The Devil's Apprentice (4 page)

Nicholas took the parchment from him then went into the adjoining room with Davy Stratton and Edmund Hoode. The boy gave a shudder as they left a warm fire to enter the cold chamber where the family ate their meals. It was a long narrow room with a window at the far end. After glancing at the speech, Nicholas handed it to Davy.

‘Here, lad,’ he said softly. ‘Stand over there where you get the best of the light and read the lines to yourself. If there’s anything you do not understand, ask the author for he is here beside me.’

Davy did as he was told, face puckered with concentration as he read the lines.

‘I seem to remember that you helped greatly in the play’s
creation,’ said Hoode in a confiding whisper, always ready to give credit where it was due. ‘There’s something of your own father in my merchant, Nick. Robert Bracewell casts a long and welcome shadow. You and Davy have something in common. Both of you were brought up in merchant households.’

Nicholas winced slightly at the reminder. ‘Let’s give him time to study the piece before we hear it,’ he advised. ‘It’s a speech that will test him.’

‘Where is it from?’

‘Act Five. Mary fears that she has lost him forever.’

‘Dick Honeydew squeezed tears out of the lines when he played the part.’

‘We must expect a little less from Davy.’

‘I’m ready, sirs,’ said the boy.

Hoode was impressed. ‘That was quick.’

‘The speech is not difficult, only a little mawkish.’

‘Mary is speaking from the heart,’ said the playwright, stung by the comment.

‘I meant no offence, Master Hoode. I like the verse.’

‘Then let’s hear it,’ said Nicholas, concealing his amusement at Hoode’s mild upset. ‘And take your time, Davy. They are fine words. Don’t gabble them.’

Davy Stratton nodded, cleared his throat then read the lines.

He had a good, if reedy, voice and gave a competent performance. What it lacked was any real expression or sense of character. Hoode was a kind critic.

‘Well done, Davy!’ he said. ‘Considering that you’ve never seen them before, it was brave stab at the lines. The lady who speaks them in the play is called Mary and she is agonising over her lover’s long absence. Since he’s a merchant whose ship has gone astray, she begins to suspect all kinds of horrors. Mary is in a state of panic. If you can, try to show us her anguish.’

‘Yes, Master Hoode.’

‘Say the lines as if you really
mean
them,’ said Nicholas.

‘I will,’ promised the boy.

He took a deep breath before launching himself into the speech once more. There was much more emotion in his voice this time even though it was uncontrolled. Nicholas exchanged a glance with the playwright. Both reached the same conclusion.

‘That was markedly better,’ said Hoode.

‘Yes,’ added Nicholas. ‘But don’t let your voice get too shrill or the words will be lost. And listen to the rhythm of the verse. You must keep to that at all costs.’

‘Shall I try it again?’ volunteered the boy.

‘In a moment.’ He regarded him shrewdly before speaking. ‘Do you really wish to join the company, Davy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that your idea or your father’s?’

There was an awkward pause. ‘We both agreed on it,’ he said at length.

‘Did you not wish to become a merchant like your father?’

‘Not in a hundred years!’

‘You seem determined on that point. Life in the playhouse is dogged by all kinds of problems. You’d have a softer time in trade and it would be more profitable. Why do you turn your back so decisively on your father’s profession?’

‘It’s no more than you did, Master Bracewell.’

Nicholas was taken aback, unaware that he had overheard his earlier exchange with Hoode. The playwright burst out laughing and gave him a nudge.

‘A tidy answer, Nick. You stand rebuffed. Now, let’s hear the piece again.’

A third reading showed a definite improvement, a fourth gave the speech power and definition. Keen to show how easily the boy took direction, they escorted him back into the parlour where Firethorn was discussing the financial implications with Stratton.

‘Back so soon?’ he said.

‘The speech is in a fit state to be heard, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘Then let’s have it. Take a seat, gentlemen,’ he invited, moving across to a chair himself. ‘Now, Davy. You have a captive audience. Imagine that you’re on stage in front of
hundreds of spectators, all needing to pick up every word you say. When you’re ready, let’s hear you pine for your missing lover.’

Davy looked at almost all of them in turn, avoiding only Jerome Stratton whose face was wreathed in smiles. After running his tongue over his lips, the boy began

Firethorn was delighted, Gill was entranced and Stratton’s smile became a grin of triumph. Nicholas and Hoode were pleased to see that the boy had heeded their advice. Davy put much more feeling into the speech, overdoing it at times but nevertheless turning lines on a page into something akin to a performance. When it was over, the father clapped appreciatively and Firethorn leapt to his feet.

‘You’re a born actor, Davy!’ he declared.

‘Thank you, Master Firethorn,’ said the boy modestly.

‘What did the rest of you think?’

