The Devil's Apprentice (3 page)

‘I’m interested in anything you have to tell me.’

‘Then let me just say this. Lawyers drive me to distraction. What has kept me sane is the company of those who live in
the Middle Temple while having nothing whatsoever to do with the law. There are many such people. Sir Walter Raleigh is one. When he is in London, he often resides here. I have had the honour of dining with him. Sir Francis Drake, too, has connections with us though we see precious little of him.’

Nicholas smiled fondly. ‘Sir Francis was ever ubiquitous.’

‘You speak as if you know him, Master Bracewell.’

‘I do, indeed. I had the privilege of sailing with him around the world. Not that it seemed like a privilege at the time,’ he added with a slight grimace, ‘but it was an unforgettable experience. Life aboard the
Golden Hind
was an education.’

‘Tell me about it,’ encouraged the other.

‘Oh, I’m not here to talk about myself, Master Pye.’

‘But I worship Sir Francis – and Sir Walter. They are proper men while I am just another mealy-mouthed barrister, practicing the black arts of the law. What was your voyage like? What countries did you see? What marvels did you behold?’

‘I’ll tell you another time,’ promised Nicholas, too conscious of his duty to permit much digression of a personal nature. ‘I’m here simply to acquaint you with the way in which your play has been received and to see how amenable you are to some suggested changes.’

‘Changes?’

‘Improvements and refinements.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘The piece still has too many rough edges before it can be performed. With your permission, they can be cunningly removed.’

‘Teach me the way to do it and I’ll happily oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas, pleased to find such a cooperative attitude. ‘I take it that you’ve watched the company perform?’

‘Many times,’ said Pye, presenting the uneven teeth for inspection once more. ‘I’ve spent endless happy hours at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Then you must be familiar with the work of Edmund Hoode.’

‘My inspiration!’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Master Pye, because he has offered to work with you on the play to bring out the very best in it. If you agree, that is.’

‘Agree!’ repeated the lawyer, jerking forward so sharply that he slipped off the stool and landed on the floor. ‘It’s my dearest wish. I can think of no finer tutor than Edmund Hoode. I’ll sit at his feet and prove a conscientious pupil.’

‘There’s not much that you need to be taught,’ said Nicholas, helping him up. ‘Besides, time is against us. Such changes as are necessary will have to be made with a degree of speed. Let me explain.’

Omitting any mention of a new apprentice, Nicholas gave him a brief account of the invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf and the place that
The Witch of Rochester
might occupy in their repertoire. Egidius Pye quivered with pleasure throughout. The book holder was relieved. Other authors had caused untold problems for Westfield’s Men, too egotistic to take advice, too possessive to allow the slightest alteration to their plays and too vindictive when their work failed before an audience. Pye had none of these
faults. Nicholas was satisfied that the renegade lawyer would form a sound partnership with Edmund Hoode. Together they would improve the play beyond recognition. Nicholas put the man’s congeniality to the test.

‘How would you feel about a different title?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Title?’

‘Yes, Master Pye. In view of the fact that we may perform in Essex, we felt it more appropriate if your witch came, perhaps, from Colchester.’

‘Why not?’ said Pye readily. ‘
The Witch of Colchester
is as good a title as my own and an apposite one. I concur. Move the witch anywhere from Portsmouth to Perth and I’ll raise no objection. Whatever the location, my drama still holds its shape.’

‘True enough.’

‘The Witch of Colchester,
eh? I like it.’

‘That’s a relief.’

Nicholas explained in outline the terms of the contract that Westfield’s Men would offer him but Pye was not really listening. Overcome with joy at the prospect of seeing his play performed by one of the leading troupes, his mind was not attuned to fine detail. All that he wanted was confirmation that the visit to Essex would take place. The more they talked, the more Nicholas grew to like him. Egidius Pye was, in many ways, an unprepossessing character and he would inevitably encounter mockery from some of the actors but he had a number of good qualities. He was modest, intelligent, eager to learn, well versed in theatre and generous in his comments about Westfield’s
Men. He had written his play as a labour of love, not to win fame or financial reward. Nicholas warmed to him. He asked a question that formed in his mind when he first read the man’s play.

‘Do you
believe
in witchcraft, Master Pye?’

