Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘But they’re not dead.’

‘They are to all intents and purposes.’

‘You’re not wanted here,’ said Tuke, gruffly.

‘Except on Sundays,’ added Dyment, ‘when we never see you.’

‘I celebrate the Sabbath elsewhere.’

‘You’ll be up before the church court again for not attending.’

Orr gave a mocking smile. ‘What will they do? Excommunicate me once more? Eviction from a church that I don’t believe in is no punishment to me. It’s a blessed release. Unless, of course,’ he said warningly, ‘you’d like me there to comment on the errors in your sermon?’

‘There are no errors,’ said Dyment bravely. ‘It’s you who are at fault.’

‘You wish to talk theology now?’

‘No, no. I have parish matters to attend to, Reginald.’

‘What is more important in this parish than praising God in the proper way?’

‘We do that already.’

‘Not in my opinion.’

‘That’s well known,’ grunted Tuke, hauling himself out of the grave. ‘Your opinions are leading others astray. They, too, will face the court.’

‘Threaten and fine us all you wish,’ challenged Orr, ‘it will not shift us from our beliefs. God needs no fine churches filled with heathenish idols. Simplicity is the virtue that He appreciates.’

‘Simplicity is for simpletons,’ said the churchwarden, making a unique excursion into humour. ‘Reverend Dyment is our vicar and he practices the true religion.’

‘Thank you, Jared,’ said Dyment.

Grateful that he had the support of his churchwarden, the vicar was also secretly relieved that Orr no longer attended church. On the last occasion when the Puritan had joined the congregation, he had risen to his feet to contradict some claims made in the sermon. On the previous occasion, he had not even waited for the sermon, charging out of the church with as much noise as he could make and slamming its great oak door behind him. As he looked at their unwelcome visitor, Dyment realised that here was the one parishioner for whom he would gladly dig the grave himself.

‘Why have you come, Reginald?’ he asked.

‘To pass on the good tidings,’ said Orr with a sly smile.

‘And what are they?’

‘Silvermere will not be polluted by a vile theatre company, after all.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I sense that the vermin may have turned back.’

‘You sense it,’ pressed the other, ‘or you know it?’

‘Let me just say that word reached me yesterday.’

‘Then it differs from the word I received only this morning.’

Orr’s smile froze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A letter from Sir Michael tells me that Westfield’s Men arrived safely and are due to perform this evening at Silvermere. I’m invited to attend.’

‘They’re here ?’ said Orr in astonishment.

‘In spite of an attempt to turn them back, apparently.’ The vicar watched him carefully. ‘I don’t suppose that you know anything about that, Reginald?’

Orr was belligerent. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘The vicar was asking a polite question,’ said Tuke, squaring up to him.

‘Then the polite answer is that I’ve nothing to say on the subject.’

‘Sir Michael will pursue you for a proper reply,’ cautioned Dyment.

‘Let him,’ said Orr, unworried. ‘What concerns me is the fact that you’ve been invited to watch this performance at Silvermere.’

‘I am Sir Michael’s chaplain.’

‘All the more reason why you should stop him from walking in the counsel of the ungodly or standing in the way of sinners. Actors are born infidels. They’re ungodly sinners who seek to corrupt and defile. Can you, as his chaplain,’ he said, jabbing the vicar in the chest, ‘condone what Sir Michael is doing?’

‘I respect his right to do exactly as he wishes.’

‘Even if it vitiates the basic tenets of Christianity?’

‘I take a more tolerant view of theatre companies.’

‘Then you mean to encourage this degradation?’ snarled Orr. ‘You reprimand me for not attending church yet you welcome a band of fiends who preach the word of the Devil himself. You’re a traitor to your cloth, Anthony Dyment!’

‘Rein in your language,’ ordered Tuke.

‘Why? Does the truth sit too heavily upon your ears?’

‘The vicar deserves respect.’

‘Well, he’ll not get it from me if he watches actors purveying their evil in the heart of his parish. What will you do?’ he demanded, returning on Dyment. ‘Will you have the courage to spurn this invitation? Or will you feed at the table of Satan?’

For once in his life, Anthony Dyment was lost for words.

Twenty-four hours at Silvermere wrought a complete transformation in Westfield’s Men.

The beleaguered company who had arrived at the house, cold, hungry and exhausted, were now happy and alert. Their welcome had been warm, the food excellent, their hosts attentive and their accommodation far better than anything they usually enjoyed when they went out on the road. They found the Great Hall itself inspiring and could not wait to begin rehearsal. Double Deceit was one of their most reliable comedies but it called for immense technical precision. Since it was the first play in the sequence, Firethorn was anxious to get it absolutely right in order to create a favourable impression and he drilled his actors throughout the morning and the afternoon. Davy Stratton was given only a brief appearance on stage where he was allowed to join in a general cheer. No lines were assigned to him. Behind the scenes, his responsibilities were much larger.

Nicholas Bracewell made full use of the elements at his disposal, hanging curtains that could be drawn back to reveal the area below the gallery and placing the scores of candelabra in the most advantageous positions. Accustomed to perform outdoors in the afternoon, the company had to adapt to the differing conditions now offered them. Chairs were set out in rows and Nicholas watched some of the scenes from the back row to make sure that everyone was visible as well as audible. All was satisfactory. There were no apparent problems. When the actors gathered in the ante-room that was their tiring-house, morale was high and confidence unlimited. Davy Stratton was the only person who was suffering from nervousness. Efficient during rehearsals, he was now anxious and rather distracted, fearing that he would let his colleagues down on the very first occasion when he worked alongside them. Nicholas sought to reassure him.

‘You did wonders during rehearsal,’ he said.

‘Did I?’ replied Davy.

‘We could not have got through it without you.’

‘But all that I did was to stand there with the various costumes.’

‘That’s a vital task in this play. Speed is crucial, Davy. If the piece slows down at any point, its momentum is lost and so is much of its comedy. It only works if we do our duty as well as the actors.’ He touched the boy’s arm. ‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’

‘I feel sick.’

‘So does everyone,’ said Nicholas, glancing around the room. ‘They just learn to hide it better. But it’s not really sickness, Davy. It’s excitement. Once the play starts, you’ll have no time to worry about a queasy stomach.’

‘I like the play. It made me giggle.’

‘Let’s hope that it has the same effect on our audience.’

Nicholas took the boy with him as he checked the large number of properties required in Double Deceit . Those damaged in the ambush had now been repaired and all had been set out in sequence on a long trestle table. The actors, meanwhile, put on their costumes, bantered contentedly or slipped off into a corner for a last rehearsal of their lines. Noise was building steadily in the adjacent Great Hall as the guests filed in to take their places. Judging from the volume of the sound, a sizeable number had gathered to watch the famous company display its wonders. Romball Taylard eventually came into the tiring-house to find out if they were ready. Lawrence Firethorn assured him that they were and sent him back to Sir Michael Greenleaf. He then delivered a short but stirring speech to the company, exhorting them to give of their best. Roused by his words, they took up their positions on stage behind the curtains with increased eagerness.