Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘But I laboured so hard over the piece.’

‘It’s still a play,’ Hoode reminded him, ‘and not Holy Writ.’

‘But it took me well over a year to write it.’

Another sigh. ‘I feel that we’ve already spent as long trying to improve it.’

‘To good effect, Master Hoode.’

‘More or less.’

‘Shall we move on to the next scene?’ asked the lawyer eagerly.

Hoode raised a palm. ‘No, Master Pye. I think not. We’ve gone as far as we decently can today. Let’s start again in the morning and see if we can’t at least break into a respectable trot.’ He got up from the table. ‘Let me show you out.’

After showering him with apologies and thanks, Pye put on the moth-eaten cloak and the floppy hat. He followed his host out of the room and down the staircase. As the two men stepped out into the street, evening shadows were just beginning to fall. Hoode was blatantly anxious to send his visitor on his way. Before the lawyer could depart, however, a familiar figure bore down on them. Lawrence Firethorn’s voice boomed inimitably along the street.

‘Do I spy a brace of happy poets?’ he said, arriving to clap both men on the shoulders. ‘Well met, sirs.’ He stood back to look closely at Egidius Pye. ‘Every inch a playwright! Welcome to the company, Master Pye! We owe you thanks.’

‘It’s I who should express gratitude,’ said the lawyer, quivering nervously as if in the presence of royalty. ‘You have no peer as an actor, Master Firethorn.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘I’m glad that we agree on that point.’

‘When you step out upon a stage, it’s like Zeus descending from Mount Olympus to grace us with your genius. Oh, sir,’ he said obsequiously, ‘this is a signal honour. I’m quite lost for words.’

‘I wish you had been so inside my lodging!’ murmured Hoode.

Firethorn introduced himself properly, exchanged a few pleasantries with Pye then sent him on his way. He was always careful not to fraternise too much with a playwright until his work had proved itself in performance and he was, in any case, convinced that actors of his standing were naturally superior to the clever scribblers who provided their lines. Edmund Hoode, a competent actor as well as an author, was the exception to the rule, the only playwright whom Firethorn allowed close to him. He invited himself into his friend’s lodging and the two of them were soon sharing a cup of wine. Hoode’s desperation was etched deeply into his brow.

‘What ails you, man?’ asked Firethorn. ‘Another disastrous love affair?’

‘Not this time, Lawrence.’

‘Then what?’ His eye ignited. ‘Unlooked for fatherhood?’

‘Not even that,’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘At least some pleasure would have been involved in that instance.’

‘Pleasure and repentance.’

‘It’s all repentance here. I bitterly regret my lunacy in agreeing to it. Pregnancy of a kind is indeed the root of my misery. I wish that I’d never been persuaded to act as midwife to Egidius Pye’s play.’

‘I thought that you admired the piece.’

‘I did, Lawrence. I still do.’

‘Then where’s the problem?’

‘Walking home to the Middle Temple with that ridiculous hat on his head.’

‘The fellow’s a lawyer,’ said Firethorn contemptuously. ‘He deserves ridicule.’

‘Pye is insufferable,’ wailed Hoode. ‘He disputes every vowel and defends every consonant as if they were brought down from Mount Sinai on a stone tablet. And the worst of it is that he does it without rancour or spleen. Master Pye is Politeness itself. He doesn’t even grant me an excuse to lose my temper with him.’

‘What’s the import of all this?’

‘The brace of happy poets you spied are really a pair of bickering snails.’

‘Has the play not been improved, Edmund?’

‘Only with painful slowness.’

‘That will not do,’ said Firethorn warningly. ‘Let me speak to Master Pye. I’ll light such a fire beneath that arse of his that he’ll burn with zeal to work faster. The Witch of Colchester must be finished soon so that we can start rehearsals on it. Every other play we take to Silvermere has been tried and tested at the Queen’s Head. We could perform some of them with our eyes closed. But not this new piece.’

‘It was a mistake to accept it,’ said Hoode dolefully.

‘Nick Bracewell spoke up for it. So did you at first.’

‘I stand by that judgement. There are parts of it I would be proud to have written, Lawrence, and I confess it freely. Had we the play without the playwright, all would be well. But we do not. The witch comes with a spell called Egidius Pye.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll put the wretch in his place.’

‘I’m coming around to the view that only a sharp sword could do that.’

‘Now, now, Edmund, you were a callow author once. Spread a little forgiveness. Bake him aright and this Pye will be delicious when he comes out of the oven.’ His eye fell on the pages littering the table. ‘What changes have you made?’

‘Only the obvious ones so far.’

‘Keep the essence of the piece. It has quality. And retain the bawdy, Edmund,’ he instructed. ‘Master Pye is wonderfully coarse and comical at the same time.’

‘That was the alteration he resisted most strenuously.’

‘What was?’

‘The bawdy,’ said Hoode. ‘I pointed out that we must bear our audience in mind. Ribaldry that would please the stinkards at the Queen’s Head might only offend the more refined sensibilities we’ll encounter at Silvermere.’

‘I don’t agree.’

‘We play to the gentry, Lawrence.’

‘So? The crudest laughter always comes from the gentry, not to mention the aristocracy. I’m at one with Egidius Pye on this. Leave his bawdy unmolested. Lord Westfield will also be in the audience, remember. Our patron will complain loudly if there’s no base humour to set him roaring.’

‘What of the other guests?’

‘They’ll split their sides at some of Pye’s jests, I warrant you.’

Hoode shook his head. ‘I still have my doubts, Lawrence.’

‘Then leave the matter until Nick Bracewell returns. He means to discuss the repertoire with Sir Michael Greenleaf to see what is and what’s not in demand. We’ll soon know if the people of Essex enjoy some cheerful vulgarity in their drama.’ He put a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Take heart, Edmund. All is well.’

‘Not to my eye. I fear for the whole enterprise.’

‘That’s treasonable talk. Would you rather sit out the winter writing sonnets or composing epitaphs for dear departed loved ones whom you never met?’

‘No.’

‘Then rejoice in our good fortune.’

‘I did until I met Egidius Pye.’

‘He’s one small part of a very large bounty,’ said Firethorn. ‘We have work at last, Edmund. Gainful employment. You should have seen the faces of the company when we had our first rehearsal today. They shone with happiness. It was as if they’d just been let out of the darkest dungeon in Newgate. They are actors once more. Would you deprive your colleagues of such joy?’

‘I share it with them.’

‘Then why these sad looks and silly fears?’

‘I have a presentiment of catastrophe.’

‘A hard winter was our catastrophe. It almost froze our art to death. Suddenly, a thaw has set in,’ said Firethorn, swallowing the last of his wine with a gurgle. ‘Our work is in demand and our finances are repaired. Six plays at Silvermere will bring in as much money as a dozen at the Queen’s Head and we’ve no lugubrious landlord to bark at our heels. Then there is the additional benison of a new apprentice.’

‘Davy Stratton has yet to show his mettle.’