The Nicholas Bracewell Collection (31 page)

‘In what way?’

‘Men love to talk of sin when they sup at my table. Yet when this one tasted my ware, he babbled of nothing but religion.’

‘Religion?’

‘Haply, I excited his spirit,’ said Nell. ‘But I did not mind this speech. It is all one to me. His bishop in a purple cap went neatly into my confessional box and stayed till he was excommunicate.’

Nicholas was amused by the metaphor and saw that she was no ordinary whore. Her ample frame and ready turn of phrase made her the particular choice of Ralph
Willoughby. Whatever turmoil the playwright had been in, she had clearly helped him through it. Reaching into his purse, Nicholas handed her some money for her pains. Nell beamed her gratitude and leapt up off the bed to embrace him in a sensational bear-hug. He detached himself with difficulty and hauled Willoughby out into the passageway. Nell lolled in the doorway.

‘Who is the poor creature?’ she said.

‘A good man fallen on bad times.’

‘I know him only as Ralph who comes to take communion with me.’

‘He is not fit for the service tonight, I fear.’

‘That disappoints me, sir,’ she sighed. ‘When he was with me last, he made love as if the Devil was dancing on his buttocks.’

It was an apt image and more accurate than she realised.

Nicholas lifted him on to his feet then bent down to let the body fall across his shoulder. Waving a farewell to the irrepressible Nell, he went carefully down the stairs so that he did not bang Willoughby’s head against the wall.

Coming out into the street, he began the long slow walk.

Edmund Hoode always worked best in the hours of darkness. When he was closeted in his lodging with no more than a candle and his writing materials, he could devote his full attention to the project in hand. There were far too many distractions during the day and he was, in any case, usually required for rehearsal or performance by the company. When night drew its black cloak around
him, however, he came fully alive and his mind buzzed with creativity. As he sat over his table now, verse of surpassing excellence streamed through his brain, but it was not part of some new play that he was writing. The inspiration and the object of his poetic impulse was Grace Napier.

She was perfection. As he reflected upon her virtues, he saw that she was the woman for whom he had been waiting all his life. She gave him purpose. She redeemed him. Compared with her, all the other women who had aroused his interest were nonentities, momentary distractions while he waited for his true love to come along. With those others, the chase had often been an end in itself. Consummation was rare and the certain conclusion of a relationship. Cupid was never kind to him. He had known much sadness between the sheets.

Grace Napier was different. She belonged to another order of being. He did not view her in terms of pursuit and conquest because that would demean her and drag her down from the lofty pedestal on which he had set her. All his thoughts now turned on one objective. Marriage to his beloved. In the headlong rush of his ardour, he did not stop to consider the practicalities of such a wild hope. The fact that he had no house to offer her, still less a high income to serve her demands, did not stay his fantasies. He would make any sacrifice for her even if it meant that he left the theatre. Edmund Hoode wanted nothing more than to devote his energies to the composition of odes to her beauty and sonnets in praise of her sweetness.

The lines sprang new-minted from his pen. He studied them on the vellum then rejected them for their banality. Grace deserved better. He killed the couplet with a slash of ink and turned to his Muse once more. Richer lines began to flow. Deeper resonances were sounded. Whenever he glanced up from his work, he saw Grace Napier on her pedestal, giving him that special smile which was poetry in itself.

Horror suddenly intruded. As he looked up at her once more, there was someone else beside her, an arresting figure with the arrogant grin of a practised voluptuary. Hoode recognised him at once.

It was Lawrence Firethorn.

An anxiety which had been at the back of his mind for days now thrust itself forward. Firethorn was a real threat. Dozens of beautiful young ladies were hypnotised by the tawdry glamour of the playhouse and were ready to surrender themselves to its ambiguous charms. Those who worshipped at the shrine of Westfield’s Men inevitably tended to see Firethorn as their god. His bravura performances could not be matched by lesser players in smaller roles. Firethorn had no compunction about exploiting the adulation to the full. Swooning females were simply the spoils of war that fell to the victorious general and not even the vigilant eye of his wife, Margery, could stop him from exercising the
age-old
rites of soldiery. A few discerning acolytes – as Hoode
liked to style them – had chosen him in place of the
actor-manager
. But he was seldom allowed to take advantage of their interest. Lawrence Firethorn had a distressing habit of stepping in and whisking the admirers – quite literally – out from under him. That was not going to happen with Grace Napier.

They were not lines to be sent to his loved one. Hoode would engrave them upon his own heart to act as a warning. Whatever else he did, he must not introduce Grace to the insatiable Lawrence Firethorn.

Further meditation was interrupted by a banging on the door. He went over to unbolt it then opened it wide. Nicholas Bracewell stood there with a familiar figure over his shoulder. Hoode was pleased.

‘Ralph?’

‘The whole weight of him.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘I will tell you when I have lightened my load.’

Nicholas stepped into the room and lowered the body to the floor, sitting Willoughby up and resting his back against the wall. The slumbering playwright was still dead to the world.

‘He was at the Bull and Butcher,’ said Nicholas.

‘Drink or fornication?’

‘One prevented the other, Edmund.’

‘He has burned the candle at both ends.’

‘There is neither wax nor flame left.’

‘Wake up, sir!’ said Hoode, shaking his co-author.

‘That will not rouse him,’ said Nicholas, reaching for the jug on the table. ‘Stand aside, I pray.’

With a swing of his arm, he dashed a few pints of cold water into Willoughby’s face. The latter twitched, groaned, then spluttered. As he came out of his sleep, he opened an eye to blink at the world.

‘Nell?’

‘You are here among friends,’ said Hoode.

‘Edmund?’ A second eye opened. ‘Nicholas?’

‘I fetched you from your revelry,’ explained the book holder.

‘We have need of you,’ said Hoode. ‘Our play is staged again.’

‘I am no longer with the company, sir.’

‘It requires your subtle hand.’

‘Master Firethorn banished me.’

‘This will not concern him,’ said Hoode dismissively. ‘We will work together privily. We are co-mates in this drama, Ralph, and I will not see you ousted. I must have your guidance with
The Merry Devils
.’

‘Do not perform it again!’

‘Rather let us make it
safe
for performance.’

‘That is not within my power.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is not the play that holds the peril,’ said Willoughby with quiet dread. ‘It is my part in its authorship.
I
am the
catalyst here, sirs. Put my work on the stage and you will suffer. The devil will surely come again.’

‘There was no devil,’ said Nicholas firmly.

‘I am not certain either way,’ admitted Hoode.

Willoughby was adamant. ‘Truly, there
was
a devil. I have it from Doctor John Mordrake himself.’

‘Mordrake!’ Hoode was impressed.

‘He consulted his books, his charts, his crystal and all agreed upon my fate. The life of Ralph Willoughby is forfeit. Save yours, my friends, by turning your backs on
The Merry Devils
.’

‘It is too late,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then must you put the whole company at risk.’

‘How?’

‘Through me. Mordrake was specific on the matter.’

‘A prediction?’

‘Yes, Nick. Perform my play again – and disaster will strike!’

The warning could not have been clearer.

Grace Napier sat at the keyboard and filled the room with a wistful melody. When she came to the end of her practice, she was applauded.

‘Well done!’ said Isobel Drewry.

‘I improve slowly.’

‘You play sweetly, Grace.’

‘The instrument pleases my ear.’

‘And mine.’ Isobel giggled obscenely. ‘I wonder if Master Hoode can finger a virginal so delicately!’

‘Do not be so vulgar,’ said Grace with a smile.

‘He longs to play on your keyboard.’

‘Desist!’

Isobel stepped across to the virginal and ran her finger along it to produce a tinkling stream of sound. They were in the parlour at Grace’s house. Having demonstrated her skill on the recorder, she had shown equal prowess at the keyboard. It was a pleasant way to pass an hour together on a wet morning. Isobel was duly appreciative.

‘I could listen to you all day, Grace!’

‘You may have to unless this rain stops.’

‘But why did you play such sad songs?’

‘No reason.’

‘The music was exquisite but full of melancholy strains. Is that your mood today? Is your heart really so heavy?’

Grace smiled pensively then got up to cross over to the window. She watched the rain drumming on the glass and sending tiny rivulets on their brief journeys. Isobel came to stand beside her.

‘Grace …’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘Have you?’ said the other, deflecting the question.

‘Oh, many times,’ replied Isobel with a giggle. ‘I fall in and out of love with almost any man – if he be tall enough and handsome into the bargain. That afternoon we spent at The Curtain, I fell madly in love with a young gallant who was seated opposite. We exchanged such hot glances across the pit that I wonder there was not a puff of smoke
to signify our dealings. But it was all over when the play was done.’ She slipped an arm around Grace. ‘And what of you?’

‘I have
thought
I was in love.’

‘But it was not the thing itself.’

‘No.’ she brightened. ‘One thing is certain, however. When the man
does
come along, I will know him.’

‘Not if Isobel Drewry should spy him first!’ They traded a laugh. ‘Then you do not pine for Master Hoode?’

‘He is a dear man and I am very fond of him.’

‘But he does not make your heart pound?’

‘No, Isobel. I have come to value him as a friend.’

‘You are the light of his life,’ said the other. ‘And when you watch
The Merry Devils
at the Rose tomorrow, Youngthrust will find a way to tell you so. I long to hear the outcome.’

‘But you will be there to see it for yourself?’

‘Unhappily, I will not. Father has put a stricter watch on me.’

‘Why, Isobel?’

‘One of the servants saw me leave with you the other day. She told father. He taxed me with disobedience and swore that I went to the playhouse to see
Cupid’s Folly
. I lied with all my might but I could not dampen his suspicion.’

‘How were you seen? You wore a mask.’

‘I was recognised by my dress.’

Grace sighed. ‘But I did so want your company tomorrow.’

‘Let your brother sit beside you.’

‘He is busy.’

Grace came into the middle of the room with her hands clasped. She moved around as she racked her brain for a solution, then stamped her foot with joy when she found it.

‘It is but a case of wearing a better disguise, Isobel!’

‘Disguise?’

‘If the servants know
your
dresses, you must wear one of mine.’

‘It is a clever idea, certainly.’

‘And a hat with a veil. I’ll provide that, too.’

‘My own father would not know me, then!’ Isobel gave her merriest giggle. ‘I’ll do it, Grace! I’d not miss that play again for anything.’

‘Good! There is no risk of discovery.’

‘We will travel in secret like spies.’

‘Veiled and hooded against all inquiry.’

‘I will be veiled – and you will be Hooded!’ She took her friend by the hands. ‘Oh, I am so happy in this ruse. Father will be deceived.’

‘What does he know of The Rose in Bankside?’ said Grace. ‘It is not as if he would ever visit such a place himself. Forget your fears, Isobel. You will be as safe there as in a nunnery.’

‘But a lot more merry, I hope!’

Henry Drewry was finishing his meal alone when the servant brought in the package. Dismissing the man with a curt nod, the Salter first washed down his meal with a swig of ale then belched to show his satisfaction. He examined
the package and saw that it was addressed to him in his capacity as an Alderman. He could guess the sender and his supposition was confirmed. When he opened the package, he took out a printed text.

Drewry glanced at the first page to see that it offered a Discourse on the Subtle Practices of Devils. He heard Pollard’s boom in every line and put the pamphlet aside. Then he noticed that something else had fallen out of the package. It was a tattered playbill. Smoothing it out and laying it on the table, he saw that it advertised a performance of
The Merry Devils
by Westfield’s Men on the following afternoon. Sent to him to stir up his sense of outrage, it instead began to intrigue him.

Unaccountably, he felt the steady pull of temptation.

L
awrence Firethorn reserved some of his best performances for private consumption. He had a sublime gift for improvisation and could pluck any emotion out of the air at a second’s notice. It was a trick that rarely failed. Even those who had seen him use it a hundred times could still be caught out by it. Suddenness was all.

‘Rebellion in the ranks!’ he yelled. ‘When I lead Westfield’s Men forward in the charge, I do not expect to be stabbed in the back from behind. Least of all by two such cowardly, such miserable, such lousy, beggarly, scurvy, unmannerly creatures as those before me now!’

George Dart and Roper Blundell were totally cowed.

‘Loyalty is everything to me!’ declared Firethorn, striking the pose he had used so effectively as King Richard the Lionheart. ‘I will not stomach traitors at any price! Do you know what I would do with them, sirs? Do you know
how I would repay their betrayal of me?’

‘No, master,’ said George Dart.

‘How, sir?’ asked Roper Blundell.

‘I’d have the wretches hanged, drawn and quartered, so I would! Then I’d have their heads set upon spikes outside the Tower, their livers roasted over a slow fire and their dangling pizzles sent to Banbury’s Men by way of mockery!’

Dart and Blundell covered their codpieces with both hands.

They were in the room at the Queen’s Head that was used for the storage of their equipment. Nicholas Bracewell stood in the background with Caleb Smythe, one of the actors. Both felt sorry for the assistant stagekeepers who had foolishly expressed their doubts about the performance of
The Merry Devils
on the following afternoon. The sad little figures were being summarily ground into submission.

When the book holder tried to intercede on their behalf, he was waved away with magisterial authority. Lawrence Firethorn would allow no interruption. He continued to pound away at his targets with his verbal siege guns until the two men were nothing more than human debris. Choosing his moment brilliantly, the actor now switched his role and became the indulgent employer who has been wronged by his servants.

‘Lads, lads,’ he said softly. ‘Why have you turned against me like this? Did I not take you in when all other companies closed their doors to you? Have I not paid you, housed you, taught you, fed you and nurtured you? George, my son, and you, good Roper, everything I have is yours to 
call upon. You are not hired men to me. You are friends, sirs. Honest, decent, upright, God-fearing friends. Or so I thought.’ He dredged up a monstrous sigh. ‘Whence comes this betrayal? What have I done to deserve such treatment?’

‘Nothing, master,’ bleated George Dart.

‘Nothing at all,’ agreed Roper Blundell, starting to cry.

Firethorn slipped an arm apiece around them and hugged them to him like lost sheep that have gone astray and been found. Moved by the sincerity of his own betrayal, he even deposited a small kiss on Dart’s forehead while drawing the line at any such intimacy with the turnip-headed Blundell. It was a touching scene and he played it to the hilt.

‘I thought my lads would die for me,’ he whimpered.

‘We would,’ said Dart bravely.

‘Give us the chance, sir,’ asked Blundell.

‘I do not ask much of you, my friends. Just two bare hours upon the stage in flame-red costumes. What harm is there in that?’

‘None, sir.’

‘None, sir.’

‘You tell me you are unhappy in the parts and I can understand that, but happiness must be sacrificed for the greater good of the company.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘We act for our patron,’ said Firethorn in a respectful whisper. ‘Lord Westfield himself, who puts food in our mouths and clothes on our back. Am I to tell him his merry devils have run away?’

‘We are here, sir.’

‘We will stay.’

‘I will beg, if that is what you wish.’ Firethorn pretended to lower himself to the ground. ‘I will go down on my bended knee …’

‘No, no,’ they chimed, helping him back up again.

‘Then let me appeal to your sense of obligation. As hired men, as close friends, as true spirits of the theatre – will you help me, lads?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Blundell was now weeping convulsively.

‘We will not let you down,’ added the snivelling Dart.

‘That is music to my old ears.’

Firethorn bestowed another kiss on Dart’s forehead, approximated his lips to the sprouting turnip, thought better of it and released the two men. He drifted to the nearest door to deliver his exit line.

‘My heart is touched, lads,’ he said. ‘I must be alone for a while. Nick here will explain everything to you. Thank you – and farewell.’

He went out to an imaginary round of applause.

Nicholas Bracewell’s sympathies were with the assistant stagekeepers, but he had to admire the actor-manager’s technique. He had now shackled the men in two ways. Fear and duty. There was no escape for them now. The book holder stepped in to join them.

‘I’ll be brief, lads,’ he began. ‘Lord Westfield insisted on a second performance because he liked the merry devils, all three of them who took the stage at the Queen’s Head.’

Dart and Blundell reacted with identical horror.

‘That foul fiend will come again?’

‘Not from Hell,’ said Nicholas, ‘nor anywhere adjacent to it. He will come from beneath the stage at The Rose, as indeed will you. The third devil will not fright you this time, lads. You know him too well.’ He signalled Caleb Smythe in. ‘Here he stands.’

Caleb Smythe was a short slight man in his thirties with a bald head and wispy beard. Though taller than his co-devils, he was lithe enough to bend his body to their shape and his talent as a dancer was second only to that of Barnaby Gill. As the unexpected third devil who put the others to flight, he was the best choice available. Caleb Smythe, however, did not share this view.

‘I like not this work,’ he said lugubriously.

Nicholas swept his objection aside and told them about the alterations that had been made to the play. Doctor Castrato’s magic incantations had been shortened and the circle of mystical objects had been removed. None of the preconditions for raising a real devil now existed. The book holder emphasized this point but his companions were not wholly persuaded.

It was the funereal Caleb Smythe who put the question. ‘What if a fourth devil
should
appear, Master Bracewell?’

The answer was quite unequivocal.

‘Then I shall be waiting for him!’

Light drizzle was still falling as the last few items were brought out of the cottage. Glanville stood under the shelter of a tree and watched it all with grave misgivings. Jack Harsnett
and his wife were being evicted. Their mean furniture and possessions were loaded on to a cart, it was sobering to think that they had both lived so long and yet owned so little.

The mangy horse that stood between the shafts now cropped at the grass in the clearing for the last time. Like his owners, he was being moved on to leaner pastures.

Harsnett came over to where the steward was standing.

‘Thankee,’ he said gruffly.

‘I tried, Jack.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘The new master was deaf to all entreaty.’

‘New master!’

Harsnett turned aside and spat excessively to show his disgust. By order of Francis Jordan, he should have been turned out of the cottage on the previous day, but Glanville had permitted him to stay the night. It was the only concession he felt able to offer and he was taking a risk with that. Harsnett was a surly and uncommunicative man but the steward respected him. The stocky forester was conscientious in his work and asked only to be left alone to do his job. He never complained about the misery of his lot and he held his chin up with a defiant pride.

‘Things’ll change,’ he grunted.

‘I fear they will, Jack.’

‘We’re but the first of many to go.’

‘I will work to get you back.’

‘No, sir.’

‘But you are a proven man in the forest.’

‘I’ll not serve him,’ sneered Harsnett.

There was a low moan from inside the cottage and they both turned towards it. The forester’s wife was evidently in great discomfort.

‘Let me help you,’ said Glanville kindly.

‘I can manage.’

‘But if your wife is unwell …’

Harsnett shook his head. ‘We come into the place on our own, we’ll leave the same way.’

He walked across to the cottage and ducked in through the low doorway. A couple of minutes later, he emerged with his wife, a poor, wasted, grey-haired woman in rough attire with an old shawl around her head. The whiteness of her face and the slowness of her movements told Glanville how ill she was. Harsnett had to lift her bodily on to the cart. He returned quickly to the cottage to bring out his last and most precious possession.

