The Devil's Apprentice

Chapter Five

Nicholas Bracewell was pleased with their welcome at Silvermere. Their hosts could not have been more amenable. Sir Michael Greenleaf was kind, attentive and unfailingly obliging while his wife’s admiration for Westfield’s Men never faltered. They were such a gracious and engaging couple that Nicholas wondered how they had been befriended by their wayward patron. Lord Westfield’s cronies tended to be in his own mould, amiable sybarites, devotees of drink and gambling, idle aristocrats who hung around the Court in search of favour or who left it in flight from scandal. Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf did not conform to the usual pattern. Where Lord Westfield and his decadent entourage were invariably deep in debt, the Wizard of Silvermere was clearly a man of substance, able to fund continuous improvements to his estate as well as to pay for his expensive scientific interests. Yet he did not flaunt his wealth. He dressed like one of his servants and behaved with a touching humility.

Owen Elias liked the man as much as Nicholas. Not only had their host provided Westfield’s Men with a worthy auditorium in his Great Hall, he gave the visitors a guided tour of the house, showed them his extensive arsenal, discussed the manufacture of his gunpowder and even offered to take them up to the top of the tower. The Welshman glanced through the window with misgivings.

‘It’s pitch dark out there, Sir Michael,’ he said.

‘Exactly, my friend. The stars will be out. Wouldn’t you like to come up on the roof to look through my telescope?’

‘No thank you. It’ll be freezing.’

‘What’s a little discomfort in the interests of astrology?’

‘It’s a kind offer, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, aware of the passage of time, ‘and I’ll be delighted to accept it on another occasion but we’ve already stayed longer than we intended. Master Stratton told us that Stapleford is only a mile away. Put us on the road to the village and we’ll seek lodging at the inn.’

‘Inn?’

‘I believe that it’s called The Shepherd and Shepherdess.’

‘But you’re going to stay here, Master Bracewell.’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes,’ insisted Sir Michael. ‘I wouldn’t dream of turning you out. My wife and I will be your shepherd and shepherdess. A chambermaid is already preparing a room for you. When the whole company descends upon us, of course, you’ll have to make use of those little cottages set apart from the house, perhaps even of the outbuildings as well. Tonight, however, the pair of you will lay your heads beneath the roof of Silvermere.’

‘That’s most generous of you, Sir Michael.’

‘We accept on one condition,’ said Elias.

‘Condition?’

‘Yes,’ added the Welshman with a grin. ‘Give us fair warning before you fire any cannon balls from the roof in the middle of the night.’

Sir Michael burst out laughing and clapped his hands to his side like young bird making its first clumsy attempts at flight. The three of them were alone in a room at the rear of the property that served its owner as library, laboratory and workshop all in one. Along the back wall, oak shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled to the last inch with hefty tomes and piles of documents. One vast table was covered with scientific instruments of every description while another looked more like a carpenter’s bench. The culverin was kept beside the furnace in the adjoining outhouse. Seeing it all by the light of candelabra, Nicholas was impressed. Sir Michael was no Egidius Pye. There was a sense of order and calculation in the room. It was also impeccably clean. The scientist looked after his possessions with great care. This was his private world where he sought, in his own small way, to push forward the frontiers of science.

There was a knock on the door and Romball Taylard entered. He looked almost sinister as he emerged from the shadows but his manner towards the visitors was more pleasant now that he knew that they would be staying overnight. With good news to pass on, he even contrived a smile.

‘Yes, Romball?’ asked his employer.

‘You have visitors, Sir Michael.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Master Stratton sends his apologies for calling so late.’

‘Oh, I see. It’s Jerome, is it? Well, he can come at any time he likes. Does he wants to speak to me or to Lady Eleanor.’

‘He’s really here to see your guests, Sir Michael,’ said the steward, glancing at the two of them. ‘Master Stratton has brought someone with him.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘His son.’

‘Davy?’ asked Nicholas, cheered by the tidings.

‘Where has the rascal been?’ said Elias.

Taylard smiled again. ‘Only Master Stratton will be able to tell you that.’

‘Then let’s go and find him at once,’ urged Sir Michael, leading the way.

The four of them went off down a long corridor that was lit at regular intervals by candelabra. Dancing flames threw their profiles against the walls as they passed and gave the house a ghostly quality. When the quartet came into the entrance hall, Jerome Stratton was standing beside a marble bust of Plato, holding his son by the hand and making an effort to appear relaxed. Davy Stratton, by contrast, was sullen and subdued, his face bearing some dark scratches and his attire torn and soiled. He did not look up as the others arrived. Taylard faded quickly into the background but stayed within earshot.

