The Merry Devils [Nicholas Bracewell 2] (Missing Mystery #30)

Edward Marston



Matre pulchra filia pulchrior

Helena

rosa formosa

orbis et cordis

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


Thomas Nashe

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Chapter One

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


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


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


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


Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.


'Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!'


'How now, Master Marwood?'


'All may yet be saved!'


'Saved?'


'God willing!'


'What ails you, sir?' 'I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.'


'Of what, pray?'


'Certain disaster!'


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


Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.


'We are in great danger!' wailed the landlord. 'From what source, Master Marwood?'


'Your play, sir.'


'The Merry Devils!'


'It is an abomination.'


'You do the piece a wrong.'


'An act of blasphemy.'


'It is wholly free from such a taint.'


'The play will offend the City authorities.'


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


'Your devilry will provoke the church.'


'I think not, sir.'


'You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!'


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


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


'I have to look to my livelihood, sir.'


'We respect that.'


'I would not fall foul of the authorities.'


'Nor shall you, believe me.'


'Your play will put the Queen's Head in jeopardy.'


'That would hardly serve our turn.'


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


'Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.'


'They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.'


'Then they mislead you cruelly.'


'I hey say you show all manner of Vice.'


'Virtue is our constant theme.'


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


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


'Who, sir?'"


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


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


'Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!'


'Everything needful will be done.'


'Fire could destroy me!' That is why we will take the utmost care.'


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


'At this late hour?'


'It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.'


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


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


'Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.'


'Ah...'


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


'Well, no...that is to say...'


'His lordship might instruct us to withdraw altogether.'


'But we have a contract.'


'Then you must honour it this afternoon.'


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


Nicholas Bracewell threw him a rope of salvation.


'Lord Westfield is not without influence.'


'What's that, sir?'


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


'Would he so protect us?' asked the plaintive landlord.


'He has powerful friends at Court.'


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


'Very well, Master Bracewell. Perform your play.' It will put money in your purse, sir.'


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


'Have faith, Master Marwood.'


'I fear the worst.'


'Nothing will go amiss.'


'Then why do I sense disaster?'


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


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


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


*

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


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


'I am sorry, Master Bracewell.'


'Do your best, George. Nobody can demand more.'


'I mislaid my part.'


'Think harder, lad.'


'I tried, master, but all thought went our of my head when I humped into that post and saw stars. How did that come about?'


'You were on the wrong side of the stage.'


'Was I?'


'Follow Roper next time.'


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


'Stand by, George! Your entrance is almost due.'


'Again?'


'The banquet scene.'


'Lord help me!'


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


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


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


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


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


'Henceforth this Wildboare will renounce all evils

And ne'er again seek pacts with merry devils.'


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


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


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


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


'Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.'


There was a flurry of grateful activity.


*

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


'The piece will redeem itself, Edmund,' he said blithely. 'Even in this mornings travesty, there was promise.'


'Of what?' returned Hoode sourly. 'Of complete disgrace?'


'Rehearsals often mislead.'


'We face ignominy, Ralph.


'It will not come to that.'


'Our work will be jeered off the stage.'


'Away with such thoughts!'


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


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


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


Willoughby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.


'Be of good cheer, Edmund!'


'To what end?' groaned the other.


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


'Not if it be howled down by the rougher sort.'


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


'It is my play, Ralph.'


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


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


'Indeed, no,' said Willoughby. 'My case is far worse.'


'How so?'


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


'There!' said Hoode mournfully. You are resolved on humiliation.'


'I expect a triumph.'


'After that rehearsal?'


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


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


'Dare we hope for success?' said Hoode tentatively. It is assured.


'And my portrayal as Youngthrust?'


'It will carry all before it.'


'Truly? This weighs heavily with me.'


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


'This lifts my spirits, Ralph.'


'Be ruled by me.'


'Much depends upon today.'


'All is well, Edmund. All is well.'


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


*

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Nicholas attempted to boost their sagging morale.


'Courage, lads. That is all you need.'


'We have none between us,' confessed George Dart timorously.


'No, master,' said Roper Blundell. 'We are arrant cowards.'


'You will carry your parts well,' Nicholas assured them.


'Not I,' said the first devil.


'Nor I,' said his colleague.


'You will feel much better when the play actually begins.'


'Heaven forbid!' said George Dart.


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


'We must suffer both!' wailed his fellow.


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


'My trap-door would not open,' said Dart.


'Nor mine close,' added Blundell.


'I checked the counter-weights myself,' said Nicholas.


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


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


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


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


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


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


Only Isaac Pollard smouldered with discontent.


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


'Come forth!


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


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


Here was no assistant stagekeeper pressed into service.


This merry devil looked like the real thing.


--------------------------------------------

Chapter Two

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


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


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


The voice of Justice Wildboare rang out with conviction.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


'Out of my way, sir!' said Pollard.


'By your leave.'


'I must quit this house of idolatry!'


'You did not like the comedy, sir?' It was a profanation of the worst kind.'


'Why, then, this rapturous applause?' said Willoughby.


An audience of heathens!'


I think you do not love the playhouse.'


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


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


He was a man with a mission.


*

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


'I felt a fierce heat shoot up through my body.'


'And I an icy cold that froze my entrails.'


'The ground did shake wondrously beneath my feet.'


'I heard the strangest cry.'


'My eyes were dazzled by a blinding light.'


'I saw a vision of damnation.'


'The devil called me privily by my name.'


It all served to stoke up the communal delirium.


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


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


Lawrence Firethorn came over to lean on him for support.


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


'You were equal to it, master.'


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


'You were at the height of your powers.'


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


'I know,' said Nicholas with a rueful smile.


'Master Marwood must be answered.'


'It will be a labour of Hercules.'


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


'Shall you speak with mine host as well?'


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


'What will I say to Master Marwood?'


'That which will keep our contract alive.'


'He will tax me about this afternoon's business.'


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


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


'Villainy from our rivals?'


'It must be considered.'


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


Nicholas nodded and was about to leave.


'One thing more, Nick.'


'Master?'


'I blame Ralph Willoughby for this.'


'Ralph? On what grounds?'


'Ill omens!'


Without pausing to enlarge upon his accusation, Firethorn swept across the tiring-house towards the other door. Nicholas was disturbed. He had grown fond of Willoughby during their work together on the play and instinctively defended him against the criticism which the latter excited in the company. It would be both sad and unfair if the playwright were made the scapegoat for what had happened. Nicholas made a mental note to forewarn the man so that he might be forearmed against Firethorn.


Alexander Marwood was the immediate problem. Fortunately, he was not in the habit of watching performances in his yard but lie would certainly have heard the reports of this one. Nicholas could picture him all too clearly, wringing his skeletal hands, working himself up into a lather of misery, prophesying death and destruction for all concerned. Facing such a man in such a situation was not an enticing prospect but it had to be done. Relations between landlord and tenants were already fragile. Unless swift action was taken, they would worsen drastically. Rehearsing his lines, Nicholas went off to his forbidding task.


Something diverted him. As he sought to explain away the arrival of the third devil, he asked himself a question that had never occurred to him before. How did the creature vanish from the stage? If, as both Gill and Firethorn vouched, the intruder disappeared through the trap-door, then a further question arose: why was it open? It had been designed to close as soon as George Dart or Roper Blundell shot up through it, and Nicholas had checked the mechanism himself. It would be wise to do so again.


