The Devil's Apprentice (20 page)

‘Would you like us to summon Doctor Winche?’

‘I’m not that bad,’ said Nicholas.

‘But the doctor might be able to give you something to ease the pain.’

‘If I wanted a potion, I’d not look to Doctor Winche.’

‘Then where would you go?’

‘To whom else?’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘Mother Pigbone.’

Mother Pigbone used the broken half of a broom handle to stir the mixture in the wooden pail. It gave off a pungent odour that merged with a compound of noisome smells that already pervaded the kitchen in her hovel. When she was satisfied that the food was ready, she lifted up the pail and carried it into the garden. An elderly woman of medium
height, she had a plump body and a pleasant face that was always lit by a quiet smile. She wore ragged clothes, stained by a dozen differing hues, and a dirty head clout. Though she had no children of her own, there was a motherly quality about her that was quite endearing. Shuffling to the end of the little garden, she chuckled when she heard a series of grunts ahead of her.

‘Yes, yes, Beelzebub,’ she cooed. ‘It’s coming. I haven’t forgotten you.’

The pig was housed in a makeshift sty that seemed hardly solid enough to contain such a large animal. Leaning over the fence, she poured the contents of the pail into the rudimentary trough. Snout deep in the food, Beelzebub began to eat it, emitting an array of slurping sounds that were punctuated by grunts of satisfaction. Mother Pigbone leant over to pat the bristled head of the huge black boar. She was so busy talking to him that she did not hear the approach of a rider.

‘Mother Pigbone?’ asked a voice.

She turned to look up at the man in the saddle. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I believe that you can help me.’

The performance that afternoon was extremely competent rather than inspiring. It held the audience throughout but it fell short of the high standards usually attained at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn played the title role in
The Insatiate Duke
with the blend of physical energy and emotional power that were synonymous with his name but few members of the cast were able to hold their own against him. As the wise Cardinal
Boccherini, Edmund Hoode was less impressive than he normally was in a part he had helped to shape to his own talents. The play itself was written by Lucius Kindell, a young author who had needed Hoode’s guiding hand to complete his drama. It featured Cosimo, Duke of Parma, a man of such insatiable desires that he took his pleasures ruthlessly wherever he chose. When Cosimo turned his lecherous gaze upon the beautiful Emilia, the Cardinal did everything he could to persuade him to spare the girl but the Duke would not listen. Rather than submit to his demands, Emilia, as played with affecting pathos by Richard Honeydew, took a fatal dose of poison. After her death, Cosimo learnt that she was, in fact, the child he had fathered on a woman at the Milanese court. The Duke had, in effect, killed his own daughter and bitter recrimination followed.

Barnaby Gill provided the comic relief in a heavy tragedy and made the Great Hall resound with laughter. It was the relationship between Duke Cosimo and Emilia that really fascinated the spectators, however, and made them shudder with horror or sigh with regret. Edmund Hoode, in the robes of a Roman Catholic cardinal, managed to win over a Protestant audience with his innate decency. Westfield’s Men used the available space to dramatic effect. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, some of the more intimate scenes were played in the minstrels’ gallery and he devised a spectacular death for the Milanese ambassador, a role taken by Owen Elias. Stabbed in a fit of anger by the Duke, he fell backwards over the balcony and dropped into the waiting arms of four actors carefully stationed below.
It was a breathtaking moment and drew a full minute of applause. Elias was back on stage within minutes as a Venetian spy.

The problems did not begin until Act Four. It was then that Davy Stratton had two separate entrances. The apprentice was a servant without a single line to speak but he nevertheless made an impact. In a scene where he was required simply to hand a silver chalice of wine to the Duke, he managed to drop it and provoke unintended laughter. Nicholas put it down to nervousness but Firethorn took a harsher view. Storming off at the end of a scene, he hissed in the book holder’s ear.

‘If Davy does that again, I’ll strangle him!’

‘It was an accident,’ said Nicholas.

‘He did it deliberately.’

‘Davy apologised as soon as he came offstage.’

‘What use is an apology when he’s already ruined a scene?’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘It had better not, Nick.’