‘The prodigal son has returned,’ said Stratton with forced geniality. ‘I’m sorry to intrude at this hour, Sir Michael, but I was hoping to catch your visitors before they went off to Stapleford.’

‘But they’re not going to the inn,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Surely they don’t mean to travel back to London at night?’

‘Of course not, Jerome. You must think us uncivilized even to suggest such a thing. We’d never turn out guests when we have twenty rooms or more unoccupied. They’ll be staying here until morning.’

‘I see,’ said Stratton, adjusting swiftly to the news. ‘In that case, I must request a favour, Sir Michael. Is it possible that you could find a corner where Davy might bed down as well?’

‘Need you even ask? The boy is more than welcome.’

‘Thank you.’ He nudged his son. ‘Davy?’

‘Thank you, Sir Michael,’ mumbled Davy without looking up.

‘Perhaps I might ask a favour as well, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Since Davy is to stay, is there any chance that he might share the room with Owen and me?’

‘A sensible notion,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Romball?’

The steward materialised out of the gloom. ‘Yes, Sir Michael?’

‘Speak to the chambermaid, will you?’

‘At once, Sir Michael.’

Taylard backed away again and went silently up the stairs. Nicholas knelt down in front of Davy to inspect his face and clothing. The boy looked up guiltily for a second then lowered his eyes again.

‘Those are nasty scratches you have, Davy,’ said Nicholas with sympathy. ‘And you’ve a bruise on your temple. How did you come by those?’

‘His pony bolted and he was thrown,’ explained Stratton before his son could open his mouth. ‘That’s why he didn’t hear you when you called for him in the forest. Hotspur — that’s his pony — took fright and bolted. Davy was knocked senseless when he hit the ground. By the time he recovered, you’d both ridden off.’

‘But the lad’s such a fine horseman,’ said Nicholas.

‘Hotspur caught him unawares.’

‘And us,’ said Elias. ‘One moment, Davy was there; the next, he was gone.’

‘Thrown from the saddle. He was still dazed when he tried to find Hotspur and stumbled into a holly bush. Hence the scratches on his face and the torn clothing. The bruise must have come from the fall.’ He put a gentle hand on the back of his son’s neck. ‘Davy doesn’t recall too much about it, do you, Davy?’

‘No, Father,’ said the boy dutifully.

‘He’ll be much better after a good night’s sleep,’ promised Stratton easily. ‘I apologise for bringing him to you in such a state but we were much nearer to Silvermere when the search party found him. My men say that he was running blind like a startled rabbit.’ He patted the boy on the head. ‘I’ll have fresh attire sent over first thing in the morning. We can’t have him riding back to London in that state.’

Nicholas was puzzled. If the father were so concerned about his son, he wondered why Stratton did not take the boy back to Holly Lodge for the night. Word of his return could have been sent to Silvermere and Davy could have been reunited with his travelling companions the following morning. Nicholas also had grave suspicions about the account that Jerome Stratton had given of his son’s disappearance. A fall from the pony and a charge through woodland might have been responsible for his wounds and his dishevelled state but several hours had passed since Davy had vanished. Where had the boy been in the interim? Nicholas was surprised that someone who was supposed to know every path in the forest managed to get himself lost for such a long time. Many questions needed to be put to Davy but not in the presence of his father. As long as Jerome Stratton was there, Nicholas saw, the boy would not dare to tell the truth.

‘Well,’ said Sir Michael, ‘may we offer you refreshment, Jerome?’

‘I think not,’ said Stratton. ‘I have guests of my own at Holly Lodge and they’ll start to feel neglected if I stay away any longer. Thank you for taking Davy under your wing, Sir Michael. Though it grieves me to part with him,’ he added, giving the boy a token embrace, ‘I’ll abide by the terms of the contract. He belongs to Westfield’s Men now.’ His eyes glinted as they turned on Nicholas. ‘Please take better care of him this time. Davy is very precious to me.’

‘He’ll be safe in our hands, Master Stratton,’ promised Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We won’t let him out of our sight again.’

‘Make sure that you don’t,’ said Stratton sternly. His tone softened. ‘I’m glad that you both came to Silvermere. Is the Great Hall to your liking?’

‘Completely so,’ replied Nicholas. ‘The company will be thrilled when they see where they will stage their work. We cannot thank Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor enough for their kind invitation.’

‘I had something to do with that,’ hinted Stratton. He looked at his son. ‘Well, Davy, we must part again. Ride your pony more carefully tomorrow and do exactly what you’re told. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father,’ murmured Davy.

