The Devil's Apprentice (18 page)

‘Master Firethorn is very tired, doctor,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and he’s suffering from a sore throat. We’ll let you tend him in private?’

‘Very sensible,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Let’s step into the hall.’

Nicholas and Hoode went through the door and on to the stage with their host. Hundreds of candles still flickered in the room but two servants were systematically extinguishing the flames now that the audience had left.

Sir Michael was solicitous. ‘I hope that his condition is not serious.’

‘I’m sure that it’s not, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful to divulge nothing more about Firethorn’s recent medical history. ‘Sleep will work its wonders.’

‘And tomorrow, he can rest.’

‘Unhappily not, Sir Michael,’ explained Hoode. ‘Though we may have no performance in here tomorrow, we’ll be rehearsing our new play. Actors never rest, I fear. What you see on the stage in two hours is the fruit of much longer time spent in rehearsal.
Double Deceit
is a case in point.’

‘A delightful frolic, Master Hoode. My wife chortled with glee.’

‘I’m glad that Lady Eleanor was pleased,’ said Nicholas.

‘Overjoyed, my friend. What comes next?’

‘
The Insatiate Duke
. Very different fare, Sir Michael. We follow a sunny comedy with a dark tragedy. In one sense, it’s
a pity we perform in the afternoon,’ he said, watching the servants dousing the candles, ‘because we could make great use of shadow with nothing but candelabra to illumine the stage. But no matter.’

‘No,’ agreed Hoode. ‘We usually play the piece in blazing sunshine.’

‘You mentioned the new comedy,’ said Sir Michael. ‘
The Witch of Colchester
. That’s the one that most appeals to me. Is it a powerful play?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir Michael.’

‘Too powerful,’ said Nicholas under his breath.

They talked on for a few minutes before being interrupted by Doctor Winche who came bustling on to the stage in a more settled frame of mind. His smile returned.

‘It’s nothing to cause alarm,’ he said. ‘What Master Firethorn most needs is sleep. His throat is sore yet not inflamed and there’s no swelling in the neck. I’ll send a potion across to him as soon as I return home.’

‘Could you not mix it here, Doctor Winche?’ suggested Sir Michael. ‘I’m sure that I’ve all the herbs necessary in my laboratory. That would save time.’

‘A great deal of it, Sir Michael. I accept your kind offer. Meanwhile,’ he said to the others, ‘I advise that you conduct Master Firethorn to his bed. When the poor fellow is comfortable, tell him how much my wife and I enjoyed his performance. Praise is a wonderful medicine. No man can have too much of it.’

He and Sir Michael went off to the laboratory, leaving Nicholas and Hoode with the task of nursing their colleague. Firethorn was still in his costume as Argos when
they went back into the tiring-house and they saw no point in getting him out of it until they had installed him in his bedchamber. Nicholas threw a cloak around the patient’s shoulders then he and Hoode escorted him slowly towards the side exit of the house. When they came out into the cold night, Firethorn gave a shudder and emitted a soundless cry. They hurried him across to the largest of the three cottages, brushed aside the anxious enquiries of its other occupants and took him upstairs. Firethorn was soon undressed and put into his bed, mystified rather than in any discomfort. When his eyelids began to droop, Hoode nudged Nicholas and they quietly withdrew. Owen Elias was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

‘What’s laid him low this time?’ he asked.

‘We don’t know, Owen,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He’s been seen by a doctor who advised sleep. Doctor Winche is preparing a potion for his sore throat at this moment.’

‘I hope that it works, Nick. Lawrence Firethorn without a voice us like the River Thames without water – a freak of nature.’

‘He’ll soon recover,’ said Hoode.

‘And what if he doesn’t, Edmund?’ said the Welshman.

‘Then we do what Barnaby did this evening. Replace him.’

‘Only God could replace Lawrence.’

There was a loud banging on the door. Nicholas went to see who was calling.

‘That surely can’t be Doctor Winche already,’ he said, lifting the latch. ‘Can he mix his medicines so quickly?’

He opened the door and blinked in surprise when he
saw the squat figure of an old woman standing there. Viewed only in the flickering light of the candles, the visitor had a sinister quality yet he did not sense any menace. She waddled forward so that he could see her more clearly. Dressed in rags and wearing a tattered old cap, she was bent by age and worn down by toil but her eyes had an almost youthful glint in them.

‘Did you want something, mistress?’ asked Nicholas pleasantly.

