'Stay close, my love, avoid the scorching fire,

Prick not yourself upon that thorn's desire.'


They were not lines to be sent to his loved one. Hoode would engrave them upon his own heart to act as a warning. Whatever else he did, he must not introduce Grace to the insatiable Lawrence Firethorn.


Further meditation was interrupted by a banging on the door. He went over to unbolt it then opened it wide. Nicholas Bracewell stood there with a familiar figure over his shoulder. Hoode was pleased.


'Ralph?'


'The whole weight of him.'


'Where did you find him?'


'I will tell you when I have lightened my load.'


Nicholas stepped into the room and lowered the body to the floor, sitting Willoughby up and resting his back against the wall. The slumbering playwright was still dead to the world.


'He was at the Bull and Butcher,' said Nicholas.


'Drink or fornication?'


One prevented the other, Edmund.'


'He has burned the candle at both ends.'


'There is neither wax nor flame left.'


'Wake up, sir!' said Hoode, shaking his co-author.


'That will not rouse him,' said Nicholas, reaching for the jug on the table. 'Stand aside, I pray.'


With a swing of his arm, he dashed a few pints of cold water into Willoughby's face. The latter twitched, groaned, then spluttered. As he came out of his sleep, he opened an eye to blink at the world.


'Nell?'


'You are here among friends,' said Hoode.


'Edmund?' A second eye opened. 'Nicholas?'


'I fetched you from your revelry,' explained the book holder.


'We have need of you,' said Hoode. 'Our play is staged again.'


'I am no longer with the company, sir.'


'It requires your subtle hand.'


'Master Firethorn banished me.'


'This will not concern him,' said Hoode dismissively. 'We will work together privily. We are co-mates in this drama, Ralph, and I will not see you ousted. I must have your guidance with The Merry Devils'


'Do not perform it again!'


'Rather let us make it safe for performance.'


'That is not within my power.'


'What do you mean?'


'It is not the play that holds the peril,' said Willoughby with quiet dread. 'It is my part in its authorship, I am the catalyst here, sirs. Put my work on the stage and you will suffer. The devil will surely come again.'


'There was no devil, said Nicholas firmly.


'I am not certain either way,' admitted Hoode.


Willoughby was adamant. 'Truly, there was a devil. I have it from Doctor John Mordrake himself.'


'Mordrake!' Hoode was impressed.


'He consulted his books, his charts, his crystal and all agreed upon my fate. The life of Ralph Willoughby is forfeit. Save yours, my friends, by turning your backs on The Merry Devils.'


'It is too late,' said Nicholas.


'Then must you put the whole company at risk.'


'How?'


'Through me. Mordrake was specific on the matter.'


'A prediction?'


'Yes, Nick. Perform my play again--and disaster will strike!'


The warning could not have been clearer.


*

Grace Napier sat at the keyboard and filled the room with a wistful melody. When she came to the end of her practice, she was applauded.


'Well done! said Isobel Drewry.


'I improve slowly.'


'You play sweetly, Grace.'


'The instrument pleases my ear.'


'And mine.' Isobel giggled obscenely. 'I wonder if Master Hoode can finger a virginal so delicately!'


'Do not be so vulgar,' said Grace with a smile.


He longs to play on your keyboard.'


'Desist!'


Isobel stepped across to the virginal and ran her finger along it to produce a tinkling stream of sound. They were in the parlour at Grace's house. Having demonstrated her skill on the recorder, she had shown equal prowess at the keyboard. It was a pleasant way to pass an hour together on a wet morning. Isobel was duly appreciative.


I could listen to you all day, Grace!'


'You may have to unless this rain stops.' But why did you play such sad songs?' No reason.'


'The music was exquisite but full of melancholy strains. Is that your mood today? Is your heart really so heavy?'


Grace smiled pensively then got up to cross over to the window. She watched the rain drumming on the glass and sending tiny rivulets on their brief journeys. Isobel came to stand beside her.


'Grace...' . 'Yes.'


'Have you ever been in love?'


'Have you?' said the other, deflecting the question.


'Oh, many times,' replied Isobel with a giggle. 'I fall in and out of love with almost any man--if he be tall enough and handsome into the bargain. That afternoon we spent at The Curtain, I tell madly in love with a young gallant who was seated opposite. We exchanged such hot glances across the pit that I wonder there was not a puff of smoke to signify our dealings. But it was all over when the play was done.' She slipped an arm around Grace. 'And what of you?'


'I have thought I was in love.'


'But it was not the thing itself.'


'No.' she brightened. 'One thing is certain, however. When the man does come along, I will know him.'


'Not if Isobel Drewry should spy him first!' They traded a laugh. 'Then you do not pine for Master Hoode?'


'He is a dear man and I am very fond of him.'


'But he does not make your heart pound?'


'No, Isobel. I have come to value him as a friend.'


You are the light of his life,' said the other. 'And when you watch The Merry Devils at the Rose tomorrow, Youngthrust will find a way to tell you so. I long to hear the outcome.'


'But you will be there to see it for yourself?'


'Unhappily, I will not. Father has put a stricter watch on me.'


'Why, Isobel?'


'One of the servants saw me leave with you the other day. She told father. He taxed me with disobedience and swore that I went to the playhouse to see Cupids Folly. I lied with all my might but I could not dampen his suspicion.'


'How were you seen? You wore a mask.'


'I was recognised by my dress.'


Grace sighed. 'But I did so want your company tomorrow.'


'Let your brother sit beside you.'


'He is busy.'


Grace came into the middle of the room with her hands clasped. She moved around as she racked her brain for a solution, then stamped her root with joy when she found it.


'It is but a case of wearing a better disguise, Isobel!'


'Disguise?'


'If the servants know your dresses, you must wear one of mine.'


'It is a clever idea, certainly.'


'And a hat with a veil. I'll provide that, too.'


'My own father would not know me, then!' Isobel gave her merriest giggle. 'I'll do it, Grace! I'd not miss that play again for anything.'


'Good! There is no risk of discovery'


'We will travel in secret like spies.'


'Veiled and hooded against all inquiry.'


'I will be veiled--and you will be Hooded!' She took her friend by the hands. 'Oh, I am so happy in this ruse. Father will be deceived.'


'What does he know of The Rose in Bankside?' said Grace. 'It is not as if he would ever visit such a place himself. Forget your fears, Isobel. You will be as safe there as in a nunnery.'


'But a lot more merry, I hope!'


*

Henry Drewry was finishing his meal alone when the servant brought in the package. Dismissing the man with a curt nod, the salter first washed down his meal with a swig of ale then belched to show his satisfaction. He examined the package and saw that it was addressed to him in his capacity as an Alderman. He could guess the sender and his supposition was confirmed. When he opened the package, he took out a printed text.


A SERMON PREACHED AT PAWLES CROSS

by Isaac Pollard

Imprinted at London by Toby Vavasour and to be sold at his Shop in the Inner Temple, near the Church.


1589

Drewry glanced at the first page to see that it offered a Discourse on the Subtle Practices of Devils. He heard Pollard's boom in every line and put the pamphlet aside. Then he noticed that something else had fallen out of the package. It was a tattered playbill. Smoothing it out and laying it on the table, he saw that it advertised a performance of The Merry Devils by Westfield's Men on the following afternoon. Sent to him to stir up his sense of outrage, it instead began to intrigue him.


Unaccountably, he felt the steady pull of temptation.


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

Chapter Six

Lawrence Firethorn reserved some of his best performances for private consumption. He had a sublime gift for improvisation and could pluck any emotion out of the air at a second's notice. It was a trick that rarely failed. Even those who had seen him use it a hundred times could still be caught out by it. Suddenness was all.


'Rebellion in the ranks!' he yelled. 'When I lead Westfield's Men forward in the charge, I do not expect to be stabbed in the back from behind. Least of all by two such cowardly, such miserable, such lousy, beggarly, scurvy, unmannerly creatures as those before me now!'


George Dart and Roper Blundell were totally cowed.


'Loyalty is everything to me!' declared Firethorn, striking the pose he had used so effectively as King Richard the Lion-heart. 'I will not stomach traitors at any price! Do you know what I would do with them, sirs? Do you know how I would repay their betrayal of me?'


'No, master,' said George Dart. How, sir?' asked Roper Blundell.


'I'd have the wretches hanged, drawn and quartered, so I would! Then I'd have their heads set upon spikes outside the Tower, their livers roasted over a slow fire and their dangling pizzles sent to Banbury's Men by way of mockery!'


Dart and Blundell covered their codpieces with both hands.


They were in the room at the Queen's Head that was used for the storage of their equipment. Nicholas Bracewell stood in the background with Caleb Smythe, one of the actors. Both felt sorry for the assistant stagekeepers who had foolishly expressed their doubts about the performance of The Merry Devils on the following afternoon. The sad little figures were being summarily ground into submission.


When the book holder tried to intercede on their behalf, he was waved away with magisterial authority. Lawrence Firethorn would allow no interruption. He continued to pound away at his targets with his verbal siege guns until the two men were nothing more than human debris. Choosing his moment brilliantly, the actor now switched his role and became the indulgent employer who has been wronged by his servants.


'Lads, lads,' he said softly. 'Why have you turned against me like this? Did I not take you in when all other companies closed their doors to you? Have I not paid you, housed you, taught you, fed you and nurtured you? George, my son, and you, good Roper, everything I have is yours to call upon. You are not hired men to me. You are friends, sirs. Honest, decent, upright, God-fearing friends. Or so I thought.' He dredged up a monstrous sigh. 'Whence comes this betrayal? What have I done to deserve such treatment?'


'Nothing, master,' bleated George Dart.


'Nothing at all,' agreed Roper Blundell, starting to cry.


Firethorn slipped an arm apiece around them and hugged them to him like lost sheep that have gone astray and been found. Moved by the sincerity of his own betrayal, he even deposited a small kiss on Dart's forehead while drawing the line at any such intimacy with the turnip-headed Blundell. It was a touching scene and he played it to the hilt.


'I thought my lads would die for me,' he whimpered.


'We would,' said Dart bravely.


'Give us the chance, sir,' asked Blundell.


'I do not ask much of you, my friends. Just two bare hours upon the stage in flame-red costumes. What harm is there in that?'


'None, sir.'


'None, sir.'


'You tell me you are unhappy in the parts and I can understand that but happiness must be sacrificed for the greater good of the company.'


'Yes, master.


'Indeed, sir.'


'We act for our patron,' said Firethorn in a respectful whisper. 'Lord Westfield himself, who puts food in our mouths and clothes on our back. Am I to tell him his merry devils have run away?'


'We are here, sir.'


'We will stay.'


'I will beg, if that is what you wish.' Firethorn pretended to lower himself to the ground. 'I will go down on my bended knee...'


'No, no,' they chimed, helping him back up again.


'Then let me appeal to your sense of obligation. As hired men, as close friends, as true spirits of the theatre__-will you help me, lads?'


'Oh, yes!' Blundell was now weeping convulsively.


'We will not let you down,' added the snivelling Dart.


'That is music to my old ears.'


Firethorn bestowed another kiss on Dart's forehead, approximated his lips to the sprouting turnip, thought better of it and released the two men. He drifted to the nearest door to deliver his exit line.


'My heart is touched, lads,' he said. 'I must be alone for a while. Nick here will explain everything to you. Thank you--and farewell.'


He went out to an imaginary round of applause.


Nicholas Bracewell's sympathies were with the assistant stagekeepers but he had to admire the actor-manager's technique. He had now shackled the men in two ways. Fear and duty. There was no escape for them now. The book holder stepped in to join them.


'I'll be brief, lads,' he began. 'Lord Westfield insisted on a second performance because he liked the merry devils, all three of them who took the stage at the Queen's Head.'


Dart and Blundell reacted with identical horror.


'That foul fiend will come again?'


'Not from Hell,' said Nicholas, 'nor anywhere adjacent to it. He will come from beneath the stage at The Rose, as indeed will you. The third devil will not fright you this time, lads. You know him too well.' He signalled Caleb Smythe in. Here he stands.'


Caleb Smythe was a short, slight man in his thirties with a bald head and wispy beard. Though taller than his co-devils, he was lithe enough to bend his body to their shape and his talent as a dancer was second only to that of Barnaby Gill. As the unexpected third devil who put the others to flight, he was the best choice available. Caleb Smythe, however, did not share this view.


'I like not this work,' he said lugubriously.


Nicholas swept his objection aside and told them about the alterations that had been made to the play. Doctor Castrato's magic incantations had been shortened and the circle of mystical objects had been removed. None of the preconditions for raising a real devil now existed. The book holder emphasized this point but his companions were not wholly persuaded.


It was the funereal Caleb Smythe who put the question.


'What if a fourth devil should appear, Master Bracewell?'


The answer was quite unequivocal. , 'Then I shall be waiting for him!'


*

Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart. It was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little. The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.


Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.


'Thankee,' he said gruffly.


'I tried, Jack.'


'I know, sir.'


'The new master was deaf to all entreaty.'


'New master!'


Harsnett turned aside and spat excessively to show his disgust. By order of Francis Jordan, he should have been turned out of the cottage on the previous day but Glanville had permitted him to stay the night. It was the only concession he felt able to offer and he was taking a risk with that. Harsnett was a surly and uncommunicative man but the steward respected him. The stocky forester was conscientious in his work and asked only to be left alone to do his job. He never complained about the misery of his lot and he held his chin up with a defiant pride.


'Things'll change,' he grunted.


'I fear they will, Jack.'


'We're but the first of many to go.'


'I will work to get you back.'


'No, sir.'


'But you are a proven man in the forest.'


'I'll not serve him!' sneered Harsnett.


There was a loan moan from inside the cottage and they both turned towards it. The forester's wife was evidently in great discomfort.


'Let me help you,' said Glanville kindly.


'I can manage.'


'But if your wife is unwell...'


Harsnett shook his head. 'We come into the place on our own, we'll leave the same way.'


He walked across to the cottage and ducked in through the low doorway. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with his wife, a poor, wasted, grey-haired woman in rough attire with an old shawl around her head. The whiteness of her face and the slowness of her movements told Glanville how ill she was. Harsnett had to lift her bodily on to the cart. He returned quickly to the cottage to bring out his last and most precious possession.


It was his axe. Sharp and glittering, it had seen him through many a year and was the symbol of his craft. He slammed the door behind him then turned back to view the place which had been their home throughout their marriage. The cottage was his no more. It belonged to the new master of Parkbrook House. Hatred and revenge welled up in Harsnett and he saw the building as a version of Francis Jordan himself, as a cold, bitter, cruel, unwelcoming place. He swung the axe with sudden violence and sank the blade deep into the front door.


After this last gesture of defiance, he pulled the axe clear of i he timber and hurried across to throw it in the back of the cart. When he climbed up beside his wife, she collapsed against him. He took the reins in one hand and put the other arm around his ailing spouse. In response to a curt command, the horse struggled into life.


'God go with you!' said Glanville.


But they had no time to hear him.


*

Kirk said nothing to his colleagues about the progress he had made. They would not understand it. The other keepers at Bedlam took the simple view that lunatics should he treated in only two ways. They should either he amused with toys or beaten with whips. Play or punishment. It never occurred to them that their charges might respond to individual care of another kind. Rooksley typified the attitude that was prevalent. The head keeper believed that lunatics could not be cured by anything that he and his staff might do. The salvation of the mentally deranged lay entirely with the Almighty. In support of this credo, Rooksley could recite, word for word, from a document which dated from the first year of Queen Elizabeth's reign and which confirmed the institution's status as an asylum for the insane.


'Be it known to all devout and faithful people that there have been erected in the city of London four hospitals for the people that be stricken by the hand of God. Some be distraught from their wits and these be kept and maintained in the Hospital of our Lady of Bedlam, until God call them to his mercy, or to their wits again.'


For the vast majority of inmates, therefore, there was no respite and no hope. Stricken by the hand of God, they were repeatedly stricken by the hand of man as well. It was a savage Christianity.


Kirk sought to keep at least one person clear of it.


'I've brought your meal, David.'


'Ah.'


'You have to do better than that, sir,' coaxed the other. 'I will nor feed you else. Come, sir, what is that word we learned this morning?'


David's brow knotted with concentration for a moment.


Kirk prompted. 'If I give you something, what is my reward?'


'Th...ank...'


'Try again, David.'


'Th...ank...you...'


'Well done, sir! That deserves a meal.'


David was sitting on the bed in his featureless cell. The keeper sat down beside him and put the plate into the patient's lap. Taking hold of David's right hand, he Pitted the spoon into it then guided him down to his meal. The first mouthful was soon being chewed with slow deliberation. David was being helped to feed himself. He smiled at his minor triumph. It was another small sign of advance.


Kirk knew that nothing could be rushed. David could now say his name and mouth a few words bur that was all. He had to be taught again from the beginning and that would require time and patience. When the meal was over, Kirk waited expectantly. David was at first puzzled, then he grinned as he realised what was wanted.


Th...ank...'


'Speak up, sir.'


'Thank you!'


'Excellent!'


Kirk patted him on the back by the way of congratulation. There was still the vacant look in David's eye but he was not so completely beyond reach as the others believed. It was merely a question of opening up a line of communication with him.


'What's your name, sir?' asked Kirk.


'Da...vid.'


'Again.'


'David.'


'Again!'


'David. David. David.'


'And where do you live, David?'


The patient's face clouded over and his lips quivered.


'Where is your home?' said the keeper.


David glanced around and gestured with both hands.


'No, not here. Not Bedlam. This is where you live now, David. But where did you live before?'


The question completely baffled the patient. He looked lost and hurt. Kirk tried to jog his memory with a gentle enquiry.


'Was it in London?'


Unsure at first, David gave a hesitant shake of his head.


'Was it in a city?'


A longer wait then another uncertain shake of the head.


'Then you must have lived in the country, David.'


