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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
- Sprache: Englisch
Winter, Witchcraft and Devilish Deceit. Faced with the austerities of a bitterly cold English winter, the theatre is deserted and Westfield's Men find themselves out of work. Fortuitously, the company is invited to perform at a country home in Essex; welcome news to the disgruntled players. The company decide it's the perfect opportunity to trial their new play, The Witch of Colchester. However, when the group's leading actor begins to fall mysteriously ill, the company fear witchcraft might be involved. Then on the performance night, an audience member inexplicably collapses and dies, paving the way for Nicholas Bracewell to uncover the cause of the strange events taking place in Silvermere.
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Seitenzahl: 467
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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The Devil’s Apprentice
An Elizabethan Mystery
EDWARD MARSTON
To my beloved daughter, Helena, not forgetting Milton, the faithful hound and Mad Max, the amazing cat
A witch is one that worketh by the Devill, or by some devilish or curious art, either hurting or healing, revealing or foretelling things to come, which the devil hath devised to entangle and snare men’s souls withal unto damnation.
- George Giffard: A Discourse on the Subtill Practices of Devilles by Witches and Sorcerers. (1587)
Contents
Chapter One
Nicholas Bracewell had walked only fifty yards from the house when he saw the dead body. Covered in frost and spattered with mud, the old man lay in a narrow lane, huddled against a wall in a vain attempt to ward off the severe cold. Nicholas had seen death too many times to be shocked by its handiwork but he heaved a sigh of compassion at this latest example of its random cruelty. Its victim had been defenceless, an elderly beggar with no home to shelter him, no family to protect him, no warm food to sustain him and no clothing beyond a few pitiful rags to keep the icy fangs of winter at bay. When he bent over the corpse, Nicholas was surprised to see a farewell smile etched into the haggard face. Here was a willing sacrifice, a creature so tormented by the miseries of his life and the extremities of the weather that he could not endure them another day. The grotesque, toothless, frozen smile signalled his escape and added a poignancy to his grim demise. Closing his eyes, Nicholas offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the dead man.
London had known cold winters before but this one seemed to be unusually harsh. It was as if nature were exacting punishment for its earlier bounty. Having allowed the capital to bask in a hot summer then enjoy a remarkably mild autumn, it made amends for its kindness by sending wind, rain, snow, ice and fog to attack the city. Christmas had been celebrated in a blizzard. New Year’s Day was pelted with hailstones. Twelfth Night was disturbed by a howling gale. A frozen river brought the cheering diversion of a Frost Fair on the broad back of the Thames but the mood of elation soon passed as treacherous ice began to crack up indiscriminately, causing panic, injury and an occasional drowning. There was no relief. When the snow thawed, it was quickly replaced with frost, colder, sharper and more insidious in its effects. The very young or the dangerously old were the first to be cut down by its chill scythe. As he set off again, Nicholas knew that the beggar with the congealed smile would not be the last corpse to litter the streets of Bankside.
He found the watchmen at the Black Horse, drinking ale and keeping as close to the fire as they could, grumbling about the weather and complaining that honest men could hardly be expected to do their duty in such hostile conditions. It was a dank, dark inn, frequented by prostitutes and other low life in the area. Forsaking their roles, the two watchmen were making common cause with the very people they were appointed to keep under observation and, from time to time, arrest. It was not untypical behaviour. Nicholas reported the death and described the location of the corpse but his words elicited no sympathy. The tall watchman with the straggly beard was merely irritated.
‘Another one?’ he protested, rubbing his hands before the flames. ‘Why don’t these old fools have the grace to die in someone else’s parish? He’s the third this week to be snared by Jack Frost under our noses.’
‘Then he deserves some consideration,’ said Nicholas.
‘So do we, good sir.’
‘One thing,’ said his companion, a short, smirking stoat of a man. ‘He’s in a warmer place than we are, that’s for sure. This cold has turned my pizzle to an icicle.’
Nicholas was blunt. ‘Is that why you bring it into a leaping house instead of patrolling the streets as you’re enjoined to do? If you had less concern for yourselves and more devotion to your work, you might be able to save a few lives for a change.’
‘You’ve no cause to scold us,’ said the stoat, defensively.
‘I’ve every cause. Now, show some respect for the dead. I’ve told you where his body lies. Arrange to have it removed. If it’s still there when I return to Bankside, I’ll come looking for the pair of you to know the reason why.’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘I live here.’
‘So do we.’
‘Then prove yourselves worthy neighbours.’
