Bankside was anathema to the Puritans, tt was the home of all that was lewd and licentious and most of them sedulously avoided its fetid streets and lanes. Isaac Pollard was a rare exception. Instead of shunning the area, he frequently sought it out on the grounds that it was best to measure the strength of an enemy whom you wished to destroy. He hated his journeys through the narrow passages of Bankside but they always yielded some recompense. New outrages were found on each visit. They served to consolidate his faith and to make him continue his mission with increased, vigour. If London were to be purged of sin, this was the place to start.
Pollard belonged to the hard core of activists in the Puritan fold. Although there were no more than a few hundred of them, they were powerful, well-organised and fearless in the pursuit of their cause. With influential backing in high places, they could on occasion exert strong pressure. Their avowed aim was to remodel the Church of England on Calvinist or Presbyterian lines, introducing a greater simplicity and cutting away what they saw as the vestigial remains of Roman Catholicism. But the Puritan zealots did not rest there. They wanted everyone to live the life of a true Christian, observing a strict moral code and abjuring any pleasures.
It was this aspect of their ministry that brought Isaac Pollard for another walk in the region of damnation that evening. In his plain, dark attire with its white ruff, he was an incongruous figure among the gaudy gallants and the swaggering soldiers. From beneath his black hat, he scowled fiercely at all and sundry.
Believing that integrity was its own protection, he nevertheless carried a stout walking stick with him to beat off any rogues or pickpockets. Pollard was more than ready to strike a blow in the name of the Lord.
A group of revellers tumbled noisily out of a tavern ahead of him and leaned against each other for support. Laughing and belching, they made their way slowly towards him and jeered when they recognised what he was. Pollard bravely stood his ground as they brushed past, hurling obscenities at him and his calling. Even in the foul stench of the street, he could smell the ale on their breaths.
It was a brief but distressing incident. When he came to the next corner, however, he saw something much more appalling than a gang of drunken youths. Huddled in the shadow of a doorway down the adjacent lane, a man was molesting a woman. He had lifted her skirts up and held her in a firm embrace. Pollard could not see exactly what was going on but he heard her muffled protests. Raising his stick, he advanced on the wrongdoer and yelled a command.
'Unhand that lady, sir!'
'I fart at thee!' roared the man.
'Leave go of her or I will beat you soundly.'
'Let a poor girl earn her living!' shrieked the woman.
‘Can I not help you?' said Pollard.
She answered the question with such a barrage of abuse that he went puce. Now that he was close enough to realise what they were doing, he was mortified. Far from protesting, the woman had been urging her client on to a hotter carnality. The last thing she needed during her transaction was the interference of a Puritan.
'A plague upon you!' she howled.
'Cast out your sins!' he retaliated.
'Will you have me draw my sword?' warned the other man.
As a fresh burst of vituperation came from the woman, Pollard backed away then strode off down the street. Within only a short time of his arrival in Bankside, he had enough material for an entire sermon. There was worse to come. His steps now took him along Rose Alley, past the jostling elbows of the habitues and beneath the dangling temptation of the vivid inn signs. Crude sounds of jollity hammered at his ears then something loomed up to capture all his attention. It was London's newest theatre-the Rose. Built on the site of a former rose garden in the Liberty of the Clink, it was of cylindrical shape, constructed around a timber frame on a brick foundation. To the crowds who flocked there every day, it was a favourite place or recreation.
To Isaac Pollard, it was a symbol of corruption.
As his anger made the single eyebrow rise and fill like rolling waves, he caught sight of a playbill that was stuck on a nearby post. It advertised one of the companies due to perform at The Rose in the near future.
Westfield's Men-in The Merry Devils.
Pollard tore down the poster with vicious religiosity.
*
'What you tell me is most curious and most interesting, Master Willoughby.'
'Yet you do not seem surprised.'
'Nor am I, sir.'
'You knew that this would happen?'
'I entertained the possibility.'
'But you gave me no forewarning.'
"That was not what you paid me to do.'
Doctor John Mordrake was a man of encyclopaedic knowledge and sound commercial sense. Having devoted his life to his studies, he was going to profit from them in order to buy the books or the equipment that would help him to advance the frontiers of his work. He dealt with the highest and the lowest in society, providing an astonishing range of services, but he always set a price on what he did.
Ralph Willoughby was conscious of this fact. He knew that his visit to Knightrider Street would be an expensive one. Mordrake's time could not be bought cheaply and he had already listened for half-an-hour to the outpourings of his caller. Willoughby, however, had reached the point where he was prepared to spend anything to secure help. Doctor John Mordrake was his last hope, the one man who might pull him back from the abyss of despair that confronted him.
