The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Two

‘Well, my boy,’ said Jerome Stratton, beaming complacently, ‘what do you think of it?’

‘It’s very nice, Father,’ replied Davy.

‘Nice? Nice?’ chided the other. ‘Is that all you can say? The Royal Exchange is one of the great sights of London and you simply dub it ‘nice’. Look properly, Davy. And listen. That excited buzz you hear is the sealing of a thousand contracts. This is the very heart of the city, the place where goods are bought and sold, fortunes made or lost and commercial dynasties forged. To merchants like me, the Royal Exchange is home.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s why I brought you here. To feast your eyes on its magnificence.’

‘Thank you,’ said the boy. ‘It’s very big.’

‘Nice? Big? You’re too miserly with your adjectives, lad. The Exchange is a true phenomenon. It may resemble the bourses at Antwerp and Venice but, in my view, it surpasses both. I was little above your own age when the first brick was laid by Sir Thomas Gresham some thirty odd years ago. Do you see that huge grasshopper atop the bell tower?’ he went on, pointing upwards. ‘An emblem from the Gresham crest. The memory of Sir Thomas is kept fresh in our minds.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Davy Stratton’s dutiful answer concealed his doubts. Whatever else the merchants and bankers were doing as they milled about in the piazza, they were not thinking about the late founder of the Royal Exchange. They were too busy wrangling over contractual details, considering new investments, soliciting loans or trading gossip. It was the same whenever merchants came to stay at their house. Jerome Stratton would speak to them for hours on end in their private language and the boy would be left on the periphery of the conversation, present but completely disregarded, reduced to the status of a piece of furniture in the room. It did not endear Davy to the merchant class in which his father flourished. The Exchange was overwhelming in its size and crushing in its exclusivity. Davy felt more alienated than ever. It might be home to his father but it was a species of torture chamber to him.

‘Most of the materials came from abroad,’ said Stratton, resuming his lecture. ‘The slates were imported from Dort, the wainscoting and glass from Amsterdam. And, of course, the architecture is inspired by the Italian masters so it has a truly international feel, as befits the trading centre of our wonderful city.’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Or do you think that London itself is merely ‘nice’ or ‘very big’? I hold that it’s the finest city in Christendom. What’s your opinion, Davy?’

‘It frightens me a little.’

‘Does it not also dazzle you and make your blood run?’

‘No, Father. There are so many people.’

‘You’ll soon get used to that, lad. If you come to live here, that is,’ he added, shooting a glance at the boy. ‘You do want to move to London, don’t you?’

‘I believe so,’ said Davy uncertainly.

‘It will be the making of you.’

Davy Stratton had grave doubts about that as well. What both he and his father had agreed was that the boy’s future did not lie in the commercial realm. He lacked interest and showed no aptitude for business. Small for his age, Davy had a slightness of build and delicacy of feature that seemed ill suited for the cut-and-thrust world inhabited by his father. Though he was an intelligent boy, he was too reserved and uncompetitive to follow in Jerome Stratton’s footsteps. Where the father was big, fleshy and confident, the son was short, thin and withdrawn. Yet Davy was not without an innate toughness. A quiet determination that shone in his eyes.

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Stratton.

‘I think so, Father.’

‘Then you are no merchant, Davy. I never have enough of the Exchange. Would you not like to take another turn around the courtyard?’

‘If you wish.’

‘It’s a question of what you wish, lad.’

‘I’m cold, Father,’ admitted the boy. ‘My teeth are chattering.’

Stratton slipped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll keep on the move,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let me show you the shops. I’ll wager that one of them will arouse your curiosity.’

Davy allowed himself to be led towards the steps. As they made their way slowly through the crowd, Jerome Stratton dispensed smiles and greetings on both sides. He was in his element. Smartly attired in a padded doublet of a purple hue, he kept out the pinch of winter with a thick, fur-trimmed cloak and a velvet hat. Stratton had a red, round face that was lit with a professional geniality. He had been eager to show off the Royal Exchange to his son and was disappointed by the latter’s reaction. Expecting him to be enthralled on his first visit to London, he instead found Davy subdued and defensive.

‘I hope that you’re not having second thoughts,’ he warned.

‘About what, Father?’ asked Davy.

