Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Having shaken off his mystery illness completely, Lawrence Firethorn was in high spirits as he arrived at Edmund Hoode’s lodging. He banged on the door and was admitted by the playwright himself. Hoode looked more harassed than ever.

‘Is the fellow here?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Yes, Lawrence. Since the crack of dawn. His enthusiasm is crippling me.’

‘What progress have you made?’

‘None at all.’

‘What!’

‘He’s still having second thoughts about decisions we made yesterday.’

‘Fire and brimstone!’ exclaimed his visitor. ‘Let me talk to the villain.’

Followed by Hoode, he went swiftly up the stairs and into the room. Egidius Pye was seated at the table in the window, quill in hand as he crossed something out on a page to replace it with different wording. He gave a chuckle of self-congratulation but it changed to a gurgle when Firethorn loomed over him.

‘Good morrow, sir,’ said the actor with a cold smile.

‘Oh, good morrow, Master Firethorn. This is an unexpected pleasure, sir. We are working well together, as you see. In fact,’ he said, indicating the page before him, ‘I’ve just made a significant change in the Prologue.’

‘ Again? ’ groaned Hoode.

‘It’s almost finished now.’

Firethorn was horrified. ‘You’re still dallying with the Prologue?’

‘Be glad that we’ve got this far, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘Master Pye spent the first hour arguing over the title of the play.’

‘Not arguing,’ corrected the lawyer. ‘Striving to improve, that is all.’

Firethorn glanced down at the Prologue and saw a plethora of alterations. He gritted his teeth. They had been too kind to the apprentice playwright. It was high time to acquaint him forcefully with the realities of life in the theatre. He gathered up the sheaves of parchment and thrust the whole pile into the lawyer’s hands.

‘Take your play away, sir,’ he ordered.

Pye was shocked. ‘But why?’

‘Because it will not make the journey to Essex with us.’

‘But it must, Master Firethorn.’

‘When its author is still haggling over the title? Place your witch in Colchester, Rochester, Winchester or York, for all I care! She’ll not travel with Westfield’s Men.’

‘This is unjust.’

‘No, Master Pye. It’s necessary.’

‘But we have a contract,’ said the lawyer. ‘I’ll hold you to that in court. You’ve agreed to buy and present my play.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Then abide by the terms of the contract.’

‘I will,’ said Firethorn, ‘and all that the contract obliges us to do is to stage your play. No date of performance is given. We may not be able to put it into rehearsal for a year or more. By that time, you may actually have finished improving it.’

Hoode was dubious. ‘In a mere year? Allow him a decade at least.’

‘But I want it staged now,’ whimpered Pye. ‘I’ve set my heart on it.’

‘Then you should have been more amenable to correction.’

‘I have been. Master Hoode will tell you.’

‘He’s been far too amenable,’ confirmed the playwright. ‘Master Pye wants to correct everything. A minute later, he wants to restore the original lines again.’

Firethorn was brutal. ‘I’ve heard enough. Take the piece away.’

‘No!’ howled Pye. ‘Please.’

‘You were engaged to work with Edmund, not against him.’

‘That’s what I have been doing, sir.’

‘Not to my satisfaction. Thus it stands. We leave for Essex on Monday and your play is still in tatters. How can we do it justice if we do not rehearse it properly? And how can we rehearse it,’ he stressed, putting his face close to Pye’s, ‘unless we have the piece finished. I’m sorry, sir, but we’d wait until Doomsday for you to make up your mind.’

Egidius Pye went silent. He looked down sadly at the sheaf of pages in his hand and contemplated failure. They could see him weighing up the possibilities. Firethorn winked at Hoode. The ruse was working.

‘I’m profoundly sorry,’ said Pye at length. ‘I suppose that I have been taking my time but that comes from my training as a lawyer, sir. Caution is everything.’

‘Not on the stage,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘Boldness is in demand there. Who, in God’s name, wants a cautious play? We perform in a theatre, Master Pye, not in a church. Our patrons call for action and excitement. They yearn for laughter.’

‘I thought that’s what I was giving them.’

‘It is,’ said Hoode, taking a gentler tone with him. ‘Your play is bursting at the seams with all it takes to make a fine comedy into an excellent one, Master Pye, but it needs certain changes. And they’ll never be made if you insist on disputing every comma and going into battle over the title.’

‘Take it away and work on it at your leisure,’ advised Firethorn. ‘If and when we deem it ready for the stage, we’ll perform it to the best of our ability.’

Pye drooped. ‘But you said it would be ideal for your visit to Essex.’

‘It would be if I could hand it to the scrivener today so that he could begin to copy it out. But that is plainly out of the question. You’re too protective of your work, Master Pye. It happens with all raw playwrights,’ he said dismissively. ‘They sit over their words like a hen sitting on eggs, pecking everyone who comes near. Words are made to be heard, sir. Eggs are laid to be broken open and eaten.’

The lawyer went off into another long period of meditation. Hoode collected another wink from Firethorn. He was sorry that the actor-manager was forced to take such drastic action but it was the only route open to them. Egidius Pye eventually came around to the suggestion that Firethorn knew he would make.

‘There is one remedy,’ he said meekly.

‘Yes,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘We perform another play.’

‘No, no. You take The Witch of Colchester . I endorse the title wholeheartedly and was foolish to question it. And I agree with everything that Master Hoode has said about the piece. His experience far outweighs mine. His instinct is far surer.’ He held out the play to Hoode. ‘Is there any chance that you might rescue it on your own?’

‘That’s asking a great deal of Edmund,’ said Firethorn with mock seriousness. ‘Even he might not be able to make the necessary changes in time.’

‘But I was told there wouldn’t be many alterations.’

‘That’s what I hoped, Master Pye,’ said Hoode wearily. ‘But you kept altering the alterations at every turn until they multiplied out of all recognition.’

‘Help me, Master Hoode,’ pleaded the lawyer. ‘I beg you.’

‘It’s up to you, Edmund,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have grave doubts.’

Pye leapt to his feet. ‘No, no. Don’t say that, please.’

He looked appealingly at Hoode. It was not a commission that the playwright could enjoy. In Pye’s position, he would be mortified if someone else took responsibility for making changes to his work but there were mitigating factors. The alterations would not be radical and they had already been agreed in discussion beforehand. What went on stage in The Witch of Colchester would be substantially the invention of Egidius Pye and all the credit would go to him. The deciding factor, however, was the one contained in the invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf. As a condition of their visit, a new play had been requested and the only one available to them was now being held out in the clammy hands of its author. If Hoode did not take on the task of amending it at speed, Westfield’s Men would have to cancel their visit and return to the miseries of unemployment. The fate of the whole company had to be set against the blow to one man’s pride.