Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

‘You seem to know so much about the subject,’ said Nicholas.

‘Knowledge comes from careful study.’

‘Have you ever met a witch?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘But you believe that such people exist?’

‘Of course,’ said Pye with burning sincerity. ‘Don’t you?’

It was a tiring walk to Shoreditch but Nicholas was too preoccupied to notice either the distance or the biting wind. The meeting with Egidius Pye had been a revelation. As he reflected on their conversation, he began to wonder if he had at last met a member of the legal profession whom he could befriend. One thing was certain. If the play were to be performed by Westfield’s Men, its dishevelled author would have need of a friend in the company. Actors were robust individuals who expressed their feelings in warm language. They would show little respect for the sensibilities of Egidius Pye. When sparks began to fly during rehearsal, as they assuredly would, the newcomer would need support and protection. Nicholas was ready to offer both.

By the time he finally got to the house in Old Street, they were all there. Margery Firethorn fell on him with her usual affection, clutching him to her surging bosom while she planted a kiss on his cheeks. She stood back to appraise him.

‘You look cold and famished, Nicholas,’ she said.

‘I am neither,’ he replied.

‘Are you sure that you would not like to come into the kitchen for moment? There’s a fire to warm you up and food to take away the pangs of hunger.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Is Anne looking after you properly?’

‘In every way.’

Margery cackled. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Take her a message from me. When Anne tires of you, I’ll take you in myself and spoil you even more.’ She guided him across to the parlour. ‘Lawrence said I was to show you straight in. The visitors have not long been here. I tell you, Nicholas,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, ‘I’d rather feed the son than the father. Jerome Stratton would eat me out of house and home.’

Margery bustled off to the kitchen, leaving Nicholas to knock on the door on the parlour. He went in to be greeted by Lawrence Firethorn, standing in the middle of the room while his guests were all seated. The actor spread his arms wide.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he declared. ‘You’ve come upon your cue. Allow me to introduce Master Stratton and his son. This is Nicholas Bracewell, young Davy,’ he went on, moving over to the boy. ‘If you join the company, you’ll have no better tutor. The rest of us may strut upon the stage, but it’s Nick who builds it for us in the first place. In every sense, he’s the scaffold on which Westfield’s Men stand.’

Nicholas exchanged greetings with the two strangers before being conducted to a seat in the window by his host. Firethorn lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘Did you transact your business at the Middle Temple?’

‘I did,’ said Nicholas.

‘Satisfactorily?’

‘Extremely so.’

‘Then one success precedes another,’ announced Firethorn, turning to the others, ‘because I’m confident that Davy will be an asset to the company. I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on him. Have you ever seen a boy more suited to our needs than this young gentleman? He has the look of the perfect apprentice.’

‘My son is ideal for your purposes,’ said Stratton expansively. ‘I’d not place him with anyone other than Westfield’s Men. You choose the best, we require no less.’

Nicholas was struck by the boy’s features and impressed by his bearing. Even with a solemn expression on it, Davy Stratton’s face had an undeniable prettiness. A neat wig and a costly dress would transform him instantly into a beautiful young woman. The book holder was less enamoured of the father, however, noting how Stratton kept his son under close surveillance to ensure that the lad gave a good account of himself. Nicholas was not certain if he was witnessing excessive paternalism or a form of polite menace. At all events, Davy was impervious to both, ignoring his father altogether and sitting there with a self-possession that was surprising in one so young.

The would-be apprentice was winning admiration elsewhere as well. Edmund Hoode was watching him with a contented smile while Barnaby Gill, shedding his earlier resistance to the notion of a new apprentice, was positively gloating over the boy, letting his gaze travel slowly over every detail of his face and frame. Nicholas was glad that the boy was too innocent to realise the true nature of Gill’s interest in him. Crucial as it was, appearance was not the only factor in the choice of an apprentice. Other qualities had to be considered, as Firethorn knew only too well. Nicholas was glad when the actor strode across to the boy and became more businesslike.

‘Can you read and write, Davy?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘He’s had an excellent education,’ said Stratton. ‘His Greek and Latin are above reproach. You’ll not be able to fault him on those, Master Firethorn.’

‘Davy is more likely to fault me, sir, for I’m no classicist. There’ll be little call for Latin, however, and none at all for Greek. Plain English is our preferred language. Tell me, lad,’ he said, crouching before the boy, ‘can you sing?’

‘As sweetly as a nightingale,’ said Stratton, patting his son’s leg.

‘Is that so, Davy?’

‘He’s worthy of a place in the Chapel Royal.’

‘Let him speak for himself, Master Stratton, I beg you.’

‘A full room makes him shy.’

‘You only compound that shyness by supplying answers for him,’ said Firethorn with forced politeness. ‘Pray, desist, sir. If your son is shy in front of four strangers, how will he fare in an inn yard with hundreds of spectators?’

‘Davy will cope easily with all that confronts him,’ asserted Stratton.

‘Will you, Davy?’ asked Firethorn, hiding his exasperation at the father behind a kind smile. ‘Do you want to be up there on a high stage?’

‘Oh, he does, he does,’ continued the father. ‘He yearns for nothing else.’

Firethorn rose to his feet. ‘What I yearn for, Master Stratton, is the opportunity to hear your son’s voice. We appreciate the fact that you brought him to us but we can hardly judge his true merit when he is not permitted to open his mouth.’

‘A thousand apologies. I’ll hold my tongue.’

‘Thank you. Now, then, Davy,’ said Firethorn, making one more attempt to establish direct contact with the boy, ‘why do you wish to join Westfield’s Men?’

‘Because they are the finest company in England, sir,’ replied Davy.

‘You have good taste. Have you ever seen us perform?’

‘Unhappily, no, sir, but your reputation goes before you.’

‘A reputation for what?’

‘Good quality, Master Firethorn. Fine drama, well acted.’

‘Have you any idea what life in the theatre is like?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Very exciting, sir.’

‘Excitement is part of it, I grant you, but there are many frustrations as well. It’s a hard life, Davy, but a rewarding one. Though we cannot offer you the security another profession might bestow, we guarantee you experiences that will thrill you to the marrow. Begin as a humble apprentice and you may soon be performing at Court in front of the Queen herself. How does that sound?’

‘Nothing would delight me more.’

‘Are you prepared to commit yourself to Westfield’s Men?’

‘With all my heart, sir.’

Delighted with the answers, Firethorn looked across at his colleagues, collecting a smile of approval from Hoode and a nod of assent from Gill whose gaze never left the boy. Nicholas indicated his own approbation though it was not unmixed with doubt. Davy Stratton had spoken well but his replies had been too glib for the book holder’s liking. It was as if the son had been carefully rehearsed beforehand to say exactly what they would wish to hear. To get a clearer idea of the lad’s character, it was imperative to separate him from Jerome Stratton.