Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'A good man fallen on bad times.’

'I know him only as Ralph who comes to take communion with me.'

'He is not fit for the service tonight, I fear.'

'That disappoints me, sir,' she sighed. 'When he was with me last, he made love as if the Devil was dancing on his buttocks.'

It was an apt image and more accurate than she realised.

Nicholas lifted him on to his feet then bent down to let the body fall across his shoulder. Waving a farewell to the irrepressible Nell he went carefully down the stairs so that he did not bang Willoughby's head against the wall.

Coming out into the street, he began the long, slow walk.

*

Edmund Hoode always worked best in the hours of darkness. When he was closeted in his lodging with no more than a candle and his writing materials, he could devote his full attention to the project in hand. There were far too many distractions during the day and he was, in any case, usually required for rehearsal or performance by the company. When night drew its black cloak around him, however, he came fully alive and his mind buzzed with creativity. As he sat over his table now, verse of surpassing excellence streamed through his brain but it was not part of some new play that he was writing. The inspiration and the object of his poetic impulse was Grace Napier.

She was perfection. As he reflected upon her virtues, he saw that she was the woman for whom he had been waiting all his life. She gave him purpose. She redeemed him. Compared with her, all the other women who had aroused his interest were nonentities, momentary distractions while he waited for his true love to come along. With those others, the chase had often been an end in itself. Consummation was rare and the certain conclusion of a relationship. Cupid was never kind to him. He had known much sadness between the sheets.

Grace Napier was different. She belonged to another order of being. He did not view her in terms of pursuit and conquest because that would demean her and drag her down from the lofty pedestal on which he had set her. All his thoughts now turned on one objective. N4arriage to his beloved. In the headlong rush of his ardour, he did not stop to consider the practicalities of such a wild hope. The fact that he had no house to offer her, still less a high income to serve her demands, did not stay his fantasies. He would make any sacrifice for her even if it meant that he left the theatre. Edmund Hoode wanted nothing more than to devote his energies to the composition of odes to her beauty and sonnets in praise of her sweetness.

‘I'll wrap my arms around your slender waist,

My gracious love, I would not be dis -graced.’

The lines sprang new-minted from his pen. He studied them on the vellum then rejected them for their banality. Grace deserved better. He killed the couplet with a slash of ink and turned to his Muse once more. Richer lines began to flow. Deeper resonances were sounded. Whenever he glanced up from his work, he saw Grace Napier on her pedestal, giving him that special smile which was poetry in itself.

Horror suddenly intruded. As he looked up at her once more, there was someone else beside her, an arresting figure with the arrogant grin of a practised voluptuary. Hoode recognised him at once.

It was Lawrence Firethorn.

An anxiety which had been at the back of his mind for days now thrust itself forward. Firethorn was a real threat. Dozens of beautiful young ladies were hypnotised by the tawdry glamour of the playhouse and were ready to surrender themselves to its ambiguous charms. Those who worshipped at the shrine of West field's Men inevitably tended to see Firethorn as their god. His bravura performances could not be matched by lesser players in smaller roles. Firethorn had no compunction about exploiting the adulation to the full. Swooning females were simply the spoils of war that fell to the victorious general and not even the vigilant eye of his wife, Margery, could stop him from exercising the age-old rites of soldiery. A few discerning acolytes-as Hoode liked to style them-had chosen him in place of the actor-manager. But he was seldom allowed to take advantage of their interest. Lawrence Firethorn had a distressing habit of stepping in and whisking the admirers-quite literally-out from under him.

That was not going to happen with Grace Napier.

‘Stay close, my love, avoid the scorching fire,

Prick not yourself upon that thorn's desire.’

They were not lines to be sent to his loved one. Hoode would engrave them upon his own heart to act as a warning. Whatever else he did, he must not introduce Grace to the insatiable Lawrence Firethorn.

Further meditation was interrupted by a banging on the door. He went over to unbolt it then opened it wide. Nicholas Bracewell stood there with a familiar figure over his shoulder. Hoode was pleased.

'Ralph?'

'The whole weight of him.'

'Where did you find him?'

'I will tell you when I have lightened my load.'

Nicholas stepped into the room and lowered the body to the floor, sitting Willoughby up and resting his back against the wall. The slumbering playwright was still dead to the world.

'He was at the Bull and Butcher,' said Nicholas.

'Drink or fornication?'

One prevented the other, Edmund.'

'He has burned the candle at both ends.'

'There is neither wax nor flame left.'

'Wake up, sir!' said Hoode, shaking his co-author.

'That will not rouse him,' said Nicholas, reaching for the jug on the table. 'Stand aside, I pray.'

With a swing of his arm, he dashed a few pints of cold water into Willoughby's face. The latter twitched, groaned, then spluttered. As he came out of his sleep, he opened an eye to blink at the world.

'Nell?'

'You are here among friends,' said Hoode.

'Edmund?' A second eye opened. 'Nicholas?'

'I fetched you from your revelry,' explained the book holder.

'We have need of you,' said Hoode. 'Our play is staged again.'

'I am no longer with the company, sir.'

'It requires your subtle hand.'

'Master Firethorn banished me.'

'This will not concern him,' said Hoode dismissively. 'We will work together privily. We are co-mates in this drama, Ralph, and I will not see you ousted. I must have your guidance with The Merry Devils'

'Do not perform it again!'

'Rather let us make it safe for performance.'

'That is not within my power.'

'What do you mean?'

'It is not the play that holds the peril,' said Willoughby with quiet dread. 'It is my part in its authorship, I am the catalyst here, sirs. Put my work on the stage and you will suffer. The devil will surely come again.'

'There was no devil, said Nicholas firmly.

'I am not certain either way,' admitted Hoode.

Willoughby was adamant. 'Truly, there was a devil. I have it from Doctor John Mordrake himself.'

'Mordrake!' Hoode was impressed.

'He consulted his books, his charts, his crystal and all agreed upon my fate. The life of Ralph Willoughby is forfeit. Save yours, my friends, by turning your backs on The Merry Devils.'

'It is too late,' said Nicholas.

'Then must you put the whole company at risk.'

'How?'

'Through me. Mordrake was specific on the matter.'

'A prediction?'

'Yes, Nick. Perform my play again-and disaster will strike!'

The warning could not have been clearer.

*

Grace Napier sat at the keyboard and filled the room with a wistful melody. When she came to the end of her practice, she was applauded.

'Well done! said Isobel Drewry.

'I improve slowly.'

'You play sweetly, Grace.'

'The instrument pleases my ear.'

'And mine.' Isobel giggled obscenely. 'I wonder if Master Hoode can finger a virginal so delicately!'

'Do not be so vulgar,' said Grace with a smile.