Nicholas Bracewell 02 - The Merry Devils

  The Merry Devils [Nicholas Bracewell 2] (Missing Mystery #30)

  Edward Marston

  Copyright © 2001

  ISBN: 1-890208-55-8

  Poisoned Pen Press

  * * *

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Matre pulchra filia pulchrior

  Helena

  rosaformosa

  orbis et cordis

  * * *

  'This I bar, that none of you stroke your beards to make action, play with your codpiece points, or stand fumbling on your buttons when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serve God and act clearly.'

  Thomas Nashe

  * * *

  Chapter One

  London was the capital city of noise, a vibrant, volatile place, surging with life and clamorous with purpose. Whips cracked, horses neighed, harness jingled, carts rattled, coaches thundered, pots clinked, canvas flapped, hammers pounded, lathes sang, hells tolled, dogs yelped, poultry clucked, cows lowed, pigs squealed and thousands of urgent voices swelled the tumult of the working day. The whole community was in a state of happy uproar. It was morning.

  Nicholas Bracewell shouldered his way through the crowd in

  Gracechurch Street

  , ducking beneath frequent obstacles and moving past haphazard ranks of market stalls that were bold, colourful and aromatic, competing loudly with each other for the attention of the swirling mass. Tall, well-groomed and dressed in buff jerkin and hose, Nicholas was at once imposing and nondescript, a striking figure who courted the anonymity of the throng. The weathered face was framed by long fair hair and a beard. The clear blue eyes missed nothing. He combined the physique of a wrestler with the bearing of a gentleman.

  As a stout housewife waddled out of a shop and bumped straight into him, he doffed his cap and gave her a polite smile of apology, making light of the fact that she had caused the collision. By your leave, mistress.

  His soft West Country tones were drowned by the strident Cockney vowels all around him but his courteous manner conveyed his meaning. Unaccustomed to such civility, the woman nodded her gratitude before being jostled by cruder elbows and rougher tongues. Nicholas plunged on and made steady progress through the sea of bodies. Ahead of him was the familiar outline of St Benet Grass Church, which had given the street its name, and his gaze dwelt for a moment on its thrusting spire. Then he passed beneath the sign of the Queen's Head and swung in through its main gates.

  Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.

  'Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!'

  'How now, Master Marwood?'

  'All may yet be saved!'

  'Saved?'

  'God willing!'

  'What ails you, sir?' 'I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.'

  'Of what, pray?'

  'Certain disaster!'

  Alexander Marwood had a close acquaintance with certain disaster. In his febrile imagination, it lurked everywhere and his assiduous pessimism obliged him to rush towards it in willing surrender. Short, thin and balding, the landlord of the Queen's Head was a haunted man with a nervous twitch that animated his gloomy features. It was a face more fit for a charnel house than a taproom and he had none of the geniality associated with his calling.

  Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.

  'We are in great danger!' wailed the landlord. 'From what source, Master Marwood?'

  'Your play, sir.'

  'The Merry Devils!'

  'It is an abomination.'

  'You do the piece a wrong.'

  'An act of blasphemy.'

  'It is wholly free from such a taint.'

  'The play will offend the City authorities.'

  'All plays offend them, Master Marwood,' said Nicholas. 'We have learned to live and work in the shadow of their displeasure.'

  'Your devilry will provoke the church.'

  'I think not, sir.'

  'You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!'

  Nicholas put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He found himself in a situation that was all too common. Marwood's capacity for sudden panic was boundless and it created stern problems for those who relied on the goodwill or mine host. Nicholas was the book holder with Lord Westfield's Men, one of the leading dramatic companies, and his primary function was to stage manage their performances. Another crucial task which had fallen to him was that of mollifying the landlord during his periodic fits of terror. Westfield's Men used the yard of the Queen's Head as their regular venue so Alexander Marwood had perforce to be humoured.

  'The Merry Devils is a harmless comedy,' Nicholas told him. 'It is written by two God-fearing gentlemen and will not raise the slightest blush on the cheeks of Christianity.' He patted the other's back. 'Take heart, Master Marwood. There is no danger here.'

  'I have to look to my livelihood, sir.'

  'We respect that.'

  'I would not fall foul of the authorities.'

  'Nor shall you, believe me.'

  'Your play will put the Queen's Head in jeopardy.'

  'That would hardly serve our turn.'

  'I have heard,' said Marwood, eyes bulging and twitch working away, 'the most dread reports.'

  'Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.'

  'They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.'

  'Then they mislead you cruelly.'

  'I hey say you show all manner of Vice.'

  'Virtue is our constant theme.'

  'They say…' The landlord's voice became an outraged hiss to accommodate the full horror of his final charge. 'They say that you—raise up devils!

  'Indeed, we do not,' said Nicholas reassuringly. 'We merely summon George Dart and Roper Blundell.'

  'Who, sir?'"

  'Two poor, innocent wights who could not frighten a fly between them. These are no real devils, Master Marwood. They are hirelings with the company. Two small lads who are fitted for the parts by their very smallness. Hugh Wegges, our fireman, has costumed them in red with pointed tails and tiny horns, but it is all in jest.' He gave a wry chuckle. 'Our merry devils will cause more merriment than devilry. And, as they hope to go to heaven, George Dart and Roper Blundell will tell you the same.'

  Marwood was not appeased. When he sniffed catastrophe—and it was brought in on every wind that blew—he was not easily put off the scent. To assuage him further, Nicholas patiently explained the whole plot then ushered him across to the rectangle of trestles which jutted out into the yard from one wall and which formed the stage on which Westfield's Men would perform their new piece. He indicated the two trap-doors through which the devils would make their appearance and even divulged the secret of how each of them would make such an explosive entry. The landlord was given fresh matter for alarm.

  'Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!'

  'Everything needful will be done.'

  'Fire could destroy me!' That is why we will take the utmost care.'

  'I am deeply troubled, Master Bracewell,' whined the other. 'My feeling is that you should cancel the play.'

  'At this late hour?'

  'It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.'

  The twitch went on a lightning tour of his face and his eyes enlarged to the size and colour of ripe plums. Nicholas wooed him again, reminding him of the long and fruitful relationship that existed between Westfield's Men and the Queen's Head and pointing out that The Merry Devils—like every oth
er new play—had had to be submitted to the Master of the Revels before it was granted a licence. Sir Edmund Tilney had given his approval without censoring a single line. Evidently, he did not consider the piece to be in any way blasphemous. When the morose landlord still protested, Nicholas invited him to watch the morning's rehearsal so that he could judge for himself but Marwood declined the offer. He preferred to feed off rumour and instinct, both of which advised him to stop the performance.

  'And offer such an insult to Lord Westfield?' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield?'

  'Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.'

  'Ah…'

  'Bringing with him, in his entourage, several other members of the nobility. Can the Queen's Head afford to turn away such custom, sir? Am I to tell Lord Westfield that you refuse him hospitality?'

  'Well, no…that is to say…'

  'His lordship might instruct us to withdraw altogether.'

  'But we have a contract.'

  'Then you must honour it this afternoon.'

  Marwood was thrown into a quandary. It was not his intention to terminate an arrangement which, with all its pitfalls, was a lucrative one for his inn. He now spied danger both in a performance of the new play and in its summary cancellation. Either way he was doomed. He risked arousing the ire of the City authorities or the displeasure of important members of the nobility. It all served to plunge him into a pool of deep melancholy.

  Nicholas Bracewell threw him a rope of salvation.

  'Lord Westfield is not without influence.'

  'What's that, sir?'

  'Were the authorities to object, he would no doubt deal with their objections. They would not proceed against the Queen's Head with his lordship standing guard over it.'

  'Would he so protect us?' asked the plaintive landlord.

  'He has powerful friends at Court.'

  It was a telling argument and it tipped the balance. According to the regulations, the staging of plays within the boundaries of the city was forbidden and theatres had therefore been built in places like Shoreditch and Southwark which were outside the city walls and thus beyond its jurisdiction. Like other establishments with suitable inn yards, the Queen's Head was breaking a law that was never enforced with any vigour or consistency, in spite of a steady stream of complaints from the Puritan faction. Marwood hail always escaped before. Under the pressure of circumstance, he elected to take the chance once again.'

  'Very well, Master Bracewell. Perform your play.' It will put money in your purse, sir.'

  'I pray that they do not take it from me in fines.'

  'Have faith, Master Marwood.'

  'I fear the worst.'

  'Nothing will go amiss.'

  'Then why do I sense disaster?'

  Turning on his heel, the landlord scurried across the yard and took his determined misery towards the taproom. Resolved on calamity, he would admit no other possibility. Nicholas had done well to stave off the threatened cancellation of the play but then lie had had plenty of practice with such crises. It seemed to him that he spent as much time subduing Marwood's outbursts as he did in stage managing the company.

  As mine host vanished through a door, Nicholas marvelled yet again at the man's perverse choice of profession. He was not schooled for a life of riot and revelry. Death and despair were his companions. Perhaps, mused Nicholas, he was waiting to be called to a higher duty and a truer vocation. When God wished to announce the end of the world, he would surely choose no other messenger than Alexander Marwood.

  It was the one job to which he could bring some relish.

  *

  Rehearsals for The Merry Devils had been dogged by setbacks from the start but those earlier upsets faded into oblivion beside the events of the next two hours. Everything went wrong. Lines were forgotten, entrances were missed, curtains were torn, costumes were damaged, trap-doors refused to open, gunpowder would not explode and the tiring-house was a seething morass of acrimony. Nicholas Bracewell imposed what calm and order he could but his control could not extend to the stage itself where mishap followed mishap with ascending speed. The play was buried beneath a farrago of incompetence, frayed tempers and brutal misfortune.

  The diminutive George Dart was less than merry as a devil. Covered in confusion and dripping with perspiration, he came lurching into the tiring-house after another bungled exit. His red costume was far too tight for his body and far too warm for the hot weather. He tugged and pulled at it as he went across to the book holder.

