The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘What conscience?’ sneered Firethorn, pointing a finger at him. ‘You’re a traitor, sir!’

  ‘I am loyal to the old religion!’

  Richard Honeydew was baffled by an important detail.

  ‘But why was Will Fowler murdered?’ he asked.

  ‘So that Sam could take his place,’ said Nicholas. ‘Most of us cheered when the Armada was defeated but it was a crippling blow to those of the Romish persuasion. Sam wanted to strike back on their behalf in the most terrible way he could imagine – by killing Her Majesty. The only chance he had of getting close enough to her was during a performance at Court.’

  ‘With Westfield’s Men,’ added Firethorn. ‘Our company was the most likely to be invited to play here. This rogue sought to hide himself behind our reputation.’

  Nicholas smiled and patted the boy on the back.

  ‘As it happened, you gave the outstanding performance, Dick. You not only deceived an assassin, you convinced the whole Court.’ He turned to Ruff. ‘A true actor will never desert his audience. The lad did not run away on Christmas Day. He stayed with me at my lodging and rehearsed his new part. This dress of his was made by a Dutch hatmaker. It was worthy of a Queen.’

  ‘You have been very brave, Dick,’ observed Firethorn.

  ‘I was a little afraid, sir,’ confessed the boy.

  ‘As were we all,’ said Nicholas.

  Samuel Ruff was embittered but chastened. He recognised just how cleverly the book holder had misled him. Nicholas had evidently suspected him for a long time. As the guards tried to move him away, he held his ground to make a last admission.

  ‘I gave that crib to Susan Fowler.’

  ‘She would rather you spared her husband,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You should have gone to that farm in Norwich, Sam. You would have been far better off working with your brother.’

  Ruff shook his head sadly and gave a smile of regret.

  ‘There was no farm and I did work with my brother.’

  ‘Redbeard?’ Nicholas was shocked.

  ‘He was my half-brother. For all his wild ways, Dominic was as committed to the true faith as I am. They imprisoned him in Bridewell for it and gave him those scars on his back. When Dominic was released, he was ready to do anything to help me.’

  ‘So you repaid him with a sly dagger.’

  ‘No!’ denied Ruff vehemently. ‘I could never murder my own kin. That was not my doing.’ Pain contorted his face and his chin dropped to his chest. ‘We both knew that it would cost us our lives in the end. Dominic was getting out of hand. The plan was in jeopardy while he lived. I did not want him killed but … it was in some ways a necessary despatch. He had done all that was required of him.’

  ‘Who stabbed him, then?’ pressed Firethorn.

  Samuel Ruff met his gaze with dignity and defiance.

  ‘That is something you will never know.’

  ‘Someone has suborned you and set you on!’ accused the other. ‘The rack will get the truth out of you. Take him away!’

  As the guards dragged their captive off, Ruff lapsed back into Latin to proclaim his faith.

  ‘In manus tuas, Domine, confide spiritum meum.’

  They were the last words spoken by Mary Queen of Scots as she laid her head upon the block. In trying to behead another queen, he had delivered himself up to execution. Interrogation would be followed by a slow, agonising death.

  Nicholas was not entirely surprised to learn that Ruff was part of a wider conspiracy. He and Redbeard had been the active partners in the scheme while others lurked in the shadows. Their names would doubtless emerge in conversation in the privacy of the torture chamber.

  One revelation, however, had rocked the book holder.

  ‘I had no idea that Redbeard was his brother,’ he said. ‘I guessed that he was a fellow Catholic when he attacked the inn sign at The Cardinal’s Hat. It mocked his faith. But I did not realise that he and Sam were related.’

  ‘Two yoke-devils!’ snarled Firethorn.

  ‘There is no madness worse than religion,’ murmured Nicholas.

  Richard Honeydew was troubled by feelings of regret.

  ‘But Master Ruff was such a kind and friendly man.’

  ‘He was a fine actor,’ said the book holder. ‘He was even ready to receive a wound in order to play his part effectively. It was his bout with Master Gill that set me thinking.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked the boy.

