Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

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?’