The Devil's Apprentice (13 page)

‘Everything you asked.’

‘Good fellow!’

‘Westfield’s Men will leave London early on Monday morning. They’ll be twelve in number with four apprentices besides.’ He clicked his tongue in disapproval. ‘Young boys, doomed to be dragged down into the mire by their elders.’

‘How will they travel?’

‘By the main road for most of the way. Then they strike off for Silvermere. Some will ride horses but others will travel with their costumes and scenery on a big cart.’

Orr raised an eyebrow. ‘A cart, you say? That may play into our hands.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll explain later. Go on with your tale.’

‘I come to the worst part of it, Reginald.’

‘In what way?’

‘They’re due to spend ten days as guests of Sir Michael Greenleaf.’

Orr was scandalised. ‘Ten!’

‘Excluding the day when they travel.’

‘This is intolerable! In ten days, they could infect the whole of Essex. I’ll not let them contaminate this beautiful
county, Isaac.’ He waved an angry fist. ‘I’ll make them wish they’d never set foot in it.’

‘Someone has to do it or we will suffer the consequences.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Six plays are to be performed during their stay,’ explained Upchard, ‘the last being one that was expressly requested by Sir Michael. It’s very title will be enough to wound you to the quick. It’s called
The Witch of Colchester.’

‘Horror of horrors!’ yelled Orr. ‘They mean to practice witchcraft?’

‘They bragged about nothing else, Reginald. The play contains spells, secret potions and a black boar that is the witch’s familiar. It’s unspeakable.’

‘Are demons represented on the stage?’

‘Satan himself is conjured up at one point.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Orr, leaping from his seat. ‘This is evil of the worst kind and a threat to every Christian soul within miles. We’ll allow no hideous witches to fly over our houses to cast their wicked spells. Nor will we let Satan come to Silvermere. I praise you heartily for the work you’ve done on our behalf, Isaac,’ he said, putting a congratulatory hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘It was an odious task but a valuable one.’

‘Had I stayed any longer in their company, I’d have been polluted myself.’

‘Profanity and desecration! That’s all they bring in this cart of theirs. Well, we’ll be ready for them. Sir Michael Greenleaf may wish to give these heathen rogues licence to seduce and corrupt but I’ll teach him some moral
responsibility. Let’s ride out together at first light tomorrow,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll get the lie of the land so that we can devise a fitting welcome for these devils in human guise called Westfield’s Men.’

Sunday morning found Anne Hendrik in her parlour, peering into the mirror while she adjusted her hat. Nicholas Bracewell, also dressed to go out, stood behind her.

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ he said.

‘Then don’t even try,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’m glad to have Davy here. After all you’ve told me about him, I was interested to meet the boy. He certainly doesn’t look like the mischief-maker that Lawrence seems to think he is.’

‘Davy was on his best behaviour.’

‘Only because you frighten him more than Margery Firethorn.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Nobody could spread more terror than her when she’s roused. Even her husband runs for cover when Margery starts breathing fire. No, I think that it was you who made the difference, Anne.’

‘Me?’

‘You were so kind and welcoming to the lad,’ he said. ‘You didn’t stand over him or issue any warnings. Davy didn’t feel threatened.’

‘I’ve employed apprentices of my own, remember, Nick. In my experience, the best way to deal with them is to talk to them on their own level. Waving a big stick only makes the weak ones cower and the strong ones rebellious.’ She glanced upwards. ‘How did Davy sleep?’

‘Extremely well. I heard him wheezing contentedly before I dropped off.’

‘No attempt to sneak out of the house?’

‘None, as far as I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘And no merry pranks with the other boys. That’s one reason he’s been so quiet, of course. He’s not fighting a constant battle here with John Tallis and his friends. I’m sorry I had to let him share my room with me,’ he said, stepping in close to plant an apologetic kiss on her cheek, ‘but I wanted to make sure that nothing untoward happened.’

‘Nothing untoward happened in my bedchamber, I fear,’ she teased.

‘The boy’s needs came first, Anne.’

‘Of course. I appreciate that. It would have been wrong for him to see how close we are when we’re not legally married. That’s why I went to some pains to treat you like a lodger in front of him.’

It was his turn to tease. ‘But that’s exactly what I am, isn’t it?’

‘From time to time.’

