The Merry Devils nb-2

by Edward Marston

  'No, sir.'

  'How dare you flout my privilege!'

  'But I needed to--'

  'It is quite inexcusable,' he said angrily. 'You have no business coming to my apartments. Nothing is so important that it cannot wait until I am available. You must never come here again, Jane. Do you understand that?

  'Yes, master.'

  'And you must never use that staircase again. I forbid it!'

  Glanville withdrew and closed the door in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock. Jane was totally shattered. A man who had always shown her consideration in the past was now openly hostile. The one person who might stand between her and Francis Jordan had let her down in the most signal way. Her position was worse than ever.

  *

  The hut had been built on rising ground and it nestled in a hollow. Used by shepherds in earlier days, it had fallen into decay now that the land had been put under the plough. The roof was full of holes, the door hung off its hinges and the timbers of one wall had rotted through, but it still offered a degree of comfort. Bare and inhospitable though it was, the hut was an improvement on sleeping rough along the way. He helped his wife down from the cart then carried her over to their dwelling for that night. When he had cleared a space for her in one corner, he lay her gently down on some sacking.

  Jack Harsnett was consumed with bitterness and grief. His wife had a short enough time to live. The least he had hoped was that she might pass away in the comfort and dignity of her own home. But that small consolation was rudely taken from them by the new master of Parkbrook. Shelter in a dilapidated hut was the best that they could manage now. It was a warm afternoon and the place had a quaint charm in the sunlight but it would be different in the long reaches of the night. That was when they would miss their old cottage.

  He went back to the cart to unhitch the horse. Removing the harness, he tethered the animal to a tree with a long rope that gave it a wide circle of operation. There was a good bite of grass on the verge and the horse whinnied as it lowered its head. Harsnett lifted a bucket out of the cart then went to check that his wife was settled. She gave him a pale smile before she started to cough again. He touched her shoulder with a distant tenderness then went out.

  Harsnett set off to forage. They had no food left.

  Alexander Marwood was actually pleased to see them. Fortune had smiled on him over the last couple of days. His wife had shown him affection, his daughter had obeyed him, his customers had refrained from starting any fights in the taproom and some long-outstanding accounts had been settled in cash. He had every reason to be happy and it unsettled him. The return of Westfield's Men allowed him to indulge in creative misery once more. That was where his true contentment lay.

  'I hear that a member of the company died, Master Firethorn.'

  'It happens, sir.'

  'Is foul play suspected?'

  'Roper Blundell was poisoned,' said Firethorn with a teasing glint in his eye. 'He drank too much of your venomous ale, sir.'

  'I have never had a complaint before!' said Marwood defensively.

  'Your victims keel over before they can make it.'

  'You do me wrong, Master Firethorn.'

  'That is my pleasure, sir.'

  'My customers constantly praise my ale, sir.'

  'A sure sign of drunkenness.'

  'They speak well of its taste and potency.

  'Condemned men in love with the noose that hangs them.'

  Devoid of a sense of humour himself, Marwood never saw when he was the butt of someone else's amusement. He stiffened his back and made a bungled attempt at dignity.

  'The Queens Head has a fine reputation.'

  'You may put that down to Westfield's Men, sir.'

  'And to our own endeavours.' He became businesslike. 'I come for my rent, Master Firethorn.'

  'It will be paid at the end of the performance.'

  'You still owe me money from last week, sir.'

  'An unfortunate oversight.'

  'It is one of your habits.'

  'Do not pass remarks on my character,' warned Firethorn. 'All accounts will be paid in full.'

  'I am glad to hear it.'

  Marwood glanced across at the stage which had been set up in his yard. The sight always lowered his spirits deliciously. He recalled what happened at The Rose.

  'I want no devilry on the boards today, sir.'

  'We play Love and Fortune,' said Firethorn grandly. 'It is a comedy of harmless proportions but none the worse for that.'

  'Good,' said Marwood. 'I want no corpses at my inn.'

  'Then stop serving that dreadful ale or you'll unpeople the whole neighbourhood!'

  Unable to find a rejoinder, Marwood beat a retreat with Firethorn's ripe chuckle pursuing him. Westfield's Men might venture out to the custom-built theatres in the suburbs but the Queens Head remained their home. The place would not be the same without some domestic upset with their cantankerous landlord. It added spice to the day.

  Nicholas Bracewell came across to join his employer.

  'You should have let me handle him, master.'

  'The only way to handle that rogue is to throttle him!'

  'He needs much reassurance.'

  'He needs to be put in his place which is why I spoke to him.' Firethorn inhaled deeply. 'I'll not be confined or questioned by some snivelling little innkeeper! By Heavens, sir, let him meddle with me and I'll run him through with blank verse then cut off his stones with a rhyming couplet. A rank philistine!'

