The Devil and His Boy (11 page)

“Tom…?” Dr Mobius had a glass of wine in one hand, a pipe in the other. His cabin was lit by the soft yellow glow of a candle. He stepped out on to the deck.

“I have some good news for you!” Mobius stretched out a hand, his rings glinting in the candlelight. He laid it gently on Tom’s head, stroking his hair. “We are going to perform
The Devil and his Boy
in three days’ time.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tom said.

“It is better than you think, my dear friend. We have been greatly honoured. Yes, indeed, it is an honour. The performance is to take place in the Palace of Whitehall.”

“A palace?” Tom’s mind was beginning to spin, but there was more to come.

“Yes, Tom.” His lips curled in a slow smile and something brighter than candlelight gleamed in his eyes. “In Whitehall Palace. And we’ll be performing in front of the Queen.”

The
next three days were a whirlwind of activity. There were still lines to be learned, movements to be discussed, fights to be choreographed and costumes to be sewn. And then there were the props and scenery. Like most plays,
The Devil and his Boy
didn’t need much scenery – the audience was expected to imagine it. But there were a lot of props and it was one of these that led to a strange and unpleasant incident.

The prop was a pitchfork.

Tom was rehearsing on the deck in the cold morning sunlight. The entire cast was there, some of them acting, the rest sewing or painting. Florian, he noticed, was looking very downcast. In fact, the older boy had barely spoken a word to him since the night of the warning. However, he noticed Florian glance upwards sharply as Dr Mobius appeared from his cabin, carrying two pitchforks.

“This is for you, Tom,” Dr Mobius said, handing him one. “When you disguise yourself as a devil, this is what you must carry. Please handle it with great care.”

The pitchfork was about two metres long and taking it, Tom was surprised by its weight. Examining it, he soon knew why it was so heavy. The actual prongs themselves were only wood but the length of the pitchfork was a hollow metal tube – if it hadn’t been for the prongs, glued to the top, Tom would have been able to look right through it. There was one other slightly strange thing. At the end of the tube, on the inside, some sort of line had been cut. Tom ran his thumb over it, feeling the sharp metal edge pressing into his flesh. Obviously the metal tube had been used for something before it had been turned into a fork. But why hadn’t Dr Mobius used a broom handle or even a roll of paper? It would have been lighter and easier to handle.

And it was while they were running around the deck, that Tom dropped his. The pitchfork fell down. The wooden forks snapped off and the metal tube began to roll along the deck.

Everyone froze. The tube was heading towards the very edge of the ship. There were no railings there. There was nothing between it and the river. And then Florian reacted. Acting as if his life depended on it, he threw himself full-length on to the deck. His out-stretched hand caught the tube centimetres away from the edge. He stood up, holding it.

Dr Mobius had watched all this with wide eyes. Tom could see the relief in his eyes as Florian lifted the tube, but in seconds relief had been replaced with fury. His whole face seemed to change. His skin grew darker, the veins standing out on his bald head. His mouth drew back in a snarl and the next thing Tom knew his hand had struck out, crashing into the side of Tom’s face and throwing him sprawling on to the deck. With his head spinning, he tried to stand up but Dr Mobius was already there, looming over him.

“You idiot!” Dr Mobius shouted. “You fool! I told you to be careful and you almost lost it!”

“It’s only a metal tube!” Tom protested.

“What?” Dr Mobius drew back his foot and Tom was sure he was going to kick him where he lay. But then Florian sprang forward.

“It was an accident,” he said. “You don’t have to hurt him!”

Dr Mobius stared at his nephew with murder in his eyes. For his part, Florian held his ground, the rod still in his hand. Slowly, Dr Mobius recovered. He looked down. Tom was still on his knees. There was a trickle of blood coming from the side of his mouth. Dr Mobius drew a hand over his eyes as if trying to wipe away the memory of what had just occurred.

“You must forgive me,” he said. “That was … unforgivable of me.” He whipped out his handkerchief and offered it to Tom. Tom didn’t take it. “You see,” he went on, “to play in front of the Queen! It is a considerable honour. And of course … I am nervous. We are all nervous. And this…” He gestured at the metal tube, then at Tom. “It was first night nerves. I apologize to you. It won’t happen again.” He took the metal rod from Florian and stepped back. “We shall all take a rest,” he exclaimed to the watching actors. “We will start again after lunch.”

