The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Nine

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.’

‘I have to take another burial service then.’

‘In that case,’ decided Sir Michael, ‘you’ll have to see The Happy Malcontent. It’s another boisterous comedy, I hear, and it will be certain to brighten up your day. It’s settled, Anthony. I’ll expect you here to sit beside me and watch the piece.’

‘When will it be performed, Sir Michael?’

‘On Sunday.’

Dyment’s legs almost melted beneath him.

Meals were served to the company in the main kitchen at Silvermere. The actors were encouraged to eat heartily and drink as much ale as they wished. Most of them rolled off to bed that night in a contented frame of mind. The rehearsal had been successful, the new play was taking shape and Lord Malady had survived intact. Pleased to have gone through the whole day without mishap, Lawrence Firethorn was nevertheless unhappy. As he sat with Nicholas Bracewell and Edmund Hoode over the vestiges of his meal, he had a different source of complaint.

‘We should have left Davy Stratton in Shoreditch,’ he said rancorously.

‘Margery wouldn’t have thanked you for that,’ said Hoode. ‘The lad caused enough trouble for ten apprentices when he was there.’

‘But look what he’s done since he’s been here, Edmund.’

‘Boyish high spirits,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘That’s not what I’d call them,’ growled Firethorn. ‘That jest with the bramble was only one of many. Did you know that he put damp straw in Martin’s bed last night and a handful of salt in Stephen’s drink this morning? Dick Honeydew is the only one who’s escaped his villainy. The boy needs to be soundly beaten.’

‘I shook him until his teeth rattled and warned him that we’d send him back to London if we have the slightest trouble out of him again. I don’t know what got into Davy today,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘That piece of bramble must have been agonising.’

‘We should have stripped the lad naked and thrown him into a bramble bush.’

‘That would’ve been too cruel, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘Nick did the right thing. He chastised Davy, made him apologise to Martin then watched him like a hawk for the rest of the day. Sending him off to bed early was a just punishment.’

‘Not in my eyes. Do you know what I think?’

‘What?’

‘I may have been wrong about The Witch of Colchester. Perhaps it’s not the play that’s bringing all this misery down on me.’

‘I’m certain that it isn’t,’ said Hoode.

‘Coincidence can’t be ignored, Edmund.’

‘But that’s all it is — pure coincidence.’

‘No, it isn’t. When did our problems start?’

‘When you sent Master Pye on his way,’ said Nicholas.

‘No, Nick,’ argued Firethorn. ‘They started the moment we took Davy Stratton into the company. He caused problems in my house, ran away from you in the forest, tried to escape again when you spent the night at Silvermere and is now up to his old tricks again. It’s not the play I should fear, it’s that little rascal.’

‘Make allowances for his age.’

‘Yes,’ said Hoode. ‘Davy is still finding his feet.’

Firethorn was bitter. ‘I’ll cut them from beneath him if we have any more of these antics. Davy Stratton is the reason that I’ve been struck down three times in a row. He’s been sent to torment me,’ he went on, pursuing the logic of his argument. ‘There’s malevolence in that boy, I sense it. I thought that he might be an asset to the company but he’s already indentured elsewhere.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nicholas.

‘He’s the Devil’s apprentice.’

Firethorn emptied his cup of ale and rose to his feet. Nicholas did not try to contradict him. Though he took a less critical view of Davy Stratton, he was troubled by the boy’s behaviour. Even after he had been expressly told not to tease Martin Yeo, the newcomer had played a nasty trick on him. Nicholas would brook no disobedience. He had given Davy such a severe reprimand that the boy had burst into tears, fearing that he would lose the friendship of the one person in Westfield’s Men he respected above all others. A partial reconciliation had been achieved between them but Nicholas still felt hurt and let down. He wondered why someone who had been so well-behaved a guest at Anne Hendrik’s house was now so obstreperous.

