The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Three

Anne Hendrik was delighted at the news. Even though it meant that they would be apart for a while, she was genuinely pleased on his behalf. She knew from experience just how depressing it was for Nicholas Bracewell when the company had a lengthy period of unemployment.

‘These are good tidings, Nick,’ she said happily. ‘A new apprentice, a new play and a new venue. Fortune is smiling on you at last.’

‘Thank heaven!’ he sighed.

‘But it’s a pity that you had the apprentice and the play forced upon you.’

‘Not necessarily, Anne. Both may turn out to be prime assets to the company. Davy Stratton has enormous promise and The Witch of Colchester, as it is now entitled, has won everyone’s approval. When he read the part assigned to him, even Barnaby Gill was overjoyed and he’s the most difficult person to satisfy.’

‘What does he think of the new boy?’

Nicholas arched an eyebrow. ‘Need you ask?’

‘Keep him well clear of the lad,’ she counselled. ‘As an actor, Barnaby Gill is a genius; as a man, he has serious shortcomings.’

‘That’s a discreet way of putting it, Anne,’ he said with a smile. ‘But have no fear. There are enough friendly eyes to watch over Davy Stratton. Besides, the other apprentices will soon warn him. They know Master Gill of old.’

Nicholas was having breakfast with her at the house in Bankside where he lodged. Anne Hendrik was no typical landlady. The English widow of a Dutch hat maker, she took charge of the business after his death and ran it with great efficiency in the premises adjoining her house. Anne had taken a lodger in the interests of security rather than from financial necessity. Nicholas Bracewell proved an ideal choice. Considerate and reliable, he became her close friend and, in due course, her lover. They had drifted apart at one stage but, reunited again, found that the bond between them was stronger than ever.

‘When will you leave for Essex?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘So soon?’

‘The company will not set out then,’ he explained, finishing his drink. ‘I’m being sent on ahead to take a look at the house where we’ll perform. Measurements have to be taken, decisions made. Sir Michael Greenleaf has invited us to play in the Great Hall of his home but, until we actually see the place, it’s impossible to know how to make best use of it. We’ve no idea, for instance, what scenery we should take.’

‘I hope that you’re not going alone,’ she said with concern. ‘A solitary rider would be a certain target for robbers.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, Anne. Winter has put paid to most highwaymen. It’s far too cold to lurk among the trees in case a traveller rides past. In any case, I’ll not be on my own. Owen Elias has volunteered to come with me. If we should meet trouble, there’s nobody in the company more skilled with a sword than Owen.’

‘Except their book holder.’

‘That was one more advantage of sailing with Drake,’ he said, wistfully. We were drilled in the use of weapons of all kinds. And the voyage itself toughened us beyond measure. Only the most robust managed to survive.’

Anne touched his hand softly. ‘I’m glad that you were one of them.’

‘So am I.’

Their eyes locked as mutual affection surged but the moment soon passed. The maidservant came in to clear the table. Anne withdrew her hand and sat upright. She waited until the girl had gone before she spoke again.

‘It will be a cold journey for you, Nick.’

‘Not with that new hat you kindly made for me,’ he said. ‘When I’m wearing that, I feel snug and warm. Then there’s the cloak that Lawrence Firethorn gave me.’

‘It suits you.’

‘He used it in dozens of plays until it faded and wore thin. Our tireman, Hugh Wegges, sewed on a patch or two for me and the cloak is as good as new.’

‘You should have let me use my needle on it.’

‘No, Anne. You do enough for me as it is.’

‘I wish that I could do more.’

‘Thank you.’

He reached across the table to squeeze her hand in gratitude. The maidservant entered again to disturb a tender moment. She was carrying a few logs. When she had put them on the fire, she went out again.

‘You’ll have to train that girl better,’ said Nicholas with a grin.

‘The house has to be kept warm.’

‘It’s always warm when you are in it, Anne.’

She acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said.

‘And I’ll miss you,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry that we’ll be separated for a while. On the other hand, I’m glad that Westfield’s Men will at last have employment. It irks me when we are forced to stand idle.’

‘Nobody could accuse you of being idle, Nick. You’ve found a hundred things to keep you occupied during this long wait and I’ve been the beneficiary. Think of all the repairs you made to the house.’

‘I prefer to think of those who are not so well placed, Anne. Hired men like Ned Rankin or Caleb Smythe or little George Dart. They’ve suffered mightily. Then there’s old Thomas Skillen, our stagekeeper. I’m not even sure if he’s made it through the winter. Peter Digby and his musicians have had a desperate time as well.’