The actors dispersed. Tom looked for Florian but the other boy had already turned away and gone downstairs. Suddenly resolved, Tom got up and followed him.

He found Florian in the costumes room, at work on the dress that he himself would wear. Tom paused in the doorway. He caught sight of himself in a piece of broken mirror leaning against the wall. There was still a little blood beside his mouth and he wiped it away with his sleeve.

“Thank you,” he said.

“That’s all right.” Florian didn’t look up from his work.

“Florian…” Tom moved further into the room. “The other night … last week. You told me I should get off the ship. You said that I was in danger. What did you mean?”

The other boy turned his head away. The dress he was working on was bunched up in his hands. Tom could almost feel him struggling with himself. But then another of the actors appeared at the door and looked in. “Lunch is ready,” he said and went on his way.

Maybe Florian had been about to tell Tom something but the moment had been interrupted and now the spell was broken. “I didn’t mean anything,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said it. Just forget it.”

He got up and, brushing past Tom, quickly left the room.

The opening performance of the first night drew closer and closer. They ran through the play once, then again, this time, with costumes as well as props. Florian had been transformed into a girl with a flowing dress, make-up and a wig. Watching him, Tom remembered his meeting with Will Shakespeare and wondered if he could have acted as a girl at the Rose. In his heart, he knew he could. He also knew – although it made him sad – that he would much rather be acting in Shakespeare’s new play than in
The Devil and his Boy
.

The last morning came and went. Everyone knew their lines. Francis and Frances, the musicians, knew their tunes. They performed the play one last time, and this time Dr Mobius loaded the muskets so that, as he and Tom were chased off the stage (this was the last scene of the play), there were loud explosions and puffs of smoke behind them.

Dr Mobius was pleased with the effect. “It will give Her Majesty much pleasure. The explosions and the alarms.” He rolled his moustache between two fingers. “Everyone enjoys that in a play. The last act has to be the best!”

That afternoon, they left the boat. A horse and cart had arrived and all the props, costumes, stage furniture and scripts were carried across in trunks and loaded up in the back. Tom was already feeling dry-mouthed and wondered what he would be like when they arrived at Whitehall Palace.

When everything had been loaded, he and Florian climbed into the back. There was room for the two boys and for Dr Mobius at the front of the cart, but everyone else would have to walk. They stood waiting in the cold for a few minutes. Dr Mobius was the last to leave the ship. He looked briefly in the back of the cart.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes, Dr Mobius.”

“Then onward … to glory!”

Dr Mobius climbed into the front of the cart and a moment later they felt a jolt as it moved off. Tom glanced back. And it was then that he saw something moving on the deck. It was smoke. It was coming up from below, creeping over the deck and curling round the masts. At first he thought he must be mistaken but suddenly a tongue of flame shot out, licked at part of the old rigging and suddenly the whole boat was ablaze.

Tom cried out but Florian leaned over and stopped him. “It’s all right, Tom,” he said. “We’re finished here. We won’t be going back.”

The cart rumbled onward. The entire boat was ablaze now, huge flames reaching up to the very top of the masts. As damp as the ship was, the fire seemed to fall on it like a hungry animal, tearing into it, consuming it utterly. The wood cracked and splintered. One of the masts shivered and fell. The flames leapt up. The ice on the river, glowing red now, began to move, pulling away from the doomed vessel. Slowly the old ship folded in on itself.

And then the cart turned a corner and Tom saw no more.

Whitehall Palace was quite unlike anything Tom had dreamed of. He had imagined a single building but as the cart passed the great monument at Charing Cross and trundled underneath the arches of the Holbein Gate, he realized that it was an entire town in its own right. There were soaring chapels and tall, solid towers; elegant stables and neat, compact houses. The entire complex was set in gardens and orchards, spread out on the northern bank of the Thames. Tom found it hard to believe that only a few days before he had been close by, fighting for his life on the fragile ice.