The lawyer was shocked. He looked like an archbishop who has just been asked to deny the existence of God. Righteous indignation welled up in his eyes. He clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly.

‘You seem to know so much about the subject,’ said Nicholas.

‘Knowledge comes from careful study.’

‘Have you ever met a witch?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But you believe that such people exist?’

‘Of course,’ said Pye with burning sincerity. ‘Don’t you?’

It was a tiring walk to Shoreditch but Nicholas was too preoccupied to notice either the distance or the biting wind. The meeting with Egidius Pye had been a revelation. As he reflected on their conversation, he began to wonder if he had at last met a member of the legal profession whom he could befriend. One thing was certain. If the play were to be performed by Westfield’s Men, its dishevelled author would have need of a friend in the company. Actors were robust individuals who expressed their feelings in warm language. They would show little respect for the sensibilities of Egidius Pye. When sparks began to fly during rehearsal, as they assuredly would, the newcomer would need support and protection. Nicholas was ready to offer both.

By the time he finally got to the house in Old Street, they were all there. Margery Firethorn fell on him with her usual affection, clutching him to her surging bosom while she planted a kiss on his cheeks. She stood back to appraise him.

‘You look cold and famished, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I am neither,’ he replied.

‘Are you sure that you would not like to come into the kitchen for moment? There’s a fire to warm you up and food to take away the pangs of hunger.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Is Anne looking after you properly?’

‘In every way.’

Margery cackled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Take her a message from me. When Anne tires of you, I’ll take you in myself and spoil you even more.’ She guided him across to the parlour. ‘Lawrence said I was to show you straight in. The visitors have not long been here. I tell you, Nicholas,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, ‘I’d rather feed the son than the father. Jerome Stratton would eat me out of house and home.’

Margery bustled off to the kitchen, leaving Nicholas to knock on the door on the parlour. He went in to be greeted by Lawrence Firethorn, standing in the middle of the room while his guests were all seated. The actor spread his arms wide.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he declared. ‘You’ve come upon your cue. Allow me to introduce Master Stratton and his son. This is Nicholas Bracewell, young Davy,’ he went on, moving over to the boy. ‘If you join the company, you’ll
have no better tutor. The rest of us may strut upon the stage, but it’s Nick who builds it for us in the first place. In every sense, he’s the scaffold on which Westfield’s Men stand.’

Nicholas exchanged greetings with the two strangers before being conducted to a seat in the window by his host. Firethorn lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Did you transact your business at the Middle Temple?’

‘I did,’ said Nicholas.

‘Satisfactorily?’

‘Extremely so.’

‘Then one success precedes another,’ announced Firethorn, turning to the others, ‘because I’m confident that Davy will be an asset to the company. I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on him. Have you ever seen a boy more suited to our needs than this young gentleman? He has the look of the perfect apprentice.’

‘My son is ideal for your purposes,’ said Stratton expansively. ‘I’d not place him with anyone other than Westfield’s Men. You choose the best, we require no less.’

Nicholas was struck by the boy’s features and impressed by his bearing. Even with a solemn expression on it, Davy Stratton’s face had an undeniable prettiness. A neat wig and a costly dress would transform him instantly into a beautiful young woman. The book holder was less enamoured of the father, however, noting how Stratton kept his son under close surveillance to ensure that the lad gave a good account of himself. Nicholas was not certain if he was witnessing excessive paternalism or a form of polite menace. At all events, Davy was impervious to both, ignoring his father altogether and sitting there with
a self-possession that was surprising in one so young.

The would-be apprentice was winning admiration elsewhere as well. Edmund Hoode was watching him with a contented smile while Barnaby Gill, shedding his earlier resistance to the notion of a new apprentice, was positively gloating over the boy, letting his gaze travel slowly over every detail of his face and frame. Nicholas was glad that the boy was too innocent to realise the true nature of Gill’s interest in him. Crucial as it was, appearance was not the only factor in the choice of an apprentice. Other qualities had to be considered, as Firethorn knew only too well. Nicholas was glad when the actor strode across to the boy and became more businesslike.

‘Can you read and write, Davy?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘He’s had an excellent education,’ said Stratton. ‘His Greek and Latin are above reproach. You’ll not be able to fault him on those, Master Firethorn.’