Crawling beneath the trestles, he made his way to the first of the trap-doors and found it intact. To ensure a self-closing door, he had designed a counter-weight that ran on pulleys. At his instigation, the carpenter had lined the edge of the trap with a thick strip of cloth to deaden the sound when the door slammed shut. Nicholas tested the simple device and it worked perfectly. Bending low, he moved across to the other trap-door and lifted it. There was no resistance. Once it was flipped up into a vertical position, it stayed there, resting against its own hinges. The piece of metal used as a counter-weight had been rendered useless. Nicholas noted with interest that the twine had been cut through.


Two more questions now presented themselves for answer.


Why did the creature need to have a prepared exit?


More to the point, was the trap-door in a makeshift stage set up in a London inn yard the legitimate route to the domain or Hell?


Nicholas brightened. When he went off to find the landlord, lie did so with a new spring in his step. I he case was altered somewhat. Marwood might yet be pacified.


*

Lord Westfield was surrounded, as was customary, by an adoring coterie of friends. Seated in a high-backed oak chair in a private room at the Queen's Head, he sipped his Canary wine and basked in the glow of admiration as his companions scattered their superlatives.


'Your lordship has the finest company in London.'


'In England, I vow! In the whole of Europe.'


'And this was their greatest triumph.'


'Was ever a piece so full of mirth as The Merry Devils?'


'Could anything so fright a man out of his skin?'


'Can any actor in the world challenge this Firethorn?'


'He's a crown prince among players.'


'The jewel of his profession.'


'Your lordship made an exquisite choice in this fellow.'


Among those showering the patron with this praise was a tall, thin, complacent individual in his twenties. Attired in a black satin doublet trimmed with black and gold lace, he sported a plumed hat that was almost as ostentatious as that of Lord Westfield himself. His name was Francis Jordan, as smooth, plausible and ready with a quip as any in the group, a man well-versed in the social graces. As the favourite nephew of Lord Westfield, he enjoyed a position that he had learned to exploit in all manner of subtle ways. Francis Jordan had style.


'What think you, nephew, of Casttato?' asked Lord Westfield.


'He will cause no offence to the ladies.'


'Did not this fellow carry his part well?'


'Only because he had less weight in his codpiece.'


'Come, sir. This Castrato was no true castrato?


'That Doctor was doctored,' said Jordan with a comic gesture to indicate a pair of shears. 'He is strangely fallen off, uncle.'


'Barnaby Gill is a cut above most players.'


'And a cut below most honest men!'


There was general amusement at this banter and brittle laughter filled the room. It was terminated by the arrival of Lawrence Firethorn, who was ushered in by a liveried servant and who began with a dramatic bow to his patron. Gloved hands clapped him and plaudits came thick and fast. He waved his gratitude. All trace of the hapless Justice Wildboare had left him now and he stood there as a supreme actor, handsome and mesmeric, exuding a confidence that bordered on arrogance and conveying a sense of virility and danger.


Lord Westfield performed the introductions and Firethorn responded with beaming humility, lingering over his contact with the two ladies in the group. Nothing delighted him so much as the approbation of beautiful women and he wooed them with pleasantries as he kissed each of them on the hand. Francis Jordan was the last to meet Firethorn but he proved more effusive than all the rest.


'Your playing was truly magnificent, sir!'


'We strive to do our best,' said the actor.


'Such a work has never been seen on a stage before.'


'That much is certain,' conceded the other with slight unease.


'How came that third devil into the action?'


'Yes,' said Lord Westfield. 'What brought him forth like that? He stirred us all up into such a sudden flood of terror. Who was he?


'A hireling with the company, my lord.' His antics were exceeding merry.'


'The fellow but obeyed direction.'


'By what means did he burst forth in such a fine frenzy?'


'A cunning device, my lord,' said Firethorn, airily gliding over the truth of the matter. 'It was conceived by Nick Bracewell, our book holder, as artful a soul as any in this strange profession of ours. More than that, I cannot tell you lest it discredit his mystery."


Lord Westfield toyed with his pomander while the two ladies buzzed around him in a flurry of satin. Their whispered entreaties were very much to his taste and helped him to reach a decision.


'I would see this comedy again, sir.'


'Again, my lord?' Firethorn concealed his rising disquiet. Yes, uncle,' said Jordan with genial enthusiasm. 'I would have it played at Parkbrook House, in the long hall, when my refurbishment is complete. Order shall be given for it. The idea grows on me apace. With your permission, I am resolved on it.'


'Would you have these merry devils in your home, Francis?' ,

'They will bring a feast of joy to the occasion.'


'Have you no qualms, nephew?'


'None, sir. Parkbrook welcomes such jollity.'


'So be it, then. I'll indulge your whim.'


'Thank you, uncle, with all my heart!'


Francis Jordan had recently taken possession of a property on Lord Westfield's estate in Hertfordshire and he was having alterations made before he moved in. He planned to have a banquet to mark his arrival as the new master of Parkbrook House and that day of celebration would now include The Merry Devils as its central feature.


Lord Westfield voiced a slight reservation.


'When will the work be done, Francis?'


'In a month or so.'


'That is too long to wait,' said his uncle impatiently. 'I'll not tarry until Parkbrook be in a fit state to receive my company. In ten days, I return to the country myself. These merry devils will caper for my delight before I leave. See to it, Master Firethorn.'


The actor-manager started and gave an apologetic shrug. : 'Your request is not easy to satisfy, my lord.'


'Then my request will become my command.'


'But we already have plans for our next performances.'


'Change them, sir.'


'The Merry Devils does not figure in our list.'


'Insert it.'


Firethorn gritted his teeth. Having survived one ordeal with the play, he did not wish to be confronted with another quite so soon. Nor did he relish the idea of forcing a reluctant company to present a work which had such unfortunate associations for them.


'Is there no other comedy in our repertoire that would please you, my lord?' he said. 'You have only to choose.'


'That is what I have done, sir.'


'The Merry Devils will be very difficult to mount again.'


'No more evasion,' said his patron with a dismissive sweep of his hand. 'We would have this play again and we would have it with that fiery creature in his flash of red smoke. We shall know when to expect him next time and he will not make our hearts leap so readily into our mouths.' He drained his wine. 'Make arrangements, sir.'


'And do not forget the visit to Parkbrook House," said Jordan seriously. 'That still stands, Master Firethorn. I would have devilry in my own home, so I would. You will be recompensed.'


Lawrence Firethorn capitulated with a deep bow.


'We are, as always, my lord, your most obedient servants.'


A submissive smile covered his face but his mind was wrestling with practical problems. If they risked staging the play again, how could they guarantee the requisite number of devils? Would the intruder deign to return on cue? Could they, indeed, prevent him from doing so?


*

St Benet Grass Church had served its parishioners with unwavering devotion for over four long centuries and in that time it had witnessed all manner of worship, but it had never before encountered anything quite so incongruous as the sight which now presented itself in the chancel. Kneeling at the altar rail was a figure of such showy elegance that he seemed more fitted for a gaming den than for a house of prayer. It was as if he had wandered into the church by mistake and been vanquished by the power of God. A shudder went through his body then he prostrated himself on the cold stone steps, assuming an attitude of extreme penitence so that he could have conference with his Maker.


A mitred bishop in the meanest brothel could not have looked more out of place. The man remained prone for several minutes, a colourful guest in the consecrated shadows, a living embodiment of the sacred and the profane. When he raised his eyes to the crucifix, they were awash with tears of contrition. Racked with guilt and speared with pain, he muttered a stream of prayers under his breath then slowly dragged himself to his feet. He backed down the aisle and genuflected when he reached the door.


Ralph Willoughby went out into bustling Gracechurch Street.


His affability returned at once. In his cheerful progress through the crowd, there was no hint of the malaise which took him to St Benet's, still less of the turbulence he experienced while he was there. His innermost feelings were cloaked once more. Willoughby now gave the impression that he did not have a care in the world.


When he reached the Queen's Head, he went straight to the yard where the stage was being dismantled. Westfield's Men were not due to perform there until the following week and so their temporary playhouse could make way for the ordinary business of the inn. Everybody worked with unwonted alacrity, eager to clear away all trace of The Merry Devils so that they could put behind them the memory of what had happened that afternoon. There was none of the usual idle chat. They went about their task in grim silence.


Nicholas Bracewell came out of a door and crossed the yard. He had laboured long and hard with Marwood and the effort had taken its toll, but it had brought a modicum of success. The landlord had been sufficiently quelled by the book holder's reasoning to hold back from tearing up the contract with Westfield's Men. The players were neither welcome nor expelled from the Queen's Head. Nicholas had won them a period of grace.


Pleased to see Willoughby, he bore down on him.


'A word in your ear, Ralph,' he said.


'As many as you choose, dear fellow.'


'Master Firethorn was roused by that third devil of ours.'


'So we were all!'


'His anger glows. Avoid him until it has cooled.'


'Why so, Nick?'


'Be warned. He lays the blame on you.'


'Ah!' sighed the other softly.


'Away, sir!' urged Nicholas. 'He'll be here anon. He stays but for brief converse with Lord Westfield.'


'This is kind advice but I'll stand my ground in spite of it.'


'Fly the place now, Ralph.'


'I'll not turn tail for any man.'


'Master Firethorn will rant and rave unjustly at you.'


'He has good cause.'


'What's that?'


'It was my fault.' Willoughby shook his head and smiled wryly. 'Lay it at my door, Nick. I penned that scene and I summoned that furious devil from Hell.'


'No, not from Hell. His journey was of much shorter length.'


'How say you?'


'It was a creature of flesh and blood, Ralph.'


'But I saw the fiend with my own eyes.'


'Only in a twinkling.' Nicholas pointed to the trestles that were being taken down. 'If that was one of Satan's brood, why did he leave by an open trap whose device had been cut for the purpose?'


'A devil may do as he wishes,' argued Willoughby. 'He could have disappeared down the trap or up the nearest chimney, if fancy had seized him that way. This was no illusion, Nick. It was real and authenticate.'


'I cannot believe that.'


'What other explanation suits the case?'


'T he creature was placed there for our discomfort.'


'By whom, sir?'


'We have rivals, we have enemies.'


'But how came they to have intelligence of our play? This was no random fiend, breaking forth wildly to mar all our doings. This merry devil knew exactly when to appear. No rival could have prompted him.'


It was a valid point and it halted Nicholas in his tracks. Plays were the exclusive property of the companies who staged them and they were jealously guarded during the rehearsal period. Plagiarism was rife and Westfield's Men--it was an article of faith with Firethorn--took especial care to protect their interests while, at the same time, keeping a close eye on the work of their rivals to see if they themselves might filch an occasional idea or steal some occasional thunder. Only one complete copy of The Merry Devils existed and it had been entrusted to the capable hands of Nicholas Bracewell, who kept it under lock and key when not using it as a prompt book.


Nobody outside the company had had a sight of the full text of the play. It was impossible for someone to introduce a third merry devil into the action without prior knowledge of the time, place and manner in which George Dart and Roper Blundell emerged on to the stage.


Ralph Willoughby jabbed a finger to reinforce his argument.


'The devil came forth in answer to my call.'


'If devil it was,' said Nicholas sceptically.


'Of that there can be no doubt.'


'I am not persuaded, Ralph.


'Then I must unfold something to you,' said the other, peering around to make sure that they were not overheard. 'The speeches of Doctor Castrato were not invention. Those incantations were not the product of my wayward brain. I took counsel.'


'From whom?'


'A man well-versed in such matters.'


'A sorcerer?'


'An astrologer of some renown, practised in all the arts of medicine, alchemy and necromancy. Every aspect of demonology is known to him and he instructed me patiently in the subject.'


Nicholas did not need to be told the name. The description could only apply to one person in London, an astrologer of such eminence that his services had been retained by Queen Elizabeth herself and by various members of the royal household. An educated man like Ralph Willoughby would have no dealings with mountebanks who performed their wizardry in back alleys. He would search out the best advice and that would surely come from the celebrated Doctor John Mordrake of Knightrider Street.


'He showed me the charms to use,' said Willoughby. 'He taught me the correct form of words.'


'Did Edmund know of all this?'


'I had no reason to tell him, Nick. It fell to me to write that fatal scene and I wanted a ring of truth in it. I had no notion that I would raise a devil in broad daylight.'


'Were you not warned against it?'


'My mentor assured me that the summons would only work in private, in some cloistered place where darkness was softened by candlelight. Yet here was this fiend of Hell for all to see.'


Ralph Willoughby was no credulous fool who could be tricked by a flash of gunpowder and a flame-red costume. Watching intently from the gallery, he was convinced that he had seen a real devil materialise upon the stage. Nicholas still had vestigial doubts.


'The cord was cut, the trap was up.'


'A devil could have done that.'


'But why?'


'To spread more confusion, Nick. To mislead us afresh.'


'My instinct takes me to another explanation.'


'It was a devil,' insisted Willoughby. 'I was the one who called him and I was the one who was punished. Master Firethorn is right to put the blame on me. I raised up this spirit.'


Further dispute with him was useless. He would never be shifted from his belief and Nicholas was forced to admit that his friend did actually witness the supernatural event. So did the four actors on stage at the time and they were of the same mind as Ralph Willoughby. Panic scattered the entire company with the honourable exceptions of Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode. It was the latter who now excited curiosity.


'Why was Edmund not unnerved?' said Willoughby.


'He is a brave man in his own way.'


'His performance went beyond bravery, Nick.'


'He was driven forward.


'It was Youngthrust to the life.'


'That was his fervent hope.'


'In his place, I would have been trembling with fear.'


'Edmund was armoured against it. There is something that is even stronger than fear, Ralph.'


'Is there?'


'Love.'


'That is the cause?'


'Why do you think he chose to play Youngthrust?' asked Nicholas with a kind smile. 'Edmund Hoode is in love.'


*

Grace Napier was not an overwhelming vision of loveliness. Men beholding her for the first time would notice her pleasant features and her trim figure, her seemly attire and her modest demeanour. They were impressed but never smitten. Hers was a stealthy beauty that crept up on its prey and pounced when least expected. She could reveal a vivacity that was usually banked down, a hidden radiance that came through to suffuse her whole personality. Those who stayed long enough to become fully acquainted with Grace Napier found that she was a remarkable young woman. Behind her many accomplishments lay a strong will and a questing intelligence, neither of which involved the slightest sacrifice of her femininity.


'You deserve congratulation, Master Hoode,' she said.


'Thank you, thank you!'


'Your portrayal was sublime.'


'I dedicate it to you, mistress.'


'It is the finest I have seen of your performances.'


'The role was created with my humble talents in mind.'


'There is nothing humble about your talent, sir,' she said firmly. 'As a poet and as a player, you are supremely gifted.'


'Your praise redeems everything.'


Edmund Hoode was in a private room at the Queen's Head, enjoying a rare meeting with Grace Napier. The presence of her companion, the pert Isobel Drewry, imposed a restraint as well as a propriety on the occasion but Hoode was not deterred by it. In the few short weeks that he had known her, he had fallen deeply in love with Grace Napier and would have shared the room with a hundred female companions if it gave him the opportunity to speak with his beloved.


Isobel Drewry giggled as she offered her critique.


'It was such a happy comedy,' she said, tapping the ends of her Fingers together. 'I laughed so much at Droopwell and Justice Wildboare. And as for Doctor...' Another giggle surfaced. 'There! I cannot bring myself to say his name but he gave us much mirth.'


'Barnaby Gill is one of our most experienced players,' said Hoode. 'No matter what lines are written for him, he will find the humour in them. He has no equal as a comedian.'


'Unless it be that third merry devil,' observed Grace.


'Indeed, sir,' agreed Isobel. 'He gave us all a wondrous shock.'


That was our intent,' said Hoode dismissively, anxious to keep off the topic of the uninvited devil. 'Tell me, Mistress Napier, for which of his several good parts did you admire Youngthrust the most?'


Isobel suppressed a giggle but Grace gave a serious answer.


'I was touched by his sighing,' she said.


Were you?' he sighed.


'He suffered so much from the pangs of love.'


'Oh, he did, he did!'


Hoode was thrilled by this new evidence of her sensitivity. With so many other things to choose from, Grace Napier singled out the quality he had tried above all else to project. The sighing and suffering that was provoked by Lucy Hembrow in the play was really aimed at Grace herself and she seemed almost to acknowledge the fact. In every conceivable way, she was a rare creature. Unlike most young ladies, Grace came to the playhouse to see rather than to be seen, and her knowledge of drama was wide. She watched most of the London companies but her favourite--Hoode gave silent thanks for it--was Westfield's Men.


Isobel Drewry might be thought by some to be the more attractive of the two. Her features were prettier, her eye bolder, her lips fuller and her manner less guarded. Again, Isobel's dress was more arresting in its cut and colours. Her combination of worldliness and innocence was very appealing but Hoode did not even notice it. All his attention was devoted to Grace Napier. This was the first time she had come to the Queen's Head without bringing her brother as a chaperone and Hoode saw this as an important sign. She consented to a brier meeting with him after the play and she confessed that she had been touched by the pathos of his performance. That was progress enough for one afternoon.


'We must bid you adieu, sir,' she said.


'A thousand thanks for your indulgence!'


'It was a pleasure, Master Hoode.'


'You do me a great honour.'


I would see you play again,' said Isobel brightly. 'When will Westfield's Men take the stage again?'


'On Friday next at The Curtain.'


'Let's attend, Grace. We'll watch the company in another piece.'


'I am as eager as you, Isobel. We'll visit The Curtain.'


'That might not be altogether wise,' said Hoode quickly. 'If it is comedy that delights your senses, pray avoid us on Friday at all costs. We play Vincentio's Revenge, as dark and bloody a tragedy as any in our repertoire. I fear it may give offence.'


'Darkness and blood will not offend us, sir,' said Isobel easily. 'Tragedy can work potently on the mind. I like the sound of this play, Grace, and I would fain see it.'


'So would I,' returned her friend.


'Consider well, ladies,' he said. 'It may not be to your taste.'


Grace smiled. 'How can we judge until we have seen it?'


'Be ruled by me.'


But they declined. No matter how hard he tried to persuade them against it, they stood by their decision to watch Vincentio's Revenge. Hoode was unsettled. He wanted Grace Napier to see him at his best and the tragedy gave him no opportunity to shine.


He was cast as a lecherous old Duke who was impaled on the hero's sword in the second act. There was no way that he could speak to his beloved through the character of the Black Duke. She would despise him as the degenerate he played.


Grace read his mind and tried to soothe it.


'We do not expect a Youngthrust in every play, sir,' she said.


'I am not well-favoured in Friday's offering,' he admitted.


'We will make allowances for that. Ill not condemn you because you appear as a villain. I hope I've learned to separate the player from the play.' She touched his arm lightly. 'My brother and I saw you as the Archbishop of Canterbury in The History of King John but I did not then imagine Edmund Hoode to be weighed down with holiness. Whatever you play, I take pleasure from your performance.'


'This kindness robs me of all speech,' he murmured.


Grace Napier crossed to the door and Isobel followed her. Hoode moved swiftly to lift the latch for them. Isobel bestowed a broad smile of gratitude on him but he was not even aware of her presence. Grace leaned in closer for a final word.


'I would see Youngthrust on the stage again,' she confided.


'The Merry Devils?'


'Your part in your play. A double triumph.'


'I am overcome.'


'But next time, sir, let him sigh and suffer even more.'


'Youngthrust?'


'He should not have his love requited too soon,' she said. 'The longer an ardent wooer waits, the more he comes to prize his fair maid. It can only increase their happiness in the end.'


She touched his arm again then went out with Isobel, their dresses swishing down the corridor and their heels clacking on the paving slabs. Edmund Hoode was tingling with joy. He had clear direction from her ar last. Grace Napier welcomed his love and urged him to be steadfast. In time, when he had endured the pangs of loneliness and the twinges of despair, she might one day be his. She had transformed his life in a few sentences.


From the depths of Hell, he now ascended to the highest Heaven.


--------------------------------------------

Chapter Three

St Paul's Cathedral was the true heart of the city. It dominated, the skyline with its sheer hulk and Gothic magnificence. Within its walls could be found the teeming life of London in microcosm. Paul's Walk, the middle aisle with its soaring pillars and vaulted roof, was a major thoroughfare where gallants strutted in their Finery, soldiers escorted their ladies, friends met to exchange gossip, masters hired servants, jobless men searched the advertisements on display, lawyers gave advice, usurers loaned money, country people gaped, and where all the beggars and rogues of the neighbourhood congregated in the hope of rich pickings.


Crime flourished in a place of divine worship and yet the sacred glow was somehow preserved. St Paul's was not simply an imposing structure of stone and high moral purpose, it was a daily experience or everything that was best and worst in the nation's capital.


The cathedral stood at the western end of Cheapside. Its churchyard covered twelve and a hair acres with houses and shops crowding around the precinct walls. At the centre of the churchyard was Paul's Cross, a wooden, lead-covered pulpit from which political orations were made on occasion and from which sermons were regularly preached.


'There indeed a man may behold hideous devils run raging over the stage with squibs in their mouths, while the drummer makes thunder in the tiring house and the hirelings make lightning in the Heavens.'


The sermon which was being delivered there on that sun-dappled morning was fiery enough to draw a large audience and to capture the interest of those who were browsing in the bookshops or loitering by the tobacco stalls. Standing in the pulpit, high above contradiction, was a big, brawny man with a powerful voice and a powerful message. He waved a bunched fist to emphasise his point.


'Look but upon the common plays of London and see the multitude that flocks to them and follows them. View the sumptuous playhouses, a continual monument to the city's prodigality and folly. Do not these vile places maintain bawdry, insinuate knavery and renew the remembrance of heathen idolatry? They are dens of iniquity!'


There was a ground swell of agreement among the listening throng. Isaac Pollard developed his argument with righteous zeal.


'Nay!' he said. 'Are not these playhouses the devourers of maidenly virginity and chastity? For proof whereof, mark the running to The Theatre and The Curtain and other like houses of sin, to see plays and interludes, where such wanton gestures, such foul speeches, such laughing and leering, such winking and glancing of wanton eyes is used, as is shameful to behold. The playhouse is a threat to Virtue and a celebration of Vice!'


