The Devil's Apprentice (2 page)

‘You have not yet heard the conditions,’ said Gill, sourly.

‘Conditions?’

‘Yes, Nick,’ added Hoode. ‘Two of them. Tell him, Lawrence.’

‘They’re not so much conditions as trifling requests,’ said Firethorn, airily, trying to make light of them. ‘The first is that one of the plays we present must be entirely new. That’s hardly an unjust stipulation. Sir Michael is paying well and expects the best. He wishes to offer some newly-minted masterpiece to his guests.’

‘And who is to be the author of this piece?’ asked Hoode.

‘Who but you, Edmund?’

‘Impossible!’

‘Inevitable.’

‘There’s no time to write a new play.’

‘Then refurbish an old one and change its title.’

‘That’s villainy, Lawrence. I’ll not stoop to deception.’

‘Theatre is one great deception, man. We practise on the minds of our spectators. How is Sir Michael Greenleaf to know that his new drama is but an ageing body in a fresh suit of clothes?’

‘He may not know,’ replied Hoode, indignantly, ‘but I will. It would turn my stomach to be party to such a low trick and our reputation would be sorely damaged if the truth were to come out. Did you not say that Lord Westfield might be present?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Firethorn, ‘but only for a few days.’

‘Should he chance to be there when we perform, he’ll uncover our device at once. Drunk as he usually is, our patron knows when he has seen a play before, however well we disguise it. No, Lawrence, this condition cannot be met. We are bidden to Silvermere at the end of this month. I cannot conjure a play out of the air in so short a time. You must thank Sir Michael for his kind invitation but refuse it nevertheless.’

‘Why be so hasty?’ intervened Nicholas. ‘I see your dilemma, Edmund, and I think it wrong to put you in such an unfair position. Our best work comes from you, it is true, but surely we can look elsewhere on this occasion. Another pen might answer our needs here.’

‘Not in less than a fortnight, Nick. What hand could work so speedily?’

‘None that would produce a play worthy of our company, perhaps, but I’m not speaking of a piece that
must be grown from seed in its author’s mind. I talk of a play already written but untried in performance. It’s called
The Witch of Rochester.’

‘By heaven, you’re right!’ said Firethorn, slapping his thigh. ‘It went clear out of my mind. The play had many faults but enormous promise. That’s why I gave it to you to read, Nick.’

Gill was outraged. ‘You showed a play to a mere book holder before I cast my eyes on it? That’s unforgivable, Lawrence. Nicholas may do his duty behind the scenes but it is I who have to transmute the written word into life on the stage. I’ve never even heard of
The Witch of Rochester.’

‘No more have I until this moment,’ said Hoode with mild annoyance.

‘I was keeping it as a pleasant surprise for the both of you,’ lied Firethorn.

‘You’d forgotten all about it until Nicholas jogged your elbow,’ observed Gill, testily. ‘If it can be so easily mislaid in your memory, it can hardly have a strong purchase there. Many faults, you say. I do not like the sound of that. Be warned, Lawrence. I’ll not risk my art on some base brown-paper stuff written by a floundering author. What arrant fool puts his name to this witches’ brew?’

‘Egidius Pye,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s no arrant fool.’

‘Nor is he a poet of any repute.’

‘No, Master Gill,’ confessed the other, ‘but he’s a talented playwright who will learn much from seeing his work translated to the stage. Master Pye is a lawyer, an educated man with a ready wit. One of his plays saw the light of day at the Inns of Court and he has a commission
to write another. He’s no raw newcomer but a man whose pen we should nurture and encourage.’

‘That’s a decision for the sharers to make,’ said Gill, loftily. ‘Only an actor can make a true judgement of a play.’

‘I disagree,’ said Hoode, loyally. ‘Nick has a keener eye than any of us.’

Firethorn nodded. ‘Precisely why I first showed this piece of witchcraft to him. When you read a play, Barnaby, you see only the part intended for you. Because he lacks your overweening vanity, Nick can view a drama in its entirety. And I agree with him.
The Witch of Rochester
may cast the very spell we require.’

