The Vizard Mask

by Diana Norman

  The apples on the Tree, or Adam's belly-button, might be the knobs that would release the panel's catch but Penitence was afraid she knew Harry Ap:Ll better than that. She extended her finger and gave a quick jab at Eve's jaunty nipple, heard the click, watched the panel slide to the left and saw the door she had been trying to find for nearly four years.

  It was of carved pine and bigger than the panel, though she couldn't see by how much, and its sill corresponded with the panel's bottom rim. It was already opened a few inches into the room behind it. She thought it probable that before the north wing was built there had been another stone room where her bedroom now was and this door would have been hidden behind an arras.

  And why sit here working out such things instead of going in?

  She was getting fanciful in her old age. First her dread of Barnzo's cart the other day, and now this reluctance to explore a marvel. There could be treasure in there. Well, yes, but treasure wasn't the only thing they walled up.

  First she locked her bedroom door. She fetched and lit a candle, then she put a pillow across the sill of the panel, not just to form a bridge for her knees to the sill of the secret room, but to block the possibility of the panel clicking back into place and her finding no mechanism at the rear by which she could open it again. The thought made the palms of her hands wet.

  Holding the candle ahead of her she crawled across the pillow into the room and, because its doorsill was a foot above its floor, had to do some complicated leg-work before she could stand up inside.

  It was a nasty room. There was nothing in it except a bench, but malignity had got trapped in its dimensions. It was too high and too long for its seven-foot width. There was no window in the stone walls and the only light came from the door and a collection of holes in the wall opposite against which the bench stood. She couldn't understand the room's function; it was over-large as a hiding place for jewels and the air-holes indicated it was for habitation of some kind. A priest's hole? But why? The Hoys had been Protestant since Henry VIII; there was no need for their house to have a room for the practice of forbidden Mass.It was when she examined the holes in the wall facing her that she got an inkling. They were irregular, two round ones side by side at the top, two more below, equally round but smaller and closer together, and a slit beneath the lot. All were in a concave recess and were actually tiny tunnels sloping downwards in the thickness of the wall.

  She put her eyes to the recess and saw familiar colour which, for a moment, she couldn't place until she recognized the Isfahan rug that had once adorned Rupert's study at Awdes and now lay in front of the fireplace in her own hall. Of course. She'd forgotten. She was staring through the eyes of the gargoyle.

  Not a priest hole, a peep-hole. A place for spying. A voyeur's room. Some old Hoy had sat here on this bench and observed his household without their knowledge. Who had he spied on? His wife? No, of course not; in the time this room was built the hall had been a priory. The prior had sat here, dirty old man, his gargoyle's eyes watching his unknowing flock, recording sins, overhearing plots, listening for things his monks did not tell him in confession.

  A figure moved into her field of vision — Joan, a slow- moving daughter of Athelzoy, employed to sweep. The gargoyle's encircled view gave her interest and significance. Lazily, she brushed up the ash of the fire where it had spilled over the grate. As she carried it away in her bucket her skirt sent some of the fine, white powder blowing on to the rug. Joan paused, then rubbed it in with the thick sole of her shoe.

  You and I are going to fall out, miss. Penitence pulled herself up; spy-holes had fascination as well as horror. She must resist it. With an effort she also resisted giving an eldritch screech of 'Your sins have found you out, Joan Pedder'. The shock would probably kill the slut. Instead, she held up the candle for a last look round the room, found nothing else of interest, and crawled out of it.

  She supposed she was glad the room was there but she felt none of the thrill of secret possession she had expected once she found it. She could lodge such jewellery as Rupert had given to her in it, but since robbery was almost unknown in this part of the county it was probably as safe in the heavy chest where she usually locked it.

  Oh well, you never knew when a hiding-place would be useful. But she wouldn't mind at all if she never went into the unpleasant place again. And she would certainly have a word or two with Joan Pedder.

  Chapter 2

  There were still just irregular, though rising, walls of masonry where St Paul's had been, but the rest of the City was elegant in its resurrection and its populace hurried familiarly along the neat streets and in and out of the shops as if they had always been there.

  Nevertheless, Penitence found London peculiarly oppressive. It was hot, of course, and she had grown used to the unlimited space of Somerset, but a town that had once been relaxed to the point of disorderly was now become tidy, almost prissy.

  On her first promenade she wondered what was different about the merchants who passed her before realizing that the thread of moustache which prosperous men had worn in imitation of Charles II had gone. Now they were fully shaved in imitation of James II. Gone too was the relaxed dress; coats were narrower and stiffer. There were fewer ribbons, and shoes were decorated with buckles.

  Women's fashion had changed as well. And not for the better. She didn't like the elaborate caps which rose in a wired pleated frill at the front nor the formalized drapery of the gowns with their bustles and trains. The effect wasn't so pretty nor so comfortable as in her day. She caught the echo of the thought. Oh God, I'm getting old.

  The theatre was in a bad way. King's had died of Killigrew's poor financial management. The only playhouse in London now was the Duke of York's and even there attendances were down. 'The King has no enthusiasm for it,' Otway told her, 'you'd think politics, hunting and Catherine Sedley were the only things to concern him.'

