The Devil's Apprentice (10 page)

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, Owen.’

‘What else is there?’

‘The simple fact that we’ve seen so much of the fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s the steward here. In an establishment of this size, that means he has immense responsibilities. He supervises the staff, advises Sir Michael, victuals the
kitchens, controls the household accounts and so on. Yet he was waiting for us as soon as we walked through the door.’

‘So?’

‘Why should Taylard take on the office of a butler when he could delegate it elsewhere? Why lead us off to our meal when that was an office fit for a servant? Why do chores that should rightly be beneath him? Do you take my point, Owen?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it odd that someone who’s so unhappy to have us at Silvermere is taking such pains to stay close to us?’

Elias gave a loud yawn. ‘I never thought about it that way.’

‘Neither did I until now.’

‘What’s the reason behind it, Nick?’

‘That’s obvious,’ said his friend quietly. ‘He’s watching us.’

Another yawn from Elias signalled the end of the conversation. After wishing each other good night, they snuggled under the warm sheets. Elias was the first to fall asleep, marking the event with a series of gentle snores. Nicholas lay awake for a while, thinking about Davy Stratton’s sudden departure in the forest and speculating on where the boy had really gone. When his eyelids grew heavy, he surrendered to fatigue and dozed off. How long he slept he did not know but it was still dark when a creaking sound brought his awake. He thought at first that it was Elias, making his way to the chamber pot but the Welshman was still snoring happily in the next bed. Nicholas sat up in bed and peered into the gloom through bleary eyes.

‘Is that you, Davy?’ he asked.

The creaking stopped instantly but there was no reply to his question. Nicholas grew suspicious. Hauling himself out of bed, he groped his way to the truckle bed and put out an exploratory hand. Davy was not there yet Nicholas was certain he was still in the room. He was fully awake now. Nicholas sensed that the boy was standing by the door and he moved across to reach out for him. Holding his breath and flattened against the door, Davy let out a yelp as strong fingers closed on his arm. Nicholas put both hands on the boy and was shocked with what he found.

‘You’re fully dressed,’ he said.

‘I was … going for a walk,’ bleated Davy.

‘In the middle of the night? You were running away again, weren’t you?’

‘No!’

‘You were,’ said Nicholas with subdued anger. ‘Why? Where were you going?’

‘Nowhere.’

Nicholas shook him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Davy. You put on your clothes to sneak out. I heard you trying to open the door, didn’t I?’

The boy capitulated. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, sobbing quietly. ‘I was creeping out and I’d have got away with it if you hadn’t locked the door.’

‘But I didn’t,’ said Nicholas. ‘I don’t have a key.’

He reached for the handle himself and twisted it. Though he pulled hard, the door did not move an inch. All three of them were securely locked in the room.

Jared Tuke did not seem to feel the bitter cold. A burly man of middle years, he walked through the churchyard as if it were a summer’s afternoon rather than an early morning in winter. His only concession to the weather was to wear his largest cap but even that was set back on his head to reveal the gnarled face. He paused beside a gravestone to offer up a silent prayer. Tuke had inherited the position of churchwarden from his father and he carried out his duties with the same plodding reliability. Reuben Tuke lay six feet beneath the earth now but his son was carrying on the family tradition and, in doing so, he was able to pay his respects daily to the old man whose name was chiselled on the stone slab in front of him. He brushed a layer of frost from the gravestone then strolled on up to the church. No light showed through the stained glass window in the west front. Tuke gave a grunt of satisfaction. He always liked to be the first there.

The parish church of St Christopher stood in a hamlet on the extreme edge of the Silvermere estate, serving two other hamlets, a village and a number of scattered farmsteads. It was a small, squat, undistinguished building that had been kept in good repair throughout the two hundred years of its existence and it had survived intact the religious crises that had afflicted the country for so long. Seating in the nave could accommodate over a hundred parishioners without undue discomfort though long sermons drew attention to the roughness of some of the benches. The chancel was large enough to house double rows of choir stalls that faced each other with wooden solidity. Three wide stone steps led up to the altar rail, three more to the altar itself. Since
the tower rose out of the middle of the church, the solitary bell was rung by means of the rope that dangled below the chancel arch and which was secured, at other times, to a hook set into the side of the oak pulpit.