‘I expect to hear good reports of you from now on.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘The next time I see you,’ he said with a smile, ‘will be on stage here in a play.’

It was not a prospect that lifted the boy’s spirits. He glanced up at his father with a respect that was tempered with fear. Nicholas took note of his response. After a flurry of farewells, Stratton moved off and Romball Taylard glided out of a dark corner to open the front door for him. Nobody had even heard the steward return. Stratton had a brief word with the man before going outside to his waiting horse. Closing the door, Taylard drifted quietly across to his master’s side to await further orders. Sir Michael raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Is everything in order, Romball?’

‘Yes, Sir Michael,’ said Taylard smoothly. ‘A meal awaits our guests when they are ready to eat it.’

‘I’m ready now,’ announced Elias, rubbing his stomach. ‘It seems an age since we last had any food. What about you, Davy? I daresay that you’re famished as well.’

Davy lifted a weary head. Sir Michael produced an avuncular chuckle.

‘The lad is plainly tired and hungry,’ he said. ‘Who wouldn’t be after all the adventures he’s had today? A good meal and an early night are what I recommend. Take good care of them, Romball.’

‘I will, Sir Michael,’ said the steward.

After another exchange of farewells, he took the visitors off down a corridor.

Margery Firethorn sat on the edge of her chair. Racked with anxiety and unable to relax, she played nervously with the edge of her apron and gazed upwards at the low ceiling. In the bedchamber above, her husband lay in a desperate condition. She had never seen Firethorn in such a poorly state. It had taken three of them to help him to his bed and, after sending for the doctor, Margery had sat loyally beside the patient, soothing him with soft words and mopping his fevered brow with a wet cloth. Instructed by her mistress, the servant fed both the apprentices and the children of the house before packing them off to bed. Margery did not want them bothering her while Firethorn was in such distress. He needed all her attention. When the doctor finally arrived, he insisted on banning Margery from the bedchamber while he examined the sick man. The long wait below in the parlour was a trial.

Eventually, she heard footsteps on the stairs and jumped up from her seat. When the door creaked open, however, it was not the doctor who came into the room but the forlorn figure of Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the apprentices. Clad only in a thin shirt, the boy was trembling with cold and blanched by unease. His soft features allowed him to impersonate a whole range of beautiful young women on stage but he was no gorgeous damsel or impassioned princess now. He was a frightened little boy with tousled fair hair, his face marred by crow’s feet of concern, his slender frame sagging with dismay. Before she could stop herself, Margery snapped at him with unnecessary harshness.

‘You should be in bed, Dick Honeydew!’

‘I know,’ he said, recoiling slightly but holding his ground.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘We’re very worried about Master Firethorn. We heard the doctor arrive. The others asked me to come down to see if there was any news.’

‘No, Dick,’ she admitted sadly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We prayed hard for him.’

Margery nodded. She was certain that he had included her husband in his prayers but was not persuaded that the other apprentices had done likewise. They were more unruly and less inclined to prayer until she stood over them. Knowing that she would be in a tense mood, they had sent Richard Honeydew down to make enquiries, sensing that she might berate anyone bold enough to venture out of their bed. Standing barefoot on the flagstones, the apprentice began to shiver more violently.

‘Come over here,’ said Margery, putting an arm around him to take him across to the fire. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold, lad.’

‘I’m fine, Mistress Firethorn,’ he said bravely.

‘The others put you up to this, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, but I wanted to come on my own account.’

‘Why?’

‘Master Firethorn is kind to me. I love him like a father.’

Margery hugged him to her and kissed him. ‘You’re a good boy, Dick, and my husband appreciates that. You’re ever his favourite.’

‘What ails him?’ piped the other.

‘I wish I knew, lad.’

‘John Tallis says that he has the ague.’

‘Does he?’ she said angrily. ‘Well, you can tell John Tallis from me that I’ll come up there to give him a sound beating if he spreads tales like that. John Tallis can mind his own business. Since when has he turned into a physician?’

‘He meant no harm, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘That kind of talk vexes me.’

‘I’ll warn him of that.’

Margery calmed down and pulled the boy closer, drawing strength from his companionship while, at the same time, offering him some comfort. She was glad that Richard Honeydew had interrupted her lonely vigil. It made the interminable wait a little easier to bear. She brushed his hair back from his forehead to reveal a frown.

‘Are you warmer now, Dick?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ There was a considered pause. ‘It’s never happened before, has it, Mistress Firethorn?’ he said at length.