Pollard was really into his stride now, his single eyebrow rising and falling like a creature in torment. He pointed to the heavens, he pummelled the pulpit, he smashed one fist into the palm of his other hand. In launching his attack on the theatre, he was not averse to using a few theatrical tricks.


'But yesterday,' he continued, 'but yesterday, good sirs, I went to view this profanity for myself. Not up in Shoreditch, I say, not yet down in Bankside but within our own city boundaries, at the sign of the Queens Head in Gracechurch Street. There I beheld such idleness, such wickedness and such blasphemy that I might have been a visitor to Babylon. Men and women buy this depravity for the price of one penny and our city authorities do nought to stop them. Yet upon that stage--I call it a scaffold of Hell, rather--I saw the visible apparition of devils as they capered for amusement. That is no playhouse, sirs, it is the high road to perpetual damnation!'


The more vociferous elements gave him a rousing cheer.


'The theatres of London,' said Pollard with booming certainty, 'are the disgrace and downfall of the city. Among their many sinful acts, there be three chief abominations. First, plays are a special cause of corrupting our youth, containing nothing but unchaste matters, lascivious devices, shifts of cozenage and other ungodly practices.'


Support was even more audible now. A woman in the crowd clutched her two children to her bosom, as if fearing that they would go straight off to the nearest playhouse to lose their innocence.


'Second, theatres are the ordinary places for vagrant persons, thieves, beggars, horse-stealers, whoremongers, coney-catchers and other dangerous fellows to meet together and make their matches to the great displeasure of God Almighty.'


Pollard drew himself up to his full height and his shadow fell across those who listened down below. Both arms were outstretched for effect as he came to his final indictment.


'Third, plays draw apprentices and other servants from their work, they pluck all sorts of people from resort unto sermons and Christian practices, and they bind them to the worship of the Devil. Playhouses mock our religion. Destroy this canker in our midst, say I. Perish all plays and players!'


There was a deathly hush as his imprecations hung upon the wind, then a derisive laugh was heard from the rear of the congregation. Isaac Pollard turned eyes of hatred upon a personable figure in doublet, hose and feathered hat. The man had the look of a gallant but the air of a scholar.


It was Ralph Willoughby.


*

The house in Shoreditch was not large and yet it served Lawrence Firethorn and his wife, their children, their servants, the four young apprentices with Westfield's Men and sundry other members of the company who needed shelter from time to time. It fell to Margery Firethorn to make sure that people did not keep bumping into each other in the limited space and she presided over her duties with a ruthless vigilance. A handsome woman of ample proportions, she had an independent mind and an aggressive charm. Firethorn could be fearsome when roused but he had married his match in her. Pound for pound, Margery was redder meat and she was the only person alive who could rout him in argument. He might be the captain of the domestic ship but it was his wife's hot breath which filled the sails.


'The room is ready, Lawrence,' she said.


'Thank you, my dove.'


'Refreshment has been set out.'


'Good. We deal with weighty matters.'


'Nobody will dare to interrupt!'


Her raised voice was a threat which could be heard in every coiner of the house. She glided off to the kitchen and Firethorn was left to conduct his two visitors into the main room. Barnaby Gill puffed at his pipe and took a seat at the table while Edmund Hoode curled up on the settle in a corner. Firethorn remained on his feet so that he could the more easily assert his ascendancy.


It was a business meeting. All three of them were sharers with Westfield's Men, ranked players whose names were listed in the royal patent for the company. They took the leading parts in the plays and had a share in any profits that were made. There were four other sharers but most of the decisions were made by Firethorn, Gill and Hoode, a trio who combined wisdom with experience and who represented a balance of opinion. That, at least, was the theory. In practice, their discussions often degenerated into acrimonious bickering.


Barnaby Gill elected to strike the first blow this time.


'I oppose the notion with every sinew of my being!'


'No less was expected of you,' said Firethorn.


'The idea beggars belief.'


'Remember who suggested it, Barnaby.'


'Tell Lord Westfield that it is out of the question.'


'I have told him that we accede to his request.'


'You might, Lawrence,' said the other testily, but I will never do so, and I speak for the whole company.'


Barnaby Gill was a short, plump, round-faced man who tried to hold middle age at bay by the judicious use of cosmetics. Disaffected and irascible offstage, he became the soul of wit the moment he stepped upon it and his comic routines were legendary. Tobacco and boys were his only sources of private pleasure and he usually required both before he would shed his surliness.


Lawrence Firethorn grasped the nettle of resistance.


'What is the nature of your objection, Barnaby?'


'Fear, sir. Naked, unashamed fear.'


'Of another apparition?'


'Of what else! I am an actor, not a sorcerer. I'll not meddle with the supernatural again. It puts me quite out of countenance.'


'But we survived,' said Firethorn reasonably. 'The devil came and went but we live to boast of our ordeal.'


It might not be so again, Lawrence.'


'Indeed not. The creature might decline to visit us next time.'


'He'll get no invitation from me, that I vow!'


Firethorn reached for the flagon on the table and poured three cups of ale, handing one each to the two men. He quaffed his own drink ruminatively then turned to Edmund Hoode.


You have heard both sides, sir. Which do you choose?'


'Something of each, Lawrence, said the playwright.


'You talk in riddles.'


'I think that The Merry Devils should be seen again.'


'Excellent wretch!'


'An act of madness!' protested Gill.


'Hold still, Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'I agree with you that we must not run the risk of bringing back that real devil.'


Firethorn was perplexed. 'How can you satisfy us both?


'By amending the play. Here's the manner of it.'


Edmund Hoode had given it considerable thought. Instinct urged him to refuse to be involved again in a work that had taken them so close to catastrophe, but the words of Grace Napier echoed in his ears. His performance as Youngthrust had started to win her over. If he were allowed to give it again--replete with all the sighing and suffering that his beloved could wish for--then he would move nearer to the supreme moment of conquest. To make the play safe, he proposed a number of alterations, principally in the scene where Doctor Castrato summoned the merry devils.


'Ralph's magic was too potent,' he said. 'I will get him to cast some new spells that are too blunt to raise anything more than George Dart and Roper Blundell. It is a simple undertaking for Ralph.'


'Not so,' said Firethorn sternly. 'Do it yourself, Edmund.'


'But that scene came from his hand.'


'Which is exactly why it caused so much trouble. Ralph Willoughby has been the bane of this company for long enough.


Ever since be worked with us, we have been plagued by setback. Misfortune attends the fellow. I spoke with him yesterday and severed the connection. We paid him for his share of the play and he has gone. It is up to you now, Edmund.'


'But we were friends and co-authors,' said Hoode defensively.


'That time is past.'


'I never liked him,' admitted Gill sourly, tapping out his pipe on the edge of the table. 'Willoughby was the strangest soul. There was a darkness behind that bright smile of his that I could not abide.'


'Ralph is the finest dramatist in London,' insisted Hoode.


'That is open to dispute,' said Firethorn.


'He has worked with all the best companies, Lawrence.'


'Then why have they not retained his services?'


'Well...'


'Everyone seeks a resident poet, Edmund, which is why you are the envy of our rivals. But none of them has pressed Master Willoughby to stay. He writes well, I grant you, but he brings bad luck--and that is too heavy a burden to bear in the theatre.'


Hoode withdrew into his settle and brooded over his ale. Gill pondered. Firethorn let out a wheeze of satisfaction, feeling that he had carried the day with far less aggravation than he anticipated.


