The Nicholas Bracewell Collection

by Edward Marston

  ‘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 he 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 counterweight 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 of Hell?

  Nicholas brightened. When he went off to find the landlord, he did so with a new spring in his step. The 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 i’ 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 Castrato?’ 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 terror. 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.’

  Lord Westfield toyed with his pomander while the two ladies buzzed around him in a flurry of satin. Their whispered entreaties were very much to his taste and helped him to reach a decision.

  ‘I would see this comedy again, sir.’

  ‘Again, my lord?’ Firethorn concealed his rising disquiet.

  ‘Yes, uncle,’ said Jordan with genial enthusiasm. ‘I would have i
t played at Parkbrook House, in the long hall, when my refurbishment is complete. Order shall be given for it. The idea grows on me apace. With your permission, I am resolved on it.’

  ‘Would you have these merry devils in your home, Francis?’

  ‘They will bring a feast of joy to the occasion.’

  ‘Have you no qualms, nephew?’

  ‘None, sir. Parkbrook welcomes such jollity.’

  ‘So be it, then. I’ll indulge your whim.’

  ‘Thank you, uncle, with all my heart!’

  Francis Jordan had recently taken possession of a property on Lord Westfield’s estate in Hertfordshire and he was having alterations made before he moved in. He planned to have a banquet to mark his arrival as the new master of Parkbrook House and that day of celebration would now include The Merry Devils as its central feature.

  Lord Westfield voiced a slight reservation.

  ‘When will the work be done, Francis?’

  ‘In a month or so.’

  ‘That is too long to wait,’ said his uncle impatiently. ‘I’ll not tarry until Parkbrook be in a fit state to receive my company. In ten days, I return to the country myself. These merry devils will caper for my delight before I leave. See to it, Master Firethorn.’

  The actor-manager started and gave an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Your request is not easy to satisfy, my lord.’

  ‘Then my request will become my command.’

  ‘But we already have plans for our next performances.’

  ‘Change them, sir.’

  ‘The Merry Devils does not figure in our list.’

  ‘Insert it.’

  Firethorn gritted his teeth. Having survived one ordeal with the play, he did not wish to be confronted with another quite so soon. Nor did he relish the idea of forcing a reluctant company to present a work which had such unfortunate associations for them.

  ‘Is there no other comedy in our repertoire that would please you, my lord?’ he said. ‘You have only to choose.’

  ‘That is what I have done, sir.’

  ‘The Merry Devils will be very difficult to mount again.’

  ‘No more evasion,’ said his patron with a dismissive sweep of his hand. ‘We would have this play again and we would have it with that fiery creature in his flash of red smoke. We shall know when to expect him next time and he will not make our hearts leap so readily into our mouths.’ He drained his wine. ‘Make arrangements, sir.’

  ‘And do not forget the visit to Parkbrook House,’ said Jordan seriously. ‘That still stands, Master Firethorn. I would have devilry in my own home, so I would. You will be recompensed.’

  Lawrence Firethorn capitulated with a deep bow.

  ‘We are, as always, my lord, your most obedient servants.’

  A submissive smile covered his face but his mind was wrestling with practical problems. If they risked staging the play again, how could they guarantee the requisite number of devils? Would the intruder deign to return on cue? Could they, indeed, prevent him from doing so?

  St Benet Grass Church had served its parishioners with unwavering devotion for over four long centuries and in that time it had witnessed all manner of worship, but it had never before encountered anything quite so incongruous as the sight which now presented itself in the chancel. Kneeling at the altar rail was a figure of such showy elegance that he seemed more fitted for a gaming den than for a house of prayer. It was as if he had wandered into the church by mistake and been vanquished by the power of God. A shudder went through his body then he prostrated himself on the cold stone steps, assuming an attitude of extreme penitence so that he could have conference with his Maker.

  A mitred bishop in the meanest brothel could not have looked more out of place. The man remained prone for several minutes, a colourful guest in the consecrated shadows, a living embodiment of the sacred and the profane. When he raised his eyes to the crucifix, they were awash with tears of contrition. Racked with guilt and speared with pain, he muttered a stream of prayers under his breath then slowly dragged himself to his feet. He backed down the aisle and genuflected when he reached the door.

  Ralph Willoughby went out into bustling Gracechurch Street.

  His affability returned at once. In his cheerful progress through the crowd, there was no hint of the malaise which took him to St Benet’s, still less of the turbulence he experienced while he was there. His innermost feelings were cloaked once more. Willoughby now gave the impression that he did not have a care in the world.

  When he reached the Queen’s Head, he went straight to the yard where the stage was being dismantled. Westfield’s Men were not due to perform there until the following week and so their temporary playhouse could make way for the ordinary business of the inn. Everybody worked with unwonted alacrity, eager to clear away all trace of The Merry Devils so that they could put behind them the memory of what had happened that afternoon. There was none of the usual idle chat. They went about their task in grim silence.

