. He has been indisposed these last two days. But I have sent word to him. He knows his good fortune.’

‘That will rally him from his sick bed.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You do not sound too confident.’

‘Oh, I am,’ said Nicholas, shaking off his fleeting anxieties. ‘Gabriel is the sounder prospect for us and he will prove that on our travels. There is no man in the company I would sooner have beside me. I will visit him tomorrow and make sure that he understands that.’

‘Why do you have such a high opinion of him?’

‘That is the wonder of it. I do not know.’

* * *

Smorrall Lane was less than a hundred yards from Anne Hendrik’s house but its dwellings were a world apart. The narrow, winding, fetid alley consisted of a series of dirty and decrepit buildings that leaned against each other for support with ramshackle companionship. Stews, taverns and ordinaries attracted a lower class of patron and those who tumbled along the lane at night were usually drunk or diseased from guzzling excess. Thieves lurked in dark corners and waited for easy pickings. Women offered their wares in doorways. Blood was often mixed with the urine and excrement that flowed over the cobbles. Smorrall Lane was easy to find. It could be located by its stench.

The tall, elegant young man who stalked along it that night was no typical visitor. Nose wrinkled in disgust, he moved along quickly and pushed away two revellers who brushed against him. When he came to the house that he sought, he looked up and saw a faint glimmer in the window of the front bedchamber. His quarry was at home.

He banged on the door but got no reply. Glancing down the lane to make sure that he was unobserved, he let himself into the house and coughed as its dust attacked his throat. He went swiftly to the staircase and crept silently up its crooked steps. Outside the bedchamber, he tapped on the door without response. All he could hear was stertorous breathing from within.

It suited his purpose. Opening the door softly, he slid into the room and crossed over to the prone figure under the ragged bedsheets. The smell of decay assailed his nostrils and his stomach churned but he was not to be deflected from his purpose. Straddling the sleeper, he got a firm grip on the man’s neck and squeezed with all his power. There was little resistance. Weakened already, his victim had barely enough strength to flail his arms and they soon hung limp and lifeless.

The visitor left with furtive speed and came out into the lane again. He used a piece of charcoal to write something on the battered door of the house.

LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US.

Then he looked up at the window once more.

‘Goodbye, Gabriel. Sleep with the other angels now.’

Chapter Two

Miles Melhuish believed totally in the power of prayer. As vicar of the parish church of St Stephen, he was in the ideal position to put his faith to the test and it had never been found wanting. Prayer had saved souls, cured diseases, softened tragedies, provided inspiration, secured guidance from above and generally eased the troubled mind of his congregation. If his ministry had taught him one thing, it was that ten minutes a day on his knees was far more effective than an hour on his feet in the pulpit. It was the first article in the Melhuish creed. By communing directly with God in true humility, he achieved infinitely more than he would have by haranguing the citizens of Nottingham with his sermons. He was a devout and pensive shepherd and his flock gained from it.

Ten years in the parish had confronted him with all sorts of problems and all manner of strange sights but none could compare with what lay in wait for him now. As he knelt at the altar rail in an attitude of blissful submission, the setting sun flooded in through the stained glass window to give his rubicund face a saintly glow and to encircle his bald head with a golden halo. When his prayers were done, he used the rail to lift himself up, then genuflected with portly solemnity.

The sound of running footsteps made him turn.

‘Why, Humphrey! What means this haste?’

‘I must speak with you, sir.’

‘And so you shall but not by bursting in like a runaway bull. This is the Lord’s house, Humphrey, and we must accord it all due respect. Hold there, man.’

‘I obey you straight.’

‘And catch your breath, dear fellow.’

Humphrey Budden leaned on one of the pews as he gulped in air. A big broad man of florid hue, he had run much further than his legs or lungs had desired and he was now bathed in perspiration. Miles Melhuish walked down the aisle towards the glistening parishioner and tried to guess at the crisis which had brought on this uncharacteristic lapse. Budden was a respected figure in the town, a conscientious lacemaker who helped to keep the name of Nottingham at the forefront of his trade. Since his marriage the previous year, he had been the happiest of men, honest, affable, upright, regular in his devotions and often given to charitable impulse. Yet here was this same Humphrey Budden, charging into church, panting like a dog and sweating like a roast pig.

The vicar put a consoling arm around him.

‘Fear not, my son. God is with you.’

‘I need him mightily, sir.’

‘To what end, Humphrey?’

‘I can hardly bring myself to tell you.’

‘Succour awaits.’

‘The sound still fills my ears.’

‘What sound?’

‘And the sight torments my mind.’

‘You are trembling with the shock of it.’

‘I came straight here, sir. God is my last resort.’

‘How may he help you?’