Bewilderment contorted the other's face. He was lost again.


'Did you live in the country?' prodded Kirk. 'Fields and woods around you? Can you not recall animals and birds?'


A radiant smile lit David's face. He nodded enthusiastically.


'You lived in the country. Was it in a village?'


David was more confident now. He shook his head at once.


'On a farm? In a cottage somewhere?'


The patient was clearly grappling with his past in order to wrest some details out of it. A jumble of memories made his expression change with each second. Kirk nudged his mind again.


'Did you live in a small house, David?'


'N...n...n...'


'No. Good. Was it a large house, then?'


David produced the beaming smile again. He laughed aloud.


'A large house in the country. Is that where you lived?'


'Y...y...ye...ye...' The word finally spurted out. 'Yes!'


*

Parkbrook was a hive of activity. The presence of its new master had put everyone on their mettle. Francis Jordan was a man who liked to exert his authority and the dismissal of Harsnett was a grim warning to other employees in the house and on the estate. The old order had changed with a vengeance. Those who laboured in the Great Hall hardly dared to look up from their work. Even ;he serene Joseph Glanville was forced to glance over his shoulder. Unease spread everywhere.


Francis Jordan spent the morning on a tour of inspection around the house, cracking the whip of his bad temper whenever he felt inclined. Having coveted Parkbrook for so long, he knew exactly how he wished to run it. He was particularly interested in the wine cellar and checked the stock which his predecessor had laid in. Several bottles were sent up. Over a leisurely meal that was taken alone in the spacious dining room, Jordan worked his way through some of the premier vintages. It left him in a more expansive mood. He hauled himself up the oak staircase and swayed towards the master bedroom. Intending to flop down and sleep off his over-indulgence, he paused when he saw that the room was occupied.


A young chambermaid was changing the linen on the fourposter.


'Who's here?' he asked with a vinous smirk.


'Oh!' She turned around in alarm.


'Do not be afraid, my dear.' I did not expect you to be here, sir.'


'I am very glad that I am.'


'Would you like me to leave?'


'No, mistress. What is your name?'


'Jane Skinner, sir.'


'Well, Jane Skinner, I am your new master.'


'Yes, sir,' she said with a dutiful curtsey.


'Finish what you were doing.'


The chambermaid returned to her task. She was a rather plain, plump girl with a country shine to her cheeks and a mop of brown curls. Francis Jordan, however, was roused by the sight of her generous curves and her bobbing posterior. Her simple apparel seemed somehow to heighten her appeal. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her flit about her work. The bed was soon made and she turned down the counterpane.


'Help me across,' he said.


'Are you not well, sir?'


'A little tired, Jane. I need but a shoulder to rest on.'


'I have that, sir.'


Jane Skinner tripped over to him with a face of youthful innocence. When Jordan lurched at her, she obligingly took his weight. As she helped him across the room, he kneaded her shoulder and took an inventory of her other charms. They reached the bed and lie swung round to fall backwards on to it.


'Lift up my feet, Jane.'


'Yes, sir,' she said, scooping his legs up on to the bed.


'Come closer for I would whisper to you.


'Yes, sir.'


As she bent over him, he got her wrist in a firm grip and gave her a lecherous grin. He liked Jane Skinner more with each moment.


'Undress me.'


'Master!' she exclaimed.


'Undress me slowly, mistress.'


'I will call a valet presently.'


'This is woman's work, Jane.'


'You are hurting my arm, sir.'


'Then do as you are told.'


'But it is not my place.'


'You are mine to command, girl.'


Hope flickered. 'Haply, you jest with me, sir.'


'This is no jest, I assure you. Come, let me give proof of it.'


Jordan made a concerted effort to sit up so that he could catch hold of her properly. There was a fierce struggle. In those few frantic seconds, Jane Skinner may have lost her innocence but she was determined not to yield her virtue. When he pulled her down on the bed and tried to kiss her, she reacted with such vigour that he was shaken off. Before he could stop her, she raced across the room and went out through the door. Jordan's annoyance was dissipated in a huge yawn. The chambermaid faded from his mind and he lapsed back into deep sleep.


Jane Skinner, meanwhile, was crying into her apron and telling her story to Glanville. He listened with controlled outrage and calmed the girl as best he could. She had been very lucky to make her escape.


But she might not be so fortunate next time.


*

Thoroughness was the hallmark of Nicholas Bracewell's approach. Since the company were due to appear at The Rose on the morrow, he found time that evening to visit the theatre. There were very few people still there and most of those soon drifted away. The book holder had the place virtually to himself. His first task was to test the trap-doors. The stage was much higher than the makeshift one used at the Queen's Head and he was able to move more freely beneath it. Short steps led up to each trap which was fitted with a spring. As merry devils shot up on to the stage, the doors would snap back into position.


Nicholas next checked the sightlines from his own position at the rear of the stage. Watching the action through a gap in the curtain, he would not be able to see much but both trap-doors were directly in his vision. That was important. I he Rose had not long been open to the public and there was a pleasing newness to it. Tall pillars climbed up out of the stage to support a decorated canopy that was surmounted by a small hut. By using elementary winching gear, it was possible to raise and lower items of scenery or furniture. Nicholas planned to use the apparatus to dramatic effect in The Merry Devils.


Three years at sea had not been the ideal preparation for a life in the theatre but he had learned much from his voyages that could be adapted to his present purposes. Sailing ships like the Golden Hind relied on some very basic mechanical devices and Nicholas never tired of watching the crew hoist the sails to catch the wind or winch up the longboats when they returned from shore. Friendship with the ship's carpenters had been a constant education as they carried out running repairs in all weathers across the oceans of the world.


Being cooped up on a vessel for long periods inevitably led to tension and frustration. Nicholas had seen far more spontaneous violence than he had wished but it made him an expert on stage fights. Firethorn always let his book holder direct such episodes when they occurred. The same went for swordplay. A skilful swordsman himself, Nicholas was always on hand to school the hired men and the apprentices in one of the vital tools of their craft.


His seafaring days had given him something else as well and it came to his aid now. Nicholas had a sixth sense of danger, a tickling sensation that was full of foreboding. Standing in the middle of the stage, he had a strong feeling that someone was watching. He swung round to scan the galleries but they appeared to be empty. The sun was now nuzzling the horizon and dark shadows had invaded the theatre. In the half-light, he searched the place for signs of life but saw none. The manager was still on the premises but he was in his office. Besides, the manager was a business colleague and the presence that Nicholas felt was an alien one.


He was about to dismiss it all as a trick of the imagination when he heard a cackle. Before he could even begin to wonder who made the noise, one of the trap-doors suddenly opened and up popped a flame-red devil. The creature had a malevolent face, a crooked body, twisted limbs, long horns and a pointed tail. It looked like the one who had caused such a fright at the Queens Head. Moving at speed, the devil executed three somersaults then vanished into the tiring-house. Nicholas ran after him but he did not get very far. He heard the sound of the other trap-door and turned back to see that the devil had reappeared. This time the creature cart wheeled off the edge of the stage and was lost in the shadows around the edge of the pit.


Nicholas was both startled and bewildered. He did not know which way to look or search. Forcing himself to make a decision, he ran to the tiring-house to find it quite empty. A search beneath the stage and around the full circumference of the pit also proved fruitless. He was mystified. Had he seen one apparition or two? Was it some random act of malice that had taken place or had the visit been an omen? Did he now know what to expect during the performance next day?


He walked to the front of the stage and rested his elbows upon it as he weighed his thoughts. A creaking sound came from behind him. He turned to look up and see a tall, elegant silhouette in the topmost gallery. The voice was familiar and its tone was fearful.


'Now will you believe that it was a real devil?'


Ralph Willoughby had watched it all.


Margery Firethorn ran her household on firm Christian principles. As a variant on her scolding, she sometimes chastised her servants or her children by making them attend an impromptu prayer meeting. In the rolling cadences of the Book of Common Prayer she found both a fund of reassurance and a useful weapon. For most of the occupants of the house in Shoreditch, the regular visit to the Parish Church of St Leonard's was imposition enough. To have the Church brought into the house was a nightmare.


'Let us pray.'


'That includes you, Martin Yeo.'


'Let us pray.'


'Lower your head, John Tallis.'


'Let us pray.'


'Close your mouth, Stephen Judd.'


'Let us all pray!'


The day began with a profound shock. It was Lawrence Firethorn who instigated and led the prayers. Inclined to be lax in his religious observances--especially where the sixth commandment was concerned--he astonished everyone by reaching for the prayer book before breakfast. Margery reverted to the scolding while her husband handled the service. Around the table were their two children, the four apprentices, Caleb Smythe, who had spent the night there, and the two assistant stagekeepers, George Dart and Roger Blundell, who had been summoned from their lodgings to partake in a ceremony that might have a special bearing on their safety and their souls.


They listened in silence as Firethorn intoned the prayers. Even on such a solemn occasion, he had to give a performance. When he reached the end of an interminable recitation, he signalled their release.


'Amen.'


'Amen' came the collective sigh of relief.


'That should stand us in good stead,' said Firethorn breezily.


'I feel better for that, master,' confessed George Dart.


'It gives me new heart, said Roger Blundell.


'I like not prayers,' muttered Caleb Smythe.


'They were most beautifully read,' said Firethorn pointedly.


'It was not the reading that I mind, sir,' said the other. 'It is the weight they place upon my heart. When I hear prayers, I am undone. They make me think so of death.'


'Oh, heavens!' wailed Dart. 'Death, he cries!'


'What a word to mention on a day like this!' said Blundell.


An argument started but Margery quelled it by serving breakfast. She believed in providing a hearty meal at the start of the day and the others fell ravenously upon it. Eleven heads were soon bent over the table in contentment.


When the meal was over, Firethorn retired to the bedchamber for a few minutes. His wife followed him and accosted him.


'What lies behind this, Lawrence?'


'Behind what, dearest?'


'These unexpected prayers.'


'I was moved by the spirit, Margery.' It has never shifted you one inch before, sir.'


'You wrong me, sweeting,' he said in aggrieved tones. 'I heard a voice from above.'


'It sounded like Nicholas Bracewell to me.'


'Ah...'


'Why did he call here so early this morning?' she pressed. 'It is not like him to come all the way from Bankside on a whim. Did he bring bad tidings?'


'Nothing to trouble your pretty little head about, angel.'


'My head is neither pretty nor little. It contains a brain as big as yours and I would have it treated with respect. Speak out, sir. Do not protect me from the truth.'


He was aghast. 'When have I held back the truth from you?'


'It has been your daily habit these fifteen years.'


'Margery!'


'Honesty has never been your strong suit.'


'I am the most veracious fellow in London.'


'Another lie,' she said levelly. 'Come, sir, and tell me what I need to know. Why did Master Bracewell come here today?'


'On a personal matter, my love.'


'There is another woman involved?'


'That is a most ignoble thought, Margery.'


'You put it into my pretty little head.' She folded her arms and came to a decision. 'The tidings concerned the play. I will come to The Rose myself this afternoon.'


'No, no!' he protested. 'That will not do at all!'


'Why do you keep me away, Lawrence?'


'I do not, my pigeon.'


'Is it because of this other woman?'


'What other woman?'


'You tell me, sir. Their names change so often.'


Firethorn knew that he would never shake her off when she was in that mood and so he compromised. He gave her a highly edited version of what Nicholas Bracewell had told him and since the book holder's report had itself been softened--no mention of Willoughby--she got only a diluted account. When she heard about the devils shooting up from trap-doors, she crossed herself in fear.


'They may not be real fiends, Margery.'


'They sound so to me.'


'Nicholas believes otherwise and he is a shrewd judge.'


'What of you, Lawrence?'


He shrugged. 'I only half-believe they came from Hell.'


'Half a devil is by one half too much. I'll not have my husband acting with an apparition. Cancel the performance.'


'There can be no question of that.'


'I mean it, sir.'


'Lord Westfield overrules you.'


'How much warning do you need? Fiends were at The Rose.'


'No, my treasure. Silly pranksters out to give us fright.'


'Then why did you read those prayers?'


'I have been something slack in my devotions of late.'


'You feared for the lives of those lads.'


'The merry devils are sad,' he said. 'I sought to ease their misery with a taste of religion.'


'Your prayers were meant to save them!'


Firethorn conceded there was an element of truth in it. If real devils were going to appear, he wanted God to be at his side. He urged her to say nothing to the others. He and Nicholas had agreed to suppress all mention of the incident at The Rose. It would disrupt an already uneasy company. Their task was to present a play to the public.


'You'll keep them ignorant of their danger?' she said.


'I'll see they come to no harm.'


*

The day was warm and muggy with a hint of thunder in the bloated clouds. A tawny sun played hide and seek all morning. Isaac Pollard was up early to visit church, breakfast with his wife and children, then sally forth to meet his brethren. Four other members of the Puritan faction consented to go with him. His descriptions of The Merry Devils had roused their ire against the piece and they decided to view it in order to know its full horror. They fondly imagined that their fivefold presence at The Rose would spread some much-needed guilt around the galleries and scatter some piety into the pit.


Since they met in St Paul's Churchyard, their easiest route to Bankside lay in making straight for the river to cross in a boat. Isaac Pollard ruled against this. Thames watermen were justly famed for their vulgarity and two or more of them engaged in argument could turn the air blue with their language. The last time that Pollard was rowed across in a wherry, he tried to reprove his boatman for this fault of nature and met with such a volcanic eruption of profanity that he had to close his ears to it and so missed the concluding threat of baptism in the river. Accordingly, he now led his colleagues towards the single bridge that spanned the Thames with its magnificence.


As the leader of the expedition, he passed on sage advice.


'Stay close to me, brethren, and guard your purses.'


'Will there be pickpockets?' said one.


'By the score.'


'But would they dare to touch us?' said another.


'They would rob an Archbishop of his mitre.'


'As would we, brother,' observed a theologian among them without any trace of irony. 'We would deprive that reverend gentleman of his mitre, his staff, his sacerdotal robes and anything else with such a Romish tinge to them. But tell us more of these pickpockets.'


'Their fingers are ever busy,' warned Pollard. 'Did I not relate to you my experience at the Queen's Head when a young wife but two rows in front of me was deprived of her purse by some rogue?'


'How was it done?' asked the theologian.


'With such skill that she did not discover it until later. Being so close at hand, I could not but overhear what passed between her and her friend, another married lady who had come to that libidinous place without her spouse. "Oh!" said the young woman. "My purse is taken." Her friend asked where it was kept. "Beneath my skirts," said the young woman. "I had thought it would be safe there." Her friend agreed then asked her if she had not felt a man's hand upon her thigh. "Why, yes," replied the young woman, "but I did not think it came there for that purpose."


Five married men crossed London Bridge in grim silence.


*

The reputation of The Merry Devils went before it and stirred up great interest and anticipation. Large, boisterous crowds descended on The Rose and it was soon evident that the theatre would not be able to accommodate all the potential spectators. There was much good-humoured pushing and shoving at the entrances and gatherers worked at full stretch. Those who had a special reason to be there made sure of their seats by an early arrival and they felt the atmosphere build steadily as other patrons surged in.


Anne Hendrik was there with Preben van Loew, the most skilful and senior of her hat-makers, a dour man in his fifties with a redeeming glint in his eye. The Dutchman was caught in two minds. His Huguenot conscience baulked at the idea of visiting a playhouse yet he could not allow his respected employer to venture there alone. Besides, he soon began to enjoy the envious glances that he was getting from those who assumed he was more than just the consort of the handsome and well-dressed lady at his side. Moral scruples still flickered but he was ready to ignore them for a couple of hours.


Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry had cushioned seats in the middle gallery and stayed behind their veils. Wearing a gown of blue figured velvet that she had borrowed from her friend, Isobel felt armoured against discovery. Settling down to enjoy the occasion to the full, she giggled inwardly at her own daring. Grace Napier was as poised as ever. That morning she had received another sonnet from Edmund Hoode, declaring his love for her once more and urging her to watch his performance for further proof of his devotion. Her affection for him deepened but it was still edged with regret.


Ralph Willoughby made for the highest gallery. He was dressed in emerald green with a slashed doublet, an orange codpiece and hose that displayed the length and shapeliness of his legs. A small, round, jewelled cap was set at a rakish angle on his head. An opal dangled from one ear. He was a debonair and carefree man about town again. Whatever stirred within him was kept well-hidden.


Isaac Pollard brought in his colleagues and they found places in the lower gallery, a solid phalanx of black disapproval amid a sea of multi-coloured excitement. They glared at the stage as if it were the gates of Hell, ready to disgorge its fiendish contents at any moment. Preoccupied in this way, they did not observe the low, portly figure who was seated opposite. Tricked out in finery that indicated wealth and respectability, he had the look of a man who had come to glower yet might stay to laugh. Henry Drewry was mellowing visibly.


Lord Westfield provoked a cheer of recognition as he took his seat amid his entourage. He wore a high-starched collar, a stiffened doublet which had been neatly tailored to allow for the contours of his paunch, padded and embroidered breeches and blue silk stockings. His gloves were of the finest blue leather. He favoured a large hat with an explosion of feathers and looked like the image of a middle-aged dandy. With their patron at his place, Westfield's Men could begin.


The last few spectators were allowed in to join the crush in the pit or shoulder themselves a space on a bench. One silver-haired old man in a long robe inserted himself into a narrow seat in the bottom gallery and looked around the theatre with calculating wonder. He absorbed every detail of its structure and noted every feature of its occupants. It was as if he was repairing the one tiny gap that existed in his knowledge of the universe. Combining scholarly curiosity with scientific detachment, he got the measure of The Rose and was not displeased. He came on the heels of his own prediction. Something sinister was going to happen that afternoon and he wished to be there to see it

Doctor John Mordrake had a personal stake in the event.


*

Superstition was the life-blood of the theatre. Most actors carried lucky charms or recited favourite pieces or went through an established ritual before a performance in the belief that it conferred good fortune. It was standard practice. Among Westfield's Men, it now became something far more. The Merry Devils enslaved them to superstition. Hardly a man in the company did not take some precautions. Several of them went to the cunning woman in Vixen Lane to purchase charms that would ward off evil spirits. Two of them spent the night in prayer. Three more had parted with a groat apiece for a phial of liquid that was guaranteed to preserve them from any supernatural manifestation, and they were not in the least put out by its close resemblance to vinegar both in appearance and taste. Other charlatans had made their profits in other ways from the credulous players. Their situation was desperate. They would try anything.


Lawrence Firethorn evinced the confidence of old. He had the seasoned calmness of the veteran before battle. Yet even he had made one concession to the possibility of an unexpected guest. He wore his rapier at his side and kept one hand upon it.


Nicholas Bracewell appraised him in the tiring-house.


'Justice Wildboare has no need of a sword,' he said.


'Lawrence Firethorn might.'


'There is no real devil, master.'


'Then a counterfeit one will feel my blade.'


'None will appear.'


'How can you say that after last night?'


They kept their voices low and both wore smiles to mask their inner doubts. It was their duty to set an example to the others and to instil some confidence.


'Has everything been checked?' asked Firethorn.


'Several times, master.'


'Below stage?'


'I was there myself but two minutes ago. All is in order. The gunpowder is in place and the trap-doors are ready.'


'And if something should go awry?'


'It will not, sir.'


'But if it does...'


'Ned Rankin holds the book for me during that scene,' said Nicholas. 'I'll be free to watch more closely and take action if the need arises. Trust in me.'


'I always do, dear heart!'


Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then wandered off. Nicholas went across to the three men who suffered the most--the merry devils. Seen from behind, George Dart, Roper Blundell and Caleb Smythe looked identical in their startling costumes. Dart was silent, Blundell was wide-eyed with nervousness, Smythe was reciting a children's rhyme to himself by way of a diversion.


Nicholas gave what reassurance he could but it was wasted on Blundell and Smythe who were far too steeped in misery. Dart, however, responded with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The others stared at him. When the most timorous member of the company could face his ordeal with amusement, there was only one explanation.


'Have you been drinking, George? said Nicholas sternly.


'Yes, master,' came the happy reply.


You know where you are?'


'In Bankside at The Rose.'


'You know what you have to do?'


Another chuckle. 'Pop up through a trap-door and cry "Boo!"'


'Are you fit for this work?' said the book holder seriously.


'I'll not let you down, master.'


Nicholas did not have the heart to castigate him. It was a strict rule of the company that nobody went on stage inebriated. Dismissal was a real threat to offenders. George Dart was no drunkard. Apart from anything else, his meagre wage would not sustain such a habit. Only the need to combat a terrible fear could have sent him to a tavern. Nicholas understood and made allowances. Dart was sober enough to play his part and drunk enough not to worry about it.


'We count on you, George. Mark that.'


'I know my role, sir.'


'Then do not play it too close to Master Firethorn. You know his rule about drink. Be merry, George, but not to excess.'


'I'll be a devil to the life!'


*

When the black cloak of the Prologue swished on to the stage, there was a tumultuous reception. It was surpassed only by the cannonade of sound that greeted the entry of justice Wildboare. The audience surrendered to Lawrence Firethorn before he even opened his mouth. When he did finally launch into his first long, expository speech, he found humour in every phrase--sometimes, in a single word--and set the whole place at a roar. By the time :he other characters joined in the action, the spectators had been Thoroughly warmed up.


As the play gathered pace and the laughter intensified, it soon became clear that this performance was vastly better in every way than the earlier one. Some important changes had been made. Edmund Hoode had tightened the construction, introduced a new comic duel, provided some new songs and generally improved the whole texture of the play. The most notable alteration came with his own character. Youngthrust had even more prominence now--his codpiece was stupendous--and he wept buckets of glorious blank verse. Some of the words were written for Grace Napier but the whole theatre appreciated them.


Doctor Castrato had lost lines but gained extra stage business. His mincing steps and piping voice mined new veins of hilarity. When he promised Justice Wildboare that he would raise a devil, the loudest shout of the afternoon went up from the onlookers.


This was the moment which they had come to relish and they tensed themselves in readiness.


As she had been instructed, Anne Hendrik kept her eyes on the trap-doors. Henry Drewry stood up to look over the head of the man in front of him. Doctor John Mordrake felt a tingle of premonition. Isaac Pollard bunched his fists and lifted the single eyebrow. Lord Westfield nudged his companions to watch carefully.


Ralph Willoughby went faint with dread.


Castrato went into his attenuated chanting. Then he did an elaborate mime that culminated in his act of summons when he scattered a magic powder in two different places on the stage. Response was immediate. One trap-door opened and out jumped George Dart to the accompaniment of a blinding flash and a resounding bang. The effect was so well-timed that it completely stunned the audience. Emboldened by drink, the first merry devil scuttled around the stage with gleeful abandon.


Nicholas Bracewell was concealed behind the arras to get a better view. He wondered why the second trap-door did not open. Roger Blundell should have appeared simultaneously with Dart. Had there been a problem with the mechanism. He was given no time to speculate. There was a longer, louder, blighter explosion and Caleb Smythe catapulted up through the first trap-door. He did a wild jig, turned a somersault, then went with his co-devil to kneel before their new master.


Justice Wildboare took over.


Nicholas slipped quietly into the tiring-house and made his way to the steps at the rear. He went down under the stage to find it gloomy and permeated with the smells of the multitude. The play continued above his head. It was quite eerie. As he picked his way along, he could hear the actors strutting about on the boards and feel the roar of the spectators pressing in upon him.


Something sparkled in the half-light. It was the protruding eyes of Roper Blundell. He lay flat on his back in a little red heap, gazing up sightlessly at the drama that he should have joined. Nicholas knelt down beside him and learned the worst. Here was one merry devil who would never go up through a trap-door again.


Roper Blundell was dead.


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

Chapter Seven

Nicholas Bracewell bent over the body and examined it as best he could in the circumstances. He saw no wound, no blood, no mark of any kind. There was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A decision now had to be made. Did he take the corpse away or leave it where it was? Decency suggested the former but practicalities had to be taken into account. Nobody else knew about the death of Roper Blundell. To walk back up to the tiring-house with the little body in his arms would be to disseminate terror. The play itself was still running. That was the main thing. Nicholas could not risk bringing it to a premature halt by revealing that it had somehow brought about the demise of an assistant stagekeeper.


Roper Blundell was to remain where he was, lying in state in his echoing tomb, occupying a rectangle of solitude in the very midst of a huge crowd. He had lost his part as well as his life. Realising that he could not chase two devils off the stage, Caleb Smythe, as the third foul fiend, had moved himself up in the order. He became the second devil and did everything in unison with George Dart. With Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill adapting instantly to the situation, the absence of Blundell was not noticed by the audience. Nicholas touched the old man beside him in a gesture of respect. The theatre could be a cruel place. It had just excised a human being from a drama as if the fellow had never existed.


A rumble of thunder made Nicholas look upward. Justice Wildboare did not miss the cue to work in some lines from another play.


'God is angry, sirs! Hear how the Heavens rebuke us.


This thunder will send us all down into Hell!'


After one last look at the prostrate form, the book holder went back up to the tiring-house and ran into a flurry of enquiries about Blundell. He announced that the old man was not well enough to take any further part in the play and that he would rest where he was. It was important that nobody disturbed him. To this end, Nicholas stationed the venerable Thomas Skillen at the top of the steps and told him to let no man pass. The stagekeeper was a willing guardian.


Westfield's Men performed The Merry Devils with a zest and a commitment they would not have thought possible. Now that the danger zone had been safely passed--as they thought--they could devote themselves to the finer points of their art. Roper Blundell was forgotten. Instead of wondering what lay beneath the stage, the actors were more concerned with what stretched above. The sky was now full of swollen clouds and the thunder rumbled ominously.


Nicholas resumed his post and took the book from Ned Rankin. A scene ended and justice Wildboare came sweeping into the tiring-house. He made straight for the book holder.


'Where's Blundell?'


'Indisposed.'


'What happened to him?'


'He has retired hurt, master.'


'I'll retire the rogue, so help me! Get him here.' He is too unwell to be moved,' said Nicholas, signalling in his glance what lay behind the fiction. 'Press on without him.'


'We have no choice, sir.' Firethorn understood but kept the secret well. More thunder was followed by a distant flash of lightning. 'Hell's teeth! This is all we need! Where's your seamanship now, Nick? What must we do, what must we do?'


'Run before the storm!'


'Clap on full sail?'


'That's my advice, master.'


'Will we do it?'


'We can but try, sir.'


'By Jove! This is good counsel.'


Firethorn made a graphic gesture with his hands and everyone in the vicinity understood. They were to speed things up. Their only hope lay in keeping ahead of the tempest that was bound to come. When Justice Wildboare made his next entrance, he did so with an alacrity that signalled a change of pace. Cues were picked up more quickly, speeches were dispatched more briskly, stage business was reduced to a minimum. Two small scenes were cut completely. The play scudded across the waves at a rate of several knots.


What made it all possible was the tacit bargain that was struck with the audience. They were in the same boat. Eager to watch the play, they did not want to get soaked while doing so. A shorter, sharper version was an acceptable compromise. The danger was that the play would gather so much momentum that it would get out of control but Wildboare made sure that it did not. No matter how fast the playing, he was always in judicious command.


They reached Act Five with no more interruption than a few rumbles of thunder. Their luck then ran out. A deep-throated roar came from directly ahead of them and forked lightning flashed with dazzling force. Within seconds, torrential rain fell and drenched the pit. Those in the galleries were protected by the overhanging eaves and anyone upstage had the shelter of the portico but the rest were pelted without mercy.


The groundlings complained bitterly and some ran for cover but most stuck it out so that they could see the end of the play. Sodden themselves, they gained much amusement from other victims of the downpour. Lucy Hembrow's wig was plastered to her face, the merry devils' tails were limp rags between their legs, Doctor Castrato talked about the scorching heat while splashing around in inches of water, Droopwell slipped and fell into a puddle, and the indomitable Youngthrust, shorn of his sighing by the dictates of speed, had to stand in the middle of the stage while the rain cascaded down from his codpiece as if it were the mouth of a drainpipe.


The miracle occurred at the start of the final scene.


As if a tap had just been turned off, the rain suddenly stopped. Clouds drifted apart and the sun burst through to turn everything into liquid gold. The marriage or Lucy Hembrow and Youngthrust took place in a positive blaze of glory. To the sound of stately music, the interior of a church--superbly made and cleverly painted--was winched down from above to act as a backdrop. It was a fitting climax to a play that had been supremely entertaining and intermittently moving and applause rang out for several minutes.


Roper Blundell was unable to take his bow.


*

Having bottled up the spectators for two hours, The Rose now squeezed them out in a steady jet. Some dispersed with laughter, others lingered to talk, others again loitered to thieve and cozen. The Merry Devils had been exhilarating and more than one man was looking for a way to take the edge off his excitement.


'Good afternoon, ladies!'


Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry curtseyed politely.


'Did you enjoy the play this afternoon?'


They both nodded behind their veils.


'Would not you like the pleasure to continue?' said the man, beaming at them as he tried to work out which was the more attractive. I can offer the comfort of my carriage to one or both of you.'


The two of them fought to hide their embarrassment.


'Come, ladies,' said the man persuasively. 'London is full of delights and you shall see them all. Will you not sup with me tonight? I promise you shall not lack for anything.'


He shared a flabby leer between the two of them.


Henry Drewry had forgotten how enjoyable an afternoon at the playhouse could be. Having bought a plentiful supply of ale from the vendors, he was further intoxicated by what happened on stage and came reeling out of the building in a state of euplioi i.i. The urge for female company was powerful and he had spoken to a dozen women before he stopped Grace and Isobel. Rejection did not deflate him. He propositioned each new target with unassailable buoyancy.


'Will you see the sights of Bankside with me, ladies?' he said with pompous lechery. 'Or shall we ride back into the city to find our pleasures there? I can judge your quality and will treat you both accordingly.'


Isobel Drewry was profoundly shocked. It was amazing to find her own father at The Rose but to be accosted by him was mortifying. She had always seen him before as a tiresome, self-important man who lived for his work and his Aldermanic ambition. Since he ignored both her and her mother, she never suspected him of the slightest interest in the opposite sex. But Henry Drewry did have passions. Behind that fat, over-ripe tomato of a face and that round, ridiculous body was a creature of flesh and blood with sensual needs. As she saw him now in his true colours, shock gave way to disgust then was mortified by something else. Sheer amusement. The absurdity of the situation took her close to a giggle.


What do you say to my kind offer, ladies?' he pressed, quite unaware of their identity. 'I am a man of some estate, I warrant you.'


Grace Napier decided that action spoke louder than words. It would also have the vital advantage of preserving their anonymity. Lifting her chin in disdain, she took Isobel by the arm and led her purposefully away. They were soon swallowed up in the departing crowd. Henry Drewry was unabashed. He looked around for new game to hunt and soon found it.


'Well met, good sir.'


'How now, dear lady?'


'Was not that the most excellent play in Creation?' ; 'I have never seen the like.'


'It has left me in such a mood for pleasure.'


The courtesan was a shapely young woman of middle height in a tight red bodice with patterning in gold thread, an ornate ruff that was decorated with cut-work embroidery and edged with lace, and a French wheel farthingale with the skirt gathered in folds. She was no punk from the stews of Bankside. She plied her trade in the upper echelons and had picked Drewry out as a man of substance. They were soon standing arm in arm and exchanging banter.


The relationship lasted only a few minutes.


'What brings you to this hideous place, Henry?'


'Oh!'


'I did not expect to find you here, sir.'


Isaac Pollard stood in front of the Alderman and the four supplementary Puritans surrounded him. He was ringed by religion and shook off his new acquaintance as if she were diseased.


'It was your playbill that fetched me here, Isaac,' he said.


'Indeed?'


'That and the holy fire of your sermon.'


'You have read it?'


'Twice,' lied Drewry who had not struggled beyond the first paragraph. 'It is an inspiration to us all. I intend to read it to my wife and daughter this very evening. Isobel is a good girl but a trifle wayward at times. I shudder at the thought of her frequenting such a vile establishment as this.'


'My brethren here were astounded by what they saw.'


So was I, sir. I came hither to judge for myself and I am now totally of your opinion. The Rose is a flower of indecency.'


Tear the place down, Henry.'


Alas, we cannot. It lies outside the city boundary.


'Then close the Queen's Head,' insisted Pollard. 'Plays demean the human soul and players are men who prostitute their art. Let us begin in Gracechurch Street.'


'I will look diligently into the matter.'


'We shall discuss it on our journey. You have your coach here?' It is at hand, Isaac'


'My brethren and I will gladly accept your transport,' said Pollard. 'We all have views that we would impress upon you.'


Drewry gazed wistfully across at the courtesan who had now transferred her attentions to an elderly nobleman who leaned upon a stick. In place of her charms, the Alderman had to settle for five earnest Puritans. Pollard observed the woman as well and his eyebrow rippled quizzically. Drewry threw in a hasty explanation.


A widowed lady who dwells in my ward,' he said. She seeks advice about her husband's estate. An Alderman must help such stricken wives.'


Flanked by the five, he turned his back on pleasure.


*

Roper Blundell lay on the table in the private room to which Nicholas Bracewell carried him. The corpse was covered in a piece of hessian, a rough but not inappropriate shroud. Small in life, the body looked even smaller in death, the shrunken relic of a man who had served the theatre in his lowly capacity for many years. Word of Blundell's demise had not been released to the company and there was a whirlwind of panic. Nicholas stood guard over the body to ensure it some privacy. Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill were his agitated companions.


'Why was I not told?' said Gill angrily. 'I would have not acted with a dead man beneath my very feet.'


'That is why I withheld the intelligence,' said Nicholas.


'You were right,' decided Hoode.


'I am a sharer in this company and should know everything that happens when it happens!' Gill went stamping around the room. 'Lawrence was informed and so should I have been!'


Nicholas glanced meaningfully at the corpse. Gill accepted the reproof and showed his respect by reducing his voice to a hiss. Not surprisingly, he saw the incident entirely from his own point of view.


'This is aimed at me, sirs.'


'How can you think that?' said Hoode.


'It is as plain as a pikestaff.'


'Not to us, master,' said Nicholas quietly.


'At the Queen's Head, I summon up a devil and Hell itself answers my call. During Cupid's Folly, I climb up a pole and some fiend contrives my downfall. Here at The Rose, I sprinkle my magic powder and one of my devils is killed. Can you not see the connections? In every case, it is I who stand at the centre of the action.'


'The wish was father to the thought,' observed Hoode.


'Do not mock me, Edmund!'


'Then do not invite mockery.'


'I remind you of my rank in this company!'


'Will you ever let us forget it, sir?'


'Gentlemen, please,' said Nicholas, indicating the shrouded Figure. 'Roper had little enough respect from us when he was here. Let us give the poor fellow his due amount now that he has gone.'


They mumbled an apology. Gill drifted over to the window.


'Where is Lawrence?'


'Lord Westfield sent for him,' said Nicholas.


'He should be here.'


'His lordship was insistent.'


'I could have dealt with our patron,' said Gill airily. 'Lawrence's place is in this room.'


He stared out of the window and brooded on what had happened and how it affected him. Hoode had a whispered conversation with the book holder.


'What caused the death, Nick?'


'We will not know until the surgeon arrives.'


'Did Caleb Smythe not enlighten you?'


'He is as ignorant as the rest of us.'


'But he was down there with the others.'


'His back was to Roper,' explained Nicholas. 'It is gloomy and they were in any case half-hidden from each other's gaze by the props that hold up the stage. Caleb saw nothing.'


