The Devil's Apprentice (6 page)

‘Now, Davy!’ he ordered. ‘Ride on!’

The pony scurried off at once and was safely over the crest of the hill before the outlaws emerged from their hiding places. There were four of them, all on foot, all armed with swords or spears. As Nicholas and Elias approached, a pair of sturdy robbers ran at each of them. One man tried to grab the reins of a horse while the other struck at its rider with his weapon. It was a forlorn exercise. Anticipating the ambush, both riders had their swords out in a flash, parrying the attack and inflicting sufficient wounds to leave their adversaries howling in anguish. The two men who attempted to seize the reins fared no better. Instead of dealing with the gentle gait of two horses, they were buffeted by animals that had been spurred into a fierce plunge of speed. One man was knocked to the ground by the impact. The other, who sustained a glancing blow from the horse, also received a hard kick under the jaw from Elias’s foot that sent him cartwheeling along the grass verge. As the riders vanished down the other side of the hill,
four dazed men were left to lick their wounds and meditate on the folly of their action.

The travellers cantered for a couple of miles until they were certain that they were not followed. When they slowed to a trot, Davy wanted to know what had happened.

‘Were they robbers?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

‘They thought they were,’ said Elias, grinning broadly. ‘But they met their match in us, didn’t they, Nick?’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Diu! That was wonderful. I needed a bit of excitement like that.’

‘How many of them were there?’ said Davy.

‘A dozen at least.’

‘Four,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘We caught a glimpse of one of them in advance.’

Elias chortled. ‘It was probably the one I kicked under the chin,’ he decided. ‘I must have loosened every tooth in his head.’

‘Weren’t you frightened?’

‘Of four foolish outlaws? Never, Davy.’

‘Desperate men do desperate things,’ said Nicholas. ‘And they must have been desperate to be skulking on top of that hill in this weather. They’ll have poor pickings today.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Thanks for your help, Owen. I’m very grateful that you came with me.’

‘So am I,’ said the Welshman. ‘I thrive on action.’

‘When I rode to London with my father,’ volunteered Davy, ‘we travelled in a large group. There were well over twenty of us.’

‘That’s the safest way,’ said Nicholas.

‘But you miss out on all the fun,’ complained Elias.

Another hour brought them within reach of their destination. Davy Stratton grew increasingly nervous, glancing around with apprehension. When they came to a fork in the road, he called them to a halt and pointed ahead.

‘That’s the long way round to Silvermere,’ he explained. ‘It would take us past Holly Lodge in a great loop. If we strike off through the forest, we can reach Silvermere in half the time.’

‘But we’d miss seeing your home,’ said Nicholas.

‘It’s of no account to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘This is the way I want to go.’

‘Then lead on.’

The track through the forest was so narrow that they were forced to ride in single file as they wended their way through the looming oaks and elms. Davy kept up a brisk trot, picking his way along with the confidence of someone who was very familiar with the surroundings. When they entered a clearing, it was Elias’s turn to bring them to a halt.

‘Hold there!’ he called. ‘I need to look upon the hedge.’

‘You drank too much ale at that inn,’ observed Nicholas.

‘I could never do that, Nick.’

Elias dismounted and went behind a tree to relieve himself. Nicholas took the opportunity to get down from his own horse in order to stretch his legs. A snuffling noise made him turn around and walk towards a clump of bushes, one hand on the hilt of his sword. When he got within a few yards, there was a sudden squeal and a pig scuttled out
from behind the bushes. Nicholas relaxed and watched the animal until it disappeared among the trees in search of food. He swung round to stroll back to his horse but was met with a shock. Davy Stratton had vanished. There was no sign of the boy or the pony. Tying his points, Elias came ambling out from behind the tree.

‘Where’s the lad?’ he enquired.

‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Nicholas, looking anxiously around.

‘Perhaps he’s gone off to spray the side of tree, as I did.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Didn’t you see him go?’

‘My back was turned.’

‘Davy!’ yelled Elias. ‘Davy, where are you?’

His voice echoed through the forest, its sheer volume evicting two birds from a high branch. There was no answer. A grim silence descended.

‘Davy!’ shouted Nicholas, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Davy!’

There was still no response. Elias scratched his head and gave a shrug.

‘He must have wandered off when you weren’t looking, Nick,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Davy didn’t wander off,’ said Nicholas. ‘He deliberately ran away.’

It took them some time to find their way back to the fork in the road. Deciding that a search would be futile, Nicholas
instead suggested that they make for Holly Lodge, the boy’s home and therefore his most likely destination. The wider track allowed them to ride side by side at a canter.