‘What?’

‘An illness like this.’

‘No, Dick.’

‘Master Firethorn is never unwell.’

‘That’s so true.’

It was the reason that her husband’s condition alarmed her so much. Lawrence Firethorn had such a strong constitution that she took his health for granted. Now that he had been struck down, she knew that the problem must be serious. Minor ailments that afflicted the others never even touched Firethorn. He remained what he had been when she first married him; a sturdy, powerful, virile man who went through life without being troubled by anything apart from occasional toothache. Accidents which would have laid other men low were shrugged off by the actor-manager. When he broke an arm in a fall from the stage, Firethorn continued to perform at the Queen’s Head wearing a splint. When he twisted an ankle dismounting his horse, he simply equipped Hector, Pompey the Great, King John, Henry the Fifth and all the other characters he had to play with a stout walking stick until he could move freely. Margery had marvelled at his indomitability. Had his luck changed at last?

‘I hope that he soon recovers,’ said Honeydew.

‘So do I, Dick.’

‘Master Firethorn is the heart and soul of Westfield’s Men.’

‘You’ve no need to tell me that.’

‘If we were to lose him-’

‘We won’t,’ she said, interrupting him sharply and giving him a reproving squeeze. ‘Don’t even think such a thing, Dick Honeydew. Is that what they’ve been saying upstairs to you? Is that another rumour spread by John Tallis?’

‘No, Mistress Firethorn,’ he replied, cowering before her.

‘Then put that wicked thought out of your mind.’

‘I will, I will.’

She mellowed at once. ‘Forgive me, Dick. I don’t mean to be so cross with you. I just don’t want to hear such things spoken in my house. It’s winter,’ she said as if trying to explain it to herself. ‘People are always ill at this time of year. It just happens to be my husband’s turn to suffer, that’s all. We mustn’t despair.’

Honeydew was not reassured. When footsteps were heard on the staircase, he stepped away from her and spun round. Margery crossed to open the door so that Doctor Whitrow could come into the room.

‘How is he, doctor?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘May I go up?’

‘In a moment,’ he said.

‘Do you have medicine for me to give to him?’

‘I’ve already administered a cordial, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Calm down, calm down,’ he said softly.

‘But I’m his wife. I’ve a right to know.’

Doctor Whitrow gave an understanding smile. He was a tall, spare man in his fifties with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes. Working in Shoreditch for so many years had acquainted him with many distraught wives and he knew how to deal with them.

‘The first thing you must know is that there’s no danger,’ he assured her. ‘Your husband is one of the healthiest patients I’ve ever met.’

‘But what about his fever?’

‘It’s broken. The crisis is over.’

‘Thank God!’ she cried.

Richard Honeydew was in tears. ‘My prayers were answered.’

Margery was bewildered. ‘When you first arrived, he was sweating like a roast pig. Did your cordial revive him so quickly, Doctor Whitrow?’

‘He seemed to rally before I even gave it to him. In fact,’ added the doctor with a sly grin, ‘Master Firethorn tried to push the potion away in order to deprive me of part of my fee. That shows he has all his faculties. My advice is to keep him in bed until the morning. After a good rest, he’ll be in fine fettle.’

Margery could wait no longer. Thanking him profusely, she scurried past him and ascended the stairs as if pursued by the hounds of hell. She flung open the door of the bedchamber and rushed in. The sight that presented itself to her made her stop dead. Lawrence Firethorn was just about to get out of bed. The man whom she had last seen groaning in agony under the sheets was now his usual robust self. Margery blinked at the speed of his recovery.

‘What on earth are you doing, Lawrence?’ she asked.

‘Coming downstairs to see if those little beggars have left me any food?’ he said, swinging two bare feet down on to the floor. ‘I’m fainting from lack of nourishment.’

She eyed him closely. ‘You look wonderful to me.’

‘I’m glad that I can still strike a spark in you, Margery.’

‘Stay there,’ she ordered, sitting him back on the bed. ‘If you want food, I’ll bring it to you myself. Doctor Whitrow said that you’re not to stir from here.’

‘I’m not listening to that old fool. He gave me such a foul medicine that I need a cup of sack to take away the taste. Let’s go downstairs. We’ll sup together.’

Margery was firm. ‘No, Lawrence. You need rest.’

‘Who does?’

‘You do,’ she said, lifting his feet back on to the bed. ‘You must stay here.’

‘But there’s nothing wrong with me, Margery.’

‘That fever weakened you.’

‘Only for a brief moment.’