The three men left the main house and strolled across to the cottages in the darkness, guided by the candles that burnt in the windows ahead of them. After an exchange of farewells, Firethorn and Hoode went into the cottage they shared with Elias and Ingram. In the adjacent lodging, Nicholas had elected to look after two of the apprentices, Davy Stratton and Richard Honeydew, as well as George Dart. Rowland Carr and Walter Fenby, both sharers, were also under the same roof. The first thing that Nicholas did was to take a candle to make sure that the boys were safely asleep. Opening the door of their room, he was pleased to see both Davy and Honeydew slumbering quietly in the same bed. At their feet, talking to himself in his sleep, was the exhausted Dart. A sense of peace hung over the room. Looking down at his young companions, Nicholas gave a paternal smile.

Weary himself, he did not undress completely to get into the empty bed under the window. He feared reprisals. Martin Yeo would seek revenge on his own behalf as well as on that of his friend, John Tallis, and the best time to strike back at Davy was at night when the apprentice was off guard. Even the presence of Nicholas in the chamber would not stop someone with enough determination and Yeo certainly had that. When he went to bed, therefore, Nicholas remained half-dressed, leaving the shutters slightly ajar so that he could catch any sounds of entry below. If anyone tried to sneak into the room, he would be ready for them. An hour passed before he went off to sleep, another before anything disturbed him. The creaking of a door then brought him awake. It came from the direction of the stables. When he heard the frightened neighing of a horse, he was out of his bed at once.

Grasping his sword, Nicholas crept downstairs in the dark, moving as silently as he could so that he did not disturb anyone. When he let himself out of the cottage, he heard further noises from the stables. The open door suggested an intruder. At first, he thought it might be Yeo, gathering up an armful of filthy straw to scatter over Davy by way of retaliation but several horses were now disturbed enough to neigh their protest. Nicholas decided that the intruder was there for a more serious purpose than merely getting revenge on a wayward apprentice. If he was trying to steal a horse, he had to be apprehended. Sword held in front of him, he slipped in through the open door and peered into the gloom. The spark gave the man away. As he set light to a pile of fresh straw, he revealed his hiding place in a corner.

‘Stop!’ yelled Nicholas, darting across at him.

‘Who are you?’ grunted a voice.

The intruder was surprised but not easily overpowered. Before Nicholas could reach him, he took an armful of straw and hurled it into his face, using the momentary confusion to buffet his way to the door. Fire was taking hold now and frenzy was starting to spread among the horses. Nicholas grabbed a pail of water to douse most of the flames then stamped out the rest with his feet. As soon as that was done, he sprinted through the door in pursuit of the footsteps he could hear on the drive. Anger lent wings to his heels. His quarry moved fast but he had left his horse some distance from the stables and was soon panting madly. Pausing to rest against a tree, he stayed there until he realised that someone was after him. The man set off again, blundering through the undergrowth until he found the clearing where he had tethered his mount. Before the rider could even get his foot in the stirrup, however, Nicholas came charging at him.

‘Stay there!’ he ordered, holding his sword point against the man’s neck.

But his adversary acted swiftly again, using a dagger to parry the sword then kicking powerfully with his right foot. Nicholas suffered a glancing blow on the thigh and staggered back. When the man aimed a second kick at him, he caught the foot and twisted it hard until he let out a yell of pain. As the intruder fell to the ground, Nicholas struck at the hand holding the dagger and opened up a gash in his wrist. An even louder yell came as the man released his weapon. Nicholas dropped the sword and flung himself down on the figure who now was writhing on the ground in the dark. Sitting astride him, he began to pummel away with both fists but the fight was almost immediately curtailed. A second rider came out of the shadows and used a cudgel to belabor Nicholas. Dazed by blows to the head, the book holder lost all his strength and was pushed away roughly by the man beneath him. The second rider dismounted to help his confederate into the saddle of his own mount. By the time that Nicholas was able to stagger to his feet, both men were galloping off into the darkness.

