It was broken with heart-rending suddenness. To the sound of another, much louder, explosion and through a larger effusion of smoke, a third devil shot up on to the stage. There was a surface similarity to the others but there were also marked differences. The third devil was smaller, quicker, more compact. He had longer horns, a shorter tail and a deeper, blood-red hue. Slit-like eyes had a malevolence that glowed. The grotesque face was twisted into a sadistic grin.
Here was no assistant stagekeeper pressed into service.
This merry devil looked like the real thing.
--------------------------------------------
Chapter Two
Not a murmur was heard, not a movement was made. Everyone was hypnotised. The newcomer had taken instantaneous command. Actors were rooted to the spot. Groundlings became standing statues. Galleries were frankly agog. They were not quite sure what they were witnessing but they did not dare to turn away. Revelling in his power, the third devil held them in thrall and gazed menacingly around the massed gathering. With a wild cry and a crude gesture of threat, the creature suddenly jumped to the very edge of the stage and made the audience shrink back in fear. But it was only in jest. After letting out a low cackle of derision, the devil did a series of backsomersaults in the direction of the players.
George Dart and Roper Blundell fled at once to the tiring-house and Barnaby Gill flinched but Lawrence Firethorn stood his ground manfully. It was his stage when he was upon it and he would defy Satan himself to rob him of his authority. The devil landed on his feet in front of him, spun round and regarded him with malicious glee. Showing great dexterity and speed, he then knocked Firethorn's hat off, pulled the cloak up over Gill's head, pushed over a table, kicked aside two stools then hurled the circle of mystic objects into the crowd. After cartwheeling around the stage in a red blur, the interloper vanished down the trap-down that had been left open and pulled it shut behind him.
A buzz ran through the audience. They did not know whether to be afraid or amused but they were all astonished. Some laughed to break the tension, others put hands to pounding hearts, others again shuffled towards the exits. Firethorn moved quickly to reestablish his control and to smooth any ruffled feathers. Pretending that the intrusion was all part of the play, he strode down to the trap-door and banged his foot on it, collecting yells of admiration at his bravery.
The voice of Justice Wildboare rang out with conviction.
'This was the merriest devil of them all. Come forth again, sir, and know thy master. Show that impish face. I would have you before me that I may judge your case and pass sentence. An' you knock off my hat again, you saucy varlet, I'll fetch you a box o the ears that shall make your head ring all the way back to Hell. Stand forth once more, thou restless spirit. If you can do such tricks as these to order, I'll have you play them on the lusty Youngthrust to still the throbbing codpiece of his ambition. Return, I command.'
Firethorn pounded on the timber with his foot but there was no answering flash of devilry. The creature had gone back to the place from which he came. Given time to recover his wits. Barnaby Gill came across to support his fellow in an extempore duologue, in the course of which it was decided to summon the devils again. Music played and Doctor Castrato went into his macabre ritual, dispensing with the circle of mystic objects which had been scattered far and wide. The audience watched with bated breath.
High drama was taking place in the tiring-house where the merry devils were refusing to go back on stage again. George Dan was still shuddering and Roper Blundell speechless with agitation. Gentle persuasion from the book holder was having no effect and so he adopted a more forthright method. As the incantations reached their height and the devils were called forth, they were more or less propelled out from behind the curtains by the strong hands of Nicholas Bracewell. No sprightly jig this time, only abject fear as they fell to their knees and prayed that their devilish companion would not return again.
Stepping between them, Firethorn gave each a squeeze of encouragement on the shoulder, then fed them lines as solicitously as a mother spooning medicine into the mouth of a sick child. Very slowly, they were coaxed back into their roles and the play resumed its former course. Other players ventured out with trepidation but Edmund Hoode came on with uncharacteristic assertiveness and threw himself into the fight to salvage his work. He would not let a supernatural accident--if that was what it was--come between him and his dearest hope. Too much was at stake.
The Merry Devils gradually revived. Wit sparkled, skul-duggery thickened, drama heightened. By the end of the last act, the spectators were so absorbed in the action once more that they heaved a collective sigh of disappointment when it was all over. A sustained ovation was accorded to Westfield's Men. Standing before his company to give a series of elaborate bows, Lawrence Firethorn kept a wary eye on the fatal trap-door. He was not ready to relinquish one second of his precious applause to another eruption from the nether-world.
Ralph Willoughby joined in the acclamation but his mind was in a turmoil. He had written the scene in which the devils were raised up and had discussed with Nicholas Bracewell the special effects required. They had devised everything around two devils. If a third came uninvited, then it was a dire warning, a punishment inflicted on them for dabbling in the black arts. It was highly disturbing. Still outwardly debonair, Willoughby was plunged into profound spiritual torment.
