Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Away with you!’ she said, giving him a playful push.

After a day’s rehearsal and a long talk with Edmund Hoode, Firethorn had returned to his house in Shoreditch. Enticing smells from the kitchen told him that Margery had a hot meal waiting for him and she herself was a welcoming sight. Their marriage had its tempestuous moments but they were always obliterated by the passion of their reconciliations. Though his eye and hand might wander occasionally, Firethorn’s heart remained firmly with his beloved wife.

‘Is all well, Lawrence?’ she asked.

‘Exceptionally so.’

‘The company must be delighted to be called to arms again.’

‘Overjoyed, my love. We worked with true zeal. It’s been a day of pure delight. Apart from a little petulance from Edmund, that is.’

‘Edmund? That’s not like him. Petulance is one of Barnaby’s tricks.’

‘Barnaby was in a good mood for once. Thanks to Doctor Putrid.’

‘A strange name for a doctor. Has Barnaby been unwell?’

‘No, Margery,’ he explained. ‘Doctor Putrid is the character he’ll play in our new piece. A juicy role and one that cured Barnaby of his petulance. He’s thrilled with The Witch of Colchester. The same, alas, cannot be said of Edmund Hoode.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he has the task of burnishing the play for us.’

‘A simple chore for someone with Edmund’s skill.’

‘That’s what he thought until he met the author,’ said Firethorn with a mirthless laugh. ‘A skulking lawyer named Egidius Pye. I met him at Edmund’s lodging and wondered which mouse hole he’d crawled out from. Still, enough of him!’ he went on with a dismissive wave. ‘Pye is only a minor irritation at worst. I’ll slap him down.’

‘How large a company will you take to Essex?’

‘A round dozen in all.’

‘Does that include the musicians?’

‘Yes, Margery. I’ve had to be ruthless there and choose men who give me double value. Musicians who can act and actors who can play an instrument or two.’

‘That must have hurt the ones you turned away.’

He heaved a sigh. ‘It did but there’s no remedy for it. The invitation dictated the size of the troupe. Sir Michael Greenleaf cannot accommodate unlimited numbers.’

‘What about the apprentices?’

‘They’re additional to the twelve. Four boys only require one bed between them.’

‘Four?’ she said. ‘Does that mean Davy Stratton is to be left behind?’

‘I think not. John Tallis is the loser. He’s too gruff to take a woman’s role any more and too puny to play a man. I’ll leave him here to kick his heels.’

‘But he has far more experience than Davy.’

‘Granted,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his father will not be sitting in the audience at Silvermere, will he? We have to play politics, Margery. Like our own dear patron, Jerome Stratton is a friend of Sir Michael Greenleaf. We must humour him. He’ll want to see his son on the stage even if the lad only stands there for a second.’

‘You’ve had to make some harsh decisions, Lawrence,’ she observed.

He gave her his broadest smile. ‘I made the best decision when I married you, my love.’ He leant over to kiss her tenderly on the lips. ‘All else pales beside the wisdom of that choice.’

‘Does that mean I can have the new dress you promised?’

‘In time,’ he said, stepping back at once. ‘In time.’

‘And when will that be?’

His shrug was noncommittal. ‘Who can tell?’

‘You never change, Lawrence, do you?’ she said with a resigned laugh. ‘No matter for that. I love you as you are. Now, then. Are you hungry?’

‘Close to starvation.’

‘Go to the table and I’ll bring the meal into you.’

‘I smell beef and onions.’

‘And lots more beside. Now, off with you,’ she ordered, pushing him towards the dining room. ‘I’ve work to do in the kitchen. Call in the others and we’ll all eat together. I want to enjoy my family while I still have them all together.’

‘Not all, Margery.’

‘Who have I forgotten?’

‘The smallest and youngest. Davy Stratton. Don’t ask me to call him,’ he warned, moving away. ‘Even my voice won’t reach the depths of Essex.’

Margery bustled off to the kitchen to check the contents of the pot as it hung over the fire and to chide her servant for not putting more salt into it. Too eager to make amends, the girl tipped more salt than was necessary into the soup and was chastised roundly by her mistress. When Margery called for bread, the servant fetched it from the larder then took it into the dining room. It was some time before she returned to the kitchen. Annoyed by the delay, Margery swung round to scold her once more but the girl’s expression made her desist. Pale and trembling, the servant pointed to the door.

‘You’d best go at once,’ she stuttered.

‘Go where?’

‘To the dining room.’

‘We’ll be taking the food through in a moment.’

‘Master Firethorn needs you now,’ said the girl anxiously.

‘What are you talking about, girl?’ demanded Margery.

‘Your husband, Mistress Firethorn. He’s unwell.’

‘That’s nonsense. I saw him only a minute ago and he was a picture of health.’

‘Not any more,’ continued the girl. ‘He begged me to send you.’

‘Begged you? When he has a voice that could call me?’ She eased the servant aside and walked to the open door. ‘Lawrence!’ she yelled. ‘Did you send for me?’

The reply was so faint that she did not hear it at first. Hands on hips, she shot a stern glance at the girl then repeated her question even louder. This time his voice made itself heard from the dining room.

‘Come to me, Margery,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please!’

It was a cry for help and she answered it immediately, rushing out and charging into the dining room. The sight that awaited her made her gasp in dismay. Firethorn was seated in his customary place at the head of the table but he was not the robust husband who had flirted with her only minutes before. He was patently in distress. Arms on the table, he panted stertorously before being seized by a coughing fit that racked his whole body. Margery dashed forward to put an arm around him.

‘What is it, Lawrence?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I don’t know, my love.’

‘When did this come on?’

‘The moment I sat down in here.’

‘Were there no signs of illness earlier in the day?’

‘None, Margery. I’ve never felt fitter.’

‘Was it something you ate? Something you drank?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Are you in pain?’ she said, kissing him softly. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘All over,’ he moaned.

He slumped forward and her alarm grew. She crouched in front of him, taking his head in her hands to hold it up so that she could take a close look at him. The change in Firethorn was dramatic. The strapping husband who had come bounding into the house earlier on was now a weak and troubled man. His eyes were dull, his mouth agape. The room was cold yet his face and beard were glistening with sweat. When Margery put a hand to his forehead, she drew it away in fear.

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re on fire, Lawrence. You have a fever.’

Nicholas Bracewell was pleased with their welcome at Silvermere. Their hosts could not have been more amenable. Sir Michael Greenleaf was kind, attentive and unfailingly obliging while his wife’s admiration for Westfield’s Men never faltered. They were such a gracious and engaging couple that Nicholas wondered how they had been befriended by their wayward patron. Lord Westfield’s cronies tended to be in his own mould, amiable sybarites, devotees of drink and gambling, idle aristocrats who hung around the Court in search of favour or who left it in flight from scandal. Sir Michael and Lady Greenleaf did not conform to the usual pattern. Where Lord Westfield and his decadent entourage were invariably deep in debt, the Wizard of Silvermere was clearly a man of substance, able to fund continuous improvements to his estate as well as to pay for his expensive scientific interests. Yet he did not flaunt his wealth. He dressed like one of his servants and behaved with a touching humility.