The Merry Devils nb-2 Page 5

  'On Friday next at The Curtain.'

  'Let's attend, Grace. We'll watch the company in another piece.'

  'I am as eager as you, Isobel. We'll visit The Curtain.'

  'That might not be altogether wise,' said Hoode quickly. 'If it is comedy that delights your senses, pray avoid us on Friday at all costs. We play Vincentio's Revenge, as dark and bloody a tragedy as any in our repertoire. I fear it may give offence.'

  'Darkness and blood will not offend us, sir,' said Isobel easily. 'Tragedy can work potently on the mind. I like the sound of this play, Grace, and I would fain see it.'

  'So would I,' returned her friend.

  'Consider well, ladies,' he said. 'It may not be to your taste.'

  Grace smiled. 'How can we judge until we have seen it?'

  'Be ruled by me.'

  But they declined. No matter how hard he tried to persuade them against it, they stood by their decision to watch Vincentio's Revenge. Hoode was unsettled. He wanted Grace Napier to see him at his best and the tragedy gave him no opportunity to shine.

  He was cast as a lecherous old Duke who was impaled on the hero's sword in the second act. There was no way that he could speak to his beloved through the character of the Black Duke. She would despise him as the degenerate he played.

  Grace read his mind and tried to soothe it.

  'We do not expect a Youngthrust in every play, sir,' she said.

  'I am not well-favoured in Friday's offering,' he admitted.

  'We will make allowances for that. Ill not condemn you because you appear as a villain. I hope I've learned to separate the player from the play.' She touched his arm lightly. 'My brother and I saw you as the Archbishop of Canterbury in The History of King John but I did not then imagine Edmund Hoode to be weighed down with holiness. Whatever you play, I take pleasure from your performance.'

  'This kindness robs me of all speech,' he murmured.

  Grace Napier crossed to the door and Isobel followed her. Hoode moved swiftly to lift the latch for them. Isobel bestowed a broad smile of gratitude on him but he was not even aware of her presence. Grace leaned in closer for a final word.

  'I would see Youngthrust on the stage again,' she confided.

  'The Merry Devils?'

  'Your part in your play. A double triumph.'

  'I am overcome.'

  'But next time, sir, let him sigh and suffer even more.'

  'Youngthrust?'

  'He should not have his love requited too soon,' she said. 'The longer an ardent wooer waits, the more he comes to prize his fair maid. It can only increase their happiness in the end.'

  She touched his arm again then went out with Isobel, their dresses swishing down the corridor and their heels clacking on the paving slabs. Edmund Hoode was tingling with joy. He had clear direction from her ar last. Grace Napier welcomed his love and urged him to be steadfast. In time, when he had endured the pangs of loneliness and the twinges of despair, she might one day be his. She had transformed his life in a few sentences.

  From the depths of Hell, he now ascended to the highest Heaven.

  --------------------------------------------

  Chapter Three

  St Paul's Cathedral was the true heart of the city. It dominated, the skyline with its sheer hulk and Gothic magnificence. Within its walls could be found the teeming life of London in microcosm. Paul's Walk, the middle aisle with its soaring pillars and vaulted roof, was a major thoroughfare where gallants strutted in their Finery, soldiers escorted their ladies, friends met to exchange gossip, masters hired servants, jobless men searched the advertisements on display, lawyers gave advice, usurers loaned money, country people gaped, and where all the beggars and rogues of the neighbourhood congregated in the hope of rich pickings.

  Crime flourished in a place of divine worship and yet the sacred glow was somehow preserved. St Paul's was not simply an imposing structure of stone and high moral purpose, it was a daily experience or everything that was best and worst in the nation's capital.

  The cathedral stood at the western end of Cheapside. Its churchyard covered twelve and a hair acres with houses and shops crowding around the precinct walls. At the centre of the churchyard was Paul's Cross, a wooden, lead-covered pulpit from which political orations were made on occasion and from which sermons were regularly preached.

  'There indeed a man may behold hideous devils run raging over the stage with squibs in their mouths, while the drummer makes thunder in the tiring house and the hirelings make lightning in the Heavens.'

  The sermon which was being delivered there on that sun-dappled morning was fiery enough to draw a large audience and to capture the interest of those who were browsing in the bookshops or loitering by the tobacco stalls. Standing in the pulpit, high above contradiction, was a big, brawny man with a powerful voice and a powerful message. He waved a bunched fist to emphasise his point.

  'Look but upon the common plays of London and see the multitude that flocks to them and follows them. View the sumptuous playhouses, a continual monument to the city's prodigality and folly. Do not these vile places maintain bawdry, insinuate knavery and renew the remembrance of heathen idolatry? They are dens of iniquity!'

  There was a ground swell of agreement among the listening throng. Isaac Pollard developed his argument with righteous zeal.

