‘Then let us do just that.’
The two of them drank their wine then got up from their seats to put their goblets on the table. While Pye went off into the next room, Hoode put on his coat and hat. He glanced around again. The lawyer’s chambers were hardly conducive to the creative impulse. Smoke and low temperature would conspire against them. The sombre atmosphere would inhibit them. There was another factor to be considered. Like Nicholas Bracewell, the playwright had a frank distrust of lawyers. From the moment he had entered the Middle Temple, he was expecting to be charged a fee, if not placed under arrest. Escape was vital.
When his host reappeared, Hoode barely recognised him. Wrapped in a moth-eaten black cloak, Egidius Pye wore a floppy hat that all but obscured his face. He stepped in close and peered out from beneath its undulating brim.
‘I can hardly contain my excitement,’ he said.
‘As long as you don’t break wind in the process.’
Hoode’s jest was fatal. Pye not only let out a cackle of amusement that was accompanied by a veritable gust of bad breath, he lost all control and emitted such a violent rasping noise beneath his cloak that it flapped about like a main sail in a tempest. A pungent odour made itself known. Clutching the play under his arm, Hoode darted for the door in sheer desperation.
‘You’re a true lawyer, after all, Master Pye,’ he said ruefully.
Lawrence Firethorn finally gave in to the boy’s entreaties. When he heard that two members of the company were to visit Essex the next day, Davy Stratton begged the actor-manager to let him go with them. He was not prompted by homesickness. In the brief time he had been with them, Davy had settled down well and made every effort to befriend Firethorn’s children as well as the apprentices who lodged under his roof. Nor was the request fuelled by a desire to see his father again. From the moment that Jerome Stratton had left the house in Shoreditch, he had been neither missed nor mentioned. What Davy sought was the adventure of a ride alongside Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias, two people with whom he felt he had an immediate affinity. In his favour were the facts that the boy had his own pony and that he knew the way to Silvermere.
After consultation with Nicholas, and after issuing a string of warnings to the boy, Firethorn agreed to let him go, reasoning that he could come to no harm and that he would learn much simply from being in the company of the two men. On the following day, therefore, all three of them set out for Essex. The actor-manager had loaned Nicholas his own horse and the ever-resourceful Elias had acquired one from an undisclosed source.
‘I hope that you didn’t steal the animal, Owen,’ said Nicholas.
‘Not me,’ said the Welshman with a throaty chuckle. ‘I’m no prigger of prancers. The only thing I’ve ever stolen is an odd maidenhead or two. No, the horse was merely borrowed from a close friend. Her husband does not return until Friday so it will not be missed from his stable.’
‘Whose husband?’ asked Davy innocently.
‘That needn’t concern you, lad,’ said Nicholas, shooting Elias a look of reproof. ‘We’ve a young lad with us, Owen. Remember that and moderate your language.’
Elias grinned. ‘I’ll quote the Bible, if you prefer.’
‘Polite conversation is all that’s required.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have brought me along. Politeness is not in my character, Nick, as you well know. Besides, if Davy is to join Westfield’s Men, the sooner he gets used to hot words and rude thoughts, the better for him.’
‘Don’t lead him astray.’
‘I thought he was here to lead us.’
‘I am,’ said Davy. ‘When we get nearer the house, I’ll show you a short cut.’
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ asked Nicholas.
‘That depends how fast we ride, sir.’
‘Then let’s get a move on,’ decided Elias, kicking his horse into a canter.
The other followed suit and all three of them headed north-east along the frozen road. Nicholas rode between the others, glad of the Welshman’s presence on a journey that might well be fraught with danger. A stocky man of middle height, Elias was a useful ally in a fight with the strength and temper to cow most opponents. Like Nicholas, he wore both sword and dagger. The book holder also welcomed Davy’s company and not merely because the boy had a good knowledge of the county to which they were riding. He liked the new apprentice and was pleased with the opportunity to get to know him better. There was still much that he did not understand about him.
‘How far is Silvermere from your own home, Davy?’ he asked.
‘A few miles,’ replied the other.
‘You’ll be able to call in and surprise your father.’
Davy was unequivocal. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he would not wish it.’
‘But you’re his son. He’s bound to be pleased.’
‘He may not even be there,’ said the boy evasively. ‘I’d rather stay with you.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do, Master Bracewell.’
The boy lapsed into a silence that Nicholas did not even try to disturb. The tension he had noted between father and son would only be explained in time. It was important not to browbeat Davy. The boy, he surmised, had endured enough bullying already.
‘What do you know of this new play, Nick?’ asked Elias.
‘The Witch of Colchester is a lively comedy. It will serve us well.’
‘Lawrence must have faith in it if he is saving it until the end of our stay. Will it prove a fitting climax to the work of Westfield’s Men?’
‘I believe so.’
‘When can I read my part?’
‘When Edmund and the author have finished polishing the piece,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’re set down to take on the role of Sir Roderick Lawless.’
‘I like the sound of that name.’
‘So does the playwright. He’s a lawyer with an inclination to lawlessness.’
‘An outlaw, then?’
‘Only in the bonfire of the mind.’
‘Sir Roderick Lawless, eh? Do I get to rant and rave?’
‘Constantly.’
‘What traffic do I have with women?’
‘You’ve a wife, the Lady Adeliza, and you consort with Black Joan herself.’
‘Black Joan?’
‘The witch.’
‘There are no such things,’ said Davy, coming out of his reverie.
‘How do you know?’ asked Nicholas.
‘My father told me.’
‘But I thought that Essex was crawling with witches,’ said Elias.
‘Not according to my father, sir,’ returned the boy. ‘He says that witchcraft is only a cunning deception.’
‘Then he won’t enjoy one of the plays we’re due to present. I take it that your father will be in the audience at Silvermere.’
Davy’s face clouded. ‘I expect so.’
‘He’s bound to be there, surely?’ said Nicholas. ‘Master Stratton gave us the impression that he and Sir Michael Greenleaf were much more than neighbours. Your father’s name was mentioned in the invitation we received. The one person I think we can count on seeing at Silvermere is your father.’
‘Yes,’ added Elias, ‘he’ll be there to watch his son taking his first steps on a stage. In his place, I certainly would be. What about you, Nick?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it either.’ Seeing the boy’s obvious discomfort, Nicholas did not press the point. ‘What’s the name of your own house, Davy?’
‘Holly Lodge.’
‘A pretty name. Is it a pretty place?’
‘Silvermere is much larger and more interesting.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘Holly Lodge is a nice enough house,’ conceded Davy. ‘But I’ve left there now.’
‘You have indeed,’ said Elias. ‘You live in Old Street, Shoreditch, at the tender mercy of Lawrence Firethorn.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘That house might well be called Holly Lodge as well for you’ll prick yourself if you step out of place. Margery Firethorn is the soul of kindness but she has a tongue as sharp as any holly bush.’