‘The reason that brought us here in the first place.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Stratton was unconvinced by the boy’s lacklustre response. When they reached the upper level, they strolled past a series of small shops where milliners, apothecaries, goldsmiths, booksellers and others plied their trade. Not even the glittering display in the armourer’s shop drew more than a cursory glance from Davy.

His concerned father took him aside.

‘What ails you, lad?’

‘Nothing, Father.’

‘You can’t deceive me,’ said Stratton. ‘When I came to London for the first time, I walked around with my mouth agape. So many awesome sights to see. It was one of the happiest days of my life. But you’ve hardly lifted an eyebrow, still less given a gasp of surprise or a grin of appreciation. We’ve been to St Paul’s, the Tower and everywhere in between yet none of them fired you with enthusiasm. Why not?’

‘I told you, Father. I’m cold.’

‘It was even colder in Essex but that didn’t stop you playing in the garden when the snow was a foot deep. You can’t blame all this on the winter. Unless,’ he probed, leaning in close, ‘your shivers are nothing to do with the weather.’

The boy nodded. ‘They’re not.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘A trifle, Father.’

‘There’s no need to be, Davy,’ said the other reassuringly.

‘But what if I fail?’

‘Out of the question. I know that you face an important test but you’ll come through it with flying colours. You bear the name of Stratton. We never fail. Just think, Davy,’ he said, touching the boy’s arm. ‘This afternoon, you’re going to meet Lawrence Firethorn, the most famous actor in England. I’ve seen him on stage a dozen times and been amazed on each occasion. A signal honour awaits you today.’

Davy bit his lip. ‘Will he like me, Father?’ he said.

‘Of course, he’ll like you.’

‘Supposing that he does not?’

‘He will, Davy. Master Firethorn will adore you.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Make him like you!’ ordered Stratton, tightening his grip on the boy’s arm. ‘Play-acting is not so different from business. Look at me. The reason I’ve been so successful is that I force people to like me. I gain their confidence. It’s the first step towards parting them from the contents of their purses. Sparkle, Davy!’ he urged. ‘Win over Lawrence Firethorn and a whole new life beckons.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s what you want isn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then prove it. Live up to the name of Stratton. I’d hate to think that you were going to let me down. This is your opportunity, lad. Take it while you can. Make me proud of you.’ He released his grip. ‘It’s what your poor dear mother would have wished. Keep her in your thoughts, Davy. Your mother doted on you.’

The boy bit his lip again and stared at an invisible object on the ground. It took him a full minute to compose himself. When he looked up again, his voice was firm.

‘I’ll do my very best, Father,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Nicholas Bracewell turned into Chancery Lane and lengthened his stride. As soon as he reached the Middle Temple, he was reminded why he had such a distrust of lawyers. There were dozens of them, all dressed alike, scurrying off to court or holding impromptu disputes with colleagues in the open air, each one exuding that mixture of arrogance and smugness that he found so unappealing. Bruised by occasional dealings with the legal profession, Nicholas made a point of keeping well away from its denizens but, in this instance, he had no choice in the matter. The one redeeming feature of this visit was that he was representing Westfield’s Men rather than seeking advice on his own account. A legal contract would be involved but it would cost him nothing but his congratulations.

Though he had never met Egidius Pye, he could glean something of the man’s character from his work. The Witch of Rochester, as it was still called, was an unlikely play to issue from the pen of a lawyer. It was rich with incident, steeped in the mysteries of witchcraft, abounding in humour, sprinkled with bawdy and shot through with wry comments on the human condition. All that betrayed its author’s profession was the extended trial with which it concluded though even that had a comical impetus. Imperfect as it was, the play had intrigued Nicholas and, now that he had read it, impressed Edmund Hoode as well. It was original, incisive and throbbing with life. Since the playwright now had to be sounded out in person, Nicholas had been dispatched to the Middle Temple.

Notwithstanding his discomfort at being surrounded by lawyers, it was a welcome assignment for the book holder. Egidius Pye, he decided, was highly untypical of the breed, a gifted author with a questing mind, a keen sense of the ridiculous and a healthy irreverence for the law and its practitioners. Nicholas pictured him as a tall, fair, fearless young man with an independent streak, a natural rebel whose histrionic talent seemed to be quite instinctive. When he located Pye’s chambers, however, he came in for a severe shock. The lawyer was nothing whatsoever like the man he has envisaged.

