The Devil's Apprentice (8 page)

‘No, Sir Michael,’ said Elias. ‘What is it?’

‘The Wizard of Silvermere.’

‘It suits you well.’

‘I like to think so,’ said Sir Michael, laughing gaily. ‘What a fateful meeting it will be. The Witch of Colchester and the Wizard of Silvermere. We were obviously made for each other. Everything is working to our satisfaction, Eleanor,’ he went on, taking her hand. ‘We have our new play and Westfield’s Men have a new theatre in which to perform – the Great Hall at Silvermere.’

‘They also have a new apprentice,’ she reminded him. ‘Davy Stratton.’

‘Ah, yes. Jerome’s boy. How is the lad settling in?’

Nicholas shifted his feet. ‘Not very well, to be honest, Sir Michael.’

‘Oh?’

‘We brought him with us because he knew the way to Silvermere.’

‘Then where is he now?’

‘We don’t know,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘Davy ran off.’

Light was fading badly now. As he rode his pony through the woods, Davy Stratton shivered in the cold wind and grew apprehensive. He was lost. It was dark among the trees and impossible for him to recognise the paths that should have dictated his way. He thought of turning back to start again but that would only lose valuable time and render the woodland even less hospitable. Strange noises began to assault his ear. His pony, too, was frightened, jerking its head in alarm at each new sound. Davy was having difficulty controlling his mount. It was imperative to get out of the wood as soon as possible and back on a track that he knew. He dug in his heels to call for more speed but his pony simply bucked in protest. A long, loud, anguished cry then came from the throat of a nearby animal, cutting through the undergrowth like a phantom scythe and making the boy shudder. The pony reared up in terror before bolting wildly. Davy clung on to the pommel with both hands.

It was all to no avail. As the pony galloped headlong through the bushes, the overhanging branch of a tree swept the boy from the saddle like a giant hand. Davy hit the
ground with a thump then rolled over. Winded by the fall and hurt by the sudden impact of the frozen earth, he needed a moment to recover. When he picked himself up with deliberate slowness, his body ached in a dozen places. The wood seemed darker and more threatening than ever now. There was no pony to take him out of it.

‘Hotspur!’ he bleated. ‘Come back here, Hotspur!’

But the pony was fifty yards away now. Davy could not even be sure in which direction it had gone. Walking gingerly, he set off down the path in front of him.

‘Hotspur!’ he called with more force. ‘Where are you, boy?’

The only reply came from the nameless animal whose first cry had made his pony bolt. Davy hobbled along as fast as he could, pausing only to pick up a long stick for protection. He was lost, alone and at the mercy of wild animals. Safety was a long way off now. He began to regret leaving Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias in the middle of the forest. With them beside him, he feared nothing. They were friends. They had even helped him to avoid an ambush. It hurt him to remember that he had let them down badly. This was his punishment for deserting them. It was no more than he deserved.

Davy steeled himself to be brave and pressed on, using the stick to push aside bushes or to support him across a ditch. He kept calling for his horse but with decreasing hope. When he stumbled into a clearing, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been there before and had simply travelled through the wood in a wide circle. It was galling. He rested against the trunk of an ash tree to
catch his breath and consider his next move. The animal let out a third cry but it was far more distant now. As the noise died away, it was replaced by a more welcome sound. Davy heard a faint neigh off to his left. Was it Hotspur? Had the pony come to a halt at last? His spirits revived. Pushing himself away from the tree, he set off in the direction of the neigh, ears pricked to catch any repetition of the sound. When it finally came, his hopes were confirmed. It was the distinctive neigh of his pony, waiting for him not far away. Davy broke into a run, blundering through the undergrowth as quickly as his aching legs would carry him.

He had not been deceived. Hotspur was under a tree, searching the ground for a morsel of grass. Davy burst into tears when he saw him and ran towards the pony but he never reached the animal. Two men leapt out of the bushes to grab him. One of them clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth to stifle his yell.

‘Come on, lad,’ he said grimly. ‘You’re going with us.’