The commotion brought several people running from the cottages and the main house. Nicholas soon found himself surrounded by lighted candles and curious faces. Firethorn pushed his way through his friend.

‘Are you hurt, Nick?’ he said, supporting him by the arm.

‘A little,’ conceded the other.

‘What happened?’

‘Somebody tried to frighten us away again.’

The nocturnal assault accomplished part of its objective. The fire might have been put out in the stables but the flames of doubt continued to crackle in the minds of the company. On the following morning, the rehearsal of The Insatiate Duke was slow and half-hearted. Reminded that they had enemies, the actors kept looking over their shoulders and wondering where the next attack would come from. The sight of their book holder was usually a reassurance but it was now visible proof of the desperation of their unknown foes. Face covered with bruises and head wrapped in a piece of linen, Nicholas had taken a lot of punishment. If the strongest and most resourceful man in the company had been subdued, they reasoned, what hope did the rest of them have?

Sir Michael was highly sympathetic. Flanked by his wife and his steward, he came into the hall at the end of the rehearsal to offer his apologies and to enquire after the condition of the wounded book holder.

‘This is appalling!’ he said, staring at Nicholas’s bruises. ‘I invited you here as my guests and you’ve twice been the target of a vicious attack.’

‘It’s not your fault, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas.

‘But it is, dear fellow. My wife and I are distraught.’

‘We are,’ confirmed Lady Eleanor, wringing her hands. ‘We’re shocked beyond measure. This kind of thing has simply never happened at Silvermere before.’

‘I did warn Sir Michael,’ said Taylard piously. ‘When there is such opposition to the arrival of a theatre company, it might have been wiser to turn them away.’

‘No, Romball!’ exploded Sir Michael with uncharacteristic vehemence. ‘I’ll not give in to anyone. Westfield’s Men are more than welcome here. I’ll gladly bear any blows that come in their wake.’

‘The blows fell on someone else,’ noted his wife, gazing sadly at Nicholas. ‘Do you really feel well enough to get out of bed, Master Bracewell?’

‘No, Lady Eleanor,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘but if I’m not there, you’ll have no play this afternoon and your guests will be bitterly disappointed.’

‘You’re so brave!’

‘I suspect it’s more a case of folly than bravery.’

‘And loyalty,’ added Firethorn, joining the group. ‘A bang on the head will not stop Nick Bracewell from steering us through another performance. But he cannot be expected to patrol the stables every night, Sir Michael,’ he added, confronting his host. ‘What we would like to know is if you’ve arranged for a proper guard to be set?’

‘Romball has the matter in hand,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Yes,’ said the steward officiously. ‘Two men will watch over the stables and the cottages throughout the night. They’ll be relieved at regular intervals so that the pair on duty are always fresh and alert.’

‘How will they be armed?’ asked Firethorn.

‘With sword and dagger.’

‘Give them each a musket from my arsenal,’ ordered Sir Michael.

‘I don’t think they’ll attack again at night,’ said Nicholas, ‘because they know we’ll be ready for them. But it’s a comfort to have armed men on patrol.’

‘What about the villain who tried to burn down the stables, Sir Michael?’ said Firethorn seriously. ‘Do you have any idea who it was?’

‘Not yet, Master Firethorn,’ replied Sir Michael.

‘What about this mad Puritan, Reginald Orr?’

‘He’d certainly be capable of such villainy,’ argued Lady Eleanor.

Taylard was suave. ‘Yet he’d hardly be capable of running so fast away from the stables, Lady Eleanor, and of getting the better of Master Bracewell in a fight. Reginald Orr is not a young man. He’s strong but far from lithe.’

‘Then he’s not the fellow I wrestled on the ground,’ decided Nicholas. ‘He was young, strong and quick. I had him beaten until I was cudgelled from behind by his confederate but I meted out some punishment of my own. Search for a man with a twisted ankle and a wounded wrist. Yes,’ he went on, pointing to his face, ‘and with some bruises like these. I know I drew blood from his nose.’

