‘I value that kindness.’
‘Do not fear to ask for anything.’
‘I will not, Margery.’
‘If you wish to stay here, a bed can be found.’
‘That will not be necessary, my angel,’ said Firethorn, butting in on the conversation because he was no longer the centre of attention in his own house. ‘It is only Barnaby’s arm that is grazed, my dove. His legs are still sturdy enough to carry him back to his lodging. Besides, he has too much pride to impose on us.’
Gill shot him a hurt look. He was not so enamoured of Margery as to seek her hospitality for a few days, but he relished the idea of sleeping under the same roof as the four apprentices and having the opportunity to play on their sympathies. His invitation had now been summarily cancelled by his host.
Margery Firethorn shifted her interest to the accident. ‘How came that maypole to break in such a manner?’
‘Act of God,’ said Gill ruefully.
‘Of the devil, you mean,’ corrected Firethorn. ‘Someone had cut through the oak to weaken it. Nick Bracewell showed me how it was done.’
‘Master Bracewell must bear some of the blame,’ said Gill sourly. ‘It is his job to check that all our properties and stage furniture are safe. There has been laxity.’
‘He saw the maypole do its duty during the rehearsal,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick found it secure enough then. He did not realise that it was later tampered with by some villain.’
‘My life was put at risk, Lawrence. He should be upbraided.’
‘He has already upbraided himself.’
‘This calls for a stern warning from you.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Barnaby.’
‘If it was left to me, I’d dismiss the fellow.’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Margery.
‘I would sooner dismiss myself,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick has no peer among book holders and I have known dozens. Westfield’s Men owe him an enormous debt.’
‘I do not share that sense of obligation, Lawrence.’
Barnaby Gill had always disliked the book holder, resenting the way that he took on more and more responsibility in the company. He could not bear to see Nicholas being treated like a sharer when the latter was only a hired man.
‘You involve him too much in our councils.’
‘Thank goodness I do. He has saved us many a time.’
‘He did not save me up that maypole.’
‘Nor was he the cause of your fall,’ said Firethorn testily. ‘Someone plotted your accident and only Nick Bracewell will be able to find out who it is. We need him more than ever.’
‘Besides,’ said Margery fondly, ‘he is a true gentleman.’
Gill snorted. Abandoning all hope of persuading them, he announced that he felt well enough to return to his own lodging. He pretended that he was still in intense pain but said he would endure it with Stoic demeanour rather than be a nuisance to them. Margery pressed him to stay but her husband countermanded the offer.
‘Go early to your bed, Barnaby.’
‘I may not leave it for days.’
‘We have another performance tomorrow. Be mindful.’
‘Today’s play still weighs upon me, sir.’
‘We’ll find the culprit,’ said Firethorn confidently.
‘Some minion employed by Banbury’s Men no doubt.’
‘Or some viper within our own circle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He has been the villain all along.’
‘Who, Lawrence?’
‘He hacked through that maypole by way of farewell.’
‘Tell us his name,’ said Margery.
‘Willoughby.’
‘Ralph Willoughby?’
‘I can think of no man more likely,’ he said gravely. ‘Damn the fellow! He knew the action of the play and at what point in it he could most damage us. Yes, I see the humour of it now. Willoughby was mortally wounded when I dismissed him from the company. We saw the extent of his anger this afternoon in that foul crime. It was his revenge.’
Life as the book holder of Westfield’s Men was highly exacting at all times. Nicholas Bracewell was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Having set everything up for the morning’s rehearsal, he now supervised the withdrawal from the theatre. They would not be playing at The Curtain again for a couple of weeks and all their scenery, costumes and properties had to be safely transported back to the room at the Queen’s Head where it was kept. As well as coordinating the efforts of his men, Nicholas had yet again to find some means to lift their spirits. The accident with the maypole had plunged them back into despair. First with The Merry Devils and now Cupid’s Folly, they had suffered a disaster that was not of their own making. It was unnerving.
‘Shall we ever be free of these uncanny happenings?’
‘No question but that we shall.’
‘I am anxious, Master Bracewell.’
‘Overcome your anxiety.’
‘It is too great, sir.’
‘Fight it, George. Strive to better it.’
‘Roper thinks that Satan has set his cloven hoof upon us.’
‘Roper Blundell has a wild imagination.’
‘He was sober when he spoke.’
‘Sober or drunk, he is not to be heeded.’
‘Then who did attack us today, master?’
‘I have no answer to that,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but this I do know. There was sawdust in the tiring-house where the maypole was kept before it was used. Some person cut through that solid oak when the place was unattended. Satan would have no need of such careful carpentry. He could have split the pole at his will.’
‘And may yet do that!’
George Dart was desolate. Spared the ordeal of an acting role in Cupid’s Folly, he and Roper Blundell did make an appearance on stage when they set up the maypole. In carrying it on, they unwittingly assisted in the downfall of Barnaby Gill and it preyed on them. Nicholas tried to reassure the assistant stagekeeper but Dart was inconsolable. There had been two calamities on stage already.
‘When will the third strike us, Master Bracewell?’
‘We must ensure that it does not.’
George Dart shrugged helplessly and trudged off. He and Roper Blundell left the theatre together, companions in misery. Their lowly position in the company made their jobs thankless enough at the best of times. Now they were being put on the rack as well. Neither would survive another devil or a second broken maypole.
After a final tour to check that all was in order, Nicholas came out of the playhouse himself. He was just in time to witness a brief but affectionate leavetaking. Two young ladies, dressed in their finery, were parting company with Edmund Hoode. Both were attractive but one had the more startling beauty. Yet he ignored her completely. Transfixed by the quieter charms of the other, he took her proffered hand and laid a tender kiss upon it, blushing in the ecstasy of the moment. The women raised their masks to their faces then sailed gracefully off to the carriage that was waiting for them. Hoode watched until the vehicle rattled away down Holywell Lane.
Nicholas strolled across to his still-beaming friend. ‘You wanted to speak with me, Edmund.’
‘Did I?’
‘We arranged to meet when my work was done.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Hoode, clutching at a vague memory. ‘Forgive me, Nicholas. My mind is on other matters.’
‘Let us turn our feet homeward.’
They walked in silence for a long while. Suppressing his natural curiosity, Nicholas made no mention of what he had just witnessed. If his companion wished to discuss the subject, he would raise it. For his part, Hoode was torn between the need for discretion and the urge to confide. He wanted both to keep and share his secret. Nicholas was a close friend who always showed tact and understanding. It was this consideration which finally made Hoode blurt out his confession.
‘I am in love!’
‘The possibility occurred to me,’ sai
d Nicholas wryly.
‘Yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve. It was ever thus.’
‘Who is the young lady?’
‘The loveliest creature in the world!’
It was a description that Edmund Hoode used rather often. Drawn into a series of unsuitable and largely unproductive love affairs, he had the capacity to put each failure behind him and view his latest choice with undiminished wonder. It was the triumph of hope over cynicism. Hoode was indeed a true romantic.
‘Her name is Grace Napier,’ he said proudly.
‘It becomes her well.’
‘Did you not see that eye, that lip, that cheek?’
‘I was struck at once by her qualities.’
‘Grace is without compare.’
‘Of good family, too, I would judge.’
‘Her father is a mercer in the City.’
Nicholas was duly impressed. The Mercers’ Company included some of the wealthiest men in London. Merchants who dealt in fine textiles, they gained their royal charter as early as 1394 and were now so well-established and respected that they came first in order of precedence at the annual Lord Mayor’s Banquet. If Grace Napier were the daughter of a mercer, she would want for nothing.
‘How did you meet her?’ asked Nicholas.
‘She is bedazzled by the theatre and never tires of watching plays. Westfield’s Men have impressed her most.’
‘And you have been the most impressive of Westfield’s Men.’
‘Yes!’ said Hoode with delight. ‘She singled me out during Double Deceit. Is that not a miracle?’
‘Double Deceit is one of your best plays, Edmund.’
‘Grace admired my performance in it as well.’
‘You always excel in parts you tailor for yourself.’
‘Her brother approached me,’ continued Hoode, ‘and told me how much they had enjoyed my work. I was then introduced to Grace herself. Her enthusiasm touched me to the core, Nick. We authors have poor reward for our pains but she made all my efforts worthwhile. I loved her for her interest and our friendship has grown from that time on.’
Nicholas was touched as he listened to the full story and could not have been more pleased on the other’s behalf. Hoode had a fatal tendency to fall for women who – for some reason or another – were quite unattainable and his ardour was wasted in a fruitless chase. Grace Napier was of a different order. Young, unmarried and zealous in her playgoing, she was learning to welcome his attentions and thanked him warmly for the sonnet she inspired. The luck which eluded the playwright for so long had at last come his way.
‘And who was that other young lady, Edmund?’
‘What other young lady?’
The point was taken. Nicholas withdrew his enquiry. After letting his friend unpack his heart about Grace, he tried to guide him back to the reason that had brought them together on their walk. Shoreditch had now become Bishopsgate Street. Through a gap between two houses, they could see cows grazing in the distance.
‘Why did you seek me out?’ said Nicholas.
‘Why else but to talk of Grace?’
‘You had some other purpose, I fancy.’
‘Oh.’ Hoode’s face clouded. ‘I had forgot.’
As the conversation took on a more serious tone, they stopped in their tracks. Neither of them noticed that they were standing outside Bedlam. Nor did they guess that something which might have an important bearing on their own lives was going on behind its locked doors. The hospital was simply a backdrop to their exchange.
‘It is Ralph Willoughby,’ said Hoode.
‘What of him?’
‘I need his help with The Merry Devils.’
‘But he has been outlawed by Master Firethorn.’
‘That will not deter me.’
There was a defiant note in his voice, but a question in his raised eyebrow. He was ready, of course, to disregard a major decision taken by Lawrence Firethorn. What he needed to know was whether or not Nicholas would support him in his action.
‘I’ll not betray you, Edmund.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Ralph was not well-treated by us,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve no quarrel with him and would be glad of his advice about the play.’
‘He wrote that scene and only he should alter its course.’
‘I accept that.’
‘It would be wrong to proceed without him.’
‘Work together in private and nobody will be the wiser.’
‘I am vexed by a problem, Nick.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘There is no sign of Ralph.’
‘You have been to his lodging?’
‘He has not slept there for nights,’ said Hoode. ‘I can gain no clue as to his whereabouts. That is why I came to you for some counsel. Ralph Willoughby has vanished from London.’
The house in Knightrider Street was a large lackadaisical structure whose half-timbered frontage sagged amiably forwards. Through the open window on the first floor came the rich aroma of a herbal compound, only to lose its independence as it merged with the darker pungencies of the street. A face appeared briefly at the window and a small quantity of liquid was dispatched from a bowl. It fell to the cobbled surface below and sizzled for a few seconds before spending itself in a mass of bubbles. The face took itself back into the chamber.
Evening shadows obliged Doctor John Mordrake to work by candlelight. Up in the cluttered laboratory with its array of weird charts and bizarre equipment, its learned tomes and its herbal remedies, he crouched low over a table and used a pestle and mortar to pound a reddish substance into a fine powder. There was an intensity about him which suggested remarkable concentration and he was not deflected in the least by any of the harsh sounds that bombarded him through the window. He had created his own peculiar world around him and it was complete in itself.
Mordrake was a big man who had been made smaller by age and by inclination. His shoulders were round, his spine curved, his legs unequal to the weight placed upon them. Time had cruelly redrawn the lines on his visage to make it seem smaller and less open than it was. Long, lank, silver-grey hair further reduced the size of his face, which terminated in a straggly beard. He wore a black gown and black buckled shoes. A chain of almost mayoral pretension hung around his neck and gold rings enclosed several of his skinny fingers.
Old, tired, even ravaged, Doctor John Mordrake yet conveyed a sense of power. There was an inner strength that came from the possession of arcane knowledge, a glow of confidence that came from a surging intellect. Here was an ordinary man in touch with the extraordinary, an astrologer who could foretell the future, an alchemist who could manipulate the laws of nature, a cunning wizard who could speak to the dead in their own language. Mordrake was an intercessory between one life and the next. It gave him a luminescent quality.
Footsteps creaked on the oak stairs outside and there was a knock on the door. The servant showed in a visitor, bowed humbly and shuffled out. Mordrake did not even look up at the satin-clad gallant who had called on him and who now stood tentatively near the door. The old man worked patiently away and a thin smile flitted across his lips.
‘Good evening, sir. I thought you would come again.’
‘Did you so?’ said the visitor.
‘I have been expecting you for days.’
‘Have you?’
‘We both know what brings you to Knightrider Street.’
‘I am afraid, sir.’
Ralph Willoughby had come to talk about devils.
Chapter Five
Bankside was anathema to the puritans. It was the home of all that was lewd and licentious and most of them sedulously avoided its fetid streets and lanes. Isaac Pollard was a rare exception. Instead of shunning the area, he frequently sought it out on the grounds that it was best to measure the strength of an enemy whom you wished to destroy. He hated his journeys through the narrow passages of Bankside but they always yielded some recompense. New outrages were found on each visit
. They served to consolidate his faith and to make him continue his mission with increased vigour. If London were to be purged of sin, this was the place to start.
Pollard belonged to the hard core of activists in the Puritan fold. Although there were no more than a few hundred of them, they were powerful, well-organised and fearless in the pursuit of their cause. With influential backing in high places, they could on occasion exert strong pressure. Their avowed aim was to remodel the Church of England on Calvinist or Presbyterian lines, introducing a greater simplicity and cutting away what they saw as the vestigial remains of Roman Catholicism. But the Puritan zealots did not rest there. They wanted everyone to live the life of a true Christian, observing a strict moral code and abjuring any pleasures.
It was this aspect of their ministry that brought Isaac Pollard for another walk in the region of damnation that evening. In his plain dark attire with its white ruff, he was an incongruous figure among the gaudy gallants and the swaggering soldiers. From beneath his black hat, he scowled fiercely at all and sundry. Believing that integrity was its own protection, he nevertheless carried a stout walking stick with him to beat off any rogues or pickpockets. Pollard was more than ready to strike a blow in the name of the Lord.
A group of revellers tumbled noisily out of a tavern ahead of him and leaned against each other for support. Laughing and belching, they made their way slowly towards him and jeered when they recognised what he was. Pollard bravely stood his ground as they brushed past, hurling obscenities at him and his calling. Even in the foul stench of the street, he could smell the ale on their breaths.
It was a brief but distressing incident. When he came to the next corner, however, he saw something much more appalling than a gang of drunken youths. Huddled in the shadow of a doorway down the adjacent lane, a man was molesting a woman. He had lifted her skirts up and held her in a firm embrace. Pollard could not see exactly what was going on but he heard her muffled protests. Raising his stick, he advanced on the wrongdoer and yelled a command.
‘Unhand that lady, sir!’
‘I fart at thee!’ roared the man.
‘Leave go of her or I will beat you soundly.’
‘Let a poor girl earn her living!’ shrieked the woman.
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