The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  Isaac Pollard could not believe that he had heard such words on a Sunday. He had put on the whole armour of God and now found that it was full of chinks. His eyebrow writhed across his forehead like a snake impaled on a spike as he tried to cope with a new experience.

  He was rendered speechless for the first time ever.

  Nicholas made an early start to his long journey. It was the best part of twenty miles to Lord Westfield’s estate which lay to the north of St Albans. He needed to nurse his horse carefully over such a distance. Since there was no performance on the next day, he was to stay the night at Parkbrook and ride back at his leisure on the Monday. Anne Hendrik was sad to be parted from him. She had spent two long nights comforting him after his ordeal at the Counter and had hoped to spend a third in like fashion, but his visit was important and she had to accept it.

  He made frequent stops at hostelries along the way to rest his mount, refresh himself and gather what information he could. One coaching inn had an observant landlord. He saw Lord Westfield’s crest driven past on Thursday evening and remembered two fine young ladies who stopped their carriage there on Saturday and talked of reaching St Albans before nightfall.

  It was late afternoon when Nicholas reached his own destination. Westfield Hall was a familiar landmark to him now but he had never been to Parkbrook House before. As he viewed it from the crest of the hill, he was struck by its severity and sense of proportion. If the Hall was the visual embodiment of its master, Parkbrook could claim to be the like. Francis Jordan was echoed in his architecture. The place was cold, unyielding, ungenerous behind a striking facade.

  Nicholas Bracewell soon met the new master.

  ‘Welcome to Parkbrook, sir!’

  ‘Thank you, Master Jordan.’

  ‘Your journey was a long but necessary one. An event like this needs careful forethought and preparation.’

  ‘We are honoured to be invited to such a fine house,’ said Nicholas politely. ‘Master Firethorn sends his regards and assures you that we will strive to please you in every particular.’

  ‘Good. I must have The Merry Devils played here. It will be a rousing start to my time here at Parkbrook and I feel that it will somehow bring me luck.’

  It had not done that for Westfield’s Men.

  Francis Jordan conducted him across to the Great Hall. Progress had been marked. Plasterers and carpenters had now completed their work and only the masons and the painters remained, the former providing a musical clink as they chiselled away at the bay window and the latter adding an astringent smell with their paint. Nicholas noted that none of the men dared to stop working and he could sense their resentment of their employer.

  The new master pointed to the far end of the room.

  ‘I think that the stage should be set up there to catch the light on two sides. Tables will be arranged in a horseshoe so that our guests may eat and drink while they view the entertainment. There is a door in the corner, as you see, sir, and the room beyond can be your tiring-house.’ He smiled complacently. ‘I believe I have thought of everything.’

  ‘Not quite, Master Jordan,’ said Nicholas, looking around with interest. ‘It would far better suit our purposes if we played at this end of the hall.’ He used his hands to indicate. ‘There is a minstrels’ gallery above that is ideal for our musicians. If we hang curtains down from that, it forms a tiring-house beneath the balcony. The stage will thrust out in this direction and your tables can be set the other way around. Your guests may still dine while we act.’

  ‘But you throw away the best of the light.’

  ‘That is the intention, sir. We would in any case draw the curtains on all the windows to darken the interior. You have seen The Merry Devils and know its supernatural elements. They will flourish more by candlelight. We have to take advantage of our playing conditions, sir. We are open to the sky in London and may not control the light at all. Here we may manipulate it to our own ends and to the greater pleasure of our spectators.’

  The argument was convincing but Jordan was nevertheless peeved that his suggestions had been ruled out so effortlessly. He threw up another objection out of churlishness.

  ‘If you play at this end of the hall, sir, you block the main entrance. How are my guests to come into the place?’

  ‘Through that door you commended to me but now,’ said Nicholas. ‘I notice that the room looks out upon that broad lawn. If the weather is as fine as we have a right to expect, you would receive your guests in the garden, conduct them into that room for drinks then usher them through into here for the banquet and the performance.’

  ‘Leave the arrangements to me, please, sir!’ snapped Jordan.

  ‘I was only replying to your question, master.’

  The book holder was right and the other finally conceded it. A practical man of the theatre knew how to pick his ground and his view had to be respected.

  ‘You’ll need to take measurements and make drawings,’ said Jordan curtly. ‘I’ll send my steward in to attend to your needs.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I still feel that my idea was the most sensible.’

  He flounced out and left Nicholas in the hall. The book holder did not waste his time. In the two minutes that it took Glanville to appear, Nicholas chatted to one of the painters and learned why the new master was so disliked, how the forester had been dismissed and what happened to one of the chambermaids. Parkbrook House was not a happy place. The coldness of its exterior was reflected inside as well.

  A tall stately figure glided in through the entrance.

  ‘Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I am Joseph Glanville, steward of the household.’

  ‘Well met!’

  ‘How may I best help you?’