‘In time,’ warned Nicholas. ‘It needs work on it still.’

‘Edmund can help there. It’s much easier to polish an existing play than to labour over a new one. All that Master Pye needs is the benefit of a guiding hand.’

Hoode was sceptical. ‘If he’ll accept it, Lawrence.’

‘No question but that he will.’

‘Some authors tolerate no interference with their work.’

‘Egidius Pye will do as he’s told.’

‘The first thing you might advise him to do is to amend his title,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since we are to perform at Silvermere, it might make sense to shift his witch from Kent to Essex, a county more seasoned in sorcery. Lose one letter, substitute two and Master Pye’s work becomes
The Witch of Colchester.
That might appeal to Sir Michael.’

‘It certainly appeals to me, Nick,’ said Firethorn, clapping his hands. ‘It shall be done. There, my friends. One condition is already met.’

‘Not until I’ve read the play myself,’ said Hoode.

‘You’ll appreciate its rare quality at once, Edmund.’

‘That still leaves the second condition,’ Gill reminded him, ‘and it remains quite insurmountable. A dozen new plays would not make me sanction that.’

‘It’s a bold demand,’ agreed Hoode.

‘A suggestion,’ emphasised Firethorn, ‘not a demand. We may yet find some happy compromise. What Sir Michael Greenleaf is asking,’ he said to Nicholas, ‘is that Westfield’s Men take a new apprentice into the fold.’

‘Madness!’ decided Gill.

‘Not necessarily.’

‘We have enough mouths to feed, as it is,’ argued Hoode.

‘I’ll take responsibility for feeding one more,’ volunteered Firethorn. ‘Our boys have been happy enough under my roof and they have not gone hungry with a wife like Margery to do the cooking. I think that we should consider the request.’

‘Who is the boy in question?’ wondered Nicholas.

‘His name is Davy Stratton.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Precious little beyond the fact that he is eleven years old and desirous of entering this verminous profession of ours. Davy is the son of Jerome Stratton, a rich merchant and close friend of our host in Essex. Lord Westfield gave me to understand that Sir Michael would regard it as a great favour if we could accept the boy.’

‘And if we do not?’ challenged Gill.

‘The invitation to his home loses some of its warmth.’

‘It crumbles, Lawrence. Take the lad or stay away from Essex. That’s the offer. In exchange for ten days’ employment, we may be saddled with a useless boy for
years on end. It’s a monstrous bargain and we should reject it outright.’

‘There’s room in the company for one more apprentice.’

‘When we have no work for the boys already indentured? Spurn this Davy Stratton. We’ll not have him thrust upon us in this way.’

‘Hold there, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘This offer may be unlooked for but it comes at an apposite time. John Tallis can no longer carry a young woman’s part with any success. His voice has broken and his features coarsened.’

‘Do not mention the rogue to me!’ growled Firethorn as an old wound reopened. ‘I was there at the fateful hour when John Tallis betrayed us.
The Maids of Honour
was the play. In the person of the King of France, I asked the blushing Marie to accept the hand of the Prince of Navarre in marriage. And what happens? John Tallis chooses that moment to change his sex. His maid of honour turned into a croaking bullfrog who all but ruined the play. I could have gelded him on the spot!’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘John is more suited to the roles of older ladies now. Nurses or grandmothers are still within his compass. A younger voice is required. I thought to have found it in Philip Robinson but he preferred to remain at the Chapel Royal. It may just be that Davy Stratton is a better deputy.’

‘He’s an imposition we can do without,’ said Gill, vehemently.

‘I incline to the same view,’ added Hoode. ‘We can manage without a new boy.’

‘When he brings employment in his wake?’ said
Firethorn. ‘Would you kiss away ten days’ of work in a private house? Think of the fee we would forfeit and of the new friends we might make for our art. Remember that this Jerome Stratton is a wealthy merchant, eager to place his son among us. We can set a high price on such eagerness. There’s ready profit in this for Westfield’s Men.’

