Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

The parish church of St Christopher stood in a hamlet on the extreme edge of the Silvermere estate, serving two other hamlets, a village and a number of scattered farmsteads. It was a small, squat, undistinguished building that had been kept in good repair throughout the two hundred years of its existence and it had survived intact the religious crises that had afflicted the country for so long. Seating in the nave could accommodate over a hundred parishioners without undue discomfort though long sermons drew attention to the roughness of some of the benches. The chancel was large enough to house double rows of choir stalls that faced each other with wooden solidity. Three wide stone steps led up to the altar rail, three more to the altar itself. Since the tower rose out of the middle of the church, the solitary bell was rung by means of the rope that dangled below the chancel arch and which was secured, at other times, to a hook set into the side of the oak pulpit.

Having let himself into the church, Jared Tuke lit a few candles then started with the preparations. By the time he heard the latch on the vestry click, he had all but finished his work. He was still appraising the altar when the vicar came into the chancel.

‘Good morning, Jared,’ said the newcomer.

‘Good morning,’ replied the churchwarden.

‘One of these days, I may actually get here before you but I haven’t managed it yet. Do you never sleep, man?’

‘I’ve always been an early riser.’

‘If only I could say the same!’

Reverend Anthony Dyment was a short, wiry man in his thirties with a pleasant face and an agreeable manner. Wrapped in a thick black cloak, he was still shivering visibly. He blew on his hands then rubbed them hard together. As if realising for the first time where he was, Dyment removed his hat and gave a reverential nod in the direction of the altar. Tuke had not only discarded his hat, he had also taken off his buff jerkin. It made the vicar shiver afresh just to look at him.

‘Is everything ready, Jared?’ he enquired.

‘I think so.’

‘Nothing at all left for me to do?’

‘Only to perform the ceremony.’

Dyment smiled. ‘We’ll have you doing that before long. You do everything else.’

‘It’s my duty,’ said Tuke with leaden sincerity.

‘No man in the parish is more cognisant of his duty than you.’

Tuke had arrived not long after dawn but the sky had now brightened appreciably and light came in through the windows to supplement the candle flames and to dapple the flagstones. Dyment walked down the aisle to the rear of the nave to stand beside the stone font. Carved into it was a representation of the Lamb of God, curled up beside a cross. The vicar ran a reflective hand around the circumference of the font.

‘I hope that the water doesn’t freeze in here,’ he sighed.

‘No chance of that,’ said Tuke.

‘There’s one sure way to make sure that it doesn’t.’

He took off his cloak and walked back to the chancel to kneel at the altar rail. Without even thinking, Jared Tuke joined him in prayer. They remained there for several minutes before they were interrupted by the sound of the door being thrown open. Both of them got to their feet at once and swung round to look at the intruder. When the vicar saw who it was, he quailed. The last person he wanted to confront was Reginald Orr. The unexpected visitor was a tall, rugged, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in black and glowering with resentment. His voice was like the crack of a whip.

‘What’s that I see?’ he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.

‘Where?’ asked the vicar.

‘There, man. On the altar behind you. That gold plate.’

‘That was a gift from Sir Michael,’ explained Dyment, glancing over his shoulder at the large plate that was propped up on the altar. ‘His generosity knows no end.’

‘Nor do his Popish inclination. That plate smacks too much of Rome.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Tuke, stung by the claim.

‘There’s none of the Old Religion here,’ added Dyment, vainly attempting to put some firmness into his voice. ‘As you’d know, Reginald, if you showed us the courtesy of joining us in worship here.’

‘I refuse to take part in Catholic celebrations,’ said Orr defiantly.

‘We abide by the law of the land and hold only Protestant services here.’

‘Then why deck your church out as if you’re expecting a visit from the Pope himself? Look at it. Gold plate. A silver crucifix. Gold ornaments. A silk altar cloth embroidered with gold thread and a vestry full of other abominations just waiting to be brought in.’ Orr strode purposefully down the aisle. ‘The Pope is Antichrist! Spurn him!’

‘We do,’ said Dyment.

‘Not to my satisfaction.’

‘Nothing is ever done to your satisfaction, Reginald,’ said the vicar, glad that his churchwarden was beside him and even more glad that Orr stopped in his tracks. ‘We have talked theology these past couple of years and you’ll not be shifted.’

‘I follow the true path.’

‘There’s more than one way to heaven.’

‘Yes,’ said Tuke, keen to associate himself with the notion. ‘There’s more than one way to heaven, Reginald Orr, but I doubt that we’ll ever meet you there.’

The visitor bristled with anger and seemed to be about to lunge forward at the churchwarden but Tuke’s broad shoulders and brawny arms dissuaded him from intemperate action. Anthony Dyment was never quite sure how to cope with Orr. The man was a zealous Puritan, too scornful of the Anglican service to attend one himself and too intolerant to let others do so in peace. The only time that the man ever came through the door of the church was when he could cause trouble. The vicar braced himself for another argument with his most recalcitrant parishioner.

‘I’ll have no raised voices in here, Reginald,’ he warned. ‘This is the Lord’s house. Speak with moderation or you must leave.’

Orr curled a lip. ‘Do you think I want to enter this Romish den?’

‘It’s the parish church of St Christopher in the county of Essex.’

‘Filled with the stink of the Pope.’

‘If that’s what you believe, why force yourself to come here?’

‘Because I need to speak with you.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait until another time,’ said Dyment briskly. ‘I have to conduct a service of Holy Baptism in here later on this morning. Jared and I need to prepare the church properly for that. Good day to you, sir.’

‘I’ll not budge till I get an answer,’ warned Orr, folding his arms and spreading his feet. ‘Since you’re Sir Michael’s lackey, you’ll be able to give it to me.’

‘Don’t insult the vicar,’ said Tuke sharply.

‘I wasn’t talking to you, Jared.’

‘Show some respect.’

‘Let him speak,’ said Dyment wearily. ‘If that’s the only way to get rid of him.’

The Puritan nodded. ‘It is, believe me. All I want to know is whether this ugly rumour is true or false?’

‘Rumour?’

‘They say that a troupe players will soon come to Silvermere.’

‘That is so,’ conceded the vicar. ‘Sir Michael invited them.’

‘Have you raised no protest?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Heavens, man!’ exclaimed Orr in horror. ‘It’s your bounden duty. Do you want a company of vile and despicable actors to befoul this county? Do you want them to stage heathenish plays in which boys disguise themselves as women and do all manner of lewd things? You’re not merely vicar of this church. You’re chaplain to Sir Michael as well. Use your influence. Make him turn these rogues away.’

‘But Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor hold the players in high regard.’