Humphrey Budden bit his lip in embarrassment then cleared his throat. It had been far easier to carry his message to church than to deliver it. Words rebelled.

Miles Melhuish tried to prompt him gently.

‘Are you in trouble, my son?’

‘Not me, sir.’

‘Your wife?’

‘Indeed.’

‘What ails the good woman?’

‘Oh, sir …’

Humphrey Budden began to weep helplessly. The calamity which had brought him so recklessly into the church had deprived him of speech. Easing him down into a pew, the vicar sat beside him and offered up a silent prayer. Budden slowly regained some control.

‘Tell me about Eleanor,’ said the priest.

‘I love her so much!’

‘Some accident perchance?’

‘Worse, sir.’

‘She has fallen sick?’

‘Worse still.’

‘Dear Lord! Has she passed away?’

‘Worse even than that.’

Melhuish coaxed the story out of him. Even in its garbled form it was enough to make the man of the cloth forget both his paunch and his place. Gathering up his belly in both hands, he led the way towards the door at a steady trot with Budden in close pursuit. They ran out into the churchyard then through the gate that opened on to Angel Row. The house was a couple of hundred yards away and the effort of reaching it took them both near exhaustion but they did not pause. Above the sound of their breathing, they heard a noise that froze their blood and put a last spurt into their legs.

It was the scream of a woman. Not the sudden yell of someone in pain nor yet the anguished cry of someone in distress. It was a weird, continuous, high-pitched howl of a wild animal, a noise so intense and unnatural that it did not seem to come from a human throat at all. Budden opened the front door and ushered the priest into a room that already had some occupants. Four terrified children were clustered around the skirts of an old servant, gazing up in horror at the bedchamber above their heads.

Humphrey Budden gave them a comforting squeeze then took his visitor up the stairs. During that short ascent, Miles Melhuish prayed more strenuously than even he had done in a long while. The sound was heart-rending. He had to force himself to follow the stricken husband into the bedchamber. What hideous sight lay within?

When his eyes beheld it, he crossed himself at once.

‘Dear God in heaven!’

‘Eleanor,’ called Budden. ‘Peace, good wife.’

But she did not even hear him. The wail continued with unabated fury and her hands clutched at her hair. Melhuish was dumbstruck. There in front of him, kneeling stark naked on the floor, swaying to and fro, staring at a crucifix on the wall, was a buxom woman in her twenties with flaxen hair trailing down her back towards a pair of round, beautiful, shuddering buttocks. It was a scene at once so frightening and erotic that Melhuish had to avert his gaze for a few seconds and call his righteousness to his aid.

Eleanor Budden was in the grip of some ineluctable passion. As her shriek soared to an even higher pitch, it spoke of pain and pleasure, of a torture suffered and a joy attained, of the misery of the damned and the joy of salvation. The mouth from which it came was twisted in a grimace but her face was luminescent with happiness.

‘Eleanor,’ said her husband. ‘Look who is here.’

‘She hears you not, Humphrey.’

‘Stand forth where she may see you, sir.’

He motioned the priest forward until the latter was standing between the woman and the crucifix. The effect on her was immediate. Her howling stopped, her mouth fell shut, her hands went to her sides and her body no longer shook all over. The deafening cry was replaced by an eerie stillness that was almost as unsettling.

Eleanor Budden looked up at the parish priest with a reverential smile. The fever had broken at last. Both men dared to relax slightly but their relief was premature. A fresh paroxysm seized her. Lunging forward, she grabbed the vicar around the waist and buried her head in the ample folds of his flesh, emitting a sound that began as a low wheeze of excitement then built up quickly until it was a cry of pure elation. Firm hands were clutching his buttocks, soft breasts were pressing against his thighs and urgent lips were burrowing into his groin. The noise surged on to a climax then spent itself in a sigh that filled the room with carnality and made her whole frame shudder with sheer ecstasy.

She collapsed peacefully to the floor in a coma.

Miles Melhuish was still praying furiously.

Death moved through the streets of London every day and sent loved ones to an early grave but the citizens of London were still not satisfied. Private grief afflicted new families by the hour but there was still enough ghoulish interest left over to send a large crowd to Tyburn for the execution. Distraught people who had sat around doomed beds now found a sense of release as they jostled for position around the gallows. A public death carried an element of celebration. In the crude but legalised murder of some anonymous criminal, they could take a profound satisfaction and dispatch him into the afterlife with sadistic jeers. What was intended as a brutal warning to them became a source of entertainment.

Everybody was keen to get a good view.

‘Stand aside, sir, I pray.’

‘By your leave, mistress.’

‘I’ll see nothing but your broad shoulders.’

‘Come in front of me.’

‘Let me through here.’

‘Push hard, mistress.’