The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  Anne Hendrik was there with Preben van Loew, the most skilful and senior of her hat-makers, a dour man in his fifties with a redeeming glint in his eye. The Dutchman was caught in two minds. His Huguenot conscience baulked at the idea of visiting a playhouse yet he could not allow his respected employer to venture there alone. Besides, he soon began to enjoy the envious glances that he was getting from those who assumed he was more than just the consort of the handsome and well-dressed lady at his side. Moral scruples still flickered, but he was ready to ignore them for a couple of hours.

  Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry had cushioned seats in the middle gallery and stayed behind their veils. Wearing a gown of blue figured velvet that she had borrowed from her friend, Isobel felt armoured against discovery. Settling down to enjoy the occasion to the full, she giggled inwardly at her own daring. Grace Napier was as poised as ever. That morning she had received another sonnet from Edmund Hoode, declaring his love for her once more and urging her to watch his performance for further proof of his devotion. Her affection for him deepened but it was still edged with regret.

  Ralph Willoughby made for the highest gallery. He was dressed in emerald green with a slashed doublet, an orange codpiece and hose that displayed the length and shapeliness of his legs. A small, round, jewelled cap was set at a rakish angle on his head. An opal dangled from one ear. He was a debonair and carefree man about town again. Whatever stirred within him was kept well-hidden.

  Isaac Pollard brought in his colleagues and they found places in the lower gallery, a solid phalanx of black disapproval amid a sea of multi-coloured excitement. They glared at the stage as if it were the gates of Hell, ready to disgorge its fiendish contents at any moment. Preoccupied in this way, they did not observe the low portly figure who was seated opposite. Tricked out in finery that indicated wealth and respectability, he had the look of a man who had come to glower yet might stay to laugh. Henry Drewry was mellowing visibly.

  Lord Westfield provoked a cheer of recognition as he took his seat amid his entourage. He wore a high-starched collar, a stiffened doublet which had been neatly tailored to allow for the contours of his paunch, padded and embroidered breeches and blue silk stockings. His gloves were of the finest blue leather. He favoured a large hat with an explosion of feathers and looked like the image of a middle-aged dandy. With their patron at his place, Westfield’s Men could begin.

  The last few spectators were allowed in to join the crush in the pit or shoulder themselves a space on a bench. One silver-haired old man in a long robe inserted himself into a narrow seat in the bottom gallery and looked around the theatre with calculating wonder. He absorbed every detail of its structure and noted every feature of its occupants. It was as if he was repairing the one tiny gap that existed in his knowledge of the universe. Combining scholarly curiosity with scientific detachment, he got the measure of The Rose and was not displeased. He came on the heels of his own prediction. Something sinister was going to happen that afternoon and he wished to be there to see it.

  Doctor John Mordrake had a personal stake in the event.

  Superstition was the life-blood of the theatre. Most actors carried lucky charms or recited favourite pieces or went through an established ritual before a performance in the belief that it conferred good fortune. It was standard practice. Among Westfield’s Men, it now became something far more. The Merry Devils enslaved them to superstition. Hardly a man in the company did not take some precautions. Several of them went to the cunning woman in Vixen Lane to purchase charms that would ward off evil spirits. Two of them spent the night in prayer. Three more had parted with a groat apiece for a phial of liquid that was guaranteed to preserve them from any supernatural manifestation, and they were not in the least put out by its close resemblance to vinegar both in appearance and taste. Other charlatans had made their profits in other ways from the credulous players. Their situation was desperate. They would try anything.

  Lawrence Firethorn evinced the confidence of old. He had the seasoned calmness of the veteran before battle. Yet even he had made one concession to the possibility of an unexpected guest. He wore his rapier at his side and kept one hand upon it.

  Nicholas Bracewell appraised him in the tiring-house.

  ‘Justice Wildboare has no need of a sword,’ he said.

  ‘Lawrence Firethorn might.’