‘Master Pye?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ said the other cautiously.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and I’m here on behalf of Westfield’s Men. I believe that you submitted a play to Master Firethorn for his consideration.’

‘Why, so I did.’

‘If you can spare the time, I need to discuss it with you.’

‘By all means, my friend. Come in, come in.’

Nicholas stepped into a large, low, cluttered room with a musty smell. Ancient leather-bound tomes stood on the shelves. Piles of documents littered every available surface. A plate of abandoned food lay half-hidden beneath a satchel. A pewter mug had fallen to the floor and taken up residence beneath the table. Other forgotten items filled every corner of the room. Egidius Pye was at one with his surroundings. Tall, scrawny and stooping, he had an air of sustained neglect about him. Though he was still in his late thirties, the receding hair, the greying beard and the ponderous movements made him seem twenty years older. A white ruff offset his black apparel but Nicholas observed that both were stained by food and flecked with dirt. So close were the eyes, nose and mouth that it looked as if all four had retreated to the centre of the face out of sudden fright on the principle that there was safety in numbers.

After shutting the door, the lawyer waved Nicholas to a seat beside a fire that was producing far more smoke than heat. He lowered himself gingerly onto a stool opposite his unexpected visitor.

‘You’re a member of the company?’ he asked reverentially.

‘Merely its book holder, Master Pye,’ explained Nicholas, ‘but I was fortunate enough to be allowed to read The Witch of Rochester. It’s a remarkable play.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’

‘It was a pleasure from start to finish.’

‘And does Master Firethorn share that opinion?’

‘He does, sir. That’s why he sent me to speak to you.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Pye in a hoarse whisper, ‘that there’s a faint hope my work might actually be presented on stage?’

‘More than a faint hope. A distinct possibility.’

‘Praise God!’

Egidius Pye clapped his hands together as if about to pray. Torn between joy and disbelief, he inched so close to the edge of the stool that he all but fell off it. He opened his mouth to emit a noiseless laugh, exposing a row of uneven teeth and a large pink tongue. Nicholas marvelled that such an apparently staid, slovenly, pallid, middle-aged man could have created a work of such manic frivolity. Evidently, there was more to the lawyer than met the eye.

As instructed by Firethorn, the book holder introduced a cautionary note.

‘Everything, of course,’ he said, ‘is subject to certain conditions.’

‘Make what conditions you like, dear sir. I accept them all.’

‘That’s hardly the stance of a lawyer, Master Pye. A contract will need to be drawn up. Given your profession, we expect you to question every detail.’

‘I bow willingly to Master Firethorn’s demands.’

‘But an author has certain rights, enforceable by law.’

‘What care have I for the law?’ said the other with a hint of recklessness. ‘It has brought me misery and boredom. Do you see these chambers, Master Bracewell? They were built at the request of my father in order that his only son could join him in the Middle Temple. And what happened? No sooner had the place been finished than my father — God bless him — died, leaving poor, unworthy, unwilling me to carry on the family tradition. Ha!’ he exclaimed with a hollow laugh. ‘It’s no tradition. It’s a curse. The law is a great rock that I’m doomed to roll up a hill like a second Sisyphus. I loathe the profession.’

‘That comes through in your play.’

‘It was not always so,’ confessed the other sadly. ‘The Inns of Court do have their appeal. When I first entered the Middle Temple as an Inner Barrister, it was like being an undergraduate at Oxford all over again. There was much jollity amid the hard work. There was a measure of light in the gloom. Then I became an Utter Barrister and most of the jollity ceased. Now that I’m a Bencher and in a position of some authority, I find it hard to remember that there was a time when I practiced the law instead of being imprisoned by it. Forgive me,’ he said, moving perilously closer to the edge of the stool. ‘You did not come to hear the story of my wasted life.’

‘I’m interested in anything you have to tell me.’

‘Then let me just say this. Lawyers drive me to distraction. What has kept me sane is the company of those who live in the Middle Temple while having nothing whatsoever to do with the law. There are many such people. Sir Walter Raleigh is one. When he is in London, he often resides here. I have had the honour of dining with him. Sir Francis Drake, too, has connections with us though we see precious little of him.’

Nicholas smiled fondly. ‘Sir Francis was ever ubiquitous.’

‘You speak as if you know him, Master Bracewell.’