They sat face to face on stools. Mordrake watched him with an amused concern throughout. Most people who consulted him came in search of personal gain but Willoughby had wanted an adventure of the mind. That pleased Mordrake who sensed a kindred spirit.
'You were at Cambridge, I believe, Master Willoughby?'
'That is so, sir.'
'Which college?'
'Corpus Christi.'
'At what age did you become a student?'
'Seventeen.'
'That is late. I was barely fourteen when I went to Oxford.' The old man smiled nostalgically. 'It was an ascetic existence and '. thrived on it. We rose at four, prayed, listened to lectures, prayed again, then studied by candlelight in our cold rooms. We conversed mostly in Latin.'
'As did we, sir. Latin and Hebrew.'
'Why did you leave the university?' Its dictates became irksome to me.'
'And you chose the theatre instead?' said Mordrake in surprise. 'You left academe to be among what Horace so rightly calls mendici, mimi, balatrones, hoc genus omne?’
'Yes,' said Willoughby with a wistful half-smile. 'I went to be among beggars, actors, buffoons and that class of persons.'
'In what did the attraction lie?'
'The words of Cicero.'
'Cicero?'
' Poetarum licentiae liberoria.’
'The freer utterance of the poet's licence.'
'That is what I sought.'
'And did you find it, Master Willoughby?'
'For a time.'
'What else did you find, sir?'
'Pleasure.'
'Cicero has spoken on that subject, too,' noted Mordrake with scholarly glee. ' Voluptus est illecebra turpitudinis. Pleasure is an incitement to vileness.'
Willoughby fell silent and stared down at the floor. Though lie was dressed with his usual ostentatious flair, he did not have the manner that went with the garb. His face was drawn, his jaw slack, his hands clasped tightly together. Mordrake could almost feel the man's anguish.
'How can I help you?' he said.
It was a full minute before the visitor answered. He turned eyes of supplication on the old man. His voice was a solemn whisper.
'Did I see a devil at the Queen's Head?'
'Yes.'
'How came it there?'
'At your own request, Master Willoughby.'
'Rut you told me it could not happen in daylight.'
'I said that it was unlikely but did not rule it out. The devil would not have come simply in answer to the summons in your play.'
"What brought it forth, then?'
'You did, sir.'
'How?'
'You have an affinity with the spirit world.'
Willoughby was rocked. His darkest fear was confirmed. Words that he had written raised up a devil. The apparition at the Queen's Head had come in search of him.
'You should have stayed at Cambridge,' said Mordrake sagely. 'You should have taken your degree and entered the Church. It is safer there. The duty of a divine is to justify the ways of God to man. Christianity gives answers. The duty of a poet is to ask questions. That can lead to danger. Religion is there to reassure. Art disturbs.'
'Therein lies its appeal.'
'I will not deny that.'
Mordrake pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across to a long shelf on the other side of the room. It was Pilled with large, dusty leather-bound volumes and he ran his Fingers lightly across them.
'A lifetime of learning,' he said. For ten years, I travelled all over Europe. I worked in the service of the Count Palatine of Siradz, King Stephen of Poland, the Emperor Rudolph, and Count Rosenberg of Bohemia. Wherever I went, I searched for books on myth and magic and demonology. In Cologne, I found the most important work of them all.' He took down a massive volume and brought it across. 'Do you know what this is?'
' Malleus Malleficarum?’
'Yes,' replied Mordrake, clutching the book to his chest like a mother cradling a child. ‘ Hexenhammer, as it is sometimes called. The Hammer of Witches. First printed in 1486. Written by two Dominicans from Germany. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, scholars of great worth and reputation.' He sat on the stool again. 'It is a wondrous tome.'
'Can it help me, Doctor Mordrake?'
'It can help any man.'
'Truly, sir?'
'Here is the source of all enlightenment.'
Ralph Willoughby touched the book with a reverential hand before looking up to search his companion's grey eyes. Hope and apprehension mingled in his breathless enquiry.
'Will it save my soul?'
*
Westfield Hall was a vast, rambling mansion set in the greenest acres of Hertfordshire. From a distance, it looked mote like a medieval hamlet than a single house, being a confused mass of walls, roofs and chimneys on differing levels. It presented to the world a black and white face that glowed in the afternoon sun beneath hair of golden thatch. The house was as splendid and dramatic as its owner, with a hint of Lord Westfield's paunch in its sagging eaves and a reflection of his capricious nature in its riotous angles.
