Lawrence Firethorn reserved some of his best performances for private consumption. He had a sublime gift for improvisation and could pluck any emotion out of the air at a second's notice. It was a trick that rarely failed. Even those who had seen him use it a hundred times could still be caught out by it. Suddenness was all.
'Rebellion in the ranks!' he yelled. 'When I lead Westfield's Men forward in the charge, I do not expect to be stabbed in the back from behind. Least of all by two such cowardly, such miserable, such lousy, beggarly, scurvy, unmannerly creatures as those before me now!'
George Dart and Roper Blundell were totally cowed.
'Loyalty is everything to me!' declared Firethorn, striking the pose he had used so effectively as King Richard the Lion-heart. 'I will not stomach traitors at any price! Do you know what I would do with them, sirs? Do you know how I would repay their betrayal of me?'
'No, master,' said George Dart. How, sir?' asked Roper Blundell.
'I'd have the wretches hanged, drawn and quartered, so I would! Then I'd have their heads set upon spikes outside the Tower, their livers roasted over a slow fire and their dangling pizzles sent to Banbury's Men by way of mockery!'
Dart and Blundell covered their codpieces with both hands.
They were in the room at the Queen's Head that was used for the storage of their equipment. Nicholas Bracewell stood in the background with Caleb Smythe, one of the actors. Both felt sorry for the assistant stagekeepers who had foolishly expressed their doubts about the performance of The Merry Devils on the following afternoon. The sad little figures were being summarily ground into submission.
When the book holder tried to intercede on their behalf, he was waved away with magisterial authority. Lawrence Firethorn would allow no interruption. He continued to pound away at his targets with his verbal siege guns until the two men were nothing more than human debris. Choosing his moment brilliantly, the actor now switched his role and became the indulgent employer who has been wronged by his servants.
'Lads, lads,' he said softly. 'Why have you turned against me like this? Did I not take you in when all other companies closed their doors to you? Have I not paid you, housed you, taught you, fed you and nurtured you? George, my son, and you, good Roper, everything I have is yours to call upon. You are not hired men to me. You are friends, sirs. Honest, decent, upright, God-fearing friends. Or so I thought.' He dredged up a monstrous sigh. 'Whence comes this betrayal? What have I done to deserve such treatment?'
'Nothing, master,' bleated George Dart.
'Nothing at all,' agreed Roper Blundell, starting to cry.
Firethorn slipped an arm apiece around them and hugged them to him like lost sheep that have gone astray and been found. Moved by the sincerity of his own betrayal, he even deposited a small kiss on Dart's forehead while drawing the line at any such intimacy with the turnip-headed Blundell. It was a touching scene and he played it to the hilt.
'I thought my lads would die for me,' he whimpered.
'We would,' said Dart bravely.
'Give us the chance, sir,' asked Blundell.
'I do not ask much of you, my friends. Just two bare hours upon the stage in flame-red costumes. What harm is there in that?'
'None, sir.'
'None, sir.'
'You tell me you are unhappy in the parts and I can understand that but happiness must be sacrificed for the greater good of the company.'
'Yes, master.
'Indeed, sir.'
'We act for our patron,' said Firethorn in a respectful whisper. 'Lord Westfield himself, who puts food in our mouths and clothes on our back. Am I to tell him his merry devils have run away?'
'We are here, sir.'
'We will stay.'
'I will beg, if that is what you wish.' Firethorn pretended to lower himself to the ground. 'I will go down on my bended knee…'
'No, no,' they chimed, helping him back up again.
'Then let me appeal to your sense of obligation. As hired men, as close friends, as true spirits of the theatre__-will you help me, lads?'
'Oh, yes!' Blundell was now weeping convulsively.
'We will not let you down,' added the snivelling Dart.
'That is music to my old ears.'
Firethorn bestowed another kiss on Dart's forehead, approximated his lips to the sprouting turnip, thought better of it and released the two men. He drifted to the nearest door to deliver his exit line.
'My heart is touched, lads,' he said. 'I must be alone for a while. Nick here will explain everything to you. Thank you-and farewell.'
He went out to an imaginary round of applause.
Nicholas Bracewell's sympathies were with the assistant stagekeepers but he had to admire the actor-manager's technique. He had now shackled the men in two ways. Fear and duty. There was no escape for them now. The book holder stepped in to join them.
‘I’ll be brief, lads,' he began. 'Lord Westfield insisted on a second performance because he liked the merry devils, all three of them who took the stage at the Queen's Head.'
