The Devil's Apprentice (16 page)

‘They’re obviously not coming, Sir Michael.’

‘It will soon be too dark to see anything.’

‘Could I suggest that we go back inside the house?’

‘We might as well,’ agreed the other, giving up. ‘We’re wasting our time up here. Wait a moment!’ he said as Taylard headed for the door. ‘Someone’s coming.’

‘Where?’ The steward looked down at the drive below. ‘I see nothing.’

‘That’s because your eyes are not trained like mine. Look over to the left.’

Moving to the edge of the parapet, Taylard shifted his gaze towards the western end of the estate. Figures were slowly coming out of the gloom like so many apparitions. Two riders led the way, followed by a cart and a succession of other riders. Sir Michael was so delighted that he began to wave excitedly at the newcomers even though they could not possibly see him behind the parapet. The steward gritted his teeth and made an effort to sound pleased.

‘What a relief!’ he said. ‘Shall we go down to welcome them?’

Wearied by the delay and worn down by the long ride, Westfield’s Men were revived by the sight of Silvermere rising out of the twilight to greet them. The promise of food and shelter even brought a smile to the face of Barnaby Gill. Nicholas Bracewell was at the head of the procession with Davy Stratton. Lawrence Firethorn rode up to join them so that he could introduce his company. Lady Eleanor was the first person to come sweeping out of the house but her husband soon joined her to add his salutations. Firethorn doffed his cap and gave them a token bow from the saddle.

‘Westfield’s Men are at your service,’ he said. ‘I am Lawrence Firethorn.’

‘We expected you earlier, Master Firethorn,’ said Lady Eleanor.

‘An unforeseen problem that I’ll discuss with you later.’

‘Then do so in warmth and comfort, sir,’ urged Sir Michael, flapping about at his wife’s side. ‘Bring the whole company into the house for the time being. The ostlers will look after the horses and take care of your cart. We have a meal awaiting you.’

A spontaneous cheer went up from the company. It was several hours since they had last eaten and the cold was getting into their bones. To be offered such hospitality at Silvermere helped to erase the memory of the ambush that had held them up for so long. A servant led them into the house and along to the kitchen. Nicholas stepped into the hall and saw Romball Taylard standing impassively in a corner. The steward gave him a polite nod. When the rest of the company had gone, Nicholas introduced Firethorn properly to their hosts. The actor gave them a respectful bow.

‘We’re sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, raising his shoulders in apology, ‘but we were attacked on the way here.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Lady Eleanor. ‘Highwaymen?’

‘We think not.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Happily, no, Lady Eleanor.’

‘Then who set upon you?’ asked Sir Michael.

‘I’ll let Nick tell you the tale.’

Taking his cue, Nicholas gave an abbreviated account of what had happened, deliberately playing down the hysteria
caused by the ambush. His tentative identification of their attackers was endorsed by Sir Michael Greenleaf.

‘It sounds like Reginald Orr’s work,’ he said without hesitation.

Lady Eleanor was vengeful. ‘The man should be put behind bars.’

‘He will be, my dear, if we can find evidence to convict him.’

‘The main thing is that we got here,’ said Firethorn. ‘And what a wonderful arena for our art. I cannot tell you how overwhelmed we are with gratitude that you sought fit to invite Westfield’s Men to entertain you.’

‘It’s we who are grateful,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘I just wish that your journey here had not been spoilt by this dreadful incident.’

Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘A mere distraction, Lady Eleanor. A thousand Reginald Orrs would not prevent us from getting here to honour our engagement. Amongst others,’ he said, striking a martial pose, ‘I play the role of Henry the Fifth. It will take more than a fallen tree and a few sheaves of blazing hay to deter the hero of Agincourt. Then we have Nick Bracewell here who has been around the world with Drake. Nobody is going to stop a man of his mettle from travelling the much shorter distance from London to Essex.’

‘Reginald Orr will be dealt with,’ said Sir Michael.

‘Unless, of course, it was someone else entirely,’ said Nicholas.

His host was adamant. ‘It was either Orr himself or some confederates set on by him. He has too much influence
over the weaker vessels in his circle. I can only tender my apologies once more. I do hope that it will in no way hinder the performance here tomorrow evening.’

‘No question of that,’ boomed Firethorn. ‘
Double Deceit
will make Silvermere ring with laughter. We’ve arrived safely at our destination and we mean to make a lasting impression on you and your guests.’