Hoode spoke without hesitation. ‘Davy would be a gift to us.’

‘Nick?’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas. ‘He learns quickly.’

‘Barnaby?’

‘Davy has a natural charm, it’s true,’ said Gill slowly, ‘but he’ll need more than that to hold the spectators at the Queen’s Head. Can he sing, I wonder? Can he dance? Perhaps I should teach him a little jig so that we may judge his movement?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Firethorn heavily. ‘I think that we’ve seen all that we need to. It’s merely a question of getting our lawyer to draw up the contract and Davy Stratton becomes a member of Westfield’s Men.’

‘You didn’t specify the length of his apprenticeship,’ noted Stratton.

‘That’s because it varies with each boy. Some take six or seven years before they grow to maturity, others, like John Tallis,’ said Firethorn with rancour, ‘arrive at that stage much earlier. We’ll have it entered in the contract that Davy is bound to us for three years, a period that can be extended as soon as it’s expired. Will that content you, sir?’

‘Admirably.’

Firethorn turned back to the boy. ‘What about you, Davy? Are you ready to pledge yourself to us for the next three years?’

Stratton was peremptory. ‘He’ll do as I tell him, Master Firethorn.’

‘I’d prefer to hear it from his own lips. Well, Davy?’

Ignoring his father once again, the boy looked around the other faces. Firethorn beamed at him, Gill produced his first smile, Hoode gave him a wink of encouragement and Nicholas nodded a welcome. Davy Stratton made his decision.

‘I’m yours,’ he said boldly.

Anne Hendrik was delighted at the news. Even though it meant that they would be apart for a while, she was genuinely pleased on his behalf. She knew from experience just how depressing it was for Nicholas Bracewell when the company had a lengthy period of unemployment.

‘These are good tidings, Nick,’ she said happily. ‘A new apprentice, a new play and a new venue. Fortune is smiling on you at last.’

‘Thank heaven!’ he sighed.

‘But it’s a pity that you had the apprentice and the play forced upon you.’

‘Not necessarily, Anne. Both may turn out to be prime assets to the company. Davy Stratton has enormous promise and
The Witch of Colchester,
as it is now entitled, has won everyone’s approval. When he read the part assigned to him, even Barnaby Gill was overjoyed and he’s the most difficult person to satisfy.’

‘What does he think of the new boy?’

Nicholas arched an eyebrow. ‘Need you ask?’

‘Keep him well clear of the lad,’ she counselled. ‘As an actor, Barnaby Gill is a genius; as a man, he has serious shortcomings.’

‘That’s a discreet way of putting it, Anne,’ he said with a smile. ‘But have no fear. There are enough friendly eyes to watch over Davy Stratton. Besides, the other apprentices will soon warn him. They know Master Gill of old.’

Nicholas was having breakfast with her at the house in Bankside where he lodged. Anne Hendrik was no typical landlady. The English widow of a Dutch hat maker, she took charge of the business after his death and ran it with great efficiency in the premises adjoining her house. Anne had taken a lodger in the interests of security rather than from financial necessity. Nicholas Bracewell proved an ideal choice. Considerate and reliable, he became her close friend and, in due course, her lover. They had drifted apart at one stage but, reunited again, found that the bond between them was stronger than ever.

‘When will you leave for Essex?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘The company will not set out then,’ he explained, finishing his drink. ‘I’m being sent on ahead to take a look at the house where we’ll perform. Measurements have to be taken, decisions made. Sir Michael Greenleaf has invited us to play in the Great Hall of his home but, until we actually see the place, it’s impossible to know how to make best use of it. We’ve no idea, for instance, what scenery we should take.’

‘I hope that you’re not going alone,’ she said with concern. ‘A solitary rider would be a certain target for robbers.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, Anne. Winter has put paid to most highwaymen. It’s far too cold to lurk among the trees in case a traveller rides past. In any case, I’ll not be on my own. Owen Elias has volunteered to come with me. If we should meet trouble, there’s nobody in the company more skilled with a sword than Owen.’

‘Except their book holder.’

‘That was one more advantage of sailing with Drake,’ he said, wistfully. We were drilled in the use of weapons of all kinds. And the voyage itself toughened us beyond measure. Only the most robust managed to survive.’

Anne touched his hand softly. ‘I’m glad that you were one of them.’

‘So am I.’

Their eyes locked as mutual affection surged but the moment soon passed. The maidservant came in to clear the table. Anne withdrew her hand and sat upright. She waited until the girl had gone before she spoke again.

‘It will be a cold journey for you, Nick.’

‘Not with that new hat you kindly made for me,’ he said. ‘When I’m wearing that, I feel snug and warm. Then there’s the cloak that Lawrence Firethorn gave me.’

