Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Forgive him, Sir Michael,’ he said. ‘Master Firethorn is fatigued.’

‘Hardly surprising after the energy he put into his performance.’

‘Would it be possible for him to see a doctor?’

Sir Michael was alarmed. ‘A doctor? Master Firethorn is not ill?’

‘No, no,’ said Nicholas. ‘He simply needs a reviving dose of medicine.’

‘Then I prescribe a potion of my own devising. It cured my dog’s palsy.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘It may not be quite what is called for here, Sir Michael. Five minutes with a doctor are all that is needed. I wondered if perhaps you had such a man among your guests.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said the other. ‘Doctor Winche.’

‘Would he consent to treat Lawrence?’ asked Hoode.

‘Doctor Winche would insist on it, Master Hoode. The treat would be all his, believe me. He and his wife thought the performance was remarkable. If he has the chance to meet the undoubted star of the evening, Doctor Winche will seize it gladly.’

‘Perhaps you could ask him to step in here, Sir Michael.’

‘At once, at once, dear fellow,’ said their host, scurrying off. ‘We can’t have Master Firethorn in the slightest discomfort.’

‘Ably done, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘Lawrence was about to strangle him when he made that remark about the Epilogue. Thank heaven you prevented him or our first performance here would also have been our last.’

Firethorn stood up, pointing a finger and mouthing words that had no sound. Hoode was confused but Nicholas understood what the actor was trying to say to them. He quickly retrieved the prompt copy of Double Deceit and brought it over. Taking it from him, Firethorn indicated the title then drew an imaginary line through it, replacing it with four words written invisibly by an index finger.

‘What on earth is he doing, Nick?’ asked Hoode.

‘Telling us to look to another play,’ said Nicholas.

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what caused the loss of his voice.’

‘How can a play possibly do that?’

‘I don’t know but that’s exactly what The Witch of Colchester seems to be doing, Edmund. You worked on the piece,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘Does not Lord Malady suffer a series of strange maladies?’

‘Well, yes,’ recalled Hoode. ‘He’s first struck down by a mystery fever, then he collapses for no apparent reason and, when he recovers from that, he …’ His voice tailed off and he looked back at the patient. ‘Are you trying to tell us that you’re enduring the same trials as Lord Malady?’ Firethorn nodded vigorously. ‘But that’s incredible.’

‘Two of us are coming to believe it, Edmund.’

‘Egidius Pye has written a comedy, not woven a spell.’

‘Perhaps he’s done both without even realising it.’

‘No, Nick. I refuse even to countenance the idea.’

Firethorn took him by the shoulders to shake him, peering deep into his eyes. He resorted to mime, first pretending to have a high fever, then falling to the floor and twitching convulsively. Hauling himself back up, he walked around the room as if declaiming a speech then grabbed at his throat with both hands. He ended by thrusting the prompt copy of Double Deceit into its author’s hands. Hoode looked down at it with misgivings then stared back at Firethorn.

‘I still can’t accept it, Lawrence. In the play, Lord Malady’s woes are wished upon him by his enemy, Sir Roderick Lawless. He engages someone to afflict his rival with various illnesses. Everyone assumes that it’s Black Joan, the witch, who has put a spell on him but the real villain is the man who’s supposed to be nursing him back to health.’

‘Doctor Putrid,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly.’

‘A role taken by Barnaby Gill.’

Hoode became pensive. ‘I begin to see what you mean. When Lawrence lost his voice this evening, it was Barnaby who gained most. And when Lord Malady is struck dumb in The Witch of Colchester , it’s Doctor Putrid who reaps the benefit. Can this be so?’ he said, arms flailing in disbelief. ‘Is the great Lawrence Firethorn, who has triumphed in so many plays, now at the mercy of one?’

Firethorn nodded again then flung himself down in despair on the bench.

Doctor Winche chose that moment to come in with Sir Michael. He was a short, round, bow-legged man of middle years with a rubicund face that was one contented smile. He tugged at his goatee beard then rubbed his podgy hands together.

‘This is truly an honour, gentlemen,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘If laughter is the best medicine, then I’ll live to be a hundred.’ When he saw Firethorn in distress, his manner changed at once. ‘Good gracious!’ he cried, swooping on the actor. ‘What ails you, sir? Are you in pain?’

‘Master Firethorn is very tired, doctor,’ explained Nicholas, ‘and he’s suffering from a sore throat. We’ll let you tend him in private?’

‘Very sensible,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Let’s step into the hall.’

Nicholas and Hoode went through the door and on to the stage with their host. Hundreds of candles still flickered in the room but two servants were systematically extinguishing the flames now that the audience had left.

Sir Michael was solicitous. ‘I hope that his condition is not serious.’

‘I’m sure that it’s not, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas, careful to divulge nothing more about Firethorn’s recent medical history. ‘Sleep will work its wonders.’

‘And tomorrow, he can rest.’

‘Unhappily not, Sir Michael,’ explained Hoode. ‘Though we may have no performance in here tomorrow, we’ll be rehearsing our new play. Actors never rest, I fear. What you see on the stage in two hours is the fruit of much longer time spent in rehearsal. Double Deceit is a case in point.’

‘A delightful frolic, Master Hoode. My wife chortled with glee.’

‘I’m glad that Lady Eleanor was pleased,’ said Nicholas.

‘Overjoyed, my friend. What comes next?’

‘ The Insatiate Duke . Very different fare, Sir Michael. We follow a sunny comedy with a dark tragedy. In one sense, it’s a pity we perform in the afternoon,’ he said, watching the servants dousing the candles, ‘because we could make great use of shadow with nothing but candelabra to illumine the stage. But no matter.’

‘No,’ agreed Hoode. ‘We usually play the piece in blazing sunshine.’

‘You mentioned the new comedy,’ said Sir Michael. ‘ The Witch of Colchester . That’s the one that most appeals to me. Is it a powerful play?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir Michael.’

‘Too powerful,’ said Nicholas under his breath.

They talked on for a few minutes before being interrupted by Doctor Winche who came bustling on to the stage in a more settled frame of mind. His smile returned.

‘It’s nothing to cause alarm,’ he said. ‘What Master Firethorn most needs is sleep. His throat is sore yet not inflamed and there’s no swelling in the neck. I’ll send a potion across to him as soon as I return home.’

‘Could you not mix it here, Doctor Winche?’ suggested Sir Michael. ‘I’m sure that I’ve all the herbs necessary in my laboratory. That would save time.’

‘A great deal of it, Sir Michael. I accept your kind offer. Meanwhile,’ he said to the others, ‘I advise that you conduct Master Firethorn to his bed. When the poor fellow is comfortable, tell him how much my wife and I enjoyed his performance. Praise is a wonderful medicine. No man can have too much of it.’

He and Sir Michael went off to the laboratory, leaving Nicholas and Hoode with the task of nursing their colleague. Firethorn was still in his costume as Argos when they went back into the tiring-house and they saw no point in getting him out of it until they had installed him in his bedchamber. Nicholas threw a cloak around the patient’s shoulders then he and Hoode escorted him slowly towards the side exit of the house. When they came out into the cold night, Firethorn gave a shudder and emitted a soundless cry. They hurried him across to the largest of the three cottages, brushed aside the anxious enquiries of its other occupants and took him upstairs. Firethorn was soon undressed and put into his bed, mystified rather than in any discomfort. When his eyelids began to droop, Hoode nudged Nicholas and they quietly withdrew. Owen Elias was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.