Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Well,’ said Sir Michael, ‘may we offer you refreshment, Jerome?’

‘I think not,’ said Stratton. ‘I have guests of my own at Holly Lodge and they’ll start to feel neglected if I stay away any longer. Thank you for taking Davy under your wing, Sir Michael. Though it grieves me to part with him,’ he added, giving the boy a token embrace, ‘I’ll abide by the terms of the contract. He belongs to Westfield’s Men now.’ His eyes glinted as they turned on Nicholas. ‘Please take better care of him this time. Davy is very precious to me.’

‘He’ll be safe in our hands, Master Stratton,’ promised Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘We won’t let him out of our sight again.’

‘Make sure that you don’t,’ said Stratton sternly. His tone softened. ‘I’m glad that you both came to Silvermere. Is the Great Hall to your liking?’

‘Completely so,’ replied Nicholas. ‘The company will be thrilled when they see where they will stage their work. We cannot thank Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor enough for their kind invitation.’

‘I had something to do with that,’ hinted Stratton. He looked at his son. ‘Well, Davy, we must part again. Ride your pony more carefully tomorrow and do exactly what you’re told. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father,’ murmured Davy.

‘I expect to hear good reports of you from now on.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘The next time I see you,’ he said with a smile, ‘will be on stage here in a play.’

It was not a prospect that lifted the boy’s spirits. He glanced up at his father with a respect that was tempered with fear. Nicholas took note of his response. After a flurry of farewells, Stratton moved off and Romball Taylard glided out of a dark corner to open the front door for him. Nobody had even heard the steward return. Stratton had a brief word with the man before going outside to his waiting horse. Closing the door, Taylard drifted quietly across to his master’s side to await further orders. Sir Michael raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Is everything in order, Romball?’

‘Yes, Sir Michael,’ said Taylard smoothly. ‘A meal awaits our guests when they are ready to eat it.’

‘I’m ready now,’ announced Elias, rubbing his stomach. ‘It seems an age since we last had any food. What about you, Davy? I daresay that you’re famished as well.’

Davy lifted a weary head. Sir Michael produced an avuncular chuckle.

‘The lad is plainly tired and hungry,’ he said. ‘Who wouldn’t be after all the adventures he’s had today? A good meal and an early night are what I recommend. Take good care of them, Romball.’

‘I will, Sir Michael,’ said the steward.

After another exchange of farewells, he took the visitors off down a corridor.

Margery Firethorn sat on the edge of her chair. Racked with anxiety and unable to relax, she played nervously with the edge of her apron and gazed upwards at the low ceiling. In the bedchamber above, her husband lay in a desperate condition. She had never seen Firethorn in such a poorly state. It had taken three of them to help him to his bed and, after sending for the doctor, Margery had sat loyally beside the patient, soothing him with soft words and mopping his fevered brow with a wet cloth. Instructed by her mistress, the servant fed both the apprentices and the children of the house before packing them off to bed. Margery did not want them bothering her while Firethorn was in such distress. He needed all her attention. When the doctor finally arrived, he insisted on banning Margery from the bedchamber while he examined the sick man. The long wait below in the parlour was a trial.

Eventually, she heard footsteps on the stairs and jumped up from her seat. When the door creaked open, however, it was not the doctor who came into the room but the forlorn figure of Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the apprentices. Clad only in a thin shirt, the boy was trembling with cold and blanched by unease. His soft features allowed him to impersonate a whole range of beautiful young women on stage but he was no gorgeous damsel or impassioned princess now. He was a frightened little boy with tousled fair hair, his face marred by crow’s feet of concern, his slender frame sagging with dismay. Before she could stop herself, Margery snapped at him with unnecessary harshness.

‘You should be in bed, Dick Honeydew!’

‘I know,’ he said, recoiling slightly but holding his ground.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘We’re very worried about Master Firethorn. We heard the doctor arrive. The others asked me to come down to see if there was any news.’

‘No, Dick,’ she admitted sadly. ‘Not yet.’

‘We prayed hard for him.’

Margery nodded. She was certain that he had included her husband in his prayers but was not persuaded that the other apprentices had done likewise. They were more unruly and less inclined to prayer until she stood over them. Knowing that she would be in a tense mood, they had sent Richard Honeydew down to make enquiries, sensing that she might berate anyone bold enough to venture out of their bed. Standing barefoot on the flagstones, the apprentice began to shiver more violently.

‘Come over here,’ said Margery, putting an arm around him to take him across to the fire. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold, lad.’

‘I’m fine, Mistress Firethorn,’ he said bravely.

‘The others put you up to this, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, but I wanted to come on my own account.’

‘Why?’

‘Master Firethorn is kind to me. I love him like a father.’

Margery hugged him to her and kissed him. ‘You’re a good boy, Dick, and my husband appreciates that. You’re ever his favourite.’

‘What ails him?’ piped the other.

‘I wish I knew, lad.’

‘John Tallis says that he has the ague.’

‘Does he?’ she said angrily. ‘Well, you can tell John Tallis from me that I’ll come up there to give him a sound beating if he spreads tales like that. John Tallis can mind his own business. Since when has he turned into a physician?’

‘He meant no harm, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘That kind of talk vexes me.’

‘I’ll warn him of that.’

Margery calmed down and pulled the boy closer, drawing strength from his companionship while, at the same time, offering him some comfort. She was glad that Richard Honeydew had interrupted her lonely vigil. It made the interminable wait a little easier to bear. She brushed his hair back from his forehead to reveal a frown.

‘Are you warmer now, Dick?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ There was a considered pause. ‘It’s never happened before, has it, Mistress Firethorn?’ he said at length.

‘What?’

‘An illness like this.’

‘No, Dick.’

‘Master Firethorn is never unwell.’

‘That’s so true.’

It was the reason that her husband’s condition alarmed her so much. Lawrence Firethorn had such a strong constitution that she took his health for granted. Now that he had been struck down, she knew that the problem must be serious. Minor ailments that afflicted the others never even touched Firethorn. He remained what he had been when she first married him; a sturdy, powerful, virile man who went through life without being troubled by anything apart from occasional toothache. Accidents which would have laid other men low were shrugged off by the actor-manager. When he broke an arm in a fall from the stage, Firethorn continued to perform at the Queen’s Head wearing a splint. When he twisted an ankle dismounting his horse, he simply equipped Hector, Pompey the Great, King John, Henry the Fifth and all the other characters he had to play with a stout walking stick until he could move freely. Margery had marvelled at his indomitability. Had his luck changed at last?