Sir Michael beamed, his wife smiled graciously at Firethorn and the actor lapped up their admiration like a cat with a pail of cream at his disposal. Pleased with their reception, Nicholas watched Romball Taylard out of the corner of his eye. Their hosts might fawn over the star of Westfield’s Men but the steward took a less favourable view of him. There was such studied hostility in the man’s eyes that Nicholas began to wonder if he had been party to the ambush. He turned to answer a question from Lady Eleanor then let Firethorn take over once more. When Nicholas next tried to peep at Taylard, the man had vanished as if he had never been there.

‘Do something about him, Michael!’ instructed his wife. ‘Arrest the man.’

‘When enough evidence has been gathered,’ he said cautiously.

‘Reginald Orr is a menace.’

‘He did swear to stop us reaching Silvermere,’ Nicholas reminded them. ‘What is he going to do when he realises that he failed, Sir Michael? Is he the kind of person who will try to attack us again?’

‘Alas, yes,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Again and again and again.’

Jared Tuke was a practical man who did not stand on ceremony. When a funeral was to take place at St Christopher’s, the gravedigger who was invariably employed was the experienced Nathaniel Kytchen. However, since it was Kytchen himself who had now died, another pair of strong arms had to perform the office and Tuke took it willingly upon himself. He and the deceased had been good friends over the years and he felt a sense of personal obligation. The work was punishing. Frozen earth had to be split with a pick before he could use a spade to any effect. Even on such a wintry morning, Tuke was running with sweat as he stood waist high in the grave. The arrival of Anthony Dyment gave him an excuse to pause.

‘How are you getting on, Jared?’ asked the vicar.

‘Slowly.’

‘Not far to go now.’

‘Oh, there is,’ said Tuke solemnly. ‘Nathaniel always went down at least six feet. He’ll get no less for his own burial place.’

‘As long as the grave is ready for tomorrow.’

‘It will be.’

‘We shall miss Nathaniel. Who will take over his duties in future?’

‘I’ll find someone.’

The laconic Tuke used the back of his arm to rub the glistening sweat from his brow. His clothing was soiled, his face reddened by effort. Dyment had a few parish matters to discuss with the churchwarden but decided to postpone them to a time when they were in more appropriate
surroundings. The vicar had respected Nathaniel Kytchen but found the old man coarse and unpredictable. Tuke, on the other hand, liked the outspoken gravedigger and would feel aggrieved if he had to talk about the projected repair to the church roof while up to his waist in the grave of a close friend. The vicar was about to take his leave when a figure loomed up out of the gravestones.

‘Good morrow!’ said Reginald Orr, pointing to the new grave. ‘Is that for Nathaniel Kytchen?’

‘It is, Reginald,’ said the vicar.

‘Dig a dozen or so more while you’re at it, Jared,’ urged the Puritan with a grin. ‘We can bury Westfield’s Men at the same time.’

‘But they’re not dead.’

‘They are to all intents and purposes.’

‘You’re not wanted here,’ said Tuke, gruffly.

‘Except on Sundays,’ added Dyment, ‘when we never see you.’

‘I celebrate the Sabbath elsewhere.’

‘You’ll be up before the church court again for not attending.’

Orr gave a mocking smile. ‘What will they do? Excommunicate me once more? Eviction from a church that I don’t believe in is no punishment to me. It’s a blessed release. Unless, of course,’ he said warningly, ‘you’d like me there to comment on the errors in your sermon?’

‘There
are
no errors,’ said Dyment bravely. ‘It’s you who are at fault.’

‘You wish to talk theology now?’

‘No, no. I have parish matters to attend to, Reginald.’

‘What is more important in this parish than praising God in the proper way?’

‘We do that already.’

‘Not in my opinion.’

‘That’s well known,’ grunted Tuke, hauling himself out of the grave. ‘Your opinions are leading others astray. They, too, will face the court.’

‘Threaten and fine us all you wish,’ challenged Orr, ‘it will not shift us from our beliefs. God needs no fine churches filled with heathenish idols. Simplicity is the virtue that He appreciates.’

‘Simplicity is for simpletons,’ said the churchwarden, making a unique excursion into humour. ‘Reverend Dyment is our vicar and he practices the true religion.’

