‘Yes,’ admitted Firethorn, ‘but only for a few days.’
‘Should he chance to be there when we perform, he’ll uncover our device at once. Drunk as he usually is, our patron knows when he has seen a play before, however well we disguise it. No, Lawrence, this condition cannot be met. We are bidden to Silvermere at the end of this month. I cannot conjure a play out of the air in so short a time. You must thank Sir Michael for his kind invitation but refuse it nevertheless.’
‘Why be so hasty?’ intervened Nicholas. ‘I see your dilemma, Edmund, and I think it wrong to put you in such an unfair position. Our best work comes from you, it is true, but surely we can look elsewhere on this occasion. Another pen might answer our needs here.’
‘Not in less than a fortnight, Nick. What hand could work so speedily?’
‘None that would produce a play worthy of our company, perhaps, but I’m not speaking of a piece that must be grown from seed in its author’s mind. I talk of a play already written but untried in performance. It’s called The Witch of Rochester.’
‘By heaven, you’re right!’ said Firethorn, slapping his thigh. ‘It went clear out of my mind. The play had many faults but enormous promise. That’s why I gave it to you to read, Nick.’
Gill was outraged. ‘You showed a play to a mere book holder before I cast my eyes on it? That’s unforgivable, Lawrence. Nicholas may do his duty behind the scenes but it is I who have to transmute the written word into life on the stage. I’ve never even heard of The Witch of Rochester.’
‘No more have I until this moment,’ said Hoode with mild annoyance.
‘I was keeping it as a pleasant surprise for the both of you,’ lied Firethorn.
‘You’d forgotten all about it until Nicholas jogged your elbow,’ observed Gill, testily. ‘If it can be so easily mislaid in your memory, it can hardly have a strong purchase there. Many faults, you say. I do not like the sound of that. Be warned, Lawrence. I’ll not risk my art on some base brown-paper stuff written by a floundering author. What arrant fool puts his name to this witches’ brew?’
‘Egidius Pye,’ said Nicholas, ‘and he’s no arrant fool.’
‘Nor is he a poet of any repute.’
‘No, Master Gill,’ confessed the other, ‘but he’s a talented playwright who will learn much from seeing his work translated to the stage. Master Pye is a lawyer, an educated man with a ready wit. One of his plays saw the light of day at the Inns of Court and he has a commission to write another. He’s no raw newcomer but a man whose pen we should nurture and encourage.’
‘That’s a decision for the sharers to make,’ said Gill, loftily. ‘Only an actor can make a true judgement of a play.’
‘I disagree,’ said Hoode, loyally. ‘Nick has a keener eye than any of us.’
Firethorn nodded. ‘Precisely why I first showed this piece of witchcraft to him. When you read a play, Barnaby, you see only the part intended for you. Because he lacks your overweening vanity, Nick can view a drama in its entirety. And I agree with him. The Witch of Rochester may cast the very spell we require.’
‘In time,’ warned Nicholas. ‘It needs work on it still.’
‘Edmund can help there. It’s much easier to polish an existing play than to labour over a new one. All that Master Pye needs is the benefit of a guiding hand.’
Hoode was sceptical. ‘If he’ll accept it, Lawrence.’
‘No question but that he will.’
‘Some authors tolerate no interference with their work.’
‘Egidius Pye will do as he’s told.’
‘The first thing you might advise him to do is to amend his title,’ said Nicholas. ‘Since we are to perform at Silvermere, it might make sense to shift his witch from Kent to Essex, a county more seasoned in sorcery. Lose one letter, substitute two and Master Pye’s work becomes The Witch of Colchester. That might appeal to Sir Michael.’
‘It certainly appeals to me, Nick,’ said Firethorn, clapping his hands. ‘It shall be done. There, my friends. One condition is already met.’
‘Not until I’ve read the play myself,’ said Hoode.
‘You’ll appreciate its rare quality at once, Edmund.’
‘That still leaves the second condition,’ Gill reminded him, ‘and it remains quite insurmountable. A dozen new plays would not make me sanction that.’
‘It’s a bold demand,’ agreed Hoode.
‘A suggestion,’ emphasised Firethorn, ‘not a demand. We may yet find some happy compromise. What Sir Michael Greenleaf is asking,’ he said to Nicholas, ‘is that Westfield’s Men take a new apprentice into the fold.’
‘Madness!’ decided Gill.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘We have enough mouths to feed, as it is,’ argued Hoode.
‘I’ll take responsibility for feeding one more,’ volunteered Firethorn. ‘Our boys have been happy enough under my roof and they have not gone hungry with a wife like Margery to do the cooking. I think that we should consider the request.’
‘Who is the boy in question?’ wondered Nicholas.
‘His name is Davy Stratton.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘Precious little beyond the fact that he is eleven years old and desirous of entering this verminous profession of ours. Davy is the son of Jerome Stratton, a rich merchant and close friend of our host in Essex. Lord Westfield gave me to understand that Sir Michael would regard it as a great favour if we could accept the boy.’
‘And if we do not?’ challenged Gill.
‘The invitation to his home loses some of its warmth.’
‘It crumbles, Lawrence. Take the lad or stay away from Essex. That’s the offer. In exchange for ten days’ employment, we may be saddled with a useless boy for years on end. It’s a monstrous bargain and we should reject it outright.’
‘There’s room in the company for one more apprentice.’
‘When we have no work for the boys already indentured? Spurn this Davy Stratton. We’ll not have him thrust upon us in this way.’
‘Hold there, Master Gill,’ said Nicholas, thinking it through. ‘This offer may be unlooked for but it comes at an apposite time. John Tallis can no longer carry a young woman’s part with any success. His voice has broken and his features coarsened.’
‘Do not mention the rogue to me!’ growled Firethorn as an old wound reopened. ‘I was there at the fateful hour when John Tallis betrayed us. The Maids of Honour was the play. In the person of the King of France, I asked the blushing Marie to accept the hand of the Prince of Navarre in marriage. And what happens? John Tallis chooses that moment to change his sex. His maid of honour turned into a croaking bullfrog who all but ruined the play. I could have gelded him on the spot!’
Nicholas was tactful. ‘John is more suited to the roles of older ladies now. Nurses or grandmothers are still within his compass. A younger voice is required. I thought to have found it in Philip Robinson but he preferred to remain at the Chapel Royal. It may just be that Davy Stratton is a better deputy.’
‘He’s an imposition we can do without,’ said Gill, vehemently.
‘I incline to the same view,’ added Hoode. ‘We can manage without a new boy.’
‘When he brings employment in his wake?’ said Firethorn. ‘Would you kiss away ten days’ of work in a private house? Think of the fee we would forfeit and of the new friends we might make for our art. Remember that this Jerome Stratton is a wealthy merchant, eager to place his son among us. We can set a high price on such eagerness. There’s ready profit in this for Westfield’s Men.’
‘Only if the boy is an apt pupil,’ said Hoode.
‘I’m sure that he will be, Edmund.’ His voice took on a sharper edge. ‘Are you not vexed by this enforced idleness? Do you not fear that your art will desert you? A moment ago, Nick mentioned the Chapel Royal. Does it not gall you that boy actors perform each day at Blackfriars while we languish here?’