Turning on his heel, Nicholas left the fetid taproom and stepped out into the fresh air. The icy wind plucked mischievously at him. He gave an involuntary shudder. He adjusted his cap and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. Swift movement was the best way to defeat the cold. Setting off at a brisk pace, he walked purposefully in the direction of the bridge, preferring to cross the river on foot rather than brave the rigours of a cold journey by boat. When he reached the corner of the street, he paused to look back. Shamed by his words, the two watchmen tumbled out of the Black Horse and slowly headed for the lane where the dead body had been discovered. Nicholas was satisfied. He continued on his way.
London Bridge was seething with activity. Parallel lines of shops and houses stretched the entire length of the structure, narrowing it to such an extent that there was barely room for wagons and coaches to pass each other. Nicholas pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the brush of a horse’s flanks against his shoulder or the harder caress of the cart that it was towing. His mind was still on the frozen figure in Bankside. It was not simply that he felt guilty about having slept in a warm bed while a man was shivering to death nearby. The sight had a deeper significance for him. In one tragic death, he saw the potential of several. Westfield’s Men, his beloved theatre company, was also a casualty of winter. Driven from its inn yard venue by the malignant weather, its life was gradually ebbing away, its members thrown into the wilderness of unemployment, its work fading into distant memories, its willpower eroded to the point where it might soon just lie down, turn its face to the wall and quietly expire.
Westfield’s Men had endured many crises in the past. Plague and fire had driven them from the city, Privy Council and Puritans had threatened them within it. Rival companies had done everything in their power to destroy them. Nicholas was only the book holder, a hired man with no financial investment in the troupe, but he had led the fight against every enemy that threatened them. Even he, however, was powerless against the vagaries of the English climate. The ugly truth had to be faced. If the austerities of winter continued for much longer, Westfield’s Men would be starved into submission and frozen into a mass grave. Nicholas felt a pang of regret that made him catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he quickened his step.
When he made his way to the other side of the bridge, Nicholas plunged into an even more turbulent sea of humanity. Gracechurch Street was given over to its market, a lively, sprawling free-for-all in which dozens of pungent odours competed to invade the nostrils and where the noise was deafening as traders yelled, customers haggled, horses neighed and foraging dogs tried to outdo them all with a cacophony of snarling, yapping and barking. Only the scavengers and pickpockets worked in silence. There was no room for calm reflection in such a throng. Nicholas had to watch where he was going and use his strong shoulders to force his way through the press of bodies. He was relieved when he ducked in through the gateway of the Queen’s Head and left the frenzy behind him. His relief quickly changed into sadness. He came to an abrupt halt.
The inn yard was empty. The venue where Westfield’s Men had given their finest performances was cold, deserted and neglected. Pools of ice glistened on the cobbles. The stables were uninhabited, the galleries vacant and the roofs sprinkled with frost. It was disheartening. A yard that had witnessed stirring drama, echoed to the sound of mighty lines or listened to the strains of expert musicians was now bereft of life or sound. Nicholas found it impossible to believe that he was standing on the very spot where the makeshift stage was erected. Had those bare galleries really been crammed with cheering spectators? Was that place of honour up above once occupied by their patron, Lord Westfield? Did hundreds of people actually stand shoulder to shoulder in that yard? Where had they all gone? Why had they left no sign of their passing? It was eerie.
One thing about the Queen’s Head, however, did not change. Its landlord, Alexander Marwood, was the same miserable, mean-spirited ghoul that he had always been. As soon as the book holder stepped into the taproom, Marwood was at his shoulder.
‘This weather will be the ruination of me!’ he complained.
‘It serves none of us well,’ said Nicholas wearily.
‘But I suffer more than most, Master Bracewell. This damnable cold keeps the coaches away and my beds empty of custom. All that I get in here are the sweepings of the streets,’ he went on, extending an arm to take in the whole room. ‘Look at them. Not a gentlemen among them. Not a full purse in the whole establishment. Here we have nothing but knaves and rascals, buying a niggardly cup of ale in order to sit out the whole day in front of my fire. Where’s the profit in that? The cost of logs is crippling. And this evil company drives out good custom. T’was ever thus.’
Nicholas let him moan on for several minutes before cutting his litany short.
‘Master Firethorn sent word that I should meet him here,’ he said.
Marwood nodded. ‘He’s taken a private room. I’m to send you there.’
‘Direct my feet.’
‘First, let me tell you how oppressed I’ve been.’
‘Later,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘I’ll hear all later, I promise. Master Firethorn does not like to be kept waiting. Tell me where he is and I’ll trouble you no further.’
