The Merry Devils nb-2

by Edward Marston

  'At the expense of Justice Wildboare?'

  'We need not go to that length,' said Firethorn hastily.

  'Dances and a song, then. I will see to it.'

  'Not on my account,' said Gill. 'I want Cupid's Folly.'

  'But your new Castrato will dazzle the galleries at The Rose,' urged Firethorn. 'This is fair recompense for the change of play.'

  'No, Lawrence. I am immoveable.'

  And he turned his back on them in a spectacular sulk.

  Firethorn exploded. He bullied, he badgered, he threatened, he aimed a torrent of abuse at his colleague. His voice was so loud and his language so florid that he made the whole room shake and dislodged four spiders from the beams above his head. It was the towering rage of a great actor in full flight and it would have brought a lesser man to his knees but Barnaby Gill was proof against the tirade. He simply refused to be a one-man audience to the extraordinary performance.

  Impasse was reached. In the bruised silence that followed, Gill held his pose and Firethorn glared vengefully across at him. There seemed to be no way around the problem until Edmund Hoode intervened.

  'We do not have to cancel Cupid's Folly' he said.

  'Indeed, we do, sir!' snarled Firethorn. ' The Merry Devils must be our offering at The Rose.'

  'And so it shall be.'

  'Have you lost your wits, Edmund? We cannot stage both plays in the same afternoon. One must give way to the other.'

  'That was not my meaning,' said Hoode quietly. 'The Merry Devils will be presented at The Rose and Cupid's Folly will take its turn on Friday at The Curtain.'

  Firethorn was momentarily dumbfounded but Gill bubbled with joy.

  'There you have it, Edmund!'

  'The play we strike out is Vincentio's Revenge.'

  'Have a care what you suggest, sir!' growled Firethorn.

  'Vincentio's Revenge is a tedious piece,' said Gill airily. 'It will not be missed. Oh, we know that you touch the heights in the title role, Lawrence, and it is one of your most assured successes, but is it not time to ask--I put this to you in the spirit of friendship--if you are not a trifle long in the tooth to be a young Italian hero?'

  Firethorn bared his teeth for Gill to assess their length.

  'Is not this the best answer?' asked Hoode cheerily.

  'Yes, sir!' said Gill.

  'No, sir!' countered Firethorn.

  'Edmund shows the wisdom of Solomon.'

  'Then why does he talk like the village idiot?' The actor-manager stalked the room. 'I have fifteen special moments in Vincentio's Revenge and I'll not be denied one of them. It stays.'

  'And so does Cupid's Folly,' said Gill petulantly.

  It was stalemate again. While the two of them withdrew once more into a hurt silence, Edmund Hoode tried to sound impartial as he proffered his advice. But the removal of Vincentio's Revenge suited his purposes very well. Losing the part of a decrepit old lecher, he instead became a lovelorn shepherd in the pastoral comedy of Cupid's Folly. It would give him the chance to impress Grace Napier with his readiness to bear the cross of unrequited passion. Hoode worked hard to soothe Firethorn, telling him how incomparable his performance as Vincentio was, yet reminding him of his dazzling role as a prince in the other play. Siding imperceptibly with Gill, he slowly brought Firethorn to the realisation that there was no alternative. Without Cupid's Folly, they would have no Doctor Castrato. Vincentio would have to forgo his revenge.

  'Put the company before yourself for once,' said Gill spitefully. Lawrence always does that,' said Hoode. 'And I am sure that he will make this supreme sacrifice for the sake of Westfield's Men and our esteemed patron.'

  Firethorn showed one last flash of surging arrogance.

  'But for me, there would be no company. I am Westfield's Men.'

  'Right, sir,' sniped Gill. 'Play Doctor Castrato yourself, then.'

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen...' calmed Hoode.

  'Play Droopwell. Play Youngthrust. Play the merry devils themselves.' Gill's tone was cruelly sarcastic. 'Since you have such an appetite for solo performance, carry a fan to hide your beard and play Lucy Hembrow into the bargain.' Enough, sir!'

  Firethorn's exclamation was like the roar of a cannon. Circling the room in a frenzy, he kicked a chair, pounded the table, spat into the empty fireplace and sent a warming pan clattering from its nail on the wall. He came to rest before a window and stared out unseeing at the small but well-tended garden.

  Hoode waited a full minute before he dared to speak.

  'Is it agreed, Lawrence?'

  There was an even longer pause before the hissed reply came. Castrato is to have no new songs or dances!'

  'It's agreed!' shouted Gill in exultation, then lie expressed his gratitude to Hoode by kissing him on the lips. 'God bless all poets!'

  Yet another meeting thus reached its amicable conclusion.

  *

  Anne Hendrik was not a typical resident of Bankside. In an area that was notorious for its brothels, bear gardens and bull rings, for its cockpits, carousing and cutpurses, she was a symbol of respectability. She was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, who had fled from his native Holland and settled in Southwark because the City Guilds did not welcome immigrants into their exclusive fraternities. Overcoming initial problems, Jacob slowly prospered. By the time he married a buxom English girl of nineteen, he could offer her the comfort of a neat house in one of the twisting lanes. Though childless, it was a happy marriage and it left Anne Hendrik with many fond memories. It also gave her a liking for male company.

  'Ralph Willoughby has gone?' , 'Banished from the company.'... 'What does Master Firethorn have against him?' ' 'Everything, Anne.'

  'It seems so unfair.'

  'Unfair, unwarranted and unnecessary.'

  'Can Edmund Hoode revise the play on his own?'

  'I have my doubts.'

  They were sitting over the remains of supper at the Bankside house. The mood was relaxed and informal. Nicholas Bracewell had lodged there for some time now and had come to appreciate all of his landlady's finer qualities. Anne Hendrik was a tall, graceful woman in her thirties with attractive features of the kind that improved with the passage of time. She was a widow who never settled back into widowhood, and there was nothing homely or complacent about her. Intelligent and perceptive, she had a fund of compassion for people in distress and a practical streak that urged her to help them. Her apparel was always immaculate, her manner pleasant and her interest genuine.

  'What will Master Willoughby do?' she asked.

  'I have no idea.'

  'Poor man! To be hounded out like that.'

  'Master Firethorn can be brutal at times.'

  'Yet he wants the play staged again?'

  'Lord Westfield's command.'

  Anne had liked him from the start. He was solid, reliable and undemanding in a way that reminded her of her husband. Nicholas was also a very private man with an air of mystery about him and she loved that most of all because it was something that Jacob Hendrik did not possess. In place of a dear but predictable partner, she had taken on a deep and thoughtful individual who could always surprise her. Their friendship soon matured and they now enjoyed a closeness that was untrammelled by any need for a formal commitment on either side. They could trust and confide in each other.

  'Give me your true opinion, Nicholas,' she said.

  'Of what?'

  'The apparition.'

  'I hardly saw it, Anne.'

  'But those on stage who did took it for a devil.'

  'Each one of them. As did Ralph Willoughby.'

  'Yet you are not convinced.'

  'I am trying to be.'

  'What holds you back?'

  A vague feeling, no more.'

  'Do you not believe in devils?'

  He looked at her shrewdly for a moment then chuckled softly, reaching across to pat her arm with an affectionate hand. The concern on her face changed to puzzlement.

  'Answer my question,' she pressed.
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  'It was answered the day I was baptised,' he said evasively. 'A man who bears the Devil's name must perforce believe in Hell. I am Old Nick. The Prince of Darkness. His Satanic Majesty. Lucifer.'

  'You have still not given me a Pit reply.

  'Very well. He sat back and became serious. 'I will tell you the truth, Anne. I do not know. I do not know if devils exist and if I believe in them. I've lived long enough and travelled far enough to see some strange sights, but none of them came straight from Hell. Ralph Willoughby and the others saw a real devil but I did not. If I had done so, I would have believed in it. That is my honest reply.'

  And what of God?' she said.

  'No doubts there, Anne,' he affirmed. 'I have seen God's hand at work many times. You cannot go to sea without entrusting yourself to His special providence. When I sailed around the world, I witnessed more than enough miracles to strengthen my faith. I know that there is a God in Heaven.' He smiled pensively. 'What I cannot yet accept is that there was a devil in Gracechurch Street.'

  There was a tap on the door and the maid came in to clear the table. Anne studied her lodger. After all their time together, there were still many things she did not know about him. The son of a West Country merchant, Nicholas voyaged with Drake on the Golden Hind and survived the onerous circumnavigation of the globe. Those three years spent beneath the billowing canvas of an English ship had made a lasting impression on him yet he never talked about them. Nor would he ever explain how and why he chose to move into the choppy waters of the London theatre. Nicholas Bracewell felt the need to be secretive in such matters and she had come to respect that.

  When the maid left the room, he looked across at Anne once more

  'I have a favour to ask.'

  'Do but ask it and it will be granted.'

  'Your hospitality is without fault.' They traded a short laugh. 'I would like you to visit The Rose next week.'

  'The Merry Devils?

  'Yes, Anne. I need a pair of eyes in the gallery.'

  'Do you expect this devil to appear again?'

  'We should be prepared for that eventuality,' he said. 'I will tell you exactly what to look out for and when it may happen. In the meantime, I hope you will also enjoy the play.'

  'That I shall, Nicholas.'

  They got up from the table and crossed to the door. Something made her stop suddenly and turn back to him with a furrowed brow.

  'When they saw that devil on the stage...'

  'When they thought they saw it,' he corrected.

  'Were they not alarmed?'

  'Demented with fear. All except Master Firethorn, who carried on as if nothing untoward had happened.'

  'He must have nerves of steel.'

  'Only one thing can frighten him.'

  'What's that?'

  'His wife, Margery, when she is on the rampage. Hell may open its gates to send up its merriest devils but they will have to take second place to that good lady.'

  'And what of Master Willoughby?'