‘Only if the boy is an apt pupil,’ said Hoode.

‘I’m sure that he will be, Edmund.’ His voice took on a sharper edge. ‘Are you not vexed by this enforced idleness? Do you not fear that your art will desert you? A moment ago, Nick mentioned the Chapel Royal. Does it not gall you that boy actors perform each day at Blackfriars while we languish here?’

‘Of course, Lawrence.’

‘Do you feel no sense of injustice that the indoor playhouses thrive while those of us at the mercy of the elements are thrown out of work?’

‘It wounds me to the quick.’

‘Then do something about it. Seize this offer with both hands. Sir Michael Greenleaf is our host but there may be some among his guests who will also see fit to employ us in time. Ten days in Essex may gain us tempting invitations elsewhere.’

‘That’s true,’ conceded Hoode, warming to the idea.

Gill was unconvinced. ‘It still does not solve the problem of an unwanted boy,’ he said, testily. ‘I refuse to let a complete stranger foist his son upon us.’

‘Sage advice, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas.

Firethorn bridled. ‘Will
you
turn against me as well, Nick?’

‘By no means,’ returned the other. ‘I support all that you’ve said but I also accept the contrary view. Whatever the lure, no company should be compelled to take an unknown quantity into its midst. The remedy, therefore, is simple. Meet this Jerome Stratton and question him closely. Examine his son to see if he is fit for the demands of the stage. Davy and his father will not be complete strangers then. We’ll know them for what they are. If the boy proves unequal to the task, turn him politely away.’

‘If he shows talent,’ said Firethorn, beaming happily, ‘we take the lad into the company and pocket the money from his father. This is the wisest counsel of all, Nick. I knew that you should be part of these deliberations. Is it agreed, then?’ he asked, looking at the others. ‘We put Davy Stratton to the sternest test?’

‘As soon as possible,’ said Hoode.

‘But against my better judgement,’ sighed Gill.

‘Come, Barnaby,’ teased Firethorn. ‘I would have thought you’d be the first to welcome a new boy into the company. You consort more with the youth of London than any of us. And however plain and pimply young Davy turns out to be, he’ll be ten times prettier than John Tallis. Will that not content you?’

Firethorn chuckled and Gill retreated into a hurt silence. Though he still had reservations about the new play, Hoode was pleased that the decision had been made. Nicholas, too, was glad, delighted with the unexpected invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf and hoping that it was possible to accept it. Their reputations were a matter of great pride to his three companions. To the lesser mortals in the company,
however, work was simply a means of survival. Employment at a fine house in Essex would be a godsend to them. Food, lodging and an appreciative audience would be guaranteed. Nicholas longed to have the pleasure of spreading the good news among his fellows.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ declared Firethorn, rising to his feet. ‘We’ll have that death’s head of a landlord fetch us a bottle of Canary wine to celebrate.’ He squinted as a shaft of sunlight came in through the window. ‘Look, my friends,’ he said, pointing. ‘A change in the weather at last. The sun is shining to bless our enterprise. It’s an omen.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Gill, ‘of the worst possible kind.’

It was a pity that none of them heard his dire warning.

‘Well, my boy,’ said Jerome Stratton, beaming complacently, ‘what do you think of it?’

‘It’s very nice, Father,’ replied Davy.

‘Nice? Nice?’ chided the other. ‘Is that all you can say? The Royal Exchange is one of the great sights of London and you simply dub it ‘nice’. Look properly, Davy. And
listen.
That excited buzz you hear is the sealing of a thousand contracts. This is the very heart of the city, the place where goods are bought and sold, fortunes made or lost and commercial dynasties forged. To merchants like me, the Royal Exchange is home.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s why I brought you here. To feast your eyes on its magnificence.’

‘Thank you,’ said the boy. ‘It’s very big.’