'He must have heard something was amiss?'


Nicholas shook his head. He was deafened by the first explosion. He could not hear if Roper's powder went off or if his trap-door opened. Besides, Caleb had much to do. He had to pull his own tray of gunpowder into position, set the charge, mount the steps and make his entrance. That left him no time to look across at Roper Blundell.'


'I understand it now.'


'The first that Caleb knew of any accident was when he popped up on the stage and saw that George Dart was the only devil there. He took the action he saw fit.'


'We must be grateful that he did.'


Hoode walked across to the table and uncovered the face of the corpse. Roper Blundell still stared upwards with his mouth agape. A costume which might have provoked horror and humour on stage looked singularly out of place now. Blundell had worked on all the playwright's work for the company. Hoode spared him the tribute of a passing sigh. It grieved him that something he had written should be the scene of the man's death.


There was a faint knock on the door and it opened to reveal a wizened figure in a long robe. He introduced himself with a dark smile.


'Doctor John Mordrake!'


His reputation gained him a polite welcome. Even Barnaby Gill was temporarily cowed in the presence of so eminent a man.


Mordrake saw the corpse and crossed to it in triumph.


'I knew it, sirs!' he said. 'I foretold tragedy.'


'We await the surgeon's opinion,' said Nicholas.


'But I can tell you the cause of death, my friend.'


Mordrake reached down to close the eyes of Roper Blundell then pulled the hessian back over his face. He turned to the others and spoke with devastating certainty. 'He saw the Devil himself.'


*

Fine wine after an excellent programme put Lord Westfield in a warm and generous mood. He showered Lawrence Firethorn with compliments that were taken up and embroidered by the circle of hangers-on. It was generally agreed that, notwithstanding the thunderstorm, the second performance of the play was better than the First. Firethorn lapped up the praise, especially when it came from the three ladies present and he managed some assiduous hand-kissing by way of gratitude. While a hired man in the company lay dead in one room, its patron celebrated in another. Westfield's Men covered a wide spectrum.


'I puzzled over one omission, Master Firethorn.'


'Yes, my lord?'


At the Queen's Head, you gave us three merry devils.'


'Indeed, sir.'


'And the third was hottest from Hell.' A collective titter was heard. 'Why did we see only two of them this afternoon?'


'Three were rehearsed, my lord.'


'What prevented the third from appearing?'


'An unforeseen difficulty,' said Firethorn smoothly.


'It was a loss.'


'We accept that, my lord.'


Firethorn decided to say nothing about the death of Roper Blundell. He did not want to ruin the festive atmosphere or bother his patron with news of someone who was, in the last analysis, a disposable menial. For the sake of the nobleman's peace of mind, Blundell's fate was softened into a euphemism.


'I hope that you can overcome this--unforeseen difficulty.'


'My lord?'


'During the private performance, I mean.'


'Ah, yes. At Parkbrook House.'


'My nephew will expect a full complement of devils.'


'He will get them, my lord.'


'Francis is a very determined young man,' said Lord Westfield with avuncular affection. 'He's ambitious and industrious. He knows what he wants and makes sure that he gets it. He'll not be stinted.'


'We'll bear that in mind, my lord.'


'He writes to tell me that your visit to Parkbrook has been brought forward. It will now be in two weeks or so.'


'That is rather short notice.'


'He is my nephew.'


'Oh, of course, of course.'


'I trust you'll oblige him, sir.'


'Yes, yes, my lord,' said Firethorn apologetically. 'It will necessitate a few changes in our plans, that is all.'


'Work on the house was proceeding too slowly for his taste so Francis speeded it up. I can imagine him doing that. He knows the value of a firm hand.' There was a hint of a sigh. 'Unlike his elder brother, who always erred on the side of sentiment.'


'As to the performance itself, my lord...'


'It will take place in the Great Hall.'


'I only know the property by repute,' said Firethorn. 'We have played at Westfield Hall many times but never at Parkbrook.'


'Send a man to make drawings and note the dimensions.'


'Nick Bracewell is the one for such an errand.'


'I'll write to warn of his arrival.'


Lord Westfield accepted another goblet of wine when it was offered and talked about the pride he felt in his company. They wore his livery and carried his name before the London playgoing public. He chose the moment to apply a little pressure.


'I would have you give of your best at Parkbrook.'


'We will do no less, my lord.'


'Francis is very dear to me, sir,' said the other warningly.


'We have much in common, he and I. This banquet has been arranged to establish him as the new master of Parkbrook so I would not have it fall short of expectation.'


'Westfield's Men will be worthy of their patron!'


Firethorn's declaration drew gloved applause from the others.


'You shall not lose by it,' continued Lord Westfield. 'Francis will pay you handsomely for your services.'


'That thought was far from my mind,' lied Firethorn.


'He'll draw the contract up himself, if I know him. Though he enjoys his pleasures, he has never neglected his studies. Francis is no idle wastrel. He is an astute lawyer.'


'He sounds a remarkable person in every way.'


'Very remarkable.'


'And so young to occupy such a position,' observed Firethorn. 'Tell me, my lord, was not his elder brother master before him?'


'That is so, sir.'


'I am sorry to hear that the gentleman has died.'


'Alas, sir! If only he had!' The sigh gave way to an impatient note. 'But I will not brood on poor David. What's done is done and there's no changing it. Francis Jordan owns Parkbrook now.His brother, David, must fade away from our minds.'


*

Kirk's duties at Bedlam were far too onerous to permit him anything more than brief visits to his favourite patient. He was therefore never able to sustain any progress that had been made. David would make some small advance in the morning yet be unsure about it by the same evening. He was constantly taking two steps forward then one back. It was deeply frustrating but the keeper did not give up.


He tried to find a way to help the patient when he himself was not there. Without telling his colleagues, he smuggled some writing materials into David's room. At first, the patient reacted like a child and scrawled over the parchment. Then he began to make simple drawings of cows and sheep and horses. He would sit for hours and smile fondly at his collection of animals. The next stage came when he tried to form words. A whole morning might result in nothing more than one illegible word but Kirk was nevertheless pleased. The breakthrough would surely come.


That afternoon condemned him to the duty that he liked least. With some of the other keepers, he supervised the Bedlam patients who were on display to members of the public. Respectable men and women came to watch with ghoulish fascination as disturbed human beings enacted their private dreams. It was a gruesome event at any time but the thunderstorm made it particularly bizarre. As the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the lunatics kicked and bolted like horses in a stable fire. Their antics became wilder, their screams more piercing, their hysteria more frightening, their pain indescribably worse but the spectators liked the sight and urged the keepers to beat more madness out of their charges.


When it was all over, Kirk began his round of the private rooms. He glanced in through the grille in David's door and saw the latter bent over a table with a quill in his hand, writing something with great concentration. He looked serene, preoccupied, harmless. No sooner had the door been unlocked, however, than he underwent a change. David became such a mass of convulsions that he knocked over the table and fell writhing to the floor. Kirk jumped to his aid and thrust his hand into David's mouth to prevent the latter from biting off his tongue. It was a far more violent and dramatic attack than the earlier one witnessed by the keeper.


Eventually the spasms subsided and David lay there gasping. Kirk helped him on to the bed and mopped the patient's fevered brow. Beside the overturned table was the parchment on which David had been writing with such care. The keeper reached down for it and saw that ink had been thrown all over it in the accident. Whatever words had been slowly extracted from David's mind had now been obliterated.


'What did you write?' asked Kirk.


The only reply was the stertorous breathing.


'David, can you hear me? Are you listening, David?'


The patient stared up with blank incomprehension. He no longer even recognised his name. He was back once more in his twilight world. Kirk was dejected. All their hard work had been thrown away.


There was now a further problem to hold them back.


'What goes on here, sir?'


Rooksley stood in the doorway and read the scene with unfriendly eyes. He crossed to take the ink-stained parchment from Kirks hand. The head keeper made no secret of his anger.


'Who gave him this?'


'I did, Master Rooksley, to help him recover his wits.'


'Writing materials are forbidden.'


'I thought that--'


'Thought is forbidden, Master Kirk! You are paid to obey rules and I did not to change them.'


'This man has the falling sickness. He needs a physician.'


'We are his physicians.'


'But he is a danger to himself.'


'Only when you interfere here. He must be left alone.' , 'Master Rooksley, he was responding to my help.'


'You'll not visit this chamber again, sir!' said the head keeper with a snarl. 'It is closed to you from this day forward. And if you will not discharge your duties to my satisfaction, you'll leave Bedlam altogether.'


Kirk bit back his protest. There was no point in antagonising Rooksley. Only if he remained on the staff could Kirk have the slightest hope of helping the patient. The head keeper motioned him out then he locked the door behind them. Kirk glanced back in through the grille.


'Who is he, master?'


'A lunatic'


'But who pays to keep him here?'


'One who would stay unknown.'


*

The storm which had struck London that afternoon had ravaged the Home Counties as well. Eager to ride out on his estate, Francis Jordan was confined to Parkbrook by the lashing rain. He took out his disappointment on anyone within reach and Glanville had to soothe the hurt feelings of many of the domestics. Jordan's mood altered with the weather. As soon as the sun came out to brighten up the countryside, he became happy and affable. Kind words were thrown to his staff. Compliments reached those who worked on in the Great Hall. The new master could exude charm when it suited him.


His horse had been saddled by the time he reached the stables and he was helped up by the ostler. Giving the man a cheery wave, Jordan rode off at a rising trot. Parkbrook glistened like a fairytale palace and the land all around was painted in rich hues. It gave him an immense feeling of well-being to know that he was master of it all. The wait had been a long one but it had served to sharpen his resolution and heighten his anticipation.


He now owned Parkbrook House. All that he lacked was a wife to grace it with her presence and share in its bounty. Francis Jordan let his mind play with the notion of marriage. He would choose a wife with the utmost care, some high-born lady with enough wit to keep him amused and enough beauty to sustain his desire. She would dignify his table, widen his social circle, bear his children and be so bound up with her life at Parkbrook that she would not even suspect her husband of enjoying darker pleasures on his visits to London. Jordan wanted someone whom he could love in Hertfordshire and forget in Eastcheap.


His thoughts were soon interrupted. There was a copse ahead of him and a figure stepped out from the trees as he approached. The man was short, squat and ugly. One eye was covered by a patch that matched the colour of his black beard. His rough arrive was soaked from the rain and he looked bedraggled. Jordan took him for a beggar at first and was about to berate him for trespass. When he got closer, however, he recognized the man only too well.


'Good day, sir!'


Deferential to the point of obsequiousness, the man touched his cap and shrunk back a pace. But there was a calculating note in his behaviour. As he looked up at the elegant gentleman on the horse, he gave a knowing smirk. Jordan was forced to acknowledge him.


Good day,' he said.


Then he rode on past a memory he wished to ignore.


*

Ralph Willoughby rolled out of the Bull and Butcher in a state of guilty inebriation. No matter how much he drank, he could not forget what had happened that afternoon at The Rose. When only two merry devils emerged from beneath the stage, he knew that tragedy had struck though it was only later that he learned what form it took. His association with the play was fatal. Willoughby believed that he had murdered Roper Blundell as surely as if he had thrust a dagger into the man's heart. There was blood on his hands.


More rain was now falling on London and turning its streets into miry runnels. Willoughby's unregarding footsteps shuffled through mud and slime and stinking refuse. Impervious to the damp that now fingered his body, he lurched around a corner and halted as if he had walked into solid rock. St. Paul's Cathedral soared up to block his vision and accuse him with its purpose. Tears of supplication joined the raindrops that splattered his face.


Lumbering across the churchyard, he eventually reached the safety of the cathedral wall. As he leaned against its dank stone, it seemed at once to welcome and repel him, to offer sanctuary to a lost soul and to rebuke him for his transgressions. He was still supporting himself against religion when he heard a wild, maniacal screech that rang inside his head like a dissonant peal of bells. His eyes went upward and a lance of terror pierced his body. High above him, dancing on the very edge of the roof, was a hideous gargoyle in the shape of a devil.


He stared up helplessly as the malign creature mocked and cackled in the darkness. Taking his huge erect penis in both hands, the devil aimed it downwards and sent a stream of hot, black, avenging urine over the playwright's head. Willoughby burned with the shame of it all and collapsed on the floor in humiliation.


Those who later found him could not understand why he lay directly beneath a foaming water spout.


*

Anne Hendrik took him into her bed that night and made love with that mixture of tenderness and passion that typified her. Nicholas Bracewell was both grateful and responsive. Deeply upset by the death of Roper Blundell, he came home late from the theatre and was very subdued over supper. Sensing his need, Anne led him to her bedchamber and found an answering need in herself. They were friends and casual lovers. Because their moments of intimacy only ever arose out of mutual desire, they were always special and always restorative.


They lay naked in each other's arms in the darkness.


'Thank you,' he whispered, kissing her softly on the cheek.


'Does it help?'


'Every time.' He smiled. 'Especially tonight.'


'So you will not change your lodging, sir?"


'Not unless you come with me, Anne.'


She kissed him lightly on the lips and pulled, him close.


'Nicholas...'


'My love?'


'Ate you in danger?" she asked with concern.


'I think not.'


'All these accidents that befall Westfield's Men are disturbing. Might not you be the victim of the next one?


'I might, Anne, but it is unlikely.'


'Why?'


'Because I am not the target.'


'Then who is? Ralph Willoughby?'


'He is involved, certainly,' said Nicholas with a sigh. 'We cannot lightly dismiss the word of Doctor John Mordrake. On the other hand...'


'You still do not believe in devils.'


'No, Anne.'


'Then what did Roper Blundell see beneath the stage?'


'Only he knows and his lips are sealed for ever.'


'Could the surgeon throw any light?'


'He was mystified, Anne.'


'Why?'


'There were no signs upon the body.'


'What was his conclusion?


'Death by natural causes,' said Nicholas sceptically. 'He told us that Roper died of old age and a verminous profession.'


'Poor man! Does he leave a family?"


'None.'


'Is there nobody to mourn for him?'


'We few friends.'


They fell silent for a while then she rolled over on top of him and put her head on his chest. Nicholas ran his hands through her downy hair and traced the contours of her back. Her skin was silky to the touch. When she finally spoke, her voice was a contented murmur.


'I like that.'


'Good.'


'I like you as well.'


'That pleases me even more.'


She propped herself up on her arms so that she could look down at him. A shaft of moonlight was striking the side of his face. She kissed the streak of light then nuzzled his cheek.


'Who is the target?' she asked.


'I do not know, Anne.' ; 'What does your instinct tell you?'


'Someone hates the company.'


'Someone human?'


'That's my feeling.'


'Why does the attack always come during a performance?'


'Because that is how to hurt us most,' he argued. 'There are a hundred ways to damage Westfield's Men but our enemy strikes during a play to discredit us in front of an audience. If we had abandoned a performance in the middle, it would have done enormous harm to our reputation, and reputation means everything in the theatre.'


'But you were not forced to stop, Nick.'


'Master Firethorn and Master Gill were the heroes there,' he said. 'When that creature leapt out of the trap-door at the Queen's Head, everyone turned tail except Master Firethorn. He held the play together when it might have collapsed in ruins.'


'And at The Curtain?'


'It was Master Gill who showed his experience. When the maypole broke, he made light of the accident in front of the spectators. The aim was to disrupt our performance but once again it was foiled.


'What of this afternoon?'


'A merry devil died. That would stop most companies.'


'Yet Westfield's Men carried on and the audience was none the wiser. I saw no hindrance in the action from where I sat. And since you kept Blundell's death a secret from the company, they were able to continue their performance.'


'Yes, Anne. It brings me back to my first assumption.'


'Which is?'


Some jealous rival seeks to undermine us.'


'Your reasoning?'


'They know best how to do it---on the stage itself.'


'But that requires a knowledge of the play.'


'That is the most puzzling aspect of it all,' admitted Nicholas. 'I guard the prompt books scrupulously yet someone knows their contents.'


'A discontented member of the company?'


'We have enough of those, I fear. Master Firethorn has never been too generous with wages or too swift in their payment. We have our share of grumblers but none of them would sink to this kind of villainy. Were it successful, it would harm their own position.'


'Then it must be some former member of Westfield's Men.'


'There you may have ir, Anne.'


'Players with a grudge?'


'Two or three have left us of late,' he said. 'Embittered men who went off cursing. They might not have been able to attack us in this way but they could give help to those that could.'


'We come back to Banbury's Men.'


'I harbour doubts on that score.'


She put her head back on his chest and he stroked her hair with absent-minded affection, inhaling its fragrance. He looked at the week ahead with some misgivings.


'Tomorrow we return to the Queen's Head.'


'That will please Master Marwood,' she said with irony.


'Thank goodness that Roper did not pass away on his premises. Our landlord would not have liked a corpse beneath our stage. It would have given him fresh grounds for breaking his partnership with us.'


'How many days are you there?'


'Three, Anne.'


'Not on Saturday?'


'We perform at Newington Butts then I'm away.'


'Away where, sir?'


'Did I not tell you of my commission?'


'You hardly spoke at all when you got home tonight.'


'Master Firethorn wants me to reconnoitre.'


'Where, Nick?'


'Parkbrook House.'


'On the Westfield estate?'


Yes,' he said, playfully turning her over on to her back. 'I'm running away from you, Anne.'


'Treachery!'


'I go to the country.'


'Not for a while, sir.'


She kissed him full on the lips and desire stirred again.


*

'There is no question of your visiting the country!'


'Why not, father?'


'Because you are needed here.'


'By whom?'


'By me and by your mother.'


'But you never even notice whether I am in the house or not, and mother has already given her blessing to the idea. London is stifling me. I long to breathe some country air in my lungs.'


'No!'


'Would you prevent me?'


'By force, if need be.'