Before he could chastise the boy, Firethorn had to surge back on stage. He imposed his control over the audience once again and kept it throughout the remainder of the act until Davy entered once more. All that the boy had to do was to hand him a scroll so that the Duke could unfurl it and read it. Davy trotted in, bowed obsequiously to his master, and took something from his belt. Instead of giving Firethorn a letter, however, he handed him a large carrot. Pretending that it was an error, he swiftly retrieved it and gave him the scroll instead but the damage had already been
done. More laughter burst out. Davy saw the murderous look in Firethorn’s eye and fled the stage, bumping into George Dart, who was entering with a tray of food, and hitting him to the floor. There was another eruption of mirth. The dramatic tension patiently built up in the scene was completely vitiated.

When the boy finally came offstage, Nicholas grabbed him by the neck.

‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he said angrily.

‘I’m sorry,’ whimpered the boy.

‘That was no accident. You’re doing this on purpose.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Davy,’ said Nicholas before signalling Cardinal Boccherini back on stage. ‘What you did was unforgivable. You’ll not go out there again.’

‘But I’ve three entrances to make in Act Five,’ said Davy.

‘Your contribution to
The Insatiate Duke
has finished, lad. Go back to the cottage and wait there till we come. I’ll make sure that nobody comes near you until Master Firethorn has had a stern word with you.’

The boy ran out sobbing but Nicholas had no sympathy for him. Instead of a compliant servant, they had a rebel on stage and there was no place for him in a tragedy that had to be played with high seriousness. The unscheduled humour that Davy had injected into the play left Firethorn in a towering rage but he exploited it well, working himself up into such a fury in the final scene that the audience was genuinely frightened of him. He then broke down in tears with such moving sincerity over the corpse of his daughter that they forgot his long sequence of evil deeds and actually
shared his pain. The insatiate Duke appeared a sad, lonely, suffering, tragic figure. At the supreme moment in the play, however, Firethorn was once again thwarted but it was not by an apprentice this time.

When he delivered his last line, he plunged a dagger into his own heart then collapsed across the body of his daughter. A profound silence should have ensued, during which both corpses were carried away with regal dignity. Even at the Queen’s Head, notorious for the turbulence of its spectators, everyone was struck dumb with pity at the sight. The shocked silence was not maintained at Silvermere. No sooner had the two bodies been hoisted on to the shoulders of those about to bear them off than a woman’s cry rang out with awful clarity. The husband seated beside her had collapsed in a heap on the floor. Consternation spread throughout the entire hall. Seething with anger, the dead Cosimo came back to life to open a jaundiced eye in order to survey the unhappy scene. Dozens of people had leapt to their feet and a loud murmur grew in volume. In one second, an anonymous member of the audience had eclipsed two hours’ dramatic expertise from Westfield’s Men.

Lowered to the ground in the tiring-house, Firethorn was fuming. Such was the commotion in the hall that he did not know whether to lead out his company to take a bow or remain sulkily out of sight.

‘O injurious world!’ he yelled. ‘It’ll drive me mad, Nick!’

‘Someone has been taken ill,’ said Nicholas.

‘Yes, his name is Lawrence Firethorn. I have the sweating sickness.’

‘Will you not take your bow?’

‘Would anyone notice if we did?’

‘Sir Michael will expect it.’

‘Then he shouldn’t have arranged for one of his guests to fall off his chair at the very moment when I was being borne off to the mortuary.’

‘There!’ said Nicholas as desultory applause filtered through from the hall. ‘They want to acclaim you. Take your due.’

‘Follow me, lads,’ ordered Firethorn, looking around the room. ‘Let’s see if we can milk something from them at least.’

Hiding his annoyance behind a broad smile, he strutted back on to the stage with the company on his heels. Sir Michael and Lady Eleanor set an example by rising to their feet to clap their hands hard but they had few imitators. Applause was polite but subdued. The tragedy being played out in the middle of the hall was claiming much more attention. After only two bows, Firethorn decided to cut his losses and beat a hasty retreat. Once in the tiring-house, he made straight for the book holder.

‘Where is he, Nick?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’

‘Davy Stratton. The Devil’s apprentice. This is his doing.’

‘You can’t blame him for what just happened out there,’ said Nicholas.

