The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Eight

Panic reigned for several minutes. With their road blocked, their horses bucking wildly, their cart disabled and its occupants all thrown to the ground, and their retreat cut off by sheaves of blazing hay, Westfield’s Men were utterly confused. The boys cried, Firethorn roared and the animals became even more crazed. Nicholas Bracewell was the first to recover. Tossed from his seat on the wagon when the axle broke, he hit the ground and did a somersault before coming to a halt beside the howling Davy Stratton. He gave the boy a reassuring pat before leaping to his feet to take stock of the situation. Edmund Hoode was having enormous difficulty staying in the saddle as his horse reared madly. Nicholas ran over to grab the reins, holding on until the animal was brought sufficiently under control for Hoode to be able to dismount. The playwright took hold of the reins himself so that Nicholas was free to lend help elsewhere.

Fire was the chief problem. Nobody was actually burnt by the flames but they were causing havoc among the horses. Nicholas ran to the fallen tree, snapped off a branch and used it to beat out the nearest fire. Owen Elias followed his example, jumping down from the saddle, tethering his horse to the cart and snapping off a branch of his own. The hay burnt fiercely but only for a short while. The book holder and the Welshman soon tamed the little circle of fires, stamping out the last of the flames with their feet to leave piles of smoking debris in their wake. The crisis was over. Noise subsided, horses were calmed, apprentices were back on their feet and it was possible to take a proper inventory of the damage.

They had been fortunate. Cuts and bruises had been sustained by all who had been hurled to the ground and George Dart had acquired a spectacular black eye but there were no bad injuries. The company was more shocked than hurt. Several of the properties and some of the scenery had been damaged when flung from the cart but nothing was beyond repair. It was Barnaby Gill’s dignity that had been most seriously wounded.

‘Is this the kind of welcome we receive in Essex?’ he said, surveying the scene with bulging eyes. ‘I’ll no more of it. I say that we should turn back immediately.’

‘Never!’ yelled Firethorn, silencing the few murmurs of assent. ‘A silly jest is not going to stop us fulfilling our obligations.’

‘This is more than a jest, Lawrence,’ retorted Gill. ‘I might have been killed.’

‘No,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘This was meant to frighten us away rather than to harm us. Swords or stones would have been used if someone really intended to kill some of us. This was simply a warning.’

‘And one that we’ll ignore,’ insisted Firethorn.

‘The best place to ignore it is back in London,’ said Gill.

‘That would be cowardice, Barnaby.’

‘I call it plain common sense.’

‘So do I,’ intervened Nicholas, keen to stifle the argument. ‘Since Master Gill feels threatened by this incident, let him return to the safety of London on his own. We shall miss his genius but there are others in the company who can take over the roles that he vacates. Meanwhile,’ he went on, looking around the others, ‘the rest of us will ride on to Silvermere where a more cordial reception than this is guaranteed.’

Gill was outraged. ‘Someone else will steal my roles?’

‘Only until you are ready to rejoin us.’

‘I forbid anyone to touch Doctor Blackthought in The Happy Malcontent.’

‘Somebody must if you desert us, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias, realising the book holder’s stratagem. ‘It’s a part I’ve always coveted, Barnaby. I’ll keep it warm for you while you sneak back to London.’

‘No!’ shouted Gill, horrified at the notion. ‘I’ll not let you near the role. Besides, how could you play anything at Silvermere when you’ll not even get there? This tree is blocking your way completely.’

‘It can easily be moved,’ explained Nicholas. ‘We’ll unhitch the horses from the cart and let them drag the tree clear.’

‘But our cart is broken. Without that, we have no scenery, costumes or property.’

Nicholas inspected the damage. ‘The axle is sound. It’s only the wheel that needs to be repaired and that is not beyond our ability.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn, dismounting from his horse, ‘that’s a task I’ll take upon myself. I was raised in a blacksmith’s forge and watched my father prove himself an able cartwright on many an occasion.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s see if my own skills are still in good order.’

‘Are you still here, Barnaby?’ teased Elias. ‘I thought you were fleeing?’

‘We were attacked, Owen,’ replied Gill. ‘Our lives were in danger. How can you pretend that nothing has happened?’

‘Because that’s the only way to get our revenge on whoever laid this ambush.’

‘And who was that?’

‘We’ll find out,’ said Nicholas, guessing who had tried to scare them away but not wishing to discuss the matter in front of the whole company. ‘Meanwhile, there’s work to do here for those of us who mean to go on.’

‘Yes,’ added Firethorn, hands on hips, ‘let those who wish to turn their back on us in our hour of need, depart now with my curse upon them. We’ve suffered worse setbacks than this and always come through. So, my friends, either show loyalty to Westfield’s Men and stay or take your miserable carcasses out of my sight.’

Everyone turned expectantly to Gill. Seeing that he had no support, he began to bluster but quickly gave up. He eventually got down from his horse to indicate that he would stay. Nicholas took charge at once, organising people to gather up the scattered contents of the cart while he unhitched the two horses and, with the aid of ropes, got them to drag the heavy tree aside. Firethorn, meanwhile, addressed the problem of the broken wheel, using the tools they always took with them when on tour and displaying the skills picked up in his father’s forge. When the apprentices had gathered wood, Nicholas lit a fire to keep up their spirits then suggested that the actor-musicians might take out their instruments to play some cheerful dances. The shock of the ambush was slowly wearing off. Even the irritable Barnaby Gill was soothed. A sense of camaraderie returned.

