Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘It was a pleasure from start to finish.’

‘And does Master Firethorn share that opinion?’

‘He does, sir. That’s why he sent me to speak to you.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Pye in a hoarse whisper, ‘that there’s a faint hope my work might actually be presented on stage?’

‘More than a faint hope. A distinct possibility.’

‘Praise God!’

Egidius Pye clapped his hands together as if about to pray. Torn between joy and disbelief, he inched so close to the edge of the stool that he all but fell off it. He opened his mouth to emit a noiseless laugh, exposing a row of uneven teeth and a large pink tongue. Nicholas marvelled that such an apparently staid, slovenly, pallid, middle-aged man could have created a work of such manic frivolity. Evidently, there was more to the lawyer than met the eye.

As instructed by Firethorn, the book holder introduced a cautionary note.

‘Everything, of course,’ he said, ‘is subject to certain conditions.’

‘Make what conditions you like, dear sir. I accept them all.’

‘That’s hardly the stance of a lawyer, Master Pye. A contract will need to be drawn up. Given your profession, we expect you to question every detail.’

‘I bow willingly to Master Firethorn’s demands.’

‘But an author has certain rights, enforceable by law.’

‘What care have I for the law?’ said the other with a hint of recklessness. ‘It has brought me misery and boredom. Do you see these chambers, Master Bracewell? They were built at the request of my father in order that his only son could join him in the Middle Temple. And what happened? No sooner had the place been finished than my father — God bless him — died, leaving poor, unworthy, unwilling me to carry on the family tradition. Ha!’ he exclaimed with a hollow laugh. ‘It’s no tradition. It’s a curse. The law is a great rock that I’m doomed to roll up a hill like a second Sisyphus. I loathe the profession.’

‘That comes through in your play.’

‘It was not always so,’ confessed the other sadly. ‘The Inns of Court do have their appeal. When I first entered the Middle Temple as an Inner Barrister, it was like being an undergraduate at Oxford all over again. There was much jollity amid the hard work. There was a measure of light in the gloom. Then I became an Utter Barrister and most of the jollity ceased. Now that I’m a Bencher and in a position of some authority, I find it hard to remember that there was a time when I practiced the law instead of being imprisoned by it. Forgive me,’ he said, moving perilously closer to the edge of the stool. ‘You did not come to hear the story of my wasted life.’

‘I’m interested in anything you have to tell me.’

‘Then let me just say this. Lawyers drive me to distraction. What has kept me sane is the company of those who live in the Middle Temple while having nothing whatsoever to do with the law. There are many such people. Sir Walter Raleigh is one. When he is in London, he often resides here. I have had the honour of dining with him. Sir Francis Drake, too, has connections with us though we see precious little of him.’

Nicholas smiled fondly. ‘Sir Francis was ever ubiquitous.’

‘You speak as if you know him, Master Bracewell.’

‘I do, indeed. I had the privilege of sailing with him around the world. Not that it seemed like a privilege at the time,’ he added with a slight grimace, ‘but it was an unforgettable experience. Life aboard the Golden Hind was an education.’

‘Tell me about it,’ encouraged the other.

‘Oh, I’m not here to talk about myself, Master Pye.’

‘But I worship Sir Francis — and Sir Walter. They are proper men while I am just another mealy-mouthed barrister, practicing the black arts of the law. What was your voyage like? What countries did you see? What marvels did you behold?’

‘I’ll tell you another time,’ promised Nicholas, too conscious of his duty to permit much digression of a personal nature. ‘I’m here simply to acquaint you with the way in which your play has been received and to see how amenable you are to some suggested changes.’

‘Changes?’

‘Improvements and refinements.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘The piece still has too many rough edges before it can be performed. With your permission, they can be cunningly removed.’

‘Teach me the way to do it and I’ll happily oblige.’

‘Good,’ said Nicholas, pleased to find such a cooperative attitude. ‘I take it that you’ve watched the company perform?’

‘Many times,’ said Pye, presenting the uneven teeth for inspection once more. ‘I’ve spent endless happy hours at the Queen’s Head.’

‘Then you must be familiar with the work of Edmund Hoode.’

‘My inspiration!’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Master Pye, because he has offered to work with you on the play to bring out the very best in it. If you agree, that is.’

‘Agree!’ repeated the lawyer, jerking forward so sharply that he slipped off the stool and landed on the floor. ‘It’s my dearest wish. I can think of no finer tutor than Edmund Hoode. I’ll sit at his feet and prove a conscientious pupil.’

‘There’s not much that you need to be taught,’ said Nicholas, helping him up. ‘Besides, time is against us. Such changes as are necessary will have to be made with a degree of speed. Let me explain.’

Omitting any mention of a new apprentice, Nicholas gave him a brief account of the invitation from Sir Michael Greenleaf and the place that The Witch of Rochester might occupy in their repertoire. Egidius Pye quivered with pleasure throughout. The book holder was relieved. Other authors had caused untold problems for Westfield’s Men, too egotistic to take advice, too possessive to allow the slightest alteration to their plays and too vindictive when their work failed before an audience. Pye had none of these faults. Nicholas was satisfied that the renegade lawyer would form a sound partnership with Edmund Hoode. Together they would improve the play beyond recognition. Nicholas put the man’s congeniality to the test.

‘How would you feel about a different title?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Title?’

‘Yes, Master Pye. In view of the fact that we may perform in Essex, we felt it more appropriate if your witch came, perhaps, from Colchester.’

‘Why not?’ said Pye readily. ‘ The Witch of Colchester is as good a title as my own and an apposite one. I concur. Move the witch anywhere from Portsmouth to Perth and I’ll raise no objection. Whatever the location, my drama still holds its shape.’

‘True enough.’

‘The Witch of Colchester, eh? I like it.’

‘That’s a relief.’

Nicholas explained in outline the terms of the contract that Westfield’s Men would offer him but Pye was not really listening. Overcome with joy at the prospect of seeing his play performed by one of the leading troupes, his mind was not attuned to fine detail. All that he wanted was confirmation that the visit to Essex would take place. The more they talked, the more Nicholas grew to like him. Egidius Pye was, in many ways, an unprepossessing character and he would inevitably encounter mockery from some of the actors but he had a number of good qualities. He was modest, intelligent, eager to learn, well versed in theatre and generous in his comments about Westfield’s Men. He had written his play as a labour of love, not to win fame or financial reward. Nicholas warmed to him. He asked a question that formed in his mind when he first read the man’s play.

‘Do you believe in witchcraft, Master Pye?’

The lawyer was shocked. He looked like an archbishop who has just been asked to deny the existence of God. Righteous indignation welled up in his eyes. He clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly.