The Merry Devils

The servant went off to implement the order but Isaac Pollard would not be sent way. Knocking on the door of the parlour, he surged in like a monstrous black bat and fluttered over Drewry.

'Why do you send me lies, sir?'

'You must be mistaken,' said the other with a gulp.

'I am told you are not at home and you sit here drinking sherry.'

The Puritan glared disapprovingly at the liquid.

'I take it on medical advice,' said Drewry quickly. 'I am unwell.'

'You must be if you tell untruths on the Sabbath.'

'What brings you here, Isaac?'

'Profanity, sir!'

'Again?' muttered the other wearily.

'Wickedness is abroad.'

'I have not yet been out to see.'

'The Merry Devils is to be performed again.'

'Do not mention that play to me!' howled Drewry.

'But I hear that it will be given at Parkbrook House on the estate of Lord Westfield. It must be stopped.'

'If it is a private performance, we can do nothing. Besides, we have no power in the county of Hertfordshire.'

'We have the power of God Himself,' said Pollard impressively, 'and that covers every shire in the land. There is a way to halt this performance if we but move swift enough.'

'And what is that, sir?'

'Get the play declared a blasphemous document and have its authors incarcerated for their sins. There must be legislation that favours us. We must attack with a statute book in our hand.'

Henry Drewry preferred to relax with a pint of sherry in his.

'I grow tired of all this, Isaac,' he said.

'Tired of God? Tired of our Christian duty? Tired of the paths of righteousness?' Pollard rippled the eyebrow at him. 'We must fight harder than ever against the Devil.'

'He has a strong voice at our meetings.'

'What say you?'

'My fellow Aldermen do not share your opinion of the theatre.'

'It is a market-place of bestiality!'

'Haply, that is what draws them thither,' said Drewry under his breath. 'I put the case against the Queen's Head and they would not hear me.'

'Speak louder, Henry.'

'Alderman Ashway has more powerful lungs.'

'Shout him down.'

'Nothing is so vociferous as a brewer whose inn is under threat.'

'Strong drink is the potion of Hell.'

'Yes,' agreed the other, downing some sherry. 'But it can bring a man more comfort than a pinch of salt.' Disillusion set in. 'I chose the wrong trade, I see it now.'

'What's this, sir? Are you slipping?'

'I tried, Isaac, but they will not enforce the law against the Queen's Head. It will still be used as a playhouse.'

'We must fight on regardless!'

'I'll lay down my weapon and take my ease.'

'Do I hear you aright, Henry?' said Pollard with horror. 'You cannot stand aside from the fray, sir. That is to condone what goes on at that vile place. Have you so soon forgot what we said on our journey back from The Rose? You saw the depravity there with your own eyes.'

'Ah, yes,' recalled the other with nostalgia.

'Would you let your daughter visit such a place?'

Fatigued by being browbeaten, the salter hit back with the truth.

'I would, sir.'

'Expose the child to corruption?'

'It is her own choice and she is old enough to make it. Isobel went to the Queen's Head on Wednesday, on Thursday and again on Friday. She saw three plays and came home smiling each time. I would not vote to close an entertainment so dear to her.' He took a long, defiant sip of his sherry. 'Changes have occurred, Isaac, and you must bear the blame. It was you that got to The Rose. It has cost me more than I can say. Wave your puritanical fist at the theatre alone, sir. I withdraw!'

Isaac Pollard could not believe that he had heard such words on a Sunday. He had put on the whole armour of God and now found that it was full of chinks. His eyebrow writhed across his forehead like a snake impaled on a spike as he tried to cope with a new experience.

He was rendered speechless for the first time ever.

*

Nicholas made an early start to his long journey. It was the best part of twenty miles to Lord Westfield's estate which lay to the north of St Albans. He needed to nurse his horse carefully over such a distance. Since there was no performance on the next day, he was to stay the night at Parkbrook and ride back at his leisure on the Monday. Anne Hendrik was sad to be parted from him. She had spent two long nights comforting him after his ordeal at the Counter and had hoped to spend a third in like fashion but his visit was important and she had to accept it.

He made frequent stops at hostelries along the way to rest his mount, refresh himself and garner what information he could. One coaching inn had an observant landlord. He saw Lord Westfield's crest driven past on Thursday evening and remembered two fine young ladies who stopped their carriage there on Saturday and talked of reaching St Albans before nightfall.

It was late afternoon when Nicholas reached his own destination. Westfield Hall was a familiar landmark to him now but he had never been to Parkbrook House before. As he viewed it from the crest of the hill, he was struck by its severity and sense of proportion. If the Hall was the visual embodiment of its master, Parkbrook could claim to be the like. Francis Jordan was echoed in his architecture. The place was cold, unyielding, ungenerous behind a striking facade.

Nicholas Bracewell soon met the new master.

'Welcome to Parkbrook, sir!'

'Thank you, Master Jordan.'

'Your journey was a long but necessary one. An event like this needs careful forethought and preparation.'

'We are honoured to be invited to such a fine house,' said Nicholas politely. 'Master Firethorn sends his regards and assures you that we will strive to please you in every particular.'

'Good. I must have The Merry Devils played here. It will be a rousing start to my time here at Parkbrook and I feel that it will somehow bring me luck.'

It had not done that for Westfield's Men.

Francis Jordan conducted him across to the Great Hall. Progress had been marked. Plasterers and carpenters had now completed their work and only the masons and the painters remained, the former providing a musical clink as they chiselled away at the bay window and the latter adding an astringent smell with their paint. Nicholas noted that none of the men dared to stop working and he could sense their resentment of their employer.

The new master pointed to the far end of the room.

'I think that the stage should be set up there to catch the light on two sides. Tables will be arranged in a horseshoe so that our guests may eat and drink while they view the entertainment. There is a door in the corner, as you see, sir, and the room beyond can be your tiring-house.' He smiled complacently. 'I believe I have thought of everything.'

'Not quite, Master Jordan,' said Nicholas, looking around with interest. 'It would far better suit our purposes if we played at this end of the hall.' He used his hands to indicate. 'There is a minstrels' gallery above that is ideal for our musicians. If we hang curtains down from that, it forms a tiring-house beneath the balcony. The stage will thrust out in this direction and your tables can be set the other way around. Your guests may still dine while we act.'

'But you throw away the best of the light.'

'That is the intention, sir. We would in any case draw the curtains on all the windows to darken the interior. You have seen The Merry Devils and know its supernatural elements. They will flourish more by candlelight. We have to take advantage of our playing conditions, sir. We are open to the sky in London and may not control the light at all. Here we may manipulate it to our own ends and to the greater pleasure of our spectators.'

The argument was convincing but Jordan was nevertheless peeved that his suggestions had been ruled out so effortlessly. He threw up another objection out of churlishness.

'If you play at this end of the hall, sir, you block the main entrance. How are my guests to come into the place?'

'Through that door you commended to me but now,' said Nicholas. 'I notice that the room looks out upon that broad lawn. If the weather is as fine as we have a right to expect, you would receive your guests in the garden, conduct them into that room for drinks then usher them through into here for the banquet and the performance.'

'Leave the arrangements to me, please, sir!' snapped Jordan.

'I was only replying to your question, master.'

The book holder was right and the other finally conceded it. A practical man of the theatre knew how to pick his ground and his view had to be respected.

'You'll need to take measurements and make drawings,' said Jordan curtly. 'I'll send my steward in to attend to your needs.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'I still feel that my idea was the most sensible.'

He flounced out and left Nicholas in the hall. The book holder did not waste his time. In the two minutes that it took Glanville to appear, Nicholas chatted to one of the painters and learned why the new master was so disliked, how the forester had been dismissed and what happened to one of the chambermaids. Parkbrook House was not a happy place. The coldness of its exterior was reflected inside as well.

A tall, stately figure glided in through the entrance.

'Master Bracewell?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I am Joseph Glanville, steward of the household.'

"Well met!'

'How may I best help you?'

'I have a number of enquiries...'

There was something about the steward that alerted Nicholas. Accustomed to working among actors, he could usually discern when someone was masking his true self. Glanville was altogether too plausible and controlled for his liking. The man answered all his questions very courteously but he was holding something back all the time, and Nicholas was keen to know what it was.

'What about your stage, sir?' asked the steward.

'We shall bring our own and set it up on trestles.'

'Master Jordan is anxious to spare you that trouble. We have enough carpenters at our command and they can build to order. You will have plenty to bring from London as it is.'

Nicholas closed with the offer. Transporting the stage was a problematic business as they found when they were obliged to go on tour in the provinces. Besides, the one used at the Queen's Head was far too high for their needs at Parkbrook House. Glanville was surprised when told this.

'Will you not need trap-doors for your devils, sir?'

'They will enter by some other means.'

'Not from below, as Master Jordan described to me?'

'No, sir,' said the other. 'A height of eighteen inches will content us. Two feet at most. There will be no crawling beneath the stage on this occasion.' He thought of George Dart and Caleb Smythe. 'That will gladden the hearts of our devils, I can tell you.'

They talked further then Glanville escorted him up to show him the bedchamber that had been assigned to him. It was on the first floor in the west wing and as they walked down the long corridor towards it, Nicholas probed.

'I hear that one of your chambermaids had an accident.'

'That is so, sir.' I 'A broken leg, they say.'

'The girl is recovering in the servants' quarters.'

'I may find time to visit her,' volunteered Nicholas. 'I know the misery of a leg in splints.'

'Oh, I could not permit that, sir, said Glanville firmly. 'Jane Skinner is in a state of shock. The physician has advised against stray callers. They tire the girl.'

Nicholas did not believe the explanation and wondered why he was being kept from the invalid. They stopped outside a door. Nothing the circular staircase at the far end of the corridor, the guest asked if if led down to the Great Hall.

'It is not for general use,' said Glanville smoothly. 'I am the only person allowed to use it, Master Bracewell, and it is a privilege that I jealously guard.

'Is it not a quicker way down for me?' said Nicholas.

'That is immaterial. You may not use it.'

'What is the punishment for offenders, sir?'

There was a note of ironic amusement in the question but the steward did not hear it. His response was deadly serious. Behind the unruffled calm was a surge of hostility.

Nicholas saw that he had made an enemy.

*

He sold the horse and cart in the first village. All that he kept or needed was his axe and it was always by his side. Jack Harsnett went to the nearest inn and drank himself to distraction. It was a few days before he was ready to move on. A mornings trudge brought him to a wayside tavern and he slumped down on to the settle that stood out in the sun. Food and drink was brought out to him and he began to recover his breath. He was far too old to tramp the roads for long.

Laughter from inside the tavern made him prick his ears and a few snatches of conversation drifted out. Though he could not hear what was being said, he recognised the principal voice in the group. It made him sit tight and wait. One by one, the customers tumbled out and went back to their work or their homes. The man for whom Harsnett was waiting was the last to leave. Drink had blurred the sight of his one eye and he walked past the forester without paying any heed.

Harsnett followed and cornered him against a wall.

The single eye blinked until it managed to focus.

'Jack!' said the man with the patch. 'How are you?"

'What do you care?'

'I heard you'd left Parkbrook.'

'Thrown out.'

'Master Jordan is a hard man, sir.'

'I heard you use his name in the tavern.'

'Did I?' An evasive smile came. 'I doubt it.'

'What did you say?' grunted the forester.

'Who knows?'

'Tell me.'

'About Master Jordan?' He gave a drunken laugh then became rueful. 'There's things I could say about that one! He's bad, Jack, bad as they come. He gave me this here on my face.' He exhibited the long scar that had been caused by the riding crop. 'Keep out of his way.'

'Why?'

'No matter. I must go.'

'Answer me,' said Harsnett, holding him by his hair.

'More than my life's worth, Jack, and that's the truth.'

"Tell me about Master Jordan,' insisted the forester.

The man with the black patch twitched and whined.

'He'll kill me if T do that.'

Harsnett thrust the blade of his axe against the other's throat.

'I'll kill you if you don't.'

*

It was a pleasant ride across the estate. Nicholas borrowed a horse from the stables so that his own could recover against its journey on the morrow. Having got directions from the ostler, he headed in the direction of the adjoining property and reached it after a couple of miles. It was less of a mansion than an overgrown cottage but its half-timbering was well-maintained and the thatch was recent. Stables and outbuildings spread out behind it and it was towards these that Nicholas now spurred his horse.

The man was cleaning the carriage with a rag that he dipped into a bucket of water. Though his back was to the visitor, Nicholas knew him at once. The thick bandage that was wound around his head and down over the top of one eye was further confirmation.

Hearing the approach of hooves, the man turned around with easy curiosity. His smile froze when he saw who it was and he dropped his rag back in the water. Nicholas dismounted, tethered his horse then came across for a confrontation. From his garb and his bearing, it was clear that the man was a coachman.

'I was arrested at your suit, Master Grice.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I did not like my lodging at the Counter.'

'Nor I the cut over my eye,' said Grice warily. 'Besides, you would have been released after a couple of days. The case would have been dropped long before it came to court.'

'That does not salve my wounds.'

He took a step towards Grice who put up his large fists.

'Stay where you are, sir, or you'll feel the weight of my punches again.' He turned to the house to raise the alarm. Master!'

Reaching for the driving seat of the carriage, he then grabbed his long whip and drew back his arm but he was given no chance to demonstrate his skill. As he tried to lash Nicholas, the latter stepped smartly out of the way then dived at Grice, twisting the whip from his hand within seconds. Grice was powerful but he had none of the other's experience in a brawl. Nicholas punched his body hard and ducked the savage blows that came in return. A punch on Grice's chin made the coachman reel. Recovering after a few moments, he flung himself at Nicholas with such force that he would have knocked him flying had the charge succeeded.

But the book holder used the man's lunge against himself. As he came in, Nicholas dodged him, caught hold of his shoulders and pushed him hard against the side of the carriage where Grice's head took the main impact. He buckled at the knees and cursed violently.

'Hold still, Walt! I will take him.'

The other nocturnal assailant came running out of the house, followed by the young man with the signet ring. Nicholas squared up to the newcomer then flashed out a straight left which drew blood from the other's nose. Enraged by the pain, the man flailed and kicked but he was unable to make contact. Another straight left darkened his cheek and a sequence of punches to the body slowed him right down. Mustering his strength for a last effort, the man dashed to the stable, caught hold of a hay rake, then brandished it above his head as he stormed back. Nicholas ducked just in time as the rake scythed through the air. He closed with the man and wrested the implement from him. Grice was now getting up to rejoin the fray and that could not be allowed. Holding his opponent by one arm, Nicholas suddenly swung him around with great force and let go. The hurtling body collided with Grice and both went down groaning.

'That will be enough from you, sir,' said the young man.

Nicholas was now threatened by the point of a rapier.

'Why have you come here?' continued the swordsman.

'To settle a score.'

'Leave us while you still may.'

'No, Master Napier,' said Nicholas. 'That is your name, I believe? You had a familiar look and I remember where I had seen it before. It was upon your sister, Grace. You are her brother, Gregory.'

The young man held him at bay with the sword but it was a very temporary advantage. With dazzling speed, Nicholas stooped to take hold of the bucket and hurl its contents all over the young man. Before the latter could resist, he had the rapier plucked from him and was pressed backwards against the carriage. Nicholas kept the point of the sword against Gregory Napier's heart to discourage either of his servants from coming to his aid. The young man paled.

'Do not kill me, sir! We meant you no harm.'

'You have a peculiar way of showing it.'

'We bore no grudge against you.'

'I know,' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield was your target. You sought to hurt him through me just as you tried to damage the company with your merry devils. You wanted revenge, Master Napier. Why?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'Then I will have to loosen your tongue, sir.'

He lei the sword-point gently explore the other's doublet.

'Have a care, Master Bracewell!'

'You had no care of me when I was thrown into the Counter.

'Please, sir. Be gentle with that sword.'

Nicholas let the rapier slice through the satin doublet.

'Why did you attack Lord Westfield?'

'Do not ask me.'

'I'll have an answer if I have to cut it out of you,' said Nicholas dangerously. 'We have suffered much at your hands, sir. A whole company was terrified because of you. One of our sharers narrowly escaped injury. A stagekeeper lost his life. So do not wave me away.' He split the doublet open again. 'Why did you do all this to Lord Westfield?'

The voice behind him was clear and unashamed.

'Because I made him, Master Bracewell.'

Grace Napier stood in the doorway of the house.

*

It was not an entirely new play. Ralph Willoughby had devised the plot some time earlier and constructed scenes in his mind. When he got the commission from Banbury's Men, therefore, he was not starting from scratch. Rather was he developing and refining a drama which he had carried around inside his head for months. Now that he came to write it, the words flowed freely and he remained at his table for long hours each day, sustained by an inner fire and by the firmness of his purpose. There was no drinking during the period of composition and no debauchery. It obsessed him totally. Appropriately, it was finished on a Sunday. Willoughby had never before worked so quickly or felt so happy with the result of his creative endeavours. As he blotted the last line, he knew that the play was exactly as lie envisaged it. With the crucial help of Doctor John Mordrake, he had given it a texture of authenticity that would beguile spectators. Banbury's Men would appreciate the play's wit and wisdom, its topicality at a time when there was growing witch-mania, and its sheer entertainment value. They would also enjoy his many clever allusions to the part of Oxford-shire from which their noble patron hailed.

What they would not at first see was the peril that lay at the heart of the work. Willoughby had disguised it very carefully. He turned back to the first page and began to read. His dark laughter soon filled the room. He was truly delighted with the play.

The Witch of Oxford would be a fitting epitaph.

*

Nicholas Bracewell was candidly surprised. As he sat in the parlour of the house and listened to Grace Napier, he saw that his major assumption had been wrong.

'I thought that you used Edmund Hoode to get information at the request of your brother,' he said. 'You needed an inside knowledge of our work and friendship with our playwright was a way to obtain it.'

'Yes,' she agreed. I am sorry to have taken advantage of Master Hoode in this way. It must seem to you that I toyed cruelly with his affections but I took no pleasure in it, sir, and it caused me much heartache. But my hand was forced. The end justified the means.'... 'What was that end?' he asked.

'Revenge.'

If Nicholas was surprised then Isobel Drewry was openly amazed. She sat alongside Gregory Napier and heard the truth emerge for the first time. It showed her just how little she really knew her friend.

'You are a deep one, Grace!' she said. I was not able to confide in you, Isobel.'

'It is just as well,' added the other with a giggle. 'I could never keep a secret. As it was, I had no notion that any of this was going on and can now understand why you were always a little disappointed at the performances.'

Yes,' said Grace. 'My plans did not quite work out. I wanted to humiliate Westfield's Men in public but we failed each time. I own that I needed your company at tine theatre to hide my purposes. I hope that you will not feel too abused, Isobel.'

'Not at all,' said the other chirpily. 'I had some wonderful afternoons that have helped to change my whole life.'

'Let us come back to the revenge,' suggested Nicholas. 'What reason could you have for hating Lord Westfield so?'

'His callous treatment of his nephew.'

'Master Francis Jordan?"

'Do not mention that foul name to me, sir,' she said with asperity. 'It is not to stand alongside that of his brother. I am speaking of David Jordan.' A mixture of pride, anger and intense passion made her features glow. 'David is the cause of all that has happened.'

'How?'

'I will tell you, sir.'

Grace Napier was calm, poised and highly articulate. Her story was a revelation. Instead of being simply a mercer's daughter who liked to visit the theatre, she was a young woman so deeply and desperately in love that she would stop at nothing to avenge what she saw as the terrible wrong done to her inamorato. She had met David Jordan over a year earlier when she was out riding near the boundary of his land. He was in a severely depressed state. His wife had died recently and the baby daughter who survived her lingered for only four days before she went off to join her mother. David was distraught. The double blow shattered him completely.

Friendship with Grace Napier slowly helped to restore him. It was a gentle, unforced courtship that lasted many months. Drawn more and more together, they reached the point where they could think of nothing but sharing their whole lives together.

Tears sparkled in Grace's eyes as she recalled it.

'David proposed to me in the wood nearby. The sky was blue and the sun was slanting down through the branches of the trees. Birds were singing. Everything was so beautiful and tranquil.'

'The romance of it!' said Isobel, carried away.

'Naturally,' continued Grace with a soft smile, 'I accepted the proposal. It was arranged that I would go to Parkbrook next day and the engagement would be formally announced.'

'What happened?' said Nicholas.

'I never saw David again.'

'Why?'

'He was thrown from his horse and badly injured.'

'Did you not rush to It is bedside?' said Isobel.

'Immediately, but they would not admit me.'

'But you were his fiancee."

'They would not accept that,' said Grace. 'Our courtship had been conducted in secret for obvious reasons. Father is wealthy but he is still only a tradesman. David conies from a family with noble blood. He wanted to announce our engagement when it was too late for anyone to stop the marriage from going ahead/ She winced as a memory haunted her. 'I was turned away from Parkbrook.'

'Did you not speak with Master Jordan's physician?' said Nicholas.

'That was forbidden as well.'

'By whom?'

'Master Francis Jordan. He was staying at Parkbrook when the accident occurred and he took charge. Nobody was allowed in. I called, I wrote, I even tried to bribe the servants for information but it was to no avail. David was kept from me.'

'You must have been in despair!' said Isobel.

'I was. In the end, I turned to Lord Westfield for help but he would not see me. I was told that his lordship could not spare the time. He was always too busy at court or spending time with his company. His nephew was in a parlous condition and Lord Westfield was watching plays! You can see I came to hate the company. Westfield's Men became a symbol of all the things I detested.'

'Lord Westfield has his faults,' conceded Nicholas, 'but I cannot believe there was anything calculated in his behaviour. He was not to know that you had been on the point of joining the family.'

'That was not the only reason I despised him, sir,' she said. 'It was he who allowed Parkbrook to be taken from David. It was Lord Westfield who helped his other nephew to become the new master.'

'How was that done?' wondered Nicholas.

'Yes,' said Isobel in bewilderment. 'I know little of such things but how could one man inherit when his elder brother was still alive and well?'

'David was alive--but far from well.'

'That does not alter the situation, Grace.'

'It does, Isobel. I puzzled over that very point because it had such significance for me. After all, I was to have been the new mistress of Parkbrook. I felt that both David and I had been robbed.'

'So what did you do?' said Nicholas.

'I consulted a lawyer in the Inns of Court. He explained that there was a way that David could lose his inheritance. If he failed to pass an inquiry De idiota inquirendo then he could be dispossessed. It is unusual but not unknown. The lawyer told me of a case in which lie was involved some years ago. It concerned a large house in Petersfield. I cannot remember all the details but it was to do with the conveyance of the fee simple and involved a breach of the entail. Anxious to get the house for himself, the offended party challenged the conveyance on the grounds of the vendor's incompetence by reason of idiocy to conduct affairs. The Queen's Escheator in Sussex was charged with an inquiry to establish the vendor's sanity, with a view to placing the estate under the Court of Wards and Liveries.'

'Stop, stop!' cried Isobel. 'This is far too complicated for me, Grace. What are you trying to tell us?'

'If it can be proved that someone is too insane to manage his own affairs, he can legally be relieved of ownership. David's brother would be well aware of this because he has been a student of the law.'

'Are you certain that this is what happened?' said Nicholas.

'There can be no other explanation, sir.' What do you mean?'

How else could they keep me away horn him? I was within six weeks of becoming his wife. No two people could have been closer. No matter how bad his injuries, David would have sent for me.' Then why did he not do so? said Isobel.

'It was not just his body that was damaged,' said Grace. 'It was his mind.'

The cottage was exactly the same and yet there were some radical changes. All sign of habitation had gone. The rough cosiness had been replaced by an atmosphere of neglect. His wife was no longer there to clean and tend and fill the place with her chatter. It was no longer a home.

Jack Harsnett threw down his axe and walked to the window. He looked in the direction of Parkbrook House. All his misfortunes could be placed at the door of the new master and he wanted recompense. After his talk with the one-eyed man, it was not only on his own behalf that he sought redress. Others had been wronged, too.

There was no hurry. He was safely hidden away in his woodland clearing and nobody would bother him there for a while. He would bide his time until his moment came.

Then he would pay a call on Master Francis Jordan.

*

The ride back gave Nicholas time to reflect on the extraordinary development in the situation. He had been so moved by Grace's story and by the poignancy with which she told it that he could almost forgive her what she had done in the name of revenge. Convinced that Lord Westfield was most to blame, she launched her attack at something that was very dear to him. She became involved with Edmund Hoode so that he could, unwittingly, feed her the information she required, even down to precise details of text, staging and costume.

Another point struck Nicholas. The theatre was the only place where Grace Napier could get anywhere near Lord Westfield. To cause him maximum embarrassment, she seized on the opportunity provided by The Merry Devils, a play discussed freely in advance by its co-author. Had the performance ended in the fiasco she hoped, it would have taken Westfield's Men a long time to regain their credibility.

Grace Napier had caused untold upset. Having learned how vital the book holder was to the staging of Vincentio's Revenge, she was even ready to contrive the arrest of Nicholas Bracewell to keep him our of the way. He still felt jangled by the experience but now took a more philosophical view about his night in the Counter. If nothing else, it had introduced him to Leonard who had pointed him in the direction of the fair. There was thus a gain as well as a loss involved.

It was dark when Nicholas reached Parkbrook. He stabled his horse and strolled towards the west wing, intending to go right around to the main entrance of the house. Something alerted him. There was a clump of rhododendron bushes ahead of him and he thought he caught a glimpse of movement behind them. Preparing himself for trouble, he continued his walk as if he had seen nothing. When he reached the bushes, he jumped into them to confront whoever lurked in wait.

The horse whinnied and tried to nuzzle his shoulder.

He could not understand why it was tethered in such a secluded place then he noticed the small door at the rear of the west wing. He tried it, found it open and went in. To his right was the corridor that ran towards the main building but directly ahead of him was something of much more interest. It was the steward's private staircase and he could hear muffled voices at the top of it.

Nicholas withdrew into the shadows as feet descended with an echoing clatter. Joseph Glanville led a middle-aged man in dark attire to the door and showed him respectfully out. The horse was heard trotting off with the visitor then the steward returned.

He was startled when Nicholas came over to him.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded angrily.

'I lost my way.'

'The main staircase is that way.'

'Can I not get up to my room here?'

'No, sir,' said Glanville sharply. 'I have told you before that this is my private mode of access. You may not use it.'

Nicholas watched him shrewdly then put a question.

'You do not like plays, do you?'

'No, sir.'

'If it was left to you, Westfield's Men would not come here.'

'Most certainly not.'

'What do you have against us?'

'I do not care for strangers in my house.

Glanville went off up the staircase with dignity.

Nicholas returned to his own room by the recommended means and slept well. After breakfast early next morning, he completed his work in the Great Hall then got ready to leave. He managed to spare a few minutes to call on Jane Skinner. Lying in bed with splints on her leg, she was flattered by his interest and told him how the accident had occurred. He also pumped her about Glanville and heard how she had revised her former good opinion of the man.

The book holder wished her a speedy recovery and went off to begin the long ride home. Francis Jordan detained him at the stables.

'We look forward to your next visit, sir.'

'Thank you. Master Jordan.'

'The cream of the county will be your audience.'

'It is a pity that your brother will not be among them, sir.'

'My brother?' Jordan shot him a hostile glance.

'I hear that he was very fond of plays.'

"Who told you that?'

'Jane Skinner.'

Francis Jordan squirmed. The incident with the chambermaid was still a grave embarrassment to him. He had warned his staff not to speak about it to anyone. If the guest had actually talked with the girl herself, he might know the story and be in a position to carry it to Lord Westfield. Jordan's manner became openly antagonistic.

'Goodbye, sir!' he said dismissively.

'May I ask you one question?' said Nicholas casually. "Where is your brother now?'

'Don't be so damned impertinent, man!' , 'Nobody seems to know, sir, and he must be somewhere.'

Jordan treated him to a glare of fierce hatred.

'He is in the best place he could be.'

*

Nell was pleased to see him again. Of all her regular clients, Ralph Willoughby was the most generous and the most likeable. His departures were sometimes abrupt but they usually enjoyed themselves together. When Nell came into the taproom of the Bull and Butcher that night, she saw Willoughby through the thick fog. Drink in hand and dressed with his customary extravagance, he was singing a bawdy ballad to his companions. Seeing her amble over to him, he put an arm around her and welcomed her with a warm kiss.

'Nell, my heart's delight!' he said effusively.

Away with that talk, you traitor,' she teased. I have been lying in a cold bed since you left me, sir. I have not seen hide nor hair of you for five or six nights.'

'That is all changed, Nell.'

'I think you have another sweetheart.'

"Oh, I do! She is called The Witch of Oxford and she has kept me groaning with pleasure at night. I have been bent over her until now but her hold on me is at an end. She went off to Banbury today so I am a free man again. That is why I came post haste to you, Nell.'

'Will you stay the night?' she coaxed.

'No.'

'You scurvy rogue! Am I not good enough for you any longer?'

'Shall I tell you why I will not stay the night?'

'Go back to your witch of Oxford!'

'But you may like my reason,' he said, 'I will not stay the night because I intend to stay the whole week.'

Nell let out a roar of approval and flung herself at him.

*

Bedlam was vibrating with noise. The public came to see the lunatics at play and egged them on to wilder antics. There was trouble in a private cell from an old man who tried to hang himself. Another patient attempted to escape and had to be restrained. It was a day when Rooksley was under immense pressure and he did not welcome casual visitors.

I am sorry but I may not speak with you now,' he told them.

'Stay awhile, sir,' said the younger of the two men.

'Bedlam has gone mad and I must doctor its madness.

'That is my interest," said the older man.

Nicholas Bracewell had brought Grace Napier and Doctor John Mordrake with him to the hospital. Her love for David Jordan had been proved beyond a doubt. No matter how sad or wretched his condition, she wished to dedicate herself to his care. While she was excited at the prospect of a reunion, therefore, she was also fearful. To be locked away in Bedlam would turn a sane man into a lunatic. She wondered what state her beloved would now be in.

'We have come to see Master David Jordan,' said Nicholas.

'Who, sir?' Rooksley was uncooperative.

'You heard the name.'

'I hear it but I do not recognise it,' said the keeper. 'We have nobody of that name here, sir, and I am acquainted with them all. I can tell you their date of birth, the colour of their hair and eyes, what food they eat each day and at what time of the morning they are like to pass water. I know everything in Bedlam, sir, but I do know a Master Jordan.'

Grace Napier looked crushed but Nicholas did not give up.

'He must be here,' he insisted. 'Lord Westfield would not let a nephew of his rot away in a county asylum. This is the only place to which he would commit the young man.' He indicated the others. 'You do not know what distinguished company you ate in, sir. This is Mistress Napier, who is affianced to Master Jordan, and beside her is Doctor John Mordrake, sometime astrologer to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.'

Rooksley was impressed. Mordrake's name was known to everyone.

'Come, sir,' said Nicholas briskly. 'You are busy, we can see. Do but have someone conduct us to Master Jordan and we will trouble you no longer. Do I have to go back to Lord Westfield himself to get a written permission from him?'

The head keeper pondered. The clamour of madness intensified. Nicholas helped him to reach a decision by slipping some coins into his hand. Rooksley pocketed them and nodded.

'That will buy you five minutes with him.'

He went off for a moment and Grace turned to thank Nicholas.

'You are wonderful, sir. I thought of Bedlam and sent my brother here to enquire but he did not get past the door. They told him the lies that we have just heard.'

'Nobody should be in this place,' said Mordrake, looking around with scholarly disgust. 'The insane need special care.'

Rooksley returned with Kirk and handed the keeper a bunch of keys. Kirk led the visitors down a long corridor then swung right. Grace Napier was increasingly tense and Nicholas understood how difficult this moment might be for her. The man whom she loved had parted from her in prime health. What she would now see would be a grotesque shell of that same person.

Kirk was interested that his friend had visitors.

'Have you come from Parkbrook House?' he asked.

'Indirectly, sir.'

'David is a good young man. We have no trouble from him.

'What state is he in, sir?' asked Mordrake.

'His brain is addled and he has the sleeping sickness.'

'Ah yes,' sighed the old man. 'That often follows if a violent blow damages the mind. Memory will go and the patient will lapse back into childhood.

'Who committed him, sir?' asked Nicholas. 'Do you know that?'

'His physician, master. I have seen the records. One Francis Jordan pays the charges to keep him here but he was delivered to Bedlam by another hand.'

'What was the name?'

'Joseph Glanville.'

Nicholas reacted with interest but his companions did not even hear the keeper. They were peering eagerly through the grille of the door outside which Kirk stopped. Inside the chamber, sitting motionless with his back to them, was the young man in the now ragged white shirt and dark breeches. He was staring up at the window and humming quietly to himself.'

As the door was unlocked, Grace Napier could hardly contain her emotions. A long and painful journey had at last come to an end. She had found the man she loved.

Kirk had to hold her back as she tried to lunge in.

'Do not touch him,' he warned. 'Stay by me.'

He let them step into the room then spoke to the patient.

'Hello, my friend.'

The young man stirred as if waking from a deep sleep.

'You have visitors.'

He looked at the wall ahead of him in search of them.

The tension was now agonising. Grace was biting her lip and shaking so much that she seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Nicholas supported her with one hand but kept his attention on the young man, anxious to meet the person who had indirectly caused such trouble for Westfield's Men. Mordrake was there in his professional capacity as a physician to see if the patient was beyond hope or if there was some way that he could recover his wits.

'Come, sir,' said Kirk. 'Welcome your friends.'

'David,' whispered Grace. 'It's me.'

Mention of his name made the young man turn round. His face became a childlike beam when he saw Grace Napier but her expression changed at once. Pain and disappointment overwhelmed her.

'What ails you?' asked Nicholas. 'Is this not David Jordan?

'No,' she said. 'I have never seen this man before.'

*

Jack Harsnett was back on his own territory. He knew where to forage and how to hide. Nobody else on the estate was aware of his return or of the grim purpose which prompted it. He kept Parkbrook under surveillance. It was early on a Tuesday morning when he heard the rumble of carts and the trot of horses. Having broken their journey with a night at a nearby inn, Westfield's Men now headed for their next venue with alacrity. While the rest of the company travelled in the carts with the scenery, costumes and properties, Lawrence Firethorn led the procession on a chestnut mare. Spotting the house, he waved a commanding arm.

'Onward!'

The forester hid behind some bushes and watched. Evidently, there was to be an entertainment of some sort at Parkbrook and that would mean that the whole household would be preoccupied. It could be just the chance for which Harsnett was waiting. As the last of the carts wended its way down the slope, he left the bushes and padded off through the wood until he reached his cottage. He picked up his axe and took from his pocket the stone which he kept to sharpen it.

With patient care, he began to hone the blade.

*

Westfield's Men arrived at Parkbrook House to find a stage set up in the Great Hall. Curtains hung from the minstrels' gallery to create a tiring-house beneath the balcony. Everything was exactly as requested. Glanville gave them a polite but muted welcome, then left them alone. Adapting at once to their new performing conditions, they set up and rehearsed. It was a surprisingly refreshing experience. A play which had always been so problematical before now unfolded smoothly and without error. The amended version of The Merry Devils worked uncannily well.

It was as if a curse had been lifted from it.

When the company adjourned for a meal at noon, they were in a happy, almost optimistic, mood. They now had three hours before they were due to give their command performance before a select audience. It gave them time to relax.

Nicholas Bracewell did not join them. Ever since his visit to Bedlam, he puzzled over something that might now be resolved. While his colleagues enjoyed their food and their banter, he slipped off to the west wing of the building and ascended the private staircase, slapping his feet down hard so that there was an echoing clack on the oak treads. It achieved the desired result.

Joseph Glanville appeared at the top of the stairs.

'What does this mean, sir?' he said with subdued anger.

'I have come to see you, Master Glanville.'

'This staircase is closed to all but me.'

'Then why does the physician use it?'

'Physician?'

'I believe I saw him with you the other night,' said Nicholas. 'You descended together in earnest conference. He came down the steps like a man well-used to their peculiarities.'

Glanville was as enigmatic as ever. His face betrayed nothing. Return to your company, Master Bracewell, he said. I hey have need of you. There is no reason for you to be here.'

'There is, sir.'

'What?'

'David Jordan.'

The steward blinked but his voice was still calm.

'I have nothing to say to you on that subject,' he returned easily. 'Your concern is solely with the staging of your play and I suggest that you go back to it now. I myself have urgent duties.'

Nicholas caught at his sleeve as Glanville moved away.

'Who is that young man in Bedlam?' he asked. Bedlam?' I here was more than a blink this time. You delivered the wrong David Jordan. Why?'

The steward glared at him then tried to push him away but Nicholas would not be shifted. Grabbing the man by the shoulders, he pinned him against the door of his own room.

'I have come for some answers, Master Glanville,' he said with emphasis, 'and I will not leave until I have them. It is not on my own account. I am here on behalf of Mistress Grace Napier who was contracted to marry Master Jordan. She is in grave distress and I would ease that distress with the truth.' He tightened his hold. 'Speak, sir. Tell me what happened to the gentleman.'

Glanville was wrestling with his thoughts, quite unsure what to do. He made an attempt to Tight his way free but he was overpowered by the book holder. The steward fell back on an excuse.

'It was the physician who called the other night,' he said. 'He came to see Jane Skinner.'

'At such a late hour?'

'The girl was in some pain.'

'Physicians do not come at the beck and call of a chambermaid,' said Nicholas. 'Besides, I called on Mistress Skinner the next morning. She told me she had not seen her physician for days.' He exerted even more pressure on the other. 'Tell me the truth. Master Glanville.'

It was the only option left to the steward. His composure fell away to be replaced by candid apprehension. The calm voice now took on a note of apprehension.

'Help us, sir. We are almost there.'

'We?'

'Do not undo our good work.'

'Explain, Master Glanville.'

'Step into my room.'

Nicholas released him then followed him into the room. The steward closed the door, turned the key in the lock and slid home the heavy bolt. The book holder glanced around. It was a small but neat apartment. The oak floor and the panelled walls gleamed. Clearly, the occupant had a passion for order and tidiness. Nicholas turned on him.

'Who is that patient at Bedlam?'

'A miller's son from the next county, sir.'

'How came he there?'

'He fell from a loft and injured his head badly. Doctor Renwick, the physician whom you saw, heard of the case. The symptoms were almost identical. The boy's mother had died and there was nobody to tend him. Putting him into Bedlam was Doctor Renwick's idea.'

'So that Master David. Jordan could be spared that ordeal.

'Yes, sir.'

'Where is he now?'

'Where he can be looked after properly,' said Glanville with obvious sincerity. 'I could never desert my old master, sir, nor see him consigned to a place like that. Though it cost my life, I would rescue him from such a fate. It has been difficult, Master Bracewell. It has been the Devil's own work but we have stuck to our task and our caring has been rewarded. The old master is steadily recovering.'

Nicholas studied him and realised how mistaken he had been in the man. Instead of being an enemy, Joseph Glanville was the most loyal friend. To protect David Jordan, he had risked everything. If the new master had learned what he had done, dismissal was the least that the steward would have faced. Glanville was brave as well as constant.

Wrong about him, Nicholas was right about one thing. : M believe that he is here, sir.' ' 'In the next room, Master Bracewell.'

'I should like to meet him.'

Glanville thought it over then crossed to the door.

*

Distinguished guests began to arrive in their carriages from all over the county. Luxuriating in his role as the new master of Parkbrook House, Francis Jordan welcomed them on his lawn then guided them into the ante-room for a cup of wine. Word of the play had leaked out and provoked much excitement. The reputation of Westfield's Men extended well outside the city. Last to appear, the company's esteemed patron was the first to take his seat in the Great Hall where the sumptuous banquet had been laid out in the shape of a horseshoe. Francis Jordan sat beside his uncle at the very heart of the horseshoe, diametrically opposite the stage.

Both men were resplendent in their finery and they competed for attention with their poses and their brittle laughter. Lord Westfield was, for once, outshone by his nephew who favoured doublet and hose of such a deep blood-red silk that it gave him a decidedly satanic look. Sleeves and breeches were slashed through with black and the high ruff was pink. Francis Jordan wanted to be his own merry devil.

The banquet was lavish to the point of excess. Beef and mutton were followed by veal, lamb, kid, pork, coney, capon and venison besides a variety offish and wild fowl. Wine and sherry were served in silver bowls, goblets and fine Venetian glasses. A wide range of desserts was supplemented by huge dishes covered with fresh fruit. No sooner had one course finished than another was brought in from the kitchens by liveried servants on loan from Westfield Hall. The entire assembly was soon lulled into a feeling of well-being. There were toasts and speeches and sustained over-indulgence.

Then it was time for the play.

The curtains were closed to throw the hall into semidarkness. Flickering candelabra had been cunningly placed by Nicholas Bracewell to throw their light upon the stage. Up in the gallery, the musicians played in the gloom like so many ghosts. The effect was carefully judged so that the audience could only see what they were allowed to see. Francis Jordan was beside himself with glee, convinced that his guests would have an experience without compare.

The third and last performance of The Merry Devils began.

It exerted total control over its spectators. Lawrence Firethorn was as astonishing as ever in the role of Justice Wildboare. He even included an affectionate parody of Lord Westfield at one point and set off an explosion of mirth that lasted for several minutes. Richard Honeydew was enchanting as Lucy Hembrow and the other agencies supported him well in the female roles. Droopwell amused everyone with his whining impotence. Doctor Castrato was an instant success.

The major change came with Youngthrust. Still played with verve by Edmund Hoode, the part had been changed considerably in the very hour before performance. At the request of the book holder, the playwright had done a lot of last-minute alteration. Instead of being a young lover who pined for his mistress, Youngthrust now had a sinister streak to him. He still sighed for Lucy Hembrow but with an air of calculation. Here was a patent fortune-hunter masquerading as a passionate swain.

Both Youngthrust and the actor who played him were changed men. Nicholas had taken on the delicate job of telling his friend the truth about Grace Napier. Devastated at first, Hoode eventually rallied by persuading himself that he was involved in a major romance after all. It was not between him and Grace but between her and David Jordan. To help her and to be somehow instrumental in reuniting her with her true love was a task that lie took on with enthusiasm.

Act Three stoked up fresh anticipation in the audience. The devils were due to appear. Lord West field and Francis Jordan had seen the play before when the creatures had popped up from below the stage, but that was impossible here. From where would they come? Both men leaned forward with gluttonous interest.

Doctor Castrato extinguished several candles so that the stage was almost in darkness, save for a central barrage of light. It was now so dim in the hall, and everyone's attention was so firmly fixed on the stage, that nobody saw the two figures flit in through the door at the back to watch from the shadows. Each had a special reason to be there.

Grace Napier stood beside Joseph Glanville.

Barnaby Gill savoured his best scene and summoned the devils in his high and ridiculous voice. There was a huge explosion from behind the curtains then they parted for Hell's Mouth to be wheeled out with real flames shooting out of it so realistically that screams of fear went up from the ladies. T he effect had been devised by the book holder who had taken Firethorn's professional advice. Having been brought up in a forge, the actor-manager knew how to heat up a brazier and use bellows to produce dazzling flame.

The spectators were spellbound as three merry devils came dancing out of the inferno, for all the world as if they had been spewed up from the mouth of Hell. George Dart, Caleb Smythe and Ned Rankin pranced about comically in their devil costumes then submitted themselves to their new master. Some additional material had been supplied by Hoode and mocking laughter was raised by some obvious allusions to the new master of Parkbrook.

As the play brought new delights in each scene, an unexpected guest arrived. Lurking outside in the trees, he ran stealthily to a window and peered in through a chink in the curtain. Jack Harsnett could see little but hear everything. He crept along the wall with his axe over his shoulder and made his way furtively towards the kitchens.

In the Great Hall, meanwhile, The Merry Devils approached its crowning moment, Justice Wildboare and Droopwell were discarded and the marriage of Lucy and Youngthrust was announced, a less than satisfying ending as the latter was such an arrant Machiavel. At the wedding ceremony itself, the priest brought the couple together at the altar and asked if anyone had any reason why they should not be joined together. A voice rang out from the gallery.

'Yes!'

It was David Jordan.

He stood in a circle of light created by three candelabra and was surrounded by musicians who played soft, sacred music. There was a close resemblance to his younger brother but David was altogether more poised and dignified. Grace Napier, who had not been let in on the secret, gasped as she looked up at the man she loved. He was safe and well.

The spectators were astounded. Everyone knew about the sad case of David Jordan and yet here he was--apparently fit and healthy--standing up before them. He even went on to deliver a short speech at Youngthrust, accusing him of stealing his greatest treasure. The newcomer was no actor and declaimed the lines dully as if he had learned them by rote, but their effect could not have been greater if they had been spoken by Firethorn himself. Through the medium of the play, David Jordan pur his brother on trial at the banquet.

Lord Westfield's mind was blurred by drink but he could still catch the gist of what was going on. He turned angrily to his nephew.

'Is this true, Francis?'

'No, uncle!'

The elder brother pointed a finger from on high and challenged the new master to step forward so that he could be judged by his peers.

'Be quiet!' yelled Francis Jordan, leaping up on to the table. 'All of you--be quiet! None of this is true! David should be locked away in a madhouse! He's insane!'

But it was the younger brother who was now closer to insanity. Jumping off the table, he ran to the stage and looked up at David to hurl abuse at him. The audience was captivated as a play turned into a real-life drama of surging intensity.

'I am the master here!' shouted Francis Jordan. 'Nothing changes that! Parkbrook is mine!'

Jack Harsnett crept into the hall and kept in the shadows as he worked his way towards the stage. Francis Jordan had dominated his mind for weeks. When he looked at the new master, he saw his wife buried in a mean grave, he saw the cottage they had shared for so many years, he saw the horse and cart they had owned. He also heard the voice of a one-eyed man who had been paid to frighten the mount of David Jordan as the latter rode at full gallop along a ride. The accident had not brought about the death that Francis Jordan had intended for his brother but it nevertheless made him into the new squire.

'Parkbrook is mine? he repeated. 'I defy anyone to take it from me.'

Harsnett accepted the challenge willingly.

He struck with terrifying force. Charging on to the stage with his axe held high, he needed only one vicious downward sweep of the blade to split the skull wide open. Blood spurted everywhere. In the general panic that ensued, Nicholas Bracewell darted forward to grapple with the forester and relieve him of his weapon. Burly servants came to his aid and they dragged Harsnett out.

The new master of Parkbrook lay dead on stage. With a gesture that was at once theatrical and tactful, Lawrence Firethorn removed his cloak and spread it over the corpse. Lord Westfield was stunned by it all and all the guests were dumbfounded. They were transfixed by the sight of the dead body of Francis Jordan.

Nicholas spared a thought for the elder brother and looked up at the gallery in time to see a breathless Grace Napier arrive. She walked towards David with her arms outstretched. He took time to recall who she was then he took her into a warm embrace. As one brother had met with grim justice, another was given a new lease of life. David Jordan was far from well but he would continue to recover now that he had Grace to nurse him.

The drama was not yet over. While everyone was still dazed by the spectacular murder on stage, a massive explosion went off and the Mouth of Hell was wheeled forward yet again. The flames were much bigger this time because they were consuming the prompt book of The Merry Devils, and because they were being intensified by sterner action on the bellows. As the fire blazed away in front of them, the audience saw the most extraordinary sight yet. A tall, elegant man, clad in red and black, stepped out of the Mouth of Hell in such a way that he seemed to be on fire. When they looked again, they saw that the flames were real.

Ralph Willoughby was burning to death before their eyes.

He was not afraid and seemed to be in no pain. He was even able to execute a short comic dance. Willoughby had planned it all with meticulous care. As he took his own life, he was also destroying the play which had caused so much disaster. There was a poetic justice to it all. Arms aloft in a gesture of farewell, he became a solid ball of flame and collapsed in the centre of the stage. When buckets of water finally arrived, they were years too late.

Willoughby had gone back to his Maker.

*

Problems during performance were not confined to Westfield's Men. Ten days later, at The Theatre in Shoreditch, Banbury's Men presented their new play, The Witch of Oxford. It was well played and equally well received until the moment when the witch cast her first spell. As she tried to summon up a black dog to act as her familiar, it appeared out of the air with gnashing savagery and chased everyone within reach. The play was abandoned and the company spent the night in prayer.

Ralph Willoughby had tricked them from beyond the grave.

'You must take most of the credit, Nick.'

'Oh, I do not think so,' said the book holder modestly.

'But you tracked down those acrobats and forced Grace to confess the truth. Yes, and you also suffered much for our sakes at the Counter.'

'That is behind me now, Edmund.'

The two friends were walking up Gracechurch Street on their way to the Queen's Head. Their voices were raised above the babble all around them. Parkbrook still bulked large in their minds.

'The house is to have a new guest,' noted Hoode.

'The miller's son from Bedlam.'

'Thanks to Doctor John Mordrake.'

'Yes,' said Nicholas. 'That is something else we owe to Ralph. He introduced us to that remarkable man. It was Mordrake's belief that the patient would slowly improve if taken away from Bedlam. The young man will get plenty of care at Parkbrook.'

'Master Jordan feels indebted to the fellow.'

'He is indebted to his steward as well.

'And to Grace!' said Hoode fondly. 'I worshipped her, Nick, and part of me always will, but I can see that he is better for her than me. Sonnets to beauty are all very well bin who reads verses when they have been married a fortnight? No, she and David Jordan have earned each other. We endured much to bring them together but our afflictions are now easy to bear. He needs the loving attention that only she can provide. Th.u is true devotion.'

They turned in through the main gates of the Queen's Head and strolled into the yard. The stage was set for another play and they stopped to gaze at it for a few seconds.

Hoode heaved a long sigh of regret.

'I will miss Ralph,' he said.

'Yes, he brought something rare to Westfield's Men.'

'Lawrence thought he betrayed us when he wrote that play for Banbury's Men but he was only setting a trap for them.' Hoode turned to his friend. 'Where is he now, do you think?'

'I am not sure.'

'Ralph wanted to go to Hell.'

Nicholas considered the matter then smiled affectionately.

'He was far too merry for Heaven."

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

The End

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