Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘I hope that he soon recovers,’ said Honeydew.

‘So do I, Dick.’

‘Master Firethorn is the heart and soul of Westfield’s Men.’

‘You’ve no need to tell me that.’

‘If we were to lose him-’

‘We won’t,’ she said, interrupting him sharply and giving him a reproving squeeze. ‘Don’t even think such a thing, Dick Honeydew. Is that what they’ve been saying upstairs to you? Is that another rumour spread by John Tallis?’

‘No, Mistress Firethorn,’ he replied, cowering before her.

‘Then put that wicked thought out of your mind.’

‘I will, I will.’

She mellowed at once. ‘Forgive me, Dick. I don’t mean to be so cross with you. I just don’t want to hear such things spoken in my house. It’s winter,’ she said as if trying to explain it to herself. ‘People are always ill at this time of year. It just happens to be my husband’s turn to suffer, that’s all. We mustn’t despair.’

Honeydew was not reassured. When footsteps were heard on the staircase, he stepped away from her and spun round. Margery crossed to open the door so that Doctor Whitrow could come into the room.

‘How is he, doctor?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘May I go up?’

‘In a moment,’ he said.

‘Do you have medicine for me to give to him?’

‘I’ve already administered a cordial, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Calm down, calm down,’ he said softly.

‘But I’m his wife. I’ve a right to know.’

Doctor Whitrow gave an understanding smile. He was a tall, spare man in his fifties with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes. Working in Shoreditch for so many years had acquainted him with many distraught wives and he knew how to deal with them.

‘The first thing you must know is that there’s no danger,’ he assured her. ‘Your husband is one of the healthiest patients I’ve ever met.’

‘But what about his fever?’

‘It’s broken. The crisis is over.’

‘Thank God!’ she cried.

Richard Honeydew was in tears. ‘My prayers were answered.’

Margery was bewildered. ‘When you first arrived, he was sweating like a roast pig. Did your cordial revive him so quickly, Doctor Whitrow?’

‘He seemed to rally before I even gave it to him. In fact,’ added the doctor with a sly grin, ‘Master Firethorn tried to push the potion away in order to deprive me of part of my fee. That shows he has all his faculties. My advice is to keep him in bed until the morning. After a good rest, he’ll be in fine fettle.’

Margery could wait no longer. Thanking him profusely, she scurried past him and ascended the stairs as if pursued by the hounds of hell. She flung open the door of the bedchamber and rushed in. The sight that presented itself to her made her stop dead. Lawrence Firethorn was just about to get out of bed. The man whom she had last seen groaning in agony under the sheets was now his usual robust self. Margery blinked at the speed of his recovery.

‘What on earth are you doing, Lawrence?’ she asked.

‘Coming downstairs to see if those little beggars have left me any food?’ he said, swinging two bare feet down on to the floor. ‘I’m fainting from lack of nourishment.’

She eyed him closely. ‘You look wonderful to me.’

‘I’m glad that I can still strike a spark in you, Margery.’

‘Stay there,’ she ordered, sitting him back on the bed. ‘If you want food, I’ll bring it to you myself. Doctor Whitrow said that you’re not to stir from here.’

‘I’m not listening to that old fool. He gave me such a foul medicine that I need a cup of sack to take away the taste. Let’s go downstairs. We’ll sup together.’

Margery was firm. ‘No, Lawrence. You need rest.’

‘Who does?’

‘You do,’ she said, lifting his feet back on to the bed. ‘You must stay here.’

‘But there’s nothing wrong with me, Margery.’

‘That fever weakened you.’

‘Only for a brief moment.’

‘You were in torment not half an hour ago.’

‘That’s all past.’

‘Stay where you are,’ she ordered. ‘Bed is the only place for you.’

‘Then I need someone to share it with me,’ he said with a laugh, pulling her down beside him then rolling on top of her. ‘Weakened, am I?’ he went on, kissing her full on the lips. ‘The only fever that I have is the one that you always give me, Margery. Come here, my love. Restore me to full health.’

Her squeal of protest was quickly replaced by a sigh of acquiescence as she yielded to his sudden passion. Firethorn roared with delight. He started to lift her dress but the nuptials were not allowed to continue. A sharp tap behind them made the lovers stop. Framed in the open doorway were all four apprentices, watching with a blend of relief and curiosity. Doctor Whitrow was standing in the middle of them, tactfully averting his gaze.

‘There is the small matter of my fee,’ he said meekly.

Nicholas Bracewell finished his meal and washed it down with a mouthful of ale. Owen Elias was still munching cheerfully but Davy Stratton’s food lay untouched on its platter.

‘Eat up, lad,’ encouraged Nicholas.

‘I’m not hungry,’ said the boy.

‘You must be.’

‘Go on, Davy,’ said Elias, nudging him. ‘It’ll help to keep out the cold.’

But the most that the boy consented to do was to pick at his meat, putting only the smallest portion in his mouth and chewing it without relish. Eager to hear an account of his movements from Davy himself, Nicholas bided his time. The boy still seemed to be in a state of shock and the presence of two servants inhibited their conversation. Having escorted them to the kitchens, Romball Taylard had vanished, leaving instructions with the cook to feed them well before sending them off to their room. The three of them were seated at a small table in the corner of the main kitchen, inhaling a rich compound of aromas and consuming their meal in the shadow of dead game that dangled from hooks. It was not the place to discuss confidential matters.

When they had all finished, one of the servants picked up a lighted candle, took them into the adjoining kitchen and opened a small door. A rickety staircase curled upwards. The visitors were forced to recognise their appointed place in the scheme of things. Detached from their host, they were not being given the luxurious accommodation that his generosity appeared to indicate. Instead, they were conducted up the backstairs to a room in the servants’ quarters, vacated to make way for them and hastily cleaned. The place was illumined by three flickering candles. When the servant departed, they closed the door behind him and took inventory.

It was a small, narrow room with a slanting floor and a superfluity of draughts. Fresh linen had been placed on the two beds that nestled side by side. Crammed into a corner was a truckle bed that had been dragged in for Davy. On a small table against one wall stood a bowl and a pitcher of water. Beneath the table was a capacious chamber pot. It was the first thing that Owen Elias noticed. He jabbed a finger at it.

‘It’ll take a lot of bladders to fill that,’ he noted. ‘How many sleep in here?’

‘Two to each bed, I suspect,’ said Nicholas.

‘Three, more like it. There are no featherbeds for the servants here. They sleep head to toe as in other big houses. Well,’ he decided, flinging himself down on one of the beds, ‘this will suit me for a night. It’s hard but I’m used to that. What I’m not used to is sleeping on my own.’ He looked teasingly across at the apprentice. ‘Would you like to curl up in here with me, Davy?’

‘No, no,’ said the boy quickly, standing beside the truckle bed. ‘I’ll stay here.’