‘What of the sharers themselves?’

‘Most have other professions to fall back on, Anne. Walter Fenby, for example, was a silversmith before he turned to the theatre. Rowland Carr was a scrivener. Actors of the stature of Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill, of course, are always in demand for solo performances at private houses so they’ve still had an income of sorts.’

‘What of Edmund Hoode?’

‘Poems and epitaphs.’

‘Epitaphs?’ she echoed.

‘Winter has filled the graveyards,’ he sighed. ‘Both the nobility and the gentry like to send their loved ones off to heaven with an epitaph written especially for them. Edmund has a gift for penning such memorials. It grieves him that he profits from others’ misfortune but even poets must eat.’

‘It’s good, honest, important work.’

‘Not in Edmund’s eyes. He thinks himself a vulture, feeding off the dead.’

‘How many of the company will travel to Essex?’

‘A goodly number,’ he said, rising from the table. ‘That’s my office this morning. To find each one of them and spread the welcome news. Rehearsals begin tomorrow in earnest.’

‘What plays will you take?’

‘That’s still to be decided, Anne. We’re having the usual complaints from Master Gill who wants the whole repertoire to be built squarely around him. The one certain piece is the new one that Sir Michael Greenleaf requested.’

‘The Witch of Colchester.’

‘That’s it. Our first play by Egidius Pye. Not that it’s in a fit state for performance as yet. Edmund has a number of improvements to make.’

‘Will the author permit radical changes to his work?’

‘Gladly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve never met a more obliging fellow. Master Pye raised no objection. Edmund is to call on him this very day. They’ll need to work fast.’

‘What manner of man is Master Pye?’

‘An unusual one.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ he admitted. ‘He was so unlike the person I imagined when I read his play that I began to doubt it was indeed his work. But it certainly is.’

‘How will Edmund get on with him?’

Nicholas thought of the strange creature he had met in the Middle Temple.

‘I think he’ll find Egidius Pye an object of profound interest,’ he said.

‘Come in, dear sir,’ said Egidius Pye, motioning him into the room. ‘This is an honour.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Edmund Hoode, stepping in out of the cold. ‘It’s good to make your acquaintance, Master Pye.’

‘Shall I take your cloak and hat?’

‘Thank you.’

Removing both, Hoode handed them to his host and immediately regretted doing so. The room was only marginally warmer than the street outside, its little fire issuing puffs of black smoke into the room but no discernible heat. Pye laid the cloak and hat on the table before waving his guest to the chair beside the grate. He perched precariously on the stool opposite Hoode. The lawyer’s eye fell on the sheaves of parchment in his hand.

‘I see that you’ve brought my play, Master Hoode.’

‘Along with my congratulations, sir.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘It’s a clever piece of theatre.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ said the other effusively as if his life had just been saved by the intercession of a brave stranger. ‘Praise from you is praise indeed. This calls for a celebration,’ he decided, getting slowly to his feet and lumbering towards the door. ‘Excuse me for one moment.’

He left the room and gave his visitor time to take his bearings. Edmund Hoode looked around with macabre fascination. The place was even more soiled and disorderly than Nicholas Bracewell had led him to expect. Plates of discarded food stood in the most unlikely places and the floor was awash with bundles of documents. Thick dust lay everywhere while spiders frolicked openly in their webs. Hoode wondered how the lawyer could work effectively amid such chaos. It was minutes before Pye returned. When he did so, he was carrying a pitcher of wine and two goblets.

‘Allow me to offer you some of this,’ he said, placing the goblets on the table so that he could pour the liquid into them. ‘It has an excellent taste and was a present from a grateful client.’

‘I trust that she was not a witch,’ observed Hoode, attempting a little humour. ‘I’ve never been fond of dark potions made from obscene ingredients.’

Pye let out a cackle. ‘Bless you, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is no witch’s brew. You’ll find nothing more troubling in it than a frog’s eye and a slice of rat’s liver.’ He saw the look of disgust on Hoode’s face. ‘I jest, sir, I jest,’ he promised, handing one of the goblets to him. ‘As you see, it’s Canary wine of the finest vintage.’

‘Then I raise my cup in a toast to you, Master Pye.’ After lifting the goblet in the air, he sipped the wine. ‘Most pleasing to the palate.’