‘Nice? Big? You’re too miserly with your adjectives,
lad. The Exchange is a true phenomenon. It may resemble the bourses at Antwerp and Venice but, in my view, it surpasses both. I was little above your own age when the first brick was laid by Sir Thomas Gresham some thirty odd years ago. Do you see that huge grasshopper atop the bell tower?’ he went on, pointing upwards. ‘An emblem from the Gresham crest. The memory of Sir Thomas is kept fresh in our minds.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Davy Stratton’s dutiful answer concealed his doubts. Whatever else the merchants and bankers were doing as they milled about in the piazza, they were not thinking about the late founder of the Royal Exchange. They were too busy wrangling over contractual details, considering new investments, soliciting loans or trading gossip. It was the same whenever merchants came to stay at their house. Jerome Stratton would speak to them for hours on end in their private language and the boy would be left on the periphery of the conversation, present but completely disregarded, reduced to the status of a piece of furniture in the room. It did not endear Davy to the merchant class in which his father flourished. The Exchange was overwhelming in its size and crushing in its exclusivity. Davy felt more alienated than ever. It might be home to his father but it was a species of torture chamber to him.

‘Most of the materials came from abroad,’ said Stratton, resuming his lecture. ‘The slates were imported from Dort, the wainscoting and glass from Amsterdam. And, of course, the architecture is inspired by the Italian masters so it has a truly international feel, as befits the trading centre of our
wonderful city.’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Or do you think that London itself is merely ‘nice’ or ‘very big’? I hold that it’s the finest city in Christendom. What’s your opinion, Davy?’

‘It frightens me a little.’

‘Does it not also dazzle you and make your blood run?’

‘No, Father. There are so many people.’

‘You’ll soon get used to that, lad. If you come to live here, that is,’ he added, shooting a glance at the boy. ‘You do
want
to move to London, don’t you?’

‘I believe so,’ said Davy uncertainly.

‘It will be the making of you.’

Davy Stratton had grave doubts about that as well. What both he and his father had agreed was that the boy’s future did not lie in the commercial realm. He lacked interest and showed no aptitude for business. Small for his age, Davy had a slightness of build and delicacy of feature that seemed ill suited for the cut-and-thrust world inhabited by his father. Though he was an intelligent boy, he was too reserved and uncompetitive to follow in Jerome Stratton’s footsteps. Where the father was big, fleshy and confident, the son was short, thin and withdrawn. Yet Davy was not without an innate toughness. A quiet determination that shone in his eyes.

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Stratton.

‘I think so, Father.’

‘Then you are no merchant, Davy. I never have enough of the Exchange. Would you not like to take another turn around the courtyard?’

‘If you wish.’

‘It’s a question of what
you
wish, lad.’

‘I’m cold, Father,’ admitted the boy. ‘My teeth are chattering.’

Stratton slipped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll keep on the move,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let me show you the shops. I’ll wager that one of them will arouse your curiosity.’

Davy allowed himself to be led towards the steps. As they made their way slowly through the crowd, Jerome Stratton dispensed smiles and greetings on both sides. He was in his element. Smartly attired in a padded doublet of a purple hue, he kept out the pinch of winter with a thick, fur-trimmed cloak and a velvet hat. Stratton had a red, round face that was lit with a professional geniality. He had been eager to show off the Royal Exchange to his son and was disappointed by the latter’s reaction. Expecting him to be enthralled on his first visit to London, he instead found Davy subdued and defensive.

‘I hope that you’re not having second thoughts,’ he warned.

‘About what, Father?’ asked Davy.

‘The reason that brought us here in the first place.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Stratton was unconvinced by the boy’s lacklustre response. When they reached the upper level, they strolled past a series of small shops where milliners, apothecaries, goldsmiths, booksellers and others plied their trade. Not even the glittering display in the armourer’s shop drew more than a cursory glance from Davy.

His concerned father took him aside.