‘I still think that Reginald Orr is involved in some way,’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘That will emerge in the fullness of time, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘I’ve sent word to the constable to question him closely on the matter.’

‘I’d like to put a few questions to him myself,’ said Firethorn ruefully.

Sir Michael raised appeasing hands. ‘Leave all that to me, Master Firethorn. The only thing you need to worry about is your performance this afternoon. We’ll hold you up no longer. All that I can do is to offer you my sincere apologies and to assure you that no other setback will occur while you’re at Silvermere.’

Gathering up his wife and his steward, the old man backed out of the Great Hall.

Firethorn watched them go with mixed feelings before putting an affectionate arm around the book holder’s shoulders.

‘How do you feel now, Nick?’ he asked.

‘My head is still pounding a little.’

‘You took some severe blows.’

‘I look forward to giving some in return.’

‘Would you like us to summon Doctor Winche?’

‘I’m not that bad,’ said Nicholas.

‘But the doctor might be able to give you something to ease the pain.’

‘If I wanted a potion, I’d not look to Doctor Winche.’

‘Then where would you go?’

‘To whom else?’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Mother Pigbone.’

Mother Pigbone used the broken half of a broom handle to stir the mixture in the wooden pail. It gave off a pungent odour that merged with a compound of noisome smells that already pervaded the kitchen in her hovel. When she was satisfied that the food was ready, she lifted up the pail and carried it into the garden. An elderly woman of medium height, she had a plump body and a pleasant face that was always lit by a quiet smile. She wore ragged clothes, stained by a dozen differing hues, and a dirty head clout. Though she had no children of her own, there was a motherly quality about her that was quite endearing. Shuffling to the end of the little garden, she chuckled when she heard a series of grunts ahead of her.

‘Yes, yes, Beelzebub,’ she cooed. ‘It’s coming. I haven’t forgotten you.’

The pig was housed in a makeshift sty that seemed hardly solid enough to contain such a large animal. Leaning over the fence, she poured the contents of the pail into the rudimentary trough. Snout deep in the food, Beelzebub began to eat it, emitting an array of slurping sounds that were punctuated by grunts of satisfaction. Mother Pigbone leant over to pat the bristled head of the huge black boar. She was so busy talking to him that she did not hear the approach of a rider.

‘Mother Pigbone?’ asked a voice.

She turned to look up at the man in the saddle. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I believe that you can help me.’

The performance that afternoon was extremely competent rather than inspiring. It held the audience throughout but it fell short of the high standards usually attained at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn played the title role in The Insatiate Duke with the blend of physical energy and emotional power that were synonymous with his name but few members of the cast were able to hold their own against him. As the wise Cardinal Boccherini, Edmund Hoode was less impressive than he normally was in a part he had helped to shape to his own talents. The play itself was written by Lucius Kindell, a young author who had needed Hoode’s guiding hand to complete his drama. It featured Cosimo, Duke of Parma, a man of such insatiable desires that he took his pleasures ruthlessly wherever he chose. When Cosimo turned his lecherous gaze upon the beautiful Emilia, the Cardinal did everything he could to persuade him to spare the girl but the Duke would not listen. Rather than submit to his demands, Emilia, as played with affecting pathos by Richard Honeydew, took a fatal dose of poison. After her death, Cosimo learnt that she was, in fact, the child he had fathered on a woman at the Milanese court. The Duke had, in effect, killed his own daughter and bitter recrimination followed.

Barnaby Gill provided the comic relief in a heavy tragedy and made the Great Hall resound with laughter. It was the relationship between Duke Cosimo and Emilia that really fascinated the spectators, however, and made them shudder with horror or sigh with regret. Edmund Hoode, in the robes of a Roman Catholic cardinal, managed to win over a Protestant audience with his innate decency. Westfield’s Men used the available space to dramatic effect. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, some of the more intimate scenes were played in the minstrels’ gallery and he devised a spectacular death for the Milanese ambassador, a role taken by Owen Elias. Stabbed in a fit of anger by the Duke, he fell backwards over the balcony and dropped into the waiting arms of four actors carefully stationed below. It was a breathtaking moment and drew a full minute of applause. Elias was back on stage within minutes as a Venetian spy.