‘You were in torment not half an hour ago.’

‘That’s all past.’

‘Stay where you are,’ she ordered. ‘Bed is the only place for you.’

‘Then I need someone to share it with me,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her down beside him then rolling on top of her. ‘Weakened, am I?’ he went on, kissing her full on the lips. ‘The only fever that I have is the one that you always give me, Margery. Come here, my love. Restore me to full health.’

Her squeal of protest was quickly replaced by a sigh of acquiescence as she yielded to his sudden passion. Firethorn roared with delight. He started to lift her dress but the nuptials were not allowed to continue. A sharp tap behind them made the lovers stop. Framed in the open doorway were all four apprentices, watching with a blend of relief and curiosity. Doctor Whitrow was standing in the middle of them, tactfully averting his gaze.

‘There is the small matter of my fee,’ he said meekly.

Nicholas Bracewell finished his meal and washed it down with a mouthful of ale. Owen Elias was still munching cheerfully but Davy Stratton’s food lay untouched on its platter.

‘Eat up, lad,’ encouraged Nicholas.

‘I’m not hungry,’ said the boy.

‘You must be.’

‘Go on, Davy,’ said Elias, nudging him. ‘It’ll help to keep out the cold.’

But the most that the boy consented to do was to pick at his meat, putting only the smallest portion in his mouth and chewing it without relish. Eager to hear an account of his movements from Davy himself, Nicholas bided his time. The boy still seemed to be in a state of shock and the presence of two servants inhibited their conversation. Having escorted them to the kitchens, Romball Taylard had vanished, leaving instructions with the cook to feed them well before sending them off to their room. The three of them were seated at a small table in the corner of the main kitchen, inhaling a rich compound of aromas and consuming their meal in the shadow of dead game that dangled from hooks. It was not the place to discuss confidential matters.

When they had all finished, one of the servants picked up a lighted candle, took them into the adjoining kitchen and opened a small door. A rickety staircase curled upwards. The visitors were forced to recognise their appointed place in the scheme of things. Detached from their host, they were not being given the luxurious accommodation that his generosity appeared to indicate. Instead, they were conducted up the backstairs to a room in the servants’ quarters, vacated to make way for them and hastily cleaned. The place was illumined by three flickering candles. When the servant departed, they closed the door behind him and took inventory.

It was a small, narrow room with a slanting floor and a superfluity of draughts. Fresh linen had been placed on the two beds that nestled side by side. Crammed into a corner was a truckle bed that had been dragged in for Davy. On a small table against one wall stood a bowl and a pitcher of water. Beneath the table was a capacious chamber pot. It was the first thing that Owen Elias noticed. He jabbed a finger at it.

‘It’ll take a lot of bladders to fill that,’ he noted. ‘How many sleep in here?’

‘Two to each bed, I suspect,’ said Nicholas.

‘Three, more like it. There are no featherbeds for the servants here. They sleep head to toe as in other big houses. Well,’ he decided, flinging himself down on one of the beds, ‘this will suit me for a night. It’s hard but I’m used to that. What I’m not used to is sleeping on my own.’ He looked teasingly across at the apprentice. ‘Would you like to curl up in here with me, Davy?’

‘No, no,’ said the boy quickly, standing beside the truckle bed. ‘I’ll stay here.’

‘I won’t bite you, lad,’ said Elias jovially. ‘Not too hard, anyway. And I promise faithfully not to kiss you — unless you kiss me first, that is.’

‘Leave him be, Owen,’ chided Nicholas. ‘He’s tired.’

‘Not too tired to tell us what happened, I hope. I don’t know about you, Nick, but I didn’t believe a word that his father said to us. Davy’s pony didn’t bolt.’

‘He did,’ said the boy defensively. ‘I swear it.’

‘Was your father telling us the truth?’

‘Hotspur bolted and a low branch knocked me from the saddle.’

‘But what caused him to bolt, Davy?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’ve been missing for hours. Where were you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said the boy evasively. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘We thought you’d run away from us. Did you?’ Davy shook his head. ‘Is that why you wanted to come to Essex with us?’ The boy shook his head again. Nicholas traded a glance with Elias. ‘You’re exhausted, lad. I can see that. Get yourself some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.’

Relieved to be spared an interrogation, Davy nodded and began to undress. His companions also got ready for bed. Nicholas sensed that the apprentice was lying but saw no value in trying to force information out of him. The only way to get to the truth was to win the boy’s confidence and convince him that he was among friends who would not sit in judgement on him. Jerome Stratton’s behaviour had been eloquent. It told them much about his uneasy relationship with his son and confirmed the suspicion that Davy had not joined Westfield’s Men voluntarily. However, since he was now legally a member of the company, they had a responsibility to keep him in it. They would be more vigilant in future. Before he clambered into bed, Nicholas blew out two of the candles.