Isobel Drewry expected opposition from her father but not of this strength. For all his faults, he could be talked around on occasion. This time it was different. Under normal circumstances, his daughter would have backed off and tackled him at a more auspicious moment but their old relationship had dissolved. After the incident at The Rose on the previous afternoon, she no longer accepted him as the source of authority in her life. Isobel was finding it difficult to conceal the vestigial shock of what had happened. Pushed any further, she knew that her true feelings might show through.


They were in the room that he used as his office. Drewry sat -importantly behind a large oak table that was covered with business correspondence. On a court cupboard to his right stood the symbol of his trade. It was a Vivyan Salt, some sixteen inches in height. Made of silver-gilt with painted side panel, the salt cellar had a figure representing Justice on its top. Isobel caught sight of it. She wanted her share of justice now.


Henry Drewry moved from cold command to oily persuasion. He tried to convince his daughter that his decision was in her own interests.


'Come, Isobel,' he said with a chuckle, 'do but think for a moment. Nothing ever happens in the country. You will waste away from boredom within the hour. London has much more to offer.'


'Not if you deny me access to it, father.'


'Do you really wish to dwindle away in some rural seat?'


'Yes, sir,' she said firmly. I have an invitation.'


'Refuse it.'


'But Grace is anxious for me to accompany her.'


'Mistress Napier can flee to the country on her own,' he said with some asperity. 'It may be the best place for her.'


'What do you mean?'


'She is not a good influence on you, Isobel.'


'Grace is my closest friend.'


'It is time that friendship cooled somewhat."


'But she has asked me to join her at their country house.'


'You are detained here.'


Isobel gritted her teeth and held back rising irritation.


Drewry felt that he had reason to dislike Grace Napier. Her father was one of the most successful mercers in London and his burgeoning prosperity was reflected in the estate he had bought himself near St Albans. Naked envy made Drewry hate the man. His own business flourished but it did not compare with that of Roland Napier. Hatred of the father led to disapproval of a daughter who was better educated and better dressed than his own. There was also a self-possession about Grace Napier that he resented. It was time to terminate the friendship.


'In future, you will not see so much of Mistress Napier.'


'Why?'


'She is not a fit companion for you.'


'Grace is sweetness itself.'


'I do not like her and there's an end to it.'


Her father's peremptory manner made her inhibitions evaporate. She would not endure his dictates any longer. It was the moment to play her trump card.


'You do not like her, you say. It has not always been so.'


'No,' he agreed. Most of the time I have detested her.'


'Where were you yesterday afternoon, father?' she challenged.


'Yesterday?'


'Mother says you were at a meeting of the City Fathers.'


'Yes, yes, that is true. I was at a meeting.'


'Did it take place at The Rose in Bankside?'


Drewry went crimson and jumped up from his chair.


'Why do you mention that vile place to me?' he demanded.


'Because Grace was there,' said Isobel. 'She and a friend went to see Westfield's Men play The Merry Devils. It was another brilliant performance, by all accounts. Grace and her friend enjoyed it.'


'What has this got to do with me?' he blustered.


'Grace believes that she may have seen you there.'


'That is utterly impossible! A slander on my good name!'


'Her friend confirms that it was you.'


'A monstrous accusation!'


'But they saw you, father.'


'I deny it!' he said vehemently. 'The Rose holds hundreds and hundreds of spectators--or so I am told. How could they pick one man out in such a large crowd?'


'He picked them out, sir.'


The crimson in his cheeks deepened. He swallowed hard and leaned on the table for support. Before he could even try to defend himself, she delivered the killer blow.


'Grace and her friend wore veils,' she said. 'They say that you stopped them as they left the theatre. Taking them for women of looser reputation than they were, you made suggestions of a highly improper nature. So you see, sir--you liked Grace well enough then. Rather than discover themselves, they hurried away in a state of shock.' Isobel affected tears. 'How could my own father do such a thing? And with someone young enough to be his own daughter. You forbade me to go near the playhouse yet you went there yourself. Mother will be destroyed when she hears this.'


'She must not!' he gasped. 'Besides, it is all a mistake.'


'Mother will want an explanation. The first thing she will do is find out if there was a meeting yesterday. If there was not, she will know who to believe.'


Henry Drewry sagged. His predicament was harrowing. He had been found out by his own child. The bombast and hypocrisy he had used to sustain their relationship over the years were now useless. She saw him for what he was and his wife might now do the same. He was a broken man. The indiscretions of one afternoon had stripped his authority from him. His daughter reviled him. His wife might do more.


'Say nothing to your mother!' he begged hoarsely.


In the silence that followed there was a decisive shift in the balance of power within the family. An agreement was reached. She would not betray him to his wife and he would no longer constrain her in any way. For the first time in her life, Isobel Drewry felt that she had some control over her own destiny. It was a heady sensation.


Her hither flopped down into his chair with head bowed.


'When will you go to the country?' he asked meekly.


'Whenever I choose!'


Isobel was learning how to rub salt into the wound.


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

Chapter Eight

Glanville gave her sensible advice. He told her to make sure that the new master was busy elsewhere before she entered his bedchamber. He urged her to leave doors and windows open while she was busy at her work. In the event of any further attack, her screams would be heard and help would soon come. Jane Skinner listened to it all with solemn concentration. She did exactly what the steward told her and the problem soon vanished. There was never a chance of her being caught by Francis Jordan in his bedchamber. She was circumspect.


Her anxieties eased and her confidence slowly returned. She was less furtive in her duties. What happened before could be put down to the new master's visit to the cellars. Too much wine had put lechery in his mind and lust in his loins. It would not occur again. Jane Skinner talked herself into believing it. She was making the bed in a chamber on the top storey when that belief was fractured. The door shut behind her and she turned to see Francis Jordan resting his back against it.


'Oh!' she said. 'You startled me!'


'I came to find you, Jane.'


'How did you know I was here, master?'


'I saw you from below,' he explained. 'I was in the garden when you opened the window up here. It was an opportunity I could not miss.'


He smiled broadly and took a few steps towards her. Jane backed away and pulled up a sheet in front of her chest as if trying to ward him off. Shaking with fear, she squealed her protest.


'Do not come any closer, please!'


'If that is what you wish,' he said, stopping.


'I will scream if you touch me, sir.'


'But I came here to apologise.'


'Did you?'


'Why else? Do you take me for such a complete ogre?'


'No, master,' she said cautiously.


'Put down your sheet, Jane,' he told her. 'You are in no danger here, girl. I am sorry for what took place the other day. I was hot with wine and my behaviour was ungentlemanly. Will you accept my apology?'


'Well...yes, sir.'


'It is honestly given. As you see, I am quite sober now."


She nodded. 'May I go, master?'


'I am not stopping you,' he said, crossing to open the door wide. 'It is not my purpose to disturb you when you have duties to perform. I know that you are a conscientious girl.'


'I try to be, master.'


'Then carry on with your work. Goodbye.'


'Oh'


His departure was as abrupt as his arrival. He marched out of the room and left her bewildered. Instead of a second assault, she had been accorded respect and even kindness. It soothed her instantly and she went back to the bed. She was just finishing her task when Jordan sauntered up to the door again and tapped on it with his knuckles.


'May I come in, Jane?'


'If you wish, master.'


The chambermaid was surprised but not intimidated this time.


'I forgot to tell you something,' he said.


'Yes, sir?'


'It was wrong of me to jump on you like that because ir was an insult to you. I see that now. You're a fine-looking girl, Jane Skinner. You deserve more than a brief tumble like that.'


'Thank you, sir,' she said, misunderstanding him.


'A young woman like you should get her full due.'


'Should I, master?'


'Come to me for a whole night.'


His casual manner reinforced the impact of his order. Jane Skinner reeled as if from a heavy blow. To be grabbed and groped by him was ordeal enough but this was far worse. Her heart constricted as she viewed the prospect ahead of her. Francis Jordan was the master of Parkbrook House. His word was law within its walls. If she did not comply, she would be dismissed from his service.


Appraising her frankly, he gave her a thin smile.


'I will send for you some time in the near future, Jane. I'll expect you to answer my summons.'


She bit her lip in distress and her mind was a furnace.


'This is a matter between the two of us,' he said. 'I would not have it discussed elsewhere. Besides, there is nobody to whom you can turn. My word is everything at Parkbrook.'


He strolled across to her and lifted her chin with his finger. Jane was petrified. His touch was like a red-hot needle. He ran his eyes over her once more then nodded his approval. Turning on his heel, he went slowly out of the room.


The chambermaid was horror-stricken. She was caught like an animal in a trap and could see no means of escape. Life at Parkbrook had held no such fears under the old master but those days had clearly gone. To defy Francis Jordan seemed impossible yet to obey him would be to surrender everything she valued in her life. It was unthinkable. As a deep panic coursed through her, she felt the need to turn to somebody. Glanville would offer her sympathy even if he could not actually save her. With a little cry of anguish, Jane ran off to find him. She felt hurt, molested and thoroughly abused.


The long journey down to the ground floor left her breathless and she had to pause for a while to gather her strength. Then she was off again, searching every room and corridor with panting urgency, asking anyone she met if they knew where Glanville was. But there was no sign of the steward. At a time when she needed him most, he was simply not there. Despair gnawed at her. It was one of the carpenters at work in the Great Hall who gave her a faint hope.


'I think he be up in his room, mistress.'


She gabbled her thanks and took to her heels again.


Joseph Glanville had apartments on the first floor in the west wing. The correct way to approach them was to go up the main staircase and along the landings. But the steward also had a private staircase, a narrow, circular affair that corkscrewed upwards at the extreme end of the west wing. It was a mark of status and nobody else was allowed to use it except Glanville but the chambermaid forgot about that rule. Needing the quickest route to a source of help, she dashed along the corridor and clambered up the oak treads of the private staircase. Her shoes echoed and her breathing became more laboured.


When she reached the door, she pounded on it with both fists.


'Master Glanville! Master Glanville!' Who is it?' called a stern voice from within.


'Jane Skinner, sir.'


A bolt was drawn back, a key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. Jane had no opportunity to blurt out her story. The steward glared down at her with smouldering eyes.


'Did you come up that staircase?' he demanded.


'Yes, sir. I wanted to see you about--'


'It is for my personal use! You have no right, Jane Skinner.'


'No, sir.'


'How dare you flout my privilege!'


'But I needed to--'


'It is quite inexcusable,' he said angrily. 'You have no business coming to my apartments. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait until I am available. You must never come here again, Jane. Do you understand that?


'Yes, master.'


'And you must never use that staircase again. I forbid it!'


Glanville withdrew and closed the door in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock. Jane was totally shattered. A man who had always shown her consideration in the past was now openly hostile. The one person who might stand between her and Francis Jordan had let her down in the most signal way. Her position was worse than ever.


*

The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.


Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.


He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out.


Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.


Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield's Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.


'I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.'


'It happens, sir.'


'Is foul play suspected?'


'Roper Blundell was poisoned,' said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. 'He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.'


'I have never had a complaint before!' said Marwood defensively.


'Your victims keel over before they can make it.'


'You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.'


'That is my pleasure, sir.'


'My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.'


'A sure sign of drunkenness.'


'They speak well of its taste and potency.


'Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.'


Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else's amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.


'The Queens Head has a fine reputation.'


'You may put that down to Westfield's Men, sir.'


'And to our own endeavours.' He became businesslike. 'I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.'


'It will be paid at the end of the performance.'


'You still owe me money from last week, sir.'


'An unfortunate oversight.'


'It is one of your habits.'


'Do not pass remarks on my character,' warned Firethorn. 'All accounts will be paid in full.'


'I am glad to hear it.'


Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.


'I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.'


'We play Love and Fortune,' said Firethorn grandly. 'It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.'


'Good,' said Marwood. 'I want no corpses at my inn.'


'Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you'll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!'


Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn's ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield's Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queens Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.


Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.


'You should have let me handle him, master.'


'The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!'


'He needs much reassurance.'


'He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.' Firethorn inhaled deeply. 'I'll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I'll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!'


'Master Marwood does not love the theatre,' said Nicholas.


'Nor does the theatre love him, sir!'


The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.


'Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?'


'What, master?'


'That he did not want a dead body at the Queen's Head. Zounds! That Marwood is a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He's a posthumous oaf!'


'Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?'


'No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!'


'Did you tell him the cause of death?'


'I turned it into a joke against his drink.'


'We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.'


'Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.'


'Not in my opinion, master.'


'You heard Doctor Mordrake.'


'He was mistaken.'


'Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.'


'If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.'


'The two go together,' said Firethorn. 'The Devil chose to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.'


'Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.'


'He's the root cause of all our misfortunes.'


'But he was sad when he learned of Roper's end.'


'That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby but lie has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest or Hell has done?'


'What, sir?'


'Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.'


'He is employed by one of our rivals?'


'Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury's Men.'


Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.


*

Alchemy was an irresistible temptation for the rogue and charlatan. So little was known of the science and so much claimed for it that fake alchemists set up all over London and found a ready supply of credulous gulls. Greed and folly activated most of the people who visited the new breed of magicians. They came in search of unlimited wealth and unlimited life, hoping to turn base metal into gold and yearning to find an elixir of youth. Notwithstanding the large sums they invested in their ambition, they failed to achieve either objective. Success somehow eluded them, as did the confidence tricksters themselves when their ruses were finally exposed. In the high-sounding name of alchemy, the public was seduced daily and exploited unmercifully.


Doctor John Mordrake was one of the few scientists whose record was blameless. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, he never tried to mislead or bamboozle his clients. Indeed, he often bent his extraordinary energies to unmasking fraudulent practices among his rival magicians. He never made extravagant claims for what alchemy might do, only for what it could do.


His furnace was kept on the ground floor of his house in Knightrider Street and its fumes were often seeking out the nostrils of an}' passers-by. As he stood beside it now, Mordrake watched his assistant stoke up the fire to increase the heat. The customer, an obese man in brown satin, rubbed his hands with glee.


'When will my gold be ready, Doctor Mordrake?'


'Do not be hasty, sir," warned the other. 'There are twelve stages in the alchemical process and none of them can be rushed. The first six are devoted to the making of the White Stone.'


'And then? And then?' asked the man eagerly.


'Six more long and careful stages.'


The assistant raked the coals again and sparks filled the room. While the customer stepped back in alarm, Mordrake held his ground and let the fiery atoms of light fall around him.


'How does it work?' said the customer.


"We are not sure that it will, sir.'


'But if my metal is refined into gold...'


Mordrake tossed his silver locks and gave a lecture.


'All substances are composed of four elements,' he began. 'By which, I mean earth, air, fire and water. In most things, those elements are not equally balanced. It is only in gold that they may be found in their perfect proportion. That is why we prize gold above all else. It is eternal, it is indestructible.'


'It is the source of true wealth,' noted the customer.


'My friend, my friend,' said Mordrake sadly. 'Do not be moved by a sordid desire for gain. Learn from Cicero--O fallacem hominem spem! Oh how deceitful is the hope of man! Remember Seneca--Magna servitus est magna fortuna. A great fortune is a great slavery. I do not work to satisfy the greed of men. That is ignoble and not the true end of alchemical inquiry. I seek perfection.'


'Does that not involve gold?'


'Only in the initial stage of the search.' He indicated the furnace with a blue-veined hand. 'In my raging fire here, I try to bring metals to their highest state, which is gold, but I would learn the science of applying the same principle to everything in life and--yes, sir--to life itself. Do you comprehend?'


'No,' said the man dully.


'I want to clothe all creation in perfection!' ; There was a long pause as the visitor assimilated the idea.


Can we make a start with my gold?'


Mordrake patted him on the shoulder then led him to the front door. When he had shown the man out, he padded upstairs to return to his work. As the old man entered the room, an elegant figure looked up from the massive book over which he was poring.


'Have you found what you were after, sir?' asked Mordrake.


'Indeed.'


'I would not show Malleus Maleficarum to many eyes.'


'That is why I am so grateful to you, Doctor Mordrake.'


'We'll set a price on that gratitude later,' said the other with a scholarly grin. 'Did the book enlighten you?'


"Wonderfully, sir. It made me think.'


'Vivere est cogitare.'


'To live is to think. We learned that tag at Cambridge.'


'From whom?


'Horace.'


'Cicero,' said Mordrake. You should have gone to Oxford.'


'Neither place could help me fulfil my destiny,' said the young man wistfully. 'I was born to serve other imperatives.'


'I am pleased that the book has been a help to you.'


'Much more than a help, sir. It has pointed out my way for me.'


*

Edmund Hoode was transported by delight. His performance in Love and Fortune had won plaudits from Grace Napier that thrilled him and congratulations from Isobel Drewry that he did not even hear. The play had been well-received by an audience who knew it for one of the staples of the company's repertoire. There had been nothing to dim the pleasure of the afternoon. Though everyone was on the alert for trouble, none came and none even threatened. Hoode's cup of joy overflowed when Grace acceded to his request.


'Yes, sir, I would like to dine with you.'


'We'll arrange a place and time to suit your convenience.'


'It will have to be after my return from the country.'


'You are leaving London?' His stomach revolved.


'At the end of the week,' she explained. 'But I will not be away for long, Master Hoode, and then we shall certainly dine together.'


'I will count the hours until that blessed time.'


'Do not wave me off so soon,' she chided with a smile. 'I do not leave for a few days yet. I will be here at the Queen's Head again tomorrow to watch Vincentio's Revenge.'


'And so will I,' piped Isobel.


Hoode shifted his feet. 'I am not well-cast in this tragedy.'


'It is no matter, sir,' said Grace pleasantly. 'I would watch you if you played but the meanest servant. It is Edmund Hoode that I come to see and not the part he plays.'


He kissed her hand on impulse. Isobel giggled inappropriately.


When the two of them left, he shuttled between happiness and misery. Grace Napier had agreed to dine with him but she had first to go away. Before he could be really close to her, they would have to be far apart. The thought that she might stir outside London filled him with dread. He wanted her to be in the same city as himself, if not in the same ward, the same house, the same chamber, the same bed and the same love affair. After full consideration, he dismissed the pangs of remorse and decided that he was entitled to feel triumphant. He had got his response at last. His plays, his performances and his poems had won a promise from his beloved.