Francis Jordan stayed long enough to feel a twinge of envy then he turned his head away. Spurring his horse, he went on past Westfield Hall for half a mile or so and came to a long, wooded slope. His bay mare took him through the trees at a steady canter until they reached a clearing. A sturdy man in rough attire was carrying a wooden pail of water towards a small cottage. Jordan brought his mount to a sudden halt and directed a supercilious stare at the man. Instead of the deferential nod that he expected, he was given a bold glance of hostility. Jordan fumed. His horse felt the spurs once again.
When he emerged from the woods and got to the top of the ridge, he reined in the animal once more. From his vantage point, he gazed down at the dwelling in the middle distance. Parkbrook House was true to its name. Set in rolling parkland, it was almost encircled by a fast-running brook that snaked its way through the grass. The house was built of stone and replete with high casements. With its E-shaped design, it was more austere and symmetrical than Westfield Hall and could lay claim to none of the latter's antiquity, but it still did not suffer by comparison in the mind of Francis Jordan. There was a unique quality about Parkbrook House that lifted it above any other property in the county.
It was his.
As soon as he began to ride down the hill, he was spotted. By the time Jordan arrived, an ostler was waiting to help him dismount and take care of his horse. The steward was standing nearby.
'Welcome, master!' he said with formal enthusiasm.
'Thank you, Glanville,'
'All is ready for your inspection.'
'I should hope so, sir.'
'They have worked well in your absence.'
Joseph Glanville was a tall, impassive, dignified man of forty. As steward of the household, he had power, privilege and control over its large staff of servants. He was dressed with a restrained smartness that was made to look dull beside the colourful apparel of his master. Over his grey satin doublet and breeches, Glanville wore a dark gown that all but trailed on the ground. A small, tricornered hat rested on his head and his chain of office was worn proudly. He had been at Parkbrook House for some years and addressed his duties with the utmost seriousness.
'Take me in at once,' said Jordan peremptorily.
'Follow me, sir.’
The steward conducted him across the gravel forecourt and in through the main door. A group of male servants were standing in a line in the entrance hall and they bowed in unison as their master passed, Jordan was pleased and rewarded them with a condescending nod. He walked behind Glanville across the polished oak floor. When they reached the Great Hall, the steward stood aside to let him go in first.
Francis Jordan viewed the scene with a critical eye.
'I thought the work would be more advanced.'
'Craftsmanship of this order cannot be rushed, sir.'
'There is hardly any progress since my last visit.'
'Do not be misled by appearances.'
'I wanted results, Glanville!'
His barked annoyance caused everyone in the hall to stop what he was doing. The plasterers looked down from their scaffolding. The painters froze on their ladders. Carpenters working on the moulded beams held back their chisels and the masons at the far end of the room put down their hammers. Francis Jordan had wanted to redesign and redecorate the Great Hall so that it could become a focal point of his social life. As he strolled disconsolately over sheets of canvas, it seemed to him that the work was not only behind schedule but contrary to his specification. He swung round to face his steward.
'Glanville!'
'Yes, sir?
'This is not good. It is less than satisfactory.'
'If I might be permitted to explain…'
'This is explanation enough,' said Jordan, waving an arm around. 'I looked to have the place finished ahead of time.'
'Problems arose, sir. Some materials were difficult to come by.'
'That is no excuse.'
'But the men are working to the very limit of their capacity. I Can promise you that everything will be completed in a month.'
'A month! It must be ready in two weeks.'
'That is well-nigh impossible, master.'
'Then make it possible, sir!' snarled the other. 'Bring in more craftsmen. Let them work longer hours-through the night, if need be. I must and will have my Great Hall ready for the celebrations. I can wait no longer.'
'As you wish, sir,' said Glanville with a bow.
Jordan sauntered on down to the far end where the major alteration had occurred. A huge bay window had replaced the old wall and it allowed sunlight to flood in from the eastern aspect. As he shot a glance of reproof at them, the masons began to hammer away again in earnest. Jordan examined their work then looked back into the hall as if trying to come to a decision. He pointed a long finger.
'We will need the stage there, Glanville.'
'Stage, master?'
'A play will be performed at the banquet.'
'I understand, sir.'
'Westfield's Men will require a platform for their art.'
'They shall have it.'