‘Only to give you this, sir,’ she said, offering him a tiny bottle. ‘Someone in this house is ill and this potion will cure him if he takes it.’

‘But how did you know that we had a sick man here?’

‘That’s not important. Take the bottle.’

‘What does it contain?’

‘A remedy.’

Nicholas took it from her, feeling the strange warmness of her hand as it brushed against his own. ‘Who are you?’ he wondered.

‘Mother Pigbone,’ she said softly.

Then she drew back into the darkness and was gone.

Wednesday was devoted entirely to a rehearsal of
The Witch of Colchester
. The play due for performance on the following afternoon,
The Insatiate Duke
, had been in demand so much the previous year that they knew it by heart and felt confident of staging it after only a morning’s work on it. It was the new play that demanded the real attention but they approached it with no enthusiasm. Lawrence Firethorn was not the only person to make the connection between his recurring illnesses and Egidius Pye’s drama. Their manager’s ordeal mirrored that of Lord Malady and they were not reassured by the fact that
The Witch of Colchester
had a happy ending with its protagonist restored to full health. Before that occurred, the character was due to endure more afflictions. Fear lent a tentative quality to the rehearsal. Superstitious by nature, the actors were highly nervous, picking their way through
the play as if each scene was an uncertain stepping stone in a particularly fast-flowing stream.

During a break, Lawrence Firethorn drifted across to Nicholas Bracewell.

‘This play is cursed, Nick,’ he complained. ‘I can feel it.’

‘It’s brought us good as well as bad luck,’ said Nicholas, looking around. ‘But for Master Pye, we wouldn’t be enjoying the hospitality of Silvermere and the pleasure of rehearsing in this magnificent hall. We’d all be cooling our heels in London, praying for the weather to improve. Whereas here we have work, food, drink, lodging, a fine theatre and a wonderful audience. It’s pure joy to work in such conditions.’

‘I agree. Acting on this stage was a continuous pleasure. Until I lost my voice.’

‘Only for a short while. It’s now restored.’

‘For how long?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘I feel that a new illness is going to leap out of
The Witch of Colchester
to attack me any minute. The play is a menace.’

‘Sir Michael is delighted with our choice of it.’

‘Sir Michael doesn’t have to take the role of Lord Malady.’

‘Other characters in the play are struck down as well as yours,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘The two lawyers, for instance, Longshaft and Shortshrift. Master Pye doesn’t spare his legal colleagues in the play. Both are stricken yet neither Edmund nor James, who take those parts, have suffered in any way.’

Firethorn groaned. ‘I’ve suffered enough for both of them!’

‘Don’t be afraid of the piece. It may yet give us our greatest triumph.’

‘It may indeed, Nick, but will I be alive to see it?’

Concealing his own fears about the play, Firethorn went off to berate the actors for their lack of commitment to the piece. The voice that had disappeared on the previous evening was now as rich and loud as ever. Nicholas was relieved but still puzzled by his sudden recovery. He called Davy Stratton across to issue his instructions. Given only a miniscule role in the new play, the boy was employed throughout in a series of menial but important tasks. In a piece that involved considerable doubling, he helped actors to change their costumes, held properties in readiness for them when they were about to make an entry and brought on or removed scenery with George Dart whenever the action of the play required it.

‘Do you know what you have to do in the next scene, Davy?’ said Nicholas.

‘I think so.’

‘What?’

‘Wheel the witch’s cauldron on stage.’

‘That’s the second thing you must do. What’s the first?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Davy, remembering. ‘Help Martin Yeo on with his costume.’

‘Think of him as Griselda. That’s Martin’s name in the play.’

‘I’ll try but he still looks like Martin Yeo to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas sternly. ‘I saw you teasing him earlier on. No more of that, Davy. I put you in the cottage with Dick Honeydew and George in order to keep you away
from the other apprentices. Don’t stir up trouble.’

‘It was Martin and Stephen who were mocking me,’ claimed the boy.

‘Then ignore them. Even in rehearsal, a play needs all our attention. We must work together and not against each other. Do you understand?’ Davy gave a penitent nod. ‘Good. Let me see you excel yourself as you did during
Double Deceit.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Nicholas, wondering why he was so keen to get away. ‘This is the first time I’ve had the chance to speak to you alone and I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of someone called Mother Pigbone?’

‘Of course. Everybody in Essex has.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A wise woman who lives in the wood beyond Stapleford.’

‘Have you ever met her?’

