Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Davy allowed himself to be led towards the steps. As they made their way slowly through the crowd, Jerome Stratton dispensed smiles and greetings on both sides. He was in his element. Smartly attired in a padded doublet of a purple hue, he kept out the pinch of winter with a thick, fur-trimmed cloak and a velvet hat. Stratton had a red, round face that was lit with a professional geniality. He had been eager to show off the Royal Exchange to his son and was disappointed by the latter’s reaction. Expecting him to be enthralled on his first visit to London, he instead found Davy subdued and defensive.

‘I hope that you’re not having second thoughts,’ he warned.

‘About what, Father?’ asked Davy.

‘The reason that brought us here in the first place.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Stratton was unconvinced by the boy’s lacklustre response. When they reached the upper level, they strolled past a series of small shops where milliners, apothecaries, goldsmiths, booksellers and others plied their trade. Not even the glittering display in the armourer’s shop drew more than a cursory glance from Davy.

His concerned father took him aside.

‘What ails you, lad?’

‘Nothing, Father.’

‘You can’t deceive me,’ said Stratton. ‘When I came to London for the first time, I walked around with my mouth agape. So many awesome sights to see. It was one of the happiest days of my life. But you’ve hardly lifted an eyebrow, still less given a gasp of surprise or a grin of appreciation. We’ve been to St Paul’s, the Tower and everywhere in between yet none of them fired you with enthusiasm. Why not?’

‘I told you, Father. I’m cold.’

‘It was even colder in Essex but that didn’t stop you playing in the garden when the snow was a foot deep. You can’t blame all this on the winter. Unless,’ he probed, leaning in close, ‘your shivers are nothing to do with the weather.’

The boy nodded. ‘They’re not.’

‘Are you nervous?’

‘A trifle, Father.’

‘There’s no need to be, Davy,’ said the other reassuringly.

‘But what if I fail?’

‘Out of the question. I know that you face an important test but you’ll come through it with flying colours. You bear the name of Stratton. We never fail. Just think, Davy,’ he said, touching the boy’s arm. ‘This afternoon, you’re going to meet Lawrence Firethorn, the most famous actor in England. I’ve seen him on stage a dozen times and been amazed on each occasion. A signal honour awaits you today.’

Davy bit his lip. ‘Will he like me, Father?’ he said.

‘Of course, he’ll like you.’

‘Supposing that he does not?’

‘He will, Davy. Master Firethorn will adore you.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Make him like you!’ ordered Stratton, tightening his grip on the boy’s arm. ‘Play-acting is not so different from business. Look at me. The reason I’ve been so successful is that I force people to like me. I gain their confidence. It’s the first step towards parting them from the contents of their purses. Sparkle, Davy!’ he urged. ‘Win over Lawrence Firethorn and a whole new life beckons.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘That’s what you want isn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then prove it. Live up to the name of Stratton. I’d hate to think that you were going to let me down. This is your opportunity, lad. Take it while you can. Make me proud of you.’ He released his grip. ‘It’s what your poor dear mother would have wished. Keep her in your thoughts, Davy. Your mother doted on you.’

The boy bit his lip again and stared at an invisible object on the ground. It took him a full minute to compose himself. When he looked up again, his voice was firm.

‘I’ll do my very best, Father,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Nicholas Bracewell turned into Chancery Lane and lengthened his stride. As soon as he reached the Middle Temple, he was reminded why he had such a distrust of lawyers. There were dozens of them, all dressed alike, scurrying off to court or holding impromptu disputes with colleagues in the open air, each one exuding that mixture of arrogance and smugness that he found so unappealing. Bruised by occasional dealings with the legal profession, Nicholas made a point of keeping well away from its denizens but, in this instance, he had no choice in the matter. The one redeeming feature of this visit was that he was representing Westfield’s Men rather than seeking advice on his own account. A legal contract would be involved but it would cost him nothing but his congratulations.

Though he had never met Egidius Pye, he could glean something of the man’s character from his work. The Witch of Rochester, as it was still called, was an unlikely play to issue from the pen of a lawyer. It was rich with incident, steeped in the mysteries of witchcraft, abounding in humour, sprinkled with bawdy and shot through with wry comments on the human condition. All that betrayed its author’s profession was the extended trial with which it concluded though even that had a comical impetus. Imperfect as it was, the play had intrigued Nicholas and, now that he had read it, impressed Edmund Hoode as well. It was original, incisive and throbbing with life. Since the playwright now had to be sounded out in person, Nicholas had been dispatched to the Middle Temple.

Notwithstanding his discomfort at being surrounded by lawyers, it was a welcome assignment for the book holder. Egidius Pye, he decided, was highly untypical of the breed, a gifted author with a questing mind, a keen sense of the ridiculous and a healthy irreverence for the law and its practitioners. Nicholas pictured him as a tall, fair, fearless young man with an independent streak, a natural rebel whose histrionic talent seemed to be quite instinctive. When he located Pye’s chambers, however, he came in for a severe shock. The lawyer was nothing whatsoever like the man he has envisaged.

‘Master Pye?’ he enquired.

‘Yes,’ said the other cautiously.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell and I’m here on behalf of Westfield’s Men. I believe that you submitted a play to Master Firethorn for his consideration.’

‘Why, so I did.’

‘If you can spare the time, I need to discuss it with you.’

‘By all means, my friend. Come in, come in.’

Nicholas stepped into a large, low, cluttered room with a musty smell. Ancient leather-bound tomes stood on the shelves. Piles of documents littered every available surface. A plate of abandoned food lay half-hidden beneath a satchel. A pewter mug had fallen to the floor and taken up residence beneath the table. Other forgotten items filled every corner of the room. Egidius Pye was at one with his surroundings. Tall, scrawny and stooping, he had an air of sustained neglect about him. Though he was still in his late thirties, the receding hair, the greying beard and the ponderous movements made him seem twenty years older. A white ruff offset his black apparel but Nicholas observed that both were stained by food and flecked with dirt. So close were the eyes, nose and mouth that it looked as if all four had retreated to the centre of the face out of sudden fright on the principle that there was safety in numbers.

After shutting the door, the lawyer waved Nicholas to a seat beside a fire that was producing far more smoke than heat. He lowered himself gingerly onto a stool opposite his unexpected visitor.

‘You’re a member of the company?’ he asked reverentially.

‘Merely its book holder, Master Pye,’ explained Nicholas, ‘but I was fortunate enough to be allowed to read The Witch of Rochester. It’s a remarkable play.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’