The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Don’t you miss our friendly landlord?’

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

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

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

‘But he ran away from us, Owen.’

‘I know and I can’t understand why.’

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

‘Where on earth could he have gone?’

‘His father knows.’

‘Does he?’

‘Yes. I saw it in his eyes.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘A private nature.’

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

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

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

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

‘Call on me whenever you wish.’

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

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

‘Why not?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Excellently well, as I recall.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, Lady Eleanor.’

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

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

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

‘Then here it is.’

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

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

‘Extremely well,’ replied Nicholas.

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

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

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

‘Well?’ said Lady Eleanor.

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

‘It does not match The Rose.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Speed is the enemy of felicity.’

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

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

‘To a certain degree.’

‘But I laboured so hard over the piece.’

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

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

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

‘To good effect, Master Hoode.’

‘More or less.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What ails you, man?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Another disastrous love affair?’

‘Not this time, Lawrence.’

‘Then what?’ His eye ignited. ‘Unlooked for fatherhood?’

‘Not even that,’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘At least some pleasure would have been involved in that instance.’

‘Pleasure and repentance.’

‘It’s all repentance here. I bitterly regret my lunacy in agreeing to it. Pregnancy of a kind is indeed the root of my misery. I wish that I’d never been persuaded to act as midwife to Egidius Pye’s play.’

‘I thought that you admired the piece.’

‘I did, Lawrence. I still do.’

‘Then where’s the problem?’

‘Walking home to the Middle Temple with that ridiculous hat on his head.’

‘The fellow’s a lawyer,’ said Firethorn contemptuously. ‘He deserves ridicule.’

‘Pye is insufferable,’ wailed Hoode. ‘He disputes every vowel and defends every consonant as if they were brought down from Mount Sinai on a stone tablet. And the worst of it is that he does it without rancour or spleen. Master Pye is Politeness itself. He doesn’t even grant me an excuse to lose my temper with him.’

‘What’s the import of all this?’

‘The brace of happy poets you spied are really a pair of bickering snails.’

‘Has the play not been improved, Edmund?’

‘Only with painful slowness.’

‘That will not do,’ said Firethorn warningly. ‘Let me speak to Master Pye. I’ll light such a fire beneath that arse of his that he’ll burn with zeal to work faster. The Witch of Colchester must be finished soon so that we can start rehearsals on it. Every other play we take to Silvermere has been tried and tested at the Queen’s Head. We could perform some of them with our eyes closed. But not this new piece.’

‘It was a mistake to accept it,’ said Hoode dolefully.

‘Nick Bracewell spoke up for it. So did you at first.’

‘I stand by that judgement. There are parts of it I would be proud to have written, Lawrence, and I confess it freely. Had we the play without the playwright, all would be well. But we do not. The witch comes with a spell called Egidius Pye.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll put the wretch in his place.’

‘I’m coming around to the view that only a sharp sword could do that.’

‘Now, now, Edmund, you were a callow author once. Spread a little forgiveness. Bake him aright and this Pye will be delicious when he comes out of the oven.’ His eye fell on the pages littering the table. ‘What changes have you made?’

‘Only the obvious ones so far.’

‘Keep the essence of the piece. It has quality. And retain the bawdy, Edmund,’ he instructed. ‘Master Pye is wonderfully coarse and comical at the same time.’

‘That was the alteration he resisted most strenuously.’

‘What was?’

‘The bawdy,’ said Hoode. ‘I pointed out that we must bear our audience in mind. Ribaldry that would please the stinkards at the Queen’s Head might only offend the more refined sensibilities we’ll encounter at Silvermere.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘We play to the gentry, Lawrence.’

‘So? The crudest laughter always comes from the gentry, not to mention the aristocracy. I’m at one with Egidius Pye on this. Leave his bawdy unmolested. Lord Westfield will also be in the audience, remember. Our patron will complain loudly if there’s no base humour to set him roaring.’

‘What of the other guests?’

‘They’ll split their sides at some of Pye’s jests, I warrant you.’

Hoode shook his head. ‘I still have my doubts, Lawrence.’

‘Then leave the matter until Nick Bracewell returns. He means to discuss the repertoire with Sir Michael Greenleaf to see what is and what’s not in demand. We’ll soon know if the people of Essex enjoy some cheerful vulgarity in their drama.’ He put a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Take heart, Edmund. All is well.’

‘Not to my eye. I fear for the whole enterprise.’

‘That’s treasonable talk. Would you rather sit out the winter writing sonnets or composing epitaphs for dear departed loved ones whom you never met?’

‘No.’