Nicholas went off with Elias to search the copse in which their attackers had hidden. The ground was too hard to show hoof prints but they suspected that their assailants had been few in number. Wisps of hay beside a tree showed where the men had concealed themselves to light their sheaves. Broken branches suggested the route they had taken for their hasty departure. It was far too late to pursue them.

‘Who the hell were they, Nick?’ asked Elias.

‘I think we can put a name to one of them, Owen.’

‘Can we?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The person Sir Michael warned us about. Reginald Orr.’

‘That malignant Puritan?’

‘I believe so.’

Elias was scornful. ‘A man of God resorting to violence?’

‘I have the feeling that this particular man of God will go to any extremes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Actors are vermin in his opinion. They must be put down.’

‘Well, he’ll have to try a lot harder to put me down.’

‘Orr doesn’t know that yet. He probably thinks he’s sent us running all the way back to London. When he learns that we’ve reached Silvermere and mean to present our plays, he may try to strike at us again.’

‘Unless we cut the villain to ribbons first!’

‘We need proof before we can accost Reginald Orr,’ said Nicholas, ‘and we’ve none at the moment. Until we find some, we must stay our hands.’

‘It has to be him, Nick,’ argued Elias. ‘Who else could it be?’

‘I don’t know. It certainly wasn’t a gang of robbers or they’d have closed in when they had us in disarray. No, this ambush was planned, Owen. Somebody knew that we’d be travelling along the road today. Digging that hole and chopping down that tree took time and energy. Nobody would go to such pains unless they were absolutely certain to catch their prey.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Go back to the others to help repair the cart.’

‘And then?’

‘You can drive it the rest of the way,’ decided Nicholas. ‘I’ll ride on ahead to make sure that there are no more unpleasant surprises awaiting us. I’ll take young Davy with me. His short cut through the forest will save us valuable time.’

‘As long as he doesn’t run off again.’

‘Davy won’t do that, Owen.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s been too frightened by this ambush. With enemies lurking about, he won’t dare to go off on his own.’

They came out of the trees and strolled back towards the others. Westfield’s Men had recovered their high spirits. Those who were sorting out the cargo were exchanging merry banter, the remainder were warming themselves at the fire and enjoying the sprightly music that was now being played. Ashamed of his earlier response, Barnaby Gill was declaring his commitment to the company by executing one of his jigs for the amusement of the apprentices. Firethorn was swinging a hammer rhythmically as he worked on the cartwheel, Hoode was rehearsing his lines from The Witch of Colchester. The troupe looked less like victims of an ambush than contented travellers who had deliberately made camp beside the road.

Elias was heartened and Nicholas was deeply touched by what he saw.

‘They won’t stop Westfield’s Men,’ said the latter, ‘whatever they do.’

Sir Michael Greenleaf seemed impervious to the cold. Even though he had taken the precaution of wrapping a cloak around his shoulders, Romball Taylard gave an occasional shiver but his master was untroubled by the low temperature and the gusting wind. The two men were on the top of the tower at Silvermere. Instead of training his telescope on the sky, however, Sir Michael was scanning the horizon in the falling light for signs of his visitors. He stood back and shook his head in dismay.

‘There’s no sign of them, Romball,’ he said dejectedly.

‘Perhaps they’re not coming today, Sir Michael.’

‘They promised faithfully that they would and I take Nicholas Bracewell to be a man of his word. Heavens, they’re due to stage their first play tomorrow evening. What am I to tell my guests if I have no theatre company to set before them?’

‘Westfield’s Men may still arrive today,’ said Taylard.

‘But they should have been here hours ago.’

‘They may have got lost on their way.’

‘When they have Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias to guide them? I doubt that they’ve gone astray, Romball. They have Davy Stratton with them, remember. He knows this part of the county as well as anyone.’

‘We’re assuming that they’ll bring the boy, Sir Michael.’

‘Oh, they must,’ said the old man. ‘His father will be in the audience.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Jerome Stratton would be mortified if he did not at least see a glimpse of his son on the stage as Davy sets out on his new career. He’s an intelligent lad and may turn out to be a splendid actor.’

‘I’m not sure that actors need great intelligence,’ opined the steward with the merest hint of contempt. ‘They seem to come from all walks of life, with little or no education in some cases. Look at that Welshman who came here.’

‘Owen Elias? A brilliant actor, according to my wife.’

‘But clearly no graduate of a university.’

Sir Michael laughed. ‘Neither am I, Romball,’ he said with delight, ‘yet I’ve discovered things that have eluded the most learned men of science at Oxford and Cambridge. Which of them have my dedication and range of interests? Or, for that matter, my artistic inclinations for, though science is my first love, I don’t neglect the arts. It’s not only Lady Eleanor who wanted the players here.’

‘I appreciate that, Sir Michael.’

‘I, too, am an admirer of histrionic skills. Even if you are not.’

Taylard stiffened. ‘Me?’

‘Come, Romball,’ said the other. ‘You don’t need to dissemble in front of me. For reasons that I can’t quite understand, you resent the arrival of Westfield’s Men.’

‘I deny that charge strongly, Sir Michael.’

