Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘What’s laid him low this time?’ he asked.

‘We don’t know, Owen,’ replied Nicholas. ‘He’s been seen by a doctor who advised sleep. Doctor Winche is preparing a potion for his sore throat at this moment.’

‘I hope that it works, Nick. Lawrence Firethorn without a voice us like the River Thames without water — a freak of nature.’

‘He’ll soon recover,’ said Hoode.

‘And what if he doesn’t, Edmund?’ said the Welshman.

‘Then we do what Barnaby did this evening. Replace him.’

‘Only God could replace Lawrence.’

There was a loud banging on the door. Nicholas went to see who was calling.

‘That surely can’t be Doctor Winche already,’ he said, lifting the latch. ‘Can he mix his medicines so quickly?’

He opened the door and blinked in surprise when he saw the squat figure of an old woman standing there. Viewed only in the flickering light of the candles, the visitor had a sinister quality yet he did not sense any menace. She waddled forward so that he could see her more clearly. Dressed in rags and wearing a tattered old cap, she was bent by age and worn down by toil but her eyes had an almost youthful glint in them.

‘Did you want something, mistress?’ asked Nicholas pleasantly.

‘Only to give you this, sir,’ she said, offering him a tiny bottle. ‘Someone in this house is ill and this potion will cure him if he takes it.’

‘But how did you know that we had a sick man here?’

‘That’s not important. Take the bottle.’

‘What does it contain?’

‘A remedy.’

Nicholas took it from her, feeling the strange warmness of her hand as it brushed against his own. ‘Who are you?’ he wondered.

‘Mother Pigbone,’ she said softly.

Then she drew back into the darkness and was gone.

Wednesday was devoted entirely to a rehearsal of The Witch of Colchester . The play due for performance on the following afternoon, The Insatiate Duke , had been in demand so much the previous year that they knew it by heart and felt confident of staging it after only a morning’s work on it. It was the new play that demanded the real attention but they approached it with no enthusiasm. Lawrence Firethorn was not the only person to make the connection between his recurring illnesses and Egidius Pye’s drama. Their manager’s ordeal mirrored that of Lord Malady and they were not reassured by the fact that The Witch of Colchester had a happy ending with its protagonist restored to full health. Before that occurred, the character was due to endure more afflictions. Fear lent a tentative quality to the rehearsal. Superstitious by nature, the actors were highly nervous, picking their way through the play as if each scene was an uncertain stepping stone in a particularly fast-flowing stream.

During a break, Lawrence Firethorn drifted across to Nicholas Bracewell.

‘This play is cursed, Nick,’ he complained. ‘I can feel it.’

‘It’s brought us good as well as bad luck,’ said Nicholas, looking around. ‘But for Master Pye, we wouldn’t be enjoying the hospitality of Silvermere and the pleasure of rehearsing in this magnificent hall. We’d all be cooling our heels in London, praying for the weather to improve. Whereas here we have work, food, drink, lodging, a fine theatre and a wonderful audience. It’s pure joy to work in such conditions.’

‘I agree. Acting on this stage was a continuous pleasure. Until I lost my voice.’

‘Only for a short while. It’s now restored.’

‘For how long?’ said Firethorn anxiously. ‘I feel that a new illness is going to leap out of The Witch of Colchester to attack me any minute. The play is a menace.’

‘Sir Michael is delighted with our choice of it.’

‘Sir Michael doesn’t have to take the role of Lord Malady.’

‘Other characters in the play are struck down as well as yours,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘The two lawyers, for instance, Longshaft and Shortshrift. Master Pye doesn’t spare his legal colleagues in the play. Both are stricken yet neither Edmund nor James, who take those parts, have suffered in any way.’

Firethorn groaned. ‘I’ve suffered enough for both of them!’

‘Don’t be afraid of the piece. It may yet give us our greatest triumph.’

‘It may indeed, Nick, but will I be alive to see it?’

Concealing his own fears about the play, Firethorn went off to berate the actors for their lack of commitment to the piece. The voice that had disappeared on the previous evening was now as rich and loud as ever. Nicholas was relieved but still puzzled by his sudden recovery. He called Davy Stratton across to issue his instructions. Given only a miniscule role in the new play, the boy was employed throughout in a series of menial but important tasks. In a piece that involved considerable doubling, he helped actors to change their costumes, held properties in readiness for them when they were about to make an entry and brought on or removed scenery with George Dart whenever the action of the play required it.

‘Do you know what you have to do in the next scene, Davy?’ said Nicholas.

‘I think so.’

‘What?’

‘Wheel the witch’s cauldron on stage.’

‘That’s the second thing you must do. What’s the first?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Davy, remembering. ‘Help Martin Yeo on with his costume.’

‘Think of him as Griselda. That’s Martin’s name in the play.’

‘I’ll try but he still looks like Martin Yeo to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas sternly. ‘I saw you teasing him earlier on. No more of that, Davy. I put you in the cottage with Dick Honeydew and George in order to keep you away from the other apprentices. Don’t stir up trouble.’

‘It was Martin and Stephen who were mocking me,’ claimed the boy.

‘Then ignore them. Even in rehearsal, a play needs all our attention. We must work together and not against each other. Do you understand?’ Davy gave a penitent nod. ‘Good. Let me see you excel yourself as you did during Double Deceit.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Nicholas, wondering why he was so keen to get away. ‘This is the first time I’ve had the chance to speak to you alone and I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of someone called Mother Pigbone?’

‘Of course. Everybody in Essex has.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A wise woman who lives in the wood beyond Stapleford.’

‘Have you ever met her?’

‘No, but I think that my father has.’

‘Does she sell remedies for strange illnesses?’

‘Mother Pigbone does all kinds of things. Some say she’s a witch.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in witches.’

‘I don’t but lots of people do.’

‘How would I find Mother Pigbone?’

‘Ask my father.’

Wishing to resume work, Firethorn waved to his book holder. Nicholas sent Davy off to do his chores and mounted the stage. After checking that all the scenery was in place, he went into the tiring-house to make sure that the actors were in their appointed positions. Full costume was being worn so that they could get used to the frequent changes. Barnaby Gill was adjusting the feather in his cap. Edmund Hoode was composing his features into the solemn expression of a lawyer. Davy Stratton was helping the sullen Martin Yeo into the dress he wore as Griselda, a young woman in the household of Sir Roderick Lawless. Richard Honeydew was in the more striking costume belonging to Lord Malady’s wife. Stephen Judd, the other apprentice, was already in the tattered rags of Black Joan. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Nicholas took his copy of the play into the hall so that he could watch the rehearsal and prompt. He waved to the musicians in the gallery and they played a lively tune to indicate the start of the new scene.