‘Then rejoice in our good fortune.’

‘I did until I met Egidius Pye.’

‘He’s one small part of a very large bounty,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have work at last, Edmund. Gainful employment. You should have seen the faces of the company when we had our first rehearsal today. They shone with happiness. It was as if they’d just been let out of the darkest dungeon in Newgate. They are actors once more. Would you deprive your colleagues of such joy?’

‘I share it with them.’

‘Then why these sad looks and silly fears?’

‘I have a presentiment of catastrophe.’

‘A hard winter was our catastrophe. It almost froze our art to death. Suddenly, a thaw has set in,’ said Firethorn, swallowing the last of his wine with a gurgle. ‘Our work is in demand and our finances are repaired. Six plays at Silvermere will bring in as much money as a dozen at the Queen’s Head and we’ve no lugubrious landlord to bark at our heels. Then there is the additional benison of a new apprentice.’

‘Davy Stratton has yet to show his mettle.’

‘I have no qualms about the lad. Nor about his father, for that matter.’

‘His father?’

‘Yes, Edmund,’ said Firethorn, pouring himself some more wine. ‘I’ve more good news for you. Master Jerome Stratton not only gave us thirty pounds when the contract was signed. He has promised us another five pounds out of his own pocket when we perform at Silvermere.’

Hoode was impressed. ‘That’s very generous of him.’

‘Generosity may break out in other places. Who knows? If we give a good account of ourselves in Essex, other spectators may be moved to put their hands in their purses. Westfield’s Men are in the ascendant,’ he declared, raising an arm aloft. ‘We travel on the road to glory. Nothing can stop us now.’

Nicholas Bracewell paced out the Great Hall to get a more precise idea of its dimensions then he ran his eye over the gallery to estimate its distance from the floor. Owen Elias, meanwhile, was declaiming a speech from Love’s Sacrifice at the request of Lady Eleanor, using the soliloquy both to display his vocal gifts and to test them in the new performing venue. His voice reached every corner of the room without effort. When the speech came to an end, he gave his standard bow and Lady Eleanor applauded him. Hers were not the only palms that were clapped together. Standing in the doorway with his steward beside him was Sir Michael Greenleaf.

‘Well done! Well done, sir!’ he congratulated.

As he walked down the hall towards them, Elias gave him a bow of his own. Romball Taylard displayed no admiration. Remaining at the door, he looked on with a mixture of curiosity and reproach.

‘Ah!’ said Lady Eleanor, hands outstretched. ‘Here is my husband!’

Sir Michael Greenleaf took her hands in his and kissed them both before turning to regard the visitors. Introductions were performed by his wife. Sir Michael greeted both men warmly, treating them more like honoured guests at Silvermere than members of an itinerant theatre company. It was another paradox. With a social position that entitled them to condescension, Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf were friendly and approachable. It was their household steward who gave himself the airs and graces to which he had no legitimate claim. Surprised by their host’s affability, Nicholas and Owen were startled by his appearance. Sir Michael was no slave to fashion. Plain doublet and hose of a greenish hue were supplemented by a white ruff that was coming adrift from its moorings. He was a short, rotund man in his late fifties with an unusually large head that was topped with the last of his hair. The few surviving silver wisps were clogged with a dark substance, as were his beard and his ruff. Cheeks, nose and forehead were also blackened.

Lady Eleanor saw the look of astonishment on the visitors’ faces.

‘You must excuse my husband,’ she said smoothly. ‘He has been experimenting with a new gunpowder. Unsuccessfully, by the look of it.’

‘Not at all, not at all, Eleanor,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s almost perfect.’

‘Almost?’

‘I still have to cure the cannon’s tendency to backfire.’

Elias was amazed. ‘You make your own gunpowder, Sir Michael?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It’s vastly better than any that I could purchase and may soon be ready for use. I just need to mix the ingredients more exactly.’

‘You mentioned a cannon?’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s right. A culverin of my own design.’

‘I’d be interested to see it, Sir Michael.’

‘Then you shall, my friend.’

‘Nick sailed around the world with Drake,’ explained Elias, proud of his friend’s achievement. ‘He has first-hand experience of firing a cannon.’

‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Sir Michael. ‘I insist that you see my whole arsenal. I thought you had the look of a seafaring man about you. A voyage with Drake. What a splendid adventure. I envy you, sir. It must mean that you know how to read the stars.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘There was nothing else to do through all those long nights.’

‘You must see through my telescope while you’re here.’

‘Thank you, Sir Michael.’

‘Reading the stars is another hobby of mine.’