As he made his way towards the exit, the playwright walked straight into the bustling figure of Isaac Pollard who was pushing his way down the stairs. Two worlds came face to face.
'Out of my way, sir!' said Pollard.
'By your leave.'
'I must quit this house of idolatry!'
'You did not like the comedy, sir?' It was a profanation of the worst kind.'
'Why, then, this rapturous applause?' said Willoughby.
An audience of heathens!'
I think you do not love the playhouse.'
'It is the creation of the Devil!' affirmed Pollard. 'I will not rest until every such place in London is burned to the ground!'
With a final snarl of disgust, he unfurled his bristling eyebrow and took his Christian conscience hurriedly down the stairs.
He was a man with a mission.
*
Hysteria enveloped the whole company. The effort of getting through the performance had concentrated their minds but there was a general collapse now that it was all over. Fear held sway over the tiring-house. Almost everyone was convinced that a real devil had been summoned up, and those who had not actually witnessed the creature now claimed to have been party to other manifestations.
'I felt a fierce heat shoot up through my body.'
'And I an icy cold that froze my entrails.'
'The ground did shake wondrously beneath my feet.'
'I heard the strangest cry.'
'My eyes were dazzled by a blinding light.'
'I saw a vision of damnation.'
'The devil called me privily by my name.'
It all served to stoke up the communal delirium.
George Dart and Roper Blundell could not tear off their costumes fast enough, Richard Honeydew wept copiously for his mother, Barnaby Gill needed a restorative cup of brandy, Caleb Smythe pulled out a dagger to protect himself, Martin Yeo hid in a basket, Ned Rankin beat himself on the chest with clenched Fists and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who had long since strayed from the straight and narrow, and who had not entered a church for over a decade, now fell meekly to his knees and gabbled his way through the only psalm that he could remember.
Nicholas Bracewell stood apart and viewed it all with calm objectivity. He had caught only the merest glimpse of the third devil and it was a startling experience, but he was still keeping an open mind. Actors were superstitious by nature and the incident touched off their primal anxieties, convincing them that they were marked by Satan for an early demise. The book holder knew that lie had to keep a cool head so that he could sea
rch for an explanation of the phenomenon.
Lawrence Firethorn came over to lean on him for support.
'May I never see such a horrid sight again!' he said.
'You were equal to it, master.'
'Someone had to confront the creature, Nick. The foulest fiend will not fright me from my calling. A true actor never deserts his place upon the stage.'
'You were at the height of your powers.'
'I surpassed myself,' said Firethorn bluntly then he slipped a conspiratorial arm around the other's shoulder. 'There is much matter here, Nick, and we must debate it to the full at another time. For the nonce, duty beckons.'
'I know,' said Nicholas with a rueful smile.
'Master Marwood must be answered.'
'It will be a labour of Hercules.'
'That's why I assign it to you, dear heart,' said the actor with evident affection. 'Your silver tongue and my golden talent hold Westfield's Men together. We are the prop and mainstay of this company.'
'Shall you speak with mine host as well?'
'Heaven forbid! I could knock the wretch to the ground as soon as look at him. Keep that mouldy visage away from me! But he must be satisfied. This over-merry devil will drive us from the Queen's Head else.'
'What will I say to Master Marwood?'
'That which will keep our contract alive.'
'He will tax me about this afternoon's business.'
'Tell him it was all part of the play,' suggested Firethorn. 'And if that tale falls on stony ground, swear that it was a jest played on us by Banbury's Men, who furnished us with one more devil than our drama required.'
'That may yet turn out to be the truth,' said Nicholas.
'Villainy from our rivals?'
'It must be considered.'
'No,' growled the other into his beard. 'I looked that creature full in the face. Those eyes of his were aflame with evil. That was no human being come to scare us. It was a fiend of Hell.' He eased the book holder towards the door. 'Now go and lie to Marwood for all our sakes. And keep him ignorant of what I have just told you.'
Nicholas nodded and was about to leave.
'One thing more, Nick.'
'Master?'
'I blame Ralph Willoughby for this.'
'Ralph? On what grounds?'
'Ill omens!'
Without pausing to enlarge upon his accusation, Firethorn swept across the tiring-house towards the other door. Nicholas was disturbed. He had grown fond of Willoughby during their work together on the play and instinctively defended him against the criticism which the latter excited in the company. It would be both sad and unfair if the playwright were made the scapegoat for what had happened. Nicholas made a mental note to forewarn the man so that he might be forearmed against Firethorn.
