The Merry Devils E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Nicholas Bracewell
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 372

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

He had the power to assume a pleasing shape, but would he take to the stage . . . ? The audience was merry indeed when a third devilish imp bounded onstage to join the two that had been written into the script. But backstage all was uproar. The third demon seemed too much like the real thing. Even Nicholas Bracewell, the company mainstay, was shaken when, next time the play was given, only one devil appeared. The second, poor fellow, was now only a little red heap backstage. Murdered. Before the curtain rose again, Lord Westfield's Men would suffer the sermons of a puritan fanatic, the enchantment of passion, the terror of a London madhouse, prophecies of a famous alchemist, and danger as they'd never known it before . . .

Leseprobe

The Merry Devils

An Elizabethan Mystery

EDWARD MARSTON

Matre pulchra filia pulchrior Helena rosa formosa orbis et cordis

‘This I bar, that none of you stroke your beards to make action, play with your codpiece points, or stand fumbling on your buttons when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serve God and act clearly.’

Thomas Nashe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About the Author

By Edward Marston

Copyright

Chapter One

London was the capital city of noise, a vibrant volatile place, surging with life and clamorous with purpose. Whips cracked, horses neighed, harness jingled, cans rattled, coaches thundered, pots clinked, canvas flapped, hammers pounded, lathes sang, bells tolled, dogs yelped, poultry clucked, cows lowed, pigs squealed and thousands of urgent voices swelled the tumult of the working day. The whole community was in a state of happy uproar. It was morning.

Nicholas Bracewell shouldered his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street, ducking beneath frequent obstacles and moving past haphazard ranks of market stalls that were bold, colourful and aromatic, competing loudly with each other for the attention of the swirling mass. Tall, well-groomed and dressed in buff jerkin and hose, Nicholas was at once imposing and nondescript, a striking figure who courted the anonymity of the throng. The weathered face was framed by long fair hair and a beard. The clear blue eyes missed nothing. He combined the physique of a wrestler with the bearing of a gentleman.

As a stout housewife waddled out of a shop and bumped straight into him, he doffed his cap and gave her a polite smile of apology, making light of the fact that she had caused the collision.

‘By your leave, mistress.’

His soft West Country tones were drowned by the strident Cockney vowels all around him but his courteous manner conveyed his meaning. Unaccustomed to such civility, the woman nodded her gratitude before being jostled by cruder elbows and rougher tongues. Nicholas plunged on and made steady progress through the sea of bodies. Ahead of him was the familiar outline of St Benet Grass Church, which had given the street its name, and his gaze dwelt for a moment on its thrusting spire. Then he passed beneath the sign of the Queen’s Head and swung in through its main gates.

Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.

‘Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!’

‘How now, Master Marwood?’

‘All may yet be saved!’

‘Saved?’

‘God willing!’

‘What ails you, sir?’

‘I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.’

‘Of what, pray?’

‘Certain disaster!’

Alexander Marwood had a close acquaintance with certain disaster. In his febrile imagination, it lurked everywhere and his assiduous pessimism obliged him to rush towards it in willing surrender. Short, thin and balding, the landlord of the Queen’s Head was a haunted man with a nervous twitch that animated his gloomy features. It was a face more fit for a charnel house than a taproom and he had none of the geniality associated with his calling.

Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.

‘We are in great danger!’ wailed the landlord.

‘From what source, Master Marwood?’

‘Your play, sir.’

‘The Merry Devils?’

‘It is an abomination.’

‘You do the piece a wrong.’

‘An act of blasphemy.’

‘It is wholly free from such a taint.’

‘The play will offend the City authorities.’

‘All plays offend them, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have learned to live and work in the shadow of their displeasure.’

‘Your devilry will provoke the church.’

‘I think not, sir.’

‘You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!’

Nicholas put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He found himself in a situation that was all too common. Marwood’s capacity for sudden panic was boundless and it created stern problems for those who relied on the goodwill of mine host. Nicholas was the book holder with Lord Westfield’s Men, one of the leading dramatic companies, and his primary function was to stage manage their performances. Another crucial task which had fallen to him was that of mollifying the landlord during his periodic fits of terror. Westfield’s Men used the yard of the Queen’s Head as their regular venue so Alexander Marwood had perforce to be humoured.

‘The Merry Devils is a harmless comedy,’ Nicholas told him. ‘It is written by two God-fearing gentlemen and will not raise the slightest blush on the cheeks of Christianity.’ He patted the other’s back. ‘Take heart, Master Marwood. There is no danger here.’

‘I have to look to my livelihood, sir.’

‘We respect that.’

‘I would not fall foul of the authorities.’

‘Nor shall you, believe me.’

‘Your play will put the Queen’s Head in jeopardy.’

‘That would hardly serve our turn.’