‘I do, indeed. I had the privilege of sailing with him around the world. Not that it seemed like a privilege at the time,’ he added with a slight grimace, ‘but it was an unforgettable experience. Life aboard the Golden Hind was an education.’

‘Tell me about it,’ encouraged the other.

‘Oh, I’m not here to talk about myself, Master Pye.’

‘But I worship Sir Francis — and Sir Walter. They are proper men while I am just another mealy-mouthed barrister, practicing the black arts of the law. What was your voyage like? What countries did you see? What marvels did you behold?’

‘I’ll tell you another time,’ promised Nicholas, too conscious of his duty to permit much digression of a personal nature. ‘I’m here simply to acquaint you with the way in which your play has been received and to see how amenable you are to some suggested changes.’

‘Changes?’

‘Improvements and refinements.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘The piece still has too many rough edges before it can be performed. With your permission, they can be cunningly removed.’

‘Teach me the way to do it and I’ll happily oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas, pleased to find such a cooperative attitude. ‘I take it that you’ve watched the company perform?’

‘Many times,’ said Pye, presenting the uneven teeth for inspection once more. ‘I’ve spent endless happy hours at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Then you must be familiar with the work of Edmund Hoode.’

‘My inspiration!’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Master Pye, because he has offered to work with you on the play to bring out the very best in it. If you agree, that is.’

‘Agree!’ repeated the lawyer, jerking forward so sharply that he slipped off the stool and landed on the floor. ‘It’s my dearest wish. I can think of no finer tutor than Edmund Hoode. I’ll sit at his feet and prove a conscientious pupil.’

‘There’s not much that you need to be taught,’ said Nicholas, helping him up. ‘Besides, time is against us. Such changes as are necessary will have to be made with a degree of speed. Let me explain.’

Omitting any mention of a new apprentice, Nicholas gave him a brief account of the invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf and the place that The Witch of Rochester might occupy in their repertoire. Egidius Pye quivered with pleasure throughout. The book holder was relieved. Other authors had caused untold problems for Westfield’s Men, too egotistic to take advice, too possessive to allow the slightest alteration to their plays and too vindictive when their work failed before an audience. Pye had none of these faults. Nicholas was satisfied that the renegade lawyer would form a sound partnership with Edmund Hoode. Together they would improve the play beyond recognition. Nicholas put the man’s congeniality to the test.

‘How would you feel about a different title?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Title?’

‘Yes, Master Pye. In view of the fact that we may perform in Essex, we felt it more appropriate if your witch came, perhaps, from Colchester.’

‘Why not?’ said Pye readily. ‘The Witch of Colchester is as good a title as my own and an apposite one. I concur. Move the witch anywhere from Portsmouth to Perth and I’ll raise no objection. Whatever the location, my drama still holds its shape.’

‘True enough.’

‘The Witch of Colchester, eh? I like it.’

‘That’s a relief.’

Nicholas explained in outline the terms of the contract that Westfield’s Men would offer him but Pye was not really listening. Overcome with joy at the prospect of seeing his play performed by one of the leading troupes, his mind was not attuned to fine detail. All that he wanted was confirmation that the visit to Essex would take place. The more they talked, the more Nicholas grew to like him. Egidius Pye was, in many ways, an unprepossessing character and he would inevitably encounter mockery from some of the actors but he had a number of good qualities. He was modest, intelligent, eager to learn, well versed in theatre and generous in his comments about Westfield’s Men. He had written his play as a labour of love, not to win fame or financial reward. Nicholas warmed to him. He asked a question that formed in his mind when he first read the man’s play.

‘Do you believe in witchcraft, Master Pye?’

The lawyer was shocked. He looked like an archbishop who has just been asked to deny the existence of God. Righteous indignation welled up in his eyes. He clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly.

‘You seem to know so much about the subject,’ said Nicholas.

‘Knowledge comes from careful study.’

‘Have you ever met a witch?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But you believe that such people exist?’

‘Of course,’ said Pye with burning sincerity. ‘Don’t you?’

It was a tiring walk to Shoreditch but Nicholas was too preoccupied to notice either the distance or the biting wind. The meeting with Egidius Pye had been a revelation. As he reflected on their conversation, he began to wonder if he had at last met a member of the legal profession whom he could befriend. One thing was certain. If the play were to be performed by Westfield’s Men, its dishevelled author would have need of a friend in the company. Actors were robust individuals who expressed their feelings in warm language. They would show little respect for the sensibilities of Egidius Pye. When sparks began to fly during rehearsal, as they assuredly would, the newcomer would need support and protection. Nicholas was ready to offer both.