It was a triumph that merited a small celebration.


*

'More ale, Nick?'


'I have had my fill, I think.'


'A cup of wine to see you on your way?' It would detain me in this chair all night.'


They were sitting together in Hoode's lodging. Desperate to tell of his good fortune, the playwright had pressed his friend to come back for an hour that had somehow matured into four. Nicholas Bracewell drank, listened, nodded at intervals and threw in words of encouragement whenever a small gap appeared in the narrative. He tried to leave more than once but was restrained by his host. Grace Napier was the centre of Hoode's world and he went round and round her with repetitious zeal.


Nicholas eventually got to his feet and contrived a farewell. Another burst of memoirs held him on the doorstep for five minutes then he broke free. Hoode went back inside to marvel at his luck and to pen another sonnet to its source. If Grace could tolerate him as a venal Duke in Vincentio's Revenge, she must indeed be smitten.


It was a fine night. Nicholas ambled along a street with a sense of having done an important favour to his friend. It did not hurt him to listen to the amorous outpourings of Edmund Hoode and his presence had clearly meant so much to his host. The playwright would do as much for Nicholas. Not that he would ever lend himself to such a situation. Affairs of the heart were matters of discretion to him and no man had ever heard him boast or sigh. It was one of the qualities in him that most attracted Anne Hendrik.


The incessant talk of Grace Napier turned his mind to his landlady. Most of the things that Hoode praised in his beloved were traits that she shared with Anne. In thinking about one woman, Nicholas gained some insight into his relationship with another. For that alone, it was worth keeping a babbling playwright company. Nicholas sauntered on in a mood of quiet satisfaction. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.


It was only then that he realised just how much he had drunk. His reactions were far too slow. By the time he swung round, the first blow had already caught him on the side of his head. He tightened his fists and crouched to defend himself. There were two of them, burly figures with broad shoulders and thick necks. When both of them charged him, he was knocked back against a wall and his head struck the hard stone. His assailants began to pummel him.


Nicholas fought back as best he could. Evidently, the men were not the thieves he had at first assumed them to be. If they were after his purse, they would have used a cudgel to knock him unconscious or a knife to stab his back. Though he was taking punishment, he managed to retaliate strongly. When his fist made contact with a craggy face, it came back spattered with blood. Bringing his knee up sharply, he hit one of the men in the groin then pushed him away as he bent double in agony. The second man grappled with Nicholas.


The attackers were strong but they were not skilled fighters. Had Nicholas not been slowed by drink and dazed by the blow on his head, he could have handled them with ease. They were not after his money or his life. They had another purpose and he soon learned what it was.


'There he is, officers!' Seize the fellow!'


Come, sirs!' :

Stop in the name of the law!'


A young man ran along the street with two members of the watch. Before he knew what was happening, Nicholas found the two constables holding his arms. He protested his innocence and told how he had been attacked but they would not listen to him.


'This gentleman here witnessed the affray, sir.'


'Indeed, I did,' said the young man, stepping forward. 'You attacked that person with the beard and this other gentleman came to his aid.' He pointed to the man who was still doubled up in pain. 'Do you see, officers, how violent the assault must have been?'


'Leave this to us, sir,' said one of the constables.


Nicholas felt a sledgehammer inside his skull but his brain was still clear enough to work out that the three men were accomplices. With all his experience in the theatre, he could recognise stage management. They had set him up for arrest. When he tried to explain this, he was ignored. Nicholas did not cut an impressive figure with his bruised face, his torn jerkin and his slurred speech. The constables preferred to accept the word of the young man with an air of wealth about him.


Feeling drowsier by the minute, Nicholas did not hear what his two assailants were saying but they were obviously telling a prepared story. It was backed up by the young man. At one point, this individual stepped close to the lantern held by one of the constables. Nicholas had a fleeting glimpse and noticed two things. Though the book holder had never actually met the young man before, the latter's profile was somehow familiar, and on his right hand he wore a ring that gave a clue as to his identity because gold initials were embossed on black jet.


Nicholas wondered who GN could possibly be.


Having heard the statements, the constables became officious. Honest and just men, they lacked any real education and did their job as well as their meagre abilities allowed. They belonged to a profession that was much-mocked and much-maligned. London watchmen were notoriously inept and inefficient, as likely to aid a felon's escape through their stupidity as to bring him to book through their promptness. The two constables were well aware of their low reputation and they resented it strongly. Given the opportunity of such an easy apprehension of an offender, they made the most of it. One of them confronted Nicholas.


'I arrest you for assault and battery at the suit of Master Walter Grice.'


'But it was they who attacked me, officer,' said Nicholas.


'Come your way, sir,' said the constable.


Nicholas faced his assailants and fired a last question.


'Which one of you is Walter Grice?'


The larger of the two thrust his face in beside the lantern. There was a long cut above his right eye where Nicholas had split open his skin. Blood oozed freely down his cheek but he was not perturbed by it. Nor did he seem to bear Nicholas any ill will for the injury.


'I am Walter Grice,' he said. Sleep well tonight.'


The two constables took the prisoner off down the street.


*

It was midnight when she retired to her bed and he had not returned. When he was still absent after a further hour, Anne Hendrik became worried. Her lodger worked long and variable hours but he was usually home in time for supper. If he was going to be late, or stay away for the night, he always warned her in advance. It was most unlike him to be so late. Anne got up and went across to his bedchamber. By the light of her candle, she saw that the place was still empty. There was nothing which indicated where he might be.


She went back to her own room and climbed into bed once more, rehearsing the possibilities in her mind. Nicholas might have been asked back to the home of one of the players. That sometimes happened. Lawrence Firethorn liked to involve the book holder in any business discussions and Edmund Hoode often used him as a shoulder to cry on. Had he been to either place, he must certainly be back by now.


There were two other possibilities, neither of which was palatable to her. Nicholas had been led astray. Actors were a law unto themselves. They led strange, anarchic lives and took their pleasures along the way as and when they found them. Something of that spirit must have rubbed off on Nicholas and it was conceivable that female company had diverted him for once. Some of the company went roistering in taverns almost every night. Had Nicholas been persuaded to join them? He liked women and he was very attractive to them. What was there to stop him? Jealousy flared up and quickly turned to disgust. If he could cast her aside so easily for a casual fling, it said little for the depth of their friendship.


Anne Hendrik then remembered their blissful night together. He had been so tender and loving. No man could change so completely in such a short time. Besides, Nicholas was exceptionally honest. He was secretive but he never deceived her. If there was another woman in his life, he would be candid about it. Anne reprimanded herself for even suspecting him of infidelity. When she thought of the person she knew, with his sterling qualities and his fine values, she realised that he would not go astray easily.


That left only one option and it was fearful to contemplate. I le must have met with some accident or misadventure. Violence stalked the streets of London. Even as big and powerful a man as Nicholas Bracewell could not cope with every situation which a tl.uk night might throw up. He had been attacked, he was hurt, he was lying wounded somewhere. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. Nicholas was in serious trouble. She longed to be there to help him.


Where was he?


*

'Wake up, sir! Wake up! You'll have time enough for sleep inside!'


'What?' You've come to the Counter, sir, to take your ease.'


'How did I get here?'


'By personal invitation of our constables.'


The prison sergeant laughed harshly and showed blackened teeth. His beard was still flecked with the soup he had eaten earlier. He was a big, muscular, unprepossessing man with the reflex cruelty that went with his trade. While the constables gave their report, he scrutinised Nicholas with a cold and unforgiving stare. He had no difficulty in believing that such a man could commit such a crime.


Nicholas shook his head to focus his thoughts. His memory was playing tricks on him. He recalled the face of Walter Grice then there was a blank. Now he was standing inside the grim walls of the Counter in Wood Street, one of the many prisons in London and among the worst. He was forced to give his name and address then divulge his occupation. Mention of the playhouse brought a sneer from the sergeant.


'You'll play no scenes nor hold no book here, sir!'


'Sergeant, I have done nothing illegal.'


'That's what they all say.'


The law was slow and ridiculous but it punished those that it caught very severely. Nicholas had no illusions about what lay ahead. The privations of a long voyage had given him some knowledge of how men could degenerate. Locked away in the Counter was the detritus of society, creatures whose long voyage was made in some foul cell and who would never see the light of day again. Nicholas had no legal redress unless he could enlist the aid of friends. Only one thing mattered inside the prison.


'Where will you be lodged, sir?' asked the sergeant roughly.


'Lodged?'


'Our guests here choose their favourite chambers." Another harsh laugh rang out. 'There's fourteen prisons in London and we're the best, sir, if you have the garnish for it.'


'Garnish?'


As soon as he spoke the word, Nicholas understood its meaning. The Counter ran on bribery. It was not the nature of his offence or the severity of his sentence which determined a prisoner's accommodation. It was his ability to pay. Those with a long purse could buy almost anything but their freedom.


'We have three grades of lodging here,' said the sergeant.


'What are they, sir?'


'First, there's the Master's Side. That's where you'll find the most comfortable quarters, sir. There'll be fresh straw in your cell and sheets that are almost clean.'


'How much will that cost?' asked Nicholas.


'I'll have to put your name in the Black Book,' said the sergeant, opening the tome in front of him. 'That will need a couple of shillings from you. And at each doorway you pass through on your way, the turnkey will expect no less.'


Nicholas made a quick calculation. His money was limited and he had to try to make it last. It was common knowledge that to be poor in prison was to be buried alive. He had to hold out until he could get help from outside.


'What is the next grade of lodging, sergeant?' he said.


'That would be the Knight's Side, sir.'


'How much is that?'


'Half as much but less than half as cosy. You'll get straw on the Knight's Side but you have to shake the rats from it first. You'll have a sheet but you'll have to fight for it with the others. There's meat and claret to wash it down, if you've the garnish, and tobacco to take away the stink of your habitation.'


'You said there were three grades, sergeant.'


The harsh laugh grated on the prisoner's ear again.


'Shall I tell you what we call it, sir?'


'What?'


'The Hole.'


'Why?'


'You'll soon find out, sir,' said the sergeant. 'There's some as likes to lie in their own soil and feed off beetles. There's some as prefers four walls with never a window in them. There's some as would rather starve to death down there than pay a penny to an honest gaoler.' He crooked his finger to beckon Nicholas forward. 'I'll tell you this much, Master Bracewell. We puts more in the Hole than ever we takes out.'


'I'll choose the Knight's Side,' said the prisoner.


'Not the Master's?'


'No, sir.'


'Very well.'


The sergeant put his name in the black prison register then charged him for the effort. He was about to motion up an officer who stood at the back of the room when Nicholas interrupted him.


'I must send a message to someone.'


'Oh, now that could be expensive, sir.'


'How much?'


'It's against the regulations for us to take messages out of here. We'd need a lot to sweeten us on that score. It would depend on how long the message was and how far it had to go.'


Nicholas haggled for a few minutes then struck a bargain. He borrowed the quill to scribble some words on the parchment then he rolled it up, flattened it out, and appended the name and address. It cost him five shillings, over half of his weekly wage. As he watched his message disappearing into the sergeant's pocket, he wondered if it would ever be delivered.


'It's late, sir. You'll be taken to the Knight's Side.'


'Thank you.'


The officer came forward to escort Nicholas through a series of locked doors. Each time they stopped, the prisoner had to pay the turnkey to be let through. It was extortion but he had to submit to it. Eventually, he reached his quarters.


'Go on in, sir,' said the officer.


'Will I be alone?'


'Oh no, sir. You've lots of company there and you'll hear lots more.' He gave a chuckle. 'The cell is next to the jakes.'


He pushed Nicholas in and walked away.


It was a bad time to arrive. It was pitch dark in the cramped cell and the other prisoners were asleep. They stirred angrily when they sensed a newcomer. All the best places had been taken and there was nowhere for Nicholas to lie down properly. As he felt his way around in the gloom, he became aware of his bedfellows. One punched him, another bit his arm, a third shrank away in fear and a fourth cried out for some affection and tried to stroke his leg.


Nicholas found a space where he could sit against the wall with his knees up in front of him. There was no straw and no covering. It was warm, unwholesome and oppressive. If this was the quality of lodging offered in Knight's Side, he wondered how much more terrible it must be to get thrown into the Hole.


The officer had been right about the proximity of the privy. Prisoners shuffled in and out all night. Nicholas was kept awake by the noise and stench of their evacuations. It was like lying in a pig sty and he wondered how long he could survive it. Certainly, his purse would not gain him many privileges. Nearly all his money had gone already and he had no means of acquiring any more at short notice. As a hand groped across for his purse, lie saw that he would have a job to hold on to what he still had.


There was one tiny consolation. The squalor of his surroundings brought him fully awake and helped him to shake off the lingering effects of the bang on the head. Though he still could not remember what happened between his arrest and his arrival at the Counter, his brain was no longer swimming. Revolted by his situation, it was working madly to get him out of it.


He reconstructed his day in his mind. An early start after a nourishing breakfast at his lodgings. Rehearsal then performance of Love and fortune. The removal of one load of costumes, properties and scenic items followed by the organisation of another for the morrow. An evening with Edmund Hoode and too much drink. The walk home and the unexpected attack by three men with a firm purpose.


They had succeeded in what they had set out to do. Nicholas sat up stiffly as realisation dawned. He now saw why he had been the target of the assault and what the men hoped to achieve.


It was all part of a logical pattern.


He was next.


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

Chapter Nine

Night was far worse than day in the hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem. It seemed longer, darker and infinitely more sinister. While the rest of London slumbered peacefully, madness was abroad in Bedlam. Strange, unreal, inhuman cries would pierce the ear and reverberate around the corridors. Someone sang hymns at the top of his voice until he was beaten then religion became a long howl of pain. Those who could not sleep woke those who could. There were fights among inmates, attacks on keepers and lacerating self-scourging. Tumescent males tried to reach the female patients. Wild-eyed maniacs tried to escape. There was such a fierce mixture of nocturnal suffering that it sounded as if the whole of Bedlam was in the process of committing suicide.


Kirk hated it. He had been put on night duty as a punishment and spent most of his time rushing to different parts of the building to cope with an emergency. The whip was even more effective than the kind word at night. He was ashamed of his skill with the former. It had long since dawned on him that he could stay at the hospital for ever. It was destroying his soul and his belief in God. All that kept him there was the hope that he might be able to rescue at least one man from the shackles of his madness.


David was now out of reach. Rooksley had taken away Kirk's key to the young man's chamber. All that the new keeper could do was to peer at his friend through the grille on the door. David was quiet that night. As pandemonium raged around him, he lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Watching him from outside, Kirk wondered what thoughts were going through the man's mind and what secrets lay hidden there. If he could find the key to unlock that mind, it would unlock the doors of Bedlam for David as well.


A more immediate duty called. There was a bloodcurdling scream from the far end of the corridor that made Kirk break into a run. When he reached the cell, he looked in through the grille to see a short, grey-haired old man in the murky darkness, trying to destroy his few sticks of furniture in a paroxysm of rage. The table had been hurled against a wall, the chair had been smashed to pieces and the man was now hurling himself on his mattress in a frenzy to shred it with his bare hands.


Letting himself in, Kirk went over to restrain the patient but the latter had a strength that belied his age and he struggled hard. Only when another keeper came to his aid did Kirk subdue the man, who sank to his knees and wailed as the whip did its work. Wearing nothing but a blotched and tattered shirt, he had no protection against the sting and the bite so he curled himself up into a ball on the ground and wept piteously. Kirk stopped his companion from administering any more punishment and eased him out of the room. The old man would be no more trouble that night. A priest who toured the hospital to bring some comfort now arrived and helped the old man up. The keepers went back to their patrol.


Diverted for a time by the latest incident, Kirk's thoughts went back to David and he resolved to find out more about him. It would be risky but that would not deter him. As he walked around the corridors, he made his way towards the room near the main entrance which the head keeper used as his office. First making sure that he was not observed, Kirk reached the door and found it locked. He tried everything on his bunch of keys and found one that worked. Slipping quickly into the room, he closed the door behind him then lit the candle that was standing in a holder on the table. Stealth was essential as Rooksley himself lived and slept in the adjoining chamber.


In the centre of the room was the high desk that contained all the records of the establishment, the accumulated misery of generations of men and women who had lost their wits and been sent to Bedlam to make sure that they did not recover them again. The hospital had been dedicated to a high moral purpose but Kirk knew the reality that lay behind it. Many came to the hospital but few were released and those that were deemed to have been cured were turned out to beg in the streets or forage among the refuse.


The desk was scarred by age and pitted by usage. Kirk lilted the lid and took out a large, leather-bound book. He opened it to find rows of squiggles and columns of figures, both autographed with many blots. It was the account book for the hospital and not what he sought. Putting it back, he took out in its place a similar volume with covers that shone brightly from all the handling they had been given. It was the register of inmates, the endless list of unfortunates who had been coaxed, tricked or forced into Bedlam and whose whole lives were now summed up in the few lines that accompanied their names in the book.


Kirk flipped through until he came to those who had been recently committed. They were all patients lie had got to know since he had been there and he found their cases heart-rending, but lie could not dwell on them now. He was searching for one name that would bring clarity to his speculations and equip a dear friend with an identity.


Rooksley's hand was rough and unstylish but Kirk could manage to decipher the writing. Then lie saw it and caught his breath in the thrill of discovery.


The name in the register was David Jordan.


*

His dream was a bruising nightmare of threatening phantoms and he came out of it with a shudder. There was no relief. A further horror beckoned. Finding that he was not alone in the bed, he looked down to see that he lay in the arms of a devil, a deformed, hideous, grotesque creature that was covered in red scales and tufted with thick, furry hair. Its touch was clammy and its odour was nauseating. As it slumbered beneath him, it snored gruffly.


