Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

Only Isaac Pollard smouldered with discontent.

Then came the moment that everyone awaited. It occurred at the start of Act Three when expectation had been built to a peak. Unable to best Youngthrust in any way, Justice Wildboare resorted to a more sinister device. He employed Doctor Castrato to summon up devils who would do their master's bidding. Ripples of delight went through the audience when they saw that Castrato was played by their beloved Barnaby Gill. Speaking in a high-pitched, eunuchoid voice that sorted well with his name, Castