Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'We have all kinds here, said Rooksley. 'Those that bay at the moon like wild dogs and those that speak not a word from one year's end to the next. Those that fight each other and those that do harm only to themselves. Those that laugh the whole day and those that weep without ceasing. Those that are tame and those that need a whip to teach them tameness. Bedlam contains a whole world of lunacy.'

‘How came they here?' asked Kirk.

'Some twenty or so are supported by their parishes. The others are all private patients maintained at regular charges. Families pay between sixteen and sixty pence a week to keep their imbecile members locked away here.'

'That is a high price, Master Rooksley.'

'We earn it, sir. We earn it.'

It was Kirk's first day there. A muscular young man of medium height, he had a faintly ascetic air about him. Rooksley, the head keeper, was older, bigger and much more cynical. A livid scar down one cheek suggested that the job was not without its physical dangers. Rooksley was conducting his new colleague around the dank corridors and explaining his duties to him.

'We rule by force at Bedlam,' he said. 'It is the only way.'

'Beating will not cure the mind.'

'It will subdue the body, sir.'

'Is that the sole treatment for these poor wretches?'

'Most of them.'

As they turned a corner, a maniacal laugh came from a room ahead of them. It set off a series of other inmates and the whole corridor echoed with the strange cachinnation. Kirk was rather startled but the head keeper was unperturbed. The sound of whips confirmed that the staff were busy. Laughter changed to howls of pain.

Rooksley stopped outside a door with a small grille in it. He invited Kirk to peer into the gloom within. A young man in white shirr and dark breeches was sitting on the floor and gazing up at a fixed spot on the ceiling. He seemed to be deep in meditation.

'This one's a true gentleman,' said the head keeper. "The chamber is bare, as you see, with no pictures on the walls or painted cloths about the bed, nor any light except what creeps in through that tiny casement. We give him warm meat three times a day and Iced him cassia fistula for the good of his bowels.'

Does he never leave this chamber?'

'Never, sir. We have orders for it. He is restrained here.'

Hearing their voices, the man turned his dull gaze upon them and smiled with childlike innocence. Then, without warning, he suddenly fell to the floor and threshed about in a convulsive fit that was frightening in its violence. When it finally subsided, Kirk turned to his companion.

'What ails the man?'

'The Devil,' said Rooksley. 'He is possessed by the Devil.'

The announcement that Westfield's Men were to stage The Merry Devils for a second time caused great consternation. Memories of the first performance were still fresh enough to haunt and harrow. Thomas Skillen was not the only member of the company forced to rediscover his Christian faith that afternoon and the few who had actually been able to sleep since had been prey to recurring nightmares. What they all desired was the much safer material of Vincentio's Revenge and Cupid's Folly. Seven gruesome deaths in the former and eight broken hearts in the latter were infinitely preferable to the risk of raising a devil. Protest was intense but Lawrence Firethorn overruled it with imperious authority.

Nicholas Bracewell came behind him to pick up the pieces.

'Be not downhearted, lads!'

'I quake,' said George Dart.

‘I quail,' said Roper Blundell.

'There is no just cause.

'I cannot do it, Master Bracewell,' gibbered Dart. 'I will not, I must not, I dare not.'

'Nor I,' said his fellow. 'This is work for a younger man.'

‘For no man at all,' returned Dart. 'I am young enough but I'll not venture upon it. I hope to be as old as you one day, Roper, and I would not be dragged off to Hell before my time.'

'That will not happen,' promised Nicholas.

'The play is cursed!' said Blundell.

'We are fools to touch it again,' added Dan.

'Lord Westfield has spoken,' reminded the book holder.

Blundell wheezed, 'Then let his lordship face that foul Fiend!'

They were chatting during a break in rehearsal at The Curtain. Neither of the assistant stagekeepers was cast in Cupid's Folly and they were pathetically grateful. Any acting ambitions they might have nursed were dashed to pieces at the Queen's Head and all they sought now was backstage anonymity. They made a curious pair. George Dart, with his face of crumpled hope, was dog-loyal to a company whose reward was to treat him like a dog. The most menial and degrading jobs were always assigned to him and he was a convenient whipping-boy if anything went wrong. Roper Blundell had such a gnarled visage that it looked as if it had been carved inexpertly from a giant turnip. Hair sprouted all over it. His body was small, wiry and surprisingly nimble for his age but lie was often short of breath.

‘I understand your feelings in the matter,' said Nicholas.

'Then do not press us,' said Roper Blundell.

'Someone must persuade you.'

'We are beyond persuasion,' asserted George Dart. 'Nothing would drive us back into those red costumes.'

'You must speak with Edmund Hoode.'

'He will have no influence over us,' said Blundell. Hear him out,' advised Nicholas. 'He will tell you how he has altered the play to render it harmless. There is no chance of summoning up another devil. Were he to explain that, might you not both think again?'

'No!' they said in unison.

'Would you let Westfield's Men down in their hour of need?'

'We must put our lives first,' said Dart.

'What life would you have without this company?' asked Nicholas.

His voice was gentle but it did not muffle the blow. The two small figures were shaken. George Dart suddenly looked very young and vulnerable, Roper Blundell, very old and desperate. In the hazardous world of the theatre, jobs were scarce and companies in a position to choose. If they were cut adrift from Westfield's Men, neither of them would find it easy to secure employment elsewhere.

Nicholas Bracewell was highly sympathetic to their plight. He liked them both and would not willingly part with either, bur the decision did not rest with him. He thought it only fair to warn them of what might lie ahead.

'Master Firethorn is adamant.'

George Dart was distraught. 'Would he turn us out?

'We must have merry devils at The Rose.'

'Help us,' begged Roper Blundell. 'You have been our good friend this long time, Master Bracewell. We would not go through that torture again and yet we would not leave the company cither. It is our home. We have no other. Help us, sir.'

Nicholas nodded and put a consoling arm around each of them.

'I will bethink me.'

*

Henry Drewry waddled around the room to build up his moral indignation.

'Why did you not tell me of this dreadful visit beforehand?'

'You did not ask, Father,' said Isobel.

'I have a right to be consulted about your movements.'

'You were not here. Had you been so, you would not have listened.'

'Do not he insolent, girl!'

'I am being truthful,' she replied levelly. 'Mother will say it as well as I. You are deaf to any words that we speak.'

'I am still the master or this house!' he blustered.

'That is why I do not bother you with trifling matters.

'This is no trifling matter, Isobel!'

'I went to a play, that is all. Wherein lies my crime?"

'In that, young lady!'

Henry Drewry stopped in the middle of the room ro confront his daughter. Everything about her irritated him, not least the fact that she was a few inches taller. Isobel had her mother's looks, her father's ebullience and a stubbornness that was all her own. Her serene smile enraged him.