  'Nay!' he said. 'Are not these playhouses the devourers of maidenly virginity and chastity? For proof whereof, mark the running to The Theatre and The Curtain and other like houses of sin, to see plays and interludes, where such wanton gestures, such foul speeches, such laughing and leering, such winking and glancing of wanton eyes is used, as is shameful to behold. The playhouse is a threat to Virtue and a celebration of Vice!'

  Pollard was really into his stride now, his single eyebrow rising and falling like a creature in torment. He pointed to the heavens, he pummelled the pulpit, he smashed one fist into the palm of his other hand. In launching his attack on the theatre, he was not averse to using a few theatrical tricks.

  'But yesterday,' he continued, 'but yesterday, good sirs, I went to view this profanity for myself. Not up in Shoreditch, I say, not yet down in Bankside but within our own city boundaries, at the sign of the Queens Head in Gracechurch Street. There I beheld such idleness, such wickedness and such blasphemy that I might have been a visitor to Babylon. Men and women buy this depravity for the price of one penny and our city authorities do nought to stop them. Yet upon that stage--I call it a scaffold of Hell, rather--I saw the visible apparition of devils as they capered for amusement. That is no playhouse, sirs, it is the high road to perpetual damnation!'

  The more vociferous elements gave him a rousing cheer.

  'The theatres of London,' said Pollard with booming certainty, 'are the disgrace and downfall of the city. Among their many sinful acts, there be three chief abominations. First, plays are a special cause of corrupting our youth, containing nothing but unchaste matters, lascivious devices, shifts of cozenage and other ungodly practices.'

  Support was even more audible now. A woman in the crowd clutched her two children to her bosom, as if fearing that they would go straight off to the nearest playhouse to lose their innocence.

  'Second, theatres are the ordinary places for vagrant persons, thieves, beggars, horse-stealers, whoremongers, coney-catchers and other dangerous fellows to meet together and make their matches to the great displeasure of God Almighty.'

  Pollard drew himself up to his full height and his shadow fell across those who listened down below. Both arms were outstretched for effect as he came to his final indictment.

  'Third, plays draw apprentices and other servants from their work, they pluck all sorts of people from resort unto sermons and Christian practices, and they bind them to the worship of the Devil. Playhouses mock our religion. Destroy this canker in our midst, say I. Perish all plays and players!'

  There was a deathly hush as his imprecations hung upon the wind, then a derisive laugh was heard from the rear of th
e congregation. Isaac Pollard turned eyes of hatred upon a personable figure in doublet, hose and feathered hat. The man had the look of a gallant but the air of a scholar.

  It was Ralph Willoughby.

  *

  The house in Shoreditch was not large and yet it served Lawrence Firethorn and his wife, their children, their servants, the four young apprentices with Westfield's Men and sundry other members of the company who needed shelter from time to time. It fell to Margery Firethorn to make sure that people did not keep bumping into each other in the limited space and she presided over her duties with a ruthless vigilance. A handsome woman of ample proportions, she had an independent mind and an aggressive charm. Firethorn could be fearsome when roused but he had married his match in her. Pound for pound, Margery was redder meat and she was the only person alive who could rout him in argument. He might be the captain of the domestic ship but it was his wife's hot breath which filled the sails.

  'The room is ready, Lawrence,' she said.

  'Thank you, my dove.'

  'Refreshment has been set out.'

  'Good. We deal with weighty matters.'

  'Nobody will dare to interrupt!'

  Her raised voice was a threat which could be heard in every coiner of the house. She glided off to the kitchen and Firethorn was left to conduct his two visitors into the main room. Barnaby Gill puffed at his pipe and took a seat at the table while Edmund Hoode curled up on the settle in a corner. Firethorn remained on his feet so that he could the more easily assert his ascendancy.

  It was a business meeting. All three of them were sharers with Westfield's Men, ranked players whose names were listed in the royal patent for the company. They took the leading parts in the plays and had a share in any profits that were made. There were four other sharers but most of the decisions were made by Firethorn, Gill and Hoode, a trio who combined wisdom with experience and who represented a balance of opinion. That, at least, was the theory. In practice, their discussions often degenerated into acrimonious bickering.

  Barnaby Gill elected to strike the first blow this time.

  'I oppose the notion with every sinew of my being!'

  'No less was expected of you,' said Firethorn.

  'The idea beggars belief.'

  'Remember who suggested it, Barnaby.'

  'Tell Lord Westfield that it is out of the question.'

  'I have told him that we accede to his request.'

  'You might, Lawrence,' said the other testily, but I will never do so, and I speak for the whole company.'

  Barnaby Gill was a short, plump, round-faced man who tried to hold middle age at bay by the judicious use of cosmetics. Disaffected and irascible offstage, he became the soul of wit the moment he stepped upon it and his comic routines were legendary. Tobacco and boys were his only sources of private pleasure and he usually required both before he would shed his surliness.

  Lawrence Firethorn grasped the nettle of resistance.

  'What is the nature of your objection, Barnaby?'

  'Fear, sir. Naked, unashamed fear.'