‘No, but I think that my father has.’

‘Does she sell remedies for strange illnesses?’

‘Mother Pigbone does all kinds of things. Some say she’s a witch.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in witches.’

‘I don’t but lots of people do.’

‘How would I find Mother Pigbone?’

‘Ask my father.’

Wishing to resume work, Firethorn waved to his book holder. Nicholas sent Davy off to do his chores and mounted the stage. After checking that all the scenery was in place, he went into the tiring-house to make sure that the actors were in their appointed positions. Full costume was being worn
so that they could get used to the frequent changes. Barnaby Gill was adjusting the feather in his cap. Edmund Hoode was composing his features into the solemn expression of a lawyer. Davy Stratton was helping the sullen Martin Yeo into the dress he wore as Griselda, a young woman in the household of Sir Roderick Lawless. Richard Honeydew was in the more striking costume belonging to Lord Malady’s wife. Stephen Judd, the other apprentice, was already in the tattered rags of Black Joan. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Nicholas took his copy of the play into the hall so that he could watch the rehearsal and prompt. He waved to the musicians in the gallery and they played a lively tune to indicate the start of the new scene.

Lord Malady was the first on stage, accompanied by his devoted wife who had nursed him through his latest mysterious illness. It was a clever scene, touching in some ways, yet undeniably comic as well, full of dramatic irony for a discerning audience. When Doctor Putrid entered, the comedy was immediately sharpened as he engaged in a verbal duel with Malady. Leading by example, Firethorn and Gill were putting far more effort into their roles than they had earlier done. Others who joined them on stage also tried to be more positive. All went well until Martin Yeo, in the person of Griselda, had to bend down to pick a discarded flower from the ground. Trained in graceful movement, Yeo was utterly convincing as a young woman as he retrieved the blood red rose. The illusion was not maintained. As soon as he straightened up, he let out such a cry of pain that it made the other actors jump back. Holding his buttocks and yelping madly, he ran in circles
around the stage as if his posterior were on fire.

Sympathy was in short supply. Firethorn castigated him for spoiling the rehearsal, Gill added his scorn, Honeydew sniggered, Elias laughed, Judd frowned and Hoode simply gaped in dismay. It was left to Nicholas to offer practical assistance. Leaping on to the stage, he grabbed hold of Yeo, ordered him to stand still then helped him out of his costume to reveal the cause of his agony. A piece of bramble had been cunningly inserted into the material so that it made its presence known when the boy bent over. Extracting the thorns from Yeo’s buttocks, Nicholas drew the loudest howls yet from the apprentice. He held up the bramble that had ruined the rehearsal of the scene.

‘Davy Stratton!’ he called. ‘Come out here, lad.’

Reverend Anthony Dyment was in a quandary. As chaplain at Silvermere, he was eager not to offend Sir Michael Greenleaf yet he was equally unwilling to give Reginald Orr grounds for showing further contempt. The invitation to attend
Double Deceit
had caused him immense discomfort. If he went to the play, he would be accused by Orr of making a pact with the Devil; if he refused, it would upset the man who had given him both the chaplaincy and the living at St Christopher’s. Compromise was impossible. In the event, he pleaded a severe headache and missed the performance but he was keen to placate Sir Michael and repaired to Silvermere the next day. Admitted to the house, he could hear the voices of the actors in rehearsal in the Great Hall. Dyment was taken by a servant to the room where his master spent so much time. Sir Michael was in his
laboratory, mixing some of his new gunpowder and talking to Jerome Stratton.

‘Come in, Anthony,’ said the scientist, seeing the vicar arrive. ‘I hope that you’ve recovered completely from your headache.’

‘I have, Sir Michael,’ said Dyment. ‘God be praised.’

‘Praised indeed. Yours is the second speedy recovery for which we must thank Him. At the end of yesterday’s play, Lawrence Firethorn lost his voice and could not utter a word. Doctor Winche could do nothing for him. Then poor Master Firethorn drank a potion and the power of speech returned at once.’

‘Amazing!’ said Dyment.

‘Was this medicine the doctor’s concoction?’ asked Stratton.

‘No, Jerome. It came from a more questionable source.’

‘And where was that?’

‘Mother Pigbone.’

The vicar was disturbed. ‘You’d entrust the health of a guest to her?’

‘Mother Pigbone has a reputation as a physician.’

‘I’m not sure that it’s one I’d trust, Sir Michael.’