  Nicholas Bracewell came out of a door and crossed the yard. He had laboured long and hard with Marwood and the effort had taken its toll, but it had brought a modicum of success. The landlord had been sufficiently quelled by the book holder’s reasoning to hold back from tearing up the contract with Westfield’s Men. The players were neither welcome nor expelled from the Queen’s Head. Nicholas had won them a period of grace.

  Pleased to see Willoughby, he bore down on him.

  ‘A word in your ear, Ralph,’ he said.

  ‘As many as you choose, dear fellow.’

  ‘Master Firethorn was roused by that third devil of ours.’

  ‘So we were all!’

  ‘His anger glows. Avoid him until it has cooled.’

  ‘Why so, Nick?’

  ‘Be warned. He lays the blame on you.’

  ‘Ah!’ sighed the other softly.

  ‘Away, sir!’ urged Nicholas. ‘He’ll be here anon. He stays but for brief converse with Lord Westfield.’

  ‘This is kind advice, but I’ll stand my ground in spite of it.’

  ‘Fly the place now, Ralph.’

  ‘I’ll not turn tail for any man.’

  ‘Master Firethorn will rant and rave unjustly at you.’

  ‘He has good cause.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It was my fault.’ Willoughby shook his head and smiled wryly. ‘Lay it at my door, Nick. I penned that scene and I summoned that furious devil from Hell.’

  ‘No, not from Hell. His journey was of much shorter length.’

  ‘How say you?’

  ‘It was a creature of flesh and blood, Ralph.’

  ‘But I saw the fiend with my own eyes.’

  ‘Only in a twinkling.’ Nicholas pointed to the trestles that were being taken down. ‘If that was one of Satan’s brood, why did he leave by an open trap whose device had been cut for the purpose?’

  ‘A devil may do as he wishes,’ argued Willoughby. ‘He could have disappeared down the trap or up the nearest chimney, if fancy had seized him that way. This was no illusion, Nick. It was real and authenticate.’

  ‘I cannot believe that.’

  ‘What other explanation suits the case?’

  ‘The creature was placed there for our discomfort.’

  ‘By whom, sir?’

  ‘We have rivals, we have enemies.’

  ‘But how came they to have intelligence of our play? This was no random fiend, breaking forth wildly to mar all our doings. This merry devil knew exactly when to appear. No rival could have prompted him.’

  It was a valid point and it halted Nicholas in his tracks. Plays were the exclusive property of the companies who staged them and they were jealously guarded during the rehearsal period. Plagiarism was rife and Westfield’s Men – it was an article of faith with Firethorn – took especial care to protect their interests while, at the same time, keeping a close eye on the work of their rivals to see if they themselves might filch an occasional idea or steal some oc
casional thunder. Only one complete copy of The Merry Devils existed and it had been entrusted to the capable hands of Nicholas Bracewell, who kept it under lock and key when not using it as a prompt book.

  Nobody outside the company had had a sight of the full text of the play. It was impossible for someone to introduce a third merry devil into the action without prior knowledge of the time, place and manner in which George Dart and Roper Blundell emerged on to the stage.

  Ralph Willoughby jabbed a finger to reinforce his argument.

  ‘The devil came forth in answer to my call.’

  ‘If devil it was,’ said Nicholas sceptically.

  ‘Of that there can be no doubt.’

  ‘I am not persuaded, Ralph.’

  ‘Then I must unfold something to you,’ said the other, peering around to make sure that they were not overheard. ‘The speeches of Doctor Castrato were not invention. Those incantations were not the product of my wayward brain. I took counsel.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘A man well-versed in such matters.’

  ‘A sorcerer?’

  ‘An astrologer of some renown, practised in all the arts of medicine, alchemy and necromancy. Every aspect of demonology is known to him and he instructed me patiently in the subject.’

  Nicholas did not need to be told the name. The description could only apply to one person in London, an astrologer of such eminence that his services had been retained by Queen Elizabeth herself and by various members of the royal household. An educated man like Ralph Willoughby would have no dealings with mountebanks who performed their wizardry in back alleys. He would search out the best advice and that would surely come from the celebrated Doctor John Mordrake of Knightrider Street.

  ‘He showed me the charms to use,’ said Willoughby. ‘He taught me the correct form of words.’

  ‘Did Edmund know of all this?’

  ‘I had no reason to tell him, Nick. It fell to me to write that fatal scene and I wanted a ring of truth in it. I had no notion that I would raise a devil in broad daylight.’

  ‘Were you not warned against it?’

  ‘My mentor assured me that the summons would only work in private, in some cloistered place where darkness was softened by candlelight. Yet here was this fiend of Hell for all to see.’