The Devil's Apprentice (23 page)

A more convivial spirit was now taking over. Putting aside the death that marred one play, the guests began to discuss the others that had been commissioned for their entertainment. Lawrence Firethorn’s name was spoken with relish but other actors earned acclaim as well. Ladies were universally delighted with Barnaby Gill and his comic dances while Richard Honeydew’s portrayal of Emilia gained an ambiguous popularity among the men. Sir Michael was away for some time. When he finally returned, he sat beside Stratton again to confide him.

‘One of the rogues is taken,’ he said proudly.

‘Taken?’

‘By that remarkable Nicholas Bracewell. The stout fellow not only saved the stables from being burnt to a cinder last night, he’s captured the man responsible.’

‘Who was he, Sir Michael?’

‘Isaac Upchard.’

‘Upchard? He’s one of Reginald Orr’s cronies.’

‘Yes, Jerome. And our recalcitrant Master Orr may yet be charged as his confederate. Isaac Upchard, apparently, swears that his friend was not implicated but he may tell a different tale when I have him under oath in court.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘It’s a shame that Robert Partridge is not here to question him at the trial. He could tear any man to shreds with vicious skill.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Stratton.

‘We’ve something to celebrate,’ said Sir Michael, reaching for his wine. ‘One villain is now behind bars and another may soon join him.’

‘I’ll drink to that, Sir Michael.’

‘Nicholas Bracewell is the man to toast, though perhaps we should couple his name with that of Davy Stratton.’

‘Davy?’

‘Your son achieved a small victory up there on stage, Jerome. He brightened up our afternoon for an instant. He introduced some mirth when we most needed it. You must be very proud of the boy.’

Stratton forced a smile. ‘I am, I am, Sir Michael.’

‘And so you should be.’

Davy Stratton did not dare to approach the house until it was dark. The long walk had been interspersed with bouts of running and he needed time to recover before he made one final effort. He had travelled light, carrying nothing more than a change of clothing in the satchel that was slung across his shoulder. It was cold under the trees and he blew on his hands to keep them warm, stamping his feet at the same time. Only when he felt confident of being
unobserved did he creep towards the house and make his way furtively around to the back. Shutters were closed in the upper rooms but candlelight spilt out through the slits in the wood. The climb was a test of his bravery. The stone wall was hard, cold and slippery. It offered little help. Davy inched his way upward, afraid to look down as he groped for each new hand hold, fearing discovery at any moment.

It was a nerve-racking ascent with no promise of success at the end of it but Davy drove himself on nevertheless. When he reached the room he wanted, he clung on to the eaves while he adjusted his footing. He then tapped quietly on the shutters. There was no response. He was filled with dread that the bedchamber was empty and that he might be marooned on the roof for hours. Unsure of his purchase and exposed to the biting wind, he could not stay there indefinitely. The prospect of a fall returned to haunt him. When he made the mistake of looking down, he felt giddy. Davy tapped on the shutters again and was relieved to hear movement inside the room. A new fear troubled him. What if the wrong person opened the shutters? Or what if they were flung back so violently that they knocked him off the wall? He clung on to the eaves more tightly and waited.

The shutters were unbolted and one side pushed tentatively ajar. A face peeped out until it saw a small boy, shivering violently and hanging there in desperation.

‘Davy!’ said an alarmed voice. ‘What ever are you doing out there?’

The meal served in the kitchen at Silvermere could not compare with the banquet in the Great Hall but it was eaten
with far more relish. Westfield’s Men were thrilled to hear of the capture of Isaac Upchard and of his incarceration on a charge of arson. Praise for Nicholas Bracewell was unstinting. Owen Elias embroidered his own part in the arrest to garner some plaudits but it was the book holder who was the true hero. The fall from his horse had left Nicholas with several new bruises by way of mementos but no bones had been broken. Seated between Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill, he was typically modest about his exploit.

‘The man gave himself away,’ he explained. ‘If he’d ridden past us and tipped his hat in greeting, neither Owen nor I would have turned a hair. Because he acted so suspiciously, we were put on our guard.’

‘But how did you know he was the villain who tried to burn down the stable?’ asked Gill. ‘You could hardly recognise him in the gloom.’

