Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

It was only Nicholas Bracewell in whom he really confided the truth.

‘Thank you for coming so promptly last night, Nick,’ he said.

‘It was the least I could do.’

‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay awake longer.’

‘So was I,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘It’s so unlike you.’

‘I know, I know. I can carouse until dawn as a rule. But not yesterday, as you saw for yourself. I felt as if I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep for a whole month.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’

Claiming that he wanted to discuss some aspects of staging the plays, Firethorn had detached the book holder from the others. They sat at a table in the corner. The actor did not want anyone else to guess at his predicament. Seen in profile by the others, he appeared a happy man, talking business with a colleague, and he deliberately peppered his conversation with animated movement and laughter in order to deceive those who might be watching. The substance of his confession was far from comical.

‘I’m terrified, Nick,’ he said.

‘Are you?’

‘Can’t you see what’s happening?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’ve made another wonderful recovery.’

‘But from what? Doctor Whitrow didn’t have a clue what brought me down this time. Nor did he really explain what prompted that terrible fever last week. The doctor was worse than useless yesterday.’

‘He gave you that sleeping draught.’

‘That was no cure, Nick. It merely eased the pain so that I was no longer lying there on the rack. When I first woke up, I still felt desperately ill.’

Nicholas was anxious. ‘What, then, revived you?’

‘I’ve no idea. The sickness just vanished as if it had never been there. Margery insisted that I stay in bed while she called the doctor but I knew how worried everybody would be by my absence. They needing cheering up,’ he said, looking around to distribute a warm grin among the others, ‘and so did I.’ He turned back to Nicholas. ‘You know who’s behind all this, don’t you?’

‘Who?’

‘Egidius Pye.’

‘That’s an absurd idea,’ said Nicholas.

‘Is it? Have you ever met a man as robust as me?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Have you ever seen one with the same energy, the same commitment, the same burning love for the theatre and all that goes with it?’

‘I don’t believe that I could.’

‘Then where did it all disappear yesterday? Why did I succumb to that fever last week? These are not natural happenings, Nick.’

‘Then what are they?’

Firethorn spoke in a whisper. ‘Witchcraft.’

‘I didn’t think that you believed in such things.’

‘I didn’t until this happened to me,’ agreed the other, ‘but I’ve changed my mind now. I’ve had to. Remember The Witch of Colchester. ’

‘That’s only a play.’

‘I wonder. It’s turning out to be more of a prophecy.’

‘In what way?’

‘What happens to Lord Malady when his enemy decides to attack him?’

‘A spell is cast and he’s …’ Nicholas paused as he heard what he was saying.

‘Go on. Finish your sentence.’

‘A spell is cast and he suffers this strange illness. A high fever.’

‘Just like the one I had.’

‘When he recovers from that,’ said Nicholas, going through the play in his mind, ‘he upsets Sir Roderick Lawless again and is struck down by a more serious complaint.’

‘Just as I was.’

‘But there can’t possibly be a connection,’ argued Nicholas. ‘ The Witch of Colchester is no more than a series of words on a page.’

‘So is a spell.’

‘I put the whole thing down to coincidence.’

‘If only I could do that, Nick,’ sighed the other, ‘but I can’t. Everything that happens to Lord Malady has so far happened to me. My fear is that there’s more to come. What about that scene where my character loses his voice completely?’

‘Only for comic effect.’

‘It may be comical on stage but it would be a catastrophe off it. This is Pye’s revenge,’ he said darkly. ‘Because I didn’t let him watch the rehearsals, he’s getting his own back on me by means of a spell.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Nobody is more eager to see that play acted well on the stage than Master Pye. Why should he disable the one man capable of doing justice to the role of Lord Malady? No,’ insisted Nicholas, ‘you can rule out the author here and now. He’s a kind, gentle, benign fellow.’

‘With a passion for witchcraft.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true.’

‘My opinion is that the kind, gentle, benign Egidius Pye has powers over which he has no control. In the act of writing that play, he cast an unintended spell and I’m its principal victim.’

‘You’re its only victim,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘If the play has such danger lurking in it, why wasn’t Edmund struck down as well? He’s actually amended some of its words and scenes. If anyone would be likely to suffer, it would be him.’

‘Edmund Hoode is not a character in the play, Lord Malady is. And I, alas, have agreed to take the role. That means there’s more agony in store for me.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff, Nick. I regret I ever agreed to play the part.’

‘If you’re so worried about it, why not assign it to someone else? Owen, perhaps. He’d lack your fire but he’d be a convincing Lord Malady.’

‘No,’ said Firethorn bravely. ‘I’ll not give in. In any case, I love Owen too much to foist a Malady on him that might bring a string of maladies in its wake. All I ask you is this, Nick. Watch over me. If anything happens, call no doctor. Just look to the play. It will be positive proof of what I claim.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I’m bewitched.’

They were over half a mile away when Isaac Upchard saw them. Swinging his horse round, he galloped back to the place where Reginald Orr was waiting for him. Both men had divested themselves of their Puritan attire to wear nondescript doublet and hose. Orr was breathing hard and resting on an axe.

‘They’re coming,’ warned Upchard.

‘How fast?’

‘At a walking pace. We’ve time to finish here.’

‘Take over, Isaac,’ panted Orr. ‘It’s almost done.’

Upchard dismounted and took the axe from him. While Orr tethered both horses in the safety of a nearby copse, the young man swung the implement with precision, cutting into the trunk of a tree all but ready to fall. As the last few chips of wood went spinning in the air, there was a loud creak. Upchard pushed hard against the trunk with the flat of his hand then leapt back quickly as the tree was toppled, crashing down across the track and making it impossible for anyone to pass. The two men withdrew to the safety of the copse to watch unseen. Sheaves of dry hay lay at their feet.

It took some time before the little cavalcade came round the bend and started to descend the slight gradient. Driven by Nicholas Bracewell, the cart was leading the way with Lawrence Firethorn and the others riding in pairs behind it. Unaware of what lay ahead of them, they were all chatting happily. It was only when they came right around the bend that they saw the obstacle ahead of them. Nicholas pulled hard on the reins to stop the horses but he was too late. They had already walked past the trap. The hole that Orr and Upchard had dug with such difficulty in the bone hard earth had been covered with branches to conceal it. One of the cartwheels rolled on to the scattered branches and they gave way at once, dropping the wheel so deep into the hole that the cart lurched over at an angle and shed half its cargo and most of its occupants. Bruised apprentices cried in pain as Nicholas struggled to control the neighing horses.