  ‘There is no real devil, master.’

  ‘Then a counterfeit one will feel my blade.’

  ‘None will appear.’

  ‘How can you say that after last night?’

  They kept their voices low and both wore smiles to mask their inner doubts. It was their duty to set an example to the others and to instil some confidence.

  ‘Has everything been checked?’ asked Firethorn.

  ‘Several times, master.’

  ‘Below stage?’

  ‘I was there myself but two minutes ago. All is in order. The gunpowder is in place and the trap-doors are ready.’

  ‘And if something should go awry?’

  ‘It will not, sir.’

  ‘But if it does …’

  ‘Ned Rankin holds the book for me during that scene,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll be free to watch more closely and take action if the need arises. Trust in me.’

  ‘I always do, dear heart!’

  Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then wandered off. Nicholas went across to the three men who suffered the most – the merry devils. Seen from behind, George Dart, Roper Blundell and Caleb Smythe looked identical in their startling costumes. Dart was silent, Blundell was wide-eyed with nervousness, Smythe was reciting a children’s rhyme to himself by way of a diversion.

  Nicholas gave what reassurance he could but it was wasted on Blundell and Smythe, who were far too steeped in misery. Dart, however, responded with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The others stared at him. When the most timorous member of the company could face his ordeal with amusement, there was only one explanation.

  ‘Have you been drinking, George?’ said Nicholas sternly.

  ‘Yes, master,’ came the happy reply.

  ‘You know where you are?’

  ‘In Bankside at The Rose.’

  ‘You know what you have to do?’

  Another chuckle. ‘Pop up through a trap-door and cry “Boo!”’

  ‘Are you fit for this work?’ said the book holder seriously.

  ‘I’ll not let you down, master.’

  Nicholas did not have the heart to castigate him. It was a strict rule of the company that nobody went on stage inebriated. Dismissal was a real threat to offenders. George Dart was no drunkard. Apart from anything else, his meagre wage would not sustain such a habit. Only the need to combat a terrible fear could have sent him to a tavern. Nicholas understood and made allowances. Dart was sober enough to play his part and drunk enough not to worry about it.

  ‘We count on you, George. Mark that.’

  ‘I know my role, sir.’

  ‘Then do not play it too close to Master Firethorn. You know his rule about drink. Be merry, George, but not to excess.’

  ‘I’ll be a devil to the life!’

  When the black cloak of the Prologue swished on to the stage, there was a tumultuous reception. It was surpassed only by the cannonade of sound that greeted the entry of Justice Wildboare. The audience surrendered to Lawrence Firethorn before he even opened his mouth. When he did finally launch into his first long expository speech, he found humour in every phrase – sometimes, in a single word – and set the whole place at a roar. By the time the other characters joined in the action, the spectators had been thoroughly warmed up.

  As the play gathered pace and the laughter intensified, it soon became clear that this performance was vastly better in every way than the earlier one. Some important changes had been made. Edmund Hoode had tightened the construction, introduced a new comic duel, provided some new songs and generally improved the whole texture of the play. The most notable alteration came with his own character.
Youngthrust had even more prominence now – his codpiece was stupendous – and he wept buckets of glorious blank verse. Some of the words were written for Grace Napier but the whole theatre appreciated them.

  Doctor Castrato had lost lines but gained extra stage business. His mincing steps and piping voice mined new veins of hilarity. When he promised Justice Wildboare that he would raise a devil, the loudest shout of the afternoon went up from the onlookers. This was the moment which they had come to relish and they tensed themselves in readiness.

  As she had been instructed, Anne Hendrik kept her eyes on the trap-doors. Henry Drewry stood up to look over the head of the man in front of him. Doctor John Mordrake felt a tingle of premonition. Isaac Pollard bunched his fists and lifted the single eyebrow. Lord Westfield nudged his companions to watch carefully.

  Ralph Willoughby went faint with dread.

