Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘You have a magnificent house here,’ he noted. ‘I suspect that you run it with commendable efficiency.’

‘It’s a huge undertaking,’ said Taylard, grandly. ‘I strive to serve.’

‘We’d be grateful for your help and advice.’

‘Call on me whenever you wish.’

‘We’ll do that immediately,’ said Elias, tiring of the man’s disdain. ‘Show us to the Great Hall, if you will. Nick and I can take stock of it while we wait for your master to finish this experiment of a private nature.’

‘I’m not at liberty to do so,’ replied the steward loftily.

‘Why not?’

‘Sir Michael does not allow complete strangers to wander about his house.’

‘But we’re not strangers,’ argued Nicholas, using a more reasonable tone than Elias. ‘We’re here at the direct invitation of Sir Michael himself. If you won’t conduct us to the Great Hall, can you at least tell us where the company will be housed during our stay in Essex?’

‘Not in Silvermere itself,’ said Taylard crisply. ‘We’ll have guests enough in here when the time comes. The players will have to be lodged elsewhere.’

‘Players?’ echoed a voice. ‘Did I hear mention of the players?’

They turned to see an elegant woman of middle years, smiling graciously and descending the staircase in a dress of almost regal splendour. Lady Eleanor Greenleaf may have lost some of her beauty but she had retained all of her poise and charm. When the steward introduced the visitors to her, Nicholas gave a polite nod and Owen Elias produced the extravagant bow he reserved for audiences at the end of a play. The Welshman discovered that he had an admirer.

‘Owen Elias!’ cooed Lady Eleanor. ‘Of course! I recognise you now. I’ve seen you many a time at the Queen’s Head. And I once watched you perform at Lord Westfield’s house. You played in The Corrupt Bargain, did you not?’

‘I did, indeed, Lady Eleanor,’ said Elias, glowing with delight.

‘Excellently well, as I recall.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

‘But I liked you best in Love’s Sacrifice. The piece moved me to tears. Shall we have that played here when you come to entertain us?’

‘That’s something I have to discuss with Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need your husband’s approval before we make our final choice.’

‘Oh, he’ll be no help to you,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘I’m the playgoer in the family, not my husband. He only likes the theatre. I adore it. All that he insists is that you give one play its first performance within these walls.’ She turned to the steward. ‘Why keep the visitors waiting, Romball?’ she asked. ‘Please fetch Sir Michael.’

‘He’s involved with his experiment, Lady Eleanor,’ he warned.

‘Then prise him away from it and tell him to come at once.’

‘Yes, Lady Eleanor.’

After inclining his head slightly, Taylard went off into the recesses of the house, moving at a dignified pace and managing to convey both obedience and mild censure. Lady Eleanor ignored him, crossing instead to the south wing to stand before a pair of double doors with ornate brass handles that gleamed as if polished only a second before.

‘I daresay that you would like to view the Great Hall,’ she said.

‘If we may, Lady Eleanor,’ said Nicholas courteously.

‘Then here it is.’

Taking hold of the two handles, she flung open the doors and strode into the room as if making an entrance on stage. Nicholas and Elias went after her, pleased to have exchanged a haughty steward for the benevolent lady of the house. Moving to the middle of the Great Hall, she spread her arms and pirouetted on her toes.

‘This is your playhouse, sirs,’ she declared. ‘Will it serve?’

‘Extremely well,’ replied Nicholas.

Elias nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’ll be a joy to perform in here.’

‘That’s why I urged my husband to invite you,’ she said.

As soon as they entered, Nicholas knew that the place could be easily adapted for their purposes. The major decision of where to set their stage made itself. The Great Hall was a long rectangular room with oak panelling on the walls and a high ceiling that was supported by a series of beams into which the Greenleaf coat of arms had been expertly carved. At the far end was a minstrels’ gallery where the company’s musicians could sit and which could also be used for certain scenes in the plays. Curtains could be hung from the balustrade. Doors at either end of the wall beneath the gallery made it the ideal place of entry. Enough light streamed in through tall windows to make afternoon performance feasible without any additional illumination. Candelabra would be needed if a play were requested for an evening show.

‘Well?’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘We’ve never had a finer playhouse,’ complimented Nicholas.

‘It does not match The Rose.’

‘It surpasses it,’ said Elias with gallantry. ‘When we play at The Rose, we have to endure the vulgar manners of the Bankside spectators and the foul breaths of the ruffians who fill the pit. Here we perform to a select audience in conditions that any actor would envy. When I die and go to heaven, Lady Eleanor,’ he said with a dramatic gesture, ‘this is what I expect to find.’

‘I trust that you’ll favour us with your presence before you go,’ she said.

Elias gave a chuckle and strode around the room to get a feel of it. Nicholas was measuring the place with his eye, arranging the seating, wondering how high the stage needed to be built and envisaging how scenery could best be employed. Lady Eleanor looked on with a contented smile as the two of them explored the space in which they were to present their six plays. Both men were patently well satisfied. They met beneath the gallery to have a silent conversation but it was short lived.

A loud explosion suddenly went off somewhere close by and the floor seemed to shake. Elias reacted with a yelp of surprise and Nicholas looked around in bewilderment. Lady Eleanor remained as serene and imperturbable as ever.

‘That will be my husband,’ she said sweetly. ‘His experiment is completed.’

Close confinement with Egidius Pye was not something that Edmund Hoode either sought or relished but, in the interests of Westfield’s Men, he endured it manfully. It was not merely the lawyer’s bad breath and irritating manner that made him an unlovely companion. Pye also revealed a passion for debate that slowed down the creative process until it almost came to a halt. Acceding to all of Hoode’s suggestions, the novice author nevertheless insisted on arguing over each new line that was inserted, finding at least a dozen variations of it before reaching a conclusion. Hoode’s career as a playwright had been long and testing. He had never been allowed the luxury of time to reflect and refine. Plots had to be devised within a strict time limit. Characters had to spring instantly into life, verse had to flow like a fountain. Last minute changes had to be accommodated. It was, in every sense, drama on the hoof. Pairing a comparative beginner with a practical man of the theatre only served to widen the gulf between them. Hoode did his best to stave off exasperation. After another interminable quarrel, he sat back in his chair.

‘We must strive to work more quickly, Master Pye,’ he sighed.

‘Speed is the enemy of felicity.’

‘I’d sooner be infelicitous than late with the delivery of a play. Whatever we write, it will probably be amended in rehearsal. Leave room for the actors to act. You must not expect to make all their decisions for them.’

Pye was horrified. ‘Won’t they speak the lines we set down for them?’

‘To a certain degree.’