Glanville bowed again, anxious not to incur any further displeasure. To be chastised so sharply in front of others was a blow to his self-esteem. He did not want to give his new master another chance to arraign him so openly. Joseph Glanville was a sensitive man.
'One last thing,’ said Jordan.
'Yes, master?'
'I rode past a cottage in the woods.'
'Jack Harsnett lives there, sir.'
'Harsnett?'
'Your forester.'
'Dismiss him forthwith. I do not like the fellow.'
'But he has worked on the estate all his life.'
'He goes today.'
'For what offence, sir?'
'Incivility.'
'lack Harsnett is a good forester," said Glanville defensively. 'Times are hard for him just now, sir. His wire is grievously ill.
'Clear the pair or them off my land!'
Francis Jordan brooked no argument. Having issued his command, he marched the full length of the Great Hall and stormed out. Glanville's face was as impassive as ever but his emotions had been stirred.
One of the carpenters came across for a furtive word.
'Here's a change for the worse!'
'We must wait and see,' said the steward tactfully.
'Jack Harsnett turned out. The old master would not have done it.'
'The old master is not here any longer.'
Mores the pity, say I!' The carpenter put the question that was on all their lips. 'Where is the old master, sir?'
'He has gone away.'
*
The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem worked to an established routine. It could not be changed by one man, however much he might desire it. Kirk had been at Bedlam only a matter of days before he realised this. What he saw as the cruel and inhumane treatment of lunatics could not easily be remedied. Though he tried to show them more compassion himself, it did not always meet with their gratitude and he had been attacked more than once by impulsive patients. What distressed Kirk most was that he had himself reverted to the very behaviour he criticised in the other keepers. Bedlam was slowly brutalising him.
At the end of one week, he was given a new assignment by Rooksley. He was to take over the care of some of the patients who were locked away in private rooms and did not consort with the others. They were sad cases. One emaciated man was convinced that he was on the point of freezing to death. Even on the hottest days, when his face was running with sweat, he would lie in bed and shiver uncontrollably beneath the thick blanket. Kirk fed him on warm soup and tried to talk him out of his delusion.
Another of his charges was a querulous old woman, the wife of a wealthy glover. Her husband committed her because of her obsession. Barren throughout her life and now well past the age of childbirth, she believed that she was pregnant and feared that she was in imminent danger of bringing a black baby into the world. Kirk learned to humour her and promised not to tell her husband about her imagined affair with a handsome Negro.
But it was the young gentleman who most interested the keeper and engaged his sympathy. In the grim surroundings of Bedlam, the patient in the white shirt and the dark breeches still had an air of distinction. To all outward appearances, he was a normal, healthy, educated young person from a good family. Kirk was not told his name. All he knew was that the patient was incarcerated there by someone who paid a weekly rent and who stipulated that he was to come to no harm. He was supposed to be possessed by the Devil but Kirk saw little sign of this during his daily visits.
'Good morning!'
'Ah!' The man looked up with childlike happiness.
'I've brought you some food, my friend.'
' Oo!'
'Shall I sit down here beside you?'
Kirk lowered himself to the floor where the patient was sitting cross-legged. The young man had been humming a song. He could make noises of pleasure and pain but he was unable to form words properly. It did not seem to bother him. He had an amiable disposition.
Kirk lifted the plate from the tray across his lap.
'It's meat,' he said.
'Ah.'
'Warm and tasty to tempt the palate.'
'Ah:
'Will you feed yourself today, my friend?'
The patient grinned and shook his head violently.
'Would you like me to help you again?'
There was frantic nodding. The young man inhaled the aroma of the meat and his grin broadened. He thrust his head forward.
'Open your mouth,' said Kirk.
The keeper offered him the first spoonful. It was a slow, methodical process. The young man liked to chew his meat lor a long time before he swallowed it and the other had to be patient. Eventually, the meal was almost over. Kirk loaded the spoon for the last time and raised it to the young man's lips but the latter had had enough. Shaking his head to indicate this, he caught the spoon with the side of his jaw and knocked the meat down the inside of his shirt. It threw him into a panic.
' Ee! Ah!'
'Calm down, sir. I'll Find it for you.'
'Yah! Oh! Nee!'
The patient grabbed his shirt and tore it open down to his navel. Three small pieces of meat were resting on his body and Kirk plucked them off at once. The young man gave a cry of relief.
'Leeches!' he said.
It was the first word that Kirk had ever heard him speak and it was an important one. The patient was afraid of leeches which had obviously been used on him in the course of some bloodletting treatment. Kirk was sorry for the distress that had been caused but grateful to have made a discovery. The young man could talk after all. It was a distinct advance and it was followed by another when the keeper glanced at the bare chest in front of him. Scratched across it in large, fading letters was a name.