‘Nor I,’ muttered Stratton. ‘But the patient is well again, you say?’

Sir Michael beamed. ‘Step into the hall and you’ll hear him bellowing like a bull.’ He switched his gaze to Dyment. ‘But I’m so sorry that you had to forego the pleasure of seeing
Double Deceit
. It would have dispelled anyone’s headache. My wife and I have never laughed so much in all our lives.’

‘I wish I’d seen it myself,’ said Stratton.

‘Yes, Jerome. It was a pity that business affairs kept you away. You’d have loved it, especially as Davy flitted across the stage at one point. Join us tomorrow and you’ll see the company in more tragic vein.’

‘I’ll be there, Sir Michael. What about you, Anthony?’

Dyment shifted his feet. ‘That may be difficult, I fear.’

‘You don’t have any qualms about watching a play, do you?’ said Stratton.

‘Not at all. I appeared in more than one while an undergraduate at Oxford.’

‘But they were usually in Latin,’ noted Sir Michael, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. ‘And always on some religious theme. Westfield’s Men present drama of a more immediate nature. They show the weaknesses of man and hold him up to ridicule.
Double Deceit
was an hilarious sermon on the eternal follies of the human condition. It would have given you great amusement, Anthony.’

‘Perhaps so, Sir Michael, though I’m not entirely persuaded that a man of the cloth
ought
to be amused in that way.’

‘Laughter is good for the soul, man.’

‘That depends on what kind of laughter it is.’

‘You’re beginning to sound like a sour-faced Puritan,’ said Stratton. ‘Everyone is entitled to enjoyment and that’s what a theatre company offers.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Master Stratton.’

‘Jerome has no worries at all about Westfield’s Men,’ remarked Sir Michael chirpily. ‘If he had, he wouldn’t have
apprenticed his own son to them.’

‘Quite,’ said Stratton.

‘To watch them at work is a profound education, Anthony.’

‘I’m sure that it is,’ said the vicar, ‘but not everyone accepts that view. It’s one of the reasons I called this morning. Sir Michael. To give you fair warning.’

‘Of what?’

‘Further trouble from Reginald Orr.’

‘That rogue!’ said Stratton angrily. ‘We should drive him out of Essex.’

Dyment pursed his lips. ‘That’s the fate he wishes on Westfield’s Men, I fear. When I spoke to him yesterday, he was in buoyant mood, assuring me that they would never even get as far as Silvermere. Master Orr was deeply upset to learn that they’d already done so.’

‘That’s because he probably arranged that ambush for them,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Did he say anything to that effect, Anthony?’

‘He was careful to give nothing away.’

‘Have him arrested on suspicion, Sir Michael,’ advised Stratton.

‘It’s not as simple as that, Jerome.’

‘The man is a danger.’

‘That’s why I came to warn you, Sir Michael,’ said Dyment. ‘If one thing fails, he’ll try another. Keep your house well guarded. Protect your players.’

‘I’m doing just that,’ replied Sir Michael. ‘And the players are extremely good at protecting themselves. They’ll not be scared off by a fanatic like Reginald Orr.’

‘He disapproves of plays.’

‘Orr disapproves of
everything
,’ said Stratton harshly.

‘That’s his business,’ said Sir Michael, ‘until he commits a crime, of course, when it becomes mine. I did warn him. If he comes up before me again, I’ll impose the stiffest sentence that I can.’

‘He ought to be hanged, drawn and quartered.’

The older man was tolerant. ‘For holding some extreme views about religion? Come now, Jerome. We must live and let live. Orr is a nuisance but he doesn’t deserve the punishment we reserve for treason. Well,’ he continued, smiling at the vicar, ‘since you missed
Double Deceit
, I insist that you watch one of the other plays.’

Dyment trembled. ‘Must I, Sir Michael?’

‘It’s the least you can do. Give them the blessing of the church.’

‘And give yourself a treat in the bargain,’ said Stratton.

‘I’ll think about it,’ promised the vicar.

‘No prevarication,’ said Sir Michael. ‘I want a firm commitment now. My wife was deeply upset that you refused our invitation, albeit because you were indisposed. Do you intend to disappoint her again, Anthony?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘Good. Which play would you like to see.’

‘Come tomorrow to see
The Insatiate Duke
,’ said Stratton, touching his arm. ‘It’s a swirling tragedy that will make your blood run cold.’

‘Tragedy is not to my taste.’

‘What about history? They play
Henry the Fifth
on Saturday.’