Free The Vagabond Clown by Edward Marston

Firethorn. ‘That’s the best advice. Forget the whole business.’ He pointed to the platter of food. ‘And put some victuals inside you. We must be away.’
    Gill was baffled. Until Nicholas had spoken up for him, he was convinced that Mussett had been responsible for the cruel jest. A doubt had now been put into his mind. It was confusing. Unable to gain retribution, he fumed in silence.
     
    The road to Maidstone took them through some of the prettiest countryside in Kent. It was a fine day but a swirling wind sprung up to bring an occasional shiver to the little cavalcade. Bushes trembled, grass rippled in the fields and trees swayed to the rustling rhythm of their leaves. Clumps of wild flowers shook their petals in complaint. No sooner did a burst of bright sunshine pacify them than the wind strengthened to begin its mischief all over again. Expanses of woodland were interrupted by pasturage for cattle and horses, but the most common sight was acre upon acre of fruit trees, waving to the travellers as they passed. Hops, a new crop to most of them, were also grown, rising high above the hedges and fences that enclosed them. From time to time, they caught sight of a prodigy house, owned by some rich London merchant, or some vast aristocratic estate. Proximity to London made the county an attractive home for the wealthy.
    Lawrence Firethorn rode at the head of his troupe like the captain of an army, chatting to Owen Elias, who rode beside him, about the first performance on their tour and wishing that they were not hampered by the presence of Barnaby Gill. Both men wore swords to deter any highwaymen from attack. Bringing up the rear was Edmund Hoode, a lone figure on a donkey, looking lesslike a member of a theatre company than a pilgrim on his way to a distant shrine. While others studied the changing landscape around them, Hoode’s mind was elsewhere, grappling with a scene in the new play that he was writing and wondering when and how he would find the time to commit his thoughts to paper.
    Giddy Mussett again diverted the occupants of the first wagon with his jests and anecdotes, endearing himself even more and winning their confidence completely. He then plied them with questions about the company, wanting to know as much detail as he could about the affray at the Queen’s Head. They had been trundling along for an hour when he moved to sit on the driver’s seat beside Nicholas Bracewell.
    ‘Let me take a turn with the reins, Nick,’ he volunteered.
    ‘Have you handled two horses before?’
    ‘Two and four, Nick. Here, let me show you.’
    Nicholas gave him the reins, happy to have a rest from keeping the wagon on a fairly straight line while avoiding as many potholes as he could. Mussett was as good as his word. He was an experienced coachman who handled the horses well. Nicholas was able to relax. He was also glad of the opportunity to speak to Mussett alone.
    ‘Who did play that trick on Master Gill last night?’ he asked.
    ‘I wish I knew.’
    ‘I hope that you were not involved, Giddy.’
    ‘How could I be?’ asked Mussett. ‘You saw me fast asleep.’
    ‘I saw what I
thought
was you but the room was fairly dark.’
    ‘It was me, Nick, I dare swear it. I was too tired to pester Barnaby though I would love to shake the hand of the man who did lock him in the privy.’
    ‘It was nobody in the company. Fear would hold them back.’
    ‘Fear of being caught?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and fear of facing me afterwards. They know what I would say. We are bound together in this enterprise. Good fellowship is the only thing that will carry us through. Fall out with each other and we are doomed.’
    ‘I’ve never fallen out with anyone in my life,’ attested Mussett.
    ‘What about Conway’s Men?’
    ‘Ah, that was different, Nick. They fell out with me.’
    Nicholas smiled but he still had nagging doubts about the clown. Though he had settled into the company with apparent ease, Mussett