‘What ails you, lad?’

‘Nothing, Father.’

‘You can’t deceive me,’ said Stratton. ‘When I came to London for the first time, I walked around with my mouth agape. So many awesome sights to see. It was one of the happiest days of my life. But you’ve hardly lifted an eyebrow, still less given a gasp of surprise or a grin of appreciation. We’ve been to St Paul’s, the Tower and everywhere in between yet none of them fired you with enthusiasm. Why not?’

‘I told you, Father. I’m cold.’

‘It was even colder in Essex but that didn’t stop you playing in the garden when the snow was a foot deep. You can’t blame all this on the winter. Unless,’ he probed, leaning in close, ‘your shivers are nothing to do with the weather.’

The boy nodded. ‘They’re not.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘A trifle, Father.’

‘There’s no need to be, Davy,’ said the other reassuringly.

‘But what if I fail?’

‘Out of the question. I know that you face an important test but you’ll come through it with flying colours. You bear the name of Stratton. We never fail. Just think, Davy,’ he said, touching the boy’s arm. ‘This afternoon, you’re going to meet Lawrence Firethorn, the most famous actor in England. I’ve seen him on stage a dozen times and been amazed on each occasion. A signal honour awaits you today.’

Davy bit his lip. ‘Will he
like
me, Father?’ he said.

‘Of course, he’ll like you.’

‘Supposing that he does not?’

‘He will, Davy. Master Firethorn will adore you.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Make
him like you!’ ordered Stratton, tightening his grip on the boy’s arm. ‘Play-acting is not so different from business. Look at me. The reason I’ve been so successful is that I force people to like me. I gain their confidence. It’s the first step towards parting them from the contents of their purses. Sparkle, Davy!’ he urged. ‘Win over Lawrence Firethorn and a whole new life beckons.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s what you want isn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then prove it. Live up to the name of Stratton. I’d hate to think that you were going to let me down. This is your opportunity, lad. Take it while you can. Make me proud of you.’ He released his grip. ‘It’s what your poor dear mother would have wished. Keep her in your thoughts, Davy. Your mother doted on you.’

The boy bit his lip again and stared at an invisible object on the ground. It took him a full minute to compose himself. When he looked up again, his voice was firm.

‘I’ll do my very best, Father,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Nicholas Bracewell turned into Chancery Lane and lengthened his stride. As soon as he reached the Middle Temple, he was reminded why he had such a distrust of lawyers. There were dozens of them, all dressed alike,
scurrying off to court or holding impromptu disputes with colleagues in the open air, each one exuding that mixture of arrogance and smugness that he found so unappealing. Bruised by occasional dealings with the legal profession, Nicholas made a point of keeping well away from its denizens but, in this instance, he had no choice in the matter. The one redeeming feature of this visit was that he was representing Westfield’s Men rather than seeking advice on his own account. A legal contract would be involved but it would cost him nothing but his congratulations.

Though he had never met Egidius Pye, he could glean something of the man’s character from his work.
The Witch of Rochester,
as it was still called, was an unlikely play to issue from the pen of a lawyer. It was rich with incident, steeped in the mysteries of witchcraft, abounding in humour, sprinkled with bawdy and shot through with wry comments on the human condition. All that betrayed its author’s profession was the extended trial with which it concluded though even that had a comical impetus. Imperfect as it was, the play had intrigued Nicholas and, now that he had read it, impressed Edmund Hoode as well. It was original, incisive and throbbing with life. Since the playwright now had to be sounded out in person, Nicholas had been dispatched to the Middle Temple.

Notwithstanding his discomfort at being surrounded by lawyers, it was a welcome assignment for the book holder. Egidius Pye, he decided, was highly untypical of the breed, a gifted author with a questing mind, a keen sense of the ridiculous and a healthy irreverence for the law and its practitioners. Nicholas pictured him as a tall, fair,
fearless young man with an independent streak, a natural rebel whose histrionic talent seemed to be quite instinctive. When he located Pye’s chambers, however, he came in for a severe shock. The lawyer was nothing whatsoever like the man he has envisaged.