Margery Firethorn gave her husband a warm embrace and stood back to appraise him.

‘I’ll miss you, Lawrence,’ she sighed.

‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my love.’

‘You always say that on the eve of departure.’

‘That’s because it’s always true, Margery,’ he said, tickling her under the chin with an index finger. ‘The longer I’m away from you, the more I appreciate you. It’s agony for me. Being apart from my dear wife for any length of time is like losing a limb.’

‘Is it?’ she said sceptically. ‘I know you better than that, Lawrence.’

He gave a roguish smile. ‘So I should hope.’

‘Marry an actor and you must suffer the consequences.’

‘Travel is forced upon us. We have to go where the work beckons.’

‘As long as your affections don’t wander while you’re away.’

‘Perish the thought!’

‘It would not be the first time you went astray.’

‘Why ever should I do that, my love?’ he said with an expression of injured innocence. ‘It’s madness. Why should I pick an occasional wild cherry when I have a basket of ripe strawberries waiting for me in my bed?’

‘Is that all I am?’ she teased. ‘Something sweet to pop into your mouth?’

‘No, Margery. You’re much, much more. Wife, mother, lover, partner and soul mate. I tell you this,’ he said impulsively, ‘if you didn’t have to look after the house and the children, I’d throw you over my shoulder and take you with us to Essex. Perhaps not,’ he added after a pause. ‘You’d only provoke the envy of the rest of the company and distract them from their work.’

‘Away with you!’ she said, giving him a playful push.

After a day’s rehearsal and a long talk with Edmund Hoode, Firethorn had returned to his house in Shoreditch. Enticing smells from the kitchen told him that Margery had a hot meal waiting for him and she herself was a welcoming sight. Their marriage had its tempestuous moments but they were always obliterated by the passion of their
reconciliations. Though his eye and hand might wander occasionally, Firethorn’s heart remained firmly with his beloved wife.

‘Is all well, Lawrence?’ she asked.

‘Exceptionally so.’

‘The company must be delighted to be called to arms again.’

‘Overjoyed, my love. We worked with true zeal. It’s been a day of pure delight. Apart from a little petulance from Edmund, that is.’

‘Edmund? That’s not like him. Petulance is one of Barnaby’s tricks.’

‘Barnaby was in a good mood for once. Thanks to Doctor Putrid.’

‘A strange name for a doctor. Has Barnaby been unwell?’

‘No, Margery,’ he explained. ‘Doctor Putrid is the character he’ll play in our new piece. A juicy role and one that cured Barnaby of his petulance. He’s thrilled with
The Witch of Colchester.
The same, alas, cannot be said of Edmund Hoode.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he has the task of burnishing the play for us.’

‘A simple chore for someone with Edmund’s skill.’

‘That’s what he thought until he met the author,’ said Firethorn with a mirthless laugh. ‘A skulking lawyer named Egidius Pye. I met him at Edmund’s lodging and wondered which mouse hole he’d crawled out from. Still, enough of him!’ he went on with a dismissive wave. ‘Pye is only a minor irritation at worst. I’ll slap him down.’

‘How large a company will you take to Essex?’

‘A round dozen in all.’

‘Does that include the musicians?’

‘Yes, Margery. I’ve had to be ruthless there and choose men who give me double value. Musicians who can act and actors who can play an instrument or two.’

‘That must have hurt the ones you turned away.’

He heaved a sigh. ‘It did but there’s no remedy for it. The invitation dictated the size of the troupe. Sir Michael Greenleaf cannot accommodate unlimited numbers.’

‘What about the apprentices?’

‘They’re additional to the twelve. Four boys only require one bed between them.’

‘Four?’ she said. ‘Does that mean Davy Stratton is to be left behind?’

‘I think not. John Tallis is the loser. He’s too gruff to take a woman’s role any more and too puny to play a man. I’ll leave him here to kick his heels.’

‘But he has far more experience than Davy.’

‘Granted,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his father will not be sitting in the audience at Silvermere, will he? We have to play politics, Margery. Like our own dear patron, Jerome Stratton is a friend of Sir Michael Greenleaf. We must humour him. He’ll want to see his son on the stage even if the lad only stands there for a second.’