Dart and Blundell reacted with identical horror.
'That foul fiend will come again?'
'Not from Hell,' said Nicholas, 'nor anywhere adjacent to it. He will come from beneath the stage at The Rose, as indeed will you. The third devil will not fright you this time, lads. You know him too well.' He signalled Caleb Smythe in. Here he stands.'
Caleb Smythe was a short, slight man in his thirties with a bald head and wispy beard. Though taller than his co-devils, he was lithe enough to bend his body to their shape and his talent as a dancer was second only to that of Barnaby Gill. As the unexpected third devil who put the others to flight, he was the best choice available. Caleb Smythe, however, did not share this view.
'I like not this work,' he said lugubriously.
Nicholas swept his objection aside and told them about the alterations that had been made to the play. Doctor Castrato's magic incantations had been shortened and the circle of mystical objects had been removed. None of the preconditions for raising a real devil now existed. The book holder emphasized this point but his companions were not wholly persuaded.
It was the funereal Caleb Smythe who put the question.
'What if a fourth devil should appear, Master Bracewell?'
The answer was quite unequivocal., 'Then I shall be waiting for him!'
*
Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart. It was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little. The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.
Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.
' Thankee,' he said gruffly.
'I tried, Jack.'
'I know, sir.'
'The new master was deaf to all entreaty.'
'New master!'
Harsnett turned aside and spat excessively to show his disgust. By order of Francis Jordan, he should have been turned out of the cottage on the previous day but Glanville had permitted him to stay the night. It was the only concession he felt able to offer and he was taking a risk with that. Harsnett was a surly and uncommunicative man but the steward respected him. The stocky forester was conscientious in his work and asked only to be left alone to do his job. He never complained about the misery of his lot and he held his chin up with a defiant pride.
' Things'll change,' he grunted.
'I fear they will, Jack.'
'We're but the first of many to go.'
'I will work to get you back.'
'No, sir.'
'But you are a proven man in the forest.'
'I'll not serve him!' sneered Harsnett.
There was a loan moan from inside the cottage and they both turned towards it. The forester's wife was evidently in great discomfort.
'Let me help you,' said Glanville kindly.
'I can manage.'
'But if your wife is unwell…'
Harsnett shook his head. 'We come into the place on our own, we'll leave the same way.'
He walked across to the cottage and ducked in through the low doorway. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with his wife, a poor, wasted, grey-haired woman in rough attire with an old shawl around her head. The whiteness of her face and the slowness of her movements told Glanville how ill she was. Harsnett had to lift her bodily on to the cart. He returned quickly to the cottage to bring out his last and most precious possession.
It was his axe. Sharp and glittering, it had seen him through many a year and was the symbol of his craft. He slammed the door behind him then turned back to view the place which had been their home throughout their marriage. The cottage was his no more. It belonged to the new master of Parkbrook House. Hatred and revenge welled up in Harsnett and he saw the building as a version of Francis Jordan himself, as a cold, bitter, cruel, unwelcoming place. He swung the axe with sudden violence and sank the blade deep into the front door.
After this last gesture of defiance, he pulled the axe clear of i he timber and hurried across to throw it in the back of the cart. When he climbed up beside his wife, she collapsed against him. He took the reins in one hand and put the other arm around his ailing spouse. In response to a curt command, the horse struggled into life.
'God go with you!' said Glanville.
But they had no time to hear him.
*
Kirk said nothing to his colleagues about the progress he had made. They would not understand it. The other keepers at Bedlam took the simple view that lunatics should he treated in only two ways. They should either he amused with toys or beaten with whips. Play or punishment. It never occurred to them that their charges might respond to individual care of another kind. Rooksley typified the attitude that was prevalent. The head keeper believed that lunatics could not be cured by anything that he and his staff might do. The salvation of the mentally deranged lay entirely with the Almighty. In support of this credo, Rooksley could recite, word for word, from a document which dated from the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign and which confirmed the institution's status as an asylum for the insane.
‘Be it known to all devout and faithful people that there have been erected in the city of London four hospitals for the people that be stricken by the hand of God. Some be distraught from their wits and these be kept and maintained in the Hospital of our Lady of Bedlam, until God call them to his mercy, or to their wits again.’
For the vast majority of inmates, therefore, there was no respite and no hope. Stricken by the hand of God, they were repeatedly stricken by the hand of man as well. It was a savage Christianity.