By the time he finally got to the house in Old Street, they were all there. Margery Firethorn fell on him with her usual affection, clutching him to her surging bosom while she planted a kiss on his cheeks. She stood back to appraise him.

‘You look cold and famished, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I am neither,’ he replied.

‘Are you sure that you would not like to come into the kitchen for moment? There’s a fire to warm you up and food to take away the pangs of hunger.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Is Anne looking after you properly?’

‘In every way.’

Margery cackled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Take her a message from me. When Anne tires of you, I’ll take you in myself and spoil you even more.’ She guided him across to the parlour. ‘Lawrence said I was to show you straight in. The visitors have not long been here. I tell you, Nicholas,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, ‘I’d rather feed the son than the father. Jerome Stratton would eat me out of house and home.’

Margery bustled off to the kitchen, leaving Nicholas to knock on the door on the parlour. He went in to be greeted by Lawrence Firethorn, standing in the middle of the room while his guests were all seated. The actor spread his arms wide.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he declared. ‘You’ve come upon your cue. Allow me to introduce Master Stratton and his son. This is Nicholas Bracewell, young Davy,’ he went on, moving over to the boy. ‘If you join the company, you’ll have no better tutor. The rest of us may strut upon the stage, but it’s Nick who builds it for us in the first place. In every sense, he’s the scaffold on which Westfield’s Men stand.’

Nicholas exchanged greetings with the two strangers before being conducted to a seat in the window by his host. Firethorn lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Did you transact your business at the Middle Temple?’

‘I did,’ said Nicholas.

‘Satisfactorily?’

‘Extremely so.’

‘Then one success precedes another,’ announced Firethorn, turning to the others, ‘because I’m confident that Davy will be an asset to the company. I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on him. Have you ever seen a boy more suited to our needs than this young gentleman? He has the look of the perfect apprentice.’

‘My son is ideal for your purposes,’ said Stratton expansively. ‘I’d not place him with anyone other than Westfield’s Men. You choose the best, we require no less.’

Nicholas was struck by the boy’s features and impressed by his bearing. Even with a solemn expression on it, Davy Stratton’s face had an undeniable prettiness. A neat wig and a costly dress would transform him instantly into a beautiful young woman. The book holder was less enamoured of the father, however, noting how Stratton kept his son under close surveillance to ensure that the lad gave a good account of himself. Nicholas was not certain if he was witnessing excessive paternalism or a form of polite menace. At all events, Davy was impervious to both, ignoring his father altogether and sitting there with a self-possession that was surprising in one so young.

The would-be apprentice was winning admiration elsewhere as well. Edmund Hoode was watching him with a contented smile while Barnaby Gill, shedding his earlier resistance to the notion of a new apprentice, was positively gloating over the boy, letting his gaze travel slowly over every detail of his face and frame. Nicholas was glad that the boy was too innocent to realise the true nature of Gill’s interest in him. Crucial as it was, appearance was not the only factor in the choice of an apprentice. Other qualities had to be considered, as Firethorn knew only too well. Nicholas was glad when the actor strode across to the boy and became more businesslike.

‘Can you read and write, Davy?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘He’s had an excellent education,’ said Stratton. ‘His Greek and Latin are above reproach. You’ll not be able to fault him on those, Master Firethorn.’

‘Davy is more likely to fault me, sir, for I’m no classicist. There’ll be little call for Latin, however, and none at all for Greek. Plain English is our preferred language. Tell me, lad,’ he said, crouching before the boy, ‘can you sing?’

‘As sweetly as a nightingale,’ said Stratton, patting his son’s leg.

‘Is that so, Davy?’

‘He’s worthy of a place in the Chapel Royal.’

‘Let him speak for himself, Master Stratton, I beg you.’

‘A full room makes him shy.’

‘You only compound that shyness by supplying answers for him,’ said Firethorn with forced politeness. ‘Pray, desist, sir. If your son is shy in front of four strangers, how will he fare in an inn yard with hundreds of spectators?’

‘Davy will cope easily with all that confronts him,’ asserted Stratton.

‘Will you, Davy?’ asked Firethorn, hiding his exasperation at the father behind a kind smile. ‘Do you want to be up there on a high stage?’