Having let himself into the church, Jared Tuke lit a few candles then started with the preparations. By the time he heard the latch on the vestry click, he had all but finished his work. He was still appraising the altar when the vicar came into the chancel.

‘Good morning, Jared,’ said the newcomer.

‘Good morning,’ replied the churchwarden.

‘One of these days, I may actually get here before you but I haven’t managed it yet. Do you never sleep, man?’

‘I’ve always been an early riser.’

‘If only I could say the same!’

Reverend Anthony Dyment was a short, wiry man in his thirties with a pleasant face and an agreeable manner. Wrapped in a thick black cloak, he was still shivering visibly. He blew on his hands then rubbed them hard together. As if realising for the first time where he was, Dyment removed his hat and gave a reverential nod in the direction of the altar. Tuke had not only discarded his hat, he had also taken off his buff jerkin. It made the vicar shiver afresh just to look at him.

‘Is everything ready, Jared?’ he enquired.

‘I think so.’

‘Nothing at all left for me to do?’

‘Only to perform the ceremony.’

Dyment smiled. ‘We’ll have you doing that before long. You do everything else.’

‘It’s my duty,’ said Tuke with leaden sincerity.

‘No man in the parish is more cognisant of his duty than you.’

Tuke had arrived not long after dawn but the sky had now brightened appreciably and light came in through the windows to supplement the candle flames and to dapple the flagstones. Dyment walked down the aisle to the rear of the nave to stand beside the stone font. Carved into it was a representation of the Lamb of God, curled up beside a cross. The vicar ran a reflective hand around the circumference of the font.

‘I hope that the water doesn’t freeze in here,’ he sighed.

‘No chance of that,’ said Tuke.

‘There’s one sure way to make sure that it doesn’t.’

He took off his cloak and walked back to the chancel to kneel at the altar rail. Without even thinking, Jared Tuke joined him in prayer. They remained there for several minutes before they were interrupted by the sound of the door being thrown open. Both of them got to their feet at once and swung round to look at the intruder. When the vicar saw who it was, he quailed. The last person he wanted to confront was Reginald Orr. The unexpected visitor was a tall, rugged, clean-shaven man in his forties, dressed in black and glowering with resentment. His voice was like the crack of a whip.

‘What’s that I see?’ he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.

‘Where?’ asked the vicar.

‘There, man. On the altar behind you. That gold plate.’

‘That was a gift from Sir Michael,’ explained Dyment,
glancing over his shoulder at the large plate that was propped up on the altar. ‘His generosity knows no end.’

‘Nor do his Popish inclination. That plate smacks too much of Rome.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Tuke, stung by the claim.

‘There’s none of the Old Religion here,’ added Dyment, vainly attempting to put some firmness into his voice. ‘As you’d know, Reginald, if you showed us the courtesy of joining us in worship here.’

‘I refuse to take part in Catholic celebrations,’ said Orr defiantly.

‘We abide by the law of the land and hold only Protestant services here.’

‘Then why deck your church out as if you’re expecting a visit from the Pope himself? Look at it. Gold plate. A silver crucifix. Gold ornaments. A silk altar cloth embroidered with gold thread and a vestry full of other abominations just waiting to be brought in.’ Orr strode purposefully down the aisle. ‘The Pope is Antichrist! Spurn him!’

‘We do,’ said Dyment.

‘Not to my satisfaction.’

‘Nothing is ever done to your satisfaction, Reginald,’ said the vicar, glad that his churchwarden was beside him and even more glad that Orr stopped in his tracks. ‘We have talked theology these past couple of years and you’ll not be shifted.’

‘I follow the true path.’

‘There’s more than one way to heaven.’