David.
'Is that you?" he asked. 'Are you David?'
The young man looked down at his body as if seeing the letters for the first time. Using a finger, he traced each one very carefully and tried to work out what it was. When he finally succeeded, tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.
'David!' he said.
They had given him back his name.
*
Anne Hendrik could not bear to be idle. Though she had money enough to live a life of relative leisure, she preferred to keep herself busy and took an active part in the running of her husband's business. After initial resistance from her employees, she won them over with her acumen, her commitment and her willingness to learn every last detail about the art of hat-making. Anne Hendrik revealed herself to be a highly competent businesswoman-and she could even speak a fair amount of Dutch. There was another value to her work life. It gave her something to chat about with Nicholas Bracewell.
'And that is how Preben came to design the new style.'
'Has the hat found favour with your customers?' he said.
'We have had a number of orders already.'
They were in the little garden at the rear of the Bankside house. Nicholas was carrying a basket and Anne was cutting flowers to lay in it. Taking care not to prick herself on the thorns, she used her shears to snip through the stem of a red rose.
'But enough of my tittle-tattle,' she said briskly. 'What of Westfield's Men?'
'Happily, there is nothing to report.'
'The performance went off without incident?'
'Yes, Anne. No devil, no falling maypole, no accident of any kind.' Nicholas grimaced. 'With the exception of Master Marwood, that is. The fellow is devil, maypole and accident rolled into one.'
'What did you play this afternoon?'
'The Knights of Malta.'
'Did it give your landlord cause for complaint?'
'None at all,' he said. 'But he is yielding to other voices. The Puritans have written to him again and an Alderman called at the Queen's Head to voice his disapproval. One Henry Drewry. We will weather this storm as we have weathered all the rest.'
'Has Master Gill recovered from his fall?' she asked.
'Completely, Anne, but he will not admit it. He still holds his shoulder at an angle and walks with that limp.'
They laughed at the actor's vanity. When the last of the flowers had been cut, they took them back into the house. Anne searched for a pot in which to stand them and looked forward to the supper she was about to share with him. Nicholas had a disappointment for her.
M fear that I must soon leave you.'
'Why?'
'I have an appointment to keep in Eastcheap.'
'Eastcheap!' she echoed in mock annoyance. 'You prefer a tavern to my company, Master Bracewell? Things have changed indeed, sir!'
'You mistake my meaning, Anne.'
'What can Eastcheap offer but taverns and trugging -houses?"
'Nothing,' he agreed. 'And I intend to visit both.'
'Has it come to this between us?' she said in hurt tones.
'I do not go there on my own account.'
'Then why?'
'To find someone,' he explained. A wandering playwright. Ralph Willoughby has disappeared and we have need of him. I have left sundry messages at his lodging but to no avail. If he will not come to us, then I must go to him.'
'This news is softer on my ears.'
He slipped an arm familiarly around her waist and kissed her gently on the lips. Their friendship was very important to Nicholas and he would not trade it in for one wild night in Eastcheap. She saw him off at the door and urged him not to be too late. With quickening footsteps, he went off to begin his search.
A boat took him back across the river and he made his way to Eastcheap with all due haste. Ralph Willoughby was well-known in the area but he had scattered his patronage far and wide. The search could take Nicholas well into the night. Bracing himself, he began his journey at the White Hart and found himself the only sober human being on the premises. Willoughby was not there. Next came the Jolly Miller which also produced no missing playwright. The Royal Oak, the Lamb and Flag, even the Brazen Serpent were unable to help. In each establishment, the revelry was loud and lascivious and he was pressed to stay by bawds of every kind. It was not difficult to refuse the entreaties.
Six more taverns had to be visited before he picked up a trail. A barmaid at the Bull and Butcher remembered seeing Willoughby earlier in the evening. There was a chance that he might still be there.
'Nell was always his favourite,' she said.
'Nell?'
She narrowed her eyes as she saw the hope of profit.
'How eager are you to Find this friend of yours, sir?'
Nicholas gave her some coins. It was eagerness enough.
'Nell has a room upstairs,' she volunteered.
'Which one?'
'The first on the right, sir, and it has no bolt within.'
Thank you, mistress.'
He pushed his way out of the crowded taproom to get clear of the noise and the stink of tobacco smoke. The staircase wound its way upwards and he followed its crooked steps. When he reached the passageway at the top, he paused at the first door on the right and tapped. There was no reply and so he used his knuckles more firmly.