  'Oh, he was afraid,' recalled Nicholas. 'Deep down, I think that he was more shaken by the experience than any of them. He took the full blame upon himself. For a reason that I cannot comprehend, Ralph Willoughby is quite terrified.'

  *

  He slept for no more than ten minutes but lost all awareness of his surroundings. When his eyelids flickered, he could feel the darkness pressing in upon them and he had to make a conscious effort to shrug off his drowsiness. He was unwell. His head was pounding, his mouth nauseous, his stomach churning and his whole body lathered with perspiration. He groaned involuntarily. Then something moved beneath him and he realised with horror that he was lying naked in the arms of a young woman. By the uncertain light of the candle, he could see the powdered face that was now split by a jagged smile of ingratiation.

  'Did I please you, sir?' she said hopefully.

  Revulsion set in at once and he rolled over on to the bare floor, groping around in the gloom for his clothing. The girl sat up on the mattress to watch him, her long, matted hair hanging down around her bony shoulders. She was painfully thin and her breasts were scarcely fully formed. Sixteen was the oldest she could be. In the lustful warmth of the taproom downstairs, she seemed quite entrancing and he had brought her drunkenly up to her squalid chamber. Deprived of her flame-coloured taffeta, she looked plain, angular and distinctly unwholesome. Yet it was into this frail body that he had plunged so earnestly in search of refuge.

  'Must you leave, sir?' she whispered.

  His embarrassment grew. Grabbing his purse, he fumbled inside it then tossed some coins at her. She scooped them greedily up and held them tight in her little fist. Half-dressed and still only half-awake, he grunted a farewell then lurched out into the passageway.

  Ralph Willoughby was overcome by the familiar sense of shame.

  As he rested against her door and hooked up his doublet, he tried to work out exactly where he was. Somewhere in Eastcheap, but which tavern? Could it be the Red Lion? No, that was the previous night. The Lamb and Flag? No, that was the previous week. Was it the Jolly Miller? Unlikely. That particular haunt of his had a musty smell that he could not detect here. In that case, it had to be the Brazen Serpent, an appropriate venue for his latest disgrace. Fornication with some nameless girl in her wretched lodging at the Brazen Serpent in Eastcheap. Guilt burned inside him and the pain in his head became almost unbearable.

  Willoughby put his hands together in prayer and recited quickly in Latin. Perspiration still ran from every pore. Consumed by an inner grief, he began to sway gently to and fro. Approaching footsteps jerked him out of his confession. Three people were coming noisily up the stairs, laughing and joking as they banged against the walls. Willoughby stood motionless and waited in the dark. The newcomers soon staggered along the passageway towards him.

  The man had an arm around each of the two women so that he could both fondle and lean on them. His voice suggested that he was young, educated, flushed with wine and very accustomed to the situation in which he found himself. There was also a lordly note that showed he was used to giving orders and being obeyed. The moon shone in through the window to guide their footsteps along the undulating oak floorboards over which so many men had walked to perdition.

  Willoughby shrank back but they were far too absorbed in their own drama to notice his presence. When they were still a couple of yards away from him, they went into a room and closed the door behind them. He waited no longer. Scurrying along the passageway, he hurled himself down the stairs as if the tavern were on fire. Seconds later, he was outside in the road but his headlong flight was delayed. As his stomach turned afresh, he felt a rising tide of vomit and bent double in humiliation.

  Up in the chamber, the other man was ready to savour his pleasures. Flopping on to the bed, he stretched both arms wide and invited his two companions to practise their witchcraft.

  'Come, ladies. Unbutton me now.'

  Francis Jordan was clearly there for the whole night.

  *

  Isaac Pollard was formidable enough when delivering a sermon from a pulpit. He had a way of subduing his congregation with a glare and of browbeating them with his rectitude. But it was his voice that was his chief weapon, a strong, insistent, deafening sound that could reach a thousand pairs of ears without the least sign of strain. When it was heard at Paul's Cross, it was a powerful instrument of earthly salvation. Encountered in a domestic setting, however, it was frankly overwhelming.

  'It outrages every tenet of public decency!'

  'Do not shout so, Isaac'

  'The very fabric of our daily lives is at risk!'

  'I hear you, sir. I hear you.'

  'We demand stern action from our elected guardians!'

  'Leave off, man. My head is a very belfry.'

  Henry Drewry was a short, rotund, red-faced man in his fifties with an ineradicable whiff of salt about him. He was the pompous Alderman for Bishopsgate, one of the twenty-six wards of the City which chose a civic-
minded worthy to represent them. A freeman of London, Drewry was also of necessity a member of one of the great Livery Companies. The Salters were vital contributors to the diet of the capital since their ware was used as a condiment at table and as a preservative for meat and fish. First licensed in 1467, the Salters' Company received its royal charter in 1559. In his portly frame and proud manner, Henry Drewry was a living monument to a flourishing trade which helped to control the taste of the citizenry.

  Isaac Pollard returned to the attack with unabated volume.