‘Yes,’ said Tuke, keen to associate himself with the notion. ‘There’s more than one way to heaven, Reginald
Orr, but I doubt that we’ll ever meet you there.’

The visitor bristled with anger and seemed to be about to lunge forward at the churchwarden but Tuke’s broad shoulders and brawny arms dissuaded him from intemperate action. Anthony Dyment was never quite sure how to cope with Orr. The man was a zealous Puritan, too scornful of the Anglican service to attend one himself and too intolerant to let others do so in peace. The only time that the man ever came through the door of the church was when he could cause trouble. The vicar braced himself for another argument with his most recalcitrant parishioner.

‘I’ll have no raised voices in here, Reginald,’ he warned. ‘This is the Lord’s house. Speak with moderation or you must leave.’

Orr curled a lip. ‘Do you think I
want
to enter this Romish den?’

‘It’s the parish church of St Christopher in the county of Essex.’

‘Filled with the stink of the Pope.’

‘If that’s what you believe, why force yourself to come here?’

‘Because I need to speak with you.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait until another time,’ said Dyment briskly. ‘I have to conduct a service of Holy Baptism in here later on this morning. Jared and I need to prepare the church properly for that. Good day to you, sir.’

‘I’ll not budge till I get an answer,’ warned Orr, folding his arms and spreading his feet. ‘Since you’re Sir Michael’s lackey, you’ll be able to give it to me.’

‘Don’t insult the vicar,’ said Tuke sharply.

‘I wasn’t talking to you, Jared.’

‘Show some respect.’

‘Let him speak,’ said Dyment wearily. ‘If that’s the only way to get rid of him.’

The Puritan nodded. ‘It is, believe me. All I want to know is whether this ugly rumour is true or false?’

‘Rumour?’

‘They say that a troupe players will soon come to Silvermere.’

‘That is so,’ conceded the vicar. ‘Sir Michael invited them.’

‘Have you raised no protest?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Heavens, man!’ exclaimed Orr in horror. ‘It’s your bounden duty. Do you want a company of vile and despicable actors to befoul this county? Do you want them to stage heathenish plays in which boys disguise themselves as women and do all manner of lewd things? You’re not merely vicar of this church. You’re chaplain to Sir Michael as well. Use your influence. Make him turn these rogues away.’

‘But Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor hold the players in high regard.’

‘Theatre is anathema. It corrupts all who touch it.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion, Reginald.’

Orr was shocked. ‘Are you saying that you
condone
this visit?’

‘Not entirely,’ said Dyment, wilting slightly before the man’s pulsing rage. ‘But it’s not my place to criticise Sir Michael or to tell him whom he can invite to his own home.
It would be a gross intrusion of his privacy.’

‘Stop these actors spreading their venomous poison!’

‘They’re merely coming to entertain the guests at Silvermere.’

‘No,’ said Orr, raising a finger of doom. ‘They’re coming to ensnare and defile. Playhouses are steaming pits of… inquity. They purvey bawdy, foolery and idolatry. They feed on virginity and sneer at decency. They steal the innocence of children. Actors are born lechers. No woman within ten miles is safe while they are here. Stop them,’ he insisted, banging a fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘Stop these players from coming anywhere near Silvermere. If you don’t do it,’ he threatened darkly, ‘someone else will.’

It was well after dawn before he heard the key being inserted in the door. Nicholas Bracewell was waiting. After being roused from his slumber in the night, he had had no further sleep, intent on keeping guard over Davy Stratton whom he had reprimanded as firmly as he dared without waking Owen Elias. Sent back to his own bed, the boy had retreated into a deep sleep. He was still lying there as Nicholas got up and stepped past him to open the door. A servant was walking away along the passageway.

‘Wait a moment,’ called Nicholas.

‘Good morrow, sir,’ said the man, turning back.

‘We were locked in our room last night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what I was told to do, sir.’

‘By whom?’

‘The steward, sir.’

‘Did he give you a reason?’