Pye resumed his seat. ‘I’m more concerned that the play is to your taste,’ he said with an unctuous smile. ‘It does not pretend to the quality of your own work, of course, but I like to think that it’s not without merit.’

‘Merit and true worth.’

‘Is that the general opinion?’

‘Barnaby Gill likes it and Lawrence Firethorn but a keener critic is the man you’ve already met. Nicholas Bracewell has sounder judgement than the lot of us. If he believes that a play will work on stage, it invariably does.’

‘It was a pleasure to meet him.’

‘Nick is the person who recommended The Witch of Rochester,’ explained Hoode. ‘He’s also responsible for the notion of shifting the location to Essex so that it will have a deeper resonance for our audience.’

‘I owe him my undying thanks.’

‘You’ll have far more cause to be grateful to Nick Bracewell before we’re done. The play calls for a number of effects that only he could devise.’ He sat back to appraise his host. ‘What made you write it in the first place?’

‘It wrote itself, Master Hoode.’

‘That’s what I sometimes say but I know the truth of it. Plays are like houses. They have to be constructed brick by patient brick. Imagination may design the shape of the house but much hard labour goes into its erection.’

‘It didn’t seem like labour at the time.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because witchcraft is a subject dear to my heart.’

‘An uncommon interest for a lawyer.’

‘I’m no lawyer,’ retorted the other with sudden vehemence before gulping down some of his wine. ‘I came into the law out of loyalty to my father rather than through natural inclination. It has vexed me ever since. Do you know how many of us there are, Master Hoode?’

‘Too many, I suspect.’

‘When my father entered the Middle Temple, barely fifty men a year were called to the bar. That figure is now past four hundred. As for attorneys, those who practice in the two common-law courts, their numbers have increased almost as dramatically. Two hundred or so could be counted in my father’s day. And now?’

‘Five hundred?’ guessed Hoode.

‘Well over a thousand. The city is being overrun with lawyers. They breed like flies and are just as bothersome. Please don’t number me among them, sir. I’ve grown to detest my colleagues for their hideous uniformity.’

‘Uniformity?’

‘When a lawyer breaks wind, he smells the same as all the others.’

The vulgarity of the remark made Hoode blink in astonishment. Egidius Pye looked too prim and polite to venture such a comment. He was an odd character. Hoode had been warned that it was not easy to take to the man and he could now understand why. Apart from his physical peculiarities, Pye had a disconcerting manner and breath that smelt in equal parts of vinegar, onions and rancid cheese. The man’s bachelor status was self-evident. No woman would let him near her. Working with him would not be without its drawbacks. After another sip of wine, Hoode tapped the play in his lap.

‘We need to discuss this, Master Pye.’

‘I’m all ears, sir,’ said the other seriously.

‘The plot is good, the characters engaging and the thrust of the piece well judged. There is, however, space for considerable improvement.’

‘Show me where it is, Master Hoode.’

‘I will but, before we tinker with what is already there, let’s first talk about what is not. Supplying the play’s deficiencies must be our initial task.’

‘Please list them.’

‘First, we need a Prologue, a speech of twenty lines or so that both explains what is to follow and gives the flavour of the piece.’

‘It shall be done,’ agreed the other.

‘I’ll help you with it, Master Pye,’ offered the other. ‘That done, we need to introduce more songs into the action. We have the witch’s chants, I grant you, but they are hardly music. Softer sounds are required to lull and delight our audience. I’ve marked the places where such songs could be used. We’ve fine musicians and good singers in the company. Let’s employ them to the full.’

‘Willingly, sir. What else?’

‘Dances. Barnaby Gill will take the role of Doctor Putrid and he never steps upon a stage unless he can dance a jig or two. If we don’t set them down, he’ll put them in extempore. Master Gill, I fear, has a wayward streak,’ cautioned Hoode. ‘It’s best to make allowances for his eccentricities.’

‘I’ll follow your advice to the letter.’

‘Then I’ll indicate where the dances would be most appropriate.’

‘Is anything else missing, Master Hoode?’

‘Only an Epilogue.’

‘That’s easily provided.’

‘Something crisp and comical.’

‘Spoken by Lord Malady?’

‘No,’ said Hoode firmly, ‘by the witch of Colchester herself. Black Joan sits in the title of your play so let her bring it to a conclusion. The Epilogue might be a form of spell in itself. Rhyming couplets. Six or eight of them at most.’