Alexander Marwood was the immediate problem. Fortunately, he was not in the habit of watching performances in his yard but lie would certainly have heard the reports of this one. Nicholas could picture him all too clearly, wringing his skeletal hands, working himself up into a lather of misery, prophesying death and destruction for all concerned. Facing such a man in such a situation was not an enticing prospect but it had to be done. Relations between landlord and tenants were already fragile. Unless swift action was taken, they would worsen drastically. Rehearsing his lines, Nicholas went off to his forbidding task.
Something diverted him. As he sought to explain away the arrival of the third devil, he asked himself a question that had never occurred to him before. How did the creature vanish from the stage? If, as both Gill and Firethorn vouched, the intruder disappeared through the trap-door, then a further question arose: why was it open? It had been designed to close as soon as George Dart or Roper Blundell shot up through it, and Nicholas had checked the mechanism himself. It would be wise to do so again.
Crawling beneath the trestles, he made his way to the first of the trap-doors and found it intact. To ensure a self-closing door, he had designed a counter-weight that ran on pulleys. At his instigation, the carpenter had lined the edge of the trap with a thick strip of cloth to deaden the sound when the door slammed shut. Nicholas tested the simple device and it worked perfectly. Bending low, he moved across to the other trap-door and lifted it. There was no resistance. Once it was flipped up into a vertical position, it stayed there, resting against its own hinges. The piece of metal used as a counter-weight had been rendered useless. Nicholas noted with interest that the twine had been cut through.
Two more questions now presented themselves for answer.
Why did the creature need to have a prepared exit?
More to the point, was the trap-door in a makeshift stage set up in a London inn yard the legitimate route to the domain or Hell?
Nicholas brightened. When he went off to find the landlord, lie did so with a new spring in his step. I he case was altered somewhat. Marwood might yet be pacified.
*
Lord Westfield was surrounded, as was customary, by an adoring coterie of friends. Seated in a high-backed oak chair in a private room at the Queen's Head, he sipped his Canary wine and basked in the glow of admiration as his companions scattered their superlatives.
'Your lordship has the finest company in London.'
'In England, I vow! In the whole of Europe.'
'And this was their greatest triumph.'
'Was ever a piece so full of mirth as The Merry Devils?'
'Could anything so fright a man out of his skin?'
'Can any actor in the world challenge this Firethorn?'
'He's a crown prince among players.'
'The jewel of his profession.'
'Your lordship made an exquisite choice in this fellow.'
Among those showering the patron with this praise was a tall, thin, complacent individual in his twenties. Attired in a black satin doublet trimmed with black and gold lace, he sported a plumed hat that was almost as ostentatious as that of Lord Westfield himself. His name was Francis Jordan, as smooth, plausible and ready with a quip as any in the group, a man well-versed in the social graces. As the favourite nephew of Lord Westfield, he enjoyed a position that he had learned to exploit in all manner of subtle ways. Francis Jordan had style.
'What think you, nephew, of Casttato?' asked Lord Westfield.
'He will cause no offence to the ladies.'
'Did not this fellow carry his part well?'
'Only because he had less weight in his codpiece.'
'Come, sir. This Castrato was no true castrato?
'That Doctor was doctored,' said Jordan with a comic gesture to indicate a pair of shears. 'He is strangely fallen off, uncle.'
'Barnaby Gill is a cut above most players.'
'And a cut below most honest men!'
There was general amusement at this banter and brittle laughter filled the room. It was terminated by the arrival of Lawrence Firethorn, who was ushered in by a liveried servant and who began with a dramatic bow to his patron. Gloved hands clapped him and plaudits came thick and fast. He waved his gratitude. All trace of the hapless Justice Wildboare had left him now and he stood there as a supreme actor, handsome and mesmeric, exuding a confidence that bordered on arrogance and conveying a sense of virility and danger.
Lord Westfield performed the introductions and Firethorn responded with beaming humility, lingering over his contact with the two ladies in the group. Nothing delighted him so much as the approbation of beautiful women and he wooed them with pleasantries as he kissed each of them on the hand. Francis Jordan was the last to meet Firethorn but he proved more effusive than all the rest.
'Your playing was truly magnificent, sir!'
'We strive to do our best,' said the actor.
'Such a work has never been seen on a stage before.'
'That much is certain,' conceded the other with slight unease.
'How came that third devil into the action?'
'Yes,' said Lord Westfield. 'What brought him forth like that? He stirred us all up into such a sudden flood of terr
or. Who was he?
'A hireling with the company, my lord.' His antics were exceeding merry.'
'The fellow but obeyed direction.'
'By what means did he burst forth in such a fine frenzy?'
'A cunning device, my lord,' said Firethorn, airily gliding over the truth of the matter. 'It was conceived by Nick Bracewell, our book holder, as artful a soul as any in this strange profession of ours. More than that, I cannot tell you lest it discredit his mystery."
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