The problems did not begin until Act Four. It was then that Davy Stratton had two separate entrances. The apprentice was a servant without a single line to speak but he nevertheless made an impact. In a scene where he was required simply to hand a silver chalice of wine to the Duke, he managed to drop it and provoke unintended laughter. Nicholas put it down to nervousness but Firethorn took a harsher view. Storming off at the end of a scene, he hissed in the book holder’s ear.

‘If Davy does that again, I’ll strangle him!’

‘It was an accident,’ said Nicholas.

‘He did it deliberately.’

‘Davy apologised as soon as he came offstage.’

‘What use is an apology when he’s already ruined a scene?’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘It had better not, Nick.’

Before he could chastise the boy, Firethorn had to surge back on stage. He imposed his control over the audience once again and kept it throughout the remainder of the act until Davy entered once more. All that the boy had to do was to hand him a scroll so that the Duke could unfurl it and read it. Davy trotted in, bowed obsequiously to his master, and took something from his belt. Instead of giving Firethorn a letter, however, he handed him a large carrot. Pretending that it was an error, he swiftly retrieved it and gave him the scroll instead but the damage had already been done. More laughter burst out. Davy saw the murderous look in Firethorn’s eye and fled the stage, bumping into George Dart, who was entering with a tray of food, and hitting him to the floor. There was another eruption of mirth. The dramatic tension patiently built up in the scene was completely vitiated.

When the boy finally came offstage, Nicholas grabbed him by the neck.

‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he said angrily.

‘I’m sorry,’ whimpered the boy.

‘That was no accident. You’re doing this on purpose.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Davy,’ said Nicholas before signalling Cardinal Boccherini back on stage. ‘What you did was unforgivable. You’ll not go out there again.’

‘But I’ve three entrances to make in Act Five,’ said Davy.

‘Your contribution to The Insatiate Duke has finished, lad. Go back to the cottage and wait there till we come. I’ll make sure that nobody comes near you until Master Firethorn has had a stern word with you.’

The boy ran out sobbing but Nicholas had no sympathy for him. Instead of a compliant servant, they had a rebel on stage and there was no place for him in a tragedy that had to be played with high seriousness. The unscheduled humour that Davy had injected into the play left Firethorn in a towering rage but he exploited it well, working himself up into such a fury in the final scene that the audience was genuinely frightened of him. He then broke down in tears with such moving sincerity over the corpse of his daughter that they forgot his long sequence of evil deeds and actually shared his pain. The insatiate Duke appeared a sad, lonely, suffering, tragic figure. At the supreme moment in the play, however, Firethorn was once again thwarted but it was not by an apprentice this time.

When he delivered his last line, he plunged a dagger into his own heart then collapsed across the body of his daughter. A profound silence should have ensued, during which both corpses were carried away with regal dignity. Even at the Queen’s Head, notorious for the turbulence of its spectators, everyone was struck dumb with pity at the sight. The shocked silence was not maintained at Silvermere. No sooner had the two bodies been hoisted on to the shoulders of those about to bear them off than a woman’s cry rang out with awful clarity. The husband seated beside her had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Consternation spread throughout the entire hall. Seething with anger, the dead Cosimo came back to life to open a jaundiced eye in order to survey the unhappy scene. Dozens of people had leapt to their feet and a loud murmur grew in volume. In one second, an anonymous member of the audience had eclipsed two hours’ dramatic expertise from Westfield’s Men.

Lowered to the ground in the tiring-house, Firethorn was fuming. Such was the commotion in the hall that he did not know whether to lead out his company to take a bow or remain sulkily out of sight.

