The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Seven

Notwithstanding its erratic landlord and its many defects, the Queen’s Head was the spiritual home of Westfield’s Men and they were delighted to be back there, albeit in such adverse conditions. Early rehearsals involving only the sharers had been held in a hired room at the inn but, now that the entire company was assembled, a larger space was required so they steeled themselves against the cold and went out into the deserted yard. Priority was given to The Witch of Colchester. The others five plays to be staged at Silvermere were stock dramas from their repertoire, works that needed only a limited amount of rehearsal. Egidius Pye’s comedy, however, required the close attention they paid to every new play as they explored its potentialities. Edmund Hoode had worked throughout two whole nights to make the necessary changes to the play and was now able to join the others at the Queen’s Head to rehearse his own role in it. While one scrivener hastened to finish a single complete copy of the play, another had copied out the sides for individual actors.

As the book holder, Nicholas Bracewell was the only person who had a copy of the whole play and he marvelled at the way that Hoode transformed it. Fearing that he would interfere and impede, Lawrence Firethorn had banned Pye from the rehearsals but promised him that he could attend its premiere at Silvermere. Nicholas felt sure that the lawyer would be pleased with what he witnessed, relieved to observe that his play was largely intact yet markedly improved by Hoode’s deft professional touches. Since it was the last of the six dramas to be presented, The Witch of Colchester could be rehearsed throughout their entire stay there, enabling the company to give a confident performance. Actors swooped happily on their parts and went through their scenes with relish. There was none of the insecurity and bickering that usually attended work on a new piece.

Nicholas was thrilled to be back at the helm again. Westfield’s Men had come out of their winter hibernation and their joy was touching. Even those hired men who would not be travelling with the company came to watch the rehearsal to warm their hands at the fire of a lively new drama and to share in the general pleasure. Davy Stratton was also there. He made only two fleeting appearances in the play as a servant and spoke only one line but he took it all very seriously. Davy had mixed feelings when he watched the other apprentices, taking the women’s roles with such persuasive skill, wondering when he would suffer the indignity of wearing female attire. Absorbed as he was in what was going on, the boy kept a wary eye out for John Tallis, who, ousted and humiliated by the newcomer, was prowling vengefully on the fringes.

At the end of a full day, Firethorn strolled across to the book holder.

‘We owe you our thanks, Nick,’ he said, patting his shoulder.

‘Why?’ said Nicholas.

‘For reminding us that we had such a splendid new play available.’

‘It’s even more splendid now that Edmund has worked his magic on it.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn with a chuckle, ‘but he was not above bowing to self-interest. The role he enlarged most substantially was the one he takes himself, that of Longshaft, the lawyer. Shortshrift, the other lawyer, was given short shrift.’

‘They’re both excellent parts.’

‘There’s no dull character in the whole play, Nick, even though it’s written by that very personification of dullness, the quibbling Master Pye.’

‘Give him his due,’ said Nicholas with admiration. ‘He has an acute mind.’

‘Too acute for Edmund’s liking!’

‘Don’t be harsh on him. Master Pye has many virtues. But you’ve no need to thank me for recommending his play,’ Nicholas continued. ‘I stand to benefit from it as much as anyone else. It’s a delight to be employed again and to see the happy faces of our fellows. The jollity even seems to have touched Davy at last.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn with reservation in his voice, ‘he’s acquitted himself well in his tiny role here. I just wish that he didn’t cause so many problems under my roof.’

‘That incident you told me about was clearly John Tallis’s fault. He went up to the attic to give Davy a fright and got one himself instead.’

‘Oh, I agree. John Tallis was deservedly baptised by a full chamber pot. But the boyish antics didn’t end there, Nick. Our new apprentice has been stirring up trouble on his own account. He baited Martin Yeo, hid Stephen Judd’s clothes, swore at one of the servants and stamped on the other’s toe.’

‘Did your wife remonstrate with him?’

‘Only when she finally caught him,’ said Firethorn bitterly. ‘The little devil did his favourite trick and disappeared. It took Margery an hour to find him.’

‘Where was he?’

‘On the roof. He’d climbed out through the window.’

‘In this weather?’ said Nicholas in alarm. ‘Frost has made the thatch treacherous. The lad might have fallen and injured himself.’

‘I almost wish that he had, Nick. It would have taught him a lesson.’

‘Why is Davy being so mischievous?’

‘I wish I knew. I warned him that, if it goes on like this, he’ll get the thrashing of his young life from Margery. But even that doesn’t seem to have stopped the imp.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Honestly, Nick, I never thought I’d say this but I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t taken him in. He’s upsetting the whole house.’

Nicholas was surprised. When he looked across at Davy, the apprentice was talking earnestly to Richard Honeydew. There was no hint of devilment in either of them. Davy Stratton, in particular, had an almost angelic expression on his face.