‘Davy is more likely to fault me, sir, for I’m no classicist. There’ll be little call for Latin, however, and none at all for Greek. Plain English is our preferred language. Tell me, lad,’ he said, crouching before the boy, ‘can you sing?’

‘As sweetly as a nightingale,’ said Stratton, patting his son’s leg.

‘Is that so, Davy?’

‘He’s worthy of a place in the Chapel Royal.’

‘Let him speak for himself, Master Stratton, I beg you.’

‘A full room makes him shy.’

‘You only compound that shyness by supplying answers for him,’ said Firethorn with forced politeness. ‘Pray, desist,
sir. If your son is shy in front of four strangers, how will he fare in an inn yard with hundreds of spectators?’

‘Davy will cope easily with all that confronts him,’ asserted Stratton.

‘Will you, Davy?’ asked Firethorn, hiding his exasperation at the father behind a kind smile. ‘Do you want to be up there on a high stage?’

‘Oh, he does, he does,’ continued the father. ‘He yearns for nothing else.’

Firethorn rose to his feet. ‘What I yearn for, Master Stratton, is the opportunity to hear your son’s voice. We appreciate the fact that you brought him to us but we can hardly judge his true merit when he is not permitted to open his mouth.’

‘A thousand apologies. I’ll hold my tongue.’

‘Thank you. Now, then, Davy,’ said Firethorn, making one more attempt to establish direct contact with the boy, ‘why do you wish to join Westfield’s Men?’

‘Because they are the finest company in England, sir,’ replied Davy.

‘You have good taste. Have you ever seen us perform?’

‘Unhappily, no, sir, but your reputation goes before you.’

‘A reputation for what?’

‘Good quality, Master Firethorn. Fine drama, well acted.’

‘Have you any idea what life in the theatre is like?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Very exciting, sir.’

‘Excitement is part of it, I grant you, but there are many frustrations as well. It’s a hard life, Davy, but a rewarding
one. Though we cannot offer you the security another profession might bestow, we guarantee you experiences that will thrill you to the marrow. Begin as a humble apprentice and you may soon be performing at Court in front of the Queen herself. How does that sound?’

‘Nothing would delight me more.’

‘Are you prepared to commit yourself to Westfield’s Men?’

‘With all my heart, sir.’

Delighted with the answers, Firethorn looked across at his colleagues, collecting a smile of approval from Hoode and a nod of assent from Gill whose gaze never left the boy. Nicholas indicated his own approbation though it was not unmixed with doubt. Davy Stratton had spoken well but his replies had been too glib for the book holder’s liking. It was as if the son had been carefully rehearsed beforehand to say exactly what they would wish to hear. To get a clearer idea of the lad’s character, it was imperative to separate him from Jerome Stratton.

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ asked Nicholas.

‘By all means,’ said Firethorn.

‘Davy is patently the sort of boy you seek. Only one thing remains to convince you of his suitability and that’s to hear him read a part. Could he not be given a few minutes to study a short speech while you and Master Stratton discuss the terms of an apprenticeship?’

‘A most sensible notion, Nick.’

‘So it is,’ said Gill, rising to his feet. ‘Find me some lines and I’ll take the lad into the next room to school him in how they should be delivered.’

‘Thank you, Barnaby,’ said Firethorn, quelling him with a glare, ‘but you’re not the teacher for this lesson. Since the play we choose will probably have been written by Edmund, he is the best person to instruct young Davy.’

‘I’d value Nick’s help,’ insisted Hoode, getting up as Gill slumped back into his seat. ‘Between us, I’m sure we can coax a performance from the boy.’

‘So could I!’ said Gill under his breath.

‘It’s settled,’ declared Firethorn, crossing to a large cupboard. ‘Step into the next room with Davy. I’ve a hundred scraps of plays in here,’ he continued, opening a door and burrowing inside. ‘The very thing!’ he said, reappearing with a scroll in his hand. ‘A speech from
The Merchant of Calais,
a role that was tailored for me from the best cloth that Edmund Hoode ever provided. The son of one merchant will counterfeit the lover of another. Here, Nick. Have the piece.’