‘You can recognise panic in any light.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘The rogue knocked me from the saddle as he went past.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t too much drink which did that?’ teased Firethorn.

‘Never!’ denied the Welshman over the mocking laughter. ‘I could drink a barrel of beer and still ride bareback to the top of Mount Snowdon.’

Gill was irritable. ‘Let Nicholas finish.’

‘I was there as well, Barnaby,’ said Elias.

‘Fetching the horses. Yes, we’ve heard.’

‘Owen came along at just the right time,’ said Nicholas, shielding his friend from further derision. ‘I couldn’t have
done it without him. We pinioned Master Upchard then hauled him off to the constable.’

Firethorn frowned. ‘That’s the only bit that worries me. These country constables are even worse than our London watchmen. You only get to hold the office if you’ve one eye, one arm, one leg, one tooth, and one foot in the grave.’

‘How many testicles, Lawrence?’ asked Elias, chuckling.

‘Three,’ retorted the other, ‘so you can apply for the post tomorrow.’

‘Is the prisoner safely under lock and key?’ asked Gill over the merriment.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘The constable is elderly but he knows his job and has put Master Upchard in a cell from which he’ll not escape. I doubt that he’d have strength to do so. I landed on top of him when we fell to the ground.’

‘We should have buried him where he lay,’ said Elias.

Nicholas was pleased to be able to bring back such heartening news. It cheered the whole company. Firethorn had said nothing to them about the flight of their new apprentice and the story of Upchard’s capture diverted attention away from Davy Stratton. With unlimited ale at their disposal, the actors caroused for hours before they began to peel away. Gill was among the first to leave.

‘A word in your ear, Nicholas,’ he whispered to the book holder. ‘Give that young scamp fair warning from me. I’m the clown in this company. If Davy tries to steal a laugh from me on stage again, I’ll cut him into pieces and feed him to the ducks.’

As the kitchen slowly cleared, Nicholas was left alone at
the end of the table with Firethorn. The actor was able to confide his worries about the death of Robert Partridge. He recounted in detail the conversation with Sir Michael and Doctor Winche.

‘I felt that the doctor was lying, Nick.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘I’ve no idea but he wouldn’t even discuss the notion that the man had been poisoned.’ Firethorn bristled. ‘He had the nerve to suggest that
I
was responsible for the man’s heart attack. Duke Cosimo overexcited the fellow, that was his claim.’

‘A strange diagnosis for a doctor to make.’

‘Yet he cured me when I lost my voice so he’s a competent physician.’

‘I’m sure that he is,’ said Nicholas, ‘or he would not enjoy Sir Michael’s confidence. But we must remember that it was not his medicine that brought back your voice. It was a potion from this Mother Pigbone.’

‘He called her a local wise woman.’

‘How many doctors rely on such an unusual source?’

‘None that I know of, Nick.’

‘I’d like to meet this Mother Pigbone at some point,’ said Nicholas. ‘She must be an extraordinary woman if she can win the trust of someone like Doctor Winche. As to his diagnosis, he may have been simply trying to ward off panic.’

‘In what way?’

‘Sudden death like that is always disturbing. To announce that the victim had been poisoned would have spread even more alarm and distressed the widow beyond
bearing. Perhaps that’s why the doctor concealed any hint that the death might be by unnatural means. Besides,’ added Nicholas, ‘he only examined the man in the hall when he had a small audience around him. How could he make a proper diagnosis there?’

‘It was impossible,’ said Firethorn, finishing his drink. ‘The doctor was anxious to make a fuller examination of the corpse. It’s been removed to the mortuary.’

‘Here at Silvermere?’

‘I believe so. It’s at the rear of the family chapel.’

Nicholas ran a meditative finger around the rim of his tankard. ‘Do you think that we should pay our respects to Master Partridge?’ he said at length.

‘Why?’

‘He might tell us something that Doctor Winche is keeping from us.’

‘But he’s stretched out on a slab.’

‘I’ve looked on death more times than I care to remember,’ said Nicholas a pained expression, ‘and it has many guises. When I sailed with Drake around the world, we lost a large number of men. Some were drowned, some killed by hideous accidents on board, a few perished at the end of a rope. Others died of fever, scurvy, fatigue, sweating sickness, eating strange fish or even drinking their own infected urine when fresh water ran out. You can tell by a man’s face if he died happily or not.’