'Who is it?' asked a crisp female voice.
'Nell?'
'Come in, sir,' she said, sounding a more girlish note.
Nicholas opened the door and stepped into a low, cramped chamber that had room for little more than the bed that stood against the window. Candles threw a begrudging light on the scene. Nell was a big, buxom young woman with a generous smile. Lying half-naked on the bed, she was pinned to it by the prostrate figure of Ralph Willoughby. He was still dressed and wheezing aloud in his sleep.
Nell was completely undaunted by the situation.
'You catch me incommoded, sir,' she said with a laugh. 'The poor fellow had more drink in him than desire. If you could shift his carcass off me, then I would be glad to oblige you in his stead.'
How long as he been here?'
'An hour at least, sir. I dozed off myself to keep him company.'
'Come, let me relieve you of your burden.'
'I like not dead weight between my legs, sir.'
'Then let me extract him from you.'
He took hold of Willoughby beneath the armpits and lifted him off the bed. Lowering him into a sitting position on the floor, Nicholas shook him vigorously but could not wake him up. The playwright was in a complete stupor.
Nell rearranged herself into a more alluring pose.
'Drag him outside, sir, and return for his reward.'
'Alas, mistress, I am not able to take his place.'
‘But you are the properer man of the two, I can tell.'
'I must needs take my friend home.'
'I did not know he had a home,' she observed. 'Unless it be up here. He spent last night in my arms and the one before. A stranger bedfellow I could not wish for, sir.'
'In what way?'
'Men love to talk of sin when they sup at my table. Yet when this one tasted my ware, he babbled of nothing but religion.
'Religion?'
'Haply, I excited his spirit,' said Nell. 'Rut I did not mind this speech. It is all one to me. His bishop in a purple cap went neatly into my confessional box and stayed till he was excommunicate'
Nicholas was amused by the metaphor and saw that she was no ordinary whore. Her ample frame and ready turn of phrase made her the particular choice of Ralph Willoughby. Whatever turmoil the playwright had been in, she had clearly helped him through it. Reaching into his purse, Nicholas handed her some money for her pains. Nell beamed her gratitude and leapt up off the bed to embrace him in a sensational bear-hug. He detached himself with difficulty and hauled Willoughby out into the passageway. Nell lolled in the doorway.
'Who is the poor creature?' she said.
'A good man fallen on bad times.’
'I know him only as Ralph who comes to take communion with me.'
'He is not fit for the service tonight, I fear.'
'That disappoints me, sir,' she sighed. 'When he was with me last, he made love as if the Devil was dancing on his buttocks.'
It was an apt image and more accurate than she realised.
Nicholas lifted him on to his feet then bent down to let the body fall across his shoulder. Waving a farewell to the irrepressible Nell he went carefully down the stairs so that he did not bang Willoughby's head against the wall.
Coming out into the street, he began the long, slow walk.
*
Edmund Hoode always worked best in the hours of darkness. When he was closeted in his lodging with no more than a candle and his writing materials, he could devote his full attention to the project in hand. There were far too many distractions during the day and he was, in any case, usually required for rehearsal or performance by the company. When night drew its black cloak around him, however, he came fully alive and his mind buzzed with creativity. As he sat over his table now, verse of surpassing excellence streamed through his brain but it was not part of some new play that he was writing. The inspiration and the object of his poetic impulse was Grace Napier.
She was perfection. As he reflected upon her virtues, he saw that she was the woman for whom he had been waiting all his life. She gave him purpose. She redeemed him. Compared with her, all the other women who had aroused his interest were nonentities, momentary distractions while he waited for his true love to come along. With those others, the chase had often been an end in itself. Consummation was rare and the certain conclusion of a relationship. Cupid was never kind to him. He had known much sadness between the sheets.
Grace Napier was different. She belonged to another order of being. He did not view her in terms of pursuit and conquest because that would demean her and drag her down from the lofty pedestal on which he had set her. All his thoughts now turned on one objective. N4arriage to his beloved. In the headlong rush of his ardour, he did not stop to consider the practicalities of such a wild hope. The fact that he had no house to offer her, still less a high income to serve her demands, did not stay his fantasies. He would make any sacrifice for her even if it meant that he left the theatre. Edmund Hoode wanted nothing more than to devote his energies to the composition of odes to her beauty and sonnets in praise of her sweetness.