‘I sense your opposition.’

‘It’s not for me to approve or disapprove,’ said the other smoothly. ‘As your steward, I merely carry out your wishes without subjecting them to any kind of moral judgement. My pleasure comes from serving you and Lady Eleanor.’

‘Nobody could do it better. What other man would stand on top of a tower in the freezing cold just to keep me company? And there’s probably not another steward in England who would put up with the explosions from my cannon and the stench of chemicals from my laboratory. But you’ve been here too long for me not to get an idea of your own feelings,’ said Sir Michael with a wry smile. ‘Deny it if you will, I still believe that you have reservations about our visitors from London.’

‘I have only one, Sir Michael,’ admitted the other, ‘and it’s nothing whatsoever to do with the actors themselves. It concerns you and Lady Eleanor.’

‘In what way?’

‘That’s already been demonstrated. When you allow plays to be staged at Silvermere, you also invite trouble. The vicar gave you fair warning of it.’

Sir Michael sighed. ‘The notorious Reginald Orr.’

‘I would hate him to cause any more trouble for you, Sir Michael.’

‘Nor shall he, Romball. That turbulent Christian will not be allowed anywhere near the house. Have no fears on our account.’

‘I’ll instruct everyone to remain vigilant.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Michael with a sparkle in his eye, ‘and if you still think we’re going to be invaded by an army of wild Puritans, you can even mount a man up here to keep watch through my telescope.’

Taylard gave a rare smile. ‘There’s nobody I dislike enough to put him up here in this weather, Sir Michael.’

‘I think it’s quite mild today.’

‘The lake is still frozen.’

‘It won’t be when I find a way to smash the ice with cannon balls.’

‘Why not leave that task to the servants?’ advised the other.

‘When science can save them the trouble? It’s merely a question of getting the right balance of ingredients in my gunpowder. There’s still too much sulphur.’ He peered anxiously through the telescope again. ‘Wherever can they be?’

‘They’re obviously not coming, Sir Michael.’

‘It will soon be too dark to see anything.’

‘Could I suggest that we go back inside the house?’

‘We might as well,’ agreed the other, giving up. ‘We’re wasting our time up here. Wait a moment!’ he said as Taylard headed for the door. ‘Someone’s coming.’

‘Where?’ The steward looked down at the drive below. ‘I see nothing.’

‘That’s because your eyes are not trained like mine. Look over to the left.’

Moving to the edge of the parapet, Taylard shifted his gaze towards the western end of the estate. Figures were slowly coming out of the gloom like so many apparitions. Two riders led the way, followed by a cart and a succession of other riders. Sir Michael was so delighted that he began to wave excitedly at the newcomers even though they could not possibly see him behind the parapet. The steward gritted his teeth and made an effort to sound pleased.

‘What a relief!’ he said. ‘Shall we go down to welcome them?’

Wearied by the delay and worn down by the long ride, Westfield’s Men were revived by the sight of Silvermere rising out of the twilight to greet them. The promise of food and shelter even brought a smile to the face of Barnaby Gill. Nicholas Bracewell was at the head of the procession with Davy Stratton. Lawrence Firethorn rode up to join them so that he could introduce his company. Lady Eleanor was the first person to come sweeping out of the house but her husband soon joined her to add his salutations. Firethorn doffed his cap and gave them a token bow from the saddle.

‘Westfield’s Men are at your service,’ he said. ‘I am Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘We expected you earlier, Master Firethorn,’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘An unforeseen problem that I’ll discuss with you later.’

‘Then do so in warmth and comfort, sir,’ urged Sir Michael, flapping about at his wife’s side. ‘Bring the whole company into the house for the time being. The ostlers will look after the horses and take care of your cart. We have a meal awaiting you.’

A spontaneous cheer went up from the company. It was several hours since they had last eaten and the cold was getting into their bones. To be offered such hospitality at Silvermere helped to erase the memory of the ambush that had held them up for so long. A servant led them into the house and along to the kitchen. Nicholas stepped into the hall and saw Romball Taylard standing impassively in a corner. The steward gave him a polite nod. When the rest of the company had gone, Nicholas introduced Firethorn properly to their hosts. The actor gave them a respectful bow.

‘We’re sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, raising his shoulders in apology, ‘but we were attacked on the way here.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Lady Eleanor. ‘Highwaymen?’

‘We think not.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Happily, no, Lady Eleanor.’

‘Then who set upon you?’ asked Sir Michael.

‘I’ll let Nick tell you the tale.’

Taking his cue, Nicholas gave an abbreviated account of what had happened, deliberately playing down the hysteria caused by the ambush. His tentative identification of their attackers was endorsed by Sir Michael Greenleaf.

‘It sounds like Reginald Orr’s work,’ he said without hesitation.

Lady Eleanor was vengeful. ‘The man should be put behind bars.’

‘He will be, my dear, if we can find evidence to convict him.’

‘The main thing is that we got here,’ said Firethorn. ‘And what a wonderful arena for our art. I cannot tell you how overwhelmed we are with gratitude that you sought fit to invite Westfield’s Men to entertain you.’

‘It’s we who are grateful,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘I just wish that your journey here had not been spoilt by this dreadful incident.’

Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘A mere distraction, Lady Eleanor. A thousand Reginald Orrs would not prevent us from getting here to honour our engagement. Amongst others,’ he said, striking a martial pose, ‘I play the role of Henry the Fifth. It will take more than a fallen tree and a few sheaves of blazing hay to deter the hero of Agincourt. Then we have Nick Bracewell here who has been around the world with Drake. Nobody is going to stop a man of his mettle from travelling the much shorter distance from London to Essex.’

‘Reginald Orr will be dealt with,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Unless, of course, it was someone else entirely,’ said Nicholas.

His host was adamant. ‘It was either Orr himself or some confederates set on by him. He has too much influence over the weaker vessels in his circle. I can only tender my apologies once more. I do hope that it will in no way hinder the performance here tomorrow evening.’

‘No question of that,’ boomed Firethorn. ‘Double Deceit will make Silvermere ring with laughter. We’ve arrived safely at our destination and we mean to make a lasting impression on you and your guests.’

Sir Michael beamed, his wife smiled graciously at Firethorn and the actor lapped up their admiration like a cat with a pail of cream at his disposal. Pleased with their reception, Nicholas watched Romball Taylard out of the corner of his eye. Their hosts might fawn over the star of Westfield’s Men but the steward took a less favourable view of him. There was such studied hostility in the man’s eyes that Nicholas began to wonder if he had been party to the ambush. He turned to answer a question from Lady Eleanor then let Firethorn take over once more. When Nicholas next tried to peep at Taylard, the man had vanished as if he had never been there.

‘Do something about him, Michael!’ instructed his wife. ‘Arrest the man.’

‘When enough evidence has been gathered,’ he said cautiously.

‘Reginald Orr is a menace.’

‘He did swear to stop us reaching Silvermere,’ Nicholas reminded them. ‘What is he going to do when he realises that he failed, Sir Michael? Is he the kind of person who will try to attack us again?’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Again and again and again.’

Jared Tuke was a practical man who did not stand on ceremony. When a funeral was to take place at St Christopher’s, the gravedigger who was invariably employed was the experienced Nathaniel Kytchen. However, since it was Kytchen himself who had now died, another pair of strong arms had to perform the office and Tuke took it willingly upon himself. He and the deceased had been good friends over the years and he felt a sense of personal obligation. The work was punishing. Frozen earth had to be split with a pick before he could use a spade to any effect. Even on such a wintry morning, Tuke was running with sweat as he stood waist high in the grave. The arrival of Anthony Dyment gave him an excuse to pause.

‘How are you getting on, Jared?’ asked the vicar.

‘Slowly.’

‘Not far to go now.’

‘Oh, there is,’ said Tuke solemnly. ‘Nathaniel always went down at least six feet. He’ll get no less for his own burial place.’

‘As long as the grave is ready for tomorrow.’

‘It will be.’

‘We shall miss Nathaniel. Who will take over his duties in future?’

‘I’ll find someone.’

The laconic Tuke used the back of his arm to rub the glistening sweat from his brow. His clothing was soiled, his face reddened by effort. Dyment had a few parish matters to discuss with the churchwarden but decided to postpone them to a time when they were in more appropriate surroundings. The vicar had respected Nathaniel Kytchen but found the old man coarse and unpredictable. Tuke, on the other hand, liked the outspoken gravedigger and would feel aggrieved if he had to talk about the projected repair to the church roof while up to his waist in the grave of a close friend. The vicar was about to take his leave when a figure loomed up out of the gravestones.

‘Good morrow!’ said Reginald Orr, pointing to the new grave. ‘Is that for Nathaniel Kytchen?’

‘It is, Reginald,’ said the vicar.

‘Dig a dozen or so more while you’re at it, Jared,’ urged the Puritan with a grin. ‘We can bury Westfield’s Men at the same time.’

‘But they’re not dead.’

‘They are to all intents and purposes.’

‘You’re not wanted here,’ said Tuke, gruffly.

‘Except on Sundays,’ added Dyment, ‘when we never see you.’

‘I celebrate the Sabbath elsewhere.’

‘You’ll be up before the church court again for not attending.’

Orr gave a mocking smile. ‘What will they do? Excommunicate me once more? Eviction from a church that I don’t believe in is no punishment to me. It’s a blessed release. Unless, of course,’ he said warningly, ‘you’d like me there to comment on the errors in your sermon?’

‘There are no errors,’ said Dyment bravely. ‘It’s you who are at fault.’

‘You wish to talk theology now?’

‘No, no. I have parish matters to attend to, Reginald.’

‘What is more important in this parish than praising God in the proper way?’

‘We do that already.’

‘Not in my opinion.’

‘That’s well known,’ grunted Tuke, hauling himself out of the grave. ‘Your opinions are leading others astray. They, too, will face the court.’

‘Threaten and fine us all you wish,’ challenged Orr, ‘it will not shift us from our beliefs. God needs no fine churches filled with heathenish idols. Simplicity is the virtue that He appreciates.’

‘Simplicity is for simpletons,’ said the churchwarden, making a unique excursion into humour. ‘Reverend Dyment is our vicar and he practices the true religion.’

‘Thank you, Jared,’ said Dyment.