‘These are all distinct improvements,’ conceded Pye.

‘Once we have made those, we can turn our attention to some crucial changes.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘I’ll explain that when we come to them, Master Pye.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘The main purpose of this visit was to establish that we can work fruitfully together, as I sense that we can, and also to fix times when we may do so.’

‘I’m eager to begin, sir. We may start immediately, if you wish.’

‘What of your other commitments?’

‘They can wait,’ said Pye, flicking a hand in the air. ‘This takes precedence over all else. Give me what time you can allow today then we’ll meet again tomorrow.’

‘A sensible idea.’

The lawyer was about to rise. ‘I’ll clear a space on the table.’

‘If it’s all the same to you,’ said Hoode, remembering the warm fire that awaited him, ‘I’d prefer to work in my own lodging. I’ve copious notes on your play there. If we walk briskly, it’s not too far away.’

‘Then let us do just that.’

The two of them drank their wine then got up from their seats to put their goblets on the table. While Pye went off into the next room, Hoode put on his coat and hat. He glanced around again. The lawyer’s chambers were hardly conducive to the creative impulse. Smoke and low temperature would conspire against them. The sombre atmosphere would inhibit them. There was another factor to be considered. Like Nicholas Bracewell, the playwright had a frank distrust of lawyers. From the moment he had entered the Middle Temple, he was expecting to be charged a fee, if not placed under arrest. Escape was vital.

When his host reappeared, Hoode barely recognised him. Wrapped in a moth-eaten black cloak, Egidius Pye wore a floppy hat that all but obscured his face. He stepped in close and peered out from beneath its undulating brim.

‘I can hardly contain my excitement,’ he said.

‘As long as you don’t break wind in the process.’

Hoode’s jest was fatal. Pye not only let out a cackle of amusement that was accompanied by a veritable gust of bad breath, he lost all control and emitted such a violent rasping noise beneath his cloak that it flapped about like a main sail in a tempest. A pungent odour made itself known. Clutching the play under his arm, Hoode darted for the door in sheer desperation.

‘You’re a true lawyer, after all, Master Pye,’ he said ruefully.

Lawrence Firethorn finally gave in to the boy’s entreaties. When he heard that two members of the company were to visit Essex the next day, Davy Stratton begged the actor-manager to let him go with them. He was not prompted by homesickness. In the brief time he had been with them, Davy had settled down well and made every effort to befriend Firethorn’s children as well as the apprentices who lodged under his roof. Nor was the request fuelled by a desire to see his father again. From the moment that Jerome Stratton had left the house in Shoreditch, he had been neither missed nor mentioned. What Davy sought was the adventure of a ride alongside Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias, two people with whom he felt he had an immediate affinity. In his favour were the facts that the boy had his own pony and that he knew the way to Silvermere.

After consultation with Nicholas, and after issuing a string of warnings to the boy, Firethorn agreed to let him go, reasoning that he could come to no harm and that he would learn much simply from being in the company of the two men. On the following day, therefore, all three of them set out for Essex. The actor-manager had loaned Nicholas his own horse and the ever-resourceful Elias had acquired one from an undisclosed source.

‘I hope that you didn’t steal the animal, Owen,’ said Nicholas.

‘Not me,’ said the Welshman with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’m no prigger of prancers. The only thing I’ve ever stolen is an odd maidenhead or two. No, the horse was merely borrowed from a close friend. Her husband does not return until Friday so it will not be missed from his stable.’

‘Whose husband?’ asked Davy innocently.

‘That needn’t concern you, lad,’ said Nicholas, shooting Elias a look of reproof. ‘We’ve a young lad with us, Owen. Remember that and moderate your language.’

Elias grinned. ‘I’ll quote the Bible, if you prefer.’

‘Polite conversation is all that’s required.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have brought me along. Politeness is not in my character, Nick, as you well know. Besides, if Davy is to join Westfield’s Men, the sooner he gets used to hot words and rude thoughts, the better for him.’

‘Don’t lead him astray.’

‘I thought he was here to lead us.’

‘I am,’ said Davy. ‘When we get nearer the house, I’ll show you a short cut.’

‘How long will it take us to get there?’ asked Nicholas.

‘That depends how fast we ride, sir.’

‘Then let’s get a move on,’ decided Elias, kicking his horse into a canter.