  Castrato went into his attenuated chanting. Then he did an elaborate mime that culminated in his act of summons when he scattered a magic powder in two different places on the stage. Response was immediate. One trap-door opened and out jumped George Dart to the accompaniment of a blinding flash and a resounding bang. The effect was so well-timed that it completely stunned the audience. Emboldened by drink, the first merry devil scuttled around the stage with gleeful abandon.

  Nicholas Bracewell was concealed behind the arras to get a better view. He wondered why the second trap-door did not open. Roper Blundell should have appeared simultaneously with Dart. Had there been a problem with the mechanism. He was given no time to speculate. There was a longer, louder, brighter explosion and Caleb Smythe catapulted up through the first trap-door. He did a wild jig, turned a somersault, then went with his co-devil to kneel before their new master.

  Justice Wildboare took over.

  Nicholas slipped quietly into the tiring-house and made his way to the steps at the rear. He went down under the stage to find it gloomy and permeated with the smells of the multitude. The play continued above his head. It was quite eerie. As he picked his way along, he could hear the actors strutting about on the boards and feel the roar of the spectators pressing in upon him.

  Something sparkled in the half-light. It was the protruding eyes of Roper Blundell. He lay flat on his back in a little red heap, gazing up sightlessly at the drama that he should have joined. Nicholas knelt down beside him and learned the worst. Here was one merry devil who would never go up through a trap-door again.

  Roper Blundell was dead.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicholas Bracewell bent over the body and examined it as best he could in the circumstances. He saw no wound, no blood, no mark of any kind. There was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A decision now had to be made. Did he take the corpse away or leave it where it was? Decency suggested the former but practicalities had to be taken into account. Nobody else knew about the death of Roper Blundell. To walk back up to the tiring-house with the little body in his arms would be to disseminate terror. The play itself was still running. That was the main thing. Nicholas could not risk bringing it to a premature halt by revealing that it had somehow brought about the demise of an assistant stagekeeper.

  Roper Blundell was to remain where he was, lying in state in his echoing tomb, occupying a rectangle of solitude in the very midst of a huge crowd. He had lost his part as well as his life. Realising that he could not chase two devils off the stage, Caleb Smythe, as the third foul fiend, had moved himself up in the order. He became the second devil and did everything in unison with George Dart. With Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill adapting instantly to the situation, the absence of Blundell was not noticed by the audience. Nicholas touched the old man beside him in a gesture of respect. The theatre could be a cruel place. It had just excised a human being from a drama as if the fellow had never existed.

  A rumble of thunder made Nicholas look upward. Justice Wildboare did not miss the cue to work in some lines from another play.

  God is angry, sirs! Hear how the Heavens rebuke us.

  This thunder will send us all down into Hell!

  After one last look at the prostrate form, the book holder went back up to the tiring-house and ran into a flurry of enquiries about Blundell. He announced that the old man was not well enough to take any further part in the play and that he would rest where he was. It was important that nobody disturbed him. To this end, Nicholas stationed the venerable Thomas Skillen at the top of the steps and told him to let no man pass. The stagekeeper was a willing guardian.

  Westfield’s Men performed The Merry Devils with a zest and a commitment they would not have thought possible. Now that the danger zone had been safely passed – as they thought – they could devote themselves to the finer points of their art. Roper Blundell was forgotten. Instead of wondering what lay beneath the stage, the actors were more concerned with what stretched above. The sky was now full of swollen clouds and the thunder rumbled ominously.

  Nicholas resumed his post and took the book from Ned Rankin. A scene ended and Justice Wildboare came sweeping into the tiring-house. He made straight for the book holder.

  ‘Where’s Blundell?’

  ‘Indisposed.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He has retired hurt, master.’

  ‘I’ll retire the rogue, so help me! Get him here.’

  ‘He is too unwell to be moved,’ said Nicholas, signalling in his glance what lay behind the fiction. ‘Press on without him.’