‘Good night, Davy,’ he said gently.

There was no reply. ‘He’s fast asleep, Nick,’ observed Elias. ‘Dog tired.’

‘It’s been a long day for him, Owen.’

‘And he’s had a rough time of it, by the look of things.’

Getting into his own bed, Elias licked his thumb and forefinger before using them to sniff out the last candle. There was a long pause as he tried to get comfortable and Nicholas could hear him threshing about. Elias then settled down and seemed to go off to sleep. Nicholas was about to doze off himself when the Welshmen spoke.

‘Are you still awake, Nick?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think we’ll ever get to know why he went haring off like that?’

‘Not from Master Stratton,’ whispered Nicholas, ‘that’s for sure.’

‘I wouldn’t trust him to tell me what day of the week it was,’ muttered Elias, adjusting his position in bed again. ‘He’d probably charge me interest for doing so. Merchants are all the same. Cheats and liars to a man.’

‘Keep your voice down, Owen.’

‘Nothing I say about his father will upset Davy. You saw the pair of them together earlier. There’s no love lost between them. Besides,’ he added, suppressing a yawn. ‘The boy’s dead to the world.’

‘Then don’t wake him up,’ hissed Nicholas.

Elias reverted to a whisper. ‘What do you make of Sir Michael?’

‘He’s a perfect gentleman.’

‘He’s also completely mad. Firing a cannon at night to break the ice on the lake? It was all I could do to forbear laughing. And why does he keep all those weapons?’

‘They interest him.’

‘Weapons are for fighting and he’s the most peaceable man I’ve ever met.’

‘He’s also our host, Owen, so we must take him as we found him. Sir Michael and his wife have come to the rescue of Westfield’s Men. Never forget that. If he has a few outlandish ideas, we should tolerate them happily. No,’ said Nicholas, keeping his voice low, ‘I have no complaints at all about our hosts. The person who worries me is their steward.’

‘Why?’

‘To begin with, he doesn’t want us here.’

‘That was my feeling, Nick.’

‘If it were left to him, we’d be spending the night at that village inn. It never shows in his face but I fancy that Romball Taylard objects to the very idea of Westfield’s Men performing in the Great Hall.’

‘Does he think we’ll steal the silver or ravish the chambermaids?’

‘Who knows? But that’s not the only thing that troubles me about him.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, Owen.’

‘What else is there?’

‘The simple fact that we’ve seen so much of the fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s the steward here. In an establishment of this size, that means he has immense responsibilities. He supervises the staff, advises Sir Michael, victuals the kitchens, controls the household accounts and so on. Yet he was waiting for us as soon as we walked through the door.’

‘So?’

‘Why should Taylard take on the office of a butler when he could delegate it elsewhere? Why lead us off to our meal when that was an office fit for a servant? Why do chores that should rightly be beneath him? Do you take my point, Owen?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it odd that someone who’s so unhappy to have us at Silvermere is taking such pains to stay close to us?’

Elias gave a loud yawn. ‘I never thought about it that way.’

‘Neither did I until now.’

‘What’s the reason behind it, Nick?’

‘That’s obvious,’ said his friend quietly. ‘He’s watching us.’

Another yawn from Elias signalled the end of the conversation. After wishing each other good night, they snuggled under the warm sheets. Elias was the first to fall asleep, marking the event with a series of gentle snores. Nicholas lay awake for a while, thinking about Davy Stratton’s sudden departure in the forest and speculating on where the boy had really gone. When his eyelids grew heavy, he surrendered to fatigue and dozed off. How long he slept he did not know but it was still dark when a creaking sound brought his awake. He thought at first that it was Elias, making his way to the chamber pot but the Welshman was still snoring happily in the next bed. Nicholas sat up in bed and peered into the gloom through bleary eyes.

‘Is that you, Davy?’ he asked.

The creaking stopped instantly but there was no reply to his question. Nicholas grew suspicious. Hauling himself out of bed, he groped his way to the truckle bed and put out an exploratory hand. Davy was not there yet Nicholas was certain he was still in the room. He was fully awake now. Nicholas sensed that the boy was standing by the door and he moved across to reach out for him. Holding his breath and flattened against the door, Davy let out a yelp as strong fingers closed on his arm. Nicholas put both hands on the boy and was shocked with what he found.