The other followed suit and all three of them headed north-east along the frozen road. Nicholas rode between the others, glad of the Welshman’s presence on a journey that might well be fraught with danger. A stocky man of middle height, Elias was a useful ally in a fight with the strength and temper to cow most opponents. Like Nicholas, he wore both sword and dagger. The book holder also welcomed Davy’s company and not merely because the boy had a good knowledge of the county to which they were riding. He liked the new apprentice and was pleased with the opportunity to get to know him better. There was still much that he did not understand about him.

‘How far is Silvermere from your own home, Davy?’ he asked.

‘A few miles,’ replied the other.

‘You’ll be able to call in and surprise your father.’

Davy was unequivocal. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he would not wish it.’

‘But you’re his son. He’s bound to be pleased.’

‘He may not even be there,’ said the boy evasively. ‘I’d rather stay with you.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do, Master Bracewell.’

The boy lapsed into a silence that Nicholas did not even try to disturb. The tension he had noted between father and son would only be explained in time. It was important not to browbeat Davy. The boy, he surmised, had endured enough bullying already.

‘What do you know of this new play, Nick?’ asked Elias.

‘The Witch of Colchester is a lively comedy. It will serve us well.’

‘Lawrence must have faith in it if he is saving it until the end of our stay. Will it prove a fitting climax to the work of Westfield’s Men?’

‘I believe so.’

‘When can I read my part?’

‘When Edmund and the author have finished polishing the piece,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’re set down to take on the role of Sir Roderick Lawless.’

‘I like the sound of that name.’

‘So does the playwright. He’s a lawyer with an inclination to lawlessness.’

‘An outlaw, then?’

‘Only in the bonfire of the mind.’

‘Sir Roderick Lawless, eh? Do I get to rant and rave?’

‘Constantly.’

‘What traffic do I have with women?’

‘You’ve a wife, the Lady Adeliza, and you consort with Black Joan herself.’

‘Black Joan?’

‘The witch.’

‘There are no such things,’ said Davy, coming out of his reverie.

‘How do you know?’ asked Nicholas.

‘My father told me.’

‘But I thought that Essex was crawling with witches,’ said Elias.

‘Not according to my father, sir,’ returned the boy. ‘He says that witchcraft is only a cunning deception.’

‘Then he won’t enjoy one of the plays we’re due to present. I take it that your father will be in the audience at Silvermere.’

Davy’s face clouded. ‘I expect so.’

‘He’s bound to be there, surely?’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Stratton gave us the impression that he and Sir Michael Greenleaf were much more than neighbours. Your father’s name was mentioned in the invitation we received. The one person I think we can count on seeing at Silvermere is your father.’

‘Yes,’ added Elias, ‘he’ll be there to watch his son taking his first steps on a stage. In his place, I certainly would be. What about you, Nick?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it either.’ Seeing the boy’s obvious discomfort, Nicholas did not press the point. ‘What’s the name of your own house, Davy?’

‘Holly Lodge.’

‘A pretty name. Is it a pretty place?’

‘Silvermere is much larger and more interesting.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘Holly Lodge is a nice enough house,’ conceded Davy. ‘But I’ve left there now.’

‘You have indeed,’ said Elias. ‘You live in Old Street, Shoreditch, at the tender mercy of Lawrence Firethorn.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘That house might well be called Holly Lodge as well for you’ll prick yourself if you step out of place. Margery Firethorn is the soul of kindness but she has a tongue as sharp as any holly bush.’

‘Only for those who misbehave,’ said Nicholas.

Elias laughed again. ‘Such as her husband.’

‘That’s between the two of them,’ rebuked Nicholas. ‘It’s no business of ours. Davy will be well looked after in Shoreditch. It will be a true home for him.’

The apprentice said nothing but Nicholas sensed his approval. They were in open country now and maintaining a comfortable speed. Hedges and trees were still rimed with frost. Early morning sun made the fields glisten. The breeze was stiff but it was largely at their backs. Apart from the occasional cart going into market, they saw nobody. A bleak and empty horizon stretched out in front of them. It was like riding into a wilderness.

‘Have you ever met Sir Michael Greenleaf?’ asked Nicholas, turning to Davy.

‘A number of times.’

‘What sort of man is he?’

‘A good one,’ said the boy. ‘I like Sir Michael though many think him peculiar.’

‘Peculiar?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell.’

‘In what way?’

The boy searched in vain for the right words and despaired of finding them.

‘You’ll have to judge for yourself,’ he said.