Ralph Willoughby leapt out of the bed and grabbed his clothes. Not pausing for an instant, he opened the door and ran naked along the passageway, throwing himself down the staircase and racing towards the door. When he got into the narrow yard at the back of the tavern, he ducked his head in the barrel of scummed rainwater. Then he pulled on his clothes as fast as he could and lurched out into the lane.


Up in the chamber he had just left, the girl in the bed woke for an instant, wondered where he had gone, then slept again.


The cold water and the cool night air revived his brain but brought no peace of mind. Willoughby was no longer guilty about his decadent pleasures or revolted by their nature because he had come to accept himself for what he was but fear still disturbed him. They were calling him more often now and he was not yet ready to go. As a black cat came shrieking out of a doorway, he gasped in terror and hurried on with more speed.


Only when he Finally reached his lodging did he feel a degree of safety. Pouring water into a bowl from a pitcher, he immersed his head again then dried it on a cloth. He felt better, more settled, more ready to address the task he had set himself. He lit a candle, sat down at his table and reached for the knife to sharpen his quill. When it was ready, he dipped it into the inkwell then wrote something in bold letters on the title page of his new play.


Ralph Willoughby regarded it with an interest that soon turned to a macabre amusement and he put back his head to let out a long, low, sardonic cackle. He wanted his play to be memorable and its title gave him a mischievous satisfaction.


The Witch of Oxford.


*

Day began early at the Counter. Straw began rustling at first light and gaolers came round with luke-warm porridge to sell to the prisoners for their breakfast. Having finally managed to fall asleep, Nicholas Bracewell was almost immediately roused from his slumber. One whiff of the food made him decline it but the others in his cell slurped it down eagerly. They were a motley crew that included a cutpurse, a horse thief and the master of a brothel. There was even a confidence trickster who claimed to have a tenuous connection with the theatre.


'In Bristol once, I had some handbills printed for a lavish entertainment that was never going to take place, and I raised fifteen pounds against the promise of it. By the time my audience discovered the truth, I was far away in Coventry selling the deeds of a silver mine that I invented on the journey there.'


They were cheerful rogues who had been in and out of prisons all their lives. Nicholas did not have to ask them anything. They volunteered their stories and told them with a skill that showed long practice. When the newcomer claimed that he was in prison as a result of wrongful arrest, they mocked him with their jeers.


'Arrest is arrest, sir,' said the horse thief sagely. 'If it be rightful or wrongful, there's no difference, for the prison food still tastes the same either way.'


Their attitude was not encouraging and Nicholas was dejected when he heard tales of men who had languished in prison for years for crimes that they had never committed. He wondered again if his message had been delivered. Unless he could make contact with the outside world, nobody would know that he was locked away and his dwindling funds would eventually oblige him to shift to the Hole, which was a prospect too gruesome to contemplate. The cutpurse described what might be expected in the third grade of lodging at the Counter.


'Here, we are but next to tine jakes, sir,' lie said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 'There, you are in it!'


Nicholas was appalled. He had to escape somehow.


While most of his companions were frankly garrulous, there was one who never uttered a word. A huge, bearded giant of a man who seemed about to burst out of his clothes, he sat quietly in a corner with a wistful expression on his beefy face. Nicholas saw that the man did not fit in with the others. They were habitual criminals for whom a prison was second home while he was weighted down by the ignominy of his situation. Nicholas moved across to sit beside him and talked to him kindly. He gradually drew the man's tale out of him.


'My name is Leonard, sir. I am a brewer's drayman.'


'What's your offence?' asked Nicholas.


'Too much drink at Hoxton Fair.'


'They arrested you for that?'


'No, sir,' explained the other. 'The ale led to something else that I am ashamed to talk of and yet, God knows, I must for a sin must be admitted before it can be pardoned.'


There was a gentle sadness about the man that touched Nicholas. Here was no son of the underworld who lived on his wits. Leonard was an honest workman who had been led astray by friends when he was in his cups and who was now paying a dreadful price for it.


Have you heard of the Great Mario, sir?' asked the drayman.


'The wrestler who travels the fairs?'


'He'll wrestle no more, sir,' said the other with sombre guilt. 'Mario came from Italy to try his skill in England. He fought for six years and was never bested until he came to Hoxton.'


'You took up his challenge?'


'Oh no, sir. I'm no brawler. I want a quiet life.' He sighed. 'But God made me strong and my fellows at the brewery know how I can toss the heavy barrels around so they put me up to it. The Great Mario was at Hoxton Fair all week. Younger men and bigger men tried to lower his reputation but he was master of them all. Then I and my fellows went to the fair on Saturday last and took some ale along the way.'


'They talked you into it,' guessed Nicholas.


'I saw no harm in it, sir, so I did it in fun to please them. There was no thought of winning the bout.'


'What happened?'


'He hurt me,' said Leonard simply. 'We wrestled but Mario could not throw me because I was too strong for him, so he uses tricks on me that were no part of a fair fight. He pokes and punches, puts a finger in my eye and another down my throat, stamps on my foot and bites me on the chest as if he would eat me. I still bear the mark.'


'You lost your temper.'


'It was the ale, sir, and the shouting of the crowd and the Great Mario cheating his way to victory. Yes, I lost my temper. When we grappled once more, I was angrier than I've ever been in my life. And there were my fellows urging me on and telling me to break his neck.' He gave a shrug. 'And so I did. I snapped him in two. He died within the hour.'


'Is that why they brought you here?' said Nicholas.


'The Counter is but a place for me to rest, sir. They mean to hang me when they can find a rope strong enough for the task.'


The vast frame shivered involuntarily then lay back against the wall. Nicholas was sufficiently moved by his predicament to forget his own for a moment. It was a cautionary tale. Leonard was the victim of his own body. Had he been a smaller or a weaker man, he would not have been forced into the contest by his friends.


He had led a blameless life yet would go to his death with a shadow across his heart.


As Nicholas reflected on it all, he was halted by a sudden thought.


'Was Hoxton Fair a large one this year?'


'Bigger than ever, sir,' said Leonard with a sad grin. 'They had fools and fire-eaters, ballad singers, a sword-swallower, hobby horses, gingerbread, roasted pig, games for children, a play for those of wiser sort, drums, rattles, trumpets and old Kindheart, the tooth-drawer. They had everything you care to mention at Hoxton, sir.'


'Acrobats?'


'Oh yes! The strangest creatures you ever did see, sir.'


Nicholas listened with total fascination.


*

Vincenlio's Revenge was not just a play which gave Lawrence Firethorn unlimited opportunity to display his art, it was a highly complex drama that required enormous technical expertise. Spectacular effects were used all the way through it. A large cast swirled about a stage that gradually became more and more littered with dead bodies as the ruthless Vincentio began to depopulate the city of Venice. Since actors became properties once they were killed, they had to be lugged away somehow and this called for careful organisation. The vital but unobtrusive work of Nicholas Bracewell was everywhere in the production. He devised the effects and orchestrated the action. Important to every play performed by Westfield's Men, the book holder was absolutely crucial to this one. lo stage it without him was inconceivable.


'Where is Nick?' demanded Firethorn.


'Master Bracewell is not here, sir,' said George Dart.


'Of course, he is here, you ruinous pixie! He is always here. Rather tell me that the Thames is not here or that St Paul's has tip-toed away in the night. Nicholas is here somewhere.'


'I have searched for him in vain.'


'Then search again with your eyes open.'


'No fellow has seen him today, master.'


'You will be the first. Away, sir!' He watched the other trudge slowly away. 'Be more speedy, George. Your legs are made of lead.'


'And my heart, sir.'


'What's that?'


'I miss Roper.'


'So do we all, so do we all.'


Firethorn saw the tears in his eyes and crossed to put a hand of commiseration on his bowed shoulder. For all his bravado, the actor-manager had been shaken by the incident at The Rose.


'Roper died that we may live,' he said softly. 'Cherish his memory and serve the company as honestly as he did.'


George Dart nodded and went off more briskly.


Almost everyone had arrived by now and it was time for the rehearsal to begin. The musicians, the tiremen, the stagekeepers all needed advice from Nicholas Bracewell. The carpenters could not stir without him. The players grew restless at his absence. Barnaby Gill caused another scene and demanded a public reprimand for the book holder. He and Firethorn were still arguing when George Dart returned. He had been diligent in his search. Nicholas was nowhere at the Queen's Head.


'Then run to his lodgings and fetch him from his bed!'


'Me, sir?' asked Dart. 'It is a long way to Bankside.'


'I will kick you every inch of it if you do not move, sir!' , 'What am I to say to Master Bracewell?'


'Remind him of the name of Lawrence Firethorn.'


'Anything else, sir?' :'That will be sufficient.'


But George Dart's journey was over before it had even begun. As he turned to leave, the figure of a handsome woman swept in through the main gates and crossed the inn yard towards them. Anne Hendrik moved with a natural grace but there was no mistaking her concern. Firethorn gave her an extravagant welcome and bent to kiss her hand.


'Is Nicholas here?' she said.


'We hoped that he would be with you, dear lady.'


'He did not return last night.'


'This is murky news.'


'I have no idea where he went.'


'I can answer that,' said Edmund Hoode, stepping forward. 'Nick came with me to my lodging to share some ale and discuss some private business. It was late when he left for Bankside.'


'He never arrived,' said Anne with increased anxiety.


Firethorn pondered. He knew the dangers that lurked in the streets of London and trusted his book holder to cope with most of them. Only something of a serious nature could have detained Nicholas.


'George Dart!' he called.


'Here, master.'


'Scour the route that he would have taken. Retrace his steps from Master Hoode's lodging to his own. Enquire of the watch if they saw anything untoward in that vicinity. Nicholas is a big man in every way. He could not vanish into thin air.' Roper Blundell did,' murmured the other.


'Think on hope and do your duty.'


George Dart went willingly off on his errand and several others volunteered to join in the search. Nicholas was a popular member of the company and everyone was keen to find out what had befallen him.


'Let me go, too,' said Hoode.


'No, sir.'


'But I am implicated, Lawrence.'


'You are needed here.'


'Nothing is as important as this.'


'It is--our art. We must serve it like professional men." Firethorn raised his voice for all to hear. 'The rehearsal will go on.'


'Without Nick?' said Hoode.


'It is exactly what he would have wished, Edmund.'


'Yes,' agreed Anne. 'It is. Nick always put the theatre first.'


'To your places!'


Firethorn's command sent everyone scurrying off into the tiring-house. A difficult couple of hours lay ahead of them. They all knew just how much the book holder contributed to the performance.


Anne Hendrik searched for a crumb of reassurance.


'Where do you think he can be, Master Firethorn?'


'Safe and sound, clear lady. Safe and sound.'


'Is there no more we can do, sir?'


'Watch and pray.'


Anne took his advice and headed for the Church of St Benet.


*

Francis Jordan gave her a couple of days to muse upon her fate then issued his summons. He wanted Jane Skinner to come to his bedchamber that night. Implicit in his order was the threat of reprisal if she failed to appear, but he had no doubt on that score. The girl had been meek and submissive when he spoke to her and all resistance had gone. He would enjoy pressing home his advantage.


Glanville reacted quickly to orders. He had drafted in some extra craftsmen and work on the Great Hall was now advancing at a much more satisfying pace. Jordan gave instructions for the banquet and the invitations were sent out. He began to relax. The steward ran the household efficiently and gave him no real cause for complaint so the new master could enjoy the fruits of his position. Jane Skinner was one of them. Riding around his estate was another.


'Good morning, sir.'


'What do you want?'


'A word, sir.'


'We've said all we need to say to each other.'


'No, sir.'


'Get out of my path.'


'Listen.'


The unkempt man with the patch over one eye was lurking around the stables as Jordan rode out. There was the same obsequiousness and the same knowing smirk as before. He bent and twisted as he put his request to the master of Parkbrook House.


'They tell me Jack Harsnett's gone, sir.'


'I dismissed him for insolence.'


'So his cottage is empty?'


'Until I find a new forester.'


'Let me live there, sir.'


'You're not fit for the work.'


'I've always liked that cottage, sir,' said the man, sawing the air with his hands and trying an ingratiating grin. 'I'd be warm in winter there. It's a quiet place and I'd be out of the way.'


'No.'


'I ask it as a favour, sir.'


'No!'


The reply was unequivocal but it did not dismay him. The smirk came back to haunt and nudge Jordan who fought against the distant pull of obligation. The man revolted him and reminded him.


'You weren't always master here, sir.'


'I am now,' said Jordan.


'Thanks to a friend, sir.'


'You were well-paid and told to leave the country.'


'The money ran out, sir.'


His single eye fixed itself on Jordan and there was nothing humble in the stare now. It contained a demand and hinted at a warning. Jordan was made to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver coins, hurling them to the ground in front of the man. The latter fell on them with a cry of pleasure and secreted them at once.


'Now get off my land for ever,' ordered Jordan.


'But that cottage is--'


'I don't want you within thirty miles of Parkbrook ever again. If you're caught trespassing here, I'll have you hanged! If I hear that you're spreading stories about me, I'll have your foul tongue cut out!'


Francis Jordan raised his crop and lashed the man hard across the cheek to reinforce his message. He did not stop to see the blood begin to flow or to hear the curses that came.


*

The rehearsal was a shambles. Deprived of their book holder, Westfield's Men were in disarray before Vincentio's Revenge. Scene changes were bungled, entrances missed, two dead bodies left accidentally on stage and special effects completely mismanaged. Prompting was continuous. Lawrence Firethorn stamped a measure of respectability on the performance when he was on stage but chaos ruled when he was off it. The whole thing ended in farce when the standard that was borne on in the final scene slipped out of the hand of Caleb Smythe and fell across the corpse of Vincentio himself who was heard to growl in protest. As the body was carried out in dignified procession, it was the turn of the musicians to add their contribution by playing out of tune.


Lawrence Firethorn blazed. He called the whole company together and flogged them unmercifully with his verbal cat o' nine tails. By the time they trooped disconsolately away, he had destroyed what little morale had been left.


Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill adjourned to the tap room with him.


'It was a disgraceful performance!' said Firethorn.


'You have been better,' noted Gill, scoring the first point.


'Everybody was atrocious!'


'The play needs Nick Bracewell,' said Hoode.


'We do not have Nick Bracewell, sir.'


'I am bound to say that I did not miss him,' observed Gill.


Firethorn bristled. 'What you missed was your entrance in Act Four, sir, because the book holder was not there to wake you up.'


'I never sleep in the tiring-house, Lawrence!'


'Only on stage.'


'I regard that as gross slur!'


'You take my meaning perfectly.'


'This will not be forgotten, sir.'


'Try to remember your lines as well, Barnaby.'


Hoode let them fight away and consulted his own worries. Concern for his friend etched deep lines in his forehead. It hurt him to think that he might be indirectly responsible for any misadventure into which Nicholas stumbled after leaving the playwright's lodging. If anything serious had happened, Hoode would not be able to forgive himself. Meanwhile, there was another fear. Grace Napier would be in the audience that afternoon. He trembled at the thought of her seeing a calamitous performance by the company because it was bound to affect her view of him. It was some years since he had had anything more than abuse thrown at him from the pit. Vincentio's Revenge could change that. Hoode did not relish the idea of being pelted by rotten food while his beloved looked on from the balcony.


'Here's George Dart!' said Firethorn.


'Alone!' observed Hoode.


"That does not trouble me,' added Gill.


Dart came to a halt in front of them and gabbled his story. He had found nothing. When he approached the watch, he was told that the operation of the law was none of his business and sent away with a flea in his ear. The one piece of information he did glean was that a man was killed in a brawl on the north embankment around midnight.


His three listeners immediately elected their book holder as the corpse. Dart was interrogated again then dismissed. Firethorn slumped back in his chair and brooded.


'I see Willoughby's hand in this!'


'You see Willoughby's hand in everything but in your wife's placket, sir,' said Gill waspishly.


'We must look into this at once,' decided Hoode.


'After the performance,' said Firethorn.


'Instead of it, Lawrence.'


'Ha! Sacrilege!'


They returned to the tiring-house to find it a morgue. Everyone had now heard George Dart's tale about the murder on the embankment and they were convinced that Nicholas Bracewell was the victim. Nor was it an isolated incident. In their febrile minds, they saw it as the latest in a sequence that began with the appearance of a real devil in the middle of their performance. Devil, maypole, Roper Blundell--and now this. The cumulative effect of it all was overwhelming. They mourned in silence and wondered where the next blow would fall. Not even a stirring speech from Firethorn could reach them. Westfield's Men had one foot in the grave.


The irony was that Vincentio's Revenge had attracted a sizeable audience. They came to see blood flow at the Queen's Head and that put them into good humour. Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry were there to decorate the gallery and act as cynosures for wandering eyes. They knew the play by repute and longed to while away a couple of hours in a more tragic vein. Grace was a little uneasy but Isobel was brimming with self-confidence, discarding her mask and coming to the theatre for the first time as an independent young woman with a mind of her own. As the glances shot across at her, she returned them with discrimination.


Seats filled, noise grew, tension increased. The genial spectators had no notion of the accelerating misery backstage. They did not realise that they might be called upon to witness the low point of the company's achievement. Blood and thunder were their priorities. With a bare five minutes to go before the start, the latecomers wedged themselves into their seats and insinuated their bodies into the pit.


Panic gave way to total immobility in the tiring-house. They were turned to stone. Firethorn chipped manfully away at it with the chisel of his tongue but he could not shape it into anything resembling a theatrical company. He tried abuse, inspiration, reason, humour, bare-faced lying and even supplication but all failed. They had given up and approached the coming performance with the hopeless resignation of condemned men about to lay their heads on the block of their own reputation.


With execution two minutes away, they were saved.


Nicholas Bracewell entered with Margery Firethorn.