‘Say no more,’ decided Firethorn, reaching for a candle. ‘Let’s introduce ourselves to this lawyer. I can ask him if he enjoyed my performance.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘Don’t expect an answer.’

They left the kitchen and made their way along a passageway. Having been given a tour of the house on his first visit, Nicholas knew how to find the chapel. It was in the east wing of the property, close to the private apartments of Sir Michael and his wife. The mortuary was at the rear of the chapel, a small, stone-flagged chamber that was reached by a flight of steps. Nicholas and Firethorn went slowly down the steps and opened the door. A candle burnt inside the mortuary, casting a pale glow over the corpse on the marble slab. Herbs had been scattered to sweeten the atmosphere but the smell of death and damp was still paramount. Holding his own candle, Firethorn took it across to the body of Robert Partridge and held it close to his head. Nicholas peeled back the shroud to reveal the tortured features of the deceased. He studied the face carefully before pulling the shroud back further in order to look at the torso and arms. Stripped naked, the corpse was still in an attitude of torment.

‘Is
this
what I did to him?’ whispered Firethorn.

‘Not without help from someone else,’ said Nicholas. ‘I think he was poisoned.’

‘That was Sir Michael’s feeling.’

‘He may be a sounder physician than Doctor Winche.’

‘Or simply a more honest one.’

Nicholas pulled the shroud back over the face of the cadaver and they turned to leave. Both of them started when they saw a tall figure standing in the doorway. In the wavering light of the two candles, they saw the expression of cold anger on the face of Romball Taylard. They had not heard him arrive and had no idea how long he had been
there. The steward’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

‘This is private property,’ he said.

Firethorn gave a shrug. ‘We got lost.’

Mother Pigbone sang quietly to herself as she put another log on the fire and adjusted the iron pot that hung above the flames. It was early morning but she had been up since dawn to feed Beelzebub before getting her own breakfast. The black boar was not merely an agreeable companion for her. It gave her warning of the approach of strangers. When she heard a series of loud grunts from the sty, she knew that somebody was coming. Wiping her hands on her grubby apron, she went outside to see who it was. The rider was following the twisting path through the woods before he emerged into the clearing. He came to a halt in front of her hovel and looked down at her.

‘Mother Pigbone?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I offer you greetings and thanks,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, touching his hat politely. ‘I belong to a company of players who are performing at Silvermere. When one of our number was struck down, you supplied a potion to recover him.’

‘I believe that I did,’ she said cautiously, peering at his bruised features. ‘Have you come for medicine on your own account, sir? I can see that you need it.’

‘It’s information that I seek.’

‘Would you not like some ointment to take away the pain?’

Nicholas dismounted. ‘No, thank you, Mother Pigbone.
I’m more interested in the concoction you gave to my friend.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Extremely well.’

‘Then you’ve no complaint.’

‘None whatsoever,’ he said pleasantly. ‘In fact, Master Firethorn, the patient whose voice you brought back, asked me to pass on his congratulations. He’s indebted to your skills.’

‘So is half the county,’ she replied complacently.

‘May I ask what was in the potion you gave him?’

Mother Pigbone cackled. ‘Ask all you want, sir,’ she invited, ‘but you’ll get no answer from me. My remedies are all secret. If I gave them away, people would use them to medicine themselves and I’d lose my custom.’

‘How much custom does Doctor Winche bring you?’

‘That’s between me and him.’

‘Does he come here regularly?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘He obviously trusts you, Mother Pigbone.’

‘More than I trust you, sir,’ she said, folding her arms with suspicion. ‘What brought you here at this time of the morning?’

‘I was curious to meet you.’

‘Well, now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity, you may ride on.’

‘In a moment,’ he said, meeting her stare. A loud grunting noise took his gaze to the little garden. ‘You obviously keep pigs.’

‘Just one, sir. Beelzebub.’

‘A fearsome name.’

‘He’s a fearsome animal. Beelzebub is my guard dog. When I have unwelcome visitors, I let him loose on them. Nobody stops to argue when they see an angry boar coming at them.’