The Devil's Apprentice (17 page)

‘You did wonders during rehearsal,’ he said.

‘Did I?’ replied Davy.

‘We could not have got through it without you.’

‘But all that I did was to stand there with the various costumes.’

‘That’s a vital task in this play. Speed is crucial, Davy. If the piece slows down at any point, its momentum is lost
and so is much of its comedy. It only works if we do our duty as well as the actors.’ He touched the boy’s arm. ‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’

‘I feel sick.’

‘So does everyone,’ said Nicholas, glancing around the room. ‘They just learn to hide it better. But it’s not really sickness, Davy. It’s excitement. Once the play starts, you’ll have no time to worry about a queasy stomach.’

‘I like the play. It made me giggle.’

‘Let’s hope that it has the same effect on our audience.’

Nicholas took the boy with him as he checked the large number of properties required in
Double Deceit
. Those damaged in the ambush had now been repaired and all had been set out in sequence on a long trestle table. The actors, meanwhile, put on their costumes, bantered contentedly or slipped off into a corner for a last rehearsal of their lines. Noise was building steadily in the adjacent Great Hall as the guests filed in to take their places. Judging from the volume of the sound, a sizeable number had gathered to watch the famous company display its wonders. Romball Taylard eventually came into the tiring-house to find out if they were ready. Lawrence Firethorn assured him that they were and sent him back to Sir Michael Greenleaf. He then delivered a short but stirring speech to the company, exhorting them to give of their best. Roused by his words, they took up their positions on stage behind the curtains with increased eagerness.

On a signal from Nicholas Bracewell, the musicians began to play in the gallery and the heavy murmur in the hall quickly died out. Owen Elias then swept out on stage
to deliver the Prologue and to harvest the first laughter of the evening. When the curtains were drawn right back,
Double Deceit
began in earnest. Its plot was lifted from a play by Plautus. Two pairs of identical twins were involved in an endless series of merry escapades. Mistaken identities time and again brought howls of mirth from the audience. What made the performance especially memorable was the fact that Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill each played a pair of twins, leaving the stage as Argos and Silvio of Rome, respectively, only to reappear almost instantly as Argos and Silvio of Florence. Swift changes of costume were vital and Davy was kept busy taking one cloak and hat from Firethorn while handing him replacements, only to give him the original items when he reverted from Florence to Rome again. Standing beside him, George Dart was supplying the changes of costume for Gill, the morose servant to one Argos and the irrepressible jester to the other.

Timing was faultless. Everything was done so expertly that the spectators thought they were watching four actors playing the central roles instead of two. Appreciative laughter never ceased. Some of the bawdry spread blushes among the ladies but the men roared uncontrollably. Subtle innuendo was a form of humour that appealed to husbands and wives with equal success.
Double Deceit
was a triumphant romp, working its double deceit on an audience comprising friends and relations of Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor, some of whom had never seen a theatrical performance before and who were completely enthralled by the novel experience. When Act Five rose to
its climax, both sets of twins appeared on stage together for the first time. Owen Elias, wearing a costume identical to that of Firethorn’s, looked remarkably like him while James Ingram, dressed to duplicate Gill, was a more than passable imitation.

It was left to Firethorn to deliver the Epilogue, a sixteen-line speech in rhyming couplets that rounded off the play with a mixture of wit and wisdom. Proud of the way that his company had responded to the challenge and delighted with his own double performances, the actor stepped forward to the edge of the stage, cleared his throat and opened his mouth to let the words spring forth. But none came. No matter how hard he tried, Firethorn could produce no more than a faint croak. He clutched at his neck and even poked a finger down his throat but they were futile gestures. What made his predicament worse was the fact that the spectators, assuming his antics were all part of the play, laughed afresh and even applauded when he grimaced as he made one final effort to declaim the elusive Epilogue.

Barnaby Gill eventually came to his rescue. Pushing him aside, the clown did a little dance by way of introduction then invented a couplet to cover the embarrassment of his silent colleague.