Kirk sought to keep at least one person clear of it.
'I've brought your meal, David.'
'Ah.'
'You have to do better than that, sir,' coaxed the other. 'I will nor feed you else. Come, sir, what is that word we learned this morning?'
David's brow knotted with concentration for a moment.
Kirk prompted. 'If I give you something, what is my reward?'
' Th… ank…'
'Try again, David.'
' Th… ank…you…'
'Well done, sir! That deserves a meal.'
David was sitting on the bed in his featureless cell. The keeper sat down beside him and put the plate into the patient's lap. Taking hold of David's right hand, he Pitted the spoon into it then guided him down to his meal. The first mouthful was soon being chewed with slow deliberation. David was being helped to feed himself. He smiled at his minor triumph. It was another small sign of advance.
Kirk knew that nothing could be rushed. David could now say his name and mouth a few words bur that was all. He had to be taught again from the beginning and that would require time and patience. When the meal was over, Kirk waited expectantly. David was at first puzzled, then he grinned as he realised what was wanted.
Th… ank…'
'Speak up, sir.'
'Thank you!'
'Excellent!'
Kirk patted him on the back by the way of congratulation. There was still the vacant look in David's eye but he was not so completely beyond reach as the others believed. It was merely a question of opening up a line of communication with him.
'What's your name, sir?' asked Kirk.
' Da… vid.'
'Again.'
'David.'
'Again!'
'David. David. David.'
'And where do you live, David?'
The patient's face clouded over and his lips quivered.
'Where is your home?' said the keeper.
David glanced around and gestured with both hands.
'No, not here. Not Bedlam. This is where you live now, David. But where did you live before?'
The question completely baffled the patient. He looked lost and hurt. Kirk tried to jog his memory with a gentle enquiry.
'Was it in London?'
Unsure at first, David gave a hesitant shake of his head.
'Was it in a city?'
A longer wait then another uncertain shake of the head.
'Then you must have lived in the country, David.'
Bewilderment contorted the other's face. He was lost again.
'Did you live in the country?' prodded Kirk. 'Fields and woods around you? Can you not recall animals and birds?'
A radiant smile lit David's face. He nodded enthusiastically.
'You lived in the country. Was it in a village?'
David was more confident now. He shook his head at once.
'On a farm? In a cottage somewhere?'
The patient was clearly grappling with his past in order to wrest some details out of it. A jumble of memories made his expression change with each second. Kirk nudged his mind again.
'Did you live in a small house, David?'
'N…n…n…'
'No. Good. Was it a large house, then?'
David produced the beaming smile again. He laughed aloud.
'A large house in the country. Is that where you lived?'
'Y…y…ye…ye…' The word finally spurted out. 'Yes!'
*
Parkbrook was a hive of activity. The presence of its new master had put everyone on their mettle. Francis Jordan was a man who liked to exert his authority and the dismissal of Harsnett was a grim warning to other employees in the house and on the estate. The old order had changed with a vengeance. Those who laboured in the Great Hall hardly dared to look up from their work. Even; he serene Joseph Glanville was forced to glance over his shoulder. Unease spread everywhere.
Francis Jordan spent the morning on a tour of inspection around the house, cracking the whip of his bad temper whenever he felt inclined. Having coveted Parkbrook for so long, he knew exactly how he wished to run it. He was particularly interested in the wine cellar and checked the stock which his predecessor had laid in. Several bottles were sent up. Over a leisurely meal that was taken alone in the spacious dining room, Jordan worked his way through some of the premier vintages. It left him in a more expansive mood. He hauled himself up the oak staircase and swayed towards the master bedroom. Intending to flop down and sleep off his over-indulgence, he paused when he saw that the room was occupied.
A young chambermaid was changing the linen on the fourposter.
'Who's here?' he asked with a vinous smirk.
'Oh!' She turned around in alarm.
'Do not be afraid, my dear.' I did not expect you to be here, sir.'
'I am very glad that I am.'
'Would you like me to leave?'
'No, mistress. What is your name?'
'Jane Skinner, sir.'
'Well, Jane Skinner, I am your new master.'
'Yes, sir,' she said with a dutiful curtsey.
'Finish what you were doing.'
The chambermaid returned to her task. She was a rather plain, plump girl with a country shine to her cheeks and a mop of brown curls. Francis Jordan, however, was roused by the sight of her generous curves and her bobbing posterior. Her simple apparel seemed somehow to heighten her appeal. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her flit about her work. The bed was soon made and she turned down the counterpane.