They were stopped by a soldier dressed in a red and black tunic with a sword at his waist and an odd weapon – part spear and part axe – on his shoulder. Sitting at the front of the cart, Dr Mobius produced a letter and handed it to him and the soldier directed them to a large building that was being guarded by two more similarly dressed men. The cart rolled across the last few metres and Tom got down. The two men seemed to take no notice of him. Passing between them, Tom went in – and found himself in the Banqueting Hall where the play was to be performed.

It was a huge space, at least a hundred metres long, held up by slim wooden pillars garlanded with dried flowers and fruit. The walls seemed to be solid stone but looking more closely, Tom was thrilled to realize that the whole building was a trick. The walls were actually made of canvas. What he was standing in was nothing more than a gigantic tent. But what a tent! The ceiling had been painted as if it were the sky – at one end there were silver stars and a moon, at the other a golden sun, shooting out its beams. At least three hundred glass lamps hung inside and wreaths of holly and ivy had been placed everywhere.

A stage had been constructed at one end of the Banqueting Hall. It stood against a screen which the actors could hide behind when they needed to change or were waiting to come on. There were a number of chairs at the other end, one of them larger than the rest and richly padded with velvet and cushions. Tom didn’t need to ask who would be sitting here.

Dr Mobius had already started carrying in the costumes and props. Tom wondered if he ought to help but before he could move there was the sound of stamping feet and a dozen soldiers suddenly marched in, forming a line on either side of the entrance. There was a brief pause and then three more men came in, these ones wearing brilliantly coloured slashed doublets and caps, tight stockings and highly polished shoes.

Dr Mobius stopped what he was doing and bowed low. The actors did the same. Tom hesitated for a moment then remembered himself and bowed as well. The man standing in the middle – he also had some sort of chain of office round his neck and carried a white staff – gestured at Dr Mobius, who straightened up.

“My name is Edmund Tilney,” he said. “I am Master in the Office of the Revels. You are…” He creased his brow and glanced at the younger man on his left.

“The Garden Players,” the man said.

“Quite. And the name of the play you are to perform?”

“
The Devil and his Boy
,” Dr Mobius told him.

“Oh yes.” The Master of the Revels frowned. “Not an entirely suitable title, I feel,” he snapped. “But Sir Richard says he found it most enjoyable.”

At the mention of Sir Richard, Tom glanced up. He had barely noticed the third man when he came in but now he realized that it was indeed the same “Sir Richard” who had come – twice – to the boat. There were the narrow eyes and slightly hooked nose. And there – impossible to miss – was the scar, cut on the side of his cheek, shaped like a J.

But even as he stood there uncomfortably with his back bent and his neck craning up, Tom’s mind began to race. As far as he knew,
The Devil and his Boy
had never been performed before. Certainly all the actors had had to learn it from scratch. So how could Sir Richard claim to have seen it?

And why had Sir Richard come to the boat, not only at night but in disguise? He remembered seeing Dr Mobius give him a bag full of coins. What had the money been for?

And, most strangely of all, why were Dr Mobius and Sir Richard pretending they didn’t know each other? It wasn’t just that they hadn’t greeted each other. They weren’t even looking each other in the eye.

What exactly was going on?

“All right,” Tilney was saying. “The play will begin at eight o’clock, after Her Majesty has finished dinner. There are certain rules which you would be wise to obey.” He cast his eyes over the entire company. “None of you are to look at Her Majesty. If she enjoys the play, she may come and speak to you afterwards. If she doesn’t, I can assure you that she’s the
last
person you’d want to speak to. Don’t try to speak to her. You may find it easier just to imagine she isn’t here.”

He paused for breath. From the way he spoke, Tom imagined that he had done this many times before.

“Now, we have to consider the content of this play. I understand it’s a comedy. I hope it’s got good jokes.”

“The very finest, my lord,” Dr Mobius said, bowing again.

“Good. Her Majesty enjoys a laugh. If you don’t hear her laughing, I suggest you finish it as quickly as you can. Leave out Acts Three and Four if you have to.” He turned to Sir Richard. “There’s nothing vulgar in it, is there?” he asked.