‘You’ve had to make some harsh decisions, Lawrence,’ she observed.

He gave her his broadest smile. ‘I made the best decision when I married you, my love.’ He leant over to kiss her tenderly on the lips. ‘All else pales beside the wisdom of that choice.’

‘Does that mean I can have the new dress you promised?’

‘In time,’ he said, stepping back at once. ‘In time.’

‘And when will that be?’

His shrug was noncommittal. ‘Who can tell?’

‘You never change, Lawrence, do you?’ she said with a resigned laugh. ‘No matter for that. I love you as you are. Now, then. Are you hungry?’

‘Close to starvation.’

‘Go to the table and I’ll bring the meal into you.’

‘I smell beef and onions.’

‘And lots more beside. Now, off with you,’ she ordered, pushing him towards the dining room. ‘I’ve work to do in the kitchen. Call in the others and we’ll all eat together. I want to enjoy my family while I still have them all together.’

‘Not all, Margery.’

‘Who have I forgotten?’

‘The smallest and youngest. Davy Stratton. Don’t ask me to call him,’ he warned, moving away. ‘Even my voice won’t reach the depths of Essex.’

Margery bustled off to the kitchen to check the contents of the pot as it hung over the fire and to chide her servant for not putting more salt into it. Too eager to make amends, the girl tipped more salt than was necessary into the soup and was chastised roundly by her mistress. When Margery called for bread, the servant fetched it from the larder then took it into the dining room. It was some time before she returned to the kitchen. Annoyed by the delay, Margery swung round to scold her once more but the girl’s expression made her desist. Pale and trembling, the servant pointed to the door.

‘You’d best go at once,’ she stuttered.

‘Go where?’

‘To the dining room.’

‘We’ll be taking the food through in a moment.’

‘Master Firethorn needs you now,’ said the girl anxiously.

‘What are you talking about, girl?’ demanded Margery.

‘Your husband, Mistress Firethorn. He’s unwell.’

‘That’s nonsense. I saw him only a minute ago and he was a picture of health.’

‘Not any more,’ continued the girl. ‘He begged me to send you.’

‘Begged you? When he has a voice that could call me?’ She eased the servant aside and walked to the open door. ‘Lawrence!’ she yelled. ‘Did you send for me?’

The reply was so faint that she did not hear it at first. Hands on hips, she shot a stern glance at the girl then repeated her question even louder. This time his voice made itself heard from the dining room.

‘Come to me, Margery,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please!’

It was a cry for help and she answered it immediately, rushing out and charging into the dining room. The sight that awaited her made her gasp in dismay. Firethorn was seated in his customary place at the head of the table but he was not the robust husband who had flirted with her only minutes before. He was patently in distress. Arms on the table, he panted stertorously before being seized by a coughing fit that racked his whole body. Margery dashed forward to put an arm around him.

‘What is it, Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I don’t know, my love.’

‘When did this come on?’

‘The moment I sat down in here.’

‘Were there no signs of illness earlier in the day?’

‘None, Margery. I’ve never felt fitter.’

‘Was it something you ate? Something you drank?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Are you in pain?’ she said, kissing him softly. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘All over,’ he moaned.

He slumped forward and her alarm grew. She crouched in front of him, taking his head in her hands to hold it up so that she could take a close look at him. The change in Firethorn was dramatic. The strapping husband who had come bounding into the house earlier on was now a weak and troubled man. His eyes were dull, his mouth agape. The room was cold yet his face and beard were glistening with sweat. When Margery put a hand to his forehead, she drew it away in fear.

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re on fire, Lawrence. You have a fever.’

