Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Nicholas mounted his horse and thanked the vicar for his help. He rode off at a brisk trot, following a track that led in the direction of the forest. Eyes on the way ahead, he did not notice the tall man who stepped out from behind a tree after he went past.

Reginald Orr was positively smouldering with hatred.

Lawrence Firethorn was horrified to see the author. When Egidius Pye had arrived at Silvermere without warning, the actor had stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Nobody was less welcome at that moment. Given the suffering that the play had already inflicted on Firethorn, his first impulse had been to flee from the man who wrote it but Pye’s meek and apologetic demeanour kept him there. Edmund Hoode had introduced the newcomer to the company and suggested that they prove themselves worthy of presenting The Witch of Colchester . Put on their mettle and aware how badly they had worked that morning, the actors made an effort to vindicate themselves. A small miracle occurred. Not only did they rehearse one of the most difficult scenes in the play without a single blemish, their momentum carried them on until the end of Act Three. Watching them sulkily through the window, Barnaby Gill had been so impressed that he had rejoined the others to take his place on stage and complete the final scene with one of his jigs.

Pye was overjoyed and clapped his hands until his palms were stinging. With the author’s praise still ringing in their ears, the company went off to the kitchen for their midday meal. Firethorn and Hoode lingered in the hall with the lawyer.

‘Extraordinary!’ said Pye. ‘Quite extraordinary!’

‘You liked it?’ asked Firethorn.

‘I adored every moment, sir. I could not believe you’ve done so much to the piece in so short a time. As for the play itself,’ he said, turning to Hoode, ‘your touch has been magical. Your name should be placed alongside my own as co-author.’

‘No,’ insisted Hoode, taking care to stand outside the range of Pye’s bad breath. ‘That would be unjust. Take all the credit, sir. The play is essentially yours. I’ve added little enough but been proud to be associated with such an accomplished piece of work.’

‘Thank you, Master Hoode!’

‘The whole company, as you saw, was inspired by the play.’

‘Their performance was faultless.’

‘And what of mine?’ asked Firethorn, fishing for individual praise. ‘Did I bring out the best in Lord Malady?’

‘It was a revelation!’

‘I missed nothing of the humour in his plight?’

‘Neither the humour nor the pathos. You were sublime, Master Firethorn.’

The actor beamed with false modesty. ‘I always strive to please an author.’

‘You delighted this one, sir!’

‘Which of my scenes excited you the most?’

‘All were equally wonderful,’ declared Pye. ‘You were Lord Malady to the life!’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, his smile vanishing at once. ‘That’s something I need to speak to you about, Master Pye. When I agreed to take on the role of Lord Malady, I did not expect him to pursue me so relentlessly.’

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Let me explain,’ said Hoode quickly, hearing the ire in his friend’s voice. ‘In the course of your play, Master Pye, the villainous Sir Roderick arranges for Lord Malady to be spellbound. He is struck down by fever, then convulsions and even loses his voice. All three things happened to Lawrence in real life.’

Pye was shocked. ‘Never!’

‘They did,’ said Firethorn ruefully. ‘I thought the play bewitched.’

‘Lawrence suffered grievously,’ said Hoode.

‘That was not the end of it, Edmund. Tell him about the lawyer.’

Hoode nodded sadly and explained how the final moments of The Insatiate Duke had been interrupted by the sudden death of Robert Partridge. In spite of assurances from Doctor Winche that the man died from a heart attack, he added, the use of poison could not be ruled out. Pye was both disturbed and chastened by what he heard. He seemed to withdraw into himself like a snail seeking the refuge of its shell. Firethorn did not let him escape.

‘What’s going on, Master Pye?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled the other.

‘You know something , man. I can see that.’

‘I might do and I might not.’

‘Stop talking like a lawyer.’

‘But that’s what I am, Master Firethorn.’

‘Not when you take up your pen. You turn into something ever nastier.’

‘There must be some explanation,’ said Hoode, using a gentler tone to coax the truth out of Pye. ‘No sooner did Lawrence take on the role of Lord Malady than he began to be afflicted by these horrendous diseases. What prompted you to invent the spells that are used in your play, Master Pye?’

‘I didn’t invent them,’ confessed Pye.

‘Then where did they come from, man?’ asked Firethorn.

‘A witch.’

‘A real witch?’

‘So it now appears.’

‘Then I have been at the mercy of some evil spells.’

‘Not intentionally, Master Firethorn,’ said Pye sheepishly. ‘And the spells did not last long. You recovered quickly each time.’

‘That’s no consolation. I was in torment. Fever was bad enough, collapse in the middle of church was even worse but there’s no humiliation to compare with being robbed of my Epilogue in Double Deceit by Barnaby Gill. A plague on your witchcraft!’ he roared. ‘You filched my voice from me.’

‘Yet it was soon restored,’ noted Hoode.

‘Do you recall how, Edmund?’

‘By a potion from Mother Pigbone.’

Pye was puzzled. ‘Who is Mother Pigbone?’

‘Another witch, I’ll warrant!’ Firethorn was livid. ‘What’s the use of a play that turns me into a permanent invalid? I thought that Davy Stratton was the devil’s apprentice but I see that his true name is Egidius Pye.’

‘All may yet be well,’ said Pye, trembling under the onslaught.

‘It had better be, sir. I don’t relish being blinded.’

‘Then we change the spell that’s used to blind you in the play.’

‘What of the others?’ asked Hoode.

‘We alter each one to take the sting out of them all. When I began to write the play,’ admitted Pye, ‘I thought witchcraft arrant nonsense that was only fit for derision. Then I met a woman who claimed to be able to conjure up evil spirits and began to have doubts. She had strange powers that unnerved me. You’ve met her as Black Joan in my play where I made her a much more likeable character than she is.’

‘Did she tell you how to cast spells?’

‘Yes, Master Hoode, and charged me handsomely.’

‘It was money well spent,’ growled Firethorn. ‘Her witchcraft was deadly.’

‘We don’t know that, Lawrence,’ said Hoode. ‘It may just be that the play made such a profound impression on you that you imagined the afflictions of Lord Malady.’

‘Imagined!’

‘You became the character.’

‘How can anyone imagine fever, convulsions and a lost voice? That’s nonsense! You saw me on that stage, Edmund. Do you believe I’d let Barnaby poach my Epilogue if I could possibly stop him? I was in despair.’

‘If the play is to blame,’ said Pye, ‘I offer you my abject apology. It clearly has a power that reaches out from the page. Let me amend the lines here and now. I’ll render the spells harmless then you’ll have no fear of blindness.’

‘What must I suffer in its place?’ said Firethorn sourly. ‘Impotence?’

‘Lord Malady’s complaints will be confined to the play.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It stands to reason.’

‘Not when we’re dealing with witchcraft. That defies reason.’