  ‘Sam tried to avoid it in order to hide his fencing skills. But he was forced into the bout and we saw his true merit. A swordsman as expert as that could easily have rehearsed the brawl in the Hope and Anchor. Will Fowler was murdered to plan.’

  Edmund Hoode came scurrying along the corridor to join them. Confused by the speed of events, he only half-understood why his play had been halted in such dramatic fashion.

  ‘What is going on, I pray?’

  ‘Retribution!’ declared Firethorn. ‘We have unmasked an assassin and brought him to justice.’

  ‘Samuel Ruff?’

  ‘Villainy incarnate,’ said the other. ‘The man was deep and cunning but he met his match in our book holder. Ruff stage-managed things so cleverly that we were all fooled by him at first. Nick alone was equal to him.’

  ‘I did what was needful,’ said Nicholas modestly.

  ‘You were magnificent!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘You won the villain’s confidence and made him believe that you feared a threat from outside the company. Ruff thought that he was undiscovered. It then remained to show him in his true light.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘By creating the very opportunity that he sought.’

  ‘I begin to see,’ said Hoode. ‘When you asked me to put the execution on stage, you had a definite purpose in mind.’

  ‘We did, Edmund.’ explained the book holder. ‘By casting Sam in the role of executioner, we knew exactly when and how he would strike. With the aid of Dick here, we were able to prepare an irresistible trap for him.’

  Slightly peeved that he had not been party to it all, Hoode nevertheless congratulated them warmly. There was one particular point that he wanted clarified.

  ‘What of the theft of Gloriana Triumphant?’ he asked.

  ‘That puzzled me, too,’ said Nicholas. ‘When the book was stolen from me, I thought it was another blow at Westfield’s Men. Yet why should Ruff and his accomplice seek to wound the company? It was in their interests to ensure that it thrived.’

  ‘So what lay behind it?’ wondered Hoode.

  ‘Religion. Your play was a celebration of the victory over the Spanish Armada and the defeat of Roman Catholicism. It offended them and their faith. That is why they tried to stop the performance.’

  ‘Nobody can stop a performance by Westfield’s Men!’ asserted Firethorn grandly. ‘We have foiled a plot to kill our own dear Queen and we have rendered our country a sterling service. But we still have unfinished business here. Gentlemen, we play before our sovereign this night. Let us prepare ourselves for this supreme moment in our history. Dick Honeydew has shown us the way. Onward to another royal triumph!’

  The Loyal Subject was staged at midnight with reverberating success. Its themes gained extra resonance from the thwarted assassination attempt and it caught the mood of the hour to perfection. The whole Court surrendered itself to a unique and stirring experience. Richmond Palace was alive with unstinted praise.

  Presiding over it all was Queen Elizabeth herself, who occupied her throne in a spirit of happy gratitude. She was ostentation itself. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a round stiff-laced collar above a dark bodice with satin sleeves which were richly decorated with ribbons, pearls and gems. A veritable waterfall of pearls flowed from her neck and threatened to cascade down on to the dais. As befitted a sovereign, her radiance outshone the entire Court.

  To repair the absence of Ruff – and to assauge Tallis’s rampant fears – Nicholas Bracewell took over t
he small role of the executioner himself. With a measured sweep of the axe, he severed the wax head and sent the head spinning across the floor. The effect was breathtaking. Deathly silence held sway for a full minute before applause broke out. After exhibiting the head of the traitor, Nicholas went off to take up his book again.

  Richard Honeydew had played his part already. He now stayed in the tiring-house with the others and sneaked an occasional look at the action on stage. Westfield’s Men were at their best. The music was excellent, the costumes superb and the performances quite remarkable. Martin Yeo won plaudits for his youthful brilliance as the Duchess of Milan, Barnaby Gill supplied some stately comedy as a wrinkled retainer and Edmund Hoode was a suitably judicious judge.

  Lawrence Firethorn was charismatic as Lorenzo and he caused many a flutter among the ladies. Constrained by the presence of her husband, Lady Rosamund Varley could only watch and sigh. Her erstwhile swain was no longer aiming his performance at her. It was directed to a higher station. Lorenzo was patently acting for his Queen and country.