The sixteen original lines now followed, delivered with comic effect by a man who had heard them so often that they were imprinted on his memory. Firethorn was horrified to see his rival stealing his lines and taking a first drink
of the applause that burst out. At the same time, however, he recognised that Gill had been their saviour and steeled himself to thank the man when his voice returned. It was baffling. Firethorn was in no pain yet he could not utter a single word. When the company quit the stage, he led them back on again to take their bow, beaming graciously at his hosts who sat in the front row then going through his range of elaborate gestures. Gill could not resist adding insult to injury. As the pair of them came into the tiring-house, he turned to Firethorn.

‘Learn your lines, man,’ he scolded. ‘At least do
something
correctly.’

Nicholas Bracewell knew that the problem was serious. Whatever else he might do, Firethorn would never forget his lines, still less yield up an opportunity for Gill to say them in his stead. Seeing the mingled fury and helplessness in Firethorn’s eyes, he swiftly intervened before Gill’s mockery provoked Argos of Rome and of Florence to violence. When he took the stricken actor aside, they were joined by Edmund Hoode.

‘What happened, Lawrence?’ asked Hoode. ‘You know that speech backwards.’

Firethorn used a finger to jab wildly at his throat.

‘Have you lost your voice?’ said Nicholas, getting an energetic nod in return. ‘Can you say nothing at all?’ A despairing shake of the head came in reply. ‘But you had no difficulty at all in the course of the play itself.’

Firethorn tried to explain his dilemma with a series of vivid gestures.

Hoode was bewildered. ‘What’s wrong with him, Nick?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but I think he needs a doctor.’

‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. Lawrence is invincible.’

‘That’s no longer the case, Edmund. Or so it seems. First, he has a high fever; then he collapses during the sermon in church; and now this.’

Firethorn nodded his agreement and gesticulated wildly. When other members of the company came over to see how he was, Nicholas waved them away, assuring them that their leader was simply tired and needed a rest. Few were persuaded by the book holder’s words. The ebullient actor never tired. Concerned for his state of health, they began to change out of their costumes. Only Gill tried to exploit his colleague’s distress. When he had shed the garments he wore as Silvio of Rome, he drifted across to the three men and spoke with a lordly air.

‘Lawrence’s lapse may yet be turned to good account,’ he said, preening himself. ‘I think it better from now on if Silvio always delivers the Epilogue to show that the tables have turned and that the master is subservient to the man. What do you think?’

‘I think it a monstrous idea,’ said Hoode.

‘And a singularly inappropriate one,’ added Nicholas.

Gill ignored them both. ‘What about you, Lawrence? You saw how well they received my Epilogue. Will you give the lines to one who says them properly?’

Unable to speak, Firethorn lurched at Gill with hands outstretched to grab him by the throat. Nicholas and
Hoode restrained him just in time. Gill skipped out of reach and gave a brittle laugh. He was revelling in his moment of triumph. When most of the others had drifted away, Firethorn sat forlornly on a bench, head in hands. Hoode tried in vain to comfort him. Nicholas first supervised the removal of scenery and properties from the stage before returning to his friends. He was about to console Firethorn when Sir Michael came tripping into the room in high excitement.

‘Where is he?’ he cried. ‘Where is that magician called Lawrence Firethorn?’

‘Over here, Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas.

Their host hurried across to them. ‘Oh, sir. Forgive my delay in coming to congratulate you but I was trapped under an avalanche of compliments from my guests. They found the play both hilarious and enchanting. From your pen, I hear, Master Hoode.’

Hoode gave a nod. ‘Even so, Sir Michael.’

‘Then you, too, deserve unlimited praise. The play and the performance were above reproach. In the dual roles of Silvio, Master Firethorn, you were superb.’ The actor smiled for the first time since coming into the tiring-house. ‘That device at the end was masterly, sir, pretending to lose your voice like that so that the lowly servant had to deliver the Epilogue. Your gestures and expressions were so wonderfully lifelike.’

His face a mask of anger, Firethorn’s gestures were so openly hostile that Nicholas had to stand in front of him to shield him from their host. He smiled gently at Sir Michael and held up both palms in apology.

‘Forgive him, Sir Michael,’ he said. ‘Master Firethorn is fatigued.’

‘Hardly surprising after the energy he put into his performance.’

‘Would it be possible for him to see a doctor?’