'Thus it stands, then,' he said. 'Lord Westfield will have his entertainment to order. Are we agreed?' He took their silence for consent. It is but a case of striking out one play and inserting The Merry Devils. Weil give it on Tuesday of next week at The Rose.'


'That we will not!' said Gill, exploding into life.


'I have made the decision, Barnaby.'


'Well, I resist it with all my might and main. Cupid's Folly was destined for The Rose. Strike out another play, if you must, but do not tamper with Cupid's Folly.'


'The Rose is most suited to our purposes, Barnaby.'


'You'll not find me there as Doctor Castrate'


'Put the needs of the company above selfish desire.'


'I mean this, Lawrence. I'll leave Westfield's Men before I'll submit to this. That is no idle threat, sir, be assured.'


Barnaby Gill's tantrums were a regular feature of any business meeting and his fellow-sharers learned to humour him. Once he had flared up, he soon burned himself out. This time it was different. He was in earnest. Cupid's Folly was his favourite comedy, the one play in their repertoire that offered him total domination of the stage. His performance in the leading role had been honed to such perfection that he could orchestrate the laughter from start to finish. He was not going to be robbed of his hour o: triumph. Folding his arms and pouting his lips, he turned an aggrieved face to the window.


Firethorn glanced over at Hoode and attempted a compromise.


'I have the answer,' he said guilefully. 'Edmund, did you not say that Doctor Castrato might have a dance or two more?'


'No, Lawrence.'


'Come, sir. You did.'


'I have no knowledge of the matter.'


'Then your memory is leaking. You urged it only yesterday.'


Unseen by Gill, he gestured wildly to Hoode for his support. The latter gave a resigned nod and went along with the lie, but his voice lacked any conviction.


'Now I bethink me, you are right. Another jig, f said.'


'Two, Edmund.'


'Oh, at least.'


'And a new song for the Doctor. His role must be extended.'


'At the expense of Justice Wildboare?'


'We need not go to that length,' said Firethorn hastily.


'Dances and a song, then. I will see to it.'


'Not on my account,' said Gill. 'I want Cupid's Folly.'


'But your new Castrato will dazzle the galleries at The Rose,' urged Firethorn. 'This is fair recompense for the change of play.'


'No, Lawrence. I am immoveable.'


And he turned his back on them in a spectacular sulk.


Firethorn exploded. He bullied, he badgered, he threatened, he aimed a torrent of abuse at his colleague. His voice was so loud and his language so florid that he made the whole room shake and dislodged four spiders from the beams above his head. It was the towering rage of a great actor in full flight and it would have brought a lesser man to his knees but Barnaby Gill was proof against the tirade. He simply refused to be a one-man audience to the extraordinary performance.


Impasse was reached. In the bruised silence that followed, Gill held his pose and Firethorn glared vengefully across at him. There seemed to be no way around the problem until Edmund Hoode intervened.


'We do not have to cancel Cupid's Folly' he said.


'Indeed, we do, sir!' snarled Firethorn. ' The Merry Devils must be our offering at The Rose.'


'And so it shall be.'


'Have you lost your wits, Edmund? We cannot stage both plays in the same afternoon. One must give way to the other.'


'That was not my meaning,' said Hoode quietly. 'The Merry Devils will be presented at The Rose and Cupid's Folly will take its turn on Friday at The Curtain.'


Firethorn was momentarily dumbfounded but Gill bubbled with joy.


'There you have it, Edmund!'


'The play we strike out is Vincentio's Revenge.'


'Have a care what you suggest, sir!' growled Firethorn.


'Vincentio's Revenge is a tedious piece,' said Gill airily. 'It will not be missed. Oh, we know that you touch the heights in the title role, Lawrence, and it is one of your most assured successes, but is it not time to ask--I put this to you in the spirit of friendship--if you are not a trifle long in the tooth to be a young Italian hero?'


Firethorn bared his teeth for Gill to assess their length.


'Is not this the best answer?' asked Hoode cheerily.


'Yes, sir!' said Gill.


'No, sir!' countered Firethorn.


'Edmund shows the wisdom of Solomon.'


'Then why does he talk like the village idiot?' The actor-manager stalked the room. 'I have fifteen special moments in Vincentio's Revenge and I'll not be denied one of them. It stays.'


'And so does Cupid's Folly,' said Gill petulantly.


It was stalemate again. While the two of them withdrew once more into a hurt silence, Edmund Hoode tried to sound impartial as he proffered his advice. But the removal of Vincentio's Revenge suited his purposes very well. Losing the part of a decrepit old lecher, he instead became a lovelorn shepherd in the pastoral comedy of Cupid's Folly. It would give him the chance to impress Grace Napier with his readiness to bear the cross of unrequited passion. Hoode worked hard to soothe Firethorn, telling him how incomparable his performance as Vincentio was, yet reminding him of his dazzling role as a prince in the other play. Siding imperceptibly with Gill, he slowly brought Firethorn to the realisation that there was no alternative. Without Cupid's Folly, they would have no Doctor Castrato. Vincentio would have to forgo his revenge.


'Put the company before yourself for once,' said Gill spitefully. Lawrence always does that,' said Hoode. 'And I am sure that he will make this supreme sacrifice for the sake of Westfield's Men and our esteemed patron.'


Firethorn showed one last flash of surging arrogance.


'But for me, there would be no company. I am Westfield's Men.'


'Right, sir,' sniped Gill. 'Play Doctor Castrato yourself, then.'


'Gentlemen, gentlemen...' calmed Hoode.


'Play Droopwell. Play Youngthrust. Play the merry devils themselves.' Gill's tone was cruelly sarcastic. 'Since you have such an appetite for solo performance, carry a fan to hide your beard and play Lucy Hembrow into the bargain.' Enough, sir!'


Firethorn's exclamation was like the roar of a cannon. Circling the room in a frenzy, he kicked a chair, pounded the table, spat into the empty fireplace and sent a warming pan clattering from its nail on the wall. He came to rest before a window and stared out unseeing at the small but well-tended garden.


Hoode waited a full minute before he dared to speak.


'Is it agreed, Lawrence?'


There was an even longer pause before the hissed reply came. Castrato is to have no new songs or dances!'


'It's agreed!' shouted Gill in exultation, then lie expressed his gratitude to Hoode by kissing him on the lips. 'God bless all poets!'


Yet another meeting thus reached its amicable conclusion.


*

Anne Hendrik was not a typical resident of Bankside. In an area that was notorious for its brothels, bear gardens and bull rings, for its cockpits, carousing and cutpurses, she was a symbol of respectability. She was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, who had fled from his native Holland and settled in Southwark because the City Guilds did not welcome immigrants into their exclusive fraternities. Overcoming initial problems, Jacob slowly prospered. By the time he married a buxom English girl of nineteen, he could offer her the comfort of a neat house in one of the twisting lanes. Though childless, it was a happy marriage and it left Anne Hendrik with many fond memories. It also gave her a liking for male company.


'Ralph Willoughby has gone?' , 'Banished from the company.'... 'What does Master Firethorn have against him?' ' 'Everything, Anne.'


'It seems so unfair.'


'Unfair, unwarranted and unnecessary.'


'Can Edmund Hoode revise the play on his own?'


'I have my doubts.'


