Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Where?’ The steward looked down at the drive below. ‘I see nothing.’

‘That’s because your eyes are not trained like mine. Look over to the left.’

Moving to the edge of the parapet, Taylard shifted his gaze towards the western end of the estate. Figures were slowly coming out of the gloom like so many apparitions. Two riders led the way, followed by a cart and a succession of other riders. Sir Michael was so delighted that he began to wave excitedly at the newcomers even though they could not possibly see him behind the parapet. The steward gritted his teeth and made an effort to sound pleased.

‘What a relief!’ he said. ‘Shall we go down to welcome them?’

Wearied by the delay and worn down by the long ride, Westfield’s Men were revived by the sight of Silvermere rising out of the twilight to greet them. The promise of food and shelter even brought a smile to the face of Barnaby Gill. Nicholas Bracewell was at the head of the procession with Davy Stratton. Lawrence Firethorn rode up to join them so that he could introduce his company. Lady Eleanor was the first person to come sweeping out of the house but her husband soon joined her to add his salutations. Firethorn doffed his cap and gave them a token bow from the saddle.

‘Westfield’s Men are at your service,’ he said. ‘I am Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘We expected you earlier, Master Firethorn,’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘An unforeseen problem that I’ll discuss with you later.’

‘Then do so in warmth and comfort, sir,’ urged Sir Michael, flapping about at his wife’s side. ‘Bring the whole company into the house for the time being. The ostlers will look after the horses and take care of your cart. We have a meal awaiting you.’

A spontaneous cheer went up from the company. It was several hours since they had last eaten and the cold was getting into their bones. To be offered such hospitality at Silvermere helped to erase the memory of the ambush that had held them up for so long. A servant led them into the house and along to the kitchen. Nicholas stepped into the hall and saw Romball Taylard standing impassively in a corner. The steward gave him a polite nod. When the rest of the company had gone, Nicholas introduced Firethorn properly to their hosts. The actor gave them a respectful bow.

‘We’re sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, raising his shoulders in apology, ‘but we were attacked on the way here.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Lady Eleanor. ‘Highwaymen?’

‘We think not.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Happily, no, Lady Eleanor.’

‘Then who set upon you?’ asked Sir Michael.

‘I’ll let Nick tell you the tale.’

Taking his cue, Nicholas gave an abbreviated account of what had happened, deliberately playing down the hysteria caused by the ambush. His tentative identification of their attackers was endorsed by Sir Michael Greenleaf.

‘It sounds like Reginald Orr’s work,’ he said without hesitation.

Lady Eleanor was vengeful. ‘The man should be put behind bars.’

‘He will be, my dear, if we can find evidence to convict him.’

‘The main thing is that we got here,’ said Firethorn. ‘And what a wonderful arena for our art. I cannot tell you how overwhelmed we are with gratitude that you sought fit to invite Westfield’s Men to entertain you.’

‘It’s we who are grateful,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘I just wish that your journey here had not been spoilt by this dreadful incident.’

Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘A mere distraction, Lady Eleanor. A thousand Reginald Orrs would not prevent us from getting here to honour our engagement. Amongst others,’ he said, striking a martial pose, ‘I play the role of Henry the Fifth. It will take more than a fallen tree and a few sheaves of blazing hay to deter the hero of Agincourt. Then we have Nick Bracewell here who has been around the world with Drake. Nobody is going to stop a man of his mettle from travelling the much shorter distance from London to Essex.’

‘Reginald Orr will be dealt with,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Unless, of course, it was someone else entirely,’ said Nicholas.

His host was adamant. ‘It was either Orr himself or some confederates set on by him. He has too much influence over the weaker vessels in his circle. I can only tender my apologies once more. I do hope that it will in no way hinder the performance here tomorrow evening.’

‘No question of that,’ boomed Firethorn. ‘ Double Deceit will make Silvermere ring with laughter. We’ve arrived safely at our destination and we mean to make a lasting impression on you and your guests.’

Sir Michael beamed, his wife smiled graciously at Firethorn and the actor lapped up their admiration like a cat with a pail of cream at his disposal. Pleased with their reception, Nicholas watched Romball Taylard out of the corner of his eye. Their hosts might fawn over the star of Westfield’s Men but the steward took a less favourable view of him. There was such studied hostility in the man’s eyes that Nicholas began to wonder if he had been party to the ambush. He turned to answer a question from Lady Eleanor then let Firethorn take over once more. When Nicholas next tried to peep at Taylard, the man had vanished as if he had never been there.

‘Do something about him, Michael!’ instructed his wife. ‘Arrest the man.’

‘When enough evidence has been gathered,’ he said cautiously.

‘Reginald Orr is a menace.’

‘He did swear to stop us reaching Silvermere,’ Nicholas reminded them. ‘What is he going to do when he realises that he failed, Sir Michael? Is he the kind of person who will try to attack us again?’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Again and again and again.’

Jared Tuke was a practical man who did not stand on ceremony. When a funeral was to take place at St Christopher’s, the gravedigger who was invariably employed was the experienced Nathaniel Kytchen. However, since it was Kytchen himself who had now died, another pair of strong arms had to perform the office and Tuke took it willingly upon himself. He and the deceased had been good friends over the years and he felt a sense of personal obligation. The work was punishing. Frozen earth had to be split with a pick before he could use a spade to any effect. Even on such a wintry morning, Tuke was running with sweat as he stood waist high in the grave. The arrival of Anthony Dyment gave him an excuse to pause.

‘How are you getting on, Jared?’ asked the vicar.

‘Slowly.’

‘Not far to go now.’

‘Oh, there is,’ said Tuke solemnly. ‘Nathaniel always went down at least six feet. He’ll get no less for his own burial place.’

‘As long as the grave is ready for tomorrow.’

‘It will be.’

‘We shall miss Nathaniel. Who will take over his duties in future?’

‘I’ll find someone.’

The laconic Tuke used the back of his arm to rub the glistening sweat from his brow. His clothing was soiled, his face reddened by effort. Dyment had a few parish matters to discuss with the churchwarden but decided to postpone them to a time when they were in more appropriate surroundings. The vicar had respected Nathaniel Kytchen but found the old man coarse and unpredictable. Tuke, on the other hand, liked the outspoken gravedigger and would feel aggrieved if he had to talk about the projected repair to the church roof while up to his waist in the grave of a close friend. The vicar was about to take his leave when a figure loomed up out of the gravestones.

‘Good morrow!’ said Reginald Orr, pointing to the new grave. ‘Is that for Nathaniel Kytchen?’

‘It is, Reginald,’ said the vicar.

‘Dig a dozen or so more while you’re at it, Jared,’ urged the Puritan with a grin. ‘We can bury Westfield’s Men at the same time.’