‘I’ll give him a shout. Davy!’ he called, moving to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hurry up, lad. We’ll be late.’

‘One moment!’ replied a distant voice.

‘At least, he’s still in the house,’ said Anne.

‘Not necessarily,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘He could be on the roof.’

Footsteps came tripping down the stairs and Davy Stratton entered the room. There was no sign of strain in him. Nicholas noted how relaxed and happy the boy seemed. After greetings were exchanged, Anne stepped in
to straighten his collar for him and to brush aside a few stray hairs that peeped out from under his cap.

‘We’ll have breakfast when we get back,’ she said.

‘Yes, Mistress Hendrik.’

‘Do you like church, Davy?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you go regularly at home?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said with a rueful smile ‘We have to. My father makes sure that we never miss a service on Sundays. Some of the people he does business with also go to St Christopher’s.’

‘What sort of man is the vicar?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Reverend Dyment is a devout man.’

‘He seemed rather harassed when we met him at Silvermere.’

‘He has a lot of trouble from some parishioners.’

‘Do they include this infamous Reginald Orr?’

‘I think so.’

‘Have you met the man yourself, Davy?’

‘No, but my father has,’ said the boy. ‘He had Master Orr arrested.’

‘Why?’ said Anne.

‘For causing a disturbance in the village.’

‘It’s time to be on our way,’ suggested Nicholas as a sonorous bell began to toll in the distance. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

They let themselves out and walked briskly along the street. The sun was out but it was still decidedly cold. Nicholas hoped that they would not see any more victims of the winter, frozen to death in lanes or alleyways. Several
other people were heading towards the church for matins and they joined the swelling congregation. Anne was plainly enjoying Davy’s company, chatting easily to him about his home life and making him feel that someone was taking an interest in him. Nicholas could still not understand why the boy had misbehaved so much at Firethorn’s house and put it down to the proximity of the other apprentices. Attacking three of the other boys was Davy’s form of defence. They had mocked him continuously since his arrival. He could take no more.

‘Do you like being with Westfield’s Men?’ asked Anne.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Davy. ‘I love it at the rehearsals.’

‘What sort of an actor do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘I want to be like Master Firethorn.’

‘Nobody is quite like him, Davy,’ said Nicholas, fondly. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is the best actor in London. Even his rivals concede that.’

‘Then I’ll try to be more like Master Gill.’

Anne suppressed a smile. ‘He, too, would be very difficult to imitate.’

‘But he makes me laugh so,’ said Davy, ‘and he’s a wonderful dancer.’

‘You’ll learn a lot from simply watching Barnaby Gill,’ said Nicholas. ‘And the rest of the players, for that matter. Owen Elias is a fine actor. So is Edmund Hoode when he has the right part.’

‘What about George Dart?’

‘George
tries
. He may never actually succeed, but he never stops trying.’

‘Why does everyone make fun of him?’

‘Because they don’t appreciate him, Davy. George Dart loves the company so much that he’d die for Westfield’s Men. Get to know him better,’ advised Nicholas. ‘In his own quiet way, George has a lot to teach you as well.’

They walked on until the church came into sight. People were converging on it from all directions and they had to slow right down when they reached the porch. As they shuffled forward in the queue, Davy was ahead of them, allowing Nicholas to have a private word with Anne. He leant over to whisper to her.

‘I think you’ve tamed him, Anne.’

‘He doesn’t seem to need any taming.’

‘You should speak to Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Was the boy really that bad?’ she said.

‘Apparently.’

‘I hope that they had a quieter night out in Shoreditch last night.’

‘I’m sure that they did,’ said Nicholas. ‘Without young Davy to set them all by the heels, they’ll have had no problems. I expect that they’re kneeling down in church at this moment to offer up a prayer to the Almighty for sending them Anne Hendrik.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘I intend to do the same thing myself.’

Religion had only an uncertain hold on Lawrence Firethorn. Though he could be seized with Christian zeal on rare occasions, he could also blithely forget some of the Ten Commandments at times and lapse unthinkingly into sinful behaviour without any compunction. Guilt and repentance
invariably followed but they were only temporary restraints. Sunday, however, brought out the spiritual side of him and not merely because his company were unable to play on the Sabbath by virtue of the fact that the Queen’s Head was within the city limits. The Theatre and The Curtain, both in Shoreditch, enjoyed the freedom of being outside city jurisdiction and performed regularly on Sundays. Turning his back on his rivals, Firethorn preferred to celebrate it as a day of rest.