  ‘I have a number of enquiries …’

  There was something about the steward that alerted Nicholas. Accustomed to working among actors, he could usually discern when someone was masking his true self. Glanville was altogether too plausible and controlled for his liking. The man answered all his questions very courteously but he was holding something back all the time, and Nicholas was keen to know what it was.

  ‘What about your stage, sir?’ asked the steward.

  ‘We shall bring our own and set it up on trestles.’

  ‘Master Jordan is anxious to spare you that trouble. We have enough carpenters at our command and they can build to order. You will have plenty to bring from London as it is.’

  Nicholas closed with the offer. Transporting the stage was a problematic business as they found when they were obliged to go on tour in the provinces. Besides, the one used at the Queen’s Head was far too high for their needs at Parkbrook House. Glanville was surprised when told this.

  ‘Will you not need trap-doors for your devils, sir?’

  ‘They will enter by some other means.’

  ‘Not from below, as Master Jordan described to me?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the other. ‘A height of eighteen inches will content us. Two feet at most. There will be no crawling beneath the stage on this occasion.’ He thought of George Dart and Caleb Smythe. ‘That will gladden the hearts of our devils, I can tell you.’

  They talked further then Glanville escorted him up to show him the bedchamber that had been assigned to him. It was on the first floor in the west wing and as they walked down the long corridor towards it, Nicholas probed.

  ‘I hear that one of your chambermaids had an accident.’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘A broken leg, they say.’

  ‘The girl is recovering in the servants’ quarters.’

  ‘I may find time to visit her,’ volunteered Nicholas. ‘I know the misery of a leg in splints.’

  ‘Oh. I could not permit that, sir,’ said Glanville firmly. ‘Jane Skinner is in a state of shock. The physician has advised against stray callers. They tire the girl.’

  Nicholas did not believe the explanation and wo
ndered why he was being kept from the invalid. They stopped outside a door. Noting the circular staircase at the far end of the corridor, the guest asked if it led down to the Great Hall.

  ‘It is not for general use,’ said Glanville smoothly. ‘I am the only person allowed to use it, Master Bracewell, and it is a privilege that I jealously guard.’

  ‘Is it not a quicker way down for me?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘That is immaterial. You may not use it.’

  ‘What is the punishment for offenders, sir?’

  There was a note of ironic amusement in the question, but the steward did not hear it. His response was deadly serious. Behind the unruffled calm was a surge of hostility.

  Nicholas saw that he had made an enemy.

  He sold the horse and cart in the first village. All that he kept or needed was his axe and it was always by his side. Jack Harsnett went to the nearest inn and drank himself to distraction. It was a few days before he was ready to move on. A morning’s trudge brought him to a wayside tavern and he slumped down on to the settle that stood out in the sun. Food and drink was brought out to him and he began to recover his breath. He was far too old to tramp the roads for long.

  Laughter from inside the tavern made him prick his ears and a few snatches of conversation drifted out. Though he could not hear what was being said, he recognised the principal voice in the group. It made him sit tight and wait. One by one, the customers tumbled out and went back to their work or their homes. The man for whom Harsnett was waiting was the last to leave. Drink had blurred the sight of his one eye and he walked past the forester without paying any heed.

  Harsnett followed and cornered him against a wall. The single eye blinked until it managed to focus.

  ‘Jack!’ said the man with the patch. ‘How are you?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I heard you’d left Parkbrook.’

  ‘Thrown out.’

  ‘Master Jordan is a hard man, sir.’

  ‘I heard you use his name in the tavern.’

  ‘Did I?’ An evasive smile came. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What did you say?’ grunted the forester.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘About Master Jordan?’ He gave a drunken laugh then became rueful. ‘There’s things I could say about that one! He’s bad, Jack, bad as they come. He gave me this here on my face.’ He exhibited the long scar that had been caused by the riding crop. ‘Keep out of his way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No matter. I must go.’

  ‘Answer me,’ said Harsnett, holding him by his hair.

  ‘More than my life’s worth, Jack, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Tell me about Master Jordan,’ insisted the forester.

  The man with the black patch twitched and whined. ‘He’ll kill me if I do that.’

  Harsnett thrust the blade of his axe against the other’s throat.

  ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

  It was a pleasant ride across the estate. Nicholas borrowed a horse from the stables so that his own could recover against its journey on the morrow. Having got directions from the ostler, he headed in the direction of the adjoining property and reached it after a couple of miles. It was less of a mansion than an overgrown cottage, but its half-timbering was well-maintained and the thatch was recent. Stables and outbuildings spread out behind it and it was towards these that Nicholas now spurred his horse.

  The man was cleaning the carriage with a rag that he dipped into a bucket of water. Though his back was to the visitor, Nicholas knew him at once. The thick bandage that was wound around his head and down over the top of one eye was further confirmation.

  Hearing the approach of hooves, the man turned around with easy curiosity. His smile froze when he saw who it was and he dropped his rag back in the water. Nicholas dismounted, tethered his horse then came across for a confrontation. From his garb and his bearing, it was clear that the man was a coachman.

  ‘I was arrested at your suit, Master Grice.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I did not like my lodging at the Counter.’

