Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

'Without Nick?' said Hoode.

'It is exactly what he would have wished, Edmund.’

'Yes,' agreed Anne. 'It is. Nick always put the theatre first.'

'To your places!'

Firethorn's command sent everyone scurrying off into the tiring-house. A difficult couple of hours lay ahead of them. They all knew just how much the book holder contributed to the performance.

Anne Hendrik searched for a crumb of reassurance.

'Where do you think he can be, Master Firethorn?'

'Safe and sound, clear lady. Safe and sound.'

'Is there no more we can do, sir?'

'Watch and pray.'

Anne took his advice and headed for the Church of St Benet.

*

Francis Jordan gave her a couple of days to muse upon her fate then issued his summons. He wanted Jane Skinner to come to his bedchamber that night. Implicit in his order was the threat of reprisal if she failed to appear, but he had no doubt on that score. The girl had been meek and submissive when he spoke to her and all resistance had gone. He would enjoy pressing home his advantage.

Glanville reacted quickly to orders. He had drafted in some extra craftsmen and work on the Great Hall was now advancing at a much more satisfying pace. Jordan gave instructions for the banquet and the invitations were sent out. He began to relax. The steward ran the household efficiently and gave him no real cause for complaint so the new master could enjoy the fruits of his position. Jane Skinner was one of them. Riding around his estate was another.

'Good morning, sir.'

'What do you want?'

'A word, sir.'

'We've said all we need to say to each other.'

'No, sir.'

'Get out of my path.'

'Listen.'

The unkempt man with the patch over one eye was lurking around the stables as Jordan rode out. There was the same obsequiousness and the same knowing smirk as before. He bent and twisted as he put his request to the master of Parkbrook House.

'They tell me Jack Harsnett's gone, sir.'

'I dismissed him for insolence.'

'So his cottage is empty?'

'Until I find a new forester.'

'Let me live there, sir.'

'You're not fit for the work.'

'I've always liked that cottage, sir,' said the man, sawing the air with his hands and trying an ingratiating grin. 'I'd be warm in winter there. It's a quiet place and I'd be out of the way.'

'No.'

'I ask it as a favour, sir.'

'No!'

The reply was unequivocal but it did not dismay him. The smirk came back to haunt and nudge Jordan who fought against the distant pull of obligation. The man revolted him and reminded him.

'You weren't always master here, sir.'

'I am now,' said Jordan.

'Thanks to a friend, sir.'

'You were well-paid and told to leave the country.'

'The money ran out, sir.'

His single eye fixed itself on Jordan and there was nothing humble in the stare now. It contained a demand and hinted at a warning. Jordan was made to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver coins, hurling them to the ground in front of the man. The latter fell on them with a cry of pleasure and secreted them at once.

'Now get off my land for ever,' ordered Jordan.

'But that cottage is-'

'I don't want you within thirty miles of Parkbrook ever again. If you're caught trespassing here, I'll have you hanged! If I hear that you're spreading stories about me, I'll have your foul tongue cut out!'

Francis Jordan raised his crop and lashed the man hard across the cheek to reinforce his message. He did not stop to see the blood begin to flow or to hear the curses that came.

*

The rehearsal was a shambles. Deprived of their book holder, Westfield's Men were in disarray before Vincentio's Revenge. Scene changes were bungled, entrances missed, two dead bodies left accidentally on stage and special effects completely mismanaged. Prompting was continuous. Lawrence Firethorn stamped a measure of respectability on the performance when he was on stage but chaos ruled when he was off it. The whole thing ended in farce when the standard that was borne on in the final scene slipped out of the hand of Caleb Smythe and fell across the corpse of Vincentio himself who was heard to growl in protest. As the body was carried out in dignified procession, it was the turn of the musicians to add their contribution by playing out of tune.

Lawrence Firethorn blazed. He called the whole company together and flogged them unmercifully with his verbal cat o' nine tails. By the time they trooped disconsolately away, he had destroyed what little morale had been left.

Edmund Hoode and Barnaby Gill adjourned to the tap room with him.

'It was a disgraceful performance!' said Firethorn.

'You have been better,' noted Gill, scoring the first point.

'Everybody was atrocious!'

'The play needs Nick Bracewell,' said Hoode.

'We do not have Nick Bracewell, sir.'

'I am bound to say that I did not miss him,' observed Gill.

Firethorn bristled. 'What you missed was your entrance in Act Four, sir, because the book holder was not there to wake you up.'

'I never sleep in the tiring-house, Lawrence!'

'Only on stage.'

'I regard that as gross slur!'

'You take my meaning perfectly.'

'This will not be forgotten, sir.'

'Try to remember your lines as well, Barnaby.'

Hoode let them fight away and consulted his own worries. Concern for his friend etched deep lines in his forehead. It hurt him to think that he might be indirectly responsible for any misadventure into which Nicholas stumbled after leaving the playwright's lodging. If anything serious had happened, Hoode would not be able to forgive himself. Meanwhile, there was another fear. Grace Napier would be in the audience that afternoon. He trembled at the thought of her seeing a calamitous performance by the company because it was bound to affect her view of him. It was some years since he had had anything more than abuse thrown at him from the pit. Vincentio's Revenge could change that. Hoode did not relish the idea of being pelted by rotten food while his beloved looked on from the balcony.

'Here's George Dart!' said Firethorn.

'Alone!' observed Hoode.

"That does not trouble me,' added Gill.

Dart came to a halt in front of them and gabbled his story. He had found nothing. When he approached the watch, he was told that the operation of the law was none of his business and sent away with a flea in his ear. The one piece of information he did glean was that a man was killed in a brawl on the north embankment around midnight.

His three listeners immediately elected their book holder as the corpse. Dart was interrogated again then dismissed. Firethorn slumped back in his chair and brooded.

'I see Willoughby's hand in this!'

'You see Willoughby's hand in everything but in your wife's placket, sir,' said Gill waspishly.

'We must look into this at once,' decided Hoode.

'After the performance,' said Firethorn.

'Instead of it, Lawrence.'

'Ha! Sacrilege!'

They returned to the tiring-house to find it a morgue. Everyone had now heard George Dart's tale about the murder on the embankment and they were convinced that Nicholas Bracewell was the victim. Nor was it an isolated incident. In their febrile minds, they saw it as the latest in a sequence that began with the appearance of a real devil in the middle of their performance. Devil, maypole, Roper Blundell-and now this. The cumulative effect of it all was overwhelming. They mourned in silence and wondered where the next blow would fall. Not even a stirring speech from Firethorn could reach them. Westfield's Men had one foot in the grave.

The irony was that Vincentio's Revenge had attracted a sizeable audience. They came to see blood flow at the Queen's Head and that put them into good humour. Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry were there to decorate the gallery and act as cynosures for wandering eyes. They knew the play by repute and longed to while away a couple of hours in a more tragic vein. Grace was a little uneasy but Isobel was brimming with self-confidence, discarding her mask and coming to the theatre for the first time as an independent young woman with a mind of her own. As the glances shot across at her, she returned them with discrimination.