‘It suits you.’

‘He used it in dozens of plays until it faded and wore thin. Our tireman, Hugh Wegges, sewed on a patch or two for me and the cloak is as good as new.’

‘You should have let me use my needle on it.’

‘No, Anne. You do enough for me as it is.’

‘I wish that I could do more.’

‘Thank you.’

He reached across the table to squeeze her hand in gratitude. The maidservant entered again to disturb a tender moment. She was carrying a few logs. When she had put them on the fire, she went out again.

‘You’ll have to train that girl better,’ said Nicholas with a grin.

‘The house has to be kept warm.’

‘It’s always warm when you are in it, Anne.’

She acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said.

‘And I’ll miss you,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry that we’ll be separated for a while. On the other hand, I’m glad that Westfield’s Men will at last have employment. It irks me when we are forced to stand idle.’

‘Nobody could accuse you of being idle, Nick. You’ve found a hundred things to keep you occupied during this long wait and I’ve been the beneficiary. Think of all the repairs you made to the house.’

‘I prefer to think of those who are not so well placed, Anne. Hired men like Ned Rankin or Caleb Smythe or little George Dart. They’ve suffered mightily. Then there’s old Thomas Skillen, our stagekeeper. I’m not even sure if he’s made it through the winter. Peter Digby and his musicians have had a desperate time as well.’

‘What of the sharers themselves?’

‘Most have other professions to fall back on, Anne. Walter Fenby, for example, was a silversmith before he
turned to the theatre. Rowland Carr was a scrivener. Actors of the stature of Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill, of course, are always in demand for solo performances at private houses so they’ve still had an income of sorts.’

‘What of Edmund Hoode?’

‘Poems and epitaphs.’

‘Epitaphs?’ she echoed.

‘Winter has filled the graveyards,’ he sighed. ‘Both the nobility and the gentry like to send their loved ones off to heaven with an epitaph written especially for them. Edmund has a gift for penning such memorials. It grieves him that he profits from others’ misfortune but even poets must eat.’

‘It’s good, honest, important work.’

‘Not in Edmund’s eyes. He thinks himself a vulture, feeding off the dead.’

‘How many of the company will travel to Essex?’

‘A goodly number,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘That’s my office this morning. To find each one of them and spread the welcome news. Rehearsals begin tomorrow in earnest.’

‘What plays will you take?’

‘That’s still to be decided, Anne. We’re having the usual complaints from Master Gill who wants the whole repertoire to be built squarely around him. The one certain piece is the new one that Sir Michael Greenleaf requested.’

‘The Witch of Colchester.’

‘That’s it. Our first play by Egidius Pye. Not that it’s in a fit state for performance as yet. Edmund has a number of improvements to make.’

‘Will the author permit radical changes to his work?’

‘Gladly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve never met a more obliging fellow. Master Pye raised no objection. Edmund is to call on him this very day. They’ll need to work fast.’

‘What manner of man is Master Pye?’

‘An unusual one.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ he admitted. ‘He was so unlike the person I imagined when I read his play that I began to doubt it was indeed his work. But it certainly is.’

‘How will Edmund get on with him?’

Nicholas thought of the strange creature he had met in the Middle Temple.

‘I think he’ll find Egidius Pye an object of profound interest,’ he said.

‘Come in, dear sir,’ said Egidius Pye, motioning him into the room. ‘This is an honour.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Edmund Hoode, stepping in out of the cold. ‘It’s good to make your acquaintance, Master Pye.’

‘Shall I take your cloak and hat?’

‘Thank you.’

Removing both, Hoode handed them to his host and immediately regretted doing so. The room was only marginally warmer than the street outside, its little fire issuing puffs of black smoke into the room but no discernible heat. Pye laid the cloak and hat on the table before waving his guest to the chair beside the grate. He perched precariously on the stool opposite Hoode. The
lawyer’s eye fell on the sheaves of parchment in his hand.

‘I see that you’ve brought my play, Master Hoode.’

‘Along with my congratulations, sir.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘It’s a clever piece of theatre.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ said the other effusively as if his life had just been saved by the intercession of a brave stranger. ‘Praise from you is praise indeed. This calls for a celebration,’ he decided, getting slowly to his feet and lumbering towards the door. ‘Excuse me for one moment.’

He left the room and gave his visitor time to take his bearings. Edmund Hoode looked around with macabre fascination. The place was even more soiled and disorderly than Nicholas Bracewell had led him to expect. Plates of discarded food stood in the most unlikely places and the floor was awash with bundles of documents. Thick dust lay everywhere while spiders frolicked openly in their webs. Hoode wondered how the lawyer could work effectively amid such chaos. It was minutes before Pye returned. When he did so, he was carrying a pitcher of wine and two goblets.