‘O injurious world!’ he yelled. ‘It’ll drive me mad, Nick!’

‘Someone has been taken ill,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, his name is Lawrence Firethorn. I have the sweating sickness.’

‘Will you not take your bow?’

‘Would anyone notice if we did?’

‘Sir Michael will expect it.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have arranged for one of his guests to fall off his chair at the very moment when I was being borne off to the mortuary.’

‘There!’ said Nicholas as desultory applause filtered through from the hall. ‘They want to acclaim you. Take your due.’

‘Follow me, lads,’ ordered Firethorn, looking around the room. ‘Let’s see if we can milk something from them at least.’

Hiding his annoyance behind a broad smile, he strutted back on to the stage with the company on his heels. Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor set an example by rising to their feet to clap their hands hard but they had few imitators. Applause was polite but subdued. The tragedy being played out in the middle of the hall was claiming much more attention. After only two bows, Firethorn decided to cut his losses and beat a hasty retreat. Once in the tiring-house, he made straight for the book holder.

‘Where is he, Nick?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’

‘Davy Stratton. The Devil’s apprentice. This is his doing.’

‘You can’t blame him for what just happened out there,’ said Nicholas.

‘I blame him for everything. From the instant he came to us, Davy’s brought nothing but strife. Look what he did to me on stage!’ he wailed. ‘The rascal handed me a carrot instead of a scroll. I was supposed to read a message not eat a vegetable. Davy’s wilful. He set out to mar my performance.’

‘Nobody could ever do that.’

‘No,’ said Gill spitefully, walking past, ‘you do it so well yourself, Lawrence.’

‘Let me at him,’ snarled Firethorn. ‘Bring Davy over here.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I ordered him back to the cottage so that he could do no more damage. Before you censure him, I suggest you calm down a little.’

‘Calm down! When that imp tries to ruin my reputation?’

‘Davy knocked me flying,’ moaned George Dart.

‘He trod on my robe,’ complained Hoode.

‘And spilt some of that wine over me,’ said Elias.

‘Wait your turns,’ said Firethorn vengefully. ‘I want the first go at him.’

Nicholas did his best to placate him but he was inconsolable. After the success of Double Deceit, they had faltered and Firethorn wanted a scapegoat. Nothing was more important to him than the integrity of his performance. To have it threatened by a mere apprentice was unpardonable. Nicholas let him fulminate. The Great Hall, meanwhile, was being rapidly emptied. When he peeped through the curtains, he saw a small group of people clustered around the fallen man. Doctor Winche was kneeling beside him. From the attitudes of the others, Nicholas realised that the situation was serious. He went back into the tiring-house where the actors were getting out of their costumes in a mood of resignation. It had been a fraught afternoon for them. A meal awaited them in the kitchens but they went off to it without alacrity.

Firethorn was the last to change out of his costume. Nicholas stayed close, anxious to keep him away from Davy Stratton until his hot temper had cooled. He was still angry with the boy himself but felt it more important to probe the reasons for his bad behaviour instead of simply punishing it. Firethorn read his thoughts.

‘You’ll not keep my hands off his hide this time, Nick.’

‘I’ll not try,’ said Nicholas. ‘He deserves rebuke.’

‘I’ll rebuke his buttocks until they glow with pain.’

‘That may not be the best way to treat the lad.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that I overlook his treachery?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He must be made to understand how serious his lapses were. We’ll certainly keep him offstage from now on even if his father is in the hall to watch him. In fact, I’m wondering if that was the trouble.’

‘What?’

‘The presence of Jerome Stratton out there. When he handed the boy over to us, the father was all smiles and benevolence but there’s no love lost between him and Davy. Could it be that he wanted to embarrass his father by his naughtiness on stage?’

‘Who cares about his father, Nick? He embarrassed me.’

‘I know,’ sighed Nicholas.