Peeved to be losing a sympathetic ear, Marwood sniffed noisily and explained where to find the room. Nicholas thanked him. He went up a flight of rickety stairs and along a passageway worn smooth by the tread of many feet. The landlord’s directions were superfluous. From behind the door at the far end came a sound so deep, rich and expressive that it could only have issued from the throat of Lawrence Firethorn.
‘No, no, no, you idiot! That is not what I said at all!’
Deprived of his rightful place on stage at the head of his company, Firethorn was taking out his frustration on Barnaby Gill, his old adversary. Nicholas tapped on the door then opened it to walk in on a familiar scene. Firethorn was on his feet, gesticulating wildly, Gill was perched on a chair, arms folded and head turned away in disdain, and Edmund Hoode was flapping ineffectually between them like a dove of peace whose wings have been comprehensively clipped. Nicholas’s arrival brought the argument to a sudden end. Hoode lurched across to embrace his friend.
‘Nick!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank heaven you’ve come! Lawrence and Barnaby are at each other’s throats again. There’ll be bloodshed soon if we don’t stop them.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Firethorn with a ripe chuckle. ‘Barnaby and I had a slight difference of opinion, that is all. I was merely pointing out the stupidity of his argument.’
‘It pales beside the lunacy of your own,’ retorted Gill.
‘You’re both as bad as the other,’ chided Hoode. ‘Two squabbling children.’
‘Nick, dear heart,’ said Firethorn, closing the door and shepherding the newcomer towards a chair. ‘Come in and take your ease. It’s a long, cold walk from Bankside but I’ve news that might warm you up. Sit down, good friend.’
Slipping off his cloak, Nicholas took the chair in the corner while Firethorn and Hoode resumed their own seats. The atmosphere was fraught. An exchange of civilities helped to ease the tension slightly but it was not dispelled. Nicholas looked around his companions. Firethorn, the manager and leading actor of the company, was resplendent in his close-fitting Italian doublet, his beard well-groomed, his eyes aflame. Gill, by contrast, shorter and slighter of build, was still wrapped up in his fur-trimmed cloak, brooding sulkily. A gifted clown on stage, he was morose and capricious when he quit the boards, qualities that were intensified by his keen rivalry with Firethorn. Edmund Hoode was the resident playwright, a pale, thin, self-effacing man who all too often found himself being ground helplessly between the mill wheels of Firethorn and Gill. Hoode’s attire was more sober and far less expensive than that of his two colleagues. Because there was no heat in the room, all three of them still wore their hats.
‘Thus it stands, Nick,’ said Firethorn, seriously. ‘Winter has done its best to kill our occupation. Snow and ice have turned us out of the Queen’s Head and made the roads too impassable for us to tour. We could do nothing but sit, shiver and pray to God for deliverance. Our prayer,’ he announced, brightening, ‘has finally been answered.’
‘I disagree,’ said Gill.
‘That is taken for granted.’
‘The whole notion is ridiculous.’
‘Let Nick be the judge of that,’ said Firethorn, impatiently. He turned back to the book holder. ‘Our esteemed patron, Lord Westfield, has received an offer on our behalf that may be construed as manna from heaven.’
Gill snorted. ‘Manna, indeed! I see it as one more snowstorm descending out of the sky to bury us up to our waists.’
‘I’ll bury you up to the top of that ridiculous hat of yours, if you dare to interrupt me again, Barnaby. Hold your tongue, man. Is that beyond your competence?’
‘What exactly is this offer?’ asked Nicholas, anxious to head off another spat between the two men. ‘If it comes from Lord Westfield, it must have some worth.’
‘It does, Nick.’
‘I beg leave to doubt that,’ said Hoode, diffidently.
‘You see?’ said Gill, triumphantly. ‘Edmund agrees with me.’
‘Not entirely, Barnaby.’
‘Let’s hear what Nick has to say,’ insisted Firethorn, making an effort to rein in his irritation. ‘And he cannot do that until he has learnt the facts of the case. Though he may not be a sharer, I value his thoughts above those of anyone in the company.’ He distributed a punitive glare between Gill and Hoode to ensure their silence. ‘In brief,’ he continued, ‘the situation is this. We are invited to Silvermere, the home of Sir Michael Greenleaf, there to reside for ten days, during which time we are to stage six plays for the entertainment of Sir Michael and his guests. The fee is handsome, the welcome cordial. What more could we ask?’
‘Very little, at face value,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where is Silvermere?’
‘In Essex, no more than a day’s ride away.’
‘This news is indeed excellent.’
‘I jumped for joy when I first heard it.’
‘That’s understandable.’ He looked across at the others. ‘I’m cheered by these tidings. What possible objection can there be?’
‘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.
Chapter Two
‘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.’
‘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.’