'Help me across,' he said.
'Are you not well, sir?'
'A little tired, Jane. I need but a shoulder to rest on.'
'I have that, sir.'
Jane Skinner tripped over to him with a face of youthful innocence. When Jordan lurched at her, she obligingly took his weight. As she helped him across the room, he kneaded her shoulder and took an inventory of her other charms. They reached the bed and lie swung round to fall backwards on to it.
'Lift up my feet, Jane.'
'Yes, sir,' she said, scooping his legs up on to the bed.
'Come closer for I would whisper to you.
'Yes, sir.'
As she bent over him, he got her wrist in a firm grip and gave her a lecherous grin. He liked Jane Skinner more with each moment.
'Undress me.’
'Master!' she exclaimed.
'Undress me slowly, mistress.'
'I will call a valet presently.'
'This is woman's work, Jane.’
'You are hurting my arm, sir.'
'Then do as you are told.'
'But it is not my place.'
'You are mine to command, girl.'
Hope flickered. 'Haply, you jest with me, sir.'
'This is no jest, I assure you. Come, let me give proof of it.'
Jordan made a concerted effort to sit up so that he could catch hold of her properly. There was a fierce struggle. In those few frantic seconds, Jane Skinner may have lost her innocence but she was determined not to yield her virtue. When he pulled her down on the bed and tried to kiss her, she reacted with such vigour that he was shaken off. Before he could stop her, she raced across the room and went out through the door. Jordan's annoyance was dissipated in a huge yawn. The chambermaid faded from his mind and he lapsed back into deep sleep.
Jane Skinner, meanwhile, was crying into her apron and telling her story to Glanville. He listened with controlled outrage and calmed the girl as best he could. She had been very lucky to make her escape.
But she might not be so fortunate next time.
*
Thoroughness was the hallmark of Nicholas Bracewell's approach. Since the company were due to appear at The Rose on the morrow, he found time that evening to visit the theatre. There were very few people still there and most of those soon drifted away. The book holder had the place virtually to himself. His first task was to test the trap-doors. The stage was much higher than the makeshift one used at the Queen's Head and he was able to move more freely beneath it. Short steps led up to each trap which was fitted with a spring. As merry devils shot up on to the stage, the doors would snap back into position.
Nicholas next checked the sightlines from his own position at the rear of the stage. Watching the action through a gap in the curtain, he would not be able to see much but both trap-doors were directly in his vision. That was important. I he Rose had not long been open to the public and there was a pleasing newness to it. Tall pillars climbed up out of the stage to support a decorated canopy that was surmounted by a small hut. By using elementary winching gear, it was possible to raise and lower items of scenery or furniture. Nicholas planned to use the apparatus to dramatic effect in The Merry Devils.
Three years at sea had not been the ideal preparation for a life in the theatre but he had learned much from his voyages that could be adapted to his present purposes. Sailing ships like the Golden Hind relied on some very basic mechanical devices and Nicholas never tired of watching the crew hoist the sails to catch the wind or winch up the longboats when they returned from shore. Friendship with the ship's carpenters had been a constant education as they carried out running repairs in all weathers across the oceans of the world.
Being cooped up on a vessel for long periods inevitably led to tension and frustration. Nicholas had seen far more spontaneous violence than he had wished but it made him an expert on stage fights. Firethorn always let his book holder direct such episodes when they occurred. The same went for swordplay. A skilful swordsman himself, Nicholas was always on hand to school the hired men and the apprentices in one of the vital tools of their craft.
His seafaring days had given him something else as well and it came to his aid now. Nicholas had a sixth sense of danger, a tickling sensation that was full of foreboding. Standing in the middle of the stage, he had a strong feeling that someone was watching. He swung round to scan the galleries but they appeared to be empty. The sun was now nuzzling the horizon and dark shadows had invaded the theatre. In the half-light, he searched the place for signs of life but saw none. The manager was still on the premises but he was in his office. Besides, the manager was a business colleague and the presence that Nicholas felt was an alien one.
