The Devil's Apprentice (9 page)

‘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.’