Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Owen Elias arrived a minute later, sword flailing vengefully in the air. He brought his horse to a halt and looked down anxiously at the two bodies on the ground.

‘Are you hurt, Nick?’ he said.

‘No, Owen.’

‘Do you need any help?’

‘We do,’ said Nicholas, panting. ‘Find the horses for us.’

Among the guests who remained at Silvermere when the bulk of the audience left was Jerome Stratton and he joined the others for a banquet that evening in the Great Hall. The rows of chairs had been cleared and a massive table set in the middle of the room. A sumptuous meal was lit by a series of silver candelabra. Sir Michael was a generous host and Lady Eleanor an assiduous hostess but they could not entirely dispel the shadow that hung over the occasion. Yards from where they were sitting, a man had died during the performance of a play. It affected even the most voracious appetites. Slowly, however, the mood of sadness was replaced by a muted jollity. Stratton even felt able to make light-hearted remarks about the deceased.

‘It’s a dreadful loss for his wife, I grant you,’ he said to Sir Michael in an undertone, ‘but the rest of us may gain. No more huge legal bills from Robert.’

‘He was ever an expensive gentleman,’ agreed Sir Michael.

‘Expensive and unbelievably tardy. The two went together, of course. The longer a case took, the more money he made. The Partridge coat of arms should have been a giant snail carrying a huge bag of gold.’

‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’

‘It’s not censure, Sir Michael. I admire any man who can make money so well.’

‘Yet you and Robert had profound disagreements, as I recall.’

‘That was purely a business matter,’ said Stratton airily. ‘I always liked him.’

‘So did I. Acute mind. A subtle advocate.’

‘Too subtle for his own good sometimes,’ murmured Stratton.

Romball Taylard suddenly appeared at Sir Michael’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. The old man was torn between pleasure and astonishment. He leapt up at once.

‘Do excuse me, ladies and gentleman,’ he said, moving away, ‘I’ll not be long.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Lady Eleanor.

‘I don’t know,’ said Stratton, ‘but it must have been important.’

‘Nothing is more important than entertaining guests properly. I’ll give my husband a reprimand when he comes back,’ she said, smiling to show that it was not a serious threat. ‘Enjoy yourselves, my friends!’

A more convivial spirit was now taking over. Putting aside the death that marred one play, the guests began to discuss the others that had been commissioned for their entertainment. Lawrence Firethorn’s name was spoken with relish but other actors earned acclaim as well. Ladies were universally delighted with Barnaby Gill and his comic dances while Richard Honeydew’s portrayal of Emilia gained an ambiguous popularity among the men. Sir Michael was away for some time. When he finally returned, he sat beside Stratton again to confide him.

‘One of the rogues is taken,’ he said proudly.

‘Taken?’

‘By that remarkable Nicholas Bracewell. The stout fellow not only saved the stables from being burnt to a cinder last night, he’s captured the man responsible.’

‘Who was he, Sir Michael?’

‘Isaac Upchard.’

‘Upchard? He’s one of Reginald Orr’s cronies.’

‘Yes, Jerome. And our recalcitrant Master Orr may yet be charged as his confederate. Isaac Upchard, apparently, swears that his friend was not implicated but he may tell a different tale when I have him under oath in court.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘It’s a shame that Robert Partridge is not here to question him at the trial. He could tear any man to shreds with vicious skill.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Stratton.

‘We’ve something to celebrate,’ said Sir Michael, reaching for his wine. ‘One villain is now behind bars and another may soon join him.’

‘I’ll drink to that, Sir Michael.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is the man to toast, though perhaps we should couple his name with that of Davy Stratton.’

‘Davy?’

‘Your son achieved a small victory up there on stage, Jerome. He brightened up our afternoon for an instant. He introduced some mirth when we most needed it. You must be very proud of the boy.’

Stratton forced a smile. ‘I am, I am, Sir Michael.’

‘And so you should be.’

Davy Stratton did not dare to approach the house until it was dark. The long walk had been interspersed with bouts of running and he needed time to recover before he made one final effort. He had travelled light, carrying nothing more than a change of clothing in the satchel that was slung across his shoulder. It was cold under the trees and he blew on his hands to keep them warm, stamping his feet at the same time. Only when he felt confident of being unobserved did he creep towards the house and make his way furtively around to the back. Shutters were closed in the upper rooms but candlelight spilt out through the slits in the wood. The climb was a test of his bravery. The stone wall was hard, cold and slippery. It offered little help. Davy inched his way upward, afraid to look down as he groped for each new hand hold, fearing discovery at any moment.

It was a nerve-racking ascent with no promise of success at the end of it but Davy drove himself on nevertheless. When he reached the room he wanted, he clung on to the eaves while he adjusted his footing. He then tapped quietly on the shutters. There was no response. He was filled with dread that the bedchamber was empty and that he might be marooned on the roof for hours. Unsure of his purchase and exposed to the biting wind, he could not stay there indefinitely. The prospect of a fall returned to haunt him. When he made the mistake of looking down, he felt giddy. Davy tapped on the shutters again and was relieved to hear movement inside the room. A new fear troubled him. What if the wrong person opened the shutters? Or what if they were flung back so violently that they knocked him off the wall? He clung on to the eaves more tightly and waited.

The shutters were unbolted and one side pushed tentatively ajar. A face peeped out until it saw a small boy, shivering violently and hanging there in desperation.

‘Davy!’ said an alarmed voice. ‘What ever are you doing out there?’

The meal served in the kitchen at Silvermere could not compare with the banquet in the Great Hall but it was eaten with far more relish. Westfield’s Men were thrilled to hear of the capture of Isaac Upchard and of his incarceration on a charge of arson. Praise for Nicholas Bracewell was unstinting. Owen Elias embroidered his own part in the arrest to garner some plaudits but it was the book holder who was the true hero. The fall from his horse had left Nicholas with several new bruises by way of mementos but no bones had been broken. Seated between Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill, he was typically modest about his exploit.

‘The man gave himself away,’ he explained. ‘If he’d ridden past us and tipped his hat in greeting, neither Owen nor I would have turned a hair. Because he acted so suspiciously, we were put on our guard.’

‘But how did you know he was the villain who tried to burn down the stable?’ asked Gill. ‘You could hardly recognise him in the gloom.’

‘You can recognise panic in any light.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘The rogue knocked me from the saddle as he went past.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t too much drink which did that?’ teased Firethorn.

‘Never!’ denied the Welshman over the mocking laughter. ‘I could drink a barrel of beer and still ride bareback to the top of Mount Snowdon.’

Gill was irritable. ‘Let Nicholas finish.’