‘Allow me to offer you some of this,’ he said, placing the goblets on the table so that he could pour the liquid into them. ‘It has an excellent taste and was a present from a grateful client.’

‘I trust that she was not a witch,’ observed Hoode, attempting a little humour. ‘I’ve never been fond of dark potions made from obscene ingredients.’

Pye let out a cackle. ‘Bless you, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘This
is no witch’s brew. You’ll find nothing more troubling in it than a frog’s eye and a slice of rat’s liver.’ He saw the look of disgust on Hoode’s face. ‘I jest, sir, I jest,’ he promised, handing one of the goblets to him. ‘As you see, it’s Canary wine of the finest vintage.’

‘Then I raise my cup in a toast to you, Master Pye.’ After lifting the goblet in the air, he sipped the wine. ‘Most pleasing to the palate.’

Pye resumed his seat. ‘I’m more concerned that the play is to your taste,’ he said with an unctuous smile. ‘It does not pretend to the quality of your own work, of course, but I like to think that it’s not without merit.’

‘Merit and true worth.’

‘Is that the general opinion?’

‘Barnaby Gill likes it and Lawrence Firethorn but a keener critic is the man you’ve already met. Nicholas Bracewell has sounder judgement than the lot of us. If he believes that a play will work on stage, it invariably does.’

‘It was a pleasure to meet him.’

‘Nick is the person who recommended
The Witch of Rochester,’
explained Hoode. ‘He’s also responsible for the notion of shifting the location to Essex so that it will have a deeper resonance for our audience.’

‘I owe him my undying thanks.’

‘You’ll have far more cause to be grateful to Nick Bracewell before we’re done. The play calls for a number of effects that only he could devise.’ He sat back to appraise his host. ‘What made you write it in the first place?’

‘It wrote itself, Master Hoode.’

‘That’s what I sometimes say but I know the truth of it.
Plays are like houses. They have to be constructed brick by patient brick. Imagination may design the shape of the house but much hard labour goes into its erection.’

‘It didn’t seem like labour at the time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because witchcraft is a subject dear to my heart.’

‘An uncommon interest for a lawyer.’

‘I’m no lawyer,’ retorted the other with sudden vehemence before gulping down some of his wine. ‘I came into the law out of loyalty to my father rather than through natural inclination. It has vexed me ever since. Do you know how many of us there are, Master Hoode?’

‘Too many, I suspect.’

‘When my father entered the Middle Temple, barely fifty men a year were called to the bar. That figure is now past four hundred. As for attorneys, those who practice in the two common-law courts, their numbers have increased almost as dramatically. Two hundred or so could be counted in my father’s day. And now?’

‘Five hundred?’ guessed Hoode.

‘Well over a thousand. The city is being overrun with lawyers. They breed like flies and are just as bothersome. Please don’t number me among them, sir. I’ve grown to detest my colleagues for their hideous uniformity.’

‘Uniformity?’

‘When a lawyer breaks wind, he smells the same as all the others.’

The vulgarity of the remark made Hoode blink in astonishment. Egidius Pye looked too prim and polite to venture such a comment. He was an odd character. Hoode
had been warned that it was not easy to take to the man and he could now understand why. Apart from his physical peculiarities, Pye had a disconcerting manner and breath that smelt in equal parts of vinegar, onions and rancid cheese. The man’s bachelor status was self-evident. No woman would let him near her. Working with him would not be without its drawbacks. After another sip of wine, Hoode tapped the play in his lap.

‘We need to discuss this, Master Pye.’

‘I’m all ears, sir,’ said the other seriously.

‘The plot is good, the characters engaging and the thrust of the piece well judged. There is, however, space for considerable improvement.’

‘Show me where it is, Master Hoode.’

‘I will but, before we tinker with what is already there, let’s first talk about what is not. Supplying the play’s deficiencies must be our initial task.’

‘Please list them.’

‘First, we need a Prologue, a speech of twenty lines or so that both explains what is to follow and gives the flavour of the piece.’

‘It shall be done,’ agreed the other.

‘I’ll help you with it, Master Pye,’ offered the other. ‘That done, we need to introduce more songs into the action. We have the witch’s chants, I grant you, but they are hardly music. Softer sounds are required to lull and delight our audience. I’ve marked the places where such songs could be used. We’ve fine musicians and good singers in the company. Let’s employ them to the full.’

‘Willingly, sir. What else?’

‘Dances. Barnaby Gill will take the role of Doctor Putrid and he never steps upon a stage unless he can dance a jig or two. If we don’t set them down, he’ll put them in
extempore
. Master Gill, I fear, has a wayward streak,’ cautioned Hoode. ‘It’s best to make allowances for his eccentricities.’