Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Theatre is anathema. It corrupts all who touch it.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, Reginald.’

Orr was shocked. ‘Are you saying that you condone this visit?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Dyment, wilting slightly before the man’s pulsing rage. ‘But it’s not my place to criticise Sir Michael or to tell him whom he can invite to his own home. It would be a gross intrusion of his privacy.’

‘Stop these actors spreading their venomous poison!’

‘They’re merely coming to entertain the guests at Silvermere.’

‘No,’ said Orr, raising a finger of doom. ‘They’re coming to ensnare and defile. Playhouses are steaming pits of… inquity. They purvey bawdy, foolery and idolatry. They feed on virginity and sneer at decency. They steal the innocence of children. Actors are born lechers. No woman within ten miles is safe while they are here. Stop them,’ he insisted, banging a fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘Stop these players from coming anywhere near Silvermere. If you don’t do it,’ he threatened darkly, ‘someone else will.’

It was well after dawn before he heard the key being inserted in the door. Nicholas Bracewell was waiting. After being roused from his slumber in the night, he had had no further sleep, intent on keeping guard over Davy Stratton whom he had reprimanded as firmly as he dared without waking Owen Elias. Sent back to his own bed, the boy had retreated into a deep sleep. He was still lying there as Nicholas got up and stepped past him to open the door. A servant was walking away along the passageway.

‘Wait a moment,’ called Nicholas.

‘Good morrow, sir,’ said the man, turning back.

‘We were locked in our room last night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what I was told to do, sir.’

‘By whom?’

‘The steward, sir.’

‘Did he give you a reason?’

‘No, sir. Only an order.’ He pointed a finger at the neat pile of clothing on the floor. ‘Fresh apparel came from Holly Lodge for the boy. I’ve set it down there.’

‘Thank you.’

Nicholas waved him away. Picking up the clothing, he went back into the room to put it beside Davy. There was no point in reproaching a servant for doing something that he had been instructed to do. The matter would have to be taken up with Romball Taylard himself. It was one thing for the guests to be given a key and advised to lock the door from the inside but that is not what happened. Nicholas had been deliberately imprisoned with the others in the room and he wanted to know why. Owen Elias stirred in his bed. He greeted the day with huge yawn then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

‘Good morrow, Owen,’ said Nicholas.

‘Are you up already?’

‘I wanted to catch the servant when he let me out.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Elias.

‘After we went off to sleep, someone locked the door from the outside.’

The Welshman sat up. ‘We were trapped in here? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Is this the way they treat their guests?’ he asked, his anger building. ‘You expect this kind of thing in Newgate or the Marshalsea but not in a private house like Silvermere. A pox on it! This is not hospitality.’

‘I’m as annoyed as you are, Owen.’

‘Why did Sir Michael want us under lock and key?’

‘That’s what I’ll demand of the steward. This was done at his behest. As it happens,’ said Nicholas, looking across at their companion, ‘it worked to our advantage. Davy tried to sneak away in the night.’

‘Death and damnation!’ cried Elias, getting out of bed. ‘Let me at him. I’ll flay the skin off his buttocks for this.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, restraining him. ‘That’s not the way, Owen. Wait until we are clear of Silvermere. That’s the time when we may wheedle the truth out of him.’

‘Why wheedle when we can knock it out of his cunning little head?’

‘Get dressed. I’ll wake the lad and we’ll go in search of breakfast.’

But the raised voice of Elias had already brought Davy out of his sleep. Nicholas had made him undress again before he got back into bed. In his crumpled shirt, the boy looked small and defenceless. The boldness that had prompted the attempt at escape had vanished now. Davy was frightened, fearing a further rebuke from Nicholas and more violent castigation from Elias. Avoiding their gaze, he reached for his clothes then saw that fresh apparel had been provided. He began to put it on. Nicholas poured water into the bowl and washed his face and hands before drying them on a piece of cloth. He turned back to Davy.

‘Wash yourself before we leave, lad.’

‘Yes,’ said Davy.

‘Do you need to use the chamber pot?’

‘No, no.’

‘When you do,’ warned Elias, ‘one of us will hold your pizzle for you. We’re not letting you out of our reach again. Go to the privy and Nick or I go with you.’

Davy swallowed hard and finished dressing. Fifteen minutes later they were clattering along the passageway to the backstairs. When they descended to the kitchen, a servant was waiting to show them to the table and the cook came over take orders from them. The pangs of hunger were too much for the boy to endure and he joined the others in a breakfast of cold turkey pie and bread. The two men drank watered ale but Davy settled for a cup of whey. Nicholas made no mention of events during the night and tried instead to cheer the boy up.

‘You’ll be back with the other apprentices this afternoon, Davy,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘How are you getting along with them?’

‘I like them well enough,’ muttered Davy.

‘They’ll mock you at first and make you the butt of their jests.’

Davy was rueful. ‘Yes. They have.’

‘Take no notice of it, lad. That’s their way. They did the same to Dick Honeydew when he first joined the company and he’s turned out to be the best of them.’

‘Dick is a friend,’ said the boy, rallying slightly.

‘Does he tease you?’

‘No. Only the others. I want to see Dick Honeydew again.’

It was the one positive sign that he was ready to go back to London with them to resume his life with Westfield’s Men. Nicholas hoped that it was something on which they could build. The meal over, they thanked the cook and were led away by a servant who had retrieved their hats and cloaks for them. They were conducted to the hall. Romball Taylard was hovering patiently by the door to dispatch the visitors.

‘Welcome to the day,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Reasonably well,’ said Nicholas tartly, ‘but we’d have slept much better if someone hadn’t locked us in all night. Why did you arrange that?’

‘I thought it needful, sir.’

‘Needful!’ roared Elias. ‘Did you fear that we’d roam around the house in search of drink and women? Hell’s teeth! We’re grown men. We don’t need to be shut away like dangerous animals.’

‘I’m sorry if it upset you,’ said Taylard calmly.

‘Oh, I’m far more than upset.’

‘So am I,’ added Nicholas, fixing the steward with a stare. ‘I think that you owe us an explanation. I can’t believe that Sir Michael sanctioned this outrage.’

‘No,’ admitted Taylard. ‘I was not acting on behalf of Sir Michael.’

‘This was your invention, then?’

‘Not entirely. But I readily agreed to the suggestion when it was put to me.’

‘By whom?’

‘Master Stratton.’

Nicholas recalled the brief exchange between the steward and the departing father on the previous night. He also understood the reasoning behind the request. To make sure that his son did not abscond from the house Jerome Stratton wanted him securely locked in. Before Nicholas could speak, the steward anticipated his question.