‘You’re fully dressed,’ he said.

‘I was … going for a walk,’ bleated Davy.

‘In the middle of the night? You were running away again, weren’t you?’

‘No!’

‘You were,’ said Nicholas with subdued anger. ‘Why? Where were you going?’

‘Nowhere.’

Nicholas shook him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Davy. You put on your clothes to sneak out. I heard you trying to open the door, didn’t I?’

The boy capitulated. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, sobbing quietly. ‘I was creeping out and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t locked the door.’

‘But I didn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘I don’t have a key.’

He reached for the handle himself and twisted it. Though he pulled hard, the door did not move an inch. All three of them were securely locked in the room.

Jared Tuke did not seem to feel the bitter cold. A burly man of middle years, he walked through the churchyard as if it were a summer’s afternoon rather than an early morning in winter. His only concession to the weather was to wear his largest cap but even that was set back on his head to reveal the gnarled face. He paused beside a gravestone to offer up a silent prayer. Tuke had inherited the position of churchwarden from his father and he carried out his duties with the same plodding reliability. Reuben Tuke lay six feet beneath the earth now but his son was carrying on the family tradition and, in doing so, he was able to pay his respects daily to the old man whose name was chiselled on the stone slab in front of him. He brushed a layer of frost from the gravestone then strolled on up to the church. No light showed through the stained glass window in the west front. Tuke gave a grunt of satisfaction. He always liked to be the first there.

The parish church of St Christopher stood in a hamlet on the extreme edge of the Silvermere estate, serving two other hamlets, a village and a number of scattered farmsteads. It was a small, squat, undistinguished building that had been kept in good repair throughout the two hundred years of its existence and it had survived intact the religious crises that had afflicted the country for so long. Seating in the nave could accommodate over a hundred parishioners without undue discomfort though long sermons drew attention to the roughness of some of the benches. The chancel was large enough to house double rows of choir stalls that faced each other with wooden solidity. Three wide stone steps led up to the altar rail, three more to the altar itself. Since the tower rose out of the middle of the church, the solitary bell was rung by means of the rope that dangled below the chancel arch and which was secured, at other times, to a hook set into the side of the oak pulpit.

Having let himself into the church, Jared Tuke lit a few candles then started with the preparations. By the time he heard the latch on the vestry click, he had all but finished his work. He was still appraising the altar when the vicar came into the chancel.

‘Good morning, Jared,’ said the newcomer.

‘Good morning,’ replied the churchwarden.

‘One of these days, I may actually get here before you but I haven’t managed it yet. Do you never sleep, man?’

‘I’ve always been an early riser.’

‘If only I could say the same!’

Reverend Anthony Dyment was a short, wiry man in his thirties with a pleasant face and an agreeable manner. Wrapped in a thick black cloak, he was still shivering visibly. He blew on his hands then rubbed them hard together. As if realising for the first time where he was, Dyment removed his hat and gave a reverential nod in the direction of the altar. Tuke had not only discarded his hat, he had also taken off his buff jerkin. It made the vicar shiver afresh just to look at him.

‘Is everything ready, Jared?’ he enquired.

‘I think so.’

‘Nothing at all left for me to do?’

‘Only to perform the ceremony.’

Dyment smiled. ‘We’ll have you doing that before long. You do everything else.’

‘It’s my duty,’ said Tuke with leaden sincerity.

‘No man in the parish is more cognisant of his duty than you.’

Tuke had arrived not long after dawn but the sky had now brightened appreciably and light came in through the windows to supplement the candle flames and to dapple the flagstones. Dyment walked down the aisle to the rear of the nave to stand beside the stone font. Carved into it was a representation of the Lamb of God, curled up beside a cross. The vicar ran a reflective hand around the circumference of the font.

‘I hope that the water doesn’t freeze in here,’ he sighed.

‘No chance of that,’ said Tuke.

‘There’s one sure way to make sure that it doesn’t.’

He took off his cloak and walked back to the chancel to kneel at the altar rail. Without even thinking, Jared Tuke joined him in prayer. They remained there for several minutes before they were interrupted by the sound of the door being thrown open. Both of them got to their feet at once and swung round to look at the intruder. When the vicar saw who it was, he quailed. The last person he wanted to confront was Reginald Orr. The unexpected visitor was a tall, rugged, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in black and glowering with resentment. His voice was like the crack of a whip.

‘What’s that I see?’ he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.

‘Where?’ asked the vicar.

‘There, man. On the altar behind you. That gold plate.’