He was about to dismiss it all as a trick of the imagination when he heard a cackle. Before he could even begin to wonder who made the noise, one of the trap-doors suddenly opened and up popped a flame-red devil. The creature had a malevolent face, a crooked body, twisted limbs, long horns and a pointed tail. It looked like the one who had caused such a fright at the Queens Head. Moving at speed, the devil executed three somersaults then vanished into the tiring-house. Nicholas ran after him but he did not get very far. He heard the sound of the other trap-door and turned back to see that the devil had reappeared. This time the creature cart wheeled off the edge of the stage and was lost in the shadows around the edge of the pit.
Nicholas was both startled and bewildered. He did not know which way to look or search. Forcing himself to make a decision, he ran to the tiring-house to find it quite empty. A search beneath the stage and around the full circumference of the pit also proved fruitless. He was mystified. Had he seen one apparition or two? Was it some random act of malice that had taken place or had the visit been an omen? Did he now know what to expect during the performance next day?
He walked to the front of the stage and rested his elbows upon it as he weighed his thoughts. A creaking sound came from behind him. He turned to look up and see a tall, elegant silhouette in the topmost gallery. The voice was familiar and its tone was fearful.
'Now will you believe that it was a real devil?'
Ralph Willoughby had watched it all.
Margery Firethorn ran her household on firm Christian principles. As a variant on her scolding, she sometimes chastised her servants or her children by making them attend an impromptu prayer meeting. In the rolling cadences of the Book of Common Prayer she found both a fund of reassurance and a useful weapon. For most of the occupants of the house in Shoreditch, the regular visit to the Parish Church of St Leonard's was imposition enough. To have the Church brought into the house was a nightmare.
'Let us pray.'
'That includes you, Martin Yeo.'
'Let us pray.'
'Lower your head, John Tallis.'
'Let us pray.'
'Close your mouth, Stephen Judd.'
'Let us all pray!'
The day began with a profound shock. It was Lawrence Firethorn who instigated and led the prayers. Inclined to be lax in his religious observances-especially where the sixth commandment was concerned-he astonished everyone by reaching for the prayer book before breakfast. Margery reverted to the scolding while her husband handled the service. Around the table were their two children, the four apprentices, Caleb Smythe, who had spent the night there, and the two assistant stagekeepers, George Dart and Roger Blundell, who had been summoned from their lodgings to partake in a ceremony that might have a special bearing on their safety and their souls.
They listened in silence as Firethorn intoned the prayers. Even on such a solemn occasion, he had to give a performance. When he reached the end of an interminable recitation, he signalled their release.
'Amen.'
'Amen' came the collective sigh of relief.
'That should stand us in good stead,' said Firethorn breezily.
'I feel better for that, master,' confessed George Dart.
'It gives me new heart, said Roger Blundell.
'I like not prayers,' muttered Caleb Smythe.
'They were most beautifully read,' said Firethorn pointedly.
'It was not the reading that I mind, sir,' said the other. 'It is the weight they place upon my heart. When I hear prayers, I am undone. They make me think so of death.'
'Oh, heavens!' wailed Dart. 'Death, he cries!'
'What a word to mention on a day like this!' said Blundell.
An argument started but Margery quelled it by serving breakfast. She believed in providing a hearty meal at the start of the day and the others fell ravenously upon it. Eleven heads were soon bent over the table in contentment.
When the meal was over, Firethorn retired to the bedchamber for a few minutes. His wife followed him and accosted him.
'What lies behind this, Lawrence?'
'Behind what, dearest?'
'These unexpected prayers.'
'I was moved by the spirit, Margery.' It has never shifted you one inch before, sir.'
'You wrong me, sweeting,' he said in aggrieved tones. 'I heard a voice from above.'
'It sounded like Nicholas Bracewell to me.'
'Ah…’
'Why did he call here so early this morning?' she pressed. 'It is not like him to come all the way from Bankside on a whim. Did he bring bad tidings?'
'Nothing to trouble your pretty little head about, angel.'
'My head is neither pretty nor little. It contains a brain as big as yours and I would have it treated with respect. Speak out, sir. Do not protect me from the truth.'
He was aghast. 'When have I held back the truth from you?'
'It has been your daily habit these fifteen years.'
'Margery!'
'Honesty has never been your strong suit.'
'I am the most veracious fellow in London.'
'Another lie,' she said levelly. 'Come, sir, and tell me what I need to know. Why did Master Bracewell come here today?'
'On a personal matter, my love.'
'There is another woman involved?'
'That is a most ignoble thought, Margery.'
'You put it into my pretty little head.' She folded her arms and came to a decision. 'The tidings concerned the play. I will come to The Rose myself this afternoon.'