It was his axe. Sharp and glittering, it had seen him through many a year and was the symbol of his craft. He slammed the door behind him then turned back to view the place which had been their home throughout their marriage. The cottage was his no more. It belonged to the new master of Parkbrook House. Hatred and revenge welled up in Harsnett and he saw the building as a version of Francis Jordan himself, as a cold, bitter, cruel, unwelcoming place. He swung the axe with sudden violence and sank the blade deep into the front door.

After this last gesture of defiance, he pulled the axe clear of the timber and hurried across to throw it in the back of the cart. When he climbed up beside his wife, she collapsed
against him. He took the reins in one hand and put the other arm around his ailing spouse. In response to a curt command, the horse struggled into life.

‘God go with you!’ said Glanville.

But they had no time to hear him.

Kirk said nothing to his colleagues about the progress he had made. They would not understand it. The other keepers at Bedlam took the simple view that lunatics should be treated in only two ways. They should either be amused with toys or beaten with whips. Play or punishment. It never occurred to them that their charges might respond to individual care of another kind. Rooksley typified the attitude that was prevalent. The head keeper believed that lunatics could not be cured by anything that he and his staff might do. The salvation of the mentally deranged lay entirely with the Almighty. In support of this credo, Rooksley could recite, word for word, from a document which dated from the first year of Queen Elizabeth’s reign and which confirmed the institution’s status as an asylum for the insane.

For the vast majority of inmates, therefore, there was no respite and no hope. Stricken by the hand of God, they were repeatedly stricken by the hand of man as well. It was a savage Christianity.

Kirk sought to keep at least one person clear of it.

‘I’ve brought your meal, David.’

‘Ah.’

‘You have to do better than that, sir,’ coaxed the other. ‘I will not feed you else. Come, sir, what is that word we learned this morning?’

David’s brow knotted with concentration for a moment.

Kirk prompted. ‘If I give you something, what is my reward?’

Th … ank …’

‘Try again, David.’

‘Th … ank … you …’

‘Well done, sir! That deserves a meal.’

David was sitting on the bed in his featureless cell. The keeper sat down beside him and put the plate into the patient’s lap. Taking hold of David’s right hand, he fitted the spoon into it then guided him down to his meal. The first mouthful was soon being chewed with slow deliberation. David was being helped to feed himself. He smiled at his minor triumph. It was another small sign of advance.

Kirk knew that nothing could be rushed. David could now say his name and mouth a few words, but that was all. He had to be taught again from the beginning and that would require time and patience. When the meal was over,
Kirk waited expectantly. David was at first puzzled, then he grinned as he realised what was wanted.

‘Th … ank …’

‘Speak up, sir.’

‘Thank you!’

‘Excellent!’

Kirk patted him on the back by the way of congratulation. There was still the vacant look in David’s eye but he was not so completely beyond reach as the others believed. It was merely a question of opening up a line of communication with him.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ asked Kirk.

‘Da … vid.’

‘Again.’

‘David.’

‘Again!’

‘David. David. David.’

‘And where do you live, David?’

The patient’s face clouded over and his lips quivered.

‘Where is your home?’ said the keeper.

David glanced around and gestured with both hands.

‘No, not here. Not Bedlam. This is where you live now, David. But where did you live before?’

The question completely baffled the patient. He looked lost and hurt. Kirk tried to jog his memory with a gentle enquiry.

‘Was it in London?’

Unsure at first, David gave a hesitant shake of his head. ‘Was it in a city?’

A longer wait then another uncertain shake of the head. ‘Then you must have lived in the country, David.’ Bewilderment contorted the other’s face. He was lost again.

‘Did you live in the country?’ prodded Kirk. ‘Fields and woods around you? Can you not recall animals and birds?’

A radiant smile lit David’s face. He nodded enthusiastically.

‘You lived in the country. Was it in a village?’

David was more confident now. He shook his head at once.

‘On a farm? In a cottage somewhere?’

The patient was clearly grappling with his past in order to wrest some details out of it. A jumble of memories made his expression change with each second. Kirk nudged his mind again.

‘Did you live in a small house, David?’

‘N … n … n …’

‘No. Good. Was it a large house, then?’