Grateful that he had the support of his churchwarden, the vicar was also secretly relieved that Orr no longer attended church. On the last occasion when the Puritan had joined the congregation, he had risen to his feet to contradict some claims made in the sermon. On the previous occasion, he had not even waited for the sermon, charging out of the church with as much noise as he could make and slamming its great oak door behind him. As he looked at their unwelcome visitor, Dyment realised that here was the one parishioner for whom he would gladly dig the grave himself.

‘Why have you come, Reginald?’ he asked.

‘To pass on the good tidings,’ said Orr with a sly smile.

‘And what are they?’

‘Silvermere will not be polluted by a vile theatre company, after all.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I sense that the vermin may have turned back.’

‘You sense it,’ pressed the other, ‘or you know it?’

‘Let me just say that word reached me yesterday.’

‘Then it differs from the word I received only this morning.’

Orr’s smile froze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A letter from Sir Michael tells me that Westfield’s Men arrived safely and are due to perform this evening at Silvermere. I’m invited to attend.’

‘They’re here?’ said Orr in astonishment.

‘In spite of an attempt to turn them back, apparently.’ The vicar watched him carefully. ‘I don’t suppose that you know anything about that, Reginald?’

Orr was belligerent. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘The vicar was asking a polite question,’ said Tuke, squaring up to him.

‘Then the polite answer is that I’ve nothing to say on the subject.’

‘Sir Michael will pursue you for a proper reply,’ cautioned Dyment.

‘Let him,’ said Orr, unworried. ‘What concerns me is the fact that you’ve been invited to watch this performance at Silvermere.’

‘I am Sir Michael’s chaplain.’

‘All the more reason why you should stop him from walking in the counsel of the ungodly or standing in the way of sinners. Actors are born infidels. They’re ungodly sinners who seek to corrupt and defile. Can you, as his chaplain,’ he said, jabbing the vicar in the chest, ‘condone what Sir Michael is doing?’

‘I respect his right to do exactly as he wishes.’

‘Even if it vitiates the basic tenets of Christianity?’

‘I take a more tolerant view of theatre companies.’

‘Then you mean to encourage this degradation?’ snarled Orr. ‘You reprimand me for not attending church yet you welcome a band of fiends who preach the word of the Devil himself. You’re a traitor to your cloth, Anthony Dyment!’

‘Rein in your language,’ ordered Tuke.

‘Why? Does the truth sit too heavily upon your ears?’

‘The vicar deserves respect.’

‘Well, he’ll not get it from me if he watches actors purveying their evil in the heart of his parish. What will you do?’ he demanded, returning on Dyment. ‘Will you have the courage to spurn this invitation? Or will you feed at the table of Satan?’

For once in his life, Anthony Dyment was lost for words.

Twenty-four hours at Silvermere wrought a complete transformation in Westfield’s Men.

The beleaguered company who had arrived at the house, cold, hungry and exhausted, were now happy and alert. Their welcome had been warm, the food excellent, their hosts attentive and their accommodation far better than anything they usually enjoyed when they went out on the road. They found the Great Hall itself inspiring and could not wait to begin rehearsal. Double Deceit was one of their most reliable comedies but it called for immense technical precision. Since it was the first play in the sequence, Firethorn was anxious to get it absolutely right in order to create a favourable impression and he drilled his actors throughout the morning and the afternoon. Davy Stratton was given only a brief appearance on stage where he was allowed to join in a general cheer. No lines were assigned to him. Behind the scenes, his responsibilities were much larger.

Nicholas Bracewell made full use of the elements at his disposal, hanging curtains that could be drawn back to reveal the area below the gallery and placing the scores of candelabra in the most advantageous positions. Accustomed to perform outdoors in the afternoon, the company had to adapt to the differing conditions now offered them. Chairs were set out in rows and Nicholas watched some of the scenes from the back row to make sure that everyone was visible as well as audible. All was satisfactory. There were no apparent problems. When the actors gathered in the ante-room that was their tiring-house, morale was high and confidence unlimited. Davy Stratton was the only person who was suffering from nervousness. Efficient during rehearsals, he was now anxious and rather distracted, fearing that he would let his colleagues down on the very first occasion when he worked alongside them. Nicholas sought to reassure him.

‘You did wonders during rehearsal,’ he said.

‘Did I?’ replied Davy.

‘We could not have got through it without you.’

‘But all that I did was to stand there with the various costumes.’

‘That’s a vital task in this play. Speed is crucial, Davy. If the piece slows down at any point, its momentum is lost and so is much of its comedy. It only works if we do our duty as well as the actors.’ He touched the boy’s arm. ‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’

‘I feel sick.’

‘So does everyone,’ said Nicholas, glancing around the room. ‘They just learn to hide it better. But it’s not really sickness, Davy. It’s excitement. Once the play starts, you’ll have no time to worry about a queasy stomach.’

‘I like the play. It made me giggle.’

‘Let’s hope that it has the same effect on our audience.’

Nicholas took the boy with him as he checked the large number of properties required in Double Deceit. Those damaged in the ambush had now been repaired and all had been set out in sequence on a long trestle table. The actors, meanwhile, put on their costumes, bantered contentedly or slipped off into a corner for a last rehearsal of their lines. Noise was building steadily in the adjacent Great Hall as the guests filed in to take their places. Judging from the volume of the sound, a sizeable number had gathered to watch the famous company display its wonders. Romball Taylard eventually came into the tiring-house to find out if they were ready. Lawrence Firethorn assured him that they were and sent him back to Sir Michael Greenleaf. He then delivered a short but stirring speech to the company, exhorting them to give of their best. Roused by his words, they took up their positions on stage behind the curtains with increased eagerness.