They were sitting over the remains of supper at the Bankside house. The mood was relaxed and informal. Nicholas Bracewell had lodged there for some time now and had come to appreciate all of his landlady's finer qualities. Anne Hendrik was a tall, graceful woman in her thirties with attractive features of the kind that improved with the passage of time. She was a widow who never settled back into widowhood, and there was nothing homely or complacent about her. Intelligent and perceptive, she had a fund of compassion for people in distress and a practical streak that urged her to help them. Her apparel was always immaculate, her manner pleasant and her interest genuine.


'What will Master Willoughby do?' she asked.


'I have no idea.'


'Poor man! To be hounded out like that.'


'Master Firethorn can be brutal at times.'


'Yet he wants the play staged again?'


'Lord Westfield's command.'


Anne had liked him from the start. He was solid, reliable and undemanding in a way that reminded her of her husband. Nicholas was also a very private man with an air of mystery about him and she loved that most of all because it was something that Jacob Hendrik did not possess. In place of a dear but predictable partner, she had taken on a deep and thoughtful individual who could always surprise her. Their friendship soon matured and they now enjoyed a closeness that was untrammelled by any need for a formal commitment on either side. They could trust and confide in each other.


'Give me your true opinion, Nicholas,' she said.


'Of what?'


'The apparition.'


'I hardly saw it, Anne.'


'But those on stage who did took it for a devil.'


'Each one of them. As did Ralph Willoughby.'


'Yet you are not convinced.'


'I am trying to be.'


'What holds you back?'


A vague feeling, no more.'


'Do you not believe in devils?'


He looked at her shrewdly for a moment then chuckled softly, reaching across to pat her arm with an affectionate hand. The concern on her face changed to puzzlement.


'Answer my question,' she pressed.


'It was answered the day I was baptised,' he said evasively. 'A man who bears the Devil's name must perforce believe in Hell. I am Old Nick. The Prince of Darkness. His Satanic Majesty. Lucifer.'


'You have still not given me a Pit reply.


'Very well. He sat back and became serious. 'I will tell you the truth, Anne. I do not know. I do not know if devils exist and if I believe in them. I've lived long enough and travelled far enough to see some strange sights, but none of them came straight from Hell. Ralph Willoughby and the others saw a real devil but I did not. If I had done so, I would have believed in it. That is my honest reply.'


And what of God?' she said.


'No doubts there, Anne,' he affirmed. 'I have seen God's hand at work many times. You cannot go to sea without entrusting yourself to His special providence. When I sailed around the world, I witnessed more than enough miracles to strengthen my faith. I know that there is a God in Heaven.' He smiled pensively. 'What I cannot yet accept is that there was a devil in Gracechurch Street.'


There was a tap on the door and the maid came in to clear the table. Anne studied her lodger. After all their time together, there were still many things she did not know about him. The son of a West Country merchant, Nicholas voyaged with Drake on the Golden Hind and survived the onerous circumnavigation of the globe. Those three years spent beneath the billowing canvas of an English ship had made a lasting impression on him yet he never talked about them. Nor would he ever explain how and why he chose to move into the choppy waters of the London theatre. Nicholas Bracewell felt the need to be secretive in such matters and she had come to respect that.


When the maid left the room, he looked across at Anne once more

'I have a favour to ask.'


'Do but ask it and it will be granted.'


'Your hospitality is without fault.' They traded a short laugh. 'I would like you to visit The Rose next week.'


'The Merry Devils?


'Yes, Anne. I need a pair of eyes in the gallery.'


'Do you expect this devil to appear again?'


'We should be prepared for that eventuality,' he said. 'I will tell you exactly what to look out for and when it may happen. In the meantime, I hope you will also enjoy the play.'


'That I shall, Nicholas.'


They got up from the table and crossed to the door. Something made her stop suddenly and turn back to him with a furrowed brow.


'When they saw that devil on the stage...'


'When they thought they saw it,' he corrected.


'Were they not alarmed?'


'Demented with fear. All except Master Firethorn, who carried on as if nothing untoward had happened.'


'He must have nerves of steel.'


'Only one thing can frighten him.'


'What's that?'


'His wife, Margery, when she is on the rampage. Hell may open its gates to send up its merriest devils but they will have to take second place to that good lady.'


'And what of Master Willoughby?'


'Oh, he was afraid,' recalled Nicholas. 'Deep down, I think that he was more shaken by the experience than any of them. He took the full blame upon himself. For a reason that I cannot comprehend, Ralph Willoughby is quite terrified.'


*

He slept for no more than ten minutes but lost all awareness of his surroundings. When his eyelids flickered, he could feel the darkness pressing in upon them and he had to make a conscious effort to shrug off his drowsiness. He was unwell. His head was pounding, his mouth nauseous, his stomach churning and his whole body lathered with perspiration. He groaned involuntarily. Then something moved beneath him and he realised with horror that he was lying naked in the arms of a young woman. By the uncertain light of the candle, he could see the powdered face that was now split by a jagged smile of ingratiation.


'Did I please you, sir?' she said hopefully.


Revulsion set in at once and he rolled over on to the bare floor, groping around in the gloom for his clothing. The girl sat up on the mattress to watch him, her long, matted hair hanging down around her bony shoulders. She was painfully thin and her breasts were scarcely fully formed. Sixteen was the oldest she could be. In the lustful warmth of the taproom downstairs, she seemed quite entrancing and he had brought her drunkenly up to her squalid chamber. Deprived of her flame-coloured taffeta, she looked plain, angular and distinctly unwholesome. Yet it was into this frail body that he had plunged so earnestly in search of refuge.


'Must you leave, sir?' she whispered.


His embarrassment grew. Grabbing his purse, he fumbled inside it then tossed some coins at her. She scooped them greedily up and held them tight in her little fist. Half-dressed and still only half-awake, he grunted a farewell then lurched out into the passageway.


Ralph Willoughby was overcome by the familiar sense of shame.


As he rested against her door and hooked up his doublet, he tried to work out exactly where he was. Somewhere in Eastcheap, but which tavern? Could it be the Red Lion? No, that was the previous night. The Lamb and Flag? No, that was the previous week. Was it the Jolly Miller? Unlikely. That particular haunt of his had a musty smell that he could not detect here. In that case, it had to be the Brazen Serpent, an appropriate venue for his latest disgrace. Fornication with some nameless girl in her wretched lodging at the Brazen Serpent in Eastcheap. Guilt burned inside him and the pain in his head became almost unbearable.


Willoughby put his hands together in prayer and recited quickly in Latin. Perspiration still ran from every pore. Consumed by an inner grief, he began to sway gently to and fro. Approaching footsteps jerked him out of his confession. Three people were coming noisily up the stairs, laughing and joking as they banged against the walls. Willoughby stood motionless and waited in the dark. The newcomers soon staggered along the passageway towards him.


The man had an arm around each of the two women so that he could both fondle and lean on them. His voice suggested that he was young, educated, flushed with wine and very accustomed to the situation in which he found himself. There was also a lordly note that showed he was used to giving orders and being obeyed. The moon shone in through the window to guide their footsteps along the undulating oak floorboards over which so many men had walked to perdition.


Willoughby shrank back but they were far too absorbed in their own drama to notice his presence. When they were still a couple of yards away from him, they went into a room and closed the door behind them. He waited no longer. Scurrying along the passageway, he hurled himself down the stairs as if the tavern were on fire. Seconds later, he was outside in the road but his headlong flight was delayed. As his stomach turned afresh, he felt a rising tide of vomit and bent double in humiliation.


Up in the chamber, the other man was ready to savour his pleasures. Flopping on to the bed, he stretched both arms wide and invited his two companions to practise their witchcraft.


