Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘I’m sure that he will be, Edmund.’ His voice took on a sharper edge. ‘Are you not vexed by this enforced idleness? Do you not fear that your art will desert you? A moment ago, Nick mentioned the Chapel Royal. Does it not gall you that boy actors perform each day at Blackfriars while we languish here?’

‘Of course, Lawrence.’

‘Do you feel no sense of injustice that the indoor playhouses thrive while those of us at the mercy of the elements are thrown out of work?’

‘It wounds me to the quick.’

‘Then do something about it. Seize this offer with both hands. Sir Michael Greenleaf is our host but there may be some among his guests who will also see fit to employ us in time. Ten days in Essex may gain us tempting invitations elsewhere.’

‘That’s true,’ conceded Hoode, warming to the idea.

Gill was unconvinced. ‘It still does not solve the problem of an unwanted boy,’ he said, testily. ‘I refuse to let a complete stranger foist his son upon us.’

‘Sage advice, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas.

Firethorn bridled. ‘Will you turn against me as well, Nick?’

‘By no means,’ returned the other. ‘I support all that you’ve said but I also accept the contrary view. Whatever the lure, no company should be compelled to take an unknown quantity into its midst. The remedy, therefore, is simple. Meet this Jerome Stratton and question him closely. Examine his son to see if he is fit for the demands of the stage. Davy and his father will not be complete strangers then. We’ll know them for what they are. If the boy proves unequal to the task, turn him politely away.’

‘If he shows talent,’ said Firethorn, beaming happily, ‘we take the lad into the company and pocket the money from his father. This is the wisest counsel of all, Nick. I knew that you should be part of these deliberations. Is it agreed, then?’ he asked, looking at the others. ‘We put Davy Stratton to the sternest test?’

‘As soon as possible,’ said Hoode.

‘But against my better judgement,’ sighed Gill.

‘Come, Barnaby,’ teased Firethorn. ‘I would have thought you’d be the first to welcome a new boy into the company. You consort more with the youth of London than any of us. And however plain and pimply young Davy turns out to be, he’ll be ten times prettier than John Tallis. Will that not content you?’

Firethorn chuckled and Gill retreated into a hurt silence. Though he still had reservations about the new play, Hoode was pleased that the decision had been made. Nicholas, too, was glad, delighted with the unexpected invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf and hoping that it was possible to accept it. Their reputations were a matter of great pride to his three companions. To the lesser mortals in the company, however, work was simply a means of survival. Employment at a fine house in Essex would be a godsend to them. Food, lodging and an appreciative audience would be guaranteed. Nicholas longed to have the pleasure of spreading the good news among his fellows.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ declared Firethorn, rising to his feet. ‘We’ll have that death’s head of a landlord fetch us a bottle of Canary wine to celebrate.’ He squinted as a shaft of sunlight came in through the window. ‘Look, my friends,’ he said, pointing. ‘A change in the weather at last. The sun is shining to bless our enterprise. It’s an omen.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Gill, ‘of the worst possible kind.’

It was a pity that none of them heard his dire warning.

‘Well, my boy,’ said Jerome Stratton, beaming complacently, ‘what do you think of it?’

‘It’s very nice, Father,’ replied Davy.

‘Nice? Nice?’ chided the other. ‘Is that all you can say? The Royal Exchange is one of the great sights of London and you simply dub it ‘nice’. Look properly, Davy. And listen. That excited buzz you hear is the sealing of a thousand contracts. This is the very heart of the city, the place where goods are bought and sold, fortunes made or lost and commercial dynasties forged. To merchants like me, the Royal Exchange is home.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s why I brought you here. To feast your eyes on its magnificence.’

‘Thank you,’ said the boy. ‘It’s very big.’

‘Nice? Big? You’re too miserly with your adjectives, lad. The Exchange is a true phenomenon. It may resemble the bourses at Antwerp and Venice but, in my view, it surpasses both. I was little above your own age when the first brick was laid by Sir Thomas Gresham some thirty odd years ago. Do you see that huge grasshopper atop the bell tower?’ he went on, pointing upwards. ‘An emblem from the Gresham crest. The memory of Sir Thomas is kept fresh in our minds.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Davy Stratton’s dutiful answer concealed his doubts. Whatever else the merchants and bankers were doing as they milled about in the piazza, they were not thinking about the late founder of the Royal Exchange. They were too busy wrangling over contractual details, considering new investments, soliciting loans or trading gossip. It was the same whenever merchants came to stay at their house. Jerome Stratton would speak to them for hours on end in their private language and the boy would be left on the periphery of the conversation, present but completely disregarded, reduced to the status of a piece of furniture in the room. It did not endear Davy to the merchant class in which his father flourished. The Exchange was overwhelming in its size and crushing in its exclusivity. Davy felt more alienated than ever. It might be home to his father but it was a species of torture chamber to him.

‘Most of the materials came from abroad,’ said Stratton, resuming his lecture. ‘The slates were imported from Dort, the wainscoting and glass from Amsterdam. And, of course, the architecture is inspired by the Italian masters so it has a truly international feel, as befits the trading centre of our wonderful city.’ He gave a teasing grin. ‘Or do you think that London itself is merely ‘nice’ or ‘very big’? I hold that it’s the finest city in Christendom. What’s your opinion, Davy?’

‘It frightens me a little.’

‘Does it not also dazzle you and make your blood run?’

‘No, Father. There are so many people.’

‘You’ll soon get used to that, lad. If you come to live here, that is,’ he added, shooting a glance at the boy. ‘You do want to move to London, don’t you?’

‘I believe so,’ said Davy uncertainly.

‘It will be the making of you.’

Davy Stratton had grave doubts about that as well. What both he and his father had agreed was that the boy’s future did not lie in the commercial realm. He lacked interest and showed no aptitude for business. Small for his age, Davy had a slightness of build and delicacy of feature that seemed ill suited for the cut-and-thrust world inhabited by his father. Though he was an intelligent boy, he was too reserved and uncompetitive to follow in Jerome Stratton’s footsteps. Where the father was big, fleshy and confident, the son was short, thin and withdrawn. Yet Davy was not without an innate toughness. A quiet determination that shone in his eyes.

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Stratton.

‘I think so, Father.’

‘Then you are no merchant, Davy. I never have enough of the Exchange. Would you not like to take another turn around the courtyard?’

‘If you wish.’

‘It’s a question of what you wish, lad.’

‘I’m cold, Father,’ admitted the boy. ‘My teeth are chattering.’

Stratton slipped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Then we’ll keep on the move,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let me show you the shops. I’ll wager that one of them will arouse your curiosity.’