‘There is the small matter of my fee,’ he said meekly.
Nicholas Bracewell finished his meal and washed it down with a mouthful of ale. Owen Elias was still munching cheerfully but Davy Stratton’s food lay untouched on its platter.
‘Eat up, lad,’ encouraged Nicholas.
‘I’m not hungry,’ said the boy.
‘You must be.’
‘Go on, Davy,’ said Elias, nudging him. ‘It’ll help to keep out the cold.’
But the most that the boy consented to do was to pick at his meat, putting only the smallest portion in his mouth and chewing it without relish. Eager to hear an account of his movements from Davy himself, Nicholas bided his time. The boy still seemed to be in a state of shock and the presence of two servants inhibited their conversation. Having escorted them to the kitchens, Romball Taylard had vanished, leaving instructions with the cook to feed them well before sending them off to their room. The three of them were seated at a small table in the corner of the main kitchen, inhaling a rich compound of aromas and consuming their meal in the shadow of dead game that dangled from hooks. It was not the place to discuss confidential matters.
When they had all finished, one of the servants picked up a lighted candle, took them into the adjoining kitchen and opened a small door. A rickety staircase curled upwards. The visitors were forced to recognise their appointed place in the scheme of things. Detached from their host, they were not being given the luxurious accommodation that his generosity appeared to indicate. Instead, they were conducted up the backstairs to a room in the servants’ quarters, vacated to make way for them and hastily cleaned. The place was illumined by three flickering candles. When the servant departed, they closed the door behind him and took inventory.
It was a small, narrow room with a slanting floor and a superfluity of draughts. Fresh linen had been placed on the two beds that nestled side by side. Crammed into a corner was a truckle bed that had been dragged in for Davy. On a small table against one wall stood a bowl and a pitcher of water. Beneath the table was a capacious chamber pot. It was the first thing that Owen Elias noticed. He jabbed a finger at it.
‘It’ll take a lot of bladders to fill that,’ he noted. ‘How many sleep in here?’
‘Two to each bed, I suspect,’ said Nicholas.
‘Three, more like it. There are no featherbeds for the servants here. They sleep head to toe as in other big houses. Well,’ he decided, flinging himself down on one of the beds, ‘this will suit me for a night. It’s hard but I’m used to that. What I’m not used to is sleeping on my own.’ He looked teasingly across at the apprentice. ‘Would you like to curl up in here with me, Davy?’
‘No, no,’ said the boy quickly, standing beside the truckle bed. ‘I’ll stay here.’
‘I won’t bite you, lad,’ said Elias jovially. ‘Not too hard, anyway. And I promise faithfully not to kiss you — unless you kiss me first, that is.’
‘Leave him be, Owen,’ chided Nicholas. ‘He’s tired.’
‘Not too tired to tell us what happened, I hope. I don’t know about you, Nick, but I didn’t believe a word that his father said to us. Davy’s pony didn’t bolt.’
‘He did,’ said the boy defensively. ‘I swear it.’
‘Was your father telling us the truth?’
‘Hotspur bolted and a low branch knocked me from the saddle.’
‘But what caused him to bolt, Davy?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ve been missing for hours. Where were you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said the boy evasively. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘We thought you’d run away from us. Did you?’ Davy shook his head. ‘Is that why you wanted to come to Essex with us?’ The boy shook his head again. Nicholas traded a glance with Elias. ‘You’re exhausted, lad. I can see that. Get yourself some sleep and we’ll talk again in the morning.’
Relieved to be spared an interrogation, Davy nodded and began to undress. His companions also got ready for bed. Nicholas sensed that the apprentice was lying but saw no value in trying to force information out of him. The only way to get to the truth was to win the boy’s confidence and convince him that he was among friends who would not sit in judgement on him. Jerome Stratton’s behaviour had been eloquent. It told them much about his uneasy relationship with his son and confirmed the suspicion that Davy had not joined Westfield’s Men voluntarily. However, since he was now legally a member of the company, they had a responsibility to keep him in it. They would be more vigilant in future. Before he clambered into bed, Nicholas blew out two of the candles.
‘Good night, Davy,’ he said gently.
There was no reply. ‘He’s fast asleep, Nick,’ observed Elias. ‘Dog tired.’
‘It’s been a long day for him, Owen.’
‘And he’s had a rough time of it, by the look of things.’
Getting into his own bed, Elias licked his thumb and forefinger before using them to sniff out the last candle. There was a long pause as he tried to get comfortable and Nicholas could hear him threshing about. Elias then settled down and seemed to go off to sleep. Nicholas was about to doze off himself when the Welshmen spoke.
‘Are you still awake, Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think we’ll ever get to know why he went haring off like that?’
‘Not from Master Stratton,’ whispered Nicholas, ‘that’s for sure.’
‘I wouldn’t trust him to tell me what day of the week it was,’ muttered Elias, adjusting his position in bed again. ‘He’d probably charge me interest for doing so. Merchants are all the same. Cheats and liars to a man.’
‘Keep your voice down, Owen.’
‘Nothing I say about his father will upset Davy. You saw the pair of them together earlier. There’s no love lost between them. Besides,’ he added, suppressing a yawn. ‘The boy’s dead to the world.’
‘Then don’t wake him up,’ hissed Nicholas.
Elias reverted to a whisper. ‘What do you make of Sir Michael?’
‘He’s a perfect gentleman.’
‘He’s also completely mad. Firing a cannon at night to break the ice on the lake? It was all I could do to forbear laughing. And why does he keep all those weapons?’
‘They interest him.’
‘Weapons are for fighting and he’s the most peaceable man I’ve ever met.’
‘He’s also our host, Owen, so we must take him as we found him. Sir Michael and his wife have come to the rescue of Westfield’s Men. Never forget that. If he has a few outlandish ideas, we should tolerate them happily. No,’ said Nicholas, keeping his voice low, ‘I have no complaints at all about our hosts. The person who worries me is their steward.’
‘Why?’
‘To begin with, he doesn’t want us here.’
‘That was my feeling, Nick.’
‘If it were left to him, we’d be spending the night at that village inn. It never shows in his face but I fancy that Romball Taylard objects to the very idea of Westfield’s Men performing in the Great Hall.’
‘Does he think we’ll steal the silver or ravish the chambermaids?’
‘Who knows? But that’s not the only thing that troubles me about him.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, Owen.’
‘What else is there?’
‘The simple fact that we’ve seen so much of the fellow,’ said Nicholas. ‘He’s the steward here. In an establishment of this size, that means he has immense responsibilities. He supervises the staff, advises Sir Michael, victuals the kitchens, controls the household accounts and so on. Yet he was waiting for us as soon as we walked through the door.’
‘So?’
‘Why should Taylard take on the office of a butler when he could delegate it elsewhere? Why lead us off to our meal when that was an office fit for a servant? Why do chores that should rightly be beneath him? Do you take my point, Owen?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it odd that someone who’s so unhappy to have us at Silvermere is taking such pains to stay close to us?’