The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘Have you?’ said the other, deflecting the question.

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

  ‘I have thought I was in love.’

  ‘But it was not the thing itself.’

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

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

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

  ‘But he does not make your heart pound?’

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

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

  ‘But you will be there to see it for yourself?’

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

  ‘Why, Isobel?’

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

  ‘How were you seen? You wore a mask.’

  ‘I was recognised by my dress.’

  Grace sighed. ‘But I did so want your company tomorrow.’

  ‘Let your brother sit beside you.’

  ‘He is busy.’

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

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

  ‘Disguise?’

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

  ‘It is a clever idea, certainly.’

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

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

  ‘Good! There is no risk of discovery.’

  ‘We will travel in secret like spies.’

  ‘Veiled and hooded against all inquiry.’

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

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

  ‘But a lot more merry, I hope!’

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

  A SERMON PREACHED AT PAWLES CROSS

  by Isaac Pollard

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

  1589

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

  Unaccountably, he felt the steady pull of temptation.

  Chapter Six

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

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

  George Dart and Roper Blundell were totally cowed.

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

  ‘No, master,’ said George Dart.

  ‘How, sir?’ asked Roper Blundell.

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

  Dart and Blundell covered their codpieces with both hands.

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

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

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

  ‘Nothing, master,’ bleated George Dart.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ agreed Roper Blundell, starting to cry.

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

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

  ‘We would,’ said Dart bravely.

  ‘Give us the chance, sir,’ asked Blundell.

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

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘None, sir.’

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

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

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

  ‘We
are here, sir.’

  ‘We will stay.’

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

  ‘No, no,’ they chimed, helping him back up again.

  ‘Then let me appeal to your sense of obligation. As hired men, as close friends, as true spirits of the theatre – will you help me, lads?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Blundell was now weeping convulsively.

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

  ‘That is music to my old ears.’

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

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

  He went out to an imaginary round of applause.

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

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

  Dart and Blundell reacted with identical horror.

  ‘That foul fiend will come again?’

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

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

  ‘I like not this work,’ he said lugubriously.

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

  It was the funereal Caleb Smythe who put the question. ‘What if a fourth devil should appear, Master Bracewell?’

  The answer was quite unequivocal.

  ‘Then I shall be waiting for him!’

  Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart, it was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little.

  The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.

  Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.

  ‘Thankee,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I tried, Jack.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘The new master was deaf to all entreaty.’

  ‘New master!’

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

  ‘Things’ll change,’ he grunted.

  ‘I fear they will, Jack.’

  ‘We’re but the first of many to go.’

  ‘I will work to get you back.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you are a proven man in the forest.’

  ‘I’ll not serve him,’ sneered Harsnett.

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

  ‘Let me help you,’ said Glanville kindly.

  ‘I can manage.’

  ‘But if your wife is unwell …’

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

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

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

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

  ‘God go with you!’ said Glanville.

  But they had no time to hear him.

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

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

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

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

  ‘I’ve brought your meal, David.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You have to do better than that, sir,’ coaxed the other. ‘I will not feed you else. Come, sir, what is that word we learned this morning?’

  David’s brow knotted with concentration for a moment.

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

  Th … ank …’

  ‘Try again, David.’

  ‘Th … ank … you …’

  ‘Well done, sir! That deserves a meal.’

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

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

  ‘Th … ank …’

  ‘Speak up, sir.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Excellent!’

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

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’ asked Kirk.

  ‘Da … vid.’

  ‘Again.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘Again!’

  ‘David. David. David.’

  ‘And where do you live, David?’

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

  ‘Where is your home?’ said the keeper.

  David glanced around and gestured with both hands.

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

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

  ‘Was it in London?’

  Unsure at first, David gave a hesitant shake of his head. ‘Was it in a city?’

  A longer wait then another uncertain shake of the head. ‘Then you must have lived in the country, David.’ Bewilderment contorted the other’s face. He was lost again.

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

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

  ‘You lived in the country. Was it in a village?’