‘Let me have a word with him,’ volunteered Nicholas.

‘Please do,’ said Firethorn. ‘He has a great respect for you.’

‘It didn’t stop him abandoning me in the middle of that forest.’

‘I’m starting to see why his father was so eager to get rid of the lad. If Davy behaves like that at home, he must be an absolute menace. Margery and I are bracing ourselves for another difficult night with him.’

‘Is it that serious?’

‘Yes, Nick. Martin, Stephen and John Tallis are all out for his blood and there’s no telling what Davy will get up to next.’

Nicholas grew thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he needs time away from the house.’

‘Either he does or we do.’

‘How would you feel if he stayed in Bankside for a night or two?’

‘Profoundly guilty.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it would be unfair to inflict Davy on you and Anne.’

‘He’ll behave himself with us, I’m sure,’ said Nicholas. ‘Being with the other apprentices is what sets him off. Divide and rule. It’s the sensible way.’

‘I’d be eternally grateful to you and Anne.’

‘I’ll have to speak to her first, of course, because it’s Anne’s house but I don’t think she’ll object. Besides,’ said Nicholas, ‘I like Davy. If we spend some time together, I may be able to find out why he’s misbehaving so badly like this.’

Further discussion was halted by the arrival of Barnaby Gill who wanted to argue for some changes in his lines and petition for an additional dance in Act Three. Edmund Hoode soon joined the debate. Nicholas took the opportunity to detach the troublesome apprentice from the others.

‘Come on, Davy,’ he said.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the boy, trotting across to him.

‘To teach you something about taking the company on tour. It’s easy enough when we play here at the Queen’s Head where we keep our costumes, properties and scenery. If we travel outside London, we have to ensure that we take only what we need.’

‘I see.’

‘George!’ called Nicholas.

‘Coming!’ replied a voice from within a melee of actors.

‘We must check the properties.’

‘At once.’

The diminutive figure of George Dart emerged from the group to join them. As assistant stagekeeper, Dart was able and conscientious. As an actor, however, he was intermittently disastrous and, even though shielded by Nicholas, often became the company’s whipping boy. The book holder led Dart and Davy off to the room where the properties were stored, drawing a gasp of astonishment from the apprentice when he unlocked the door. Objects of all colour and description were piled high. The place was so crammed with the accumulated properties of Westfield’s Men that there was barely enough room for all three of them to enter.

‘You can help George,’ instructed Nicholas.

‘Yes, Master Bracewell,’ said Davy.

‘And be careful while you’re about it. We don’t want anything to be damaged.’

‘We’ll need the small throne for The Insatiate Duke,’ said Dart, anxious to impress with his knowledge of the plays, ‘and the larger one for Henry the Fifth.’

‘One throne will suffice for both plays,’ decided Nicholas. ‘It will save space in the cart. King Henry will have to make do with the small throne on this occasion. We’ll set it up high for him so that it seems larger than it is.’

George Dart nodded. ‘Shall we get it out now?’

‘No, we’ll work through this list I’ve prepared. Are you ready, Davy?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy, staring in horror at a human skull.

‘Item, Cupid’s bow and quiver; the cloth of the Sun and Moon. Put them out in the passageway for the time being,’ said Nicholas, pointing. ‘We’ll load them into the cart and lock it in the stables for safety.’

Helped by the apprentice, Dart searched for the required items. When they were found, Nicholas consulted the long list that he had so patiently written out, taking care to select items that could serve in more than one play.

‘Item, four wooden targets; one breastplate of armour and three foils.’ They were swiftly retrieved from the mass of properties. ‘Item, one lion skin, one bear skin and one snake.’

‘A snake?’ said Davy, anxiously. ‘Is it a live one?’

‘Only when it’s on stage in The Happy Malcontent,’ said Nicholas.

‘I don’t like snakes.’

‘Wait until you see our serpent,’ said Dart, finding the items requested. ‘It scares me every time even though I know that it’s only made out of painted cloth.’

‘Item,’ continued Nicholas, ‘two coffins, a boar’s head and a cauldron.’

‘What play will they be in?’ wondered Davy.

‘The Witch of Colchester.’

‘It’s the wildest comedy I know,’ said Dart, giggling. ‘I could hardly stop laughing when we rehearsed it today.’

‘Yes, George,’ chided Nicholas, gently, ‘you were so busy shaking with mirth that you missed your own entrance. Plays are there to make the spectators laugh, not the actors performing them. Take especial care with that cauldron. It’s heavy.’

Locating the cauldron under a wooden canopy and a pile of assorted crowns, they rolled it out into the passageway. Davy was struck by its enormous size.

‘What is the witch of Colchester going to put in there?’ he said.

