The Devil's Apprentice (11 page)

Having shaken off his mystery illness completely, Lawrence Firethorn was in high spirits as he arrived at Edmund Hoode’s lodging. He banged on the door and was admitted by the playwright himself. Hoode looked more harassed than ever.

‘Is the fellow here?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Yes, Lawrence. Since the crack of dawn. His enthusiasm is crippling me.’

‘What progress have you made?’

‘None at all.’

‘What!’

‘He’s still having second thoughts about decisions we made yesterday.’

‘Fire and brimstone!’ exclaimed his visitor. ‘Let me talk to the villain.’

Followed by Hoode, he went swiftly up the stairs and into the room. Egidius Pye was seated at the table in the window, quill in hand as he crossed something out on a page to replace it with different wording. He gave a chuckle
of self-congratulation but it changed to a gurgle when Firethorn loomed over him.

‘Good morrow, sir,’ said the actor with a cold smile.

‘Oh, good morrow, Master Firethorn. This is an unexpected pleasure, sir. We are working well together, as you see. In fact,’ he said, indicating the page before him, ‘I’ve just made a significant change in the Prologue.’

‘
Again?
’ groaned Hoode.

‘It’s almost finished now.’

Firethorn was horrified. ‘You’re still dallying with the Prologue?’

‘Be glad that we’ve got this far, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘Master Pye spent the first hour arguing over the title of the play.’

‘Not arguing,’ corrected the lawyer. ‘Striving to improve, that is all.’

Firethorn glanced down at the Prologue and saw a plethora of alterations. He gritted his teeth. They had been too kind to the apprentice playwright. It was high time to acquaint him forcefully with the realities of life in the theatre. He gathered up the sheaves of parchment and thrust the whole pile into the lawyer’s hands.

‘Take your play away, sir,’ he ordered.

Pye was shocked. ‘But why?’

‘Because it will not make the journey to Essex with us.’

‘But it must, Master Firethorn.’

‘When its author is still haggling over the title? Place your witch in Colchester, Rochester, Winchester or York, for all I care! She’ll not travel with Westfield’s Men.’

‘This is unjust.’

‘No, Master Pye. It’s necessary.’

‘But we have a contract,’ said the lawyer. ‘I’ll hold you to that in court. You’ve agreed to buy and present my play.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then abide by the terms of the contract.’

‘I will,’ said Firethorn, ‘and all that the contract obliges us to do is to stage your play. No date of performance is given. We may not be able to put it into rehearsal for a year or more. By that time, you may actually have finished improving it.’

Hoode was dubious. ‘In a mere year? Allow him a decade at least.’

‘But I want it staged now,’ whimpered Pye. ‘I’ve set my heart on it.’

‘Then you should have been more amenable to correction.’

‘I have been. Master Hoode will tell you.’

‘He’s been far too amenable,’ confirmed the playwright. ‘Master Pye wants to correct everything. A minute later, he wants to restore the original lines again.’

Firethorn was brutal. ‘I’ve heard enough. Take the piece away.’

‘No!’ howled Pye. ‘Please.’

‘You were engaged to work
with
Edmund, not against him.’

‘That’s what I have been doing, sir.’

‘Not to my satisfaction. Thus it stands. We leave for Essex on Monday and your play is still in tatters. How can we do it justice if we do not rehearse it properly? And how can we rehearse it,’ he stressed, putting his
face close to Pye’s, ‘unless we have the piece finished. I’m sorry, sir, but we’d wait until Doomsday for you to make up your mind.’

Egidius Pye went silent. He looked down sadly at the sheaf of pages in his hand and contemplated failure. They could see him weighing up the possibilities. Firethorn winked at Hoode. The ruse was working.

‘I’m profoundly sorry,’ said Pye at length. ‘I suppose that I have been taking my time but that comes from my training as a lawyer, sir. Caution is everything.’

‘Not on the stage,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘Boldness is in demand there. Who, in God’s name, wants a
cautious
play? We perform in a theatre, Master Pye, not in a church. Our patrons call for action and excitement. They yearn for laughter.’

‘I thought that’s what I was giving them.’