  The biter had been bit with a vengeance. Sir Charles Sedley, it was said, raved furiously at the King's adultery with his daughter. In the tradition of James's mistresses, Catherine Sedley was plain but she had her father's brilliant bitchiness and confessed herself puzzled at James's fascination with her. 'It cannot be my beauty, for I have none; and it cannot be my wit, for he has not enough to know that I have any.'

  Other old friends were in trouble. John Hoyle was drunker than ever. Dryden had found it politic to turn Catholic. Charlie Hart was dead.

  Nevertheless it was delightful to be welcomed into Aphra's soirees, and to be greeted as an honoured Thespian when she visited the tiring-room. Thomas Betterton bowed over her hand and said: 'I was privileged to see your Beatrice, ma'am.'

  When, acting modesty, she protested she was too old and too rusty for the Widow Ranter — but try to take her away from me - he said earnestly: 'Age cannot wither you nor custom stale your infinite talent.' Having just seen his Macbeth, the compliment moved Penitence almost to tears. Close to, he was of unexceptional height with a face like a cottage loaf; on stage he'd been seven feet tall.

  Aphra also insisted on effecting an introduction between Penitence and the King's recently appointed Chief Justice, Sir George Jeffreys: 'A fine, forceful man and a wonderful playgoer. One can't have too many friends in that class. He's saved several plays by his frequent attendance. One's dedicating one's translation of The History of Oracles to him. You must recall him, dear. He was often backstage at King's. He was ravished by your Desdemona.'

  He was brought to the next soiree to meet her.

  'And I tell you, dear madam,' roared the Lord Chief Justice, 'that Othello is a fool. Magnificent, but a fool. Had he brought his case to my court, your Desdemona should have gone free as a bird and that lying, snake-tongued knave Iago should have been whipped at the cart's-arse as Titus Oates is whipped now, 'til the blood runs. I'd have pinned his slanders to his shoulders, I'd have discovered the rogue.'

  Penitence batted admiring eyelashes: 'How illuminating to have a great legal mind view the play, my lor
d.' As Aphra said, you couldn't have too many friends in Sir George's class.

  But I still don't remember him. If, as he was telling her, he'd come to the tiring-room after one of her appearances in Desdemona, he hadn't made much of an impact.

  He was immoderately clever, it was said, and his roots were humble. Perhaps it was only when James, to whom he seemed devoted, came to the throne that he had been given room to spread his extremely large personality. His somewhat unremarkable face was charged with blood and power so that it was difficult to look away from it. He heated Aphra's hot, untidy front room with his energy and his enormous, surprisingly musical, bass voice. He was about forty years old, a heavy drinker, and still greedy for flesh - his hand was constantly touching Penitence's — for attention, for everything. They said he was unhappily married.

  For all his exalted position, he was finding it thrilling to be among theatre people and on familiar terms with men and women he had before merely watched from the gallery. His prominent blue eyes searched round for reactions every time he spoke. He's an actor manqué.

  He took her hand to his huge breast. 'Make me a promise that you play Desdemona for me, or I'll not live. Betterton here shall be your Othello, will you not, Tom? A special performance for the Lord Chief Justice. Indulge me.'

  Penitence saw that Betterton was attracted to the idea; his attempts to put on The Widow Ranter were being frustrated by increasing rumours of a Monmouth invasion. In times of disquiet James wanted his audiences watching trusty old plays with patriotic themes, like Henry V, not untried Widow Ranters.

  Every day there were reports of a rebel fleet gathering on the Texel across the Channel, and Penitence had decided that if nothing came of The Widow Ranter soon she would have to go back home. If there was going to be trouble she didn't want to be so far away from the children.

  On the other hand, it would be deflating to return to the West without having appeared on stage at least once more.

  She said: 'Can we please Sir George, Tom? It's so rarely we poor actresses are on the right side of a judge.'

  The Lord Chief Justice was amused. They could tell by the way everybody's glass vibrated in the roar. Betterton nodded.

  The conversation turned inevitably to the latest news from the Netherlands. 'Worry not your pretty heads, ladies,' said Sir George, capturing Penitence's hand again. 'If the rogue lands, we have our defences. We're watching the North-West and Scotland. Traitors and those obnoxious to the government are being rounded up.'

  'The North-West?' asked Penitence, relieved. 'Monmouth won't be troubling my neck of the woods then?'

  'No, no, ma'am. Lancashire, Cheshire, or Scotland is our information, if the rogue comes at all. Mistress Hughes's neck of the woods is safe — a pretty neck I'll warrant. We'll debar Monmouth from it, but may your Chief Justice see this little neck when he travels the next Assize in the South-West?'

  'You are always welcome, my lord,' said Penitence. She wondered whether her cellar could cope with a visit from Sir George. She wondered if she could.

  On 11 June 1685 the Duke of Monmouth made landfall near Dorset's Lyme Regis in the South-West with an expeditionary force some eighty-odd strong.

  Two of the Duke's most important lieutenants fell out immediately, one shooting the other dead.

