Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘Stay there!’ he ordered, holding his sword point against the man’s neck.

But his adversary acted swiftly again, using a dagger to parry the sword then kicking powerfully with his right foot. Nicholas suffered a glancing blow on the thigh and staggered back. When the man aimed a second kick at him, he caught the foot and twisted it hard until he let out a yell of pain. As the intruder fell to the ground, Nicholas struck at the hand holding the dagger and opened up a gash in his wrist. An even louder yell came as the man released his weapon. Nicholas dropped the sword and flung himself down on the figure who now was writhing on the ground in the dark. Sitting astride him, he began to pummel away with both fists but the fight was almost immediately curtailed. A second rider came out of the shadows and used a cudgel to belabor Nicholas. Dazed by blows to the head, the book holder lost all his strength and was pushed away roughly by the man beneath him. The second rider dismounted to help his confederate into the saddle of his own mount. By the time that Nicholas was able to stagger to his feet, both men were galloping off into the darkness.

The commotion brought several people running from the cottages and the main house. Nicholas soon found himself surrounded by lighted candles and curious faces. Firethorn pushed his way through his friend.

‘Are you hurt, Nick?’ he said, supporting him by the arm.

‘A little,’ conceded the other.

‘What happened?’

‘Somebody tried to frighten us away again.’

The nocturnal assault accomplished part of its objective. The fire might have been put out in the stables but the flames of doubt continued to crackle in the minds of the company. On the following morning, the rehearsal of The Insatiate Duke was slow and half-hearted. Reminded that they had enemies, the actors kept looking over their shoulders and wondering where the next attack would come from. The sight of their book holder was usually a reassurance but it was now visible proof of the desperation of their unknown foes. Face covered with bruises and head wrapped in a piece of linen, Nicholas had taken a lot of punishment. If the strongest and most resourceful man in the company had been subdued, they reasoned, what hope did the rest of them have?

Sir Michael was highly sympathetic. Flanked by his wife and his steward, he came into the hall at the end of the rehearsal to offer his apologies and to enquire after the condition of the wounded book holder.

‘This is appalling!’ he said, staring at Nicholas’s bruises. ‘I invited you here as my guests and you’ve twice been the target of a vicious attack.’

‘It’s not your fault, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas.

‘But it is, dear fellow. My wife and I are distraught.’

‘We are,’ confirmed Lady Eleanor, wringing her hands. ‘We’re shocked beyond measure. This kind of thing has simply never happened at Silvermere before.’

‘I did warn Sir Michael,’ said Taylard piously. ‘When there is such opposition to the arrival of a theatre company, it might have been wiser to turn them away.’

‘No, Romball!’ exploded Sir Michael with uncharacteristic vehemence. ‘I’ll not give in to anyone. Westfield’s Men are more than welcome here. I’ll gladly bear any blows that come in their wake.’

‘The blows fell on someone else,’ noted his wife, gazing sadly at Nicholas. ‘Do you really feel well enough to get out of bed, Master Bracewell?’

‘No, Lady Eleanor,’ said Nicholas with a grin, ‘but if I’m not there, you’ll have no play this afternoon and your guests will be bitterly disappointed.’

‘You’re so brave!’

‘I suspect it’s more a case of folly than bravery.’

‘And loyalty,’ added Firethorn, joining the group. ‘A bang on the head will not stop Nick Bracewell from steering us through another performance. But he cannot be expected to patrol the stables every night, Sir Michael,’ he added, confronting his host. ‘What we would like to know is if you’ve arranged for a proper guard to be set?’

‘Romball has the matter in hand,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Yes,’ said the steward officiously. ‘Two men will watch over the stables and the cottages throughout the night. They’ll be relieved at regular intervals so that the pair on duty are always fresh and alert.’

‘How will they be armed?’ asked Firethorn.

‘With sword and dagger.’

‘Give them each a musket from my arsenal,’ ordered Sir Michael.

‘I don’t think they’ll attack again at night,’ said Nicholas, ‘because they know we’ll be ready for them. But it’s a comfort to have armed men on patrol.’

‘What about the villain who tried to burn down the stables, Sir Michael?’ said Firethorn seriously. ‘Do you have any idea who it was?’

‘Not yet, Master Firethorn,’ replied Sir Michael.

‘What about this mad Puritan, Reginald Orr?’

‘He’d certainly be capable of such villainy,’ argued Lady Eleanor.

Taylard was suave. ‘Yet he’d hardly be capable of running so fast away from the stables, Lady Eleanor, and of getting the better of Master Bracewell in a fight. Reginald Orr is not a young man. He’s strong but far from lithe.’

‘Then he’s not the fellow I wrestled on the ground,’ decided Nicholas. ‘He was young, strong and quick. I had him beaten until I was cudgelled from behind by his confederate but I meted out some punishment of my own. Search for a man with a twisted ankle and a wounded wrist. Yes,’ he went on, pointing to his face, ‘and with some bruises like these. I know I drew blood from his nose.’

‘I still think that Reginald Orr is involved in some way,’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘That will emerge in the fullness of time, my dear,’ said her husband. ‘I’ve sent word to the constable to question him closely on the matter.’

‘I’d like to put a few questions to him myself,’ said Firethorn ruefully.

Sir Michael raised appeasing hands. ‘Leave all that to me, Master Firethorn. The only thing you need to worry about is your performance this afternoon. We’ll hold you up no longer. All that I can do is to offer you my sincere apologies and to assure you that no other setback will occur while you’re at Silvermere.’

Gathering up his wife and his steward, the old man backed out of the Great Hall.

Firethorn watched them go with mixed feelings before putting an affectionate arm around the book holder’s shoulders.

‘How do you feel now, Nick?’ he asked.

‘My head is still pounding a little.’

‘You took some severe blows.’

‘I look forward to giving some in return.’

‘Would you like us to summon Doctor Winche?’

‘I’m not that bad,’ said Nicholas.

‘But the doctor might be able to give you something to ease the pain.’

‘If I wanted a potion, I’d not look to Doctor Winche.’

‘Then where would you go?’

‘To whom else?’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Mother Pigbone.’

Mother Pigbone used the broken half of a broom handle to stir the mixture in the wooden pail. It gave off a pungent odour that merged with a compound of noisome smells that already pervaded the kitchen in her hovel. When she was satisfied that the food was ready, she lifted up the pail and carried it into the garden. An elderly woman of medium height, she had a plump body and a pleasant face that was always lit by a quiet smile. She wore ragged clothes, stained by a dozen differing hues, and a dirty head clout. Though she had no children of her own, there was a motherly quality about her that was quite endearing. Shuffling to the end of the little garden, she chuckled when she heard a series of grunts ahead of her.

‘Yes, yes, Beelzebub,’ she cooed. ‘It’s coming. I haven’t forgotten you.’