'Come, ladies. Unbutton me now.'


Francis Jordan was clearly there for the whole night.


*

Isaac Pollard was formidable enough when delivering a sermon from a pulpit. He had a way of subduing his congregation with a glare and of browbeating them with his rectitude. But it was his voice that was his chief weapon, a strong, insistent, deafening sound that could reach a thousand pairs of ears without the least sign of strain. When it was heard at Paul's Cross, it was a powerful instrument of earthly salvation. Encountered in a domestic setting, however, it was frankly overwhelming.


'It outrages every tenet of public decency!'


'Do not shout so, Isaac'


'The very fabric of our daily lives is at risk!'


'I hear you, sir. I hear you.'


'We demand stern action from our elected guardians!'


'Leave off, man. My head is a very belfry.'


Henry Drewry was a short, rotund, red-faced man in his fifties with an ineradicable whiff of salt about him. He was the pompous Alderman for Bishopsgate, one of the twenty-six wards of the City which chose a civic-minded worthy to represent them. A freeman of London, Drewry was also of necessity a member of one of the great Livery Companies. The Salters were vital contributors to the diet of the capital since their ware was used as a condiment at table and as a preservative for meat and fish. First licensed in 1467, the Salters' Company received its royal charter in 1559. In his portly frame and proud manner, Henry Drewry was a living monument to a flourishing trade which helped to control the taste of the citizenry.


Isaac Pollard returned to the attack with unabated volume.


'We seek support and satisfaction from you, Henry!'


'Seek it more mildly,' implored the other.


'The authorities must act to stop this corruption now!'


'What do you advocate, Isaac?'


'First, that the Queen's Head be closed forthwith!'


'Ah!' said Drewry gratefully. 'That lies not within my ward. If a tavern in Gracechurch Street exercises your displeasure, you must speak with Rowland Ashway. He is Alderman for Bridge Ward Within.'


'Master Ashway will not hear me.'


'Then he must be deaf indeed, sir.'


'When I talk of morality,' said Pollard solemnly, 'he thinks only of profit. Master Ashway, as you well know, is a member of the Brewers' Company. He sells his devilish ale to the Queen's Head and to the other taverns in Gracechurch Street. Sordid gain is all to him. The Alderman would not see the premises of a customer closed down, however sinful its workings.' The eyebrow crawled vigorously. 'I tell you, Henry, if it lay within my jurisdiction, I would shut down every brewery and tavern in the city!'


'Oh, I would not go to that extreme,' said Drewry, thinking of the dozen barrels of Ashway Beer that he kept in his own cellars. 'The people of London must be allowed some pleasure.'


'Pleasure!'


The word sent Pollard back up into the pulpit at Paul's Cross and he delivered a virulent homily against the sins of the flesh. Henry Drewry could do nothing to stem the flow. They were in the salter's house in Bishopsgate and the host was wishing that he had not agreed to meet the Fiery Puritan. Isaac Pollard was a friend of his because he found it politic to gain the acquaintance of any person of influence in the community. That friendship was now being put under intense strain.


Pollard moved back to the issue which had brought him there, ranting about plays in general and The Merry Devils in particular. I Ie described the lewd behaviour of the audience and then the appalling spectacle on the stage. Drewry was so buffeted that he could not take it all in but he did hear the questions that were hurled straight at him.


'Do you frequent the playhouse?'


'My duties and my trade forbid it,' said Drewry virtuously.


'Will you not condemn this filth?'


'With all my heart.'


'Unless it be checked, this corruption will spread until nothing is safe,' warned Pollard. 'How would you like your daughter to view such profanity?'


'I would not, sir. I hope I am a sensible parent.'


But even as he spoke, Henry Drewry felt an odd twinge of alarm. Something which his wife had told him now flitted across his mind. Their daughter, Isobel, returned from some outing in a state of excitement. For the first time in years, Drewry wished that he had listened to his wife properly. Isobel was a headstrong girl at the best of times and it was not impossible that she had attended a play.


The anxious father now sought more details.


'When was this offending performance?


'But two days since.'


'At the Queen's Head, you say?


'A stage was set up in the yard by Westfield's Men. All manner of people flocked to the place. Women, too, which shocked me most.'


The time was correct. Isobel Drewry could indeed have been one of the females whose presence had so disturbed Pollard. But why was the girl there and what in fact had she seen?


'And a devil appeared upon the stage?'


'Three, sir. There was no end to their blasphemy.'


'What followed?'


'Bedlam. The whole inn yard became Bedlam.'


*

The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem was housed in the buildings of an old priory outside Bishopsgate. Founded over three centuries earlier, it had now acquired notoriety as an asylum for the insane. The unfortunate souls who were confined there were not shown the compassion that they deserved. Bethlehem Hospital--or Bedlam, as it was known--was famed for its brutal regime. Instead of caring for its inmates within the privacy of its walls, it punished them unmercifully and put them on display. Watching the lunatics was a regular pastime, as much a normal part of recreation as bear-baiting or playgoing. The weird antics of the mentally disturbed were a form of entertainment.


'We have all kinds here, said Rooksley. 'Those that bay at the moon like wild dogs and those that speak not a word from one year's end to the next. Those that fight each other and those that do harm only to themselves. Those that laugh the whole day and those that weep without ceasing. Those that are tame and those that need a whip to teach them tameness. Bedlam contains a whole world of lunacy.'


'How came they here?' asked Kirk.


'Some twenty or so are supported by their parishes. The others are all private patients maintained at regular charges. Families pay between sixteen and sixty pence a week to keep their imbecile members locked away here.'


'That is a high price, Master Rooksley.'


'We earn it, sir. We earn it.'


It was Kirk's first day there. A muscular young man of medium height, he had a faintly ascetic air about him. Rooksley, the head keeper, was older, bigger and much more cynical. A livid scar down one cheek suggested that the job was not without its physical dangers. Rooksley was conducting his new colleague around the dank corridors and explaining his duties to him.


'We rule by force at Bedlam,' he said. 'It is the only way.'


'Beating will not cure the mind.'


'It will subdue the body, sir.'


'Is that the sole treatment for these poor wretches?'


'Most of them.'


As they turned a corner, a maniacal laugh came from a room ahead of them. It set off a series of other inmates and the whole corridor echoed with the strange cachinnation. Kirk was rather startled but the head keeper was unperturbed. The sound of whips confirmed that the staff were busy. Laughter changed to howls of pain.


Rooksley stopped outside a door with a small grille in it. He invited Kirk to peer into the gloom within. A young man in white shirr and dark breeches was sitting on the floor and gazing up at a fixed spot on the ceiling. He seemed to be deep in meditation.


'This one's a true gentleman,' said the head keeper. "The chamber is bare, as you see, with no pictures on the walls or painted cloths about the bed, nor any light except what creeps in through that tiny casement. We give him warm meat three times a day and Iced him cassia fistula for the good of his bowels.'


Does he never leave this chamber?'


'Never, sir. We have orders for it. He is restrained here.'


Hearing their voices, the man turned his dull gaze upon them and smiled with childlike innocence. Then, without warning, he suddenly fell to the floor and threshed about in a convulsive fit that was frightening in its violence. When it finally subsided, Kirk turned to his companion.


'What ails the man?'


'The Devil,' said Rooksley. 'He is possessed by the Devil.'


--------------------------------------------

Chapter Four

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.


--------------------------------------------

Chapter Five

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.

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