‘Oh, he does, he does,’ continued the father. ‘He yearns for nothing else.’

Firethorn rose to his feet. ‘What I yearn for, Master Stratton, is the opportunity to hear your son’s voice. We appreciate the fact that you brought him to us but we can hardly judge his true merit when he is not permitted to open his mouth.’

‘A thousand apologies. I’ll hold my tongue.’

‘Thank you. Now, then, Davy,’ said Firethorn, making one more attempt to establish direct contact with the boy, ‘why do you wish to join Westfield’s Men?’

‘Because they are the finest company in England, sir,’ replied Davy.

‘You have good taste. Have you ever seen us perform?’

‘Unhappily, no, sir, but your reputation goes before you.’

‘A reputation for what?’

‘Good quality, Master Firethorn. Fine drama, well acted.’

‘Have you any idea what life in the theatre is like?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Very exciting, sir.’

‘Excitement is part of it, I grant you, but there are many frustrations as well. It’s a hard life, Davy, but a rewarding one. Though we cannot offer you the security another profession might bestow, we guarantee you experiences that will thrill you to the marrow. Begin as a humble apprentice and you may soon be performing at Court in front of the Queen herself. How does that sound?’

‘Nothing would delight me more.’

‘Are you prepared to commit yourself to Westfield’s Men?’

‘With all my heart, sir.’

Delighted with the answers, Firethorn looked across at his colleagues, collecting a smile of approval from Hoode and a nod of assent from Gill whose gaze never left the boy. Nicholas indicated his own approbation though it was not unmixed with doubt. Davy Stratton had spoken well but his replies had been too glib for the book holder’s liking. It was as if the son had been carefully rehearsed beforehand to say exactly what they would wish to hear. To get a clearer idea of the lad’s character, it was imperative to separate him from Jerome Stratton.

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ asked Nicholas.

‘By all means,’ said Firethorn.

‘Davy is patently the sort of boy you seek. Only one thing remains to convince you of his suitability and that’s to hear him read a part. Could he not be given a few minutes to study a short speech while you and Master Stratton discuss the terms of an apprenticeship?’

‘A most sensible notion, Nick.’

‘So it is,’ said Gill, rising to his feet. ‘Find me some lines and I’ll take the lad into the next room to school him in how they should be delivered.’

‘Thank you, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, quelling him with a glare, ‘but you’re not the teacher for this lesson. Since the play we choose will probably have been written by Edmund, he is the best person to instruct young Davy.’

‘I’d value Nick’s help,’ insisted Hoode, getting up as Gill slumped back into his seat. ‘Between us, I’m sure we can coax a performance from the boy.’

‘So could I!’ said Gill under his breath.

‘It’s settled,’ declared Firethorn, crossing to a large cupboard. ‘Step into the next room with Davy. I’ve a hundred scraps of plays in here,’ he continued, opening a door and burrowing inside. ‘The very thing!’ he said, reappearing with a scroll in his hand. ‘A speech from The Merchant of Calais, a role that was tailored for me from the best cloth that Edmund Hoode ever provided. The son of one merchant will counterfeit the lover of another. Here, Nick. Have the piece.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where is it from?’

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

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

‘We must expect a little less from Davy.’

‘I’m ready, sirs,’ said the boy.

Hoode was impressed. ‘That was quick.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where can he be? To whom should I complain?

What hope remains for me, his cherished love,

If he is cast adrift upon the sea

Or wrecked upon some distant, hostile shore

Where merchants’ bones but thicken up the stew

To feed some wild and heathen cannibal?

If he be swallowed by the ocean deep

A thousand miles from home, then I am lost,

Bereft of all that helps to keep the flame

Of life alive. Why does my lover hide

From one who is his designated bride?’

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

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

‘Yes, Master Hoode.’

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

‘I will,’ promised the boy.

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

‘That was markedly better,’ said Hoode.

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

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

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

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that your idea or your father’s?’

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

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

‘Not in a hundred years!’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Back so soon?’ he said.

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

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

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

‘Where can he be? To whom should I complain?

What hopes remain for me, his cherished love …’

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

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

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

‘What did the rest of you think?’

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

‘Nick?’

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

‘Barnaby?’

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

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

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

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

‘Admirably.’

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

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

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

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

‘I’m yours,’ he said boldly.