‘No, sir. Only an order.’ He pointed a finger at the neat pile of clothing on the floor. ‘Fresh apparel came from Holly Lodge for the boy. I’ve set it down there.’

‘Thank you.’

Nicholas waved him away. Picking up the clothing, he went back into the room to put it beside Davy. There was no point in reproaching a servant for doing something that he had been instructed to do. The matter would have to be taken up with Romball Taylard himself. It was one thing for the guests to be given a key and advised to lock the door from the inside but that is not what happened. Nicholas had been deliberately imprisoned with the others in the room and he wanted to know why. Owen Elias stirred in his bed. He greeted the day with huge yawn then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

‘Good morrow, Owen,’ said Nicholas.

‘Are you up already?’

‘I wanted to catch the servant when he let me out.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Elias.

‘After we went off to sleep, someone locked the door from the outside.’

The Welshman sat up. ‘We were trapped in here? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Is this the way they treat their guests?’ he asked, his anger building. ‘You expect this kind of thing in Newgate or the Marshalsea but not in a private house like Silvermere. A pox on it! This is not hospitality.’

‘I’m as annoyed as you are, Owen.’

‘Why did Sir Michael want us under lock and key?’

‘That’s what I’ll demand of the steward. This was done at his behest. As it happens,’ said Nicholas, looking across at their companion, ‘it worked to our advantage. Davy tried to sneak away in the night.’

‘Death and damnation!’ cried Elias, getting out of bed. ‘Let me at him. I’ll flay the skin off his buttocks for this.’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, restraining him. ‘That’s not the way, Owen. Wait until we are clear of Silvermere. That’s the time when we may wheedle the truth out of him.’

‘Why wheedle when we can knock it out of his cunning little head?’

‘Get dressed. I’ll wake the lad and we’ll go in search of breakfast.’

But the raised voice of Elias had already brought Davy out of his sleep. Nicholas had made him undress again before he got back into bed. In his crumpled shirt, the boy looked small and defenceless. The boldness that had prompted the attempt at escape had vanished now. Davy was frightened, fearing a further rebuke from Nicholas and more violent castigation from Elias. Avoiding their gaze, he reached for his clothes then saw that fresh apparel had been provided. He began to put it on. Nicholas poured water into the bowl and washed his face and hands before drying them on a piece of cloth. He turned back to Davy.

‘Wash yourself before we leave, lad.’

‘Yes,’ said Davy.

‘Do you need to use the chamber pot?’

‘No, no.’

‘When you do,’ warned Elias, ‘one of us will hold your
pizzle for you. We’re not letting you out of our reach again. Go to the privy and Nick or I go with you.’

Davy swallowed hard and finished dressing. Fifteen minutes later they were clattering along the passageway to the backstairs. When they descended to the kitchen, a servant was waiting to show them to the table and the cook came over take orders from them. The pangs of hunger were too much for the boy to endure and he joined the others in a breakfast of cold turkey pie and bread. The two men drank watered ale but Davy settled for a cup of whey. Nicholas made no mention of events during the night and tried instead to cheer the boy up.

‘You’ll be back with the other apprentices this afternoon, Davy,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘How are you getting along with them?’

‘I like them well enough,’ muttered Davy.

‘They’ll mock you at first and make you the butt of their jests.’

Davy was rueful. ‘Yes. They have.’

‘Take no notice of it, lad. That’s their way. They did the same to Dick Honeydew when he first joined the company and he’s turned out to be the best of them.’

‘Dick is a friend,’ said the boy, rallying slightly.

‘Does he tease you?’

‘No. Only the others. I want to see Dick Honeydew again.’

It was the one positive sign that he was ready to go back to London with them to resume his life with Westfield’s Men. Nicholas hoped that it was something on which they
could build. The meal over, they thanked the cook and were led away by a servant who had retrieved their hats and cloaks for them. They were conducted to the hall. Romball Taylard was hovering patiently by the door to dispatch the visitors.

‘Welcome to the day,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Reasonably well,’ said Nicholas tartly, ‘but we’d have slept much better if someone hadn’t locked us in all night. Why did you arrange that?’