‘I'll wrap my arms around your slender waist,
My gracious love, I would not be dis -graced.’
The lines sprang new-minted from his pen. He studied them on the vellum then rejected them for their banality. Grace deserved better. He killed the couplet with a slash of ink and turned to his Muse once more. Richer lines began to flow. Deeper resonances were sounded. Whenever he glanced up from his work, he saw Grace Napier on her pedestal, giving him that special smile which was poetry in itself.
Horror suddenly intruded. As he looked up at her once more, there was someone else beside her, an arresting figure with the arrogant grin of a practised voluptuary. Hoode recognised him at once.
It was Lawrence Firethorn.
An anxiety which had been at the back of his mind for days now thrust itself forward. Firethorn was a real threat. Dozens of beautiful young ladies were hypnotised by the tawdry glamour of the playhouse and were ready to surrender themselves to its ambiguous charms. Those who worshipped at the shrine of West field's Men inevitably tended to see Firethorn as their god. His bravura performances could not be matched by lesser players in smaller roles. Firethorn had no compunction about exploiting the adulation to the full. Swooning females were simply the spoils of war that fell to the victorious general and not even the vigilant eye of his wife, Margery, could stop him from exercising the age-old rites of soldiery. A few discerning acolytes-as Hoode liked to style them-had chosen him in place of the actor-manager. But he was seldom allowed to take advantage of their interest. Lawrence Firethorn had a distressing habit of stepping in and whisking the admirers-quite literally-out from under him.
That was not going to happen with Grace Napier.
‘Stay close, my love, avoid the scorching fire,
Prick not yourself upon that thorn's desire.’
They were not lines to be sent to his loved one. Hoode would engrave them upon his own heart to act as a warning. Whatever else he did, he must not introduce Grace to the insatiable Lawrence Firethorn.
Further meditation was interrupted by a banging on the door. He went over to unbolt it then opened it wide. Nicholas Bracewell stood there with a familiar figure over his shoulder. Hoode was pleased.
'Ralph?'
'The whole weight of him.'
'Where did you find him?'
'I will tell you when I have lightened my load.'
Nicholas stepped into the room and lowered the body to the floor, sitting Willoughby up and resting his back against the wall. The slumbering playwright was still dead to the world.
'He was at the Bull and Butcher,' said Nicholas.
'Drink or fornication?'
One prevented the other, Edmund.'
'He has burned the candle at both ends.'
'There is neither wax nor flame left.'
'Wake up, sir!' said Hoode, shaking his co-author.
'That will not rouse him,' said Nicholas, reaching for the jug on the table. 'Stand aside, I pray.'
With a swing of his arm, he dashed a few pints of cold water into Willoughby's face. The latter twitched, groaned, then spluttered. As he came out of his sleep, he opened an eye to blink at the world.
'Nell?'
'You are here among friends,' said Hoode.
'Edmund?' A second eye opened. 'Nicholas?'
'I fetched you from your revelry,' explained the book holder.
'We have need of you,' said Hoode. 'Our play is staged again.'
'I am no longer with the company, sir.'
'It requires your subtle hand.'
'Master Firethorn banished me.'
'This will not concern him,' said Hoode dismissively. 'We will work together privily. We are co-mates in this drama, Ralph, and I will not see you ousted. I must have your guidance with The Merry Devils'
'Do not perform it again!'
'Rather let us make it safe for performance.'
'That is not within my power.'
'What do you mean?'
'It is not the play that holds the peril,' said Willoughby with quiet dread. 'It is my part in its authorship, I am the catalyst here, sirs. Put my work on the stage and you will suffer. The devil will surely come again.'
'There was no devil, said Nicholas firmly.
'I am not certain either way,' admitted Hoode.
Willoughby was adamant. 'Truly, there was a devil. I have it from Doctor John Mordrake himself.'
'Mordrake!' Hoode was impressed.
'He consulted his books, his charts, his crystal and all agreed upon my fate. The life of Ralph Willoughby is forfeit. Save yours, my friends, by turning your backs on The Merry Devils.'
'It is too late,' said Nicholas.
'Then must you put the whole company at risk.'
'How?'
'Through me. Mordrake was specific on the matter.'
'A prediction?'
'Yes, Nick. Perform my play again-and disaster will strike!'
The warning could not have been clearer.
*
Grace Napier sat at the keyboard and filled the room with a wistful melody. When she came to the end of her practice, she was applauded.
'Well done! said Isobel Drewry.
'I improve slowly.'
'You play sweetly, Grace.'