‘Master Pye?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ said the other cautiously.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and I’m here on behalf of Westfield’s Men. I believe that you submitted a play to Master Firethorn for his consideration.’

‘Why, so I did.’

‘If you can spare the time, I need to discuss it with you.’

‘By all means, my friend. Come in, come in.’

Nicholas stepped into a large, low, cluttered room with a musty smell. Ancient leather-bound tomes stood on the shelves. Piles of documents littered every available surface. A plate of abandoned food lay half-hidden beneath a satchel. A pewter mug had fallen to the floor and taken up residence beneath the table. Other forgotten items filled every corner of the room. Egidius Pye was at one with his surroundings. Tall, scrawny and stooping, he had an air of sustained neglect about him. Though he was still in his late thirties, the receding hair, the greying beard and the ponderous movements made him seem twenty years older. A white ruff offset his black apparel but Nicholas observed that both were stained by food and flecked with dirt. So close were the eyes, nose and mouth that it looked as if all four had retreated to the centre of the face out of sudden fright on the principle that there was safety in numbers.

After shutting the door, the lawyer waved Nicholas to a
seat beside a fire that was producing far more smoke than heat. He lowered himself gingerly onto a stool opposite his unexpected visitor.

‘You’re a member of the company?’ he asked reverentially.

‘Merely its book holder, Master Pye,’ explained Nicholas, ‘but I was fortunate enough to be allowed to read
The Witch of Rochester.
It’s a remarkable play.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’

‘It was a pleasure from start to finish.’

‘And does Master Firethorn share that opinion?’

‘He does, sir. That’s why he sent me to speak to you.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Pye in a hoarse whisper, ‘that there’s a faint hope my work might actually be presented on stage?’

‘More than a faint hope. A distinct possibility.’

‘Praise God!’

Egidius Pye clapped his hands together as if about to pray. Torn between joy and disbelief, he inched so close to the edge of the stool that he all but fell off it. He opened his mouth to emit a noiseless laugh, exposing a row of uneven teeth and a large pink tongue. Nicholas marvelled that such an apparently staid, slovenly, pallid, middle-aged man could have created a work of such manic frivolity. Evidently, there was more to the lawyer than met the eye.

As instructed by Firethorn, the book holder introduced a cautionary note.

‘Everything, of course,’ he said, ‘is subject to certain conditions.’

‘Make what conditions you like, dear sir. I accept them all.’

‘That’s hardly the stance of a lawyer, Master Pye. A
contract will need to be drawn up. Given your profession, we expect you to question every detail.’

‘I bow willingly to Master Firethorn’s demands.’

‘But an author has certain rights, enforceable by law.’

‘What care have I for the law?’ said the other with a hint of recklessness. ‘It has brought me misery and boredom. Do you see these chambers, Master Bracewell? They were built at the request of my father in order that his only son could join him in the Middle Temple. And what happened? No sooner had the place been finished than my father – God bless him – died, leaving poor, unworthy, unwilling me to carry on the family tradition. Ha!’ he exclaimed with a hollow laugh. ‘It’s no tradition. It’s a curse. The law is a great rock that I’m doomed to roll up a hill like a second Sisyphus. I loathe the profession.’

‘That comes through in your play.’

‘It was not always so,’ confessed the other sadly. ‘The Inns of Court do have their appeal. When I first entered the Middle Temple as an Inner Barrister, it was like being an undergraduate at Oxford all over again. There was much jollity amid the hard work. There was a measure of light in the gloom. Then I became an Utter Barrister and most of the jollity ceased. Now that I’m a Bencher and in a position of some authority, I find it hard to remember that there was a time when I practiced the law instead of being imprisoned by it. Forgive me,’ he said, moving perilously closer to the edge of the stool. ‘You did not come to hear the story of my wasted life.’