‘I have heard,’ said Marwood, eyes bulging and twitch working away, ‘the most dread reports.’

‘Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.’

‘They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.’

‘Then they mislead you cruelly.’

‘They say you show all manner of Vice.’

‘Virtue is our constant theme.’

‘They say …’ The landlord’s voice became an outraged hiss to accommodate the full horror of his final charge. ‘They say that you – raise up devils!’

‘Indeed, we do not,’ said Nicholas reassuringly. ‘We merely summon George Dart and Roper Blundell.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Two poor, innocent wights who could not frighten a fly between them. These are no real devils, Master Marwood. They are hirelings with the company. Two small lads who are fitted for the parts by their very smallness. Hugh Wegges, our tireman, has costumed them in red with pointed tails and tiny horns, but it is all in jest.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Our merry devils will cause more merriment than devilry. And, as they hope to go to heaven, George Dart and Roper Blundell will tell you the same.’

Marwood was not appeased. When he sniffed catastrophe – and it was brought in on every wind that blew – he was not easily put off the scent. To assuage him further, Nicholas patiently explained the whole plot then ushered him across to the rectangle of trestles which jutted out into the yard from one wall and which formed the stage on which Westfield’s Men would perform their new piece. He indicated the two trap-doors through which the devils would make their appearance and even divulged the secret of how each of them would make such an explosive entry. The landlord was given fresh matter for alarm.

‘Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!’

‘Everything needful will be done.’

‘Fire could destroy me!’

‘That is why we will take the utmost care.’

‘I am deeply troubled, Master Bracewell,’ whined the other. ‘My feeling is that you should cancel the play.’

‘At this late hour?’

‘It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.’

The twitch went on a lightning tour of his face and his eyes enlarged to the size and colour of ripe plums. Nicholas wooed him again, reminding him of the long and fruitful relationship that existed between Westfield’s Men and the Queen’s Head and pointing out that The Merry Devils – like every other new play – had had to be submitted to the Master of the Revels before it was granted a licence. Sir Edmund Tilney had given his approval without censoring a single line. Evidently, he did not consider the piece to be in any way blasphemous. When the morose landlord still protested, Nicholas invited him to watch the morning’s rehearsal so that he could judge for himself, but Marwood declined the offer. He preferred to feed off rumour and instinct, both of which advised him to stop the performance.

‘And offer such an insult to Lord Westfield?’ said Nicholas.

‘Lord Westfield?’

‘Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.’

‘Ah …’

‘Bringing with him, in his entourage, several other members of the nobility. Can the Queen’s Head afford to turn away such custom, sir? Am I to tell Lord Westfield that you refuse him hospitality?’

‘Well, no … that is to say …’

‘His lordship might instruct us to withdraw altogether.’

‘But we have a contract.’

‘Then you must honour it this afternoon.’

Marwood was thrown into a quandary. It was not his intention to terminate an arrangement which, with all its pitfalls, was a lucrative one for his inn. He now spied danger both in a performance of the new play and in its summary cancellation. Either way he was doomed. He risked arousing the ire of the City authorities or the displeasure of important members of the nobility. It all served to plunge him into a pool of deep melancholy.

Nicholas Bracewell threw him a rope of salvation.

‘Lord Westfield is not without influence.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Were the authorities to object, he would no doubt deal with their objections. They would not proceed against the Queen’s Head with his lordship standing guard over it.’

‘Would he so protect us?’ asked the plaintive landlord.

‘He has powerful friends at Court.’

It was a telling argument and it tipped the balance. According to the regulations, the staging of plays within the boundaries of the city was forbidden and theatres had therefore been built in places like Shoreditch and Southwark which were outside the city walls and thus beyond its jurisdiction. Like other establishments with suitable inn yards, the Queen’s Head was breaking a law that was never enforced with any vigour or consistency, in spite of a steady stream of complaints from the Puritan faction. Marwood had always escaped before. Under the pressure of circumstance, he elected to take the chance once again.

‘Very well, Master Bracewell. Perform your play.’

‘It will put money in your purse, sir.’

‘I pray that they do not take it from me in fines.’

‘Have faith, Master Marwood.’

‘I fear the worst.’

‘Nothing will go amiss.’

‘Then why do I sense disaster?’

Turning on his heel, the landlord scurried across the yard and took his determined misery towards the taproom. Resolved on calamity, he would admit no other possibility. Nicholas had done well to stave off the threatened cancellation of the play, but then he had had plenty of practice with such crises. It seemed to him that he spent as much time subduing Marwood’s outbursts as he did in stage managing the company.

As mine host vanished through a door, Nicholas marvelled yet again at the man’s perverse choice of profession. He was not schooled for a life of riot and revelry. Death and despair were his companions. Perhaps, mused Nicholas, he was waiting to be called to a higher duty and a truer vocation. When God wished to announce the end of the world, he would surely choose no other messenger than Alexander Marwood.

It was the one job to which he could bring some relish.

Rehearsals for The Merry Devils had been dogged by setbacks from the start, but those earlier upsets faded into oblivion beside the events of the next two hours. Everything went wrong. Lines were forgotten, entrances were missed, curtains were torn, costumes were damaged, trapdoors refused to open, gunpowder would not explode and the tiring-house was a seething morass of acrimony. Nicholas Bracewell imposed what calm and order he could, but his control could not extend to the stage itself where mishap followed mishap with ascending speed. The play was buried beneath a farrago of incompetence, frayed tempers and brutal misfortune.

The diminutive George Dart was less than merry as a devil. Covered in confusion and dripping with perspiration, he came lurching into the tiring-house after another bungled exit. His red costume was far too tight for his body and far too warm for the hot weather. He tugged and pulled at it as he went across to the book holder.

‘I am sorry, Master Bracewell.’

‘Do your best, George. Nobody can demand more.’

‘I mislaid my part.’

‘Think harder, lad.’

‘I tried, master, but all thought went out of my head when I bumped into that post and saw stars. How did that come about?’

‘You were on the wrong side of the stage.’

‘Was I?’

‘Follow Roper next time.’

‘But he has no more idea than me.’ He shrugged his shoulders in hopeless resignation. ‘We are not actors, Master Bracewell. We are mere stagekeepers. You do wrong to thrust us out upon the stage.’

‘Stand by, George! Your entrance is almost due.’

‘Again?’

‘The banquet scene.’

‘Lord help me!’

Cued by the book holder, the merry devils made another startling entrance but dissipated its effect by colliding with each other. George Dart dropped the goblets he was carrying and Roper Blundell trod so heavily on his own tail that it parted company with his breeches. Mistakes now multiplied at a bewildering rate. The rehearsal was speeding towards complete chaos.

It was rescued by the efforts of one man. Lawrence Firethorn was the leading actor and the guiding light of Westfield’s Men, a creature of colossal talent and breathtaking audacity whose very presence in the cast of a play enhanced its quality. Single-handed, he pulled The Merry Devils back from the brink of sheer pandemonium. While everything else was falling to pieces around him, he remained quite imperturbable and soared above it all on wings of histrionic genius.

When accidents happened, he softened their impact by cleverly diverting attention from them. When moves were forgotten, he eased his colleagues into their correct positions in the most unobtrusive way. When huge gaps appeared in the text, he filled them with such loquacious zest that only those familiar with the piece would have realised that memories had faltered. The more desperate the situation, the more immediate was his response. At one point, when someone missed an entrance for a vital scene, Firethorn covered his absence by delivering a soliloquy of such soulful magnificence that it wrung the withers of all who heard it, even though it was culled on the instant from three totally different plays and stitched together for extempore use.

Lawrence Firethorn was superb in a role that fitted him like a glove. Though he was renowned for his portrayal of wise emperors and warrior kings, and for his incomparable gallery of classical heroes, he could turn his hand to low comedy with devastating brilliance. He was now the gross figure of Justice Wildboare, who, thwarted in love, attempts to get his revenge on his young rival by setting a couple of devils on him. Once raised, however, the devils prove unready to obey their new master and it is Wildboare who becomes the victim of their merriment.

The central role enabled Firethorn to dominate the stage and wrest some meaning out of the shambles. He was a rock amid shifting sands, an oasis in a desert, a true professional among rank amateurs. His example fired others and they slowly rallied. Nerves steadied, memories improved, confidence oozed back. With Firethorn leading the way on stage, and with Nicholas Bracewell exerting his usual calming influence in the tiring-house, the play actually began to resemble the text in the prompt book. By the end of Act Five, the saviour of the hour had achieved the superhuman task of pointing the drama in the right direction once more and it was fitting that he should conclude it with a rhyming couplet.

Henceforth this Wildboare will renounce all evils

And ne’er again seek pacts with merry devils.

The rest of the company were so relieved to have come safely through the ordeal that they gave their actor-manager a spontaneous round of applause. Relief swiftly turned to apprehension as Firethorn rounded on them with blazing eyes. George Dart quailed, Roper Blundell sobbed, Ned Rankin gulped, Caleb Smythe shivered, Richard Honeydew blushed, Martin Yeo backed away, Edmund Hoode sought invisibility and the other players braced themselves. Even the arrogant Barnaby Gill was fearful.

The comic bleating of Wildboare became the roar of a tiger.

‘That, gentlemen,’ said Firethorn, ‘was a descent into Hell. I have known villainy before but not of such magnitude. I have tasted dregs before but not of such bitterness. Misery I have seen before but never in such hideous degree. Truly, I am ashamed to call you fellows in this enterprise. Were it not for my honesty and self-respect, I would turn my back on the whole pack of you and seek a place with Banbury’s Men, vile and untutored though they be.’

The company winced beneath the insult. The Earl of Banbury’s Men were their deadly rivals and Firethorn had nothing but contempt for them. It was a mark of his disillusion with his own players that he should even consider turning to the despised company of another patron. Before he could speak further, the noonday bell passed on its sonorous message. In two bare hours, The Merry Devils had to be fit for presentation before a paying audience. Practicalities intruded. Firethorn sheathed the sword of his anger and issued a peremptory command.

‘Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.’

There was a flurry of grateful activity.

Hunched over a cup of sack, Edmund Hoode stared balefully into the liquid as if it contained the dead bodies of his dearest hopes. He was sitting at a table in the taproom of the Queen’s Head and seemed unaware of the presence of his companion. Ralph Willoughby gave his friend an indulgent smile and emptied a pot of ale. The two men were the co-authors of The Merry Devils and they had burned a deal of midnight oil in the course of its composition. Both had invested heavily in its success. Hoode was mortified by the awesome failure of the rehearsal but Willoughby took a more sanguine view.

‘The piece will redeem itself, Edmund,’ he said blithely. ‘Even in this morning’s travesty, there was promise.’

‘Of what?’ returned Hoode sourly. ‘Of complete disgrace?’

‘Rehearsals often mislead.’

‘We face ignominy, Ralph.’

‘It will not come to that.’

‘Our work will be jeered off the stage.’

‘Away with such thoughts!’

‘Truly, I tell you, this life will be the death of me!’

It was strange to hear such a forlorn cry on the lips of Edmund Hoode. He loved the theatre. Tall, thin and cleanshaven, he had been with the company for some years now as its resident poet and a number of plays – thanks to the hectoring of Lawrence Firethorn – had flowed from his fertile pen. As an actor-sharer with Westfield’s Men, he always took care to create a role for himself; ideally, something with a romantic strain though a wide range of character parts was within his compass. When The Merry Devils first began to take shape, he decided to appear as the hapless Droopwell, a lack-lustre wooer whose impotence was exploited for comic effect. Long before the play had been completed, however, and for a reason that was never explained, Hoode insisted on a change of role and now took the stage as Youngthrust, an ardent suitor whose virility was not in doubt. Armed with a codpiece the size of a flying buttress, he whisked away the heroine from beneath the nose of Justice Wildboare.

There was no Youngthrust about him now. Slouched over the table, he reverted to Droopwell once more. He gazed into his sack as yet another corpse floated past and he heaved a sigh of dismay that was almost Marwoodian in its hopelessness.

Willoughby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.

‘Be of good cheer, Edmund!’

‘To what end?’ groaned the other.

‘Heavens, man, our new piece is about to strut upon the stage. Is that not cause for joy and celebration?’

‘Not if it be howled down by the rougher sort.’

‘Throw aside such imaginings,’ said Willoughby. ‘The whole company is pledged to make amends for this morning. It will be a very different dish that is set before the audience. Nick Bracewell will marshal you behind the scenes and Lawrence will take you into battle at his accustomed gallop. All things proceed to consummation. Why this blackness?’

‘It is my play, Ralph.’

‘It is my play, too, friend, yet I am not so discomfited.’

‘You are not trapped like a rat in the dramatis personae.’

‘Indeed, no,’ said Willoughby. ‘My case is far worse.’

‘How so?’

‘Since I am to be a spectator of the action, I must endure every separate misadventure whereas you only see those in which Youngthrust is involved.’

‘There!’ said Hoode mournfully. ‘You are resolved on humiliation.’

‘I expect a triumph.’

‘After that rehearsal?’

‘Because of it, Edmund. Westfield’s Men explored every last avenue of error. There are no mistakes left to be made.’ His carefree laugh rang through the taproom. ‘This afternoon will put our merry devils in the ascendant. It can be no other way.’

Ralph Willoughby was shorter, darker and slightly younger than Hoode, with an air of educated decadence about him and a weakness for the gaudy apparel of a City gallant. His good humour was unwavering, but his relentless optimism was only a mask for darker feelings that he kept to himself. Having abandoned his theological studies at Cambridge, he hurled himself into the whirlpool of London theatre and established a reputation as a gifted, albeit erratic, dramatist. The Merry Devils marked his first collaboration with Hoode and his debut with Westfield’s Men. His jaunty confidence was gradually reviving his colleague.

‘Dare we hope for success?’ said Hoode tentatively.

‘It is assured.’

‘And my portrayal as Youngthrust?’

‘It will carry all before it.’

‘Truly? This weighs heavily with me.’

‘As actor and poet, your reputation will be advanced. I would wager fifty crowns on it – if someone would loan me the money, for I have none to call my own.’

‘This lifts my spirits, Ralph.’

‘Be ruled by me.’

‘Much depends upon today.’

‘All is well, Edmund. All is well.’

Hoode actually managed a pallid smile before downing the last of his drink. It was time to think and behave like a professional man of the theatre and surmount any difficulties. He no longer contemplated the prospect of execution. With luck and effort, he might not die on a scaffold of his own creation after all.

Playbills were on display in prominent places all over the city and they brought a large, eager audience flocking to the Queen’s Head. Gatherers were kept busy collecting admission money and preventing anyone from sneaking in without paying. A penny bought standing room around the stage itself. Those who parted with an extra penny or two gained access to the galleries which ran around the yard and which offered seating, a clearer view and shelter from any inclement weather. Not that rain or wind threatened The Merry Devils. Its premiere was attended by the blazing sunshine of an English summer, warming the mood of the spectators even more than the drink that was on sale.

New plays were always in demand and Westfield’s Men adopted the policy of trying to present more of them each year. By dint of their high standards, they built up a loyal following and rarely disappointed them. Lawrence Firethorn was the talk of the town. Barnaby Gill, the company’s principal comedian, was an evergreen favourite. Supporting players were always more than competent and the name of Edmund Hoode on any drama was a guarantee of worth and craftsmanship. The hundreds of people who were packing the inn yard to capacity had every right to expect something rather special by way of entertainment, but none of them could even guess at the sensation that lay ahead.

Through the window of the taproom, Alexander Marwood watched the hordes arrive and bit his lip in apprehension. Other landlords might drool at the thought of the profits they would make from the sale of wine, beer, bread, fruit and nuts, supplemented as that income would be with the substantial rent for the use of the yard and money from the hiring of rooms where copulation could thrive throughout the afternoon in brief intervals of privacy. Marwood drew no solace from this. To his jaundiced eye, the standees were made up of pickpockets, cutpurses or drunken apprentices spoiling for a fight, the gorgeous ladies who brightened the galleries were all disease-ridden punks plying their trade, and the flamboyant gallants who puffed at their pipes had come for the express purpose of setting fire to the overhanging thatch.

Then there was the play itself, an instrument of wickedness in five acts. When the landlord glanced upwards at the blue sky, he was surprised to see no thunderbolt waiting to be hurled down.

Almost everyone, of whatever degree or disposition, was in a state of high excitement, savouring the occasion and talking happily about it. The buoyant, boisterous atmosphere was infectious. Yet there was one man who shared Marwood’s disapproval. Big, solid, impassive and dressed in sober garb, he paid his money to gain entry, recoiled from the stinking breaths of the groundlings and made his way disconsolately to one of the upper galleries. His grim face was carved from teak, its most startling feature being a long single eyebrow that undulated with such bristling effect that it seemed as if a giant furry caterpillar was slowly making its way across his lower forehead. Cold, grey, judgmental eyes peered out from beneath their hirsute covering. The mouth was closed tight like a steel trap.

Whatever else had brought Isaac Pollard to the Queen’s Head, it was not the pursuit of pleasure.

Wedging himself into a narrow space on a bench, he took stock of the audience and found it severely wanting. Lewd behaviour offended him on every side. Bold glances from powdered whores warmed his cheeks. Profanities assaulted his ears. Foul-smelling tobacco smoke invaded his nostrils. Extra bodies forcing their way on to his bench increased his discomfort. When he gazed down at the baying crowd below, he sensed incipient riot.

Isaac Pollard fumed with righteous indignation, then found a new target for his hostility. It was Lord Westfield himself. Flanked by his glittering hangers-on, the company’s illustrious patron emerged from a private room to take up a prime position in the lower gallery. A red velvet cushion welcomed his portly frame as he lowered it into his ornate chair. Wearing dresses in the Spanish fashion, two Court beauties sat either side of him and flirted outrageously with the guest of honour from behind their masks. Lord Westfield was in his element. He was a tireless epicurean with a fondness for excess and he outshone his entourage with a doublet of peach-coloured satin trimmed with gold lace, and silver hose with satin and silver panels. An elaborate hat, festooned with jewels and feathers, completed a stunning costume.

The whole assembly turned to admire a noble lord whose love of the drama had provided countless hours of delight for the playgoer. All that Isaac Pollard could see, however, was a symbol of corruption. Lord Westfield was a merry devil.

Separated from their audience by the traverse at the rear of the stage, Westfield’s Men were all too aware of them. It set their nerves on edge. An untried play was always a hazardous undertaking, but they had additional cause for alarm after the rehearsal. Failure on stage would be punished unmercifully. Even the most tolerant spectators could turn on a piece that failed to please them and they would hurl far more than harsh words at the players. It was no wonder the tiring-house was so full of foreboding. Lawrence Firethorn took his usual positive attitude and Barnaby Gill affected a cheerful nonchalance but the rest of the company were visibly shaking in their shoes.

Nicholas Bracewell moved quietly among them to give advice, to soothe troubled minds and to instil a sense of purpose. He expected apprentices like Richard Honeydew and Martin Yeo to be on edge, but he had never seen Edmund Hoode so keyed up before one of his own plays. Tucked in a corner, he was nervously thumbing through the sides on which his part had been written out by the scrivener. It seemed odd that someone whose memory was so reliable should be so concerned about his lines at the eleventh hour.

Inevitably, the major panic was to be found among those who took the title-roles. George Dart and Roper Blundell were convulsed with fear. Their costumes had been let out slightly so that they could breathe more easily but they were not happy in their work.

Nicholas attempted to boost their sagging morale.

‘Courage, lads. That is all you need.’

‘We have none between us,’ confessed George Dart timorously.

‘No, master,’ said Roper Blundell. ‘We are arrant cowards.’

‘You will carry your parts well,’ Nicholas assured them.

‘Not I,’ said the first devil.

‘Nor I,’ said his colleague.

‘You will feel much better when the play actually begins.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said George Dart.

‘I don’t know which is more fearsome,’ observed Roper Blundell. ‘Facing an audience or being called to account by Master Firethorn.’

‘We must suffer both!’ wailed his fellow.

They were sorry figures. Two small, bruised, dejected human beings, cowering before the heavy responsibility that was laid upon them. George Dart was young and cherubic, Roper Blundell was old and wizened, but they looked identical in their flame-red costumes, timeless images of torment in the after-life.

‘My trap-door would not open,’ said Dart.

‘Nor mine close,’ added Blundell.

‘I checked the counter-weights myself,’ said Nicholas.

The book holder gave a signal that imposed a hushed silence on the tiring-house. Doubts and anxieties had to be put aside now. It was time to begin. When the trumpet sounded to announce the start of the play, a cheer went up in the inn yard. The Prologue entered in a black cloak and spoke in lofty verse.

Next to appear was Lawrence Firethorn, bursting on to the stage in judicial robes with a clerk trotting at his heels. Applause greeted the leading actor. Waving a letter in the air, he vented his spleen with comic intensity.

Why, sir, what a damnable state of affairs is this! Am I not Justice Wildboare, a man of three thousand pounds a year and a sweetness of disposition to match such a fortune? I am minded to wed Mistress Lucy Hembrow but her father, the scurvy rogue, the bald-pated rascal, the treacherous knave, writes to tell me of two further suitors for her hand. One is Droopwell and t’other is Youngthrust. Am I to have rivals at the altar? Is the name of Wildboare not sufficient in itself for this fair maid? By Jove, she will have justice! When the boar is put to this pretty little sow, I’ll prove wild enough for her purposes, I warrant you. But rivals? I know this Droopwell by his hanging look. He will not stand to much in her account. But I like not the sound of this Youngthrust. I must take him down if I am to inherit this angel as my wife, or she will measure his inches. I must be devilish cunning!

Firethorn mesmerised them. Gesture, movement and facial expression were so apt that he reaped a laugh on almost every line. By the end of his first speech, the spectators had not only been introduced to the latest in his long line of brilliant stage portraits, they had also been given the entire plot. When the scene came to a close, their applause was long and enthusiastic. It invigorated the whole company.

The musicians played with more zest, the backstage minions ran to their tasks with more willingness, and the players themselves shook off their despondence and addressed their work with renewed interest. As a result, The Merry Devils blossomed as never before and revealed itself to be as fine a drama as any that Westfield’s Men had presented. The miraculous overall improvement was nowhere more clearly reflected than in Edmund Hoode’s performance. Shedding ten or more years, he put his whole self into Youngthrust and declaimed his lines with such a compound of passion and pathos that the heart of every woman melted towards him. Richard Honeydew, who played the beauteous Lucy Hembrow, found himself weeping genuine tears of joy at the urgency of the wooing.

Ralph Willoughby watched it all from the middle gallery with a burgeoning satisfaction. Though written by two men, the play spoke with one authentic voice. Hoode had provided the plot and the poetry while Willoughby had contributed the wit and the witchcraft. The blend was perfect. Lord Westfield led the laughter at another comic outburst by the thwarted Justice. Hands clapped loudly as another scene ended.

Only Isaac Pollard smouldered with discontent.

Then came the moment that everyone awaited. It occurred at the start of Act Three when expectation had been built to a peak. Unable to best Youngthrust in any way, Justice Wildboare resorted to a more sinister device. He employed Doctor Castrato to summon up devils who would do their master’s bidding. Ripples of delight went through the audience when they saw that Castrato was played by their beloved Barnaby Gill. Speaking in a high-pitched, eunuchoid voice that sorted well with his name, Castrato went through all the preliminaries of sorcery. Weird music played, mystic objects were placed in a circle and strange incantations were uttered. Barnaby Gill invested it all with an amalgam of humour and horror that was spell-binding. He stretched both arms wide to display the magical symbols painted on his huge cloak then he gave a stern command.

‘Come forth!’

Gunpowder exploded, red smoke went up, trap-doors opened and two merry devils leapt out. It all happened with such speed and precision that George Dart and Roper Blundell really did seem to have materialised out of thin air. Their trap-doors closed soundlessly behind them and they executed a little dance to music. Justice Wildboare beamed and Doctor Castrato bowed obsequiously. When they finished their sprightly capering, the two devils came to kneel before their new master. Complete silence now, fell on the makeshift playhouse.

It was broken with heart-rending suddenness. To the sound of another, much louder, explosion and through a larger effusion of smoke, a third devil shot up on to the stage. There was a surface similarity to the others but there were also marked differences. The third devil was smaller, quicker, more compact. He had longer horns, a shorter tail and a deeper blood-red hue. Slit-like eyes had a malevolence that glowed. The grotesque face was twisted into a sadistic grin.

Here was no assistant stagekeeper pressed into service.

This merry devil looked like the real thing.

Chapter Two

Not a murmur was heard, not a movement was made. Everyone was hypnotised. The newcomer had taken instantaneous command. Actors were rooted to the spot. Groundlings became standing statues. Galleries were frankly agog. They were not quite sure what they were witnessing, but they did not dare to turn away. Revelling in his power, the third devil held them in thrall and gazed menacingly around the massed gathering. With a wild cry and a crude gesture of threat, the creature suddenly jumped to the very edge of the stage and made the audience shrink back in fear. But it was only in jest. After letting out a low cackle of derision, the devil did a series of back-somersaults in the direction of the players.

George Dart and Roper Blundell fled at once to the tiring-house and Barnaby Gill flinched, but Lawrence Firethorn stood his ground manfully. It was his stage when he was upon it and he would defy Satan himself to rob him of his authority. The devil landed on his feet in front of him, spun round and regarded him with malicious glee. Showing great dexterity and speed, he then knocked Firethorn’s hat off, pulled the cloak up over Gill’s head, pushed over a table, kicked aside two stools then hurled the circle of mystic objects into the crowd. After cartwheeling around the stage in a red blur, the interloper vanished down the trap-down that had been left open and pulled it shut behind him.

A buzz ran through the audience. They did not know whether to be afraid or amused but they were all astonished. Some laughed to break the tension, others put hands to pounding hearts, others again shuffled towards the exits. Firethorn moved quickly to re-establish his control and to smooth any ruffled feathers. Pretending that the intrusion was all part of the play, he strode down to the trap-door and banged his foot on it, collecting yells of admiration at his bravery.

The voice of Justice Wildboare rang out with conviction.

This was the merriest devil of them all. Come forth again, sir, and know thy master. Show that impish face. I would have you before me that I may judge your case and pass sentence. An’ you knock off my hat again, you saucy varlet, I’ll fetch you a box o’ the ears that shall make your head ring all the way back to Hell. Stand forth once more, thou restless spirit. If you can do such tricks as these to order, I’ll have you play them on the lusty Youngthrust to still the throbbing codpiece of his ambition. Return, I command.

Firethorn pounded on the timber with his foot but there was no answering flash of devilry. The creature had gone back to the place from which he came. Given time to recover his wits, Barnaby Gill came across to support his fellow in an extempore duologue, in the course of which it was decided to summon the devils again. Music played and Doctor Castrato went into his macabre ritual, dispensing with the circle of mystic objects which had been scattered far and wide. The audience watched with bated breath.

High drama was taking place in the tiring-house where the merry devils were refusing to go back on stage again. George Dart was still shuddering and Roper Blundell speechless with agitation. Gentle persuasion from the book holder was having no effect and so he adopted a more forthright method. As the incantations reached their height and the devils were called forth, they were more or less propelled out from behind the curtains by the strong hands of Nicholas Bracewell. No sprightly jig this time, only abject fear as they fell to their knees and prayed that their devilish companion would not return again.

Stepping between them, Firethorn gave each a squeeze of encouragement on the shoulder, then fed them lines as solicitously as a mother spooning medicine into the mouth of a sick child. Very slowly, they were coaxed back into their roles and the play resumed its former course. Other players ventured out with trepidation, but Edmund Hoode came on with uncharacteristic assertiveness and threw himself into the fight to salvage his work. He would not let a supernatural accident – if that was what it was – come between him and his dearest hope. Too much was at stake.