‘Nobody does that with impunity.’

‘There could be another explanation.’

‘Davy is a little demon — that’s the explanation.’

‘Is it? I think we’re forgetting the death of his mother. That’s still fairly recent. It must have upset the boy deeply,’ said Nicholas thoughtfully. ‘I noticed how drawn he was to Anne when he stayed with us in Bankside. She treated him like a son of her own and he showed real affection towards her. Could it be that Anne resembles his mother in some way?’

‘No,’ retorted Firethorn. ‘His mother was some foul witch and the child was fathered on her by the Devil himself. He’s the progeny of Satan and there’s no room for him in Westfield’s Men.’

‘But a contract was drawn up and signed.’

‘I repudiate it!’

‘Do that and Master Stratton will bring an action against us.’

Firethorn was contemptuous. ‘I don’t care a fig for Master Stratton! As for that little brat he foisted on to us,’ he said, grabbing a walking stick that had been used in the play, ‘I’ll see if I can beat some manners into him with this.’

Before Nicholas could stop him, he stalked off towards the door but his exit was blocked by the arrival of Sir Michael Greenleaf. Their host was disconcerted.

‘Thank heaven I’ve caught you, Master Firethorn,’ he said with relief. ‘I wanted a private word with you before you go. First, dear sir, let me congratulate you on your performance as Cosimo, Duke of Parma.’

‘It was abysmal,’ said Firethorn bluntly.

‘It deserved an ovation. I’m sorry that you didn’t get one.’

‘One of your guests decided to steal my applause from me.’

‘Not intentionally, I promise you.’

‘How is the man, Sir Michael?’ asked Nicholas solicitously.

‘That’s the second thing I have to tell you,’ replied the old man. ‘The news is desperate, I fear. Robert Partridge — for that’s his name — collapsed and died in our midst. That’s what robbed you of your due reward, Master Firethorn. I can only apologise. Don’t blame Robert Partridge for the interruption. It was beyond his control.’

Firethorn was saddened. ‘Then I take back what I said, Sir Michael.’

‘What was the cause of death?’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s the curious thing,’ said Sir Michael. ‘At first sight, it looked as if the poor fellow had succumbed to a heart attack and Doctor Winche gave that as his opinion when he examined the body just now. But I have my doubts.’

‘Why?’

‘Robert Partridge was not young but neither was he old. Indeed, he was very robust for his age and had no symptoms of a weak heart. He was a successful lawyer who was seen out riding at a gallop this very morning. Yet he drops down dead in the middle of the Great Hall.’

‘If only he could have waited another two minutes!’ said Firethorn.

Nicholas turned prompter. ‘You say that you have doubts, Sir Michael.’

‘Yes,’ confessed their host. ‘Far be it from me to contradict Doctor Winche but my researches as a scientist have given me certain insights. I can read dead bodies as other men read books. When I looked at Robert Partridge, I don’t believe that I was staring at a man who died of heart failure. His face was contorted, his skin a strange colour and his hands bunched tightly. It was a sudden death and an agonising one. Then there was the strange smell on his breath. That’s what really convinced me.’

‘Of what?’ said Nicholas.

‘I think that he may have been poisoned.’

Firethorn angered again. ‘Do you mean that he was poisoned deliberately so that he’d wreck the crowning moment of the whole play?’

Sir Michael shrugged. ‘I could be wrong, of course.’

‘Supposing that you’re not,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then we have to face a hideous possibility,’ admitted Sir Michael, running a hand across his brow. ‘Robert Partridge was murdered.’

Firethorn fell silent as his mind grappled with the tidings. Making his excuses, Sir Michael withdrew to comfort the grieving widow and to attend to the large gathering of friends who had been badly ruffled by the incident. Firethorn lowered himself to a bench as he brooded. Nicholas sat beside him. The actor suddenly clicked his fingers.

‘Did you hear what he said about the victim, Nick?’

‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas. ‘The man’s name was Robert Partridge.’

‘His profession is the crucial thing.’

‘He was a lawyer.’

‘Exactly!’ said Firethorn. ‘Just like Shortshrift in The Witch of Colchester. And what happens to Shortshrift?’ he asked, eyes enlarging. ‘He’s poisoned! We’re back to Egidius Pye again. No wonder Lord Malady was spared this time. It was somebody else’s turn to suffer.’

Nicholas was unconvinced. ‘It’s far too early to make that assumption.’

‘I told you that the play was cursed.’

‘Then why didn’t Master Partridge die in the middle of it and not at the end of The Insatiate Duke? It’s just one more unfortunate coincidence.’

‘Fever, collapse, loss of voice, murder. All four happen in that order in Pye’s damnable play. Yes,’ he went on, getting to his feet in alarm, ‘and the next thing is that Lord Malady goes blind. How can I act if I can’t see?’

‘The blindness is temporary,’ said Nicholas, rising to soothe him, ‘and it occurs in the pages of a play and not in reality. Stop confusing the two.’

‘But they’re joined indissolubly together, Nick.’ He reached a decision. ‘Cancel the play. We’ll have no witch of Colchester on these boards.’

‘We must. Sir Michael has insisted.’

‘All that he insists upon is a new piece. We set Pye’s work aside, put a tried and tested old comedy in its place, brush off its cobwebs and swear it’s never been performed before. Sir Michael won’t know the difference.’

‘Lady Eleanor will,’ warned Nicholas. ‘She’s watched us many times at the Queen’s Head. So has Master Stratton. We’ll not fool them. Besides, The Witch of Colchester has been advertised. Cancel it now and there’ll be repercussions.’

‘They can’t be any worse than the repercussions we’ll have if we retain it. Take pity on me, Nick,’ he implored. ‘Aren’t fever, collapse and loss of speech enough for me to endure? Will you wish blindness upon me as well?’

‘That’s not what I’m doing.’

‘Keep the play and we keep the curse that goes with it. A plague on Egidius Pye!’ he roared. ‘He’s written a comedy that just killed this poor fellow, Robert Partridge.’

‘But he didn’t,’ insisted Nicholas, ‘don’t you see? You’re confusing fact and invention again. Master Partridge is no character in the play. If a lawyer was to die by poison in the way it occurs in The Witch of Colchester, then it should have been James Ingram for it’s he who takes the role of Shortshrift. Yet James was in excellent health when he left us a while ago. How do you explain that?’

Firethorn was baffled. He sat down again and tried to work it out. Nicholas watched him with mild exasperation, fearing that the actor might make a decision that would make them all suffer. It was some time before either man became aware that they were not alone. Framed in the doorway, too shy to speak, was Richard Honeydew. He waited until Nicholas finally caught sight of him.

‘Dick,’ he said, turning to the boy, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve something to tell you,’ replied Honeydew nervously.

‘Well, spit it out, lad,’ ordered Firethorn. ‘We’ve lots to do before we turn in for the night. It includes giving that friend of yours, Davy Stratton, a sound beating.’

‘But you can’t do that, Master Firethorn!’

‘Try to stop me and you’ll feel the weight of my hand as well.’

‘What’s the trouble, Dick?’ said Nicholas gently. ‘You’re shaking all over.’

‘I did wrong,’ admitted Honeydew. ‘I know that you sent Davy to the cottage and forbade any of us to speak to him but I felt sorry for him. While we were all eating in the kitchen, he was alone over there. So I …’ The apprentice bit his lip before continuing. ‘So I took some food across there for Davy.’

‘It sounds to me as if you deserve a thrashing alongside him,’ said Firethorn.

‘That’s what I came to tell you, Master Firethorn. Beat me, if you wish, but you won’t be able to lay a finger on Davy.’

‘Why not?’ said Nicholas.

Honeydew was crestfallen. ‘He’s run away.’