‘That was a gift from Sir Michael,’ explained Dyment, glancing over his shoulder at the large plate that was propped up on the altar. ‘His generosity knows no end.’

‘Nor do his Popish inclination. That plate smacks too much of Rome.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Tuke, stung by the claim.

‘There’s none of the Old Religion here,’ added Dyment, vainly attempting to put some firmness into his voice. ‘As you’d know, Reginald, if you showed us the courtesy of joining us in worship here.’

‘I refuse to take part in Catholic celebrations,’ said Orr defiantly.

‘We abide by the law of the land and hold only Protestant services here.’

‘Then why deck your church out as if you’re expecting a visit from the Pope himself? Look at it. Gold plate. A silver crucifix. Gold ornaments. A silk altar cloth embroidered with gold thread and a vestry full of other abominations just waiting to be brought in.’ Orr strode purposefully down the aisle. ‘The Pope is Antichrist! Spurn him!’

‘We do,’ said Dyment.

‘Not to my satisfaction.’

‘Nothing is ever done to your satisfaction, Reginald,’ said the vicar, glad that his churchwarden was beside him and even more glad that Orr stopped in his tracks. ‘We have talked theology these past couple of years and you’ll not be shifted.’

‘I follow the true path.’

‘There’s more than one way to heaven.’

‘Yes,’ said Tuke, keen to associate himself with the notion. ‘There’s more than one way to heaven, Reginald Orr, but I doubt that we’ll ever meet you there.’

The visitor bristled with anger and seemed to be about to lunge forward at the churchwarden but Tuke’s broad shoulders and brawny arms dissuaded him from intemperate action. Anthony Dyment was never quite sure how to cope with Orr. The man was a zealous Puritan, too scornful of the Anglican service to attend one himself and too intolerant to let others do so in peace. The only time that the man ever came through the door of the church was when he could cause trouble. The vicar braced himself for another argument with his most recalcitrant parishioner.

‘I’ll have no raised voices in here, Reginald,’ he warned. ‘This is the Lord’s house. Speak with moderation or you must leave.’

Orr curled a lip. ‘Do you think I want to enter this Romish den?’

‘It’s the parish church of St Christopher in the county of Essex.’

‘Filled with the stink of the Pope.’

‘If that’s what you believe, why force yourself to come here?’

‘Because I need to speak with you.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait until another time,’ said Dyment briskly. ‘I have to conduct a service of Holy Baptism in here later on this morning. Jared and I need to prepare the church properly for that. Good day to you, sir.’

‘I’ll not budge till I get an answer,’ warned Orr, folding his arms and spreading his feet. ‘Since you’re Sir Michael’s lackey, you’ll be able to give it to me.’

‘Don’t insult the vicar,’ said Tuke sharply.

‘I wasn’t talking to you, Jared.’

‘Show some respect.’

‘Let him speak,’ said Dyment wearily. ‘If that’s the only way to get rid of him.’

The Puritan nodded. ‘It is, believe me. All I want to know is whether this ugly rumour is true or false?’

‘Rumour?’

‘They say that a troupe players will soon come to Silvermere.’

‘That is so,’ conceded the vicar. ‘Sir Michael invited them.’

‘Have you raised no protest?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Heavens, man!’ exclaimed Orr in horror. ‘It’s your bounden duty. Do you want a company of vile and despicable actors to befoul this county? Do you want them to stage heathenish plays in which boys disguise themselves as women and do all manner of lewd things? You’re not merely vicar of this church. You’re chaplain to Sir Michael as well. Use your influence. Make him turn these rogues away.’

‘But Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor hold the players in high regard.’

‘Theatre is anathema. It corrupts all who touch it.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, Reginald.’

Orr was shocked. ‘Are you saying that you condone this visit?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Dyment, wilting slightly before the man’s pulsing rage. ‘But it’s not my place to criticise Sir Michael or to tell him whom he can invite to his own home. It would be a gross intrusion of his privacy.’

‘Stop these actors spreading their venomous poison!’

‘They’re merely coming to entertain the guests at Silvermere.’

‘No,’ said Orr, raising a finger of doom. ‘They’re coming to ensnare and defile. Playhouses are steaming pits of… inquity. They purvey bawdy, foolery and idolatry. They feed on virginity and sneer at decency. They steal the innocence of children. Actors are born lechers. No woman within ten miles is safe while they are here. Stop them,’ he insisted, banging a fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘Stop these players from coming anywhere near Silvermere. If you don’t do it,’ he threatened darkly, ‘someone else will.’