‘Thank you, Jared,’ said Dyment.

Grateful that he had the support of his churchwarden, the vicar was also secretly relieved that Orr no longer attended church. On the last occasion when the Puritan had joined the congregation, he had risen to his feet to contradict some claims made in the sermon. On the previous occasion, he had not even waited for the sermon, charging out of the church with as much noise as he could make and slamming its great oak door behind him. As he looked at their unwelcome visitor, Dyment realised that here was the one parishioner for whom he would gladly dig the grave himself.

‘Why have you come, Reginald?’ he asked.

‘To pass on the good tidings,’ said Orr with a sly smile.

‘And what are they?’

‘Silvermere will not be polluted by a vile theatre company, after all.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I sense that the vermin may have turned back.’

‘You sense it,’ pressed the other, ‘or you
know
it?’

‘Let me just say that word reached me yesterday.’

‘Then it differs from the word I received only this morning.’

Orr’s smile froze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A letter from Sir Michael tells me that Westfield’s Men arrived safely and are due to perform this evening at Silvermere. I’m invited to attend.’

‘They’re
here
?’ said Orr in astonishment.

‘In spite of an attempt to turn them back, apparently.’ The vicar watched him carefully. ‘I don’t suppose that you know anything about that, Reginald?’

Orr was belligerent. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘The vicar was asking a polite question,’ said Tuke, squaring up to him.

‘Then the polite answer is that I’ve nothing to say on the subject.’

‘Sir Michael will pursue you for a proper reply,’ cautioned Dyment.

‘Let him,’ said Orr, unworried. ‘What concerns me is the fact that you’ve been invited to watch this performance at Silvermere.’

‘I am Sir Michael’s chaplain.’

‘All the more reason why you should stop him from walking in the counsel of the ungodly or standing in the way of sinners. Actors are born infidels. They’re ungodly sinners who seek to corrupt and defile. Can you, as his chaplain,’ he said, jabbing the vicar in the
chest, ‘condone what Sir Michael is doing?’

‘I respect his right to do exactly as he wishes.’

‘Even if it vitiates the basic tenets of Christianity?’

‘I take a more tolerant view of theatre companies.’

‘Then you mean to encourage this degradation?’ snarled Orr. ‘You reprimand me for not attending church yet you welcome a band of fiends who preach the word of the Devil himself. You’re a traitor to your cloth, Anthony Dyment!’

‘Rein in your language,’ ordered Tuke.

‘Why? Does the truth sit too heavily upon your ears?’

‘The vicar deserves respect.’

‘Well, he’ll not get it from me if he watches actors purveying their evil in the heart of his parish. What will you do?’ he demanded, returning on Dyment. ‘Will you have the courage to spurn this invitation? Or will you feed at the table of Satan?’

For once in his life, Anthony Dyment was lost for words.

Twenty-four hours at Silvermere wrought a complete transformation in Westfield’s Men.

The beleaguered company who had arrived at the house, cold, hungry and exhausted, were now happy and alert. Their welcome had been warm, the food excellent, their hosts attentive and their accommodation far better than anything they usually enjoyed when they went out on the road. They found the Great Hall itself inspiring and could not wait to begin rehearsal.
Double Deceit
was one of their most reliable comedies but it called for immense technical precision. Since it was the first play in the sequence, Firethorn was anxious to get it absolutely right in order
to create a favourable impression and he drilled his actors throughout the morning and the afternoon. Davy Stratton was given only a brief appearance on stage where he was allowed to join in a general cheer. No lines were assigned to him. Behind the scenes, his responsibilities were much larger.

Nicholas Bracewell made full use of the elements at his disposal, hanging curtains that could be drawn back to reveal the area below the gallery and placing the scores of candelabra in the most advantageous positions. Accustomed to perform outdoors in the afternoon, the company had to adapt to the differing conditions now offered them. Chairs were set out in rows and Nicholas watched some of the scenes from the back row to make sure that everyone was visible as well as audible. All was satisfactory. There were no apparent problems. When the actors gathered in the ante-room that was their tiring-house, morale was high and confidence unlimited. Davy Stratton was the only person who was suffering from nervousness. Efficient during rehearsals, he was now anxious and rather distracted, fearing that he would let his colleagues down on the very first occasion when he worked alongside them. Nicholas sought to reassure him.