Nicholas Bracewell was pleased with their welcome at Silvermere. Their hosts could not have been more amenable. Sir Michael Greenleaf was kind, attentive and unfailingly obliging while his wife’s admiration for Westfield’s Men never faltered. They were such a gracious and engaging couple that Nicholas wondered how they had been befriended by their wayward patron. Lord Westfield’s cronies tended to be in his own mould, amiable sybarites, devotees of drink and gambling, idle aristocrats who hung around the Court in search of favour or who left it in flight from scandal. Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf did not conform to the usual pattern. Where Lord Westfield and his decadent entourage were invariably deep in debt, the Wizard of Silvermere was clearly a man of substance, able to fund continuous improvements to his estate as well as to pay for his expensive scientific interests. Yet he did not
flaunt his wealth. He dressed like one of his servants and behaved with a touching humility.

Owen Elias liked the man as much as Nicholas. Not only had their host provided Westfield’s Men with a worthy auditorium in his Great Hall, he gave the visitors a guided tour of the house, showed them his extensive arsenal, discussed the manufacture of his gunpowder and even offered to take them up to the top of the tower. The Welshman glanced through the window with misgivings.

‘It’s pitch dark out there, Sir Michael,’ he said.

‘Exactly, my friend. The stars will be out. Wouldn’t you like to come up on the roof to look through my telescope?’

‘No thank you. It’ll be freezing.’

‘What’s a little discomfort in the interests of astrology?’

‘It’s a kind offer, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, aware of the passage of time, ‘and I’ll be delighted to accept it on another occasion but we’ve already stayed longer than we intended. Master Stratton told us that Stapleford is only a mile away. Put us on the road to the village and we’ll seek lodging at the inn.’

‘Inn?’

‘I believe that it’s called The Shepherd and Shepherdess.’

‘But you’re going to stay here, Master Bracewell.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes,’ insisted Sir Michael. ‘I wouldn’t dream of turning you out. My wife and I will be your shepherd and shepherdess. A chambermaid is already preparing a room for you. When the whole company descends upon us, of course, you’ll have to make use of those little cottages set apart from the house, perhaps even of the outbuildings as
well. Tonight, however, the pair of you will lay your heads beneath the roof of Silvermere.’

‘That’s most generous of you, Sir Michael.’

‘We accept on one condition,’ said Elias.

‘Condition?’

‘Yes,’ added the Welshman with a grin. ‘Give us fair warning before you fire any cannon balls from the roof in the middle of the night.’

Sir Michael burst out laughing and clapped his hands to his side like young bird making its first clumsy attempts at flight. The three of them were alone in a room at the rear of the property that served its owner as library, laboratory and workshop all in one. Along the back wall, oak shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled to the last inch with hefty tomes and piles of documents. One vast table was covered with scientific instruments of every description while another looked more like a carpenter’s bench. The culverin was kept beside the furnace in the adjoining outhouse. Seeing it all by the light of candelabra, Nicholas was impressed. Sir Michael was no Egidius Pye. There was a sense of order and calculation in the room. It was also impeccably clean. The scientist looked after his possessions with great care. This was his private world where he sought, in his own small way, to push forward the frontiers of science.

There was a knock on the door and Romball Taylard entered. He looked almost sinister as he emerged from the shadows but his manner towards the visitors was more pleasant now that he knew that they would be staying overnight. With good news to pass on, he even contrived a smile.

‘Yes, Romball?’ asked his employer.

‘You have visitors, Sir Michael.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Master Stratton sends his apologies for calling so late.’

‘Oh, I see. It’s Jerome, is it? Well, he can come at any time he likes. Does he wants to speak to me or to Lady Eleanor.’

‘He’s really here to see your guests, Sir Michael,’ said the steward, glancing at the two of them. ‘Master Stratton has brought someone with him.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘His son.’

‘Davy?’ asked Nicholas, cheered by the tidings.

‘Where has the rascal been?’ said Elias.

Taylard smiled again. ‘Only Master Stratton will be able to tell you that.’

‘Then let’s go and find him at once,’ urged Sir Michael, leading the way.

The four of them went off down a long corridor that was lit at regular intervals by candelabra. Dancing flames threw their profiles against the walls as they passed and gave the house a ghostly quality. When the quartet came into the entrance hall, Jerome Stratton was standing beside a marble bust of Plato, holding his son by the hand and making an effort to appear relaxed. Davy Stratton, by contrast, was sullen and subdued, his face bearing some dark scratches and his attire torn and soiled. He did not look up as the others arrived. Taylard faded quickly into the background but stayed within earshot.