  ‘Nor I the cut over my eye,’ said Grice warily. ‘Besides, you would have been released after a couple of days. The case would have been dropped long before it came to court.’

  ‘That does not salve my wounds.’

  He took a step towards Grice who put up his large fists.

  ‘Stay where you are, sir, or you’ll feel the weight of my punches again.’ He turned to the house to raise the alarm. ‘Master!’

  Reaching for the driving seat of the carriage, he then grabbed his long whip and drew back his arm but he was given no chance to demonstrate his skill. As he tried to lash Nicholas, the latter stepped smartly out of the way then dived at Grice, twisting the whip from his hand within seconds. Grice was powerful but he had none of the other’s experience in a brawl. Nicholas punched his body hard and ducked the savage blows that came in return. A punch on Grice’s chin made the coachman reel. Recovering after a few moments, he flung himself at Nicholas with such force that he would have knocked him flying had the charge succeeded.

  But the book holder used the man’s lunge against himself. As he came in, Nicholas dodged him, caught hold of his shoulders and pushed him hard against the side of the carriage where Grice’s head took the main impact. He buckled at the knees and cursed violently.

  ‘Hold still, Walt! I will take him.’

  The other nocturnal assailant came running out of the house, followed by the young man with the signet ring. Nicholas squared up to the newcomer then flashed out a straight left which drew blood from the other’s nose. Enraged by the pain, the man flailed and kicked but he was unable to make contact. Another straight left darkened his cheek and a sequence of punches to the body slowed him right down. Mustering his strength for a last effort, the man dashed to the stable, caught hold of a hay rake, then brandished it above his head as he stormed back. Nicholas ducked just in time as the rake scythed through the air. He closed with the man and wrested the implement from him. Grice was now getting up to rejoin the fray and that could not be allowed. Holding his opponent by one arm, Nicholas suddenly swung him around with great force and let go. The hurtling body collided with Grice and both went down groaning.

  ‘That will be enough from you, sir,’ said the young man.

  Nicholas was now threatened by the point of a rapier.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ continued the swordsman.

  ‘To settle a score.’

  ‘Leave us while you still may.’

  ‘No, Master Napier,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is your name, I believe? You had a familiar look and I remember where I had seen it before. It was upon your sister, Grace. You are her brother, Gregory.’ The young man held him at bay with the sword, but it was a very temporary advantage. With dazzling speed, Nicholas stooped to take hold of the bucket and hurl its contents all over the young man. Before the latter could resist, he had the rapier plucked from him and was pressed backwards against the carriage. Nicholas kept the point of the sword against Gregory Napier’s heart to discourage either of his servants from coming to his aid. The young man paled.

  ‘Do not kill me, sir! We meant you no harm.’

  ‘You have a peculiar way of showing it.’

  ‘We bore no grudge against you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘Lord Westfield was your target. You sought to hurt him through me just as you tried to damage the company with your merry devils. You wanted revenge, Master Napier. Why?’

  ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘Then I will have to loosen your tongue. sir.’

  He let the sword-point gently explore the other’s doublet.

  ‘Have a care, Master Bracewell!’

  ‘You had no care of me when I was thrown into the Counter.’

  ‘Please, sir. Be gentle with that sword.’

  Nicholas let the rapier slice through the satin doublet.
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  ‘Why did you attack Lord Westfield?’

  ‘Do not ask me.’

  ‘I’ll have an answer if I have to cut it out of you,’ said Nicholas dangerously. ‘We have suffered much at your hands, sir. A whole company was terrified because of you. One of our sharers narrowly escaped injury. A stagekeeper lost his life. So do not wave me away.’ He split the doublet open again. ‘Why did you do all this to Lord Westfield?’

  The voice behind him was clear and unashamed.

  ‘Because I made him, Master Bracewell.’

  Grace Napier stood in the doorway of the house.

  It was not an entirely new play. Ralph Willoughby had devised the plot some time earlier and constructed scenes in his mind. When he got the commission from Banbury’s Men, therefore, he was not starting from scratch. Rather was he developing and refining a drama which he had carried around inside his head for months. Now that he came to write it, the words flowed freely and he remained at his table for long hours each day, sustained by an inner fire and by the firmness of his purpose. There was no drinking during the period of composition and no debauchery. It obsessed him totally. Appropriately, it was finished on a Sunday.

  Willoughby had never before worked so quickly or felt so happy with the result of his creative endeavours. As he blotted the last line, he knew that the play was exactly as he envisaged it. With the crucial help of Doctor John Mordrake, he had given it a texture of authenticity that would beguile spectators. Banbury’s Men would appreciate the play’s wit and wisdom, its topicality at a time when there was growing witch-mania, and its sheer entertainment value. They would also enjoy his many clever allusions to the part of Oxfordshire from which their noble patron hailed.

  What they would not at first see was the peril that lay at the heart of the work. Willoughby had disguised it very carefully. He turned back to the first page and began to read. His dark laughter soon filled the room. He was truly delighted with the play.