  'Master Marwood does not love the theatre,' said Nicholas.

  'Nor does the theatre love him, sir!'

  The book keeper let him sound off for a few minutes. Firethorn might enjoy his verbal feud with the landlord but the fact remained that the latter rented them his premises. Nicholas had been trying for some time to interest Marwood in the idea of converting his yard into a more permanent theatre and those negotiations were not helped by interference from the actor-manager.

  'Do you know what the wretch told me, Nick?'

  'What, master?'

  'That he did not want a dead body at the Queen's Head. Zounds! That Marwood is a dead body! A walking cadaver with a licence to sell rank ale. He's a posthumous oaf!'

  'Has he heard, then, of Roper Blundell?'

  'No bad news escapes that merchant of doom!'

  'Did you tell him the cause of death?'

  'I turned it into a joke against his drink.'

  'We must not let him think there was some supernatural force at work. That would only feed his anxiety.'

  'Nevertheless, it is the true explanation.'

  'Not in my opinion, master.'

  'You heard Doctor Mordrake.'

  'He was mistaken.'

  'Roper Blundell was killed by the Devil.'

  'If he was killed at all, it was by a human hand.'

  'The two go together,' said Firethorn. 'The Devil chose to work through a human agent here and we both know his name.'

  'Ralph Willoughby is innocent of the charge.'

  'He's the root cause of all our misfortunes.'

  'But he was sad when he learned of Roper's end.'

  'That did not stop him helping to murder the man. Yes, I know you have a high regard for Willoughby but lie has never been a real friend to this company. This morning I was given clear proof of that. Do you know what that priest or Hell has done?'

  'What, sir?'

  'Sold his corrupt talents to the highest bidder.'

  'He is employed by one of our rivals?'

  'Ralph Willoughby has accepted a commission from Banbury's Men.'

  Nicholas was shocked. He felt profoundly betrayed.

  *

  Alchemy was an irresistible temptation for the rogue and charlatan. So little was known of the science and so much claimed for it that fake alchemists set up all over London and found a ready supply of credulous gulls. Greed and folly activated most of the people who visited the new breed of magicians. They came in search of unlim
ited wealth and unlimited life, hoping to turn base metal into gold and yearning to find an elixir of youth. Notwithstanding the large sums they invested in their ambition, they failed to achieve either objective. Success somehow eluded them, as did the confidence tricksters themselves when their ruses were finally exposed. In the high-sounding name of alchemy, the public was seduced daily and exploited unmercifully.

  Doctor John Mordrake was one of the few scientists whose record was blameless. Dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, he never tried to mislead or bamboozle his clients. Indeed, he often bent his extraordinary energies to unmasking fraudulent practices among his rival magicians. He never made extravagant claims for what alchemy might do, only for what it could do.

  His furnace was kept on the ground floor of his house in Knightrider Street and its fumes were often seeking out the nostrils of an}' passers-by. As he stood beside it now, Mordrake watched his assistant stoke up the fire to increase the heat. The customer, an obese man in brown satin, rubbed his hands with glee.

  'When will my gold be ready, Doctor Mordrake?'

  'Do not be hasty, sir," warned the other. 'There are twelve stages in the alchemical process and none of them can be rushed. The first six are devoted to the making of the White Stone.'

  'And then? And then?' asked the man eagerly.

  'Six more long and careful stages.'

  The assistant raked the coals again and sparks filled the room. While the customer stepped back in alarm, Mordrake held his ground and let the fiery atoms of light fall around him.

  'How does it work?' said the customer.

  "We are not sure that it will, sir.'

  'But if my metal is refined into gold...'

  Mordrake tossed his silver locks and gave a lecture.

  'All substances are composed of four elements,' he began. 'By which, I mean earth, air, fire and water. In most things, those elements are not equally balanced. It is only in gold that they may be found in their perfect proportion. That is why we prize gold above all else. It is eternal, it is indestructible.'

  'It is the source of true wealth,' noted the customer.

  'My friend, my friend,' said Mordrake sadly. 'Do not be moved by a sordid desire for gain. Learn from Cicero--O fallacem hominem spem! Oh how deceitful is the hope of man! Remember Seneca--Magna servitus est magna fortuna. A great fortune is a great slavery. I do not work to satisfy the greed of men. That is ignoble and not the true end of alchemical inquiry. I seek perfection.'

  'Does that not involve gold?'

  'Only in the initial stage of the search.' He indicated the furnace with a blue-veined hand. 'In my raging fire here, I try to bring metals to their highest state, which is gold, but I would learn the science of applying the same principle to everything in life and--yes, sir--to life itself. Do you comprehend?'

  'No,' said the man dully.

  'I want to clothe all creation in perfection!' ; There was a long pause as the visitor assimilated the idea.

  Can we make a start with my gold?'