  'Of another apparition?'

  'Of what else! I am an actor, not a sorcerer. I'll not meddle with the supernatural again. It puts me quite out of countenance.'

  'But we survived,' said Firethorn reasonably. 'The devil came and went but we live to boast of our ordeal.'

  It might not be so again, Lawrence.'

  'Indeed not. The creature might decline to visit us next time.'

  'He'll get no invitation from me, that I vow!'

  Firethorn reached for the flagon on the table and poured three cups of ale, handing one each to the two men. He quaffed his own drink ruminatively then turned to Edmund Hoode.

  You have heard both sides, sir. Which do you choose?'

  'Something of each, Lawrence, said the playwright.

  'You talk in riddles.'

  'I think that The Merry Devils should be seen again.'

  'Excellent wretch!'

  'An act of madness!' protested Gill.

  'Hold still, Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'I agree with you that we must not run the risk of bringing back that real devil.'

  Firethorn was perplexed. 'How can you satisfy us both?

  'By amending the play. Here's the manner of it.'

  Edmund Hoode had given it considerable thought. Instinct urged him to refuse to be involved again in a work that had taken them so close to catastrophe, but the words of Grace Napier echoed in his ears. His performance as Youngthrust had started to win her over. If he were allowed to give it again--replete with all the sighing and suffering that his beloved could wish for--then he would move nearer to the supreme moment of conquest. To make the play safe, he proposed a number of alterations, principally in the scene where Doctor Castrato summoned the merry devils.

  'Ralph's magic was too potent,' he said. 'I will get him to cast some new spells that are too blunt to raise anything more than George Dart and Roper Blundell. It is a simple undertaking for Ralph.'

  'Not so,' said Firethorn sternly. 'Do it yourself, Edmund.'

  'But that scene came from his hand.'

  'Which is exactly why it caused so much trouble. Ralph Willoughby has been the bane of this company for long enough.

  Ever since be worked with us, we have been plagued by setback. Misfortune attends the fellow. I spoke with him yesterday and severed the connection. We paid him for his share of the play and he has gone. It is up to you now, Edmund.'

  'But we were friends and co-authors,' said Hoode defensively.

  'That time is past.'

  'I never liked him,' admitted Gill sourly, tapping out his pipe on the edge of the table. 'Willoughby was the strangest soul. There was a darkness behind that bright smile of his that I could not abide.'

  'Ralph is the finest dramatist in London,' insisted Hoode.

  'That is open to dispute,' said Firethorn.

  'He has worked with all the best companies, Lawrence.'

  'Then why have they not retained his services?'

  'Well...'

  'Everyone seeks a resident poet, Edmund, which is why you are the envy of our rivals. But none of them has pressed Master Willoughby to stay. He writes well, I grant you, but he brings bad luck--and that is too heavy a burden to bear in the theatre.'

  Hoode withdrew into his settle and brooded over his ale. Gill pondered. Firethorn let out a wheeze of satisfaction, feeling that he had carried the day with far less aggravation than he anticipated.

  'Thus it stands, then,' he said. 'Lord Westfield will have his entertainment to order. Are we agreed?' He took their silence for consent. It is but a case of striking out one play and inserting The Merry Devils. Weil give it on Tuesday of next week at The Rose.'

  'That we will not!' said Gill, exploding into life.

  'I have made the decision, Barnaby.'

  'Well, I resist it with all my might and main. Cupid's Folly was destined for The Rose. Strike out another play, if you must, but do not tamper with Cupid's Folly.'

  'The Rose is most suited to our purposes, Barnaby.'

  'You'll not find me there as Doctor Castrate'

  'Put the needs of the company above selfish desire.'

  'I mean this, Lawrence. I'll leave Westfield's Men before I'll submit to this. That is no idle threat, sir, be assured.'

  Barnaby Gill's tantrums were a regular feature of any business meeting and his fellow-sharers learned to humour him. Once he had flared up, he soon burned himself out. This time it was different. He was in earnest. Cupid's Folly was his favourite comedy, the one play in their repertoire that offered him total domination of the stage. His performance in the leading role had been honed to such perfection that he could orchestrate the laughter from start to finish. He was not going to be robbed of his hour o: triumph. Folding his arms and pouting his lips, he turned an aggrieved face to the window.

  Firethorn glanced over at Hoode and attempted a compromise.

  'I have the answer,' he said guilefully. 'Edmund, did you not say tha
t Doctor Castrato might have a dance or two more?'

  'No, Lawrence.'

  'Come, sir. You did.'

  'I have no knowledge of the matter.'

  'Then your memory is leaking. You urged it only yesterday.'

  Unseen by Gill, he gestured wildly to Hoode for his support. The latter gave a resigned nod and went along with the lie, but his voice lacked any conviction.

  'Now I bethink me, you are right. Another jig, f said.'

  'Two, Edmund.'

  'Oh, at least.'

  'And a new song for the Doctor. His role must be extended.'