‘The prodigal son has returned,’ said Stratton with forced
geniality. ‘I’m sorry to intrude at this hour, Sir Michael, but I was hoping to catch your visitors before they went off to Stapleford.’

‘But they’re not going to the inn,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Surely they don’t mean to travel back to London at night?’

‘Of course not, Jerome. You must think us uncivilized even to suggest such a thing. We’d never turn out guests when we have twenty rooms or more unoccupied. They’ll be staying here until morning.’

‘I see,’ said Stratton, adjusting swiftly to the news. ‘In that case, I must request a favour, Sir Michael. Is it possible that you could find a corner where Davy might bed down as well?’

‘Need you even ask? The boy is more than welcome.’

‘Thank you.’ He nudged his son. ‘Davy?’

‘Thank you, Sir Michael,’ mumbled Davy without looking up.

‘Perhaps I might ask a favour as well, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Since Davy is to stay, is there any chance that he might share the room with Owen and me?’

‘A sensible notion,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Romball?’

The steward materialised out of the gloom. ‘Yes, Sir Michael?’

‘Speak to the chambermaid, will you?’

‘At once, Sir Michael.’

Taylard backed away again and went silently up the stairs. Nicholas knelt down in front of Davy to inspect his face and clothing. The boy looked up guiltily for a second then lowered his eyes again.

‘Those are nasty scratches you have, Davy,’ said Nicholas with sympathy. ‘And you’ve a bruise on your temple. How did you come by those?’

‘His pony bolted and he was thrown,’ explained Stratton before his son could open his mouth. ‘That’s why he didn’t hear you when you called for him in the forest. Hotspur – that’s his pony – took fright and bolted. Davy was knocked senseless when he hit the ground. By the time he recovered, you’d both ridden off.’

‘But the lad’s such a fine horseman,’ said Nicholas.

‘Hotspur caught him unawares.’

‘And us,’ said Elias. ‘One moment, Davy was there; the next, he was gone.’

‘Thrown from the saddle. He was still dazed when he tried to find Hotspur and stumbled into a holly bush. Hence the scratches on his face and the torn clothing. The bruise must have come from the fall.’ He put a gentle hand on the back of his son’s neck. ‘Davy doesn’t recall too much about it, do you, Davy?’

‘No, Father,’ said the boy dutifully.

‘He’ll be much better after a good night’s sleep,’ promised Stratton easily. ‘I apologise for bringing him to you in such a state but we were much nearer to Silvermere when the search party found him. My men say that he was running blind like a startled rabbit.’ He patted the boy on the head. ‘I’ll have fresh attire sent over first thing in the morning. We can’t have him riding back to London in that state.’

Nicholas was puzzled. If the father were so concerned about his son, he wondered why Stratton did not take the
boy back to Holly Lodge for the night. Word of his return could have been sent to Silvermere and Davy could have been reunited with his travelling companions the following morning. Nicholas also had grave suspicions about the account that Jerome Stratton had given of his son’s disappearance. A fall from the pony and a charge through woodland might have been responsible for his wounds and his dishevelled state but several hours had passed since Davy had vanished. Where had the boy been in the interim? Nicholas was surprised that someone who was supposed to know every path in the forest managed to get himself lost for such a long time. Many questions needed to be put to Davy but not in the presence of his father. As long as Jerome Stratton was there, Nicholas saw, the boy would not dare to tell the truth.

‘Well,’ said Sir Michael, ‘may we offer you refreshment, Jerome?’

‘I think not,’ said Stratton. ‘I have guests of my own at Holly Lodge and they’ll start to feel neglected if I stay away any longer. Thank you for taking Davy under your wing, Sir Michael. Though it grieves me to part with him,’ he added, giving the boy a token embrace, ‘I’ll abide by the terms of the contract. He belongs to Westfield’s Men now.’ His eyes glinted as they turned on Nicholas. ‘Please take better care of him this time. Davy is very precious to me.’

