The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (29 page)

‘Or some viper within our own circle.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He has been the villain all along.’

‘Who, Lawrence?’

‘He hacked through that maypole by way of farewell.’

‘Tell us his name,’ said Margery.

‘Willoughby.’

‘Ralph Willoughby?’

‘I can think of no man more likely,’ he said gravely. ‘Damn the fellow! He knew the action of the play and at what point in it he could most damage us. Yes, I see the humour of it now. Willoughby was mortally wounded when I dismissed him from the company. We saw the extent of his anger this afternoon in that foul crime. It was his revenge.’

Life as the book holder of Westfield’s Men was highly exacting at all times. Nicholas Bracewell was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Having set everything up for the morning’s rehearsal, he now supervised the withdrawal from the theatre. They would not be playing at The Curtain again for a couple of weeks and all their scenery, costumes and properties had to be safely transported back to the room at the Queen’s Head where it was kept. As well as coordinating the efforts of his men, Nicholas had yet again to find some means to lift their spirits. The accident with the maypole had plunged them back into despair. First
with
The Merry Devils
and now
Cupid’s Folly
, they had suffered a disaster that was not of their own making. It was unnerving.

‘Shall we ever be free of these uncanny happenings?’

‘No question but that we shall.’

‘I am anxious, Master Bracewell.’

‘Overcome your anxiety.’

‘It is too great, sir.’

‘Fight it, George. Strive to better it.’

‘Roper thinks that Satan has set his cloven hoof upon us.’

‘Roper Blundell has a wild imagination.’

‘He was sober when he spoke.’

‘Sober or drunk, he is not to be heeded.’

‘Then who
did
attack us today, master?’

‘I have no answer to that,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘but this I do know. There was sawdust in the tiring-house where the maypole was kept before it was used. Some person cut through that solid oak when the place was unattended. Satan would have no need of such careful carpentry. He could have split the pole at his will.’

‘And may yet do that!’

George Dart was desolate. Spared the ordeal of an acting role in
Cupid’s Folly
, he and Roper Blundell did make an appearance on stage when they set up the maypole. In carrying it on, they unwittingly assisted in the downfall of Barnaby Gill and it preyed on them. Nicholas tried to reassure the assistant stagekeeper but Dart was inconsolable. There had been two calamities on stage already.

‘When will the third strike us, Master Bracewell?’

‘We must ensure that it does not.’

George Dart shrugged helplessly and trudged off. He and Roper Blundell left the theatre together, companions in misery. Their lowly position in the company made their jobs thankless enough at the best of times. Now they were being put on the rack as well. Neither would survive another devil or a second broken maypole.

After a final tour to check that all was in order, Nicholas came out of the playhouse himself. He was just in time to witness a brief but affectionate leavetaking. Two young ladies, dressed in their finery, were parting company with Edmund Hoode. Both were attractive but one had the more startling beauty. Yet he ignored her completely. Transfixed by the quieter charms of the other, he took her proffered hand and laid a tender kiss upon it, blushing in the ecstasy of the moment. The women raised their masks to their faces then sailed gracefully off to the carriage that was waiting for them. Hoode watched until the vehicle rattled away down Holywell Lane.

Nicholas strolled across to his still-beaming friend. ‘You wanted to speak with me, Edmund.’

‘Did I?’

‘We arranged to meet when my work was done.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Hoode, clutching at a vague memory. ‘Forgive me, Nicholas. My mind is on other matters.’

‘Let us turn our feet homeward.’

They walked in silence for a long while. Suppressing his natural curiosity, Nicholas made no mention of what he
had just witnessed. If his companion wished to discuss the subject, he would raise it. For his part, Hoode was torn between the need for discretion and the urge to confide. He wanted both to keep and share his secret. Nicholas was a close friend who always showed tact and understanding. It was this consideration which finally made Hoode blurt out his confession.

‘I am in love!’

‘The possibility occurred to me,’ said Nicholas wryly.

‘Yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve. It was ever thus.’

‘Who is the young lady?’

‘The loveliest creature in the world!’

It was a description that Edmund Hoode used rather often. Drawn into a series of unsuitable and largely unproductive love affairs, he had the capacity to put each failure behind him and view his latest choice with undiminished wonder. It was the triumph of hope over cynicism. Hoode was indeed a true romantic.

‘Her name is Grace Napier,’ he said proudly.

‘It becomes her well.’

‘Did you not see that eye, that lip, that cheek?’

‘I was struck at once by her qualities.’

‘Grace is without compare.’

‘Of good family, too, I would judge.’

‘Her father is a mercer in the City.’

Nicholas was duly impressed. The Mercers’ Company included some of the wealthiest men in London. Merchants who dealt in fine textiles, they gained their royal charter as early as 1394 and were now so well-established and
respected that they came first in order of precedence at the annual Lord Mayor’s Banquet. If Grace Napier were the daughter of a mercer, she would want for nothing.

‘How did you meet her?’ asked Nicholas.

‘She is bedazzled by the theatre and never tires of watching plays. Westfield’s Men have impressed her most.’

‘And you have been the most impressive of Westfield’s Men.’

‘Yes!’ said Hoode with delight. ‘She singled me out during
Double Deceit
. Is that not a miracle?’

‘
Double Deceit
is one of your best plays, Edmund.’

‘Grace admired my performance in it as well.’

‘You always excel in parts you tailor for yourself.’

‘Her brother approached me,’ continued Hoode, ‘and told me how much they had enjoyed my work. I was then introduced to Grace herself. Her enthusiasm touched me to the core, Nick. We authors have poor reward for our pains but she made all my efforts worthwhile. I loved her for her interest and our friendship has grown from that time on.’

Nicholas was touched as he listened to the full story and could not have been more pleased on the other’s behalf. Hoode had a fatal tendency to fall for women who – for some reason or another – were quite unattainable and his ardour was wasted in a fruitless chase. Grace Napier was of a different order. Young, unmarried and zealous in her playgoing, she was learning to welcome his attentions and thanked him warmly for the sonnet she inspired. The luck which eluded the playwright for so long had at last come his way.

‘And who was that other young lady, Edmund?’

‘
What
other young lady?’

The point was taken. Nicholas withdrew his enquiry. After letting his friend unpack his heart about Grace, he tried to guide him back to the reason that had brought them together on their walk. Shoreditch had now become Bishopsgate Street. Through a gap between two houses, they could see cows grazing in the distance.

‘Why did you seek me out?’ said Nicholas.

‘Why else but to talk of Grace?’

‘You had some other purpose, I fancy.’

‘Oh.’ Hoode’s face clouded. ‘I had forgot.’

As the conversation took on a more serious tone, they stopped in their tracks. Neither of them noticed that they were standing outside Bedlam. Nor did they guess that something which might have an important bearing on their own lives was going on behind its locked doors. The hospital was simply a backdrop to their exchange.

‘It is Ralph Willoughby,’ said Hoode.

‘What of him?’

‘I need his help with
The Merry Devils
.’

‘But he has been outlawed by Master Firethorn.’

‘That will not deter me.’

There was a defiant note in his voice, but a question in his raised eyebrow. He was ready, of course, to disregard a major decision taken by Lawrence Firethorn. What he needed to know was whether or not Nicholas would support him in his action.

‘I’ll not betray you, Edmund.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Ralph was not well-treated by us,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve no quarrel with him and would be glad of his advice about the play.’

‘He wrote that scene and only he should alter its course.’

‘I accept that.’

‘It would be wrong to proceed without him.’

‘Work together in private and nobody will be the wiser.’

‘I am vexed by a problem, Nick.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘There is no sign of Ralph.’

‘You have been to his lodging?’

‘He has not slept there for nights,’ said Hoode. ‘I can gain no clue as to his whereabouts. That is why I came to you for some counsel. Ralph Willoughby has vanished from London.’

The house in Knightrider Street was a large lackadaisical structure whose half-timbered frontage sagged amiably forwards. Through the open window on the first floor came the rich aroma of a herbal compound, only to lose its independence as it merged with the darker pungencies of the street. A face appeared briefly at the window and a small quantity of liquid was dispatched from a bowl. It fell to the cobbled surface below and sizzled for a few seconds before spending itself in a mass of bubbles. The face took itself back into the chamber.

Evening shadows obliged Doctor John Mordrake to work by candlelight. Up in the cluttered laboratory with
its array of weird charts and bizarre equipment, its learned tomes and its herbal remedies, he crouched low over a table and used a pestle and mortar to pound a reddish substance into a fine powder. There was an intensity about him which suggested remarkable concentration and he was not deflected in the least by any of the harsh sounds that bombarded him through the window. He had created his own peculiar world around him and it was complete in itself.

Mordrake was a big man who had been made smaller by age and by inclination. His shoulders were round, his spine curved, his legs unequal to the weight placed upon them. Time had cruelly redrawn the lines on his visage to make it seem smaller and less open than it was. Long, lank, silver-grey hair further reduced the size of his face, which terminated in a straggly beard. He wore a black gown and black buckled shoes. A chain of almost mayoral pretension hung around his neck and gold rings enclosed several of his skinny fingers.

Old, tired, even ravaged, Doctor John Mordrake yet conveyed a sense of power. There was an inner strength that came from the possession of arcane knowledge, a glow of confidence that came from a surging intellect. Here was an ordinary man in touch with the extraordinary, an astrologer who could foretell the future, an alchemist who could manipulate the laws of nature, a cunning wizard who could speak to the dead in their own language. Mordrake was an intercessory between one life and the next. It gave him a luminescent quality.

Footsteps creaked on the oak stairs outside and there was a knock on the door. The servant showed in a visitor, bowed humbly and shuffled out. Mordrake did not even look up at the satin-clad gallant who had called on him and who now stood tentatively near the door. The old man worked patiently away and a thin smile flitted across his lips.

‘Good evening, sir. I thought you would come again.’

‘Did you so?’ said the visitor.

‘I have been expecting you for days.’

‘Have you?’

‘We both know what brings you to Knightrider Street.’

‘I am afraid, sir.’

Ralph Willoughby had come to talk about devils.

B
ankside was anathema to the puritans. It was the home of all that was lewd and licentious and most of them sedulously avoided its fetid streets and lanes. Isaac Pollard was a rare exception. Instead of shunning the area, he frequently sought it out on the grounds that it was best to measure the strength of an enemy whom you wished to destroy. He hated his journeys through the narrow passages of Bankside but they always yielded some recompense. New outrages were found on each visit. They served to consolidate his faith and to make him continue his mission with increased vigour. If London were to be purged of sin, this was the place to start.

Pollard belonged to the hard core of activists in the Puritan fold. Although there were no more than a few hundred of them, they were powerful, well-organised and fearless in the pursuit of their cause. With influential
backing in high places, they could on occasion exert strong pressure. Their avowed aim was to remodel the Church of England on Calvinist or Presbyterian lines, introducing a greater simplicity and cutting away what they saw as the vestigial remains of Roman Catholicism. But the Puritan zealots did not rest there. They wanted everyone to live the life of a true Christian, observing a strict moral code and abjuring any pleasures.

It was this aspect of their ministry that brought Isaac Pollard for another walk in the region of damnation that evening. In his plain dark attire with its white ruff, he was an incongruous figure among the gaudy gallants and the swaggering soldiers. From beneath his black hat, he scowled fiercely at all and sundry. Believing that integrity was its own protection, he nevertheless carried a stout walking stick with him to beat off any rogues or pickpockets. Pollard was more than ready to strike a blow in the name of the Lord.

A group of revellers tumbled noisily out of a tavern ahead of him and leaned against each other for support. Laughing and belching, they made their way slowly towards him and jeered when they recognised what he was. Pollard bravely stood his ground as they brushed past, hurling obscenities at him and his calling. Even in the foul stench of the street, he could smell the ale on their breaths.

It was a brief but distressing incident. When he came to the next corner, however, he saw something much more appalling than a gang of drunken youths. Huddled in the shadow of a doorway down the adjacent lane, a man was molesting a woman. He had lifted her skirts up and held
 
her in a firm embrace. Pollard could not see exactly what was going on but he heard her muffled protests. Raising his stick, he advanced on the wrongdoer and yelled a command.

‘Unhand that lady, sir!’

‘I fart at thee!’ roared the man.

‘Leave go of her or I will beat you soundly.’

‘Let a poor girl earn her living!’ shrieked the woman.

‘Can I not help you?’ said Pollard.

She answered the question with such a barrage of abuse that he went puce. Now that he was close enough to realise what they were doing, he was mortified. Far from protesting, the woman had been urging her client on to a hotter carnality. The last thing she needed during her transaction was the interference of a Puritan.

‘A plague upon you!’ she howled.

‘Cast out your sins!’ he retaliated.

‘Will you have me draw my sword?’ warned the other man.

As a fresh burst of vituperation came from the woman, Pollard backed away then strode off down the street. Within only a short time of his arrival in Bankside, he had enough material for an entire sermon. There was worse to come. His steps now took him along Rose Alley, past the jostling elbows of the habitués and beneath the dangling temptation of the vivid inn signs. Crude sounds of jollity hammered at his ears then something loomed up to capture all his attention. It was London’s newest theatre – the Rose. Built on the site of a former rose garden in the Liberty of the Clink, it was of cylindrical shape, constructed around
a timber frame on a brick foundation. To the crowds who flocked there every day, it was a favourite place of recreation.

To Isaac Pollard, it was a symbol of corruption.

As his anger made the single eyebrow rise and fall like rolling waves, he caught sight of a playbill that was stuck on a nearby post. It advertised one of the companies due to perform at The Rose in the near future.

Westfield’s Men – in
The Merry Devils
.

Pollard tore down the poster with vicious religiosity.

‘What you tell me is most curious and most interesting, Master Willoughby.’

‘Yet you do not seem surprised.’

‘Nor am I, sir.’

‘You
knew
that this would happen?’

‘I entertained the possibility.’

‘But you gave me no forewarning.’

‘That was not what you paid me to do.’

Doctor John Mordrake was a man of encyclopaedic knowledge and sound commercial sense. Having devoted his life to his studies, he was going to profit from them in order to buy the books or the equipment that would help him to advance the frontiers of his work. He dealt with the highest and the lowest in society, providing an astonishing range of services, but he always set a price on what he did.

Ralph Willoughby was conscious of this fact. He knew that his visit to Knightrider Street would be an expensive
one. Mordrake’s time could not be bought cheaply and he had already listened for half-an-hour to the outpourings of his caller. Willoughby, however, had reached the point where he was prepared to spend anything to secure help. Doctor John Mordrake was his last hope, the one man who might pull him back from the abyss of despair that confronted him.

They sat face to face on stools. Mordrake watched him with an amused concern throughout. Most people who consulted him came in search of personal gain but Willoughby had wanted an adventure of the mind. That pleased Mordrake who sensed a kindred spirit.

‘You were at Cambridge, I believe, Master Willoughby?’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘Which college?’

‘Corpus Christi.’

‘At what age did you become a student?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘That is late. I was barely fourteen when I went to Oxford.’ The old man smiled nostalgically. ‘It was an ascetic existence and I thrived on it. We rose at four, prayed, listened to lectures, prayed again, then studied by candlelight in our cold rooms. We conversed mostly in Latin.’

‘As did we, sir. Latin and Hebrew.’

‘Why did you leave the university?’

‘Its dictates became irksome to me.’

‘And you chose the
theatre
instead?’ said Mordrake in surprise. ‘You left academe to be among what Horace so rightly calls
mendici, mimi, balatrones, hoc genus omne
?

‘Yes,’ said Willoughby with a wistful half-smile. ‘I went to be among beggars, actors, buffoons and that class of persons.’

‘In what did the attraction lie?’

‘The words of Cicero.’

‘Cicero?’

‘
Poetarum licentiae liberoria
.’

‘The freer utterance of the poet’s licence.’

‘That is what I sought.’

‘And did you find it, Master Willoughby?’

‘For a time.’

‘What else did you find, sir?’

‘Pleasure.’

‘Cicero has spoken on that subject, too,’ noted Mordrake with scholarly glee. ‘
Voluptas est illecebra turpitudinis
. Pleasure is an incitement to vileness.’

Willoughby fell silent and stared down at the floor. Though he was dressed with his usual ostentatious flair, he did not have the manner that went with the garb. His face was drawn, his jaw slack, his hands clasped tightly together. Mordrake could almost feel the man’s anguish.

‘How can I help you?’ he said.

It was a full minute before the visitor answered. He turned eyes of supplication on the old man. His voice was a solemn whisper.

‘Did I see a devil at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Yes.’

‘How came it there?’

‘At your own request, Master Willoughby.’

‘But you told me it could not happen in daylight.’

‘I said that it was
unlikely
, but did not rule it out. The devil would not have come simply in answer to the summons in your play.’

‘What brought it forth, then?’

‘You did, sir.’

‘How?’

‘You have an affinity with the spirit world.’

Willoughby was rocked. His darkest fear was confirmed. Words that
he
had written raised up a devil. The apparition at the Queen’s Head had come in search of him.

‘You should have stayed at Cambridge,’ said Mordrake sagely. ‘You should have taken your degree and entered the Church. It is safer there. The duty of a divine is to justify the ways of God to man. Christianity gives answers. The duty of a poet is to ask questions. That can lead to danger. Religion is there to reassure. Art disturbs.’

‘Therein lies its appeal.’

‘I will not deny that.’

Mordrake pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across to a long shelf on the other side of the room. It was filled with large, dusty leather-bound volumes and he ran his fingers lightly across them.

‘A lifetime of learning,’ he said. ‘For ten years, I travelled all over Europe. I worked in the service of the Count Palatine of Siradz, King Stephen of Poland, the Emperor Rudolph, and Count Rosenberg of Bohemia. Wherever I went, I searched for books on myth and magic and demonology. In Cologne, I found the most important
work of them all.’ He took down a massive volume and brought it across. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘
Malleus Malleficarum
?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mordrake, clutching the book to his chest like a mother cradling a child. ‘
Hexenhammer
, as it is sometimes called.
The Hammer of Witches
. First printed in 1486. Written by two Dominicans from Germany. Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer, scholars of great worth and reputation.’ He sat on the stool again. ‘It is a wondrous tome.’

‘Can it help me, Doctor Mordrake?’

‘It can help any man.’

‘Truly, sir?’

‘Here is the source of all enlightenment.’

Ralph Willoughby touched the book with a reverential hand before looking up to search his companion’s grey eyes. Hope and apprehension mingled in his breathless enquiry.

‘Will it save my soul?’

Westfield Hall was a vast rambling mansion set in the greenest acres of Hertfordshire. From a distance, it looked more like a medieval hamlet than a single house, being a confused mass of walls, roofs and chimneys on differing levels. It presented to the world a black and white face that glowed in the afternoon sun beneath hair of golden thatch.

The house was as splendid and dramatic as its owner, with a hint of Lord Westfield’s paunch in its sagging eaves and a reflection of his capricious nature in its riotous angles.

Francis Jordan stayed long enough to feel a twinge of
envy then he turned his head away. Spurring his horse, he went on past Westfield Hall for half a mile or so and came to a long wooded slope. His bay mare took him through the trees at a steady canter until they reached a clearing. A sturdy man in rough attire was carrying a wooden pail of water towards a small cottage. Jordan brought his mount to a sudden halt and directed a supercilious stare at the man. Instead of the deferential nod that he expected, he was given a bold glance of hostility. Jordan fumed. His horse felt the spurs once again.

When he emerged from the woods and got to the top of the ridge, he reined in the animal once more. From his vantage point, he gazed down at the dwelling in the middle distance. Parkbrook House was true to its name. Set in rolling parkland, it was almost encircled by a fast-running brook that snaked its way through the grass. The house was built of stone and replete with high casements. With its E-shaped design, it was more austere and symmetrical than Westfield Hall and could lay claim to none of the latter’s antiquity, but it still did not suffer by comparison in the mind of Francis Jordan. There was a unique quality about Parkbrook House that lifted it above any other property in the county.

It was his.

As soon as he began to ride down the hill, he was spotted. By the time Jordan arrived, an ostler was waiting to help him dismount and take care of his horse. The steward was standing nearby.

‘Welcome, master!’ he said with formal enthusiasm.

‘Thank you, Glanville,’

‘All is ready for your inspection.’

‘I should hope so, sir.’

‘They have worked well in your absence.’

Joseph Glanville was a tall, impassive, dignified man of forty. As steward of the household, he had power, privilege and control over its large staff of servants. He was dressed with a restrained smartness that was made to look dull beside the colourful apparel of his master. Over his grey satin doublet and breeches, Glanville wore a dark gown that all but trailed on the ground. A small tricornered hat rested on his head and his chain of office was worn proudly. He had been at Parkbrook House for some years and addressed his duties with the utmost seriousness.

‘Take me in at once,’ said Jordan peremptorily.

‘Follow me, sir.’

The steward conducted him across the gravel forecourt and in through the main door. A group of male servants were standing in a line in the entrance hall and they bowed in unison as their master passed. Jordan was pleased and rewarded them with a condescending nod. He walked behind Glanville across the polished oak floor. When they reached the Great Hall, the steward stood aside to let him go in first.

Francis Jordan viewed the scene with a critical eye.

‘I thought the work would be more advanced.’

‘Craftsmanship of this order cannot be rushed, sir.’

‘There is hardly any progress since my last visit.’

‘Do not be misled by appearances.’

‘I wanted results, Glanville!’

His barked annoyance caused everyone in the hall to stop what he was doing. The plasterers looked down from their scaffolding. The painters froze on their ladders. Carpenters working on the moulded beams held back their chisels and the masons at the far end of the room put down their hammers. Francis Jordan had wanted to redesign and redecorate the Great Hall so that it could become a focal point of his social life. As he strolled disconsolately over sheets of canvas, it seemed to him that the work was not only behind schedule but contrary to his specification. He swung round to face his steward.