Though hampered by the rutted track with its random pools of ice, they made steady progress. After hours in the saddle, they stopped at a wayside inn to rest the horses and to take refreshment. Davy Stratton had grown more talkative, seeing the chance to reap the benefit of their experience in the theatre and plying them both with questions. The apprentice had one query that obviously worried him.

‘Will I only be asked to take the role of a woman?’ he said with distaste.

‘Yes,’ replied Elias, supping his ale. ‘Maids, maidservants, whores, nuns, queens and empresses. All aspects of the fairer sex, Davy, even down to scolds and seductresses. But there’s ample recompense for you.’

‘Is there, Master Elias?’

‘You may come to play my wife and enjoy my sweetest kiss on stage.’ He chuckled as the boy’s face registered disgust. ‘It could be worse, lad. You might have to suffer an embrace from Barnaby Gill. You’d soon come back to your husband after that.’

‘Don’t mislead him, Owen,’ chided Nicholas. ‘You’ll not take any roles of significance for a long while, Davy. They fall to Dick Honeydew and the others, trained, as they all are, in presenting themselves in female guise. During our stay at Silvermere, you may not even get on stage at all or, if you do, the likelihood is that you’ll be no more than a page or a humble servant.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Neither. You’d play what you are — a young boy.’

Davy looked relieved. Nicholas decided that he felt embarrassed at the idea of donning female attire at Silvermere in front of his father. The book holder also believed that the reason he was peppering them with questions was to ensure that he did not have to yield up any answers on his own account. It was a curious paradox. The nearer they got to Davy Stratton’s home, the less willing he was to talk about it.

On the next stage of the journey, the boy showed his value, guiding them along a track that twisted its way aimlessly through oak woodland. When they came out into open country again, the road did not improve. Churned up by the passage of many hooves then frozen hard, it meandered through fields that shimmered in the sun as the last of the frost melted away. Barley, wheat and corn were extensively cultivated throughout the area but they were hidden beneath the thick blanket of winter. Sheep were the only animals they passed, foraging in groups and scattering in mild panic whenever the travellers got close to them. Nicholas was enjoying the ride, glad to be free of the fetid air of London and taking an interest in the unfolding landscape. Davy, too, was in good spirits, handling his pony with the ease of a practiced horseman. Elias was less comfortable, troubled by the cold, bored by the surroundings and starting to suffer twinges in his buttock and thigh.

They rounded a bend at a steady trot then rode up a hill. It was surmounted by a stand of elms whose branches moved creakily in the wind. Nicholas was the first to spot movement among the trees and he drew Elias’s attention to it with a nudge. Both men eased their cloaks back to free their swords.

‘When I tell you,’ said Nicholas, turning to Davy, ‘kick your horse into a canter.’

‘Why?’ asked the boy.

‘Just do as I say, Davy.’

‘Are we in danger?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Keeping up the same pace, they moved slowly up the hill. Nicholas and Elias betrayed no outward signs of caution but their eyes were scanning the summit with care. A head poked briefly out from behind a thick trunk then withdrew. The ambush was set. There were too few trees to offer cover for more than a handful of men and, since the elms stood only on one side of the road, the attack would have to come from that side. It simplified matters considerably. Nicholas waited until they were only twenty yards from the summit before reaching across to slap the pony hard on the rump.

‘Now, Davy!’ he ordered. ‘Ride on!’

The pony scurried off at once and was safely over the crest of the hill before the outlaws emerged from their hiding places. There were four of them, all on foot, all armed with swords or spears. As Nicholas and Elias approached, a pair of sturdy robbers ran at each of them. One man tried to grab the reins of a horse while the other struck at its rider with his weapon. It was a forlorn exercise. Anticipating the ambush, both riders had their swords out in a flash, parrying the attack and inflicting sufficient wounds to leave their adversaries howling in anguish. The two men who attempted to seize the reins fared no better. Instead of dealing with the gentle gait of two horses, they were buffeted by animals that had been spurred into a fierce plunge of speed. One man was knocked to the ground by the impact. The other, who sustained a glancing blow from the horse, also received a hard kick under the jaw from Elias’s foot that sent him cartwheeling along the grass verge. As the riders vanished down the other side of the hill, four dazed men were left to lick their wounds and meditate on the folly of their action.

The travellers cantered for a couple of miles until they were certain that they were not followed. When they slowed to a trot, Davy wanted to know what had happened.

