Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

Then there was the play itself, an instrument of wickedness in five acts. When the landlord glanced upwards at the blue sky, he was surprised to see no thunderbolt waiting to be hurled down.

Almost everyone, of whatever degree or disposition, was in a state of high excitement, savouring the occasion and talking happily about it. The buoyant, boisterous atmosphere was infectious. Yet there was one man who shared Marwood's disapproval. Big, solid, impassive and dressed in sober garb, he paid his money to gain entry, recoiled from the stinking breaths of the groundlings and made his way disconsolately to one of the upper galleries. His grim face was carved from teak, its most startling feature being a long, single eyebrow that undulated with such bristling effect that it seemed as if a giant furry caterpillar was slowly making its way across his lower forehead. Cold, grey, judgmental eyes peered out from beneath their hirsute covering. The mouth was closed tight like a steel trap.

Whatever else had brought Isaac Pollard to the Queen's Head, it was not the pursuit of pleasure.

Wedging himself into a narrow space on a bench, he took stock of the audience and found it severely wanting. Lewd behaviour offended him on every side. Bold glances from powdered whores warmed his cheeks. Profanities assaulted his ears. Foul-smelling tobacco smoke invaded his nostrils. Extra bodies forcing their way on to his bench increased his discomfort. When he gazed down at the baying crowd below, he sensed incipient riot.

Isaac Pollard fumed with righteous indignation then found a new target for his hostility. It was Lord Westfield himself. Flanked by his glittering hangers-on, the company's illustrious patron emerged from a private room to take up a prime position in the lower gallery. A red velvet cushion welcomed his portly frame as he lowered it into his ornate chair. Wearing dresses in the Spanish fashion, two Court beauties sat either side of him and flirted outrageously with the guest of honour from behind their masks. Lord Westfield was in his element. He was a tireless epicurean with a fondness for excess and he outshone his entourage with a doublet of peach-coloured satin trimmed with gold lace, and silver hose with satin and silver panels. An elaborate hat, festooned with jewels and feathers, completed a stunning costume.

The whole assembly turned to admire a noble lord whose love of the drama had provided countless hours of delight for the playgoer. All that Isaac Pollard could see, however, was a symbol of corruption. Lord Westfield was a merry devil.

Separated from their audience by the traverse at the rear of the stage, Westfield's Men were all too aware of them. It set their nerves on edge. An untried play was always a hazardous undertaking but they had additional cause for alarm after the rehearsal. Failure on stage would be punished unmercifully. Even the most tolerant spectators could turn on a piece that failed to please them and they would hurl far more than harsh words at the players. It was no wonder the tiring-house was so full of foreboding. Lawrence Firethorn took his usual positive attitude and Barnaby Gill affected a cheerful nonchalance but the rest of the company were visibly shaking in their shoes.

Nicholas Bracewell moved quietly among them to give advice, to soothe troubled minds and to instil a sense of purpose. He expected apprentices like Richard Honeydew and Martin Yeo to be on edge but he had never seen Edmund Hoode so keyed up before one of his own plays. Tucked in a corner, he was nervously thumbing through the sides on which his part had been written out by the scrivener. It seemed odd that someone whose memory was so reliable should be so concerned about his lines at the eleventh hour.

Inevitably, the major panic was to be found among those who took the title-roles. George Dart and Roper Blundell were convulsed with fear. Their costumes had been let out slightly so that they could breathe more easily but they were not happy in their work.

Nicholas attempted to boost their sagging morale.

'Courage, lads. That is all you need.'

'We have none between us,' confessed George Dart timorously.

'No, master,' said Roper Blundell. 'We are arrant cowards.'

'You will carry your parts well,' Nicholas assured them.

'Not I,' said the first devil.

'Nor I,' said his colleague.

'You will feel much better when the play actually begins.'

'Heaven forbid!' said George Dart.

'I don't know which is more fearsome,' observed Roper Blundell. 'Facing an audience or being called to account by Master Firethorn.'

'We must suffer both!' wailed his fellow.

They were sorry figures. Two small, bruised, dejected human beings, cowering before the heavy responsibility that was laid upon them. George Dart was young and cherubic, Roper Blundell was old and wizened, but they looked identical in their flame-red costumes, timeless images of torment in the after-life.

'My trap-door would not open,' said Dart.

'Nor mine close,' added Blundell.

'I checked the counter-weights myself,' said Nicholas.

The book holder gave a signal that imposed a hushed silence on the tiring-house. Doubts and anxieties had to be put aside now. It was time to begin. When the trumpet sounded to announce the start of the play, a cheer went up in the inn yard. The Prologue entered in a black cloak and spoke in lofty verse.

Next to appear was Lawrence Firethorn, bursting on to the stage in judicial robes with a clerk trotting at his heels. Applause greeted the leading actor. Waving a letter in the air, he vented his spleen with comic intensity.

‘Why, sir, what a damnable state of affairs is this! Am I not Justice Wildboare, a man of three thousand pounds a year and a sweetness of disposition to match such a fortune? I am minded to wed Mistress Lucy Hembrow but her father, the scurvy rogue, the bald- pated rascal, the treacherous knave, writes to tell me of two further suitors for her hand. One is Droopwell and t'other is Youngthrust. Am I have to have rivals at the altar? Is the name of Wildboare not sufficient in itself for this fair maid? By Jove, she will have justice! When the boar is put to this pretty little sow, I'll prove wild enough for her purposes, I warrant you. Rut rivals? I know this Droopwell by his hanging look. He will not stand to much in her account. But I like not the sound of this Youngthrust. I must take him down if I am to inherit this angel as my wife, or she will measure his inches. I must be devilish cunning!’

Firethorn mesmerised them. Gesture, movement and facial expression were so apt that he reaped a laugh on almost every line. By the end of his First speech, the spectators had not only been introduced to the latest in his long line of brilliant stage portraits, they had also been given the entire plot. When the scene came to a close, their applause was long and enthusiastic. It invigorated the whole company.

The musicians played with more zest, the backstage minions ran to their tasks with more willingness, and the players themselves shook off their despondence and addressed their work with renewed interest. As a result, The Merry Devils blossomed as never before and revealed itself to be as fine a drama as any that Westfield's Men had presented. The miraculous overall improvement was nowhere more clearly reflected than in Edmund Hoode's performance. Shedding ten or more years, lie put his whole self into Youngthrust and declaimed his lines with such a compound of passion and pathos that the heart of every woman melted towards him. Richard Honeydew, who played the beauteous Lucy Hembrow, found himself weeping genuine tears of joy at the urgency of the wooing.

Ralph Willoughby watched it all from the middle gallery with a burgeoning satisfaction. Though written by two men, the play spoke with one authentic voice. Hoode had provided the plot and the poetry while Willoughby had contributed the wit and the witchcraft. The blend was perfect. Lord Westfield led the laughter at another comic outburst by the thwarted Justice. Hands clapped loudly as another scene ended.