‘I blame him for
everything
. From the instant he came to us, Davy’s brought nothing but strife. Look what he did to me on stage!’ he wailed. ‘The rascal handed me a carrot instead of a scroll. I was supposed to read a message
not eat a vegetable. Davy’s wilful. He set out to mar my performance.’

‘Nobody could ever do that.’

‘No,’ said Gill spitefully, walking past, ‘you do it so well yourself, Lawrence.’

‘Let me at him,’ snarled Firethorn. ‘Bring Davy over here.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I ordered him back to the cottage so that he could do no more damage. Before you censure him, I suggest you calm down a little.’

‘Calm down! When that imp tries to ruin my reputation?’

‘Davy knocked me flying,’ moaned George Dart.

‘He trod on my robe,’ complained Hoode.

‘And spilt some of that wine over me,’ said Elias.

‘Wait your turns,’ said Firethorn vengefully. ‘I want the first go at him.’

Nicholas did his best to placate him but he was inconsolable. After the success of
Double Deceit
, they had faltered and Firethorn wanted a scapegoat. Nothing was more important to him than the integrity of his performance. To have it threatened by a mere apprentice was unpardonable. Nicholas let him fulminate. The Great Hall, meanwhile, was being rapidly emptied. When he peeped through the curtains, he saw a small group of people clustered around the fallen man. Doctor Winche was kneeling beside him. From the attitudes of the others, Nicholas realised that the situation was serious. He went back into the tiring-house where the actors were getting out of their costumes in a mood of resignation. It had been a fraught afternoon for them. A meal awaited them in the
kitchens but they went off to it without alacrity.

Firethorn was the last to change out of his costume. Nicholas stayed close, anxious to keep him away from Davy Stratton until his hot temper had cooled. He was still angry with the boy himself but felt it more important to probe the reasons for his bad behaviour instead of simply punishing it. Firethorn read his thoughts.

‘You’ll not keep my hands off his hide this time, Nick.’

‘I’ll not try,’ said Nicholas. ‘He deserves rebuke.’

‘I’ll rebuke his buttocks until they glow with pain.’

‘That may not be the best way to treat the lad.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that I overlook his treachery?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘He must be made to understand how serious his lapses were. We’ll certainly keep him offstage from now on even if his father is in the hall to watch him. In fact, I’m wondering if that was the trouble.’

‘What?’

‘The presence of Jerome Stratton out there. When he handed the boy over to us, the father was all smiles and benevolence but there’s no love lost between him and Davy. Could it be that he wanted to embarrass his father by his naughtiness on stage?’

‘Who cares about his father, Nick? He embarrassed
me
.’

‘I know,’ sighed Nicholas.

‘Nobody does that with impunity.’

‘There could be another explanation.’

‘Davy is a little demon – that’s the explanation.’

‘Is it? I think we’re forgetting the death of his mother. That’s still fairly recent. It must have upset the boy deeply,’
said Nicholas thoughtfully. ‘I noticed how drawn he was to Anne when he stayed with us in Bankside. She treated him like a son of her own and he showed real affection towards her. Could it be that Anne resembles his mother in some way?’

‘No,’ retorted Firethorn. ‘His mother was some foul witch and the child was fathered on her by the Devil himself. He’s the progeny of Satan and there’s no room for him in Westfield’s Men.’

‘But a contract was drawn up and signed.’

‘I repudiate it!’

‘Do that and Master Stratton will bring an action against us.’

Firethorn was contemptuous. ‘I don’t care a fig for Master Stratton! As for that little brat he foisted on to us,’ he said, grabbing a walking stick that had been used in the play, ‘I’ll see if I can beat some manners into him with this.’

Before Nicholas could stop him, he stalked off towards the door but his exit was blocked by the arrival of Sir Michael Greenleaf. Their host was disconcerted.

‘Thank heaven I’ve caught you, Master Firethorn,’ he said with relief. ‘I wanted a private word with you before you go. First, dear sir, let me congratulate you on your performance as Cosimo, Duke of Parma.’

‘It was abysmal,’ said Firethorn bluntly.

‘It deserved an ovation. I’m sorry that you didn’t get one.’

‘One of your guests decided to steal my applause from me.’