  ‘We have no choice, sir.’ Firethorn understood but kept the secret well. More thunder was followed by a distant flash of lightning. ‘Hell’s teeth! This is all we need! Where’s your seamanship now, Nick? What must we do, what must we do?’

  ‘Run before the storm!’

  ‘Clap on full sail?’

  ‘That’s my advice, master.’

  ‘Will we do it?’

  ‘We can but try, sir.’

  ‘By Jove! This is good counsel.’

  Firethorn made a graphic gesture with his hands and everyone in the vicinity understood. They were to speed things up. Their only hope lay in keeping ahead of the tempest that was bound to come. When Justice Wildboare made his next entrance, he did so with an alacrity that signalled a change of pace. Cues were picked up more quickly, speeches were dispatched more briskly, stage business was reduced to a minimum. Two small scenes were cut completely. The play scudded across the waves at a rate of several knots.

  What made it all possible was the tacit bargain that was struck with the audience. They were in the same boat. Eager to watch the play, they did not want to get soaked while doing so. A shorter, sharper version was an acceptable compromise. The danger was that the play would gather so much momentum that it would get out of control, but Wildboare made sure that it did not. No matter how fast the playing, he was always in judicious command.

  They reached Act Five with no more interruption than a few rumbles of thunder. Their luck then ran out. A deep-throated roar came from directly ahead of them and forked lightning flashed with dazzling force. Within seconds, torrential rain fell and drenched the pit. Those in the galleries were protected by the overhanging eaves and anyone upstage had the shelter of the portico but the rest were pelted without mercy.

  The groundlings complained bitterly and some ran for cover, but most stuck it out so that they could see the end of the play. Sodden themselves, they gained much amusement from other victims of the downpour. Lucy Hembrow’s wig was plastered to her face, the merry devils’ tails were limp rags between their legs, Doctor Castrato talked about the scorching heat while splashing around in inches of water; Droopwell slipped and fell into a puddle, and the indomitable Youngthrust, shorn of his sighing by the dictates of speed, had to stand in the middle of the stage while the rain cascaded down from his codpiece as if it were the mouth of a drainpipe.

  The miracle occurred at the start of the final scene.

  As if a tap had just been turned off, the rain suddenly stopped. Clouds drifted apart and the
sun burst through to turn everything into liquid gold. The marriage of Lucy Hembrow and Youngthrust took place in a positive blaze of glory. To the sound of stately music, the interior of a church – superbly made and cleverly painted – was winched down from above to act as a backdrop. It was a fitting climax to a play that had been supremely entertaining and intermittently moving and applause rang out for several minutes.

  Roper Blundell was unable to take his bow.

  Having bottled up the spectators for two hours, The Rose now squeezed them out in a steady jet. Some dispersed with laughter, others lingered to talk, others again loitered to thieve and cozen. The Merry Devils had been exhilarating and more than one man was looking for a way to take the edge off his excitement. ‘Good afternoon, ladies!’

  Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry curtseyed politely.

  ‘Did you enjoy the play this afternoon?’

  They both nodded behind their veils.

  ‘Would not you like the pleasure to continue?’ said the man, beaming at them as he tried to work out which was the more attractive. ‘I can offer the comfort of my carriage to one or both of you.’

  The two of them fought to hide their embarrassment.

  ‘Come, ladies,’ said the man persuasively. ‘London is full of delights and you shall see them all. Will you not sup with me tonight? I promise you shall not lack for anything.’

  He shared a flabby leer between the two of them.

  Henry Drewry had forgotten how enjoyable an afternoon at the playhouse could be. Having bought a plentiful supply of ale from the vendors, he was further intoxicated by what happened on stage and came reeling out of the building in a state of euphoria. The urge for female company was powerful and he had spoken to a dozen women before he stopped Grace and Isobel. Rejection did not deflate him. He propositioned each new target with unassailable buoyancy.