‘I think he may have had second thoughts,’ said Elias.

‘About what?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Life in the theatre. Underneath that puny exterior, Davy Stratton is a red-blooded young man. He’s insulted by the idea of dressing up as a woman. I would be.’

‘That’s no reason to abandon us like that, Owen.’

‘Maybe he was just playing a game with us.’

‘He is,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it’s a deeper one than I thought. Now I realise why he was so eager to act as our guide. It offered him a chance of escape.’

‘From what?’

‘From us, from the company, from London itself.’

‘Why was he so keen to join us in the first place?’

‘I’m not convinced that he was. His father made that decision.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘That remains a mystery.’

They were both relieved when the house eventually came into sight. Holly Lodge was a large, sprawling, timber-framed house with a thatched roof. Smoke curled up from its chimneys. A brick wall and a clutch of outbuildings gave it protection from the wind on one side. They rode up a drive that bisected the formal garden and dismounted. A servant admitted them into a draughty hall before going to fetch his master. It was not long before the portly figure of Jerome Stratton came strutting across the oak boards. Nicholas exchanged
greetings with him then introduced Owen Elias.

‘I did not expect visitors,’ said Stratton brusquely, ‘so I’m not at liberty to entertain you, I fear. You are on your way to Silvermere, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘It is not too far distant. My servant will teach you the way.’

‘We already have a guide, Master Stratton. At least, we did until we lost him in the forest. We wondered if he had come back here.’

‘Of course not. Why on earth should he come to Holly Lodge?’

‘Because our pathfinder was your son.’

Stratton was astonished. ‘Davy?’

‘He insisted on coming with us,’ said Elias. ‘We thought he was homesick.’

‘I doubt that,’ growled Stratton. ‘You lost him in the forest, you say?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘The truth is that he gave us the slip.’

He explained the circumstances of the boy’s disappearance and saw Jerome Stratton’s irritation turn to anger. When he was in Shoreditch, the merchant was relentlessly good-natured. The affable manner was now hidden beneath a smouldering rage. He tightened both fists and glared at his guests.

‘You let him get away from you?’ he demanded.

‘We had no reason to suppose he wanted to go,’ said Nicholas.

‘It could be that he simply went astray,’ suggested Elias.

Stratton was bitter. ‘No question of that, sir! I own that forest and use it to supply timber. Davy often went there. He played with friends among the trees and loved to watch the woodcutters at work. He didn’t go astray,’ he emphasised. ‘Davy knows that forest better than anyone. He ran off.’

‘Why?’ said Elias.

‘That’s what I intend to find out.’

‘Where could he have gone?’

‘Not to Holly Lodge, that’s for sure.’

‘But this is his home, Master Stratton.’

‘He’s an apprentice with Westfield’s Men now,’ retorted the other. ‘When you have the sense to keep hold of him. Why did you let him go, you idiots?’

The Welshmen tensed and Nicholas stepped in before Elias lost his temper.

‘We’re as sorry as you are, Master Stratton,’ he said evenly, ‘and we’ll do all we can to retrieve the boy. When someone expresses a desire to join the company, it never occurs to us that he will take flight at the earliest opportunity. And if you really take us to be idiots, you should not have entrusted your son to us.’

‘No,’ added Elias testily. ‘We were ambushed on the road and saved Davy’s life. If that be idiocy, then have the pair of us locked up in Bedlam.’

‘I spoke too hastily,’ said Stratton, eyes darting as his mind grappled with the problem. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. This is sorry news but it’s wrong to blame it on you.’

‘Perhaps Davy is not suited to the theatre,’ said Nicholas, probing gently.

‘He is, he is. The lad spoke of nothing else.’

‘Who first put the notion into his head?’

‘I did, of course.’

‘Even though it meant that he would leave home?’

‘Davy’s a restless boy. He wanted to spread his wings.’

‘Was your wife equally ready to lose a son?’

Stratton coloured slightly and he gritted his teeth. ‘My dear wife passed away last autumn,’ he said. ‘Were she here, she would have wanted for Davy exactly what I want.’

‘Then it was your decision to have him indentured?’

‘It was a decision my son and I reached together.’

Elias was blunt. ‘Why has the little devil gone back on it?’

It took Stratton a few moments to rein in his anger. Summoning up his last reserves of bonhomie, he gave a flabby smile and crossed to open the front door.

‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ he said cheerily. ‘I am indebted to you both. But this is a domestic matter and I’ll resolve it as quickly as possible.’