On a signal from Nicholas Bracewell, the musicians began to play in the gallery and the heavy murmur in the hall quickly died out. Owen Elias then swept out on stage to deliver the Prologue and to harvest the first laughter of the evening. When the curtains were drawn right back, Double Deceit began in earnest. Its plot was lifted from a play by Plautus. Two pairs of identical twins were involved in an endless series of merry escapades. Mistaken identities time and again brought howls of mirth from the audience. What made the performance especially memorable was the fact that Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill each played a pair of twins, leaving the stage as Argos and Silvio of Rome, respectively, only to reappear almost instantly as Argos and Silvio of Florence. Swift changes of costume were vital and Davy was kept busy taking one cloak and hat from Firethorn while handing him replacements, only to give him the original items when he reverted from Florence to Rome again. Standing beside him, George Dart was supplying the changes of costume for Gill, the morose servant to one Argos and the irrepressible jester to the other.

Timing was faultless. Everything was done so expertly that the spectators thought they were watching four actors playing the central roles instead of two. Appreciative laughter never ceased. Some of the bawdry spread blushes among the ladies but the men roared uncontrollably. Subtle innuendo was a form of humour that appealed to husbands and wives with equal success. Double Deceit was a triumphant romp, working its double deceit on an audience comprising friends and relations of Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor, some of whom had never seen a theatrical performance before and who were completely enthralled by the novel experience. When Act Five rose to its climax, both sets of twins appeared on stage together for the first time. Owen Elias, wearing a costume identical to that of Firethorn’s, looked remarkably like him while James Ingram, dressed to duplicate Gill, was a more than passable imitation.

It was left to Firethorn to deliver the Epilogue, a sixteen-line speech in rhyming couplets that rounded off the play with a mixture of wit and wisdom. Proud of the way that his company had responded to the challenge and delighted with his own double performances, the actor stepped forward to the edge of the stage, cleared his throat and opened his mouth to let the words spring forth. But none came. No matter how hard he tried, Firethorn could produce no more than a faint croak. He clutched at his neck and even poked a finger down his throat but they were futile gestures. What made his predicament worse was the fact that the spectators, assuming his antics were all part of the play, laughed afresh and even applauded when he grimaced as he made one final effort to declaim the elusive Epilogue.

Barnaby Gill eventually came to his rescue. Pushing him aside, the clown did a little dance by way of introduction then invented a couplet to cover the embarrassment of his silent colleague.

‘Good friends, let merry servants have their day,

I’ll say the words my master cannot say.’

The sixteen original lines now followed, delivered with comic effect by a man who had heard them so often that they were imprinted on his memory. Firethorn was horrified to see his rival stealing his lines and taking a first drink of the applause that burst out. At the same time, however, he recognised that Gill had been their saviour and steeled himself to thank the man when his voice returned. It was baffling. Firethorn was in no pain yet he could not utter a single word. When the company quit the stage, he led them back on again to take their bow, beaming graciously at his hosts who sat in the front row then going through his range of elaborate gestures. Gill could not resist adding insult to injury. As the pair of them came into the tiring-house, he turned to Firethorn.

‘Learn your lines, man,’ he scolded. ‘At least do something correctly.’

Nicholas Bracewell knew that the problem was serious. Whatever else he might do, Firethorn would never forget his lines, still less yield up an opportunity for Gill to say them in his stead. Seeing the mingled fury and helplessness in Firethorn’s eyes, he swiftly intervened before Gill’s mockery provoked Argos of Rome and of Florence to violence. When he took the stricken actor aside, they were joined by Edmund Hoode.

‘What happened, Lawrence?’ asked Hoode. ‘You know that speech backwards.’

Firethorn used a finger to jab wildly at his throat.

‘Have you lost your voice?’ said Nicholas, getting an energetic nod in return. ‘Can you say nothing at all?’ A despairing shake of the head came in reply. ‘But you had no difficulty at all in the course of the play itself.’

Firethorn tried to explain his dilemma with a series of vivid gestures.

Hoode was bewildered. ‘What’s wrong with him, Nick?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I think he needs a doctor.’

‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. Lawrence is invincible.’

‘That’s no longer the case, Edmund. Or so it seems. First, he has a high fever; then he collapses during the sermon in church; and now this.’

Firethorn nodded his agreement and gesticulated wildly. When other members of the company came over to see how he was, Nicholas waved them away, assuring them that their leader was simply tired and needed a rest. Few were persuaded by the book holder’s words. The ebullient actor never tired. Concerned for his state of health, they began to change out of their costumes. Only Gill tried to exploit his colleague’s distress. When he had shed the garments he wore as Silvio of Rome, he drifted across to the three men and spoke with a lordly air.

‘Lawrence’s lapse may yet be turned to good account,’ he said, preening himself. ‘I think it better from now on if Silvio always delivers the Epilogue to show that the tables have turned and that the master is subservient to the man. What do you think?’

‘I think it a monstrous idea,’ said Hoode.

‘And a singularly inappropriate one,’ added Nicholas.

Gill ignored them both. ‘What about you, Lawrence? You saw how well they received my Epilogue. Will you give the lines to one who says them properly?’