The whole place came back to life at once. Everyone crowded around the newcomers with excited relief. Firethorn pushed his way through to embrace the book holder.


'A miracle!' he said.


Do you have no welcome for me, Lawrence?' chided his wife. 'You have me to thank for his release.'


'Then I take you to my bosom with joy,' said her husband, pulling her close for a kiss of gratitude. 'What is this talk of release?'


'From prison.'


'Mon Dieu!'


'I was locked in the Counter,' said Nicholas, 'but there is no time for explanation now, sir. The spectators have paid their money and they want their play.'


He took charge at once and the effect was incredible. With their book holder back at the helm, it might yet be possible to salvage the play. The only disturbing factor was the presence of Margery.


'You cannot stay here, my love,' said Firethorn.


'Why not, Lawrence?'


'Because it is not seemly.'


'Do you think I have not seen men undressed before? It will not fright me, I warrant you.' She pointed at the half-naked John Tallis who was being helped into a skirt. 'I will look on the pizzle of the Duchess of Venice and not be moved.'


'I share your disappointment!' said Gill wickedly.


'Stand by!' called Nicholas.


They were actually straining to get on stage now.


*

The axe bit hungrily into the wood before it was thrown aside. Jack Harsnett took the piece of ash and used his knife to hack it into shape. He then reached for the other piece of wood and bound the two together with a stout twine that would withstand bad weather. Having tested the result by banging it on the ground, he got his knife out again and gouged a name on the timber. It took him a long time but he kept at it with surly patience, sustained by the memory of an occasion when he had carved the same name alongside his own.


His work done, he walked over to the pile of stones that marked the grave and looked down with a wave of grief washing over him. Then he lifted the cross high and brought its sharpened end down hard into the hole that lie had dug for it, kicking the earth into place around it and stiffening its hold with some small boulders. His spade patted everything firmly down.


Burial in an anonymous field was the best that he could manage for his wife and only his crude handiwork indicated the place. After one last glance at the grave, he walked quickly back to the cart. There was no point in driving any further now.


Harsnett headed back towards Parkbrook.


*

Lawrence Firethorn displayed his flowering genius yet again. His portrayal of Vincentio sent shivers down the spines of all who saw it. He was exactly the kind of villain that they liked--dark, handsome, ruthless, confiding, duplicitous and steeped in a black humour that could raise a macabre laugh during a murder. He stalked the stage like a prowling tiger, he sank his speeches like a spear into the topmost gallery and he used a range of gestures so expressive and so finely judged that he would have been understood had he been dumb.


Seeing him as an unscrupulous Italian nobleman, it was hard to believe that he was only the son of a village blacksmith. His voice, his face, his bearing and his movement were those of a true aristocrat but his origins were not entirely expunged. With exquisite refinement, he laid each part that he played on the anvil of his talent and struck a magnificent shower of sparks from it with the hammer of the actor. The theatre was his forge. His art was the wondrous clang of metal.


Absorbed in his role on stage, he could shed it in an instant when he entered the tiring-house. When he got his first real break from the action, he sidled across to Nicholas for elucidation.


'Well?'


'I was falsely imprisoned for assault and battery.'


'How?'


'Two men attacked me. A third brought constables and swore that I was the malefactor. My word did not hold against theirs.'


'Rakehells! Who were they?'


'I mean to find out.'


'But how did you obtain release?'


'I bribed an officer to take a message to Mistress Firethorn.'


'Why to my wife and not to me?' said the other peevishly.


'You had enough to do here, sir,' said Nicholas tactfully. 'Besides, I knew that your good lady would move with purpose.'


'Oh yes!' groaned Firethorn. 'Margery does that, sir!'


'Did I hear my name, Lawrence?' she asked, coming over.


'I was singing your praises, sweeting.'


'And so you should, sir,' she said bluntly. 'The message reached me in Shoreditch well after noon. That left me little time and much to do within it. My first thought was to repair to the Counter in Wood Street and demand that Nicholas be handed over to me, but I reasoned that not even my writ would run there.'


Firethorn made a mental note of a possible future refuge.


'The message urged me to contact your patron,' she continued, 'so I flew hither and was told he was too busy to see me. That was no obstacle to me, sir. My business was imperative and so I forced my way into Lord Westfield's presence. When he recognised who I was, he praised my appearance and asked why I did not visit the theatre more often.'


'Keep to the point, woman!' said her husband.


Nicholas interrupted to wave four soldiers on to the stage and then to cue in a canon that had to be rolled out from the tiring-house.


Margery returned to her tale with undiminished zest.


'I had caught him just in time for Lord Westfield was about to depart for the country. Hearing of our problem and rightly judging its serious effect on the company, he wrote a letter in his own hand there and then. With a man of his for company, I was driven to the Counter in his coach and that could not but impress the prison sergeant. When he read the letter, he did not hesitate to obey its command. Nicholas was delivered within a matter of minutes. We hastened here and you know the rest.' She broke off to watch some actors stripping off their costumes. 'I had not thought that Master Smythe had such comical haunches.'


She drifted off to view the spectacle from a better angle.


'We have been fortunate, Nick,' said Firethorn.


'I know it well.'


'But why were you imprisoned in the first place?'


'To keep me from holding the book here, master.'


'A vile conspiracy!'


'Which landed me in a vile lodging.'


'It has the stink of Banbury's Men about it.'


'No, master, I'm convinced of that.'


'But someone wants to damage the company.'


'Not the company,' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield himself.'


Before Firethorn could react to the news, the book holder cued him and the actor tore on to the stage to challenge one of his intended victims to a duel. After he had dispatched the man with the poisoned tip of his sword, he shared his thoughts with the audience before he withdrew again. Nicholas sent on actors for the next scene and resumed his conversation.


'I see it plain now, master.'


'Our patron is the target?'


'Without question.'


'But it was we who suffered the attacks, Nick.'


'Only when Lord Westfield was present,' said the other. 'He was here when we first performed The Merry Devils. He was at The Curtain for Cupid's Folly and he joined us at The Rose. On each occasion, someone tried to discredit us in order to hurt him.'


'I begin to see your point, sir.'


'There was no trouble during The Knights of Malta or Love and Fortune. Our patron was not here in person to be embarrassed. That is why his enemies stayed their hand.'


'But he is not here today either.'


'It does not matter,' argued Nicholas. 'The attack is not through the play itself. We'll have no devil or falling maypole or unexpected death. Lord Westfield's enemies had failed three times already and were angry at their failure. They sought a new approach.'


'To disable the book holder.'


'That would not stop the performance--which was the intention in the other three cases--but it might impair the quality and that would reflect badly on our patron.'


Firethorn was impressed and punched him softly.


'You did some thinking in that prison, sir.'


'I'd choose more fragrant places for my contemplation.'


'You'll be in one tonight unless I'm mistaken,' said the other with a roguish grin. 'Mistress Hendrik came looking for you. When she sees that bruise on your face, I'm sure she'll make you lie down so that she can tend it properly.' He cocked an ear to listen to the action on stage. 'Why did such a beautiful Englishwoman marry such a boring Dutchman?'


'That has never come up in conversation.'


Firethorn stifled his mirth so that it would not distract.


'The Counter was a grim experience,' said Nicholas, 'but it gave me one valuable piece of information.'


Firethorn made another entry to stab a rival in the back and deliver a soliloquy of thirty lines while straddling the corpse. He sauntered off to applause then shook the Venetian court away to turn once more to his book holder.


'Valuable information, you say?'


'I know where to find our merry devil.'


*

Francis Jordan lay on the bed with a glass of fine wine beside him. It was a warm evening and the casements were open to let in the cooling air and the curious moon. He was naked beneath a gown of blue and white silk that shimmered in the light from the candelabra on the bedside table. Everything was in order for his tryst with Jane Skinner. The room had been filled with vases of flowers and a second goblet stood beside the wine bottle. He felt languid and sensual.


The clock struck ten then there was a timid knock on the door. She was a punctual lover and that suggested enthusiasm. Jordan was pleased. He rolled over on his side.


'Come in!' he called.


Jane entered quickly, closed the door behind her and locked it. He did not see that she withdrew the key to hold it behind her back.


'Welcome!' he said and toasted her with his goblet.


'Thank you, sir.'


'I want you to enjoy this, Jane.'


He appraised her with satisfaction. She wore a long white robe over a plain white shift and had a mob cap on her head. Her feet were bare. Even with its worried frown, the face had warmth to it and there was a country succulence about her body which roused him at once.


Did my brother ever bring you to his bedchamber?


'No, sir,' she said. 'The master respected me.'


'Virgins among the chambermaids! I never heard the like.'


'We were treated well before, sir.'


'You'll be treated well tonight, Jane.' He waved an arm. ' These flowers are for your benefit. Come, share some wine with me and we'll be friends. Take up that goblet.'


'I will not drink, sir.'


'Not even at my request?' Her silence annoyed him slightly, i see that I am too considerate, Jane Skinner. You give me no thanks for my pains. So let us forget the flowers and the wine. Step over here.'


She began to tremble but did not move at all.


'Come,' he said, putting his goblet aside. 'Now, Jane!'


'No, sir,' she murmured.


'What did you say?'


'No, sir.'


'Do you know who I am and what I am? he shouted.


'Yes, sir.'


'Then do as you're told girl, and come over here.'


Jane Skinner took a deep breath and stayed where she was. Her hands tightened on the large brass key in her hands. Prickly heat troubled her body. Her mouth was quite dry.


'I'll give you one more chance,' he said with menace.


'No, sir,' she replied with her chin up. 'I will not.'


'Then I will have to teach you.'


He hauled himself off the bed but he was far too slow. Caught between disgrace and dismissal, Jane wanted neither and chose a third, more desperate course. As Francis Jordan tried to come for her, she tripped across the room, jumped up on to the window sill then leapt out into the darkness. There was a scream of pain as she landed with a thud on the gravel below.


Jordan rushed to the window and looked down. She was squirming in agony. Doors opened and lighted candles were taken out. Two bodies bent over her in concern. Jordan was both furious and alarmed. Lying beside her was the key to his bedchamber. Before he could pull back from the window, one of the figures looked up to catch his eye.


It was Joseph Glanville.


*

It was good to be back in the saddle again. Nicholas Bracewell was a fine horseman who knew how to get the best out of his mount. He was proceeding at a steady canter along the rough surface of the road. It was early on Saturday evening and Westfield's Men had not long given a performance of Mirth and Madness to a small but willing audience at Newington Butts. Instead of staying to supervise their departure, Nicholas was allowed to ride off on important business. The fair which had been at Hoxton the previous week had now moved south of the river. It was at the village of Dulwich.


Me heard the revelry a mile off. When he reached the village green, he first saw to his horse then went to explore. The fair was in full swing and it was not difficult to understand why Leonard had enjoyed it so much. Booths and stalls had been set up in a wide circle to bring a blaze of garish colour to the neighbourhood. People from all the surrounding districts had converged in numbers to see the sights, eat the food, drink the ale, buy the toys, watch the short plays, enjoy the entertainments and generally have fun.


Visitors could see a cow with three legs or a sheep with two tails, a venomous snake that wound itself around its female keeper and hissed to order, a dancing bear or a dog that did tricks, a cat that purported to sing in French, a strong man who bent horseshoes and the self-styled Heaviest Woman in the World. The wrestling booth struggled on without the Great Mario and Nicholas spared a thought for Leonard.


Vendors wandered everywhere. They sold fans, baskets, bonnets, aprons, fish, flowers, meat, even a powder that was supposed to catch flies. Kindheart was pulling out teeth with his pincers and the ratcatcher was selling traps. One of the most popular vendors had a tray of cosmetics and a melodic voice.


'Where are you fair maids,

That have need of our trades?


I'll sell you a rare confection.


Will you have your faces spread

Either with white or with red?


Will you buy any fair complexion?'


The village girls giggled with high excitement.


Nicholas eventually saw them. They were three in number, tiny men in blue shirts and hose, demonstrating their agility to the knot of spectators who gathered around their booth. They were midgets, neat, perfectly-formed and seemingly ageless, doing somersaults and cartwheels for the delight of the crowd. They came to the climax of their routine. One braced his legs as his partner climbed up on to his shoulders. The third then climbed even higher to form a human tower. Applause broke out but changed to a moan of fear as the tower appeared to fall forward. Timing their landing, they did a forward roll in unison and stood up to acknowledge even louder clapping. A woman in a green dress, smaller than any of them, came out from the booth with a box and solicited coins. The villagers gave freely.


He could hear them talking as he went around to the rear of their booth. The woman entered and discussed the takings. Nicholas called out and asked if he could come in.


'What do you want, sir?' said a high voice.


'To discuss a business proposition.'


The flap of the booth opened and a midget studied him. At length, he held the flap back so that Nicholas could enter. The other two men and the woman were resting on benches. Now that he could see them closer, Nicholas could discern that there were age differences. The man who had let him in was older than the others.


'I am Dickon, sir,' said the man, then indicated the others with his doll-like hand. 'This is my wife and these are our two sons.'


'You mentioned a business proposition,' said the woman.


'It's one that concerned Westfield's Men,' he said.


The two sons started guiltily but the father calmed them by showing the palms of his hands. He confronted Nicholas without fear.


'What are you talking about, sir?'


'Merry devils.'


'We do not understand.'


'I think your sons do.'


They tried not to fidget so much and averted their eyes.


'Leave us alone!' said Dickon with spirit.


'You caused a great deal of trouble, sir.'


'We are poor entertainers.'


'I saw your entertainment at the Queen's Head in Gracechurch Street,' said Nicholas. "The Curtain in Shoreditch. The Rose in Bankside. I was not amused.'


'Get out of our booth, sir!'


Dickon had the ebullience of a man twice his height and weight. He was going to admit nothing unless he had to do so. His sons, however, were less skilled in deception. Nicholas decided to play on their fears with a useful fiction.


'Lord Westfield is a very influential man,' he said.


'So?' replied Dickon.


'He could close this whole fair down if he chose. He could get your licence revoked, then your booths would not be able to stand anywhere. That is what he threatened to do but I tried to talk him out of it.'


Dickon had a brief but wordless conversation with the others. Alarm had finally touched him and he was not sure what to do about it. Nicholas quickly exploited his advantage.


'Unless I go back with some answers, Lord Westfield will pursue this fair through the courts. He wants revenge.'


Another silent exchange between the midgets then one of the sons cracked, jumping up and running across to the visitor.


'We did not mean to do any harm, sir.'


'Who put you up to it?'


'It was all in jest, sir. We are clowns at a fair.'


'There's nothing clownish in the sight of a dead man.'


'That was my doing, sir!' wailed the son. 'I still have nightmares about it. I did not mean to fright him so.'


The mother now burst into tears, both sons talked at once and Dickon tried to mediate. Nicholas calmed them all down and asked the father to give a full account of what happened. Dickon cleared his throat, glanced at the others, then launched into his narrative.


The fair was at Finchley when a young man approached them and asked if they would like to earn some money. All that they had to do was to play a jest on a friend of his. Dickon undertook the task himself. A costume was provided and details of when and how to make his sudden appearance. The young man was evidently familiar with the details of the performance.


'How did you get into the Queen's Head?' said Nicholas.


'In the back of a cart, sir.'


'Then you hid beneath the stage?'


'When you are as small as us, concealment is not difficult.'


'You were told to cause an uproar then disappear.'


'That is so.'


'What about The Curtain?'


'I did not even have to dress up for that,' said Dickon. 'When you all withdrew after the rehearsal, I came out from behind the costume basket where I lay hidden. It was the work of five minutes or so to saw through that maypole.'


'Did you not think of the damage it could cause?'


'The young man assured us nobody would be hurt.'


'What of The Rose?'


'My sons were both employed there.'


Dickon's account was straightforward. Instructed in what they had to do, the two boys had visited the theatre in costume on the eve of performance to search for places of concealment and to rehearse their antics. Hearing footsteps up on the stage, they could not resist shooting up through the trap-doors to startle whoever it was. Nicholas admitted that he had been duly startled.


The boys had slipped under the stage after the performance had starred and lay hidden under sheets in a corner. When Roper Blundell came down to prepare for his own ascent from Hell, he nipped over one of the sheets and lifted it. The mere sight of a douching devil had been enough to frighten him to death. Terrified themselves, the two brothers fled as soon as they could and did not make the double entry on stage that had been planned.


Nicholas felt that he was hearing the truth. The midgets were not responsible for what they did. They were only pawns in the game. Paid for their services, they were told that everything was a practical joke on friends. That joke turned sour at The Rose and they refused to work for the young man again. Nicholas saw no virtue in proceeding against this peculiar family. It was the person behind them who was the real villain. He sought help.


'Was he a well-favoured young man with a ring on his right hand?'


'Yes, sir,' said Dickon. 'It bore his initials.'


'Do you know what they stand for?'


'No, sir. Except that...well, there was one time when his coachman called him Master Gregory.'


G.N. Master Gregory. It was enough for Nicholas.


He now knew who their enemies really were.


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

Chapter Ten

Sunday was truly a day of rest for Henry Drewry. It was the end of the worst week of his life and he was exhausted from his labours. He could not even stir to take himself off to matins. Having tried to prevent his daughter from going to the country with Grate Napier, he felt an immense relief when she actually left the house. Her presence now diminished him in every way. Terrified to offend her lest she speak to her mother about a Bankside theatre, he crept around quietly and kept out of her way. All hope of marrying the girl off could now be abandoned. He had too much compassion to wish such a creature on any other man.


As he reclined in his chair in the parlour with a restorative pint of sherry, he saw how much he had squandered by one foolish action. He was an opinionated Alderman of the city of London, yet he dared not assert himself any longer in his own home.


There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered.


'Master Pollard is without, sir.'


'Tell him that I am not here.'


'But he says he has called on a most important matter.'


'Get rid of the fellow!'

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