The announcement that Westfield's Men were to stage The Merry Devils for a second time caused great consternation. Memories of the first performance were still fresh enough to haunt and harrow. Thomas Skillen was not the only member of the company forced to rediscover his Christian faith that afternoon and the few who had actually been able to sleep since had been prey to recurring nightmares. What they all desired was the much safer material of Vincentio's Revenge and Cupid's Folly. Seven gruesome deaths in the former and eight broken hearts in the latter were infinitely preferable to the risk of raising a devil. Protest was intense but Lawrence Firethorn overruled it with imperious authority.
Nicholas Bracewell came behind him to pick up the pieces.
'Be not downhearted, lads!'
'I quake,' said George Dart.
‘I quail,' said Roper Blundell.
'There is no just cause.
'I cannot do it, Master Bracewell,' gibbered Dart. 'I will not, I must not, I dare not.'
'Nor I,' said his fellow. 'This is work for a younger man.'
‘For no man at all,' returned Dart. 'I am young enough but I'll not venture upon it. I hope to be as old as you one day, Roper, and I would not be dragged off to Hell before my time.'
'That will not happen,' promised Nicholas.
'The play is cursed!' said Blundell.
'We are fools to touch it again,' added Dan.
'Lord Westfield has spoken,' reminded the book holder.
Blundell wheezed, 'Then let his lordship face that foul Fiend!'
They were chatting during a break in rehearsal at The Curtain. Neither of the assistant stagekeepers was cast in Cupid's Folly and they were pathetically grateful. Any acting ambitions they might have nursed were dashed to pieces at the Queen's Head and all they sought now was backstage anonymity. They made a curious pair. George Dart, with his face of crumpled hope, was dog-loyal to a company whose reward was to treat him like a dog. The most menial and degrading jobs were always assigned to him and he was a convenient whipping-boy if anything went wrong. Roper Blundell had such a gnarled visage that it looked as if it had been carved inexpertly from a giant turnip. Hair sprouted all over it. His body was small, wiry and surprisingly nimble for his age but lie was often short of breath.
‘I understand your feelings in the matter,' said Nicholas.
'Then do not press us,' said Roper Blundell.
'Someone must persuade you.'
'We are beyond persuasion,' asserted George Dart. 'Nothing would drive us back into those red costumes.'
'You must speak with Edmund Hoode.'
'He will have no influence over us,' said Blundell. Hear him out,' advised Nicholas. 'He will tell you how he has altered the play to render it harmless. There is no chance of summoning up another devil. Were he to explain that, might you not both think again?'
'No!' they said in unison.
'Would you let Westfield's Men down in their hour of need?'
'We must put our lives first,' said Dart.
'What life would you have without this company?' asked Nicholas.
His voice was gentle but it did not muffle the blow. The two small figures were shaken. George Dart suddenly looked very young and vulnerable, Roper Blundell, very old and desperate. In the hazardous world of the theatre, jobs were scarce and companies in a position to choose. If they were cut adrift from Westfield's Men, neither of them would find it easy to secure employment elsewhere.
Nicholas Bracewell was highly sympathetic to their plight. He liked them both and would not willingly part with either, bur the decision did not rest with him. He thought it only fair to warn them of what might lie ahead.
'Master Firethorn is adamant.'
George Dart was distraught. 'Would he turn us out?
'We must have merry devils at The Rose.'
'Help us,' begged Roper Blundell. 'You have been our good friend this long time, Master Bracewell. We would not go through that torture again and yet we would not leave the company cither. It is our home. We have no other. Help us, sir.'
Nicholas nodded and put a consoling arm around each of them.
'I will bethink me.'
*
Henry Drewry waddled around the room to build up his moral indignation.
'Why did you not tell me of this dreadful visit beforehand?'
'You did not ask, Father,' said Isobel.
'I have a right to be consulted about your movements.'
'You were not here. Had you been so, you would not have listened.'
'Do not he insolent, girl!'
'I am being truthful,' she replied levelly. 'Mother will say it as well as I. You are deaf to any words that we speak.'
'I am still the master or this house!' he blustered.
'That is why I do not bother you with trifling matters.
'This is no trifling matter, Isobel!'
'I went to a play, that is all. Wherein lies my crime?"
'In that, young lady!'
Henry Drewry stopped in the middle of the room ro confront his daughter. Everything about her irritated him, not least the fact that she was a few inches taller. Isobel had her mother's looks, her father's ebullience and a stubbornness that was all her own. Her serene smile enraged him.
Do not smile at me so!'
'How, then, should I smile at you, Father?'
I will not endure this impudence!'
But I am not trying to upset you, sir.'
'You study it,' he accused. 'Why did you visit the Queen's Head?'
'To see a comedy.'
'Is there laughter in blasphemy?'
'I shared in the laughter but saw no blasphemy.'
'Who enticed you to that evil place?
'Grace Napier,' she said. 'But it was not evil."
He blenched. 'The two of you? Unchaperoned?'
'Her brother escorted us there,' she lied.
'So the Napier family is to blame for leading you astray.'
No, Father. I went of my own free will.'
'That is even worse,' he said, stamping a foot. 'Can you not see the peril you courted? Plays are a source of corruption!'
'Have you never been to a playhouse?' she asked with a giggle. 'Come, I know you have. Mother has told me. There was a time when you organised an interlude at the Salters ' Company. And you often went to see a comedy at the Bel Savage in Ludgate. You liked plays then, Father, and they did not corrupt you.'
'Leave off these jests!'
'Grace and I watched three merry devils in a dance.'
'It was an act of profanity!'
'It was the funniest sight that ever I saw but it did me no harm except to make my ribs ache from laughing.'
'I will not bear this!' he howled.
Drewry took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. Why was it that other fathers had so little trouble with their daughters when he had so much? What fatal errors had he made in rearing the girl? Had he been too soft, too indulgent, too preoccupied with his civic duties and his business affairs? By now, Isobel should be married and ready to present him with his first grandchild, but she had rejected every husband that he chose for her and done so in round terms. It was time she learned that she could not flout his authority.
'You should not have gone to the Queen's Head,' he said.
'Why not, Father?'
'Because of my position as an Alderman. My dignity must be upheld at all costs. I would not have my daughter seen at a common playhouse.'
'But I was not seen- I wore a veil.'
'You are forbidden to go near a theatre!
'That is unfair,’ she protested.
‘It is my decree. Obey it to the letter.'
'But I have agreed to go to The Curtain with Grace this very afternoon. Do not make me disappoint lien'
'Tell Mistress Napier you are unable to go. And urge her, on a point of moral principle, not to attend the theatre herself.'
'Father, we both want to go there.'
'Playgoing is banned forthwith.'
'Why?'
'Because I would have it so,' he declared.
Before she could argue any further, he waddled out of the room and closed the door behind him. Isobel seethed with annoyance. Her father seemed to prohibit all the things in life that were really pleasurable. The need to maintain his dignity in the eyes of his peers was a burden on the whole family but especially on her. It imposed quite intolerable restraints on a young woman who craved interest and excitement. Isobel Drewry was trapped. She was still in a mood of angry dejection when a servant showed in Grace Napier.
I he newcomer was attired with discreet elegance and brought a delicate fragrance into the room. Something had put a bloom in her cheeks. Grace Napier was positively glowing.
'Master Hoode has sent a poem to me, Isobel.’
'Written by himself?'
'No question but that it is. A love sonnet.'
'You have made a conquest, Grace!'
'I own that I am flattered.'
'It is no more than you deserve,' said Isobel with a giggle. 'But show it me, please. I must see these fourteen lines of passion.'
'It is beautifully penned,' said Grace, handing over a scroll.
'The work of some scrivener, I vow.'
'No, Isobel. It is Master Hoode's own hand.'
Shrugging off her own problems, Isobel shared in her friend's delight. She read the poem with growing admiration. It was written by a careful craftsman and infused with the spirit of true love. Isobel was puzzled by the rhyming couplet which concluded the sonnet.
'To hear the warbling poet sing his fill,
Observe the curtained shepherd on the hill.'
'It is a reference to Cupid's Folly,' explained Grace. 'He takes the part of a shepherd at The Curtain this afternoon.'
'A pretty conceit and worthy of a kiss.'
'See how he plays with both our names in the first line.'
'"My hooded eyes will never fall from grace",' quoted Isobel. 'And watch how he rhymes "Napier" with "rapier". Your swain is fortunate that it was not I who bewitched him.'
'You?'
'He could not tinker so easily with "Isobel". And I defy him to find, a pleasing rhyme for "Drewry". I will not suffer "jury" or "fury".'
'You forget "brewery".'
They laughed together then Isobel handed the scroll back. She was thrilled on her friend's behalf. It was always exciting to attract the admiration of a gentleman but to enchant a poet gave special satisfaction. Like her, Grace Napier was not yet ready to consign herself to marriage and so was free to amuse herself with happy dalliance.
Envy competed with pleasure in Isobel's fair breast.
'I wish that T could take an equal part in your joy.'
'And so you shall, Isobel. Let us go to The Curtain.'
'It must remain undrawn for me, Grace.'
'Why so?'
'My father keeps me from the theatre.'
'On what compulsion?'
'His stern command.'
'Does he give reason?'
'He would not have me corrupted by knavery or drag his good name down by being seen at the playhouse.'
'These are paltry arguments.'
'Does not your father say the like?'
'Word for word,' replied Grace. 'I nod and curtsey in his presence then follow my inclination when lie is gone. Life is too short to have it marred by a foolish parent.'
'You speak true!' said Isobel with spirit.
'I would see my warbling poet this afternoon.'…
'Then so will I.'
'And if you cannot disobey your father?'
'What must I do?'.
'Mask your true intention.'
Grace Napier lifted up the feathered mask that hung from a ribbon at her wrist. Placing it over her own face, Isobel Drewry giggled in triumph. It was a most effective disguise and would hide her from any Aldermanic wrath. She thanked her friend with a peck on the cheek. Of the two, Isobel was by far the more extrovert and assertive. Not for the first time, however, it was the quiet Grace who turned out to have the stronger sense of purpose.
*
Cupids Folly was an ideal choice for The Curtain. On a bright summery afternoon, a pastoral comedy was much more acceptable to an audience that tended to be unruly if it was not sufficiently entertained. Dances and sword pi ay were the favoured ingredients at The Curtain, and Westfield s Men could offer both in abundance. Barnaby Gill was primed to do no less than four of his jigs and there were several comic duels to punctuate the action. Still jangled by their experience at the Queens Head, the company could relax slightly now. Cupid's Folly was harmless froth.
'Is my cap straight, Nick?' asked Edmund Hoode.
Too straight for any shepherd.'
And now? said the other, adjusting its angle.
'It is perfect. But do not shake so or the cap will fall off.'
'There is no help for it.'
'What frights you, Edmund?'
'It is not fear.'
Nicholas understood and left the matter tactfully alone. He had seen the subtle changes that Hoode's role underwent during the rehearsal. Flowery verse had been introduced into his speeches. Deep sighs were now everywhere. The lovelorn shepherd explored the outer limits of sorrow. The part had been cleverly reworked. It was Youngthrust in a sheepskin costume.
'Let's you and I speak together,' said Hoode.
'At your leisure, Edmund.'
'When the play is done?'
'And I am finished here.'
The book holder moved off to make a final round of the tiring-house before calling the actors to order. It was almost time to begin. There was the usual mixture of nervousness and exhilaration.
They had a full audience with high expectations. It would be another day of glory for Westfield's Men-and not a devil in sight!
Barnaby Gill marshalled the womenfolk in the play.
'Kiss me on the forehead in the first scene, Martin.'
'Yes, master,' said Martin Yeo.
'And do not fiddle with my beard this time. Dick?'
'Master Gill?'
'Be more sprightly in our dance. Toss your hands thus.'
Richard Honeydew nodded as the actor demonstrated what he meant.› As for you, Stephen, do sweeten your song.'
'Am I too low, master?' asked Stephen Judd.
'Indeed, yes. You are a shepherdess, sir, and not a bear in torment. Do not bellow so. Sing softly. Please the ear.'
'I will try, Master Gill.'
The three apprentices made very convincing females in their skirts, bodices, and bonnets. Young, slender and well-trained in all the arts of impersonation, they were skilful performers who added to the lustre of the company's work. Cupid's Folly made no real demands on them. All three took the roles of country wenches who were pursued in vain by the diseased and doddering Rigor-mortis. Pierced by Cupid's arrow in the opening scene, the old man fell in love with every woman he saw and yet, ironically, spurned the one female who loved him. This was Ursula, a rural termagant, fat, ugly and slothful but relentless in her wooing. She chased the object of her desire throughout the play and finally bore off the reluctant groom across her shoulders.
Barnaby Gill luxuriated in the part of Rigormortis. Apart from giving him the chance to display his full comic repertoire, it allowed him a fair amount of licensed groping on stage, particularly of Richard Honeydew, the youngest, prettiest and most tempting of the apprentices. Gill's proclivities were no secret to Westfield's Men and they were tolerated because of his talent, but there was a tacit agreement that he would not seduce any of the boys into his strange ways. He had to look outside the company for such sport. Cupid's Folly did not abrogate that rule but it gave his fantasies some scope.
'How do I look, Master Gill?'
'God's blood!'
'Am I ill-favoured enough, sir?'
'You would frighten the eye of a tiger!'
'When shall I kiss you on stage?'
'As little as possible.'
The lantern-jawed John Tallis had been padded out as Ursula and fitted with a long, bedraggled wig of straw-coloured hue. Cosmetics had turned an already unappealing face into a grotesque one. The thought of being embraced by such a hideous creature made Gill shiver.
'Oh, the sacrifices that I make for my art!'
'Shall I practise carrying you?' said Tallis helpfully.
'Forbear!'
'I only strive to please, master.'
'Then keep your distance.'
The voice of Nicholas Bracewell now stilled the hubbub.
'Stand by, sirs!'
The play was about to start. During its performance, Nicholas ruled the tiring-house. In spite of his leading role, Barnaby Gill was subservient to him. Even Lawrence Firethorn, cast as a frolicsome lord of the manor, acknowledged his primacy. Actors had their hour upon the stage. Behind it-where so much frenetic activity took place-the book holder held sway. The audience would see Cupid's Folly as a riotous comedy that bowled along at high speed but it was also a complicated technical exercise with countless scene changes, costume changes, entrances and exits. It needed the controlling hand of a Nicholas Bracewell.
The trumpet sounded above and they were away.
After the shortcomings of the Queen's Head, playing at The Curtain was a pure delight. Located in Shoreditch, it was a tall, purpose-built, circular structure of stout timber. Three storeys of seating galleries jutted out into a circle and this perimeter area was roofed with thatch. Open to the sky, the central space was dominated by an apron stage that thrust out into the pit. High, handsome and rectangular, it commanded the attention of the whole playhouse. At the rear of the acting area was a large canopy supported on heavy pillars that came up through the stage. I lie smooth inner curve of the arena was broken by a flat wall, at each end of which was a door. Directly behind the wall was the tiring-house.
The place was a superb amphitheatre with attributes that the Queen's Head could never offer. There was an additional bonus. It had no Alexander Marwood. There was no prevailing atmosphere of gloom, no long-faced landlord to depress and inhibit them. The Curtain was a theatre designed expressly for the presentation of plays. It conferred status on the actors and their craft.
‘Come, friends, and let us leave the city's noise
To seek the quieter paths of country joys.
For verdant pastures more delight the eye
With cows and sheep and fallow deer hereby,
With horse and hound, pursuing to their lair
The cunning fox or nimble-footed hare,
With merry maids and lusty lads most jolly
Who find their foolish run in Cupid's folly.’
The opening words of the Prologue set the tone admirably. When Barnaby Gill danced on stage to music, he was given a warm welcome. The audience knew where they were and liked what they saw. Rigormortis was quite irresistible. It was a performance of verbal dexterity, visual brilliance and superb comic timing. As the play progressed, it grew in stature. Each new love affair brought further complications and Gill milked the laughter with practiced assiduity.
Firethorn shone, too, as the lively Lord Hayfever but it was only a supporting role for once. The three apprentices made wonderful, nubile shepherdesses and John Tallis was an immediate success as the daunting Ursula. Nor was the romantic theme neglected. Edmund Hoode wallowed in a pit of poetic anguish and the female section of the audience was visibly touched. Watching from her cushioned seat in the gallery, Isobel Drewry was almost in tears as the lovesick shepherd bewailed his plight. Many of his lines seemed to be directed straight at Grace Napier and she herself was moved by the ardour of his appeal. The more she got to know of Hoode, the more fond of him she became but it was an affection that was tinged with sadness. He was so ready to commit himself wholeheartedly while Grace felt something holding her back.
Lord Westfield and his cronies preened themselves in their privileged seating and led the laughter at the wit and wordplay.
They were particularly diverted by a special effect that had been suggested by Nicholas Bracewell. It came in a scene that was set in the garden of Lord Hayfever's house and which featured a large conical beehive. The amorous Rigormortis was paying his unwanted attentions to Dorinda, the winsome shepherdess. Refusing to be deflected by her protestations, he pursued her with such vigour around the beehive that his elbow knocked it over. A swarm of bees burst forth-a handful of black powder tossed covertly in the air by Gill himself-and angry buzzing sounds were made by members of the company secreted beneath the stage. Stung in a dozen tender places, Rigormortis ran and jumped his way offstage with a series of yelps and cries that made the audience rock with mirth.
Lord Westfield turned to his nephew to share a joke.
'Where the bee stings, there sting I!'
'The fellow will not sit for a week,' said Francis Jordan. He should not have courted the queen of the hive.
'Queen, uncle?'
'That shepherdess is young Honeydew!’
'Well-buzzed, I say!"
They watched the stage as fresh merriment arrived.
Cupid's Folly was always popular with the company but they found another reason to like it that afternoon. It healed their wounds. It blotted out the dark memory of The Merry Devils. It restored their shattered morale and put new zest into their playing. A glorious romp and an appreciative audience. Westfield's Men were wholly revived. Fear no longer lapped at the back of their minds. They were almost home and dry. Then came the final scene.
To end on a note of rural festivity, the playwright had contrived a dance around a huge maypole. Slotted into a hole in the middle of the stage, it looked as solid and upright as the mainmast of a ship. The countryfolk held a ribbon apiece and tripped around the pole to weave intricate patterns. Music drifted down from the gabled attic room where Peter Digby and his musicians were stationed. It was an engaging sight. Colour and movement entranced the spectators.
At the height of the dance, there was a sudden intrusion.
Rigormortis had been rejected by the three shepherdesses and driven away from the area. He now came sprinting back on to the village green with the panting Ursula on his tail. Fresh gales of laughter were produced by the elaborate chase sequence. Unable to outrun his pursuer, Rigormortis took refuge in the one place where she could not follow him-at the top of the pole. With great nimbleness, he shinned up the maypole and clung to it for dear life. Ursula pawed the ground below and yelled at him to come down.
Her command was obeyed instantly.
There was a loud crack and the pole split in two at a point only a few feet below the old man. Barnaby Gill lost his high eminence and dropped like a stone, landing heavily but rolling over immediately to get back to his feet. John Tallis gaped.
'Carry me out!' hissed Gill.
'What, master?'
'Over your shoulder, boy!'
Ursula did as she was told and bore Rigormortis offstage to a resounding cheer. The action had been so swift and continuous that it seemed like a rehearsed part of the play. When Barnaby Gill reappeared to take his bow with the company, he was given an ovation. His fall from the maypole had been as dramatic as it had been comic.
He bowed graciously and smiled expansively but Nicholas Bracewell was not deceived. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of Gill's costume and the man was clearly in pain. The maypole was hewn from old English oak and would never snap of its own accord. Nicholas decided that it had been sawn almost through by someone who concealed his handiwork beneath the coloured ribboning that swathed the pole. Rigormortis was meant to fall from the top. He could have been seriously injured.
Westfield's Men evidently had a dangerous enemy.
*
Margery Firethorn clucked solicitously over the patient like a mother hen.
'Dear, dear! There, there! How now, sir?'
'I believe I will recover,' said Gill wearily.
'Would you care for some wine?' she asked.
'No, thank you.'
'Some ale, then? Some other beverage of your choice?'
'I could touch nothing in my present state, Margery.'
'You suffer much in the cause of your profession, sir.'
'It is needful.'
'Is there pain still?'
'Sufficient.'
He winced and set off another round of maternal clucking.
Barnaby Gill was making the most of it. A surgeon had been called to dress the wound in his arm then he had been brought back to Firethorn's house because of its proximity to the theatre. Apart from the small gash which had produced the blood, he had sustained only a few bruises and abrasions. Reclining in, i chair, he had now got over the accident but he did not tell that to Margery Firethorn. He was enjoying far too much the chance to exploit her gushing sympathy.
'Did the surgeon give you physic, Barnaby?' she said. He prescribed rest, that is all.'
'Call on us, sir. Your needs will be provided.'
'I value that kindness.'
'Do not fear to ask for anything.'
'I will not, Margery.'
'If you wish to stay here, a bed can be found.'
'That will not be necessary, my angel,' said Firethorn, butting in on the conversation because he was no longer the centre of attention in his own house. 'It is only Barnaby's arm that is grazed, my dove. His legs are still sturdy enough to carry him back to his lodging. Besides, he has too much pride to impose on us.'
Gill shot him a hurt look. He was not so enamoured of Margery as to seek her hospitality for a few days but he relished the idea of sleeping under the same roof as the four apprentices and having the opportunity to play on their sympathies. His invitation had now been summarily cancelled by his host.
Margery Firethorn shifted her interest to the accident.
'How came that maypole to break in such a manner?'
'Act of God,' said Gill ruefully.
'Of the devil, you mean,' corrected Firethorn. 'Someone had cut through the oak to weaken it. Nick Bracewell showed me how it was done.'
'Master Bracewell must bear some of the blame,' said Gill sourly. 'It is his job to check that all our properties and stage furniture are safe. There has been laxity.'
'He saw the maypole do its duty during the rehearsal,' said Firethorn. 'Nick found it secure enough then. He did not realise that it was later tampered with by some villain.'
'My life was put at risk, Lawrence. He should be upbraided.'
'He has already upbraided himself
'This calls for a stern warning from you.'
'I'll be the judge of that, Barnaby.'
'If it was left to me, I'd dismiss the fellow.'
'Oh, no!' exclaimed Margery.
'I would sooner dismiss myself,' said Firethorn. 'Nick has no peer among book holders and I have known dozens. Westfield's Men owe him an enormous debt.'
'I do not share that sense of obligation, Lawrence.'
Barnaby Gill had always disliked the book holder, resenting the way that he took on more and more responsibility in the company. He could not bear to see Nicholas being treated like a sharer when the latter was only a hired man.
'You involve him too much in our councils.'
'Thank goodness I do. He has saved us many a time.'
'He did not save me up that maypole.'
'Nor was he the cause of your fall,' said Firethorn testily. 'Someone plotted your accident and only Nick Bracewell will be able to find out who it is. We need him more than ever.'
'Besides,' said Margery fondly, 'he is a true gentleman.'
Gill snorted. Abandoning all hope of persuading them, he announced that he felt well enough to return to his own lodging. He pretended that he was still in intense pain but said he would endure ь with Stoic demeanour rather than be a nuisance to them. Margery pressed him to stay but her husband countermanded the offer.
'Go early to your bed, Barnaby.'
'I may not leave it for days.'
'We have another performance tomorrow. Be mindful.'
'Today's play still weighs upon me, sir.'
'We'll find the culprit,' said Firethorn confidently.
'Some minion employed by Banbury's Men no doubt.'
'Or some viper within our own circle.'
'What's that?'
'He has been the villain all along.'
'Who, Lawrence?'
'He hacked through that maypole by way of farewell.'
'Tell us his name,' said Margery.
'Willoughby.'
'Ralph Willoughby?"
'I can think of no man more likely,' he said gravely. Damn the fellow! He knew the action of the play and at what point in it he could most damage us. Yes, I see the humour of it now. Willoughby was mortally wounded when I dismissed him from the company. We saw the extent of his anger this afternoon in that foul crime. It was his revenge.'
*
Life as the book holder of Westfield's Men was highly exacting at all times. Nicholas Bracewell was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Having set everything up for the morning's rehearsal, he now supervised the withdrawal from the theatre. They would not be playing at The Curtain again for a couple of weeks and all their scenery, costumes and properties had to be safely transported back to the room at the Queen's Head where it was kept. As well as co- ordinating the efforts of his men, Nicholas had yet again to find some means to lift their spirits. The accident with the maypole had plunged them back into despair. First with The Merry Devils and now Cupid's Folly, they had suffered a disaster that was not of their own making. It was unnerving.
'Shall we ever be free of these uncanny happenings?'
'No question but that we shall.'
'I am anxious, Master Bracewell.'
'Overcome your anxiety.'
‘It is too great, sir.'
‘Fight it, George. Strive to better it.'
'Roper thinks that Satan has set his cloven hoof upon us.'
'Roper Blundell has a wild imagination.'
'He was sober when he spoke.'
‘Sober or drunk, he is not to be heeded.'
'Then who did attack us today, master?'
'I have no answer to that,' admitted Nicholas, 'but this I do know. There was sawdust in the tiring-house where the maypole was kept before it was used. Some person cut through that solid oak when the place was unattended. Satan would have no need of such careful carpentry. He could have split the pole at his will.’
'And may yet do that!'
George Dart was desolate. Spared the ordeal of an acting role in Cupid's Folly, he and Roper Blundell did make an appearance on stage when they set up the maypole. In carrying it on, they unwittingly assisted in the downfall of Barnaby Gill and it preyed on them. Nicholas tried to reassure the assistant stagekeeper but Dart was inconsolable. There had been two calamities on stage already.
'When will the third strike us, Master Bracewell?'
'We must ensure that it does not.'
George Dart shrugged helplessly and trudged off. He and Roper Blundell left the theatre together, companions in misery. Their lowly position in the company made their jobs thankless enough at the best of times. Now they were being put on the rack as well. Neither would survive another devil or a second broken maypole.
After a final tour to check that all was in order, Nicholas came out of the playhouse himself. He was just in time to witness a brief but affectionate leavetaking. Two young ladies, dressed in their finery, were parting company with Edmund Hoode. Both were attractive but one had the more startling beauty. Yet he ignored her completely. Transfixed by the quieter charms of the other, he took her proffered hand and laid a tender kiss upon it, blushing in the ecstasy of the moment. The women raised their masks to their faces then sailed gracefully off to the carriage that was waiting for them. Hoode watched until the vehicle rattled away down Holywell Lane.
Nicholas strolled across to his still-beaming friend.
'You wanted to speak with me, Edmund.'
'Did I?'
'We arranged to meet when my work was done.'
'Ah, yes,' said Hoode, clutching at a vague memory. 'Forgive me, Nicholas. My mind is on other matters.'
'Let us turn our feet homeward.'
They walked in silence for a long while. Suppressing his natural curiosity, Nicholas made no mention of what he had just witnessed. If his companion wished to discuss the subject, he would raise it. For his part, Hoode was torn between the need for discretion and the urge to confide. He wanted both to keep and share his secret. Nicholas was a close friend who always showed tact and understanding. It was this consideration which finally made Hoode blurt out his confession.
'I am in love!'
'The possibility occurred to me,' said Nicholas wryly.
'Yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve. It was ever thus.'
'Who is the young lady?'
The loveliest creature in the world!'
It was a description that Edmund Hoode used rather often. Drawn into a series of unsuitable and largely unproductive love affairs, he had the capacity to put each failure behind him and view his latest choice with undiminished wonder. It was the triumph of hope over cynicism. Hoode was indeed a true romantic.
'Her name is Grace Napier,' he said proudly.
'It becomes her well.'
'Did you not see that eye, that lip, that cheek?'
'I was struck at once by her qualities.'
'Grace is without compare.'
'Of good family, too, I would judge.'
'Her father is a mercer in the City.'
Nicholas was duly impressed. The Mercers' Company included some of the wealthiest men in London. Merchants who dealt in fine textiles, they gained their royal charter as early as 1394 and were now so well-established and respected that they came first in order of precedence at the annual Lord Mayor's Banquet. If Grace Napier were the daughter of a mercer, she would want for nothing.
'How did you meet her?' asked Nicholas.
'She is bedazzled by the theatre and never tires of watching plays. Westfield's Men have impressed her most.'
'And you have been the most impressive of Westfield's Men.'
'Yes!' said Hoode with delight. 'She singled me out during Double Deceit. Is that not a miracle?'
'Double Deceit is one of your best plays, Edmund.'
'Grace admired my performance in it as well.'
'You always excel in parts you tailor for yourself.'
'Her brother approached me,' continued Hoode, 'and told me how much they had enjoyed my work. I was then introduced to Grace herself. Her enthusiasm touched me to the core, Nick. We authors have poor reward for our pains but she made all my efforts worthwhile. I loved her for her interest and our friendship has grown from that time on.'
Nicholas was touched as he listened to the full story and could not have been more pleased on the other's behalf. Hoode had a fatal tendency to fall for women who-for some reason or another-were quite unattainable and his ardour was wasted in a fruitless chase. Grace Napier was of a different order. Young, unmarried and zealous in her playgoing, she was learning to welcome his attentions and thanked him warmly for the sonnet she inspired. The luck which eluded the playwright for so long had at last come his way.
'And who was that other young lady, Edmund?'
'What other young lady?'
The point was taken. Nicholas withdrew his enquiry. After letting his friend unpack his heart about Grace, he tried to guide him back to the reason that had brought them together on their walk. Shoreditch had now become Bishopsgate Street. Through a gap between two houses, they could see cows grazing in the distance.
"Why did you seek me out?' said Nicholas.
'Why else but to talk of Grace?'
'You had some other purpose, I fancy.'
'Oh.' Hoode's face clouded. 'I had forgot.' -
As the conversation took on a more serious tone, they stopped in their tracks. Neither of them noticed that they were standing outside Bedlam. Nor did they guess that something which might have an important bearing on their own lives was going on behind its locked doors. The hospital was simply a backdrop to their exchange.
'It is Ralph Willoughby,' said Hoode.
'What of him?'
'I need his help with The Merry Devils'
'But he has been outlawed by Master Firethorn.'
'That will not deter me.'
There was a defiant note in his voice but a question in his raised eyebrow. He was ready, of course, to disregard a major decision taken by Lawrence Firethorn. What he needed to know was whether or not Nicholas would support him in his action
‘I’ll not betray you, Edmund.'
'Thank you.'
'Ralph was not well-treated by us,' said Nicholas. 'I've no quarrel with him and would be glad of his advice about the play.' 'He wrote that scene and only he should alter its course.'
'I accept that.'
'It would be wrong to proceed without him.'
'Work together in private and nobody will be the wiser.'
'I am vexed by a problem, Nick.'
'Of what nature?’
'There is no sign of Ralph.'
'You have been to his lodging?'
'He has not slept there for nights,' said Hoode. 'I can gain no clue as to his whereabouts. That is why I came to you for some counsel. Ralph Willoughby has vanished from London.'
*
The house in Knightrider Street was a large, lackadaisical structure whose half-timbered frontage sagged amiably forwards. Through the open window on the first floor came the rich aroma of a herbal compound, only to lose its independence as it merged with the darker pungencies of the street. A face appeared briefly at the window and a small quantity of liquid was dispatched from a bowl. It fell to the cobbled surface below and sizzled for a few seconds before spending itself in a mass of bubbles. The face took itself back into the chamber.
Evening shadows obliged Doctor John Mordrake to work by candlelight. Up in the cluttered laboratory with its array of weird charts and bizarre equipment, its learned tomes and its herbal remedies, he crouched low over a table and used a pestle and mortar to pound a reddish substance into a fine powder. There was an intensity about him which suggested remarkable concentration and he was not deflected in the least by any of the harsh sounds that bombarded him through the window. He had created his own peculiar world around him and it was complete in itself.
Mordrake was a big man who had been made smaller by age and by inclination. His shoulders were round, his spine curved, his legs unequal to the weight placed upon them. Time had cruelly redrawn the lines on his visage to make it seem smaller and less open than it was. Long, lank, sliver-grey hair further reduced the size of his face, which terminated in a straggly beard. He wore a black gown and black buckled shoes. A chain of almost mayoral pretension hung around his neck and gold rings enclosed several of his skinny fingers.
Old, tired, even ravaged, Doctor John Mordrake yet conveyed a sense of power. There was an inner strength that came from the possession of arcane knowledge, a glow of confidence that came horn a surging intellect. Here was an ordinary man in touch with the extraordinary, an astrologer who could foretell the future, an alchemist who could manipulate the laws of nature, a cunning wizard who could speak to the dead in their own language. Mordrake was an intercessory between one life and the next. It gave him a luminescent quality.
Footsteps creaked on the oak stairs outside and there was a knock on the door. The servant showed in a visitor, bowed humbly and shuffled out. Mordrake did not even look up at the satin-clad gallant who had called on him and who now stood tentatively near the door. The old man worked patiently away and a thin smile flitted across his lips.
'Good evening, sir. I thought you would come again.'
'Did you so?' said the visitor. I have been expecting you for days.'
'Have you?'
'We both know what brings you to Knightrider Street.'
'I am afraid, sir.'
Ralph Willoughby had come to talk about devils.