  At Firethorn’s request, Hoode had written a new couplet to end the play. It related the capture of Samuel Ruff to the action of the drama. Firethorn made the two lines ring with conviction as he laid them proudly at the feet of his sovereign.

  For I alone have turned aside the traitor’s baneful blade

  And now his spotted soul for aye will wander Hades’ shade.

  An ovation ensued.

  Lord Westfield himself basked in the approval of the Court. The company had markedly improved the standing of their patron with the Queen. By the same token, the Earl of Banbury sat in sour-faced discomfort as he touched his palms together in reluctant applause. Westfield’s Men had carried the day in every sense. His own company was obliterated from the memory.

  After taking several bows, the players adjourned to the tiring-house. A communal ecstasy seized them. They had succeeded beyond all expectation. It was a fitting climax to the year’s work.

  Firethorn swooped down on his book holder.

  ‘Stop hiding away in that corner, Nick!’

  ‘I was merely reflecting on events, master.’

  ‘There is no time for that, dear heart,’ urged the other, pummelling his arm. ‘Her Majesty wishes to favour us. She has asked to meet the principal members of the company.’

  ‘Who else is there but you?’ teased Nicholas gently.

  ‘How profoundly true!’ agreed Firethorn without a trace of irony. ‘Take charge, Nick. Be swift, sir.’

  ‘Whom should I call?’

  ‘Use your discretion. It has always served us well.’

  Nicholas organised a line-up of the principal artistes, making sure that Richard Honeydew was given pride of place. Queen Elizabeth was conducted up on to the stage to be introduced to each one of them in turn by the fawning actor-manager. She praised Edmund Hoode for his play and she congratulated Barnaby Gill on his amusing antics.

  When she showered her personal thanks upon Richard, the boy was duly overwhelmed. Being so close to the royal person reduced him to open-mouthed wonder. His performance had helped to save the Queen from the attack yet it now seemed a gross impertinence even to try to impersonate her.

  With a becoming lack of modesty, Lawrence Firethorn claimed much of the credit for himself and wished to be remembered as her loyal subject in thought, word and deed. He gave the impression that he alone was responsible for keeping the Queen’s head firmly on her shoulders.

  Nicholas Bracewell stayed quietly behind the scenes.

  The Merry Devils

  An Elizabethan Mystery

  BOOK TWO

  EDWARD MARSTON

  Matre pulchra filia pulchrior

  Helena

  rosa formosa

  orbis et cordis

  ‘This I bar, that none of you stroke your beards to make action, play with your codpiece points, or stand fumbling on your buttons when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serve God and act clearly.’

  Thomas Nashe

  Chapter One

  London was the capital city of noise, a vibrant volatile place, surging with life and clamorous with purpose. Whips cracked, horses neighed, harness jingled, cans rattled, coaches thundered, pots clinked, canvas flapped, hammers pounded, lathes sang, bells tolled, dogs yelped, poultry clucked, cows lowed, pigs squealed and thousands of urgent voices swelled the tumult of the working day. The whole community was in a state of happy uproar. It was morning.

  Nicholas Bracewell shouldered his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street, ducking beneath frequent obstacles and moving past haphazard ranks of market stalls that were bold, colourful and aromatic, competing loudly with each other for the attention of the swirling mass. Tall, well-groomed and dressed in buff jerkin and hose, Nicholas was at once imposing and nondescript, a striking figure who courted the anonymity of the throng. The weathered face was framed by long fair hair and a beard. The clear blue eyes missed nothing. He combined the physique of a wrestler with the bearing of a gentleman.

  As a stout housewife waddled out of a shop and bumped straight into him, he doffed his cap and gave her a polite smile of apology, making light of the fact that she had caused the collision.

  ‘By your leave, mistress.’

