Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

To end on a note of rural festivity, the playwright had contrived a dance around a huge maypole. Slotted into a hole in the middle of the stage, it looked as solid and upright as the mainmast of a ship. The countryfolk held a ribbon apiece and tripped around the pole to weave intricate patterns. Music drifted down from the gabled attic room where Peter Digby and his musicians were stationed. It was an engaging sight. Colour and movement entranced the spectators.

At the height of the dance, there was a sudden intrusion.

Rigormortis had been rejected by the three shepherdesses and driven away from the area. He now came sprinting back on to the village green with the panting Ursula on his tail. Fresh gales of laughter were produced by the elaborate chase sequence. Unable to outrun his pursuer, Rigormortis took refuge in the one place where she could not follow him-at the top of the pole. With great nimbleness, he shinned up the maypole and clung to it for dear life. Ursula pawed the ground below and yelled at him to come down.

Her command was obeyed instantly.

There was a loud crack and the pole split in two at a point only a few feet below the old man. Barnaby Gill lost his high eminence and dropped like a stone, landing heavily but rolling over immediately to get back to his feet. John Tallis gaped.

'Carry me out!' hissed Gill.

'What, master?'

'Over your shoulder, boy!'

Ursula did as she was told and bore Rigormortis offstage to a resounding cheer. The action had been so swift and continuous that it seemed like a rehearsed part of the play. When Barnaby Gill reappeared to take his bow with the company, he was given an ovation. His fall from the maypole had been as dramatic as it had been comic.

He bowed graciously and smiled expansively but Nicholas Bracewell was not deceived. Blood was seeping through the sleeve of Gill's costume and the man was clearly in pain. The maypole was hewn from old English oak and would never snap of its own accord. Nicholas decided that it had been sawn almost through by someone who concealed his handiwork beneath the coloured ribboning that swathed the pole. Rigormortis was meant to fall from the top. He could have been seriously injured.

Westfield's Men evidently had a dangerous enemy.

*

Margery Firethorn clucked solicitously over the patient like a mother hen.

'Dear, dear! There, there! How now, sir?'

'I believe I will recover,' said Gill wearily.

'Would you care for some wine?' she asked.

'No, thank you.'

'Some ale, then? Some other beverage of your choice?'

'I could touch nothing in my present state, Margery.'

'You suffer much in the cause of your profession, sir.'

'It is needful.'

'Is there pain still?'

'Sufficient.'

He winced and set off another round of maternal clucking.

Barnaby Gill was making the most of it. A surgeon had been called to dress the wound in his arm then he had been brought back to Firethorn's house because of its proximity to the theatre. Apart from the small gash which had produced the blood, he had sustained only a few bruises and abrasions. Reclining in, i chair, he had now got over the accident but he did not tell that to Margery Firethorn. He was enjoying far too much the chance to exploit her gushing sympathy.

'Did the surgeon give you physic, Barnaby?' she said. He prescribed rest, that is all.'

'Call on us, sir. Your needs will be provided.'

'I value that kindness.'

'Do not fear to ask for anything.'

'I will not, Margery.'

'If you wish to stay here, a bed can be found.'

'That will not be necessary, my angel,' said Firethorn, butting in on the conversation because he was no longer the centre of attention in his own house. 'It is only Barnaby's arm that is grazed, my dove. His legs are still sturdy enough to carry him back to his lodging. Besides, he has too much pride to impose on us.'

Gill shot him a hurt look. He was not so enamoured of Margery as to seek her hospitality for a few days but he relished the idea of sleeping under the same roof as the four apprentices and having the opportunity to play on their sympathies. His invitation had now been summarily cancelled by his host.

Margery Firethorn shifted her interest to the accident.

'How came that maypole to break in such a manner?'

'Act of God,' said Gill ruefully.

'Of the devil, you mean,' corrected Firethorn. 'Someone had cut through the oak to weaken it. Nick Bracewell showed me how it was done.'

'Master Bracewell must bear some of the blame,' said Gill sourly. 'It is his job to check that all our properties and stage furniture are safe. There has been laxity.'

'He saw the maypole do its duty during the rehearsal,' said Firethorn. 'Nick found it secure enough then. He did not realise that it was later tampered with by some villain.'

'My life was put at risk, Lawrence. He should be upbraided.'

'He has already upbraided himself

'This calls for a stern warning from you.'

'I'll be the judge of that, Barnaby.'

'If it was left to me, I'd dismiss the fellow.'

'Oh, no!' exclaimed Margery.

'I would sooner dismiss myself,' said Firethorn. 'Nick has no peer among book holders and I have known dozens. Westfield's Men owe him an enormous debt.'

'I do not share that sense of obligation, Lawrence.'

Barnaby Gill had always disliked the book holder, resenting the way that he took on more and more responsibility in the company. He could not bear to see Nicholas being treated like a sharer when the latter was only a hired man.

'You involve him too much in our councils.'

'Thank goodness I do. He has saved us many a time.'

'He did not save me up that maypole.'

'Nor was he the cause of your fall,' said Firethorn testily. 'Someone plotted your accident and only Nick Bracewell will be able to find out who it is. We need him more than ever.'

'Besides,' said Margery fondly, 'he is a true gentleman.'

Gill snorted. Abandoning all hope of persuading them, he announced that he felt well enough to return to his own lodging. He pretended that he was still in intense pain but said he would endure ь with Stoic demeanour rather than be a nuisance to them. Margery pressed him to stay but her husband countermanded the offer.

'Go early to your bed, Barnaby.'

'I may not leave it for days.'

'We have another performance tomorrow. Be mindful.'

'Today's play still weighs upon me, sir.'

'We'll find the culprit,' said Firethorn confidently.

'Some minion employed by Banbury's Men no doubt.'

'Or some viper within our own circle.'

'What's that?'

'He has been the villain all along.'

'Who, Lawrence?'

'He hacked through that maypole by way of farewell.'

'Tell us his name,' said Margery.

'Willoughby.'

'Ralph Willoughby?"

'I can think of no man more likely,' he said gravely. Damn the fellow! He knew the action of the play and at what point in it he could most damage us. Yes, I see the humour of it now. Willoughby was mortally wounded when I dismissed him from the company. We saw the extent of his anger this afternoon in that foul crime. It was his revenge.'

*

Life as the book holder of Westfield's Men was highly exacting at all times. Nicholas Bracewell was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Having set everything up for the morning's rehearsal, he now supervised the withdrawal from the theatre. They would not be playing at The Curtain again for a couple of weeks and all their scenery, costumes and properties had to be safely transported back to the room at the Queen's Head where it was kept. As well as co- ordinating the efforts of his men, Nicholas had yet again to find some means to lift their spirits. The accident with the maypole had plunged them back into despair. First with The Merry Devils and now Cupid's Folly, they had suffered a disaster that was not of their own making. It was unnerving.