‘Were they robbers?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

‘They thought they were,’ said Elias, grinning broadly. ‘But they met their match in us, didn’t they, Nick?’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Diu! That was wonderful. I needed a bit of excitement like that.’

‘How many of them were there?’ said Davy.

‘A dozen at least.’

‘Four,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘We caught a glimpse of one of them in advance.’

Elias chortled. ‘It was probably the one I kicked under the chin,’ he decided. ‘I must have loosened every tooth in his head.’

‘Weren’t you frightened?’

‘Of four foolish outlaws? Never, Davy.’

‘Desperate men do desperate things,’ said Nicholas. ‘And they must have been desperate to be skulking on top of that hill in this weather. They’ll have poor pickings today.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Thanks for your help, Owen. I’m very grateful that you came with me.’

‘So am I,’ said the Welshman. ‘I thrive on action.’

‘When I rode to London with my father,’ volunteered Davy, ‘we travelled in a large group. There were well over twenty of us.’

‘That’s the safest way,’ said Nicholas.

‘But you miss out on all the fun,’ complained Elias.

Another hour brought them within reach of their destination. Davy Stratton grew increasingly nervous, glancing around with apprehension. When they came to a fork in the road, he called them to a halt and pointed ahead.

‘That’s the long way round to Silvermere,’ he explained. ‘It would take us past Holly Lodge in a great loop. If we strike off through the forest, we can reach Silvermere in half the time.’

‘But we’d miss seeing your home,’ said Nicholas.

‘It’s of no account to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘This is the way I want to go.’

‘Then lead on.’

The track through the forest was so narrow that they were forced to ride in single file as they wended their way through the looming oaks and elms. Davy kept up a brisk trot, picking his way along with the confidence of someone who was very familiar with the surroundings. When they entered a clearing, it was Elias’s turn to bring them to a halt.

‘Hold there!’ he called. ‘I need to look upon the hedge.’

‘You drank too much ale at that inn,’ observed Nicholas.

‘I could never do that, Nick.’

Elias dismounted and went behind a tree to relieve himself. Nicholas took the opportunity to get down from his own horse in order to stretch his legs. A snuffling noise made him turn around and walk towards a clump of bushes, one hand on the hilt of his sword. When he got within a few yards, there was a sudden squeal and a pig scuttled out from behind the bushes. Nicholas relaxed and watched the animal until it disappeared among the trees in search of food. He swung round to stroll back to his horse but was met with a shock. Davy Stratton had vanished. There was no sign of the boy or the pony. Tying his points, Elias came ambling out from behind the tree.

‘Where’s the lad?’ he enquired.

‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Nicholas, looking anxiously around.

‘Perhaps he’s gone off to spray the side of tree, as I did.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Didn’t you see him go?’

‘My back was turned.’

‘Davy!’ yelled Elias. ‘Davy, where are you?’

His voice echoed through the forest, its sheer volume evicting two birds from a high branch. There was no answer. A grim silence descended.

‘Davy!’ shouted Nicholas, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Davy!’

There was still no response. Elias scratched his head and gave a shrug.

‘He must have wandered off when you weren’t looking, Nick,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Davy didn’t wander off,’ said Nicholas. ‘He deliberately ran away.’

It took them some time to find their way back to the fork in the road. Deciding that a search would be futile, Nicholas instead suggested that they make for Holly Lodge, the boy’s home and therefore his most likely destination. The wider track allowed them to ride side by side at a canter.

‘I think he may have had second thoughts,’ said Elias.

‘About what?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Life in the theatre. Underneath that puny exterior, Davy Stratton is a red-blooded young man. He’s insulted by the idea of dressing up as a woman. I would be.’

‘That’s no reason to abandon us like that, Owen.’

‘Maybe he was just playing a game with us.’

‘He is,’ said Nicholas, ‘but it’s a deeper one than I thought. Now I realise why he was so eager to act as our guide. It offered him a chance of escape.’

‘From what?’

‘From us, from the company, from London itself.’

‘Why was he so keen to join us in the first place?’

‘I’m not convinced that he was. His father made that decision.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘That remains a mystery.’

They were both relieved when the house eventually came into sight. Holly Lodge was a large, sprawling, timber-framed house with a thatched roof. Smoke curled up from its chimneys. A brick wall and a clutch of outbuildings gave it protection from the wind on one side. They rode up a drive that bisected the formal garden and dismounted. A servant admitted them into a draughty hall before going to fetch his master. It was not long before the portly figure of Jerome Stratton came strutting across the oak boards. Nicholas exchanged greetings with him then introduced Owen Elias.