'The instrument pleases my ear.'
'And mine.' Isobel giggled obscenely. 'I wonder if Master Hoode can finger a virginal so delicately!'
'Do not be so vulgar,' said Grace with a smile.
He longs to play on your keyboard.'
'Desist!'
Isobel stepped across to the virginal and ran her finger along it to produce a tinkling stream of sound. They were in the parlour at Grace's house. Having demonstrated her skill on the recorder, she had shown equal prowess at the keyboard. It was a pleasant way to pass an hour together on a wet morning. Isobel was duly appreciative.
I could listen to you all day, Grace!'
'You may have to unless this rain stops.' But why did you play such sad songs?' No reason.'
'The music was exquisite but full of melancholy strains. Is that your mood today? Is your heart really so heavy?'
Grace smiled pensively then got up to cross over to the window. She watched the rain drumming on the glass and sending tiny rivulets on their brief journeys. Isobel came to stand beside her.
'Grace…'. 'Yes.'
'Have you ever been in love?'
'Have you?' said the other, deflecting the question.
'Oh, many times,' replied Isobel with a giggle. 'I fall in and out of love with almost any man-if he be tall enough and handsome into the bargain. That afternoon we spent at The Curtain, I tell madly in love with a young gallant who was seated opposite. We exchanged such hot glances across the pit that I wonder there was not a puff of smoke to signify our dealings. But it was all over when the play was done.' She slipped an arm around Grace. 'And what of you?'
'I have thought I was in love.'
'But it was not the thing itself.'
'No.' she brightened. 'One thing is certain, however. When the man does come along, I will know him.'
'Not if Isobel Drewry should spy him first!' They traded a laugh. 'Then you do not pine for Master Hoode?'
'He is a dear man and I am very fond of him.'
'But he does not make your heart pound?'
'No, Isobel. I have come to value him as a friend.'
You are the light of his life,' said the other. 'And when you watch The Merry Devils at the Rose tomorrow, Youngthrust will find a way to tell you so. I long to hear the outcome.'
'But you will be there to see it for yourself?'
'Unhappily, I will not. Father has put a stricter watch on me.'
'Why, Isobel?'
'One of the servants saw me leave with you the other day. She told father. He taxed me with disobedience and swore that I went to the playhouse to see Cupids Folly. I lied with all my might but I could not dampen his suspicion.'
'How were you seen? You wore a mask.'
'I was recognised by my dress.'
Grace sighed. 'But I did so want your company tomorrow.'
'Let your brother sit beside you.'
'He is busy.'
Grace came into the middle of the room with her hands clasped. She moved around as she racked her brain for a solution, then stamped her root with joy when she found it.
'It is but a case of wearing a better disguise, Isobel!'
'Disguise?'
'If the servants know your dresses, you must wear one of mine.'
'It is a clever idea, certainly.'
'And a hat with a veil. I'll provide that, too.'
'My own father would not know me, then!' Isobel gave her merriest giggle. 'I'll do it, Grace! I'd not miss that play again for anything.'
'Good! There is no risk of discovery'
'We will travel in secret like spies.'
'Veiled and hooded against all inquiry.'
'I will be veiled-and you will be Hooded!' She took her friend by the hands. 'Oh, I am so happy in this ruse. Father will be deceived.'
'What does he know of The Rose in Bankside?' said Grace. 'It is not as if he would ever visit such a place himself. Forget your fears, Isobel. You will be as safe there as in a nunnery.'
'But a lot more merry, I hope!'
*
Henry Drewry was finishing his meal alone when the servant brought in the package. Dismissing the man with a curt nod, the salter first washed down his meal with a swig of ale then belched to show his satisfaction. He examined the package and saw that it was addressed to him in his capacity as an Alderman. He could guess the sender and his supposition was confirmed. When he opened the package, he took out a printed text.
A SERMON PREACHED AT PAWLES CROSS
by Isaac Pollard
Imprinted at London by Toby Vavasour and to be sold at his Shop in the Inner Temple, near the Church. 1589
Drewry glanced at the first page to see that it offered a Discourse on the Subtle Practices of Devils. He heard Pollard's boom in every line and put the pamphlet aside. Then he noticed that something else had fallen out of the package. It was a tattered playbill. Smoothing it out and laying it on the table, he saw that it advertised a performance of The Merry Devils by Westfield's Men on the following afternoon. Sent to him to stir up his sense of outrage, it instead began to intrigue him.
Unaccountably, he felt the steady pull of temptation.