  His soft West Country tones were drowned by the strident Cockney vowels all around him but his courteous manner conveyed his meaning. Unaccustomed to such civility, the woman nodded her gratitude before being jostled by cruder elbows and rougher tongues. Nicholas plunged on and made steady progress through the sea of bodies. Ahead of him was the familiar outline of St Benet Grass Church, which had given the street its name, and his gaze dwelt for a moment on its thrusting spire. Then he passed beneath the sign of the Queen’s Head and swung in through its main gates.

  Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.

  ‘Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!’

  ‘How now, Master Marwood?’

  ‘All may yet be saved!’

  ‘Saved?’

  ‘God willing!’

  ‘What ails you, sir?’

  ‘I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘Of what, pray?’

  ‘Certain disaster!’

  Alexander Marwood had a close acquaintance with certain disaster. In his febrile imagination, it lurked everywhere and his assiduous pessimism obliged him to rush towards it in willing surrender. Short, thin and balding, the landlord of the Queen’s Head was a haunted man with a nervous twitch that animated his gloomy features. It was a face more fit for a charnel house than a taproom and he had none of the geniality associated with his calling.

  Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.

  ‘We are in great danger!’ wailed the landlord.

  ‘From what source, Master Marwood?’

  ‘Your play, sir.’

  ‘The Merry Devils?’

  ‘It is an abomination.’

  ‘You do the piece a wrong.’

  ‘An act of blasphemy.’

  ‘It is wholly free from such a taint.’

  ‘The play will offend the City authorities.’

  ‘All plays offend them, Master Marwood,’ said Nicholas. ‘We have learned to live and work in the shadow of their displeasure.’

  ‘Your devilry will provoke the church.’

  ‘I think not, sir.’

  ‘You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!’

  Nicholas put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He found himself in a situation that was all too common. Marwood’s capacity for sudden panic was boundless and it created stern problems for those who relied on the goodwill of mine host. Nicholas was the book holder with Lord Westfield’s Men, one of the leading dramatic companies, and his primary function was to stage manage their performances. Another crucial task which had fallen to him was that of mollifying the landlord during his periodic fits of terror. Westfield’s Men used the yard of the Queen’s Head as their regular venue so Alexander Marwood had per
force to be humoured.

  ‘The Merry Devils is a harmless comedy,’ Nicholas told him. ‘It is written by two God-fearing gentlemen and will not raise the slightest blush on the cheeks of Christianity.’ He patted the other’s back. ‘Take heart, Master Marwood. There is no danger here.’

  ‘I have to look to my livelihood, sir.’

  ‘We respect that.’

  ‘I would not fall foul of the authorities.’

  ‘Nor shall you, believe me.’

  ‘Your play will put the Queen’s Head in jeopardy.’

  ‘That would hardly serve our turn.’

  ‘I have heard,’ said Marwood, eyes bulging and twitch working away, ‘the most dread reports.’

  ‘Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.’

  ‘They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.’

  ‘Then they mislead you cruelly.’

  ‘They say you show all manner of Vice.’

  ‘Virtue is our constant theme.’

  ‘They say …’ The landlord’s voice became an outraged hiss to accommodate the full horror of his final charge. ‘They say that you – raise up devils!’

  ‘Indeed, we do not,’ said Nicholas reassuringly. ‘We merely summon George Dart and Roper Blundell.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Two poor, innocent wights who could not frighten a fly between them. These are no real devils, Master Marwood. They are hirelings with the company. Two small lads who are fitted for the parts by their very smallness. Hugh Wegges, our tireman, has costumed them in red with pointed tails and tiny horns, but it is all in jest.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Our merry devils will cause more merriment than devilry. And, as they hope to go to heaven, George Dart and Roper Blundell will tell you the same.’

  Marwood was not appeased. When he sniffed catastrophe – and it was brought in on every wind that blew – he was not easily put off the scent. To assuage him further, Nicholas patiently explained the whole plot then ushered him across to the rectangle of trestles which jutted out into the yard from one wall and which formed the stage on which Westfield’s Men would perform their new piece. He indicated the two trap-doors through which the devils would make their appearance and even divulged the secret of how each of them would make such an explosive entry. The landlord was given fresh matter for alarm.