Sir Michael was alarmed. ‘A doctor? Master Firethorn is not ill?’

‘No, no,’ said Nicholas. ‘He simply needs a reviving dose of medicine.’

‘Then I prescribe a potion of my own devising. It cured my dog’s palsy.’

Nicholas was tactful. ‘It may not be quite what is called for here, Sir Michael. Five minutes with a doctor are all that is needed. I wondered if perhaps you had such a man among your guests.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said the other. ‘Doctor Winche.’

‘Would he consent to treat Lawrence?’ asked Hoode.

‘Doctor Winche would insist on it, Master Hoode. The treat would be all his, believe me. He and his wife thought the performance was remarkable. If he has the chance to meet the undoubted star of the evening, Doctor Winche will seize it gladly.’

‘Perhaps you could ask him to step in here, Sir Michael.’

‘At once, at once, dear fellow,’ said their host, scurrying off. ‘We can’t have Master Firethorn in the slightest discomfort.’

‘Ably done, Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘Lawrence was about to strangle him when he made that remark about the Epilogue. Thank heaven you prevented him or our first performance
here would also have been our last.’

Firethorn stood up, pointing a finger and mouthing words that had no sound. Hoode was confused but Nicholas understood what the actor was trying to say to them. He quickly retrieved the prompt copy of
Double Deceit
and brought it over. Taking it from him, Firethorn indicated the title then drew an imaginary line through it, replacing it with four words written invisibly by an index finger.

‘What on earth is he doing, Nick?’ asked Hoode.

‘Telling us to look to another play,’ said Nicholas.

‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what caused the loss of his voice.’

‘How can a play possibly do that?’

‘I don’t know but that’s exactly what
The Witch of Colchester
seems to be doing, Edmund. You worked on the piece,’ Nicholas reminded him. ‘Does not Lord Malady suffer a series of strange maladies?’

‘Well, yes,’ recalled Hoode. ‘He’s first struck down by a mystery fever, then he collapses for no apparent reason and, when he recovers from that, he …’ His voice tailed off and he looked back at the patient. ‘Are you trying to tell us that you’re enduring the same trials as Lord Malady?’ Firethorn nodded vigorously. ‘But that’s incredible.’

‘Two of us are coming to believe it, Edmund.’

‘Egidius Pye has written a comedy, not woven a spell.’

‘Perhaps he’s done both without even realising it.’

‘No, Nick. I refuse even to countenance the idea.’

Firethorn took him by the shoulders to shake him, peering deep into his eyes. He resorted to mime, first pretending to have a high fever, then falling to the floor and
twitching convulsively. Hauling himself back up, he walked around the room as if declaiming a speech then grabbed at his throat with both hands. He ended by thrusting the prompt copy of
Double Deceit
into its author’s hands. Hoode looked down at it with misgivings then stared back at Firethorn.

‘I still can’t accept it, Lawrence. In the play, Lord Malady’s woes are wished upon him by his enemy, Sir Roderick Lawless. He engages someone to afflict his rival with various illnesses. Everyone assumes that it’s Black Joan, the witch, who has put a spell on him but the real villain is the man who’s supposed to be nursing him back to health.’

‘Doctor Putrid,’ said Nicholas.

‘Exactly.’

‘A role taken by Barnaby Gill.’

Hoode became pensive. ‘I begin to see what you mean. When Lawrence lost his voice this evening, it was Barnaby who gained most. And when Lord Malady is struck dumb in
The Witch of Colchester
, it’s Doctor Putrid who reaps the benefit. Can this be so?’ he said, arms flailing in disbelief. ‘Is the great Lawrence Firethorn, who has triumphed in so many plays, now at the mercy of one?’

Firethorn nodded again then flung himself down in despair on the bench.

Doctor Winche chose that moment to come in with Sir Michael. He was a short, round, bow-legged man of middle years with a rubicund face that was one contented smile. He tugged at his goatee beard then rubbed his podgy hands together.

‘This is truly an honour, gentlemen,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘If laughter is the best medicine, then I’ll live to be a hundred.’ When he saw Firethorn in distress, his manner changed at once. ‘Good gracious!’ he cried, swooping on the actor. ‘What ails you, sir? Are you in pain?’