‘He’ll be safe in our hands, Master Stratton,’ promised Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We won’t let him out of our sight again.’

‘Make sure that you don’t,’ said Stratton sternly. His
tone softened. ‘I’m glad that you both came to Silvermere. Is the Great Hall to your liking?’

‘Completely so,’ replied Nicholas. ‘The company will be thrilled when they see where they will stage their work. We cannot thank Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor enough for their kind invitation.’

‘I had something to do with that,’ hinted Stratton. He looked at his son. ‘Well, Davy, we must part again. Ride your pony more carefully tomorrow and do exactly what you’re told. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father,’ murmured Davy.

‘I expect to hear good reports of you from now on.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘The next time I see you,’ he said with a smile, ‘will be on stage here in a play.’

It was not a prospect that lifted the boy’s spirits. He glanced up at his father with a respect that was tempered with fear. Nicholas took note of his response. After a flurry of farewells, Stratton moved off and Romball Taylard glided out of a dark corner to open the front door for him. Nobody had even heard the steward return. Stratton had a brief word with the man before going outside to his waiting horse. Closing the door, Taylard drifted quietly across to his master’s side to await further orders. Sir Michael raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Is everything in order, Romball?’

‘Yes, Sir Michael,’ said Taylard smoothly. ‘A meal awaits our guests when they are ready to eat it.’

‘I’m ready now,’ announced Elias, rubbing his stomach. ‘It seems an age since we last had any food. What about
you, Davy? I daresay that you’re famished as well.’

Davy lifted a weary head. Sir Michael produced an avuncular chuckle.

‘The lad is plainly tired and hungry,’ he said. ‘Who wouldn’t be after all the adventures he’s had today? A good meal and an early night are what I recommend. Take good care of them, Romball.’

‘I will, Sir Michael,’ said the steward.

After another exchange of farewells, he took the visitors off down a corridor.

Margery Firethorn sat on the edge of her chair. Racked with anxiety and unable to relax, she played nervously with the edge of her apron and gazed upwards at the low ceiling. In the bedchamber above, her husband lay in a desperate condition. She had never seen Firethorn in such a poorly state. It had taken three of them to help him to his bed and, after sending for the doctor, Margery had sat loyally beside the patient, soothing him with soft words and mopping his fevered brow with a wet cloth. Instructed by her mistress, the servant fed both the apprentices and the children of the house before packing them off to bed. Margery did not want them bothering her while Firethorn was in such distress. He needed all her attention. When the doctor finally arrived, he insisted on banning Margery from the bedchamber while he examined the sick man. The long wait below in the parlour was a trial.

Eventually, she heard footsteps on the stairs and jumped up from her seat. When the door creaked open, however, it was not the doctor who came into the room but the forlorn figure
of Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the apprentices. Clad only in a thin shirt, the boy was trembling with cold and blanched by unease. His soft features allowed him to impersonate a whole range of beautiful young women on stage but he was no gorgeous damsel or impassioned princess now. He was a frightened little boy with tousled fair hair, his face marred by crow’s feet of concern, his slender frame sagging with dismay. Before she could stop herself, Margery snapped at him with unnecessary harshness.

‘You should be in bed, Dick Honeydew!’

‘I know,’ he said, recoiling slightly but holding his ground.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘We’re very worried about Master Firethorn. We heard the doctor arrive. The others asked me to come down to see if there was any news.’

‘No, Dick,’ she admitted sadly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We prayed hard for him.’

Margery nodded. She was certain that he had included her husband in his prayers but was not persuaded that the other apprentices had done likewise. They were more unruly and less inclined to prayer until she stood over them. Knowing that she would be in a tense mood, they had sent Richard Honeydew down to make enquiries, sensing that she might berate anyone bold enough to venture out of their bed. Standing barefoot on the flagstones, the apprentice began to shiver more violently.

‘Come over here,’ said Margery, putting an arm around him to take him across to the fire. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold, lad.’