The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

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

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

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

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

  ‘Come, ladies. Unbutton me now.’

  Francis Jordan was clearly there for the whole night.

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

  ‘It outrages every tenet of public decency!’

  ‘Do not shout so, Isaac.’

  ‘The very fabric of our daily lives is at risk!’

  ‘I hear you, sir. I hear you.’ ‘We demand stern action from our elected guardians!’

  ‘Leave off, man. My head is a very belfry.’

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

  Isaac Pollard returned to the attack with unabated volume.

  ‘We seek support and satisfaction from you, Henry!’

  ‘Seek it more mildly,’ implored the other.

  ‘The authorities must act to stop this corruption now!’

  ‘What do you advocate, Isaac?’

  ‘First, that the Queen’s Head be closed forthwith!’

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

  ‘Master Ashway will not hear me.’

  ‘Then he must be deaf indeed, sir.’

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

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

  ‘Pleasure!’

  The word sent Pollard back up into the pulpit at Paul’s Cross and he delivered a virulent homily against the sins of the flesh. Henry Drewry could do nothing to stem the flow.

  They were in the Salter’s house in Bishopsgate and the host was wishing that he had not agreed to meet the fiery Puritan. Isaac Pollard was a friend of his because he found it politic to gain the acquaintance of any person of influence in the community. That friendship was now being put under intense strain.

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

  ‘Do you frequent the playhouse?’

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

  ‘Will you not condemn this filth?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

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

  ‘I would not, sir. I hope I am a sensible parent.’

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

  The anxious father now sought more details.

  ‘When was this offending performance?’

  ‘But two days since.’

  ‘At the Queen’s Head, you say?’

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

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

  ‘And a devil appeared upon the stage?’

  ‘Three, sir. There was no end to their blasphemy.’

  ‘What followed?’

  ‘Bedlam. The whole inn yard became Bedlam.’

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

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

  ‘How came they here?’ asked Kirk.

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

  ‘That is a high price, Master Rooksley.’

  ‘We earn it, sir. We earn it.’

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

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

  ‘Beating will not cure the mind.’

  ‘It will subdue the body, sir.’

  ‘Is that the sole treatment for these poor wretches?’

  ‘Most of them.’

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

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

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

  ‘Does he never leave this chamber?’

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

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

  ‘What ails the man?’

  ‘The Devil,’ said Rooksley. ‘He is possessed by the Devil.’

  Chapter Four

  The announcement that Westfield’s men were to stage The Merry Devils for a second time caused great consternation. Memories of the first performance were still fresh enough to haunt and harrow. Thomas Skillen was not the only member of the company forced to rediscover his Christian faith that afternoon and the few who had actually been able to sleep since had been prey to recurring nightmares. What they all desired was the much safer material of Vincentio’s Revenge and Cupid’s Folly. Seven gruesome deaths in the former and eight broken hearts in the latter were infinitely preferable to the risk of raising a devil. Protest was intense, but Lawrence Firethorn overruled it with imperious authority. Nicholas Bracewell came behind him to pick up the pieces. ‘Be not downhearted, lads!’

  ‘I quake,’ said George Dart.

  ‘I quail,’ said Roper Blundell.

  ‘There is no just cause.’

  ‘I cannot do it, Master Bracewell,’ gibbered Dart. ‘I will not, I must not, I dare not.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said his fellow. ‘This is work for a younger man.’

  ‘For no man at all,’ returned Dart. ‘I am young enough, but I’ll not venture upon it. I hope to be as old as you one day, Roper, and I would not be dragged off to Hell before my time.’

  ‘That will not happen,’ promised Nicholas.

  ‘The play is cursed!’ said Blundell.

  ‘We are fools to touch it again,’ added Dart.

  ‘Lord Westfield has spoken,’ reminded the book holder.

  Blundell wheezed. ‘Then let his lordship face that foul fiend!’

  They were chatting during a break in rehearsal at The Curtain. Neither of the assistant stagekeepers was cast in Cupid’s Folly and they were pathetically grateful. Any acting ambitions they might have nursed were dashed to pieces at the Queen’s Head and all they sought now was backstage anonymity. They made a curious pair. George Dart, with his face of crumpled hope, was dog-loyal to a company whose reward was to treat him like a dog. The most menial and degrading jobs were always assigned to him and he was a convenient whipping-boy if anything went wrong. Roper Blundell had such a gnarled visage that it looked as if it had been carved inexpertly from a giant turnip. Hair sprouted all over it. His body was small, wiry and surprisingly nimble for his age but he was often short of breath.

  ‘I understand your feelings in the matter,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Then do not press us,’ said Roper Blundell.

  ‘Someone must persuade you.’

  ‘We are beyond persuasion,’ asserted George Dart. ‘Nothing would drive us back into those red costumes.’

  ‘You must speak with Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘He will have no influence over us,’ said Blundell.

  ‘Hear him out,’ advised Nicholas. ‘He will tell you how he has altered the play to render it harmless. There is no chance of summoning up another devil. Were he to explain that, might you not both think again?’

  ‘No!’ they said in unison.

  ‘Would you let Westfield’s Men down in their hour of need?’

  ‘We must put our lives first,’ said Dart.

  ‘What life would you have without this company?’ asked Nicholas.

  His voice was gentle but it did not muffle the blow.

  The two small figures were shaken. George Dart suddenly looked very young and vulnerable, Roper Blundell, very old and desperate. In the hazardous world of the theatre, jobs were scarce and companies in a position to choose. If they were cut adrift from Westfield’s Men, neither of them would find it easy to secure employment elsewhere.

  Nicholas Bracewell was highly sympathetic to their plight. He liked them both and would not willingly part with either, but the decision did not rest with him. He thought it only fair to warn them of what might lie ahead.

  ‘Master Firethorn is adamant.’

  George Dart was distraught. ‘Would he turn us out?’

  ‘We must have merry devils at The Rose.’

  ‘Help us,’ begged Roper Blundell. ‘You have been our good friend this long time, Master Bracewell. We would not go through that torture again and yet we would not leave the company either. It is our home. We have no other. Help us, sir.’

  Nicholas nodded and put a consoling arm around each of them.

  ‘I will bethink me.’

  Henry Drewry waddled around the room to build up his moral indignation.

  ‘Why did you not tell me of this dreadful visit beforehand?’

  ‘You did not ask, Father,’ said Isobel.

  ‘I have a right to be consulted about your movements.’

  ‘You were not here. Had you been so, you would not have listened.’

  ‘Do not be insolent, girl!’

  ‘I am being truthful,’ she replied levelly. ‘Mother will say it as well as I. You are deaf to any words that we speak.’

  ‘I am still the master of this house!’ he blustered.

  ‘That is why I do not bother you with trifling matters.’

  ‘This is no trifling matter, Isobel!’

  ‘I went to a play, that is all. Wherein lies my crime?’

  ‘In that, young lady!’

  Henry Drewry stopped in the middle of the room to confront his daughter. Everything about her irritated him, not least the fact that she was a few inches taller. Isobel had her mother’s looks, her father’s ebullience and a stubbornness that was all her own. Her serene smile enraged him.

  ‘Do not smile at me so!’

  ‘How, then, should I smile at you, Father?’

  ‘I will not endure this impudence!’

  ‘But I am not trying to upset you, sir.’

  ‘You study it,’ he accused. ‘Why did you visit the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘To see a comedy.’

  ‘Is there laughter in blasphemy?’

  ‘I shared in the laughter but
saw no blasphemy.’

  ‘Who enticed you to that evil place?’

  ‘Grace Napier,’ she said. ‘But it was not evil.’

  He blenched. ‘The two of you? Unchaperoned?’

  ‘Her brother escorted us there,’ she lied.

  ‘So the Napier family is to blame for leading you astray.’

  ‘No, Father. I went of my own free will.’

  ‘That is even worse,’ he said, stamping a foot. ‘Can you not see the peril you courted? Plays are a source of corruption!’

  ‘Have you never been to a playhouse?’ she asked with a giggle. ‘Come, I know you have. Mother has told me. There was a time when you organised an interlude at the Salters’ Company. And you often went to see a comedy at the Bel Savage in Ludgate. You liked plays then, Father, and they did not corrupt you.’

  ‘Leave off these jests!’

  ‘Grace and I watched three merry devils in a dance.’

  ‘It was an act of profanity!’

  ‘It was the funniest sight that ever I saw but it did me no harm, except to make my ribs ache from laughing.’

  ‘I will not bear this!’ he howled.

  Drewry took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. Why was it that other fathers had so little trouble with their daughters when he had so much? What fatal errors had he made in rearing the girl? Had he been too soft, too indulgent, too preoccupied with his civic duties and his business affairs? By now, Isobel should be married and ready to present him with his first grandchild, but she had rejected every husband that he chose for her and done so in round terms. It was time she learned that she could not flout his authority.

  ‘You should not have gone to the Queen’s Head,’ he said.