‘It is,’ said Hoode, taking a gentler tone with him. ‘Your play is bursting at the seams with all it takes to make a fine comedy into an excellent one, Master Pye, but it needs certain changes. And they’ll never be made if you insist on disputing every comma and going into battle over the title.’

‘Take it away and work on it at your leisure,’ advised Firethorn. ‘If and when we deem it ready for the stage, we’ll perform it to the best of our ability.’

Pye drooped. ‘But you said it would be ideal for your visit to Essex.’

‘It would be if I could hand it to the scrivener today so that he could begin to copy it out. But that is plainly out of the question. You’re too protective of your work,
Master Pye. It happens with all raw playwrights,’ he said dismissively. ‘They sit over their words like a hen sitting on eggs, pecking everyone who comes near. Words are made to be heard, sir. Eggs are laid to be broken open and eaten.’

The lawyer went off into another long period of meditation. Hoode collected another wink from Firethorn. He was sorry that the actor-manager was forced to take such drastic action but it was the only route open to them. Egidius Pye eventually came around to the suggestion that Firethorn knew he would make.

‘There is one remedy,’ he said meekly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘We perform another play.’

‘No, no. You take
The Witch of Colchester
. I endorse the title wholeheartedly and was foolish to question it. And I agree with everything that Master Hoode has said about the piece. His experience far outweighs mine. His instinct is far surer.’ He held out the play to Hoode. ‘Is there any chance that you might rescue it on your own?’

‘That’s asking a great deal of Edmund,’ said Firethorn with mock seriousness. ‘Even he might not be able to make the necessary changes in time.’

‘But I was told there wouldn’t be many alterations.’

‘That’s what I hoped, Master Pye,’ said Hoode wearily. ‘But you kept altering the alterations at every turn until they multiplied out of all recognition.’

‘Help me, Master Hoode,’ pleaded the lawyer. ‘I beg you.’

‘It’s up to you, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have grave doubts.’

Pye leapt to his feet. ‘No, no. Don’t say that, please.’

He looked appealingly at Hoode. It was not a commission that the playwright could enjoy. In Pye’s position, he would be mortified if someone else took responsibility for making changes to his work but there were mitigating factors. The alterations would not be radical and they had already been agreed in discussion beforehand. What went on stage in
The Witch of Colchester
would be substantially the invention of Egidius Pye and all the credit would go to him. The deciding factor, however, was the one contained in the invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf. As a condition of their visit, a new play had been requested and the only one available to them was now being held out in the clammy hands of its author. If Hoode did not take on the task of amending it at speed, Westfield’s Men would have to cancel their visit and return to the miseries of unemployment. The fate of the whole company had to be set against the blow to one man’s pride.

‘Well, Edmund?’ asked Firethorn. ‘What do you say? Will you work through the night to save Master Pye’s play or shall we take one of the many other new pieces we have awaiting performance?’

The lawyer winced. His situation took on new pathos. Hoode gave a nod.

‘I’ll take on the chore,’ he agreed.

‘Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!’ said Pye, thrusting the play into his hands then embracing him so closely that he was hit by a veritable gust of bad breath. ‘Change what you will. I have complete faith in you.’

‘And I have complete faith in the play,’ said Hoode with
sincerity. ‘It’s just a pity that it comes to us when we cannot afford time to work slowly on it.’

‘Begin at once, Edmund,’ ordered Firethorn, crossing to open the door. ‘I’ll pass on the good tidings to the company when we meet this morning.’

‘I’ll hold you up no longer, Master Hoode,’ said Pye, gathering up his satchel. ‘I merely want to thank you once again for your kindness. You’ve true nobility, sir.’

Firethorn hustled him out then shut the door again. He waited until he heard the lawyer going out into the street below then he burst out laughing and clapped his friend hard on the back.

‘True nobility, eh?’ he said. ‘Arise Sir Edmund Hoode.’

‘You were too cruel to him, Lawrence.’

‘Cruel to him and kind to Westfield’s Men. Would you have us lose this golden opportunity?’ He laughed again. ‘Did you notice the way he jumped when I suggested that we had many other new plays at our disposal?’

‘That was the cruellest touch of all.’

‘Who cares, man? It worked. Still,’ he went on, ‘you don’t want me to waste your precious time. Every minute is important. We need at least some of the piece in the scrivener’s hands today.’

