Edward Marston - The Devil's Apprentice

Nicholas Bracewell had walked only fifty yards from the house when he saw the dead body. Covered in frost and spattered with mud, the old man lay in a narrow lane, huddled against a wall in a vain attempt to ward off the severe cold. Nicholas had seen death too many times to be shocked by its handiwork but he heaved a sigh of compassion at this latest example of its random cruelty. Its victim had been defenceless, an elderly beggar with no home to shelter him, no family to protect him, no warm food to sustain him and no clothing beyond a few pitiful rags to keep the icy fangs of winter at bay. When he bent over the corpse, Nicholas was surprised to see a farewell smile etched into the haggard face. Here was a willing sacrifice, a creature so tormented by the miseries of his life and the extremities of the weather that he could not endure them another day. The grotesque, toothless, frozen smile signalled his escape and added a poignancy to his grim demise. Closing his eyes, Nicholas offered up a silent prayer for the soul of the dead man.

London had known cold winters before but this one seemed to be unusually harsh. It was as if nature were exacting punishment for its earlier bounty. Having allowed the capital to bask in a hot summer then enjoy a remarkably mild autumn, it made amends for its kindness by sending wind, rain, snow, ice and fog to attack the city. Christmas had been celebrated in a blizzard. New Year’s Day was pelted with hailstones. Twelfth Night was disturbed by a howling gale. A frozen river brought the cheering diversion of a Frost Fair on the broad back of the Thames but the mood of elation soon passed as treacherous ice began to crack up indiscriminately, causing panic, injury and an occasional drowning. There was no relief. When the snow thawed, it was quickly replaced with frost, colder, sharper and more insidious in its effects. The very young or the dangerously old were the first to be cut down by its chill scythe. As he set off again, Nicholas knew that the beggar with the congealed smile would not be the last corpse to litter the streets of Bankside.

He found the watchmen at the Black Horse, drinking ale and keeping as close to the fire as they could, grumbling about the weather and complaining that honest men could hardly be expected to do their duty in such hostile conditions. It was a dank, dark inn, frequented by prostitutes and other low life in the area. Forsaking their roles, the two watchmen were making common cause with the very people they were appointed to keep under observation and, from time to time, arrest. It was not untypical behaviour. Nicholas reported the death and described the location of the corpse but his words elicited no sympathy. The tall watchman with the straggly beard was merely irritated.

‘Another one?’ he protested, rubbing his hands before the flames. ‘Why don’t these old fools have the grace to die in someone else’s parish? He’s the third this week to be snared by Jack Frost under our noses.’

‘Then he deserves some consideration,’ said Nicholas.

‘So do we, good sir.’

‘One thing,’ said his companion, a short, smirking stoat of a man. ‘He’s in a warmer place than we are, that’s for sure. This cold has turned my pizzle to an icicle.’

Nicholas was blunt. ‘Is that why you bring it into a leaping house instead of patrolling the streets as you’re enjoined to do? If you had less concern for yourselves and more devotion to your work, you might be able to save a few lives for a change.’

‘You’ve no cause to scold us,’ said the stoat, defensively.

‘I’ve every cause. Now, show some respect for the dead. I’ve told you where his body lies. Arrange to have it removed. If it’s still there when I return to Bankside, I’ll come looking for the pair of you to know the reason why.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘I live here.’

‘So do we.’

‘Then prove yourselves worthy neighbours.’

Turning on his heel, Nicholas left the fetid taproom and stepped out into the fresh air. The icy wind plucked mischievously at him. He gave an involuntary shudder. He adjusted his cap and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. Swift movement was the best way to defeat the cold. Setting off at a brisk pace, he walked purposefully in the direction of the bridge, preferring to cross the river on foot rather than brave the rigours of a cold journey by boat. When he reached the corner of the street, he paused to look back. Shamed by his words, the two watchmen tumbled out of the Black Horse and slowly headed for the lane where the dead body had been discovered. Nicholas was satisfied. He continued on his way.

London Bridge was seething with activity. Parallel lines of shops and houses stretched the entire length of the structure, narrowing it to such an extent that there was barely room for wagons and coaches to pass each other. Nicholas pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the brush of a horse’s flanks against his shoulder or the harder caress of the cart that it was towing. His mind was still on the frozen figure in Bankside. It was not simply that he felt guilty about having slept in a warm bed while a man was shivering to death nearby. The sight had a deeper significance for him. In one tragic death, he saw the potential of several. Westfield’s Men, his beloved theatre company, was also a casualty of winter. Driven from its inn yard venue by the malignant weather, its life was gradually ebbing away, its members thrown into the wilderness of unemployment, its work fading into distant memories, its willpower eroded to the point where it might soon just lie down, turn its face to the wall and quietly expire.

Westfield’s Men had endured many crises in the past. Plague and fire had driven them from the city, Privy Council and Puritans had threatened them within it. Rival companies had done everything in their power to destroy them. Nicholas was only the book holder, a hired man with no financial investment in the troupe, but he had led the fight against every enemy that threatened them. Even he, however, was powerless against the vagaries of the English climate. The ugly truth had to be faced. If the austerities of winter continued for much longer, Westfield’s Men would be starved into submission and frozen into a mass grave. Nicholas felt a pang of regret that made him catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he quickened his step.

When he made his way to the other side of the bridge, Nicholas plunged into an even more turbulent sea of humanity. Gracechurch Street was given over to its market, a lively, sprawling free-for-all in which dozens of pungent odours competed to invade the nostrils and where the noise was deafening as traders yelled, customers haggled, horses neighed and foraging dogs tried to outdo them all with a cacophony of snarling, yapping and barking. Only the scavengers and pickpockets worked in silence. There was no room for calm reflection in such a throng. Nicholas had to watch where he was going and use his strong shoulders to force his way through the press of bodies. He was relieved when he ducked in through the gateway of the Queen’s Head and left the frenzy behind him. His relief quickly changed into sadness. He came to an abrupt halt.

The inn yard was empty. The venue where Westfield’s Men had given their finest performances was cold, deserted and neglected. Pools of ice glistened on the cobbles. The stables were uninhabited, the galleries vacant and the roofs sprinkled with frost. It was disheartening. A yard that had witnessed stirring drama, echoed to the sound of mighty lines or listened to the strains of expert musicians was now bereft of life or sound. Nicholas found it impossible to believe that he was standing on the very spot where the makeshift stage was erected. Had those bare galleries really been crammed with cheering spectators? Was that place of honour up above once occupied by their patron, Lord Westfield? Did hundreds of people actually stand shoulder to shoulder in that yard? Where had they all gone? Why had they left no sign of their passing? It was eerie.