The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

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

  ‘On a farm? In a cottage somewhere?’

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

  ‘Did you live in a small house, David?’

  ‘N … n … n …’

  ‘No. Good. Was it a large house, then?’

  David produced the beaming smile again. He laughed aloud.

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

  ‘Y … y … ye … ye …’ The word finally spurted out. ‘Yes!’

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

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

  A young chambermaid was changing the linen on the fourposter.

  ‘Who’s here?’ he asked with a vinous smirk.

  ‘Oh!’ She turned around in alarm.

  ‘Do not be afraid, my dear.’

  ‘I did not expect you to be here, sir.’

  ‘I am very glad that I am.’

  ‘Would you like me to leave?’

  ‘No, mistress. What is your name?’

  ‘Jane Skinner, sir.’

  ‘Well, Jane Skinner, I am your new master.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said with a dutiful curtsey.

  ‘Finish what you were doing.’

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

  ‘Help me across,’ he said.

  ‘Are you not well, sir?’

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

  ‘I have that, sir.’

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

  ‘Lift up my feet, Jane.’

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

  ‘Come closer for I would whisper to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

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

  ‘Undress me.’

  ‘Master!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Undress me slowly, mistress.’

  ‘I will call a valet presently.’

  ‘This is woman’s work, Jane.’

  ‘You are hurting my arm, sir.’

  ‘Then do as you are told.’

  ‘But it is not my place.’

  ‘You are mine to command, girl.’

  Hope flickered. ‘Haply, you jest with me, sir.’

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

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

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

  But she might not be so fortunate next time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Now will you believe that it was a real devil?’

  Ralph Willoughby had watched it all.

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

  ‘Let us pray.’

  ‘That includes you, Martin Yeo.’

  ‘Let us pray.’

  ‘Lower your head, John Tallis.’

  ‘Let us pray.’

  ‘Close your mouth, Stephen Judd.’

  ‘Let us all pray!’

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

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

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen’ came the collective sigh of relief.

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

  ‘I feel better for that, master,’ confessed George Dart.

  ‘It gives me new heart,’ said Roper Blundell.

  ‘I like not prayers,’ muttered Caleb Smythe.

  ‘They were most beautifully read,’ said Firethorn pointedly.

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

  ‘Oh, heavens!’ wailed Dart. ‘Death, he cries!’

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

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

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

  ‘What lies behind this, Lawrence?’

  ‘Behind what, dearest?’

  ‘These unexpected prayers.’

  ‘I was moved by the spirit, Margery.’

  ‘It has never shifted you one inch before, sir.’

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

  ‘It sounded like Nicholas Bracewell to me.’

  ‘Ah …’

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

  ‘Nothing to trouble your pretty little head about, angel.’

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

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

  ‘It has been your daily habit these fifteen years.’

  ‘Margery!’

  ‘Honesty has never been your strong suit.’

  ‘I am the most veracious fellow in London.’

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

  ‘On a personal matter, my love.’

  ‘There is another woman involved?’

  ‘That is a most ignoble thought, Margery.’

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

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

  ‘Why do you keep me away, Lawrence?’

  ‘I do not, my pigeon.’

  ‘Is it because of this other woman?’

  ‘What other woman?’

  ‘You tell me, sir. Their names change so often.’

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

  ‘They may not be real fiends, Margery.’

  ‘They sound so to me.’

  ‘Nicholas believes otherwise and he is a shrewd judge.’

  ‘What of you, Lawrence?’

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

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

  ‘There can be no question of that.’

  ‘I mean it, sir.’

  ‘Lord Westfield overrules you.’

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

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

  ‘Then why did you read those prayers?’

  ‘I have been something slack in my devotions of late.’

  ‘You feared for the lives of those lads.’

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

  ‘Your prayers were meant to save them!’

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

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

  ‘I’ll see they come to no harm.’

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

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

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

  ‘Stay close to me, brethren, and guard your purses.’

  ‘Will there be pickpockets?’ said one.

  ‘By the score.’

  ‘But would they dare to touch us?’ said another.

  ‘They would rob an Archbishop of his mitre.’

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

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

  ‘How was it done?’ asked the theologian.

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

  Five married men crossed London Bridge in grim silence.

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