Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'Must you leave, sir?' she whispered.

His embarrassment grew. Grabbing his purse, he fumbled inside it then tossed some coins at her. She scooped them greedily up and held them tight in her little fist. Half-dressed and still only half-awake, he grunted a farewell then lurched out into the passageway.

Ralph Willoughby was overcome by the familiar sense of shame.

As he rested against her door and hooked up his doublet, he tried to work out exactly where he was. Somewhere in Eastcheap, but which tavern? Could it be the Red Lion? No, that was the previous night. The Lamb and Flag? No, that was the previous week. Was it the Jolly Miller? Unlikely. That particular haunt of his had a musty smell that he could not detect here. In that case, it had to be the Brazen Serpent, an appropriate venue for his latest disgrace. Fornication with some nameless girl in her wretched lodging at the Brazen Serpent in Eastcheap. Guilt burned inside him and the pain in his head became almost unbearable.

Willoughby put his hands together in prayer and recited quickly in Latin. Perspiration still ran from every pore. Consumed by an inner grief, he began to sway gently to and fro. Approaching footsteps jerked him out of his confession. Three people were coming noisily up the stairs, laughing and joking as they banged against the walls. Willoughby stood motionless and waited in the dark. The newcomers soon staggered along the passageway towards him.

The man had an arm around each of the two women so that he could both fondle and lean on them. His voice suggested that he was young, educated, flushed with wine and very accustomed to the situation in which he found himself. There was also a lordly note that showed he was used to giving orders and being obeyed. The moon shone in through the window to guide their footsteps along the undulating oak floorboards over which so many men had walked to perdition.

Willoughby shrank back but they were far too absorbed in their own drama to notice his presence. When they were still a couple of yards away from him, they went into a room and closed the door behind them. He waited no longer. Scurrying along the passageway, he hurled himself down the stairs as if the tavern were on fire. Seconds later, he was outside in the road but his headlong flight was delayed. As his stomach turned afresh, he felt a rising tide of vomit and bent double in humiliation.

Up in the chamber, the other man was ready to savour his pleasures. Flopping on to the bed, he stretched both arms wide and invited his two companions to practise their witchcraft.

'Come, ladies. Unbutton me now.'

Francis Jordan was clearly there for the whole night.

*

Isaac Pollard was formidable enough when delivering a sermon from a pulpit. He had a way of subduing his congregation with a glare and of browbeating them with his rectitude. But it was his voice that was his chief weapon, a strong, insistent, deafening sound that could reach a thousand pairs of ears without the least sign of strain. When it was heard at Paul's Cross, it was a powerful instrument of earthly salvation. Encountered in a domestic setting, however, it was frankly overwhelming.

'It outrages every tenet of public decency!'

'Do not shout so, Isaac'

'The very fabric of our daily lives is at risk!'

'I hear you, sir. I hear you.'

'We demand stern action from our elected guardians!'

'Leave off, man. My head is a very belfry.'

Henry Drewry was a short, rotund, red-faced man in his fifties with an ineradicable whiff of salt about him. He was the pompous Alderman for Bishopsgate, one of the twenty-six wards of the City which chose a civic-minded worthy to represent them. A freeman of London, Drewry was also of necessity a member of one of the great Livery Companies. The Salters were vital contributors to the diet of the capital since their ware was used as a condiment at table and as a preservative for meat and fish. First licensed in 1467, the Salters ' Company received its royal charter in 1559. In his portly frame and proud manner, Henry Drewry was a living monument to a flourishing trade which helped to control the taste of the citizenry.

Isaac Pollard returned to the attack with unabated volume.

'We seek support and satisfaction from you, Henry!'

'Seek it more mildly,' implored the other.

'The authorities must act to stop this corruption now!'

'What do you advocate, Isaac?'

'First, that the Queen's Head be closed forthwith!'

'Ah!' said Drewry gratefully. 'That lies not within my ward. If a tavern in Gracechurch Street exercises your displeasure, you must speak with Rowland Ashway. He is Alderman for Bridge Ward Within.'

'Master Ashway will not hear me.'

'Then he must be deaf indeed, sir.'

'When I talk of morality,' said Pollard solemnly, 'he thinks only of profit. Master Ashway, as you well know, is a member of the Brewers' Company. He sells his devilish ale to the Queen's Head and to the other taverns in Gracechurch Street. Sordid gain is all to him. The Alderman would not see the premises of a customer closed down, however sinful its workings.' The eyebrow crawled vigorously. 'I tell you, Henry, if it lay within my jurisdiction, I would shut down every brewery and tavern in the city!'

'Oh, I would not go to that extreme,' said Drewry, thinking of the dozen barrels of Ashway Beer that he kept in his own cellars. 'The people of London must be allowed some pleasure.'

'Pleasure!’

The word sent Pollard back up into the pulpit at Paul's Cross and he delivered a virulent homily against the sins of the flesh. Henry Drewry could do nothing to stem the flow. They were in the salter's house in Bishopsgate and the host was wishing that he had not agreed to meet the Fiery Puritan. Isaac Pollard was a friend of his because he found it politic to gain the acquaintance of any person of influence in the community. That friendship was now being put under intense strain.

Pollard moved back to the issue which had brought him there, ranting about plays in general and The Merry Devils in particular. I Ie described the lewd behaviour of the audience and then the appalling spectacle on the stage. Drewry was so buffeted that he could not take it all in but he did hear the questions that were hurled straight at him.

'Do you frequent the playhouse?'

'My duties and my trade forbid it,' said Drewry virtuously.

'Will you not condemn this filth?'

'With all my heart.'

'Unless it be checked, this corruption will spread until nothing is safe,' warned Pollard. 'How would you like your daughter to view such profanity?'

'I would not, sir. I hope I am a sensible parent.'

But even as he spoke, Henry Drewry felt an odd twinge of alarm. Something which his wife had told him now flitted across his mind. Their daughter, Isobel, returned from some outing in a state of excitement. For the first time in years, Drewry wished that he had listened to his wife properly. Isobel was a headstrong girl at the best of times and it was not impossible that she had attended a play.

The anxious father now sought more details.

'When was this offending performance?

'But two days since.'

'At the Queen's Head, you say?

'A stage was set up in the yard by Westfield's Men. All manner of people flocked to the place. Women, too, which shocked me most.'

The time was correct. Isobel Drewry could indeed have been one of the females whose presence had so disturbed Pollard. But why was the girl there and what in fact had she seen?

'And a devil appeared upon the stage?'

'Three, sir. There was no end to their blasphemy.'

'What followed?'

'Bedlam. The whole inn yard became Bedlam.'

*

The hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem was housed in the buildings of an old priory outside Bishopsgate. Founded over three centuries earlier, it had now acquired notoriety as an asylum for the insane. The unfortunate souls who were confined there were not shown the compassion that they deserved. Bethlehem Hospital-or Bedlam, as it was known-was famed for its brutal regime. Instead of caring for its inmates within the privacy of its walls, it punished them unmercifully and put them on display. Watching the lunatics was a regular pastime, as much a normal part of recreation as bear-baiting or playgoing. The weird antics of the mentally disturbed were a form of entertainment.