  Mordrake patted him on the shoulder then led him to the front door. When he had shown the man out, he padded upstairs to return to his work. As the old man entered the room, an elegant figure looked up from the massive book over which he was poring.

  'Have you found what you were after, sir?' asked Mordrake.

  'Indeed.'

  'I would not show Malleus Maleficarum to many eyes.'

  'That is why I am so grateful to you, Doctor Mordrake.'

  'We'll set a price on that gratitude later,' said the other with a scholarly grin. 'Did the book enlighten you?'

  "Wonderfully, sir. It made me think.'

  'Vivere est cogitare.'

  'To live is to think. We learned that tag at Cambridge.'

  'From whom?

  'Horace.'

  'Cicero,' said Mordrake. You should have gone to Oxford.'

  'Neither place could help me fulfil my destiny,' said the young man wistfully. 'I was born to serve other imperatives.'

  'I am pleased that the book has been a help to you.'

  'Much more than a help, sir. It has pointed out my way for me.'

  *

  Edmund Hoode was transported by delight. His performance in Love and Fortune had won plaudits from Grace Napier that thrilled him and congratulations from Isobel Drewry that he did not even hear. The play had been well-received by an audience who knew it for one of the staples of the company's repertoire. There had been nothing to dim the pleasure of the afternoon. Though everyone was on the alert for trouble, none came and none even threatened. Hoode's cup of joy overflowed when Grace acceded to his request.

  'Yes, sir, I would like to dine with you.'

  'We'll arrange a place and time to suit your convenience.'

  'It will have to be after my return from the country.'

  'You are leaving London?' His stomach revolved.

  'At the end of the week,' she explained. 'But I will not be away for long, Master Hoode, and then we shall certainly dine together.'

  'I will count the hours until that blessed time.'

  'Do not wave me off so soon,' she chided with a smile. 'I do not leave for a few days yet. I will be here at the Queen's Head again tomorrow to watch Vincentio's Revenge.'

  'And so will I,' piped Isobel.

  Hoode shifted his feet. 'I am not well-cast in this tragedy.'

  'It is no matter, sir,' said Grace pleasantly. 'I would watch you if you played but the meanest servant. It is Edmund Hoode that I come to see and not the part he plays.'

  He kissed her hand on impulse. Isobel giggled inappropriately.

  When the two of them left, he shuttled between happiness and misery. Grace Napier had agreed to dine with him but she had first to go away. Before he could be really close to her, they would have to be far apart. The thought that she might stir outside London filled him with dread. He wanted her to be in the same city as himself, if not in the same ward, the same house, the same chamber, the same bed and the same love affair. After full consideration, he dismissed the pangs of remorse and decided that he was entitled to feel triumphant. He had got his response at last. His plays, his performances and his poems had won a promise from his beloved.

  It was a triumph that merited a small celebration.

  *

  'More ale, Nick?'

  'I have had my fill, I think.'

  'A cup of wine to see you on your way?' It would detain me in this chair all night.'

  They were sitting together in Hoode's lodging. Desperate to tell of his good fortune, the playwright had pressed his friend to come back for an hour that had somehow matured into four. Nicholas Bracewell drank, listened, nodded at intervals and threw in words of encouragement whenever a small gap appeared in the narrative. He tried to leave more than once but was restrained by his host. Grace Napier was the centre of Hoode's world and he went round and round her with repetitious zeal.

  Nicholas eventually got to his feet and contrived a farewell. Another burst of memoirs held him on the doorstep for five minutes then he broke free. Hoode went back inside to marvel at his luck and to pen another sonnet to its source. If Grace could tolerate him as a venal Duke in Vincentio's Revenge, she must indeed be smitten.

  It was a fine night. Nicholas ambled along a street with a sense of having done an important favour to his friend. It did not hurt him to listen to the amorous outpourings of Edmund Hoode and his presence had clearly meant so much to his host. The playwright would do as much for Nicholas. Not that he would ever lend himself to such a situation. Affairs of the heart were matters of discretion to him and no man had ever heard him boast or sigh. It was one of the qualities in him that most attracted Anne Hendrik.

  The incessant talk of Grace Napier turned his mind to his landlady. Most of the things that Hoode praised in his beloved were traits that she shared with Anne. In thinking about one woman, Nicholas gained some insight into his relationship with another. For that alone, it was worth keeping a babbling playwright company. Nichol
as sauntered on in a mood of quiet satisfaction. Then he heard the footsteps behind him.

  It was only then that he realised just how much he had drunk. His reactions were far too slow. By the time he swung round, the first blow had already caught him on the side of his head. He tightened his fists and crouched to defend himself. There were two of them, burly figures with broad shoulders and thick necks. When both of them charged him, he was knocked back against a wall and his head struck the hard stone. His assailants began to pummel him.