Unable to speak, Firethorn lurched at Gill with hands outstretched to grab him by the throat. Nicholas and Hoode restrained him just in time. Gill skipped out of reach and gave a brittle laugh. He was revelling in his moment of triumph. When most of the others had drifted away, Firethorn sat forlornly on a bench, head in hands. Hoode tried in vain to comfort him. Nicholas first supervised the removal of scenery and properties from the stage before returning to his friends. He was about to console Firethorn when Sir Michael came tripping into the room in high excitement.

‘Where is he?’ he cried. ‘Where is that magician called Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘Over here, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas.

Their host hurried across to them. ‘Oh, sir. Forgive my delay in coming to congratulate you but I was trapped under an avalanche of compliments from my guests. They found the play both hilarious and enchanting. From your pen, I hear, Master Hoode.’

Hoode gave a nod. ‘Even so, Sir Michael.’

‘Then you, too, deserve unlimited praise. The play and the performance were above reproach. In the dual roles of Silvio, Master Firethorn, you were superb.’ The actor smiled for the first time since coming into the tiring-house. ‘That device at the end was masterly, sir, pretending to lose your voice like that so that the lowly servant had to deliver the Epilogue. Your gestures and expressions were so wonderfully lifelike.’

His face a mask of anger, Firethorn’s gestures were so openly hostile that Nicholas had to stand in front of him to shield him from their host. He smiled gently at Sir Michael and held up both palms in apology.

‘Forgive him, Sir Michael,’ he said. ‘Master Firethorn is fatigued.’

‘Hardly surprising after the energy he put into his performance.’

‘Would it be possible for him to see a doctor?’

Sir Michael was alarmed. ‘A doctor? Master Firethorn is not ill?’

‘No, no,’ said Nicholas. ‘He simply needs a reviving dose of medicine.’

‘Then I prescribe a potion of my own devising. It cured my dog’s palsy.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘It may not be quite what is called for here, Sir Michael. Five minutes with a doctor are all that is needed. I wondered if perhaps you had such a man among your guests.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said the other. ‘Doctor Winche.’

‘Would he consent to treat Lawrence?’ asked Hoode.

‘Doctor Winche would insist on it, Master Hoode. The treat would be all his, believe me. He and his wife thought the performance was remarkable. If he has the chance to meet the undoubted star of the evening, Doctor Winche will seize it gladly.’

‘Perhaps you could ask him to step in here, Sir Michael.’

‘At once, at once, dear fellow,’ said their host, scurrying off. ‘We can’t have Master Firethorn in the slightest discomfort.’

‘Ably done, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘Lawrence was about to strangle him when he made that remark about the Epilogue. Thank heaven you prevented him or our first performance here would also have been our last.’

Firethorn stood up, pointing a finger and mouthing words that had no sound. Hoode was confused but Nicholas understood what the actor was trying to say to them. He quickly retrieved the prompt copy of Double Deceit and brought it over. Taking it from him, Firethorn indicated the title then drew an imaginary line through it, replacing it with four words written invisibly by an index finger.

‘What on earth is he doing, Nick?’ asked Hoode.

‘Telling us to look to another play,’ said Nicholas.

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what caused the loss of his voice.’

‘How can a play possibly do that?’

‘I don’t know but that’s exactly what The Witch of Colchester seems to be doing, Edmund. You worked on the piece,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘Does not Lord Malady suffer a series of strange maladies?’

‘Well, yes,’ recalled Hoode. ‘He’s first struck down by a mystery fever, then he collapses for no apparent reason and, when he recovers from that, he …’ His voice tailed off and he looked back at the patient. ‘Are you trying to tell us that you’re enduring the same trials as Lord Malady?’ Firethorn nodded vigorously. ‘But that’s incredible.’

‘Two of us are coming to believe it, Edmund.’

‘Egidius Pye has written a comedy, not woven a spell.’

‘Perhaps he’s done both without even realising it.’

‘No, Nick. I refuse even to countenance the idea.’

Firethorn took him by the shoulders to shake him, peering deep into his eyes. He resorted to mime, first pretending to have a high fever, then falling to the floor and twitching convulsively. Hauling himself back up, he walked around the room as if declaiming a speech then grabbed at his throat with both hands. He ended by thrusting the prompt copy of Double Deceit into its author’s hands. Hoode looked down at it with misgivings then stared back at Firethorn.

‘I still can’t accept it, Lawrence. In the play, Lord Malady’s woes are wished upon him by his enemy, Sir Roderick Lawless. He engages someone to afflict his rival with various illnesses. Everyone assumes that it’s Black Joan, the witch, who has put a spell on him but the real villain is the man who’s supposed to be nursing him back to health.’

‘Doctor Putrid,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly.’

‘A role taken by Barnaby Gill.’

Hoode became pensive. ‘I begin to see what you mean. When Lawrence lost his voice this evening, it was Barnaby who gained most. And when Lord Malady is struck dumb in The Witch of Colchester, it’s Doctor Putrid who reaps the benefit. Can this be so?’ he said, arms flailing in disbelief. ‘Is the great Lawrence Firethorn, who has triumphed in so many plays, now at the mercy of one?’

Firethorn nodded again then flung himself down in despair on the bench.