‘All sorts of things,’ replied Nicholas with a smile. ‘Herbs, flowers, wine, water, bits of dead animals and any new apprentice who doesn’t behave himself properly.’

His light-hearted remark struck home in a way he had not intended. Blushing a bright crimson, Davy let out a cry, backed away in embarrassment then charged quickly out of the room. Nicholas was almost as surprised as the open-mouthed George Dart.

Reginald Orr was not a man to make idle threats or to be deflected from a course of action once he had committed himself to it. Though he was highly respected in the small Puritan community of which he was the acknowledged head, he was privately feared by a number of his sect who felt that his beliefs were too extreme and his inclination to violence very worrying. Nothing seemed to deter Orr, a man sufficiently wealthy to be untroubled by any fines imposed on him and sufficiently robust to withstand being set in the stocks. He lived in a sizeable house on the edge of Stapleford, a meeting hall for his fellow Puritans and, more often than not, their place of worship. Only one person called on him that evening and he was given a most cordial welcome.

‘Come in, come in, Isaac,’ invited Orr.

‘Thank you, Reginald,’ said the other, breathless from the long ride.

‘Did you find anything out in London?’

‘Eventually.’

‘Then take a seat and tell me all.’

Isaac Upchard was grateful to slump into the high-backed wooden chair beside the fire. He was a swarthy young man in his early twenties whose ugly features were exaggerated by his habit of grimacing frequently and inappropriately as if in pain.

‘It was not a task I could enjoy,’ he admitted. ‘Like you, I never cross the threshold of an inn but necessity compelled me to lurk at the Queen’s Head for hours. It’s a foul establishment, Reginald, full of roaring men and lewd women who drank and sported in the most heathen way.’

‘Such places should be burnt to the ground,’ said Orr.

Upchard nodded in agreement. ‘What made it worse for me was that I had to discard the sober attire I wear with such pride and don the kind of clothing that would allow me to enter the inn freely. It was an effort to do so.’

‘But not without results, it seems.’

‘No. Actors are very talkative. I got close enough to listen.’

‘But not close enough to fall in with them, I hope.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘That would have been a gross error,’ warned Orr. ‘Apart from the corruption with which you’d have been threatened, there’s the question of safety. They mustn’t know that you spied on them, Isaac. We don’t want any of them recognising you and finding a link to me.’

‘I was very discreet,’ said Upchard, pulling a face as if suddenly impaled on a sharp spear. ‘Luckily, the actors were not. Their boasting filled the whole taproom.’

‘What you heard was the voice of the Devil incarnate.’

‘That came from the throats of women, Reginald. I’ve never met such brazen creatures. They made vile suggestions in my ear of a kind that no decent man should ever have to endure. It was an ordeal.’

‘I’m sorry that you had to go through with it, my friend, but the truth is that I could not. Had I been in the middle of such lecherous company, I would’ve risen up and condemned them in the sternest tones. You, fortunately,’ he said, sitting opposite his visitor as the latter produced an alarming series of grimaces, ‘were able to control yourself enough to mingle unseen by them. Now, Isaac. Tell me what you discovered.’

‘Everything you asked.’

‘Good fellow!’

‘Westfield’s Men will leave London early on Monday morning. They’ll be twelve in number with four apprentices besides.’ He clicked his tongue in disapproval. ‘Young boys, doomed to be dragged down into the mire by their elders.’

‘How will they travel?’

‘By the main road for most of the way. Then they strike off for Silvermere. Some will ride horses but others will travel with their costumes and scenery on a big cart.’

Orr raised an eyebrow. ‘A cart, you say? That may play into our hands.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll explain later. Go on with your tale.’

‘I come to the worst part of it, Reginald.’

‘In what way?’

‘They’re due to spend ten days as guests of Sir Michael Greenleaf.’

Orr was scandalised. ‘Ten!’

‘Excluding the day when they travel.’

‘This is intolerable! In ten days, they could infect the whole of Essex. I’ll not let them contaminate this beautiful county, Isaac.’ He waved an angry fist. ‘I’ll make them wish they’d never set foot in it.’

‘Someone has to do it or we will suffer the consequences.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Six plays are to be performed during their stay,’ explained Upchard, ‘the last being one that was expressly requested by Sir Michael. It’s very title will be enough to wound you to the quick. It’s called The Witch of Colchester.’

‘Horror of horrors!’ yelled Orr. ‘They mean to practice witchcraft?’

‘They bragged about nothing else, Reginald. The play contains spells, secret potions and a black boar that is the witch’s familiar. It’s unspeakable.’

‘Are demons represented on the stage?’

‘Satan himself is conjured up at one point.’