‘My husband has so many scientific interests,’ said his wife indulgently.

‘But why do you need a cannon, Sir Michael?’ wondered Elias.

‘To mount on the tower, of course,’ said the other. ‘As soon as the gunpowder is perfected, I’ll have the servants winch the culverin up there.’

Elias was baffled. ‘But why? Do you fear attack?’

‘No, my good sir.’

‘Then why mount a cannon on your house?’

‘Because of the wildfowl.’

‘Wildfowl?’ gasped the Welshman. ‘Am I hearing you aright, Sir Michael? You’re going to shoot at birds with cannon balls?’

Sir Michael went off into a peal of laughter. ‘Of course, not,’ he said when he finally controlled himself. ‘That would be absurd. I love wildfowl. Why else do you think I had the lake built? The problem is that, at this time of year, it freezes over. The ice is inches thick. It’s a real effort to break through it so that the ducks, geese and swans have at least a portion of their water back.’

Nicholas anticipated him. ‘I think I see your plan, Sir Michael. A cannon ball fired from the top of the house would smash a large hole in the ice.’

‘Exactly, sir. Especially when fired at night.’

‘Night?’ said Elias with disbelief. ‘Why, then?’

‘Because that’s when the temperature reaches its lowest point,’ explained Sir Michael. ‘Wait until morning and the ice had already hardened. Strike it when it is newly formed and you shatter it beyond repair. That, at least,’ he admitted, ‘is my theory.’

‘I understand your reasoning, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful not to smile, ‘but isn’t there a serious problem here? When you put your theory to the test, you’ll make the most deafening noise.’

‘Guests who stay at Silvermere are used to strange happenings during the night,’ said Lady Eleanor airily. ‘My husband has a passion for nocturnal experiments.’

‘I steer by the stars, Eleanor,’ he said.

‘Turn your mind to more immediate matters. These gentlemen have ridden a long way in order to meet you. Put your gunpowder aside for an hour.’

‘Gladly, my dear. Now,’ said Sir Michael genially, ‘I bid you welcome, sirs. I’m so glad that Master Firethorn and I came to composition. Westfield’s Men will make a major contribution to the festivities. Is the Great Hall to your taste?’

‘It’s ideal, Sir Michael,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Ask for what you will and Romball will supply it. You’ve met my steward, I hear,’ he said, indicating the figure still lurking at the door. ‘An excellent fellow. But for Romball Taylard, we’d be in a sorry state.’

‘Our first request can only be met by you, Sir Michael,’ resumed Nicholas. ‘It concerns the plays we offer. The new piece has been chosen but five others must be selected as well and Master Firethorn is anxious to offer you variety. He suggests comedies such as Double Deceit and The Happy Malcontent but he feels that your guests should also be given at least one harrowing tragedy.’

‘Two,’ insisted Lady Eleanor. ‘Too much comedy will lead to boredom.’

‘There’s your answer,’ said her husband, beaming at her. ‘Four comedies and two tragedies. Though a little bit of history would not go amiss.’

‘So we thought, Sir Michael. If you approve the choice, Master Firethorn would like us to present Henry the Fifth by Edmund Hoode, a play that has elements of comedy and tragedy in it. Will that appeal?’

‘Very much,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Eleanor?’

‘I am more than content,’ she answered. ‘Comedies, tragedies and a stirring history. This is wondrous fare to set before our guests. What we do need to know, however, is the name of the new play for that will have a special place.’

‘Why is that, Lady Eleanor?’ asked Elias.

‘Because it will be the last of the six to be presented and will coincide with a highly important event.’ She turned to Sir Michael. ‘You explained that in your invitation, surely?’

‘It slipped my mind, Eleanor.’

‘Heavens!’ she cried. ‘Who else but you would forget his own birthday?’ She squeezed his arm affectionately. ‘You’re going to be sixty on that very day.’

‘Congratulations, Sir Michael!’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ added Elias. ‘Ice or no, the cannon will have to be fired in salute that night. As to the new play, I hear that it’s a riotous comedy with some darker moments in it. Nick will confirm that. He’s read it from start to finish.’

‘That’s true,’ said the book holder. ‘The play will bring our visit to Silvermere to a rousing conclusion. It’s not only a brilliant piece of work by a new author, it has a fortuitous link with the county of Essex.’

‘What’s the title?’ wondered Lady Eleanor.

‘The Witch of Colchester.’

‘I love it already.’

‘So do I,’ said her husband, chortling happily. ‘You could not have chosen anything more appropriate, gentlemen. Do you know my nickname in these parts?’

‘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.’