‘But we’re concerned for Davy,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We’d hate any harm to come to the lad. Although he deserves a box on the ear for the way he left us stranded in the middle of the forest. We need the imp back, if only to guide us home to London.’

‘You shall have him back,’ Stratton assured him.

‘Then you know where he is?’

‘Forget about Davy. Ride on to Silvermere to meet Sir Michael. I daresay you have come to see the Great Hall before you play in it. Discharge the duty that brought you to Essex in the first place, gentlemen. Sir Michael will be expecting you,’ he continued, opening the door even wider.
‘I bid you farewell. Continue on the road and you cannot miss the house.’

The visitors traded a look then went out past him. Nicholas turned back.

‘What about Davy?’ he asked.

‘I’ll find him for you,’ said Stratton.

‘Where?’

‘That’s my business, sir.’

And he closed the door firmly in their faces.

Silvermere lived up to its name. Standing at the very heart of the Greenleaf estate, it was a vast house built of a light-coloured brick that took on a silver hue in the afternoon sun. Visitors first had to skirt the kidney-shaped lake that fronted it, an expanse of water that added to the beauty of the property and acted as a kind of moat. Fringed by reeds and frozen solid, the lake was a silver mirror in which Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias could see their reflections as they rode around its edge. It had a fairy tale sheen to it. They were pleased to observe that someone had cleared away the ice at the far end to give the wildfowl access to the water. Two ducks paddled their way bravely across their depleted habitat. A large black swan waddled uncertainly down the bank towards the water.

The house itself made Holly Lodge look modest by comparison. Its central feature was a high turreted
gate-tower that rose up defiantly and gave the place the fleeting appearance of a castle. Wings stretched out on either side then turned back to form a courtyard at the rear. Silvermere comprised a Great Hall, a small dining parlour, a chapel, family apartments, guests’ lodgings, steward’s lodgings, porter’s quarters, servants’ quarters, great kitchens, brew house, bake house, larders and cellars. The stable block stood off to the right of the property, linked to a series of outbuildings and a few small cottages. Out of sight at the back of the house was a walled garden with a small pond and a collection of statuary that was covered in moss and pitted with age. There was no hint of timber or thatch in the exterior of Silvermere. Brick and slate predominated.

‘Look at the size of those chimneys!’ said Elias, gaping. ‘They’re enormous.’

‘All the better to warm up the house, Owen.’

‘How many servants would you need to run a place like this?’

‘None,’ said Nicholas, ‘for I’d never covet such a home.’

‘I would. I’d invite the entire population of Wales to stay with me and still have a few rooms left empty. It’ll be a positive joy to perform our work here. Silvermere puts the Queen’s Head in the shade.’

‘Don’t you miss our friendly landlord?’

‘Yes!’ said Elias with feeling. ‘I miss Alexander Marwood with pleasure.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘I fancy that we’ll have a kinder reception here.’

‘I hope that it’s kinder than the one we had at Holly
Lodge. If he has a father like Jerome Stratton, I’m not surprised that Davy took to his heels.’

‘But he ran away from
us,
Owen.’

‘I know and I can’t understand why.’

‘You frightened him off by threatening to kiss him on stage,’ teased Nicholas.

‘Where on earth could he have gone?’

‘His father knows.’

‘Does he?’

‘Yes. I saw it in his eyes.’

When they dismounted at the front entrance, an ostler came to lead their horses off to the stables. A servant admitted them and took their cloaks and hats. The visitors then found themselves confronted by the household steward. Romball Taylard was a tall, stately man in his early forties with an impassively handsome face and watchful eyes. Black hair rose in curls from the high forehead and the beard was meticulously trimmed. Taylard was so immaculately dressed and exuded such an air of quiet confidence that he seemed more like an occupant of the house than someone who was merely employed there. After introducing himself and his companion, Nicholas explained why they had come and asked if they could meet Sir Michael Greenleaf. The steward’s voice was deep and melodious.

‘That will not be possible at the moment, sir,’ he said.

‘Is Sir Michael not at home?’ enquired Nicholas.

‘He’s otherwise engaged. You’ll have to wait until he’s finished. Sir Michael will brook no interruption when he’s working on one of his experiments.’

‘Experiments?’ repeated Elias. ‘Of what kind?’

‘A private nature.’

Taylard managed to make a polite reply sound like a rebuff. Elias smarted under the man’s searching gaze and bit back the sarcastic remark he felt impelled to make. Nicholas, too, caught the faint whiff of disapproval that emanated from the steward. Whoever had conceived the idea of inviting Westfield’s Men to perform at the house, it had evidently not been Romball Taylard but, since they would need to work closely with the man, Nicholas made an effort to win him over.