Doctor Winche chose that moment to come in with Sir Michael. He was a short, round, bow-legged man of middle years with a rubicund face that was one contented smile. He tugged at his goatee beard then rubbed his podgy hands together.

‘This is truly an honour, gentlemen,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘If laughter is the best medicine, then I’ll live to be a hundred.’ When he saw Firethorn in distress, his manner changed at once. ‘Good gracious!’ he cried, swooping on the actor. ‘What ails you, sir? Are you in pain?’

‘Master Firethorn is very tired, doctor,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and he’s suffering from a sore throat. We’ll let you tend him in private?’

‘Very sensible,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Let’s step into the hall.’

Nicholas and Hoode went through the door and on to the stage with their host. Hundreds of candles still flickered in the room but two servants were systematically extinguishing the flames now that the audience had left.

Sir Michael was solicitous. ‘I hope that his condition is not serious.’

‘I’m sure that it’s not, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful to divulge nothing more about Firethorn’s recent medical history. ‘Sleep will work its wonders.’

‘And tomorrow, he can rest.’

‘Unhappily not, Sir Michael,’ explained Hoode. ‘Though we may have no performance in here tomorrow, we’ll be rehearsing our new play. Actors never rest, I fear. What you see on the stage in two hours is the fruit of much longer time spent in rehearsal. Double Deceit is a case in point.’

‘A delightful frolic, Master Hoode. My wife chortled with glee.’

‘I’m glad that Lady Eleanor was pleased,’ said Nicholas.

‘Overjoyed, my friend. What comes next?’

‘The Insatiate Duke. Very different fare, Sir Michael. We follow a sunny comedy with a dark tragedy. In one sense, it’s a pity we perform in the afternoon,’ he said, watching the servants dousing the candles, ‘because we could make great use of shadow with nothing but candelabra to illumine the stage. But no matter.’

‘No,’ agreed Hoode. ‘We usually play the piece in blazing sunshine.’

‘You mentioned the new comedy,’ said Sir Michael. ‘The Witch of Colchester. That’s the one that most appeals to me. Is it a powerful play?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir Michael.’

‘Too powerful,’ said Nicholas under his breath.

They talked on for a few minutes before being interrupted by Doctor Winche who came bustling on to the stage in a more settled frame of mind. His smile returned.

‘It’s nothing to cause alarm,’ he said. ‘What Master Firethorn most needs is sleep. His throat is sore yet not inflamed and there’s no swelling in the neck. I’ll send a potion across to him as soon as I return home.’

‘Could you not mix it here, Doctor Winche?’ suggested Sir Michael. ‘I’m sure that I’ve all the herbs necessary in my laboratory. That would save time.’

‘A great deal of it, Sir Michael. I accept your kind offer. Meanwhile,’ he said to the others, ‘I advise that you conduct Master Firethorn to his bed. When the poor fellow is comfortable, tell him how much my wife and I enjoyed his performance. Praise is a wonderful medicine. No man can have too much of it.’

He and Sir Michael went off to the laboratory, leaving Nicholas and Hoode with the task of nursing their colleague. Firethorn was still in his costume as Argos when they went back into the tiring-house and they saw no point in getting him out of it until they had installed him in his bedchamber. Nicholas threw a cloak around the patient’s shoulders then he and Hoode escorted him slowly towards the side exit of the house. When they came out into the cold night, Firethorn gave a shudder and emitted a soundless cry. They hurried him across to the largest of the three cottages, brushed aside the anxious enquiries of its other occupants and took him upstairs. Firethorn was soon undressed and put into his bed, mystified rather than in any discomfort. When his eyelids began to droop, Hoode nudged Nicholas and they quietly withdrew. Owen Elias was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

‘What’s laid him low this time?’ he asked.

‘We don’t know, Owen,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He’s been seen by a doctor who advised sleep. Doctor Winche is preparing a potion for his sore throat at this moment.’

‘I hope that it works, Nick. Lawrence Firethorn without a voice us like the River Thames without water — a freak of nature.’

‘He’ll soon recover,’ said Hoode.

‘And what if he doesn’t, Edmund?’ said the Welshman.

‘Then we do what Barnaby did this evening. Replace him.’

‘Only God could replace Lawrence.’

There was a loud banging on the door. Nicholas went to see who was calling.

‘That surely can’t be Doctor Winche already,’ he said, lifting the latch. ‘Can he mix his medicines so quickly?’

He opened the door and blinked in surprise when he saw the squat figure of an old woman standing there. Viewed only in the flickering light of the candles, the visitor had a sinister quality yet he did not sense any menace. She waddled forward so that he could see her more clearly. Dressed in rags and wearing a tattered old cap, she was bent by age and worn down by toil but her eyes had an almost youthful glint in them.

‘Did you want something, mistress?’ asked Nicholas pleasantly.

‘Only to give you this, sir,’ she said, offering him a tiny bottle. ‘Someone in this house is ill and this potion will cure him if he takes it.’

‘But how did you know that we had a sick man here?’

‘That’s not important. Take the bottle.’

‘What does it contain?’

‘A remedy.’

Nicholas took it from her, feeling the strange warmness of her hand as it brushed against his own. ‘Who are you?’ he wondered.

‘Mother Pigbone,’ she said softly.

Then she drew back into the darkness and was gone.