'No, no!' he protested. 'That will not do at all!'
'Why do you keep me away, Lawrence?'
'I do not, my pigeon.'
'Is it because of this other woman?'
'What other woman?'
'You tell me, sir. Their names change so often.'
Firethorn knew that he would never shake her off when she was in that mood and so he compromised. He gave her a highly edited version of what Nicholas Bracewell had told him and since the book holder's report had itself been softened-no mention of Willoughby-she got only a diluted account. When she heard about the devils shooting up from trap-doors, she crossed herself in fear.
'They may not be real fiends, Margery.'
'They sound so to me.'
'Nicholas believes otherwise and he is a shrewd judge.'
'What of you, Lawrence?'
He shrugged. 'I only half-believe they came from Hell.'
'Half a devil is by one half too much. I'll not have my husband acting with an apparition. Cancel the performance.'
'There can be no question of that.'
'I mean it, sir.'
'Lord Westfield overrules you.'
'How much warning do you need? Fiends were at The Rose.'
'No, my treasure. Silly pranksters out to give us fright.'
'Then why did you read those prayers?'
'I have been something slack in my devotions of late.'
'You feared for the lives of those lads.'
'The merry devils are sad,' he said. 'I sought to ease their misery with a taste of religion.'
'Your prayers were meant to save them!'
Firethorn conceded there was an element of truth in it. If real devils were going to appear, he wanted God to be at his side. He urged her to say nothing to the others. He and Nicholas had agreed to suppress all mention of the incident at The Rose. It would disrupt an already uneasy company. Their task was to present a play to the public.
'You'll keep them ignorant of their danger?' she said.
'I'll see they come to no harm.'
*
The day was warm and muggy with a hint of thunder in the bloated clouds. A tawny sun played hide and seek all morning. Isaac Pollard was up early to visit church, breakfast with his wife and children, then sally forth to meet his brethren. Four other members of the Puritan faction consented to go with him. His descriptions of The Merry Devils had roused their ire against the piece and they decided to view it in order to know its full horror. They fondly imagined that their fivefold presence at The Rose would spread some much-needed guilt around the galleries and scatter some piety into the pit.
Since they met in St Paul's Churchyard, their easiest route to Bankside lay in making straight for the river to cross in a boat. Isaac Pollard ruled against this. Thames watermen were justly famed for their vulgarity and two or more of them engaged in argument could turn the air blue with their language. The last time that Pollard was rowed across in a wherry, he tried to reprove his boatman for this fault of nature and met with such a volcanic eruption of profanity that he had to close his ears to it and so missed the concluding threat of baptism in the river. Accordingly, he now led his colleagues towards the single bridge that spanned the Thames with its magnificence.
As the leader of the expedition, he passed on sage advice.
'Stay close to me, brethren, and guard your purses.'
'Will there be pickpockets?' said one.
'By the score.'
'But would they dare to touch us?’ said another.
'They would rob an Archbishop of his mitre.'
'As would we, brother,' observed a theologian among them without any trace of irony. 'We would deprive that reverend gentleman of his mitre, his staff, his sacerdotal robes and anything else with such a Romish tinge to them. But tell us more of these pickpockets.'
'Their fingers are ever busy,' warned Pollard. 'Did I not relate to you my experience at the Queen's Head when a young wife but two rows in front of me was deprived of her purse by some rogue?'
'How was it done?' asked the theologian.
'With such skill that she did not discover it until later. Being so close at hand, I could not but overhear what passed between her and her friend, another married lady who had come to that libidinous place without her spouse. "Oh!" said the young woman. "My purse is taken." Her friend asked where it was kept. "Beneath my skirts," said the young woman. "I had thought it would be safe there." Her friend agreed then asked her if she had not felt a man's hand upon her thigh. "Why, yes," replied the young woman, "but I did not think it came there for that purpose."
Five married men crossed London Bridge in grim silence.
*
The reputation of The Merry Devils went before it and stirred up great interest and anticipation. Large, boisterous crowds descended on The Rose and it was soon evident that the theatre would not be able to accommodate all the potential spectators. There was much good-humoured pushing and shoving at the entrances and gatherers worked at full stretch. Those who had a special reason to be there made sure of their seats by an early arrival and they felt the atmosphere build steadily as other patrons surged in.