‘You have a magnificent house here,’ he noted. ‘I suspect that you run it with commendable efficiency.’

‘It’s a huge undertaking,’ said Taylard, grandly. ‘I strive to serve.’

‘We’d be grateful for your help and advice.’

‘Call on me whenever you wish.’

‘We’ll do that immediately,’ said Elias, tiring of the man’s disdain. ‘Show us to the Great Hall, if you will. Nick and I can take stock of it while we wait for your master to finish this experiment of a private nature.’

‘I’m not at liberty to do so,’ replied the steward loftily.

‘Why not?’

‘Sir Michael does not allow complete strangers to wander about his house.’

‘But we’re not strangers,’ argued Nicholas, using a more reasonable tone than Elias. ‘We’re here at the direct invitation of Sir Michael himself. If you won’t conduct us to the Great Hall, can you at least tell us where the company will be housed during our stay in Essex?’

‘Not in Silvermere itself,’ said Taylard crisply. ‘We’ll
have guests enough in here when the time comes. The players will have to be lodged elsewhere.’

‘Players?’ echoed a voice. ‘Did I hear mention of the players?’

They turned to see an elegant woman of middle years, smiling graciously and descending the staircase in a dress of almost regal splendour. Lady Eleanor Greenleaf may have lost some of her beauty but she had retained all of her poise and charm. When the steward introduced the visitors to her, Nicholas gave a polite nod and Owen Elias produced the extravagant bow he reserved for audiences at the end of a play. The Welshman discovered that he had an admirer.

‘Owen Elias!’ cooed Lady Eleanor. ‘Of course! I recognise you now. I’ve seen you many a time at the Queen’s Head. And I once watched you perform at Lord Westfield’s house. You played in
The Corrupt Bargain,
did you not?’

‘I did, indeed, Lady Eleanor,’ said Elias, glowing with delight.

‘Excellently well, as I recall.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

‘But I liked you best in
Love’s Sacrifice.
The piece moved me to tears. Shall we have that played here when you come to entertain us?’

‘That’s something I have to discuss with Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need your husband’s approval before we make our final choice.’

‘Oh, he’ll be no help to you,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘I’m the playgoer in the family, not my husband. He only likes the theatre. I adore it. All that he insists is that you give one play its first performance within these walls.’ She
turned to the steward. ‘Why keep the visitors waiting, Romball?’ she asked. ‘Please fetch Sir Michael.’

‘He’s involved with his experiment, Lady Eleanor,’ he warned.

‘Then prise him away from it and tell him to come at once.’

‘Yes, Lady Eleanor.’

After inclining his head slightly, Taylard went off into the recesses of the house, moving at a dignified pace and managing to convey both obedience and mild censure. Lady Eleanor ignored him, crossing instead to the south wing to stand before a pair of double doors with ornate brass handles that gleamed as if polished only a second before.

‘I daresay that you would like to view the Great Hall,’ she said.

‘If we may, Lady Eleanor,’ said Nicholas courteously.

‘Then here it is.’

Taking hold of the two handles, she flung open the doors and strode into the room as if making an entrance on stage. Nicholas and Elias went after her, pleased to have exchanged a haughty steward for the benevolent lady of the house. Moving to the middle of the Great Hall, she spread her arms and pirouetted on her toes.

‘This is your playhouse, sirs,’ she declared. ‘Will it serve?’

‘Extremely well,’ replied Nicholas.

Elias nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’ll be a joy to perform in here.’

‘That’s why I urged my husband to invite you,’ she said.

As soon as they entered, Nicholas knew that the place
could be easily adapted for their purposes. The major decision of where to set their stage made itself. The Great Hall was a long rectangular room with oak panelling on the walls and a high ceiling that was supported by a series of beams into which the Greenleaf coat of arms had been expertly carved. At the far end was a minstrels’ gallery where the company’s musicians could sit and which could also be used for certain scenes in the plays. Curtains could be hung from the balustrade. Doors at either end of the wall beneath the gallery made it the ideal place of entry. Enough light streamed in through tall windows to make afternoon performance feasible without any additional illumination. Candelabra would be needed if a play were requested for an evening show.

‘Well?’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘We’ve never had a finer playhouse,’ complimented Nicholas.

‘It does not match The Rose.’

