Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘I have no qualms about the lad. Nor about his father, for that matter.’

‘His father?’

‘Yes, Edmund,’ said Firethorn, pouring himself some more wine. ‘I’ve more good news for you. Master Jerome Stratton not only gave us thirty pounds when the contract was signed. He has promised us another five pounds out of his own pocket when we perform at Silvermere.’

Hoode was impressed. ‘That’s very generous of him.’

‘Generosity may break out in other places. Who knows? If we give a good account of ourselves in Essex, other spectators may be moved to put their hands in their purses. Westfield’s Men are in the ascendant,’ he declared, raising an arm aloft. ‘We travel on the road to glory. Nothing can stop us now.’

Nicholas Bracewell paced out the Great Hall to get a more precise idea of its dimensions then he ran his eye over the gallery to estimate its distance from the floor. Owen Elias, meanwhile, was declaiming a speech from Love’s Sacrifice at the request of Lady Eleanor, using the soliloquy both to display his vocal gifts and to test them in the new performing venue. His voice reached every corner of the room without effort. When the speech came to an end, he gave his standard bow and Lady Eleanor applauded him. Hers were not the only palms that were clapped together. Standing in the doorway with his steward beside him was Sir Michael Greenleaf.

‘Well done! Well done, sir!’ he congratulated.

As he walked down the hall towards them, Elias gave him a bow of his own. Romball Taylard displayed no admiration. Remaining at the door, he looked on with a mixture of curiosity and reproach.

‘Ah!’ said Lady Eleanor, hands outstretched. ‘Here is my husband!’

Sir Michael Greenleaf took her hands in his and kissed them both before turning to regard the visitors. Introductions were performed by his wife. Sir Michael greeted both men warmly, treating them more like honoured guests at Silvermere than members of an itinerant theatre company. It was another paradox. With a social position that entitled them to condescension, Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf were friendly and approachable. It was their household steward who gave himself the airs and graces to which he had no legitimate claim. Surprised by their host’s affability, Nicholas and Owen were startled by his appearance. Sir Michael was no slave to fashion. Plain doublet and hose of a greenish hue were supplemented by a white ruff that was coming adrift from its moorings. He was a short, rotund man in his late fifties with an unusually large head that was topped with the last of his hair. The few surviving silver wisps were clogged with a dark substance, as were his beard and his ruff. Cheeks, nose and forehead were also blackened.

Lady Eleanor saw the look of astonishment on the visitors’ faces.

‘You must excuse my husband,’ she said smoothly. ‘He has been experimenting with a new gunpowder. Unsuccessfully, by the look of it.’

‘Not at all, not at all, Eleanor,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s almost perfect.’

‘Almost?’

‘I still have to cure the cannon’s tendency to backfire.’

Elias was amazed. ‘You make your own gunpowder, Sir Michael?’

‘Of course,’ replied the other. ‘It’s vastly better than any that I could purchase and may soon be ready for use. I just need to mix the ingredients more exactly.’

‘You mentioned a cannon?’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s right. A culverin of my own design.’

‘I’d be interested to see it, Sir Michael.’

‘Then you shall, my friend.’

‘Nick sailed around the world with Drake,’ explained Elias, proud of his friend’s achievement. ‘He has first-hand experience of firing a cannon.’

‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Sir Michael. ‘I insist that you see my whole arsenal. I thought you had the look of a seafaring man about you. A voyage with Drake. What a splendid adventure. I envy you, sir. It must mean that you know how to read the stars.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘There was nothing else to do through all those long nights.’

‘You must see through my telescope while you’re here.’

‘Thank you, Sir Michael.’

‘Reading the stars is another hobby of mine.’

‘My husband has so many scientific interests,’ said his wife indulgently.

‘But why do you need a cannon, Sir Michael?’ wondered Elias.

‘To mount on the tower, of course,’ said the other. ‘As soon as the gunpowder is perfected, I’ll have the servants winch the culverin up there.’

Elias was baffled. ‘But why? Do you fear attack?’

‘No, my good sir.’

‘Then why mount a cannon on your house?’

‘Because of the wildfowl.’

‘Wildfowl?’ gasped the Welshman. ‘Am I hearing you aright, Sir Michael? You’re going to shoot at birds with cannon balls?’

Sir Michael went off into a peal of laughter. ‘Of course, not,’ he said when he finally controlled himself. ‘That would be absurd. I love wildfowl. Why else do you think I had the lake built? The problem is that, at this time of year, it freezes over. The ice is inches thick. It’s a real effort to break through it so that the ducks, geese and swans have at least a portion of their water back.’

Nicholas anticipated him. ‘I think I see your plan, Sir Michael. A cannon ball fired from the top of the house would smash a large hole in the ice.’

‘Exactly, sir. Especially when fired at night.’

‘Night?’ said Elias with disbelief. ‘Why, then?’

‘Because that’s when the temperature reaches its lowest point,’ explained Sir Michael. ‘Wait until morning and the ice had already hardened. Strike it when it is newly formed and you shatter it beyond repair. That, at least,’ he admitted, ‘is my theory.’

‘I understand your reasoning, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful not to smile, ‘but isn’t there a serious problem here? When you put your theory to the test, you’ll make the most deafening noise.’

‘Guests who stay at Silvermere are used to strange happenings during the night,’ said Lady Eleanor airily. ‘My husband has a passion for nocturnal experiments.’

‘I steer by the stars, Eleanor,’ he said.

‘Turn your mind to more immediate matters. These gentlemen have ridden a long way in order to meet you. Put your gunpowder aside for an hour.’

‘Gladly, my dear. Now,’ said Sir Michael genially, ‘I bid you welcome, sirs. I’m so glad that Master Firethorn and I came to composition. Westfield’s Men will make a major contribution to the festivities. Is the Great Hall to your taste?’

‘It’s ideal, Sir Michael,’ replied Nicholas.

‘Ask for what you will and Romball will supply it. You’ve met my steward, I hear,’ he said, indicating the figure still lurking at the door. ‘An excellent fellow. But for Romball Taylard, we’d be in a sorry state.’

‘Our first request can only be met by you, Sir Michael,’ resumed Nicholas. ‘It concerns the plays we offer. The new piece has been chosen but five others must be selected as well and Master Firethorn is anxious to offer you variety. He suggests comedies such as Double Deceit and The Happy Malcontent but he feels that your guests should also be given at least one harrowing tragedy.’

‘Two,’ insisted Lady Eleanor. ‘Too much comedy will lead to boredom.’

‘There’s your answer,’ said her husband, beaming at her. ‘Four comedies and two tragedies. Though a little bit of history would not go amiss.’

‘So we thought, Sir Michael. If you approve the choice, Master Firethorn would like us to present Henry the Fifth by Edmund Hoode, a play that has elements of comedy and tragedy in it. Will that appeal?’

‘Very much,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Eleanor?’