Anne Hendrik was there with Preben van Loew, the most skilful and senior of her hat-makers, a dour man in his fifties with a redeeming glint in his eye. The Dutchman was caught in two minds. His Huguenot conscience baulked at the idea of visiting a playhouse yet he could not allow his respected employer to venture there alone. Besides, he soon began to enjoy the envious glances that he was getting from those who assumed he was more than just the consort of the handsome and well-dressed lady at his side. Moral scruples still flickered but he was ready to ignore them for a couple of hours.
Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry had cushioned seats in the middle gallery and stayed behind their veils. Wearing a gown of blue figured velvet that she had borrowed from her friend, Isobel felt armoured against discovery. Settling down to enjoy the occasion to the full, she giggled inwardly at her own daring. Grace Napier was as poised as ever. That morning she had received another sonnet from Edmund Hoode, declaring his love for her once more and urging her to watch his performance for further proof of his devotion. Her affection for him deepened but it was still edged with regret.
Ralph Willoughby made for the highest gallery. He was dressed in emerald green with a slashed doublet, an orange codpiece and hose that displayed the length and shapeliness of his legs. A small, round, jewelled cap was set at a rakish angle on his head. An opal dangled from one ear. He was a debonair and carefree man about town again. Whatever stirred within him was kept well-hidden.
Isaac Pollard brought in his colleagues and they found places in the lower gallery, a solid phalanx of black disapproval amid a sea of multi-coloured excitement. They glared at the stage as if it were the gates of Hell, ready to disgorge its fiendish contents at any moment. Preoccupied in this way, they did not observe the low, portly figure who was seated opposite. Tricked out in finery that indicated wealth and respectability, he had the look of a man who had come to glower yet might stay to laugh. Henry Drewry was mellowing visibly.
Lord Westfield provoked a cheer of recognition as he took his seat amid his entourage. He wore a high-starched collar, a stiffened doublet which had been neatly tailored to allow for the contours of his paunch, padded and embroidered breeches and blue silk stockings. His gloves were of the finest blue leather. He favoured a large hat with an explosion of feathers and looked like the image of a middle-aged dandy. With their patron at his place, Westfield's Men could begin.
The last few spectators were allowed in to join the crush in the pit or shoulder themselves a space on a bench. One silver-haired old man in a long robe inserted himself into a narrow seat in the bottom gallery and looked around the theatre with calculating wonder. He absorbed every detail of its structure and noted every feature of its occupants. It was as if he was repairing the one tiny gap that existed in his knowledge of the universe. Combining scholarly curiosity with scientific detachment, he got the measure of The Rose and was not displeased. He came on the heels of his own prediction. Something sinister was going to happen that afternoon and he wished to be there to see it
Doctor John Mordrake had a personal stake in the event.
*
Superstition was the life-blood of the theatre. Most actors carried lucky charms or recited favourite pieces or went through an established ritual before a performance in the belief that it conferred good fortune. It was standard practice. Among Westfield's Men, it now became something far more. The Merry Devils enslaved them to superstition. Hardly a man in the company did not take some precautions. Several of them went to the cunning woman in Vixen Lane to purchase charms that would ward off evil spirits. Two of them spent the night in prayer. Three more had parted with a groat apiece for a phial of liquid that was guaranteed to preserve them from any supernatural manifestation, and they were not in the least put out by its close resemblance to vinegar both in appearance and taste. Other charlatans had made their profits in other ways from the credulous players. Their situation was desperate. They would try anything.
Lawrence Firethorn evinced the confidence of old. He had the seasoned calmness of the veteran before battle. Yet even he had made one concession to the possibility of an unexpected guest. He wore his rapier at his side and kept one hand upon it.
Nicholas Bracewell appraised him in the tiring-house.
'Justice Wildboare has no need of a sword,' he said.
'Lawrence Firethorn might.'
'There is no real devil, master.'
'Then a counterfeit one will feel my blade.'
'None will appear.'
'How can you say that after last night?'
They kept their voices low and both wore smiles to mask their inner doubts. It was their duty to set an example to the others and to instil some confidence.
'Has everything been checked?' asked Firethorn.
'Several times, master.'
'Below stage?'
'I was there myself but two minutes ago. All is in order. The gunpowder is in place and the trap-doors are ready.'
'And if something should go awry?'
'It will not, sir.'
'But if it does…'
'Ned Rankin holds the book for me during that scene,' said Nicholas. 'I'll be free to watch more closely and take action if the need arises. Trust in me.'
'I always do, dear heart!'
Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then wandered off. Nicholas went across to the three men who suffered the most-the merry devils. Seen from behind, George Dart, Roper Blundell and Caleb Smythe looked identical in their startling costumes. Dart was silent, Blundell was wide-eyed with nervousness, Smythe was reciting a children's rhyme to himself by way of a diversion.
Nicholas gave what reassurance he could but it was wasted on Blundell and Smythe who were far too steeped in misery. Dart, however, responded with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The others stared at him. When the most timorous member of the company could face his ordeal with amusement, there was only one explanation.
'Have you been drinking, George? said Nicholas sternly.
'Yes, master,' came the happy reply.
You know where you are?'
'In Bankside at The Rose.'
'You know what you have to do?'
Another chuckle. 'Pop up through a trap-door and cry "Boo!"'
'Are you fit for this work?' said the book holder seriously.
'I'll not let you down, master.'
Nicholas did not have the heart to castigate him. It was a strict rule of the company that nobody went on stage inebriated. Dismissal was a real threat to offenders. George Dart was no drunkard. Apart from anything else, his meagre wage would not sustain such a habit. Only the need to combat a terrible fear could have sent him to a tavern. Nicholas understood and made allowances. Dart was sober enough to play his part and drunk enough not to worry about it.
'We count on you, George. Mark that.'
'I know my role, sir.'
'Then do not play it too close to Master Firethorn. You know his rule about drink. Be merry, George, but not to excess.'
'I'll be a devil to the life!'
*
When the black cloak of the Prologue swished on to the stage, there was a tumultuous reception. It was surpassed only by the cannonade of sound that greeted the entry of justice Wildboare. The audience surrendered to Lawrence Firethorn before he even opened his mouth. When he did finally launch into his first long, expository speech, he found humour in every phrase-sometimes, in a single word-and set the whole place at a roar. By the time: he other characters joined in the action, the spectators had been Thoroughly warmed up.
As the play gathered pace and the laughter intensified, it soon became clear that this performance was vastly better in every way than the earlier one. Some important changes had been made. Edmund Hoode had tightened the construction, introduced a new comic duel, provided some new songs and generally improved the whole texture of the play. The most notable alteration came with his own character. Youngthrust had even more prominence now-his codpiece was stupendous-and he wept buckets of glorious blank verse. Some of the words were written for Grace Napier but the whole theatre appreciated them.
Doctor Castrato had lost lines but gained extra stage business. His mincing steps and piping voice mined new veins of hilarity. When he promised Justice Wildboare that he would raise a devil, the loudest shout of the afternoon went up from the onlookers.
This was the moment which they had come to relish and they tensed themselves in readiness.
As she had been instructed, Anne Hendrik kept her eyes on the trap-doors. Henry Drewry stood up to look over the head of the man in front of him. Doctor John Mordrake felt a tingle of premonition. Isaac Pollard bunched his fists and lifted the single eyebrow. Lord Westfield nudged his companions to watch carefully.
Ralph Willoughby went faint with dread.
Castrato went into his attenuated chanting. Then he did an elaborate mime that culminated in his act of summons when he scattered a magic powder in two different places on the stage. Response was immediate. One trap-door opened and out jumped George Dart to the accompaniment of a blinding flash and a resounding bang. The effect was so well-timed that it completely stunned the audience. Emboldened by drink, the first merry devil scuttled around the stage with gleeful abandon.
Nicholas Bracewell was concealed behind the arras to get a better view. He wondered why the second trap-door did not open. Roger Blundell should have appeared simultaneously with Dart. Had there been a problem with the mechanism. He was given no time to speculate. There was a longer, louder, blighter explosion and Caleb Smythe catapulted up through the first trap-door. He did a wild jig, turned a somersault, then went with his co-devil to kneel before their new master.
Justice Wildboare took over.
Nicholas slipped quietly into the tiring-house and made his way to the steps at the rear. He went down under the stage to find it gloomy and permeated with the smells of the multitude. The play continued above his head. It was quite eerie. As he picked his way along, he could hear the actors strutting about on the boards and feel the roar of the spectators pressing in upon him.
Something sparkled in the half-light. It was the protruding eyes of Roper Blundell. He lay flat on his back in a little red heap, gazing up sightlessly at the drama that he should have joined. Nicholas knelt down beside him and learned the worst. Here was one merry devil who would never go up through a trap-door again.
Roper Blundell was dead.