The Merry Devils gradually revived. Wit sparkled, skulduggery thickened, drama heightened. By the end of the last act, the spectators were so absorbed in the action once more that they heaved a collective sigh of disappointment when it was all over. A sustained ovation was accorded to Westfield’s Men. Standing before his company to give a series of elaborate bows, Lawrence Firethorn kept a wary eye on the fatal trap-door. He was not ready to relinquish one second of his precious applause to another eruption from the netherworld.

Ralph Willoughby joined in the acclamation, but his mind was in a turmoil. He had written the scene in which the devils were raised up and had discussed with Nicholas Bracewell the special effects required. They had devised everything around two devils. If a third came uninvited, then it was a dire warning, a punishment inflicted on them for dabbling in the black arts. It was highly disturbing. Still outwardly debonair, Willoughby was plunged into profound spiritual torment.

As he made his way towards the exit, the playwright walked straight into the bustling figure of Isaac Pollard, who was pushing his way down the stairs. Two worlds came face to face.

‘Out of my way, sir!’ said Pollard.

‘By your leave.’

‘I must quit this house of idolatry!’

‘You did not like the comedy, sir?’

‘It was a profanation of the worst kind.’

‘Why, then, this rapturous applause?’ said Willoughby.

‘An audience of heathens!’

‘I think you do not love the playhouse.’

‘It is the creation of the Devil!’ affirmed Pollard. ‘I will not rest until every such place in London is burned to the ground!’

With a final snarl of disgust, he unfurled his bristling eyebrow and took his Christian conscience hurriedly down the stairs.

He was a man with a mission.

Hysteria enveloped the whole company. The effort of getting through the performance had concentrated their minds but there was a general collapse now that it was all over. Fear held sway over the tiring-house. Almost everyone was convinced that a real devil had been summoned up, and those who had not actually witnessed the creature now claimed to have been party to other manifestations.

‘I felt a fierce heat shoot up through my body.’

‘And I an icy cold that froze my entrails.’

‘The ground did shake wondrously beneath my feet.’

‘I heard the strangest cry.’

‘My eyes were dazzled by a blinding light.’

‘I saw a vision of damnation.’

‘The devil called me privily by my name.’

It all served to stoke up the communal delirium.

George Dart and Roper Blundell could not tear off their costumes fast enough, Richard Honeydew wept copiously for his mother, Barnaby Gill needed a restorative cup of brandy, Caleb Smythe pulled out a dagger to protect himself, Martin Yeo hid in a basket, Ned Rankin beat himself on the chest with clenched fists and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stage-keeper, who had long since strayed from the straight and narrow, and who had not entered a church for over a decade, now fell meekly to his knees and gabbled his way through the only psalm that he could remember.

Nicholas Bracewell stood apart and viewed it all with calm objectivity. He had caught only the merest glimpse of the third devil and it was a startling experience, but he was still keeping an open mind. Actors were superstitious by nature and the incident touched off their primal anxieties, convincing them that they were marked by Satan for an early demise. The book holder knew that he had to keep a cool head so that he could search for an explanation of the phenomenon.

Lawrence Firethorn came over to lean on him for support.

‘May I never see such a horrid sight again!’ he said.

‘You were equal to it, master.’

‘Someone had to confront the creature, Nick. The foulest fiend will not fright me from my calling. A true actor never deserts his place upon the stage.’

‘You were at the height of your powers.’

‘I surpassed myself,’ said Firethorn bluntly then he slipped a conspiratorial arm around the other’s shoulder. ‘There is much matter here, Nick, and we must debate it to the full at another time. For the nonce, duty beckons.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas with a rueful smile.

‘Master Marwood must be answered.’

‘It will be a labour of Hercules.’

‘That’s why I assign it to you, dear heart,’ said the actor with evident affection. ‘Your silver tongue and my golden talent hold Westfield’s Men together. We are the prop and mainstay of this company.’

‘Shall you speak with mine host as well?’

‘Heaven forbid! I could knock the wretch to the ground as soon as look at him. Keep that mouldy visage away from me! But he must be satisfied. This over-merry devil will drive us from the Queen’s Head else.’

‘What will I say to Master Marwood?’

‘That which will keep our contract alive.’

‘He will tax me about this afternoon’s business.’

‘Tell him it was all part of the play,’ suggested Firethorn. ‘And if that tale falls on stony ground, swear that it was a jest played on us by Banbury’s Men, who furnished us with one more devil than our drama required.’

‘That may yet turn out to be the truth,’ said Nicholas.

‘Villainy from our rivals?’

‘It must be considered.’

‘No,’ growled the other into his beard. ‘I looked that creature full in the face. Those eyes of his were aflame with evil. That was no human being come to scare us. It was a fiend of Hell.’ He eased the book holder towards the door. ‘Now go and lie to Marwood for all our sakes. And keep him ignorant of what I have just told you.’

Nicholas nodded and was about to leave.