‘It surpasses it,’ said Elias with gallantry. ‘When we play at The Rose, we have to endure the vulgar manners of the Bankside spectators and the foul breaths of the ruffians who fill the pit. Here we perform to a select audience in conditions that any actor would envy. When I die and go to heaven, Lady Eleanor,’ he said with a dramatic gesture, ‘this is what I expect to find.’

‘I trust that you’ll favour us with your presence before you go,’ she said.

Elias gave a chuckle and strode around the room to get a feel of it. Nicholas was measuring the place with his eye, arranging the seating, wondering how high the stage
needed to be built and envisaging how scenery could best be employed. Lady Eleanor looked on with a contented smile as the two of them explored the space in which they were to present their six plays. Both men were patently well satisfied. They met beneath the gallery to have a silent conversation but it was short lived.

A loud explosion suddenly went off somewhere close by and the floor seemed to shake. Elias reacted with a yelp of surprise and Nicholas looked around in bewilderment. Lady Eleanor remained as serene and imperturbable as ever.

‘That will be my husband,’ she said sweetly. ‘His experiment is completed.’

Close confinement with Egidius Pye was not something that Edmund Hoode either sought or relished but, in the interests of Westfield’s Men, he endured it manfully. It was not merely the lawyer’s bad breath and irritating manner that made him an unlovely companion. Pye also revealed a passion for debate that slowed down the creative process until it almost came to a halt. Acceding to all of Hoode’s suggestions, the novice author nevertheless insisted on arguing over each new line that was inserted, finding at least a dozen variations of it before reaching a conclusion. Hoode’s career as a playwright had been long and testing. He had never been allowed the luxury of time to reflect and refine. Plots had to be devised within a strict time limit. Characters had to spring instantly into life, verse had to flow like a fountain. Last minute changes had to be accommodated. It was, in every sense, drama on the hoof. Pairing a comparative beginner with a practical man
of the theatre only served to widen the gulf between them. Hoode did his best to stave off exasperation. After another interminable quarrel, he sat back in his chair.

‘We must strive to work more quickly, Master Pye,’ he sighed.

‘Speed is the enemy of felicity.’

‘I’d sooner be infelicitous than late with the delivery of a play. Whatever we write, it will probably be amended in rehearsal. Leave room for the actors to act. You must not expect to make all their decisions for them.’

Pye was horrified. ‘Won’t they speak the lines we set down for them?’

‘To a certain degree.’

‘But I laboured so hard over the piece.’

‘It’s still a play,’ Hoode reminded him, ‘and not Holy Writ.’

‘But it took me well over a year to write it.’

Another sigh. ‘I feel that we’ve already spent as long trying to improve it.’

‘To good effect, Master Hoode.’

‘More or less.’

‘Shall we move on to the next scene?’ asked the lawyer eagerly.

Hoode raised a palm. ‘No, Master Pye. I think not. We’ve gone as far as we decently can today. Let’s start again in the morning and see if we can’t at least break into a respectable trot.’ He got up from the table. ‘Let me show you out.’

After showering him with apologies and thanks, Pye put on the moth-eaten cloak and the floppy hat. He followed
his host out of the room and down the staircase. As the two men stepped out into the street, evening shadows were just beginning to fall. Hoode was blatantly anxious to send his visitor on his way. Before the lawyer could depart, however, a familiar figure bore down on them. Lawrence Firethorn’s voice boomed inimitably along the street.

‘Do I spy a brace of happy poets?’ he said, arriving to clap both men on the shoulders. ‘Well met, sirs.’ He stood back to look closely at Egidius Pye. ‘Every inch a playwright! Welcome to the company, Master Pye! We owe you thanks.’

‘It’s I who should express gratitude,’ said the lawyer, quivering nervously as if in the presence of royalty. ‘You have no peer as an actor, Master Firethorn.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘I’m glad that we agree on that point.’

‘When you step out upon a stage, it’s like Zeus descending from Mount Olympus to grace us with your genius. Oh, sir,’ he said obsequiously, ‘this is a signal honour. I’m quite lost for words.’

‘I wish you had been so inside my lodging!’ murmured Hoode.

Firethorn introduced himself properly, exchanged a few pleasantries with Pye then sent him on his way. He was always careful not to fraternise too much with a playwright until his work had proved itself in performance and he was, in any case, convinced that actors of his standing were naturally superior to the clever scribblers who provided their lines. Edmund Hoode, a competent actor as well as an author, was the exception to the rule, the only playwright whom Firethorn allowed close to him. He invited himself
into his friend’s lodging and the two of them were soon sharing a cup of wine. Hoode’s desperation was etched deeply into his brow.