  But the invaders could not be relied on to continue wiping themselves out; already Nonconformists were rallying to the Duke's Protestant banner. King James called out his standing army and alerted the Dorset, Somerset and Devon militias.

  Penitence wanted to return to the Priory immediately but was persuaded against it. The rising was in Dorset, if it could be called a rising. Even if it strayed over the border into Somerset, what could the Duke do with eighty-odd men? It was only a few days until the performance of Othello. Would she disappoint the Lord Chief Justice, a more dangerous enemy than a thousand Monmouths?

  It wasn't easy to get a coherent picture of what was happening in Somerset; some reports said the whole county was rising to join the Duke, others that he was making little impact on any but the disaffected. Ominously, there had been no word from Dorinda or anybody else at the Priory for over a week.

  By the time Penitence made up her mind that whatever was happening she had to get home, she couldn't get a seat on a coach. 'All reserved for military and official personnel,' she shouted at Aphra, as if it was Aphra's fault, when she returned from the Flying Coach office. 'Monmouth's raised his banner in Taunton — Taunton, that's only ten miles away across King's Sedgemoor — and thousands flocking to it. The bastard's requisitioning houses and horses.'

  She panicked. Monmouth would be stealing her stock. The household was starving. He'd burned the house down. They were all dead. Monmouth was a murderer, a rapist and killer of little girls. He .. .

  'Calm down, dear,' said Aphra. 'We've not heard of anybody being hurt, not a piece of furniture splintered, there hasn't even been a battle.' She administered milk punch and common sense. 'Why not put it out of your mind - yes, I know, but listen - give the performance of your life on Saturday and ask our dear Lord Chief Justice to give you a chitty making you an authorized person, or whatever it is. Please him, and he'll refuse you nothing.'

  Penitence began to steady. 'But I want to go home now.'

  'Be sensible, dear. It's only two more days, and Monmouth's not a monster who eats little girls. Even if he was, he'd never get past Dorinda. No, no, he's just marching about.'

  Penitence kissed her. 'He'd better not march over my teasels.'

  Those who saw Thomas Betterton's Othello with Peg Hughes as Desdemona were to tell their grandchildren of it with the superiority of those confident its like would never be seen again.

  'Decus et Dolor,' said Becky.

  'Decus et Dolor.' She gulped a breath of the old, unique theatre smell, King's or Duke's, and entered, swishing her cloak around her, to give the last act of what she knew would be her finest — and last — performance.

  For one thing, she would never surpass the heights to which she had risen this night because her greatness was due to Tom Betterton, not the other way round. She hadn't witnessed such acting before. For another, she didn't have the courage any more to face cowering in the tiring-room with a sick bowl and fighting down terror each time she stepped out from the wings. She couldn't go back to a life that was like a boxing booth, where victory over one challenger only meant that you were still on your feet to meet the next. She felt pity, as well as envy, for Duke's new luminary, Elizabeth Barry — and gratitude; the girl was beautiful and talented but had agreed to understudy her for this performance. Also she made Penitence feel old.

  The tiring-room mirror was polite to her years; if there was grey in her hair, it was hidden among the blonde and her skin was lasting well. But the indefinable something that was age would mean she'd soon look ridiculous playing the part of a young bride.

  And the stinkards wouldn't be slow in pointing it out. She'd forgotten the appalling strain they added to the already nerve- racking life of an actress. There they'd been, flooding into the tiring-room in the interval; another generation, as aggressive and persistent, as rude — though definitely less witty — as the courtiers of Charles. One had already called her 'Auntie' as he tried to snap her garter.

  Through the throng Becky had caught her eye: 'Makes one remember Sir Hugh Middleton kindly, don't it?'

  But above all what had brought home the realization that she was no longer an actress was the anxiety not only for her children, but for her house, her people and her livestock as Monmouth's army marched closer and closer to them. She offered her acting career up to God in exchange for their safety, and feared He would not find it acceptable because it was too favourable a bargain on her side.

  Thanks to the presence of Sir George the fops were passably well behaved during the performance. There was absolute silence as she sang the Willow Song, except for the sobs of the Lord Chief Justice.

  At the end, Betterton's hand holding hers high, she bathed fo
r the last time in that lambent, auditory love that was the audience's applause and bade a silent 'Goodbye'.

  Sir George was still weeping as he came backstage and very aroused. 'Oh, dear creature, that 1 could whisk you to dinner and Paradise .. . that the King had not sent for me this very moment.' He was waving a piece of paper carrying the royal seal.

  She had to work fast. 'I am flattered, sir, that you have delayed to see the play out. If I have pleased you, grant me a boon.' She leaned forward so that he could look down her cleavage. There wasn't time for subtleties.

  'My withers are not stone, Mistress Hughes,' he breathed wine fumes in her ear, 'they are flesh, and you have wrung them. Ask of me what you will.'

  She explained, watching calculation enter his light blue pop eyes.

  He said: 'Shall I lose you now I have found you? We may not dine tonight, but there is still tomorrow.' He patted her bare shoulder, and appeared to forget to lift his hot hand. 'No, no, dear lady, it is too dangerous for you to go home.'