‘I did not expect visitors,’ said Stratton brusquely, ‘so I’m not at liberty to entertain you, I fear. You are on your way to Silvermere, I take it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

‘It is not too far distant. My servant will teach you the way.’

‘We already have a guide, Master Stratton. At least, we did until we lost him in the forest. We wondered if he had come back here.’

‘Of course not. Why on earth should he come to Holly Lodge?’

‘Because our pathfinder was your son.’

Stratton was astonished. ‘Davy?’

‘He insisted on coming with us,’ said Elias. ‘We thought he was homesick.’

‘I doubt that,’ growled Stratton. ‘You lost him in the forest, you say?’

‘Yes,’ confessed Nicholas. ‘The truth is that he gave us the slip.’

He explained the circumstances of the boy’s disappearance and saw Jerome Stratton’s irritation turn to anger. When he was in Shoreditch, the merchant was relentlessly good-natured. The affable manner was now hidden beneath a smouldering rage. He tightened both fists and glared at his guests.

‘You let him get away from you?’ he demanded.

‘We had no reason to suppose he wanted to go,’ said Nicholas.

‘It could be that he simply went astray,’ suggested Elias.

Stratton was bitter. ‘No question of that, sir! I own that forest and use it to supply timber. Davy often went there. He played with friends among the trees and loved to watch the woodcutters at work. He didn’t go astray,’ he emphasised. ‘Davy knows that forest better than anyone. He ran off.’

‘Why?’ said Elias.

‘That’s what I intend to find out.’

‘Where could he have gone?’

‘Not to Holly Lodge, that’s for sure.’

‘But this is his home, Master Stratton.’

‘He’s an apprentice with Westfield’s Men now,’ retorted the other. ‘When you have the sense to keep hold of him. Why did you let him go, you idiots?’

The Welshmen tensed and Nicholas stepped in before Elias lost his temper.

‘We’re as sorry as you are, Master Stratton,’ he said evenly, ‘and we’ll do all we can to retrieve the boy. When someone expresses a desire to join the company, it never occurs to us that he will take flight at the earliest opportunity. And if you really take us to be idiots, you should not have entrusted your son to us.’

‘No,’ added Elias testily. ‘We were ambushed on the road and saved Davy’s life. If that be idiocy, then have the pair of us locked up in Bedlam.’

‘I spoke too hastily,’ said Stratton, eyes darting as his mind grappled with the problem. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen. This is sorry news but it’s wrong to blame it on you.’

‘Perhaps Davy is not suited to the theatre,’ said Nicholas, probing gently.

‘He is, he is. The lad spoke of nothing else.’

‘Who first put the notion into his head?’

‘I did, of course.’

‘Even though it meant that he would leave home?’

‘Davy’s a restless boy. He wanted to spread his wings.’

‘Was your wife equally ready to lose a son?’

Stratton coloured slightly and he gritted his teeth. ‘My dear wife passed away last autumn,’ he said. ‘Were she here, she would have wanted for Davy exactly what I want.’

‘Then it was your decision to have him indentured?’

‘It was a decision my son and I reached together.’

Elias was blunt. ‘Why has the little devil gone back on it?’

It took Stratton a few moments to rein in his anger. Summoning up his last reserves of bonhomie, he gave a flabby smile and crossed to open the front door.

‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ he said cheerily. ‘I am indebted to you both. But this is a domestic matter and I’ll resolve it as quickly as possible.’

‘But we’re concerned for Davy,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We’d hate any harm to come to the lad. Although he deserves a box on the ear for the way he left us stranded in the middle of the forest. We need the imp back, if only to guide us home to London.’

‘You shall have him back,’ Stratton assured him.

‘Then you know where he is?’

‘Forget about Davy. Ride on to Silvermere to meet Sir Michael. I daresay you have come to see the Great Hall before you play in it. Discharge the duty that brought you to Essex in the first place, gentlemen. Sir Michael will be expecting you,’ he continued, opening the door even wider. ‘I bid you farewell. Continue on the road and you cannot miss the house.’

The visitors traded a look then went out past him. Nicholas turned back.

‘What about Davy?’ he asked.

‘I’ll find him for you,’ said Stratton.

‘Where?’

‘That’s my business, sir.’

And he closed the door firmly in their faces.