  'I am sorry, Master Bracewell.'

  'Do your best, George. Nobody can demand more.'

  'I mislaid my part.'

  'Think harder, lad.'

  'I tried, master, but all thought went our of my head when I humped into that post and saw stars. How did that come about?'

  'You were on the wrong side of the stage.'

  'Was I?'

  'Follow Roper next time.'

  'But he has no more idea than me.' He shrugged his shoulders in hopeless resignation. 'We are not actors, Master Bracewell. We arc mere stagekeepers. You do wrong to thrust us out upon the stage'

  'Stand by, George! Your entrance is almost due.'

  ‘Again?’

  'The banquet scene.'

  'Lord help me!'

  Cued by the book holder, the merry devils made another startling entrance but dissipated its effect by colliding with each other. George Dart dropped the goblets he was carrying and Roper Blundell trod so heavily on his own tail that it parted company with his breeches. Mistakes now multiplied at a bewildering rate. The rehearsal was speeding towards complete chaos.

  It was rescued by the efforts of one man. Lawrence Firethorn was the leading actor and the guiding light of Westfield's Men, a creature of colossal talent and breathtaking audacity whose wry presence in the cast of a play enhanced its quality. Single-handed, he pulled The Merry Devils back from the brink of sheer pandemonium. While everything else was falling to pieces around him, he remained quite imperturbable and soared above it all on wings of histrionic genius.

  When accidents happened, he softened their impact by cleverly diverting attention from them. When moves were forgotten, lie eased his colleagues into their correct positions in the most unobtrusive way. When huge gaps appeared in the text, he filled them with such loquacious zest that only those familiar with the piece would have realised that memories had faltered. The more desperate the situation, the more immediate was his response. At one point, when someone missed an entrance for a vital scene, Firethorn covered his absence by delivering a soliloquy of such soulful magnificence that it wrung; the withers of all who heard it, even though it was culled on the instant from three totally different plays and stitched together for extempore use.

  Lawrence Firethorn was superb in a role that fitted him like a glove. I thought he was renowned for his portrayal of wise emperors and warrior kings, and for his incomparable gallery of classical heroes, he could turn his hand to low comedy with devastating brilliance. He was now the gross figure of Justice Wildboare, who, thwarted in love, attempts to get his revenge on his young rival by setting a couple of devils on him. Once raised, however, the devils prove unready to obey their new master and it is Wildboare who becomes the victim of their merriment.

  The central role enabled Firethorn to dominate the stage and wrest some meaning out of the shambles. He was a rock amid shifting sands, an oasis in a desert, a true professional among rank amateurs. His example fired others and they slowly rallied. Nerves steadied, memories improved, confidence oozed back. With Firethorn leading the way on stage, and with Nicholas Bracewell exerting his usual calming influence in the tiring-house, the play actually began to resemble the text in the prompt book. By the end of Act Five, the saviour of the hour had achieved the superhuman task of pointing the drama in the right direction once more and it was fitting that he should conclude it with a rhyming couplet.

  ‘Henceforth this Wildboare will renounce all evils

  And ne'er aga
in seek pacts with merry devils.’

  The rest of the company were so relieved to have come safely through the ordeal that they gave their actor-manager a spontaneous round of applause. Relief swiftly turned to apprehension as Firethorn rounded on them with blazing eyes. George Dart quailed, Roper Blundell sobbed, Ned Rankin gulped, Caleb Smythe shivered, Richard Honeydew blushed, Martin Yeo backed away, Edmund Hoode sought invisibility and the other players braced themselves. Even the arrogant Barnaby Gill was fearful.

  The comic bleating of Wildboare became the roar of a tiger.

  'That, gentlemen,' said Firethorn, was a descent into Hell. I have known villainy before but not of such magnitude. I have tasted dregs before but not of such bitterness. Misery I have seen before but never in such hideous degree. Truly, I am ashamed to call you fellows in this enterprise. Were it not for my honesty and self-respect, I would turn my back on the whole pack of you and seek a place with Banbury's Men, vile and untutored though they be.'

  The company winced beneath the insult. The Earl of Banbury's Men were their deadly rivals and Firethorn had nothing but contempt for them. It was a mark of his disillusion with his own players that he should even consider turning to the despised company of another patron. Before he could speak further, the noonday bell passed on its sonorous message. In two bare hours, The Merry Devils had to be fit for presentation before a paying audience. Practicalities intruded. Firethorn sheathed the sword of his anger and issued a peremptory command.

  'Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.'

  There was a flurry of grateful activity.

  *

  Hunched over a cup of sack, Edmund Hoode stared balefully into the liquid as if it contained the dead bodies of his dearest hopes. He was sitting at a table in the taproom of tine Queen's Head and seemed unaware of the presence of his companion. Ralph Willoughby gave his friend an indulgent smile and emptied a pot of ale. The two men were the co-authors of The Merry Devils and they had burned a deal of midnight oil in the course of its composition. Both had invested heavily in its success. Hoode was mortified by the awesome failure of the rehearsal but Willoughby took a more sanguine view.