‘I thought it needful, sir.’

‘Needful!’ roared Elias. ‘Did you fear that we’d roam around the house in search of drink and women? Hell’s teeth! We’re grown men. We don’t need to be shut away like dangerous animals.’

‘I’m sorry if it upset you,’ said Taylard calmly.

‘Oh, I’m far more than upset.’

‘So am I,’ added Nicholas, fixing the steward with a stare. ‘I think that you owe us an explanation. I can’t believe that Sir Michael sanctioned this outrage.’

‘No,’ admitted Taylard. ‘I was not acting on behalf of Sir Michael.’

‘This was your invention, then?’

‘Not entirely. But I readily agreed to the suggestion when it was put to me.’

‘By whom?’

‘Master Stratton.’

Nicholas recalled the brief exchange between the steward and the departing father on the previous night. He also understood the reasoning behind the request. To make sure that his son did not abscond from the
house Jerome Stratton wanted him securely locked in. Before Nicholas could speak, the steward anticipated his question.

‘Why did I not give you the key to lock the door from the inside?’ he said. ‘The answer is simple. I feared that you might fall deeply asleep and be unaware of someone stealing the key from you.’ He glanced at Davy who reddened slightly. ‘I apologise for this and take the blame without complaint.’

‘Well, I’ve a complaint or two to make,’ growled Elias.

‘Another time, Owen,’ decided Nicholas, cutting him off with a glance. ‘Nothing will be served by hot words and wild accusations at this time in the morning. We’ve heard an explanation and it must suffice – though I still can’t understand why we weren’t told what you planned to do.’

Taylard was bland. ‘On reflection, that would have been best.’

‘Don’t you dare play a trick like this on us again,’ said Elias with vehemence.

‘It was no trick, sir. It had a purpose. Nobody could leave the room.’

‘Did you expect that one of us would?’ pressed Nicholas.

‘Master Stratton felt that it was a possibility.’

‘And where did he think his son would go?’

‘That’s not for me to speculate,’ said the steward. ‘The salient point is that three of you went into that room last night and all three of you came out again together.’

‘How many other occupants of the house were jailed?’ said Elias.

‘None, sir. This was a special case.’

‘Dictated by Master Stratton,’ observed Nicholas. ‘Did Sir Michael know about this? Is he aware that his steward is taking orders from someone outside his house? I venture to suggest that the master of Holly Lodge wouldn’t let Sir Michael have a say in the running of his home.’ Taylard was faintly discomfited for the first time. ‘Do you intend to acquaint Sir Michael with what took place?’

‘Sir Michael can’t be bothered with every minor detail, sir.’

Elias was enraged. ‘Minor detail! Turning three guests into convicted felons?’

‘All that I can do,’ said Taylard, trying to mollify him with an apologetic smile, ‘is to give you my word that nothing like this will ever happen again. When you return next week with the rest of your company, you’ll be given the freedom of the cottages, the outbuildings and the grounds. There’ll be no hint of incarceration.’

‘We’ll hold you to that,’ said Nicholas sternly.

Continued argument with the steward was pointless. He had instigated something that had fulfilled its function. It prevented Davy’s escape. In doing that, Nicholas now saw, Jerome Stratton had given himself away. The merchant’s glib explanation of his son’s disappearance in the forest was now exposed as a lie. Davy Stratton had fled from his two companions. In making sure that the lad did not escape a second time, the father was admitting that there had been a precedent.

Owen Elias rid himself of some ripe expletives into the steward’s ear but Taylard was unruffled. Having weathered
the storm of protest, he opened the front door for them to hurry them on their way.

‘The office of steward is more lowly than I imagined,’ said Nicholas.

Taylard stiffened. ‘Lowly?’

‘I would have thought you’d risen above such mundane duties as opening doors.’

‘Not to mention locking them in the night!’ added Elias with asperity.

‘I happen to be here as you depart,’ said the steward.