‘It will be,’ promised Hoode. ‘Act One needs little improvement. I simply have to transpose to scenes to achieve more impact. Master Pye accepted that when I pointed it out to him. The long scene with Lord Malady is stronger if it comes last.’

‘Which scene is that, Edmund?’

‘The one where he has his first illness. You recall it,
Lawrence. Lord Malady is struck down by a mysterious fever. I remember you telling me how much you were looking forward to playing that particular scene.’

Firethorn was pensive. ‘I think that I’ve already done so.’

‘You’ll milk a lot of humour from the way he collapses in his wife’s arms.’

‘There was no humour in it, I assure you,’ said the actor grimly. ‘Remind me, Edmund. I read the play but once so my knowledge of it is less exact than your own. Does not Lord Malady get struck down by a fever that miraculously disappears before the doctor can even medicine him?’

‘That’s right. Barnaby will your be physician. Doctor Putrid.’

Firethorn thought of the sudden illness that afflicted him and gave a shudder.

‘He was called Doctor Whitrow last night,’ he murmured.

The return journey was largely uneventful. There were no robbers to evade this time and Davy Stratton made no attempt to escape from them. Instead, he offered them an apology as soon as they left Silvermere and seemed truly penitent. He was riding between the two men, his pony keeping up a brisk trot with the horses.

‘I’m sorry if I caused you any concern,’ he said. ‘It was wrong of me.’

‘That’s not what I’d call it, lad,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It was sinful. You worried the life out of us. Why go charging off like that?’

‘I couldn’t help it.’

‘Don’t tell us that arrant lie about your pony bolting,’ warned Elias, ‘because you’d have cried out if that had happened. You were the one who bolted, Davy. We were fretting about you for hours.’

‘I was going to come back to you, honestly,’ said the boy.

‘But why disappear in the first place?’ wondered Nicholas Bracewell. ‘You weren’t acting on impulse. It was deliberate. You took us into that forest in order to shake us off. That was the whole reason for coming to Essex with us, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Davy.

‘Don’t you like us?’

‘Of course, Master Bracewell.’

Elias glowered. ‘You’ve a peculiar way of showing it.’

‘Don’t you want to be apprenticed to Westfield’s Men?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Davy without conviction.

‘Then why desert us like that?’

‘I told you. It was only for a while. I was coming to find you at Silvermere.’

‘Where did you go meanwhile?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Away.’

‘We want a more honest answer than that, Davy,’ said Nicholas.

‘It’s the truth,’ insisted Davy. ‘I just wanted to be on my own for a while. To get away so that I could think properly. And that story about Hotspur bolting wasn’t really a lie,’ he said, turning to Elias. ‘It may not have been exactly the way my father described it but I was knocked from the saddle
later on. It grew dark and I lost my way. When some animal let out a terrible cry, Hotspur was frightened and bolted. The branch of a tree hit me to the ground. That’s when I got my bruises.’

‘You’d have a few more, if it was left to me,’ said Elias.

‘What about last night?’ resumed Nicholas. ‘You were running away again.’

‘No,’ said Davy.

‘It looked like it to me. And your father had anticipated it. That’s why he advised that you be locked in the room.’

‘I wasn’t running away, I promise. I would have come back.’

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do, Davy.’

‘I just wanted to be alone again, that’s all,’ explained the boy. ‘I would’ve sneaked back while you and Master Elias were still asleep. You wouldn’t have known anything about it.’

‘We do now,’ said Elias sternly. ‘And we don’t like it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was your fault that we got locked in that bedchamber last night, Davy.’

‘Let’s forget that, Owen,’ said Nicholas, trying to calm his friend. ‘If anyone is to blame, it’s Master Stratton and he’s not here to answer for his actions. His son is back with us, that’s the main thing. Davy may have got off to a poor start but he may yet turn out to be worthy apprentice.’ He looked at the boy. ‘If he puts his mind to it, that is.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said the boy.

‘Make sure that you do, lad. When you joined Westfield’s Men, you became part of a family. We’re all bonded together. We don’t expect anyone to flee from us.’

‘I just went away for a short while.’

‘To be on your own,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘I know. You told us. The question is this.
Why
did you have such an overpowering desire to get away? What was it that you needed to think about?’