Marshalled by his wife, the whole household, ten of them in all, set off for the parish church in strict formation. The apprentices led the way, the children came next, Firethorn and his wife were on their tail and the two servants brought up the rear. They took up a whole bench in the freezing cold knave, squeezing tightly up against each other in the interests of warmth. After he had said his prayers, Firethorn, seated by the aisle, glanced along the row at juvenile faces that were either drawn with fatigue or glazed with boredom. He was content. Order had been restored. The absence of Davy Stratton had allowed the house to resume its quiet, normal, unhurried pace. Margery Firethorn was thinking the same thing.

‘Where do you imagine he is now, Lawrence?’ she hissed.

‘Davy?’ he said. ‘He’s probably making Anne’s life a misery.’

‘Nick would never allow that.’

‘No, Margery. On second thoughts, I think you’re right. If anyone can control him, it’s Nick. Maybe the fault isn’t in Davy at all but in us.’

‘Us?’ she repeated, bridling. ‘Are you criticising me, Lawrence?’

He grinned. ‘I’d never dare do that, my love. Least of all in a church.’

‘Good.’

‘Shoreditch is not the ideal place for Davy to be. That’s all I meant. Trapped inside a small house in this dreadful weather where we’re all falling over each other. The lad will be fine once we’re out on the road.’

‘That wasn’t what Nick and Owen Elias found.’

‘True,’ he conceded.

‘Davy ran away from them.’

‘But he came back in due course.’

‘From what you told me, it sounded as if his father dragged him back.’

‘That was Nick’s feeling.’

‘I trust in his instinct, Lawrence. What’s to stop the boy vanishing again?’

‘Loyalty to the company. He’ll soon settle down.’

Margery was sad. ‘I hope so. I do so want to like young Davy.’

A hush fell on the congregation as some chords on the organ announced the entrance of the vicar who came walking down the aisle with stately tread to begin the service. Firethorn was involved from the start, nestling into the familiar ritual as into a favourite chair. It was only when the sermon began that his mind wandered. The text was taken from an obscure part of Deuteronomy, the sermon was contradictory rather than explanatory, and it was delivered in such a monotonous drone that it inspired none of the parishioners and eased a few into a blissful slumber.

Lawrence Firethorn was not among the sleepers. In his
mind, he was already at Silvermere, thrilling an audience as Henry the Fifth, working on their emotions as the tragic Vincentio and rendering them helpless with laughter by his portrayal of Lord Malady in
The Witch of Colchester
. The spiritual setting helped to soften his view of the hapless Egidius Pye. The man deserved sympathy. He had written an outstanding play yet had been exiled from its rehearsal. Firethorn wondered if he should have relented and let the lawyer at least watch the piece being slowly put together by the actors. If nothing else, Pye would benefit from the experience. He was still musing on the new play when the vicar reached the climax of his peroration.

‘And so,’ he declared, eyes raised to heaven, ‘when God asks us to open our hearts to him, my friends, what must we answer?’

It was a rhetorical question but it got an instant reply from Firethorn.

‘No, no, no!’ he howled in despair.

Rising to his feet, he clutched at his body as if in intense pain and staggered out into the aisle. The congregation looked on in horror. Before anyone could catch him, he shivered violently then fell to the floor, seized by such dramatic convulsions that one woman fainted and two had a screaming fit. The vicar was so upset that he had to be helped down from the pulpit by the verger. Firethorn completed his ruination of the sermon with a loud moan of agony that echoed around the church like a death knell. Quite involuntarily, the actor had once again had a remarkable effect on the spectators.

Word of Lawrence Firethorn’s collapse threw the whole company into turmoil. There was no miracle recovery this time. Carried home by neighbours, the actor had been confined to bed with an illness that was way beyond the reach of Doctor Whitrow. All that he had done was to prescribe medicine to ease the pain. Firethorn had grown drowsy and was barely able to keep his eyes open when Nicholas Bracewell, summoned from Bankside, hastened to the house in Shoreditch. Before he fell into a deep sleep, the actor had been insistent that Westfield’s Men should depart on the following morning as planned. With or without its motive force, the company had to honour its commitment.