‘Then be so good as to summon Sir Michael,’ ordered Nicholas, adopting a tone he might use to an awkward servant. ‘Before we take our leave, we’d like to thank him for his kind hospitality.’

‘That’s impossible, alas,’ said Taylard.

‘Why?’ asked Elias. ‘Is he shooting at wildfowl with cannon ball?’

‘No, sir. He’s talking to a visitor. The vicar arrived only a moment ago on urgent business. He and Sir Michael must not be disturbed.’

‘In that case,’ continued Nicholas, determined not to be sent on his way by the supercilious Taylard, ‘we’ll speak to Lady Eleanor or can you devise a reason why she, too, is unable to bid farewell to her guests?’

The steward hesitated. ‘I suppose that I could see if Lady Eleanor is available.’

‘I think that you should do that or there may be repercussions. Sir Michael and his wife will be justifiably annoyed if they learn that we left without speaking to either of them. It’s common courtesy on our part.’ Nicholas gave
a gentle smile. ‘Why not fetch Lady Eleanor yourself?’

Romball Taylard was saved the trouble of making a reply. Footsteps echoed on the oak floor and two figures came into the hall. Deep in conversation, they did not at first see the group by the front door. Sir Michael Greenleaf had regained more of his dignity now that he had cleaned himself up. His attire was also more appropriate to his position as owner of the estate. One arm around Anthony Dyment, he was clearly fretful. When Sir Michael looked up to see his guests, he brightened at once.

‘Ah!’ he declared. ‘I’m glad that I caught you before you left. Oh, this is my chaplain, Anthony Dyment, by the way,’ he said, touching his companion. Nicholas and Elias gave the vicar a nod of acknowledgement. ‘I was just telling Anthony what splendid fellows you both were and how much my wife and I are looking forward to the visit of Westfield’s Men. Unhappily, our enthusiasm is not shared by everyone, it seems.’

‘No, Sir Michael,’ said Elias with a meaningful glance at the steward.

‘As well as being my chaplain, Anthony is also the vicar of St Christopher’s …’ He broke off as Dyment whispered something to him. ‘Of course, of course, Anthony. Leave at once if you have a christening to perform. It was kind of you to postpone it briefly while you rode over here.’

‘I felt that I had to speak to you at once, Sir Michael,’ said Dyment.

‘A wise decision, dear fellow. But away with you.’

Gesturing both farewell and apology, the vicar went swiftly out through the door. Sir Michael turned to the
others with his brow furrowed. He shook his head sadly.

‘We’ve encountered a problem,’ he told them. ‘It’s not insurmountable but it’s definitely a problem. Anthony is the first to catch wind of it.’

‘Of what, Sir Michael?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Opposition to your arrival.’

‘Opposition?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the old man. ‘We have a small but active Puritan community nearby and they hold trenchant opinions. One of their number – Reginald Orr – has been a thorn in my flesh for years. Orr can be a confounded nuisance.’

‘We fight against Puritan disapproval every day in London,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then I don’t need to explain what an unflattering view they take of actors.’

Elias grinned. ‘The kindest thing they call us is “fiends from hell.”’

‘Reginald Orr will not stop at calling names,’ said Sir Michael solemnly. ‘And it isn’t only Westfield’s Men who have aroused his ire. He and I have a long history. As a Justice of the Peace, it’s fallen to me to fine him on several occasions for breaches of the peace and to have him twice set in the stocks. He bears grudges.’

‘This narrow-minded ninny will not upset us,’ said the Welshman airily. ‘We’re used to such madmen trying to drive us off from the stage.’

‘I doubt if you’ve met someone quite as single-minded as this man,’ continued Sir Michael, sucking on his teeth. ‘Anthony Dyment was accosted in his church by the rogue
this very morning. Reginald Orr issued a direct threat against you.’

‘He can surely not object to our visit to a private house,’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh yes, he can.’

‘Will he try to disrupt our performances?’

‘Worse than that,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Worse?’

‘I’m afraid so. He’s vowed to stop you even reaching Silvermere.’