‘Never!’ exclaimed Orr, leaping from his seat. ‘This is evil of the worst kind and a threat to every Christian soul within miles. We’ll allow no hideous witches to fly over our houses to cast their wicked spells. Nor will we let Satan come to Silvermere. I praise you heartily for the work you’ve done on our behalf, Isaac,’ he said, putting a congratulatory hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘It was an odious task but a valuable one.’

‘Had I stayed any longer in their company, I’d have been polluted myself.’

‘Profanity and desecration! That’s all they bring in this cart of theirs. Well, we’ll be ready for them. Sir Michael Greenleaf may wish to give these heathen rogues licence to seduce and corrupt but I’ll teach him some moral responsibility. Let’s ride out together at first light tomorrow,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll get the lie of the land so that we can devise a fitting welcome for these devils in human guise called Westfield’s Men.’

Sunday morning found Anne Hendrik in her parlour, peering into the mirror while she adjusted her hat. Nicholas Bracewell, also dressed to go out, stood behind her.

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am,’ he said.

‘Then don’t even try,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’m glad to have Davy here. After all you’ve told me about him, I was interested to meet the boy. He certainly doesn’t look like the mischief-maker that Lawrence seems to think he is.’

‘Davy was on his best behaviour.’

‘Only because you frighten him more than Margery Firethorn.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Nobody could spread more terror than her when she’s roused. Even her husband runs for cover when Margery starts breathing fire. No, I think that it was you who made the difference, Anne.’

‘Me?’

‘You were so kind and welcoming to the lad,’ he said. ‘You didn’t stand over him or issue any warnings. Davy didn’t feel threatened.’

‘I’ve employed apprentices of my own, remember, Nick. In my experience, the best way to deal with them is to talk to them on their own level. Waving a big stick only makes the weak ones cower and the strong ones rebellious.’ She glanced upwards. ‘How did Davy sleep?’

‘Extremely well. I heard him wheezing contentedly before I dropped off.’

‘No attempt to sneak out of the house?’

‘None, as far as I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘And no merry pranks with the other boys. That’s one reason he’s been so quiet, of course. He’s not fighting a constant battle here with John Tallis and his friends. I’m sorry I had to let him share my room with me,’ he said, stepping in close to plant an apologetic kiss on her cheek, ‘but I wanted to make sure that nothing untoward happened.’

‘Nothing untoward happened in my bedchamber, I fear,’ she teased.

‘The boy’s needs came first, Anne.’

‘Of course. I appreciate that. It would have been wrong for him to see how close we are when we’re not legally married. That’s why I went to some pains to treat you like a lodger in front of him.’

It was his turn to tease. ‘But that’s exactly what I am, isn’t it?’

‘From time to time.’

‘I’ll give him a shout. Davy!’ he called, moving to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Hurry up, lad. We’ll be late.’

‘One moment!’ replied a distant voice.

‘At least, he’s still in the house,’ said Anne.

‘Not necessarily,’ Nicholas pointed out. ‘He could be on the roof.’

Footsteps came tripping down the stairs and Davy Stratton entered the room. There was no sign of strain in him. Nicholas noted how relaxed and happy the boy seemed. After greetings were exchanged, Anne stepped in to straighten his collar for him and to brush aside a few stray hairs that peeped out from under his cap.

‘We’ll have breakfast when we get back,’ she said.

‘Yes, Mistress Hendrik.’

‘Do you like church, Davy?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you go regularly at home?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said with a rueful smile ‘We have to. My father makes sure that we never miss a service on Sundays. Some of the people he does business with also go to St Christopher’s.’

‘What sort of man is the vicar?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Reverend Dyment is a devout man.’

‘He seemed rather harassed when we met him at Silvermere.’

‘He has a lot of trouble from some parishioners.’

‘Do they include this infamous Reginald Orr?’

‘I think so.’

‘Have you met the man yourself, Davy?’

‘No, but my father has,’ said the boy. ‘He had Master Orr arrested.’

‘Why?’ said Anne.

‘For causing a disturbance in the village.’

‘It’s time to be on our way,’ suggested Nicholas as a sonorous bell began to toll in the distance. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

They let themselves out and walked briskly along the street. The sun was out but it was still decidedly cold. Nicholas hoped that they would not see any more victims of the winter, frozen to death in lanes or alleyways. Several other people were heading towards the church for matins and they joined the swelling congregation. Anne was plainly enjoying Davy’s company, chatting easily to him about his home life and making him feel that someone was taking an interest in him. Nicholas could still not understand why the boy had misbehaved so much at Firethorn’s house and put it down to the proximity of the other apprentices. Attacking three of the other boys was Davy’s form of defence. They had mocked him continuously since his arrival. He could take no more.

‘Do you like being with Westfield’s Men?’ asked Anne.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Davy. ‘I love it at the rehearsals.’

‘What sort of an actor do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘I want to be like Master Firethorn.’

‘Nobody is quite like him, Davy,’ said Nicholas, fondly. ‘Lawrence Firethorn is the best actor in London. Even his rivals concede that.’

‘Then I’ll try to be more like Master Gill.’

Anne suppressed a smile. ‘He, too, would be very difficult to imitate.’

‘But he makes me laugh so,’ said Davy, ‘and he’s a wonderful dancer.’

‘You’ll learn a lot from simply watching Barnaby Gill,’ said Nicholas. ‘And the rest of the players, for that matter. Owen Elias is a fine actor. So is Edmund Hoode when he has the right part.’

‘What about George Dart?’

‘George tries. He may never actually succeed, but he never stops trying.’

‘Why does everyone make fun of him?’

‘Because they don’t appreciate him, Davy. George Dart loves the company so much that he’d die for Westfield’s Men. Get to know him better,’ advised Nicholas. ‘In his own quiet way, George has a lot to teach you as well.’

They walked on until the church came into sight. People were converging on it from all directions and they had to slow right down when they reached the porch. As they shuffled forward in the queue, Davy was ahead of them, allowing Nicholas to have a private word with Anne. He leant over to whisper to her.

‘I think you’ve tamed him, Anne.’

‘He doesn’t seem to need any taming.’

‘You should speak to Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘Was the boy really that bad?’ she said.

‘Apparently.’

‘I hope that they had a quieter night out in Shoreditch last night.’

‘I’m sure that they did,’ said Nicholas. ‘Without young Davy to set them all by the heels, they’ll have had no problems. I expect that they’re kneeling down in church at this moment to offer up a prayer to the Almighty for sending them Anne Hendrik.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘I intend to do the same thing myself.’

Religion had only an uncertain hold on Lawrence Firethorn. Though he could be seized with Christian zeal on rare occasions, he could also blithely forget some of the Ten Commandments at times and lapse unthinkingly into sinful behaviour without any compunction. Guilt and repentance invariably followed but they were only temporary restraints. Sunday, however, brought out the spiritual side of him and not merely because his company were unable to play on the Sabbath by virtue of the fact that the Queen’s Head was within the city limits. The Theatre and The Curtain, both in Shoreditch, enjoyed the freedom of being outside city jurisdiction and performed regularly on Sundays. Turning his back on his rivals, Firethorn preferred to celebrate it as a day of rest.

Marshalled by his wife, the whole household, ten of them in all, set off for the parish church in strict formation. The apprentices led the way, the children came next, Firethorn and his wife were on their tail and the two servants brought up the rear. They took up a whole bench in the freezing cold knave, squeezing tightly up against each other in the interests of warmth. After he had said his prayers, Firethorn, seated by the aisle, glanced along the row at juvenile faces that were either drawn with fatigue or glazed with boredom. He was content. Order had been restored. The absence of Davy Stratton had allowed the house to resume its quiet, normal, unhurried pace. Margery Firethorn was thinking the same thing.

‘Where do you imagine he is now, Lawrence?’ she hissed.

‘Davy?’ he said. ‘He’s probably making Anne’s life a misery.’

‘Nick would never allow that.’

‘No, Margery. On second thoughts, I think you’re right. If anyone can control him, it’s Nick. Maybe the fault isn’t in Davy at all but in us.’

‘Us?’ she repeated, bridling. ‘Are you criticising me, Lawrence?’

He grinned. ‘I’d never dare do that, my love. Least of all in a church.’

‘Good.’

‘Shoreditch is not the ideal place for Davy to be. That’s all I meant. Trapped inside a small house in this dreadful weather where we’re all falling over each other. The lad will be fine once we’re out on the road.’

‘That wasn’t what Nick and Owen Elias found.’

‘True,’ he conceded.

‘Davy ran away from them.’

‘But he came back in due course.’

‘From what you told me, it sounded as if his father dragged him back.’

‘That was Nick’s feeling.’

‘I trust in his instinct, Lawrence. What’s to stop the boy vanishing again?’

‘Loyalty to the company. He’ll soon settle down.’

Margery was sad. ‘I hope so. I do so want to like young Davy.’

A hush fell on the congregation as some chords on the organ announced the entrance of the vicar who came walking down the aisle with stately tread to begin the service. Firethorn was involved from the start, nestling into the familiar ritual as into a favourite chair. It was only when the sermon began that his mind wandered. The text was taken from an obscure part of Deuteronomy, the sermon was contradictory rather than explanatory, and it was delivered in such a monotonous drone that it inspired none of the parishioners and eased a few into a blissful slumber.

Lawrence Firethorn was not among the sleepers. In his mind, he was already at Silvermere, thrilling an audience as Henry the Fifth, working on their emotions as the tragic Vincentio and rendering them helpless with laughter by his portrayal of Lord Malady in The Witch of Colchester. The spiritual setting helped to soften his view of the hapless Egidius Pye. The man deserved sympathy. He had written an outstanding play yet had been exiled from its rehearsal. Firethorn wondered if he should have relented and let the lawyer at least watch the piece being slowly put together by the actors. If nothing else, Pye would benefit from the experience. He was still musing on the new play when the vicar reached the climax of his peroration.

‘And so,’ he declared, eyes raised to heaven, ‘when God asks us to open our hearts to him, my friends, what must we answer?’

It was a rhetorical question but it got an instant reply from Firethorn.

‘No, no, no!’ he howled in despair.

Rising to his feet, he clutched at his body as if in intense pain and staggered out into the aisle. The congregation looked on in horror. Before anyone could catch him, he shivered violently then fell to the floor, seized by such dramatic convulsions that one woman fainted and two had a screaming fit. The vicar was so upset that he had to be helped down from the pulpit by the verger. Firethorn completed his ruination of the sermon with a loud moan of agony that echoed around the church like a death knell. Quite involuntarily, the actor had once again had a remarkable effect on the spectators.

Word of Lawrence Firethorn’s collapse threw the whole company into turmoil. There was no miracle recovery this time. Carried home by neighbours, the actor had been confined to bed with an illness that was way beyond the reach of Doctor Whitrow. All that he had done was to prescribe medicine to ease the pain. Firethorn had grown drowsy and was barely able to keep his eyes open when Nicholas Bracewell, summoned from Bankside, hastened to the house in Shoreditch. Before he fell into a deep sleep, the actor had been insistent that Westfield’s Men should depart on the following morning as planned. With or without its motive force, the company had to honour its commitment.

Gloom descended on the actors like a pall. As they gathered at the Queen’s Head on Monday morning, they were in a state of disarray. Firethorn was not merely their leader, he was the single biggest reason for the troupe’s success. With him, they could outshine any other theatrical company in the land; without him, they were palpably weakened. His absence would take the glow off their welcome at Silvermere. In the new play, in particular, he would be sorely missed. Concealing his own fears, Nicholas tried to fend off questions and still the pessimists.

‘When is Lawrence going to join us, Nick?’ asked Owen Elias.

‘Soon,’ said the book holder. ‘Very soon.’

‘Today? Tomorrow?’

‘I can’t give you a date, Owen.’

‘Is it that serious?’ said Hoode.

‘He’s on the road to recovery Edmund.’

‘But he should be on the road to Essex with the rest of us. I know Lawrence. Only plague, palsy or death would keep him away at a time like this. What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Nicholas, raising his voice so that all could hear. ‘And he implores you not to be downhearted. We’re to go on ahead and he’ll follow.’

‘Supposing that he doesn’t?’ said Barnaby Gill, irritably. ‘It throws our choice of plays into the melting pot. How can we play Vincentio’s Revenge without Vincentio? Or Henry the Fifth without a king? Changes will have to be made.’

Elias was aghast. ‘Surely, you don’t want to take over those roles, Barnaby?’

‘Of course, not,’ retorted Gill. ‘I recommend that we insert Cupid’s Folly into the list. I carry that piece so Lawrence will not be needed.’

‘I’ve a better idea,’ said the Welshman scornfully, ‘why not cancel all the plays we chose and give six performances of Cupid’s Folly instead? Will that content you, Barnaby? Fie in thee!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lawrence lies sick and all that you can think about is trying to advantage yourself. It’s despicable.’

Gill was unmoved. ‘It’s practical.’

‘Practical but unnecessary,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘We must have contingency plans, Nicholas.’

‘We have them, Master Gill. We leave without him.’

Nicholas clambered up on to the cart to supervise the last of the loading. George Dart and the four apprentices were to travel with him. The rest of the company had brought their own horses except for Owen Elias who had borrowed one from an unnamed lady. Since the husband of the Welshman’s earlier benefactor had returned home, Nicholas surmised that he had prevailed upon another of his conquests. It did not matter. The book holder had enough to worry about without speculating on Elias’s extraordinary private life. It was the fate of Lawrence Firethorn that dominated Nicholas’s thinking. A singularly healthy man had been struck down twice by a mystery illness in less than a week. Whatever was wrong with him?

‘It was frightening,’ confessed Richard Honeydew, standing beside him.

‘Was it?’ said Nicholas.

‘He stood up in the middle of the sermon and shook all over. I’ve never heard such a cry of pain. Mistress Firethorn fears that he may die.’

‘That’s not what she told me,’ said the other, anxious to suppress the suggestion. ‘She knows her husband better than any of us and assured me that he would be back on his feet in no time at all.’

‘The whole congregation prayed for him yesterday.’

‘There you are, Dick. That’s bound to help his recovery.’

The apprentice was sceptical. ‘It hasn’t worked so far.’

‘Give it time, lad.’

Departures from London were usually occasions of hope tinged with sadness as the members of the company set out on a new adventure, bidding farewell to their wives and children, or their lovers and friends. Emotions of a different kind now prevailed. The shortness of their stay in Essex made for less tearful scenes with their loved ones but there was none of the sense of curiosity with which they invariably set out. A misery verging on despair touched all but a few of them. Instead of delighting in the fact that they were to perform to a select audience in a beautiful country house, they feared that their chances of theatrical triumph had gone before they had even left. Only one thing could have made the scene more depressing and he stepped out of the inn to oblige. Surveying them with hangdog disgust, Alexander Marwood, the egregious landlord who had tried so many times to evict them from his premises, now had the gall to berate them for deserting him and taking a major part of his custom away.

‘I deserve better than this!’ he said in a voice like a wailing wind. ‘What will you find in Essex that I cannot offer you here?’

‘Decent beer!’ shouted Elias. ‘And an audience.’

‘Warmer weather will soon come.’

‘Yes, Master Marwood, but you’ll stay as cold as a block of ice.’

Muted laughter greeted the exchange. The landlord normally provoked scorn and derision among the actors but the sight of him merely depressed them even more on this occasion. He was a symbol of woe, a harbinger of ill fortune. Nicholas decided that it was time to get them on their way, resigned to the fact that he could take them free of the watching Marwood but he couldn’t dispel the heaviness in their hearts. After making sure that his passengers and cargo were secure, he got into the driving seat and used the reins to flick the two massive horses into motion. As the cart rumbled noisily across the yard, the rest of the company mounted up and followed it. The clatter of approaching hooves brought them all to a halt. A horse came cantering into the yard before being reined in by its rider. Lawrence Firethorn saluted them with a raised arm and gave a chuckle.

‘What’s this, you rogues?’ he said. ‘Do you dare to go without me?’

They had rested at a wayside inn several miles out of London before Nicholas had the chance of a private word with him. Until then, Firethorn had concentrated on trying to reassure his fellows, talking enthusiastically about the performances that lay ahead of them and shrugging off suggestions that he had been seriously ill. Though the apprentices had reported him incapacitated when they left the house earlier, he maintained that he awoke refreshed and restored. He had even claimed that his seizure during the church service was partly a protest against the sustained boredom of the sermon. The actors gradually relaxed, pleased that he was back with them in such patent good health. When they paused at the inn, Firethorn was in such a benevolent mood that he bought them all food and drink at his own expense.

It was only Nicholas Bracewell in whom he really confided the truth.

‘Thank you for coming so promptly last night, Nick,’ he said.

‘It was the least I could do.’

‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay awake longer.’

‘So was I,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘It’s so unlike you.’

‘I know, I know. I can carouse until dawn as a rule. But not yesterday, as you saw for yourself. I felt as if I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep for a whole month.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

Claiming that he wanted to discuss some aspects of staging the plays, Firethorn had detached the book holder from the others. They sat at a table in the corner. The actor did not want anyone else to guess at his predicament. Seen in profile by the others, he appeared a happy man, talking business with a colleague, and he deliberately peppered his conversation with animated movement and laughter in order to deceive those who might be watching. The substance of his confession was far from comical.

‘I’m terrified, Nick,’ he said.

‘Are you?’

‘Can’t you see what’s happening?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’ve made another wonderful recovery.’

‘But from what? Doctor Whitrow didn’t have a clue what brought me down this time. Nor did he really explain what prompted that terrible fever last week. The doctor was worse than useless yesterday.’

‘He gave you that sleeping draught.’

‘That was no cure, Nick. It merely eased the pain so that I was no longer lying there on the rack. When I first woke up, I still felt desperately ill.’

Nicholas was anxious. ‘What, then, revived you?’

‘I’ve no idea. The sickness just vanished as if it had never been there. Margery insisted that I stay in bed while she called the doctor but I knew how worried everybody would be by my absence. They needing cheering up,’ he said, looking around to distribute a warm grin among the others, ‘and so did I.’ He turned back to Nicholas. ‘You know who’s behind all this, don’t you?’

‘Who?’

‘Egidius Pye.’

‘That’s an absurd idea,’ said Nicholas.

‘Is it? Have you ever met a man as robust as me?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Have you ever seen one with the same energy, the same commitment, the same burning love for the theatre and all that goes with it?’

‘I don’t believe that I could.’

‘Then where did it all disappear yesterday? Why did I succumb to that fever last week? These are not natural happenings, Nick.’

‘Then what are they?’

Firethorn spoke in a whisper. ‘Witchcraft.’

‘I didn’t think that you believed in such things.’

‘I didn’t until this happened to me,’ agreed the other, ‘but I’ve changed my mind now. I’ve had to. Remember The Witch of Colchester.’

‘That’s only a play.’

‘I wonder. It’s turning out to be more of a prophecy.’

‘In what way?’

‘What happens to Lord Malady when his enemy decides to attack him?’

‘A spell is cast and he’s …’ Nicholas paused as he heard what he was saying.

‘Go on. Finish your sentence.’

‘A spell is cast and he suffers this strange illness. A high fever.’

‘Just like the one I had.’

‘When he recovers from that,’ said Nicholas, going through the play in his mind, ‘he upsets Sir Roderick Lawless again and is struck down by a more serious complaint.’

‘Just as I was.’

‘But there can’t possibly be a connection,’ argued Nicholas. ‘The Witch of Colchester is no more than a series of words on a page.’

‘So is a spell.’

‘I put the whole thing down to coincidence.’

‘If only I could do that, Nick,’ sighed the other, ‘but I can’t. Everything that happens to Lord Malady has so far happened to me. My fear is that there’s more to come. What about that scene where my character loses his voice completely?’

‘Only for comic effect.’

‘It may be comical on stage but it would be a catastrophe off it. This is Pye’s revenge,’ he said darkly. ‘Because I didn’t let him watch the rehearsals, he’s getting his own back on me by means of a spell.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Nobody is more eager to see that play acted well on the stage than Master Pye. Why should he disable the one man capable of doing justice to the role of Lord Malady? No,’ insisted Nicholas, ‘you can rule out the author here and now. He’s a kind, gentle, benign fellow.’

‘With a passion for witchcraft.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true.’

‘My opinion is that the kind, gentle, benign Egidius Pye has powers over which he has no control. In the act of writing that play, he cast an unintended spell and I’m its principal victim.’

‘You’re its only victim,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If the play has such danger lurking in it, why wasn’t Edmund struck down as well? He’s actually amended some of its words and scenes. If anyone would be likely to suffer, it would be him.’

‘Edmund Hoode is not a character in the play, Lord Malady is. And I, alas, have agreed to take the role. That means there’s more agony in store for me.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff, Nick. I regret I ever agreed to play the part.’

‘If you’re so worried about it, why not assign it to someone else? Owen, perhaps. He’d lack your fire but he’d be a convincing Lord Malady.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn bravely. ‘I’ll not give in. In any case, I love Owen too much to foist a Malady on him that might bring a string of maladies in its wake. All I ask you is this, Nick. Watch over me. If anything happens, call no doctor. Just look to the play. It will be positive proof of what I claim.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I’m bewitched.’

They were over half a mile away when Isaac Upchard saw them. Swinging his horse round, he galloped back to the place where Reginald Orr was waiting for him. Both men had divested themselves of their Puritan attire to wear nondescript doublet and hose. Orr was breathing hard and resting on an axe.

‘They’re coming,’ warned Upchard.

‘How fast?’

‘At a walking pace. We’ve time to finish here.’

‘Take over, Isaac,’ panted Orr. ‘It’s almost done.’

Upchard dismounted and took the axe from him. While Orr tethered both horses in the safety of a nearby copse, the young man swung the implement with precision, cutting into the trunk of a tree all but ready to fall. As the last few chips of wood went spinning in the air, there was a loud creak. Upchard pushed hard against the trunk with the flat of his hand then leapt back quickly as the tree was toppled, crashing down across the track and making it impossible for anyone to pass. The two men withdrew to the safety of the copse to watch unseen. Sheaves of dry hay lay at their feet.

It took some time before the little cavalcade came round the bend and started to descend the slight gradient. Driven by Nicholas Bracewell, the cart was leading the way with Lawrence Firethorn and the others riding in pairs behind it. Unaware of what lay ahead of them, they were all chatting happily. It was only when they came right around the bend that they saw the obstacle ahead of them. Nicholas pulled hard on the reins to stop the horses but he was too late. They had already walked past the trap. The hole that Orr and Upchard had dug with such difficulty in the bone hard earth had been covered with branches to conceal it. One of the cartwheels rolled on to the scattered branches and they gave way at once, dropping the wheel so deep into the hole that the cart lurched over at an angle and shed half its cargo and most of its occupants. Bruised apprentices cried in pain as Nicholas struggled to control the neighing horses.

There was more to come. With their way ahead blocked and their cart disabled, Westfield’s Men were confronted with another problem. Someone came out of the copse and used a pitch fork to toss sheaves of burning hay at the visitors. Fire seemed to be raining from the sky. Horses reared, men yelled, boys cried and the cartwheel in the hole decided to part company with the axle, sending the remainder of its load on to the ground. The two Puritans rode away in high spirits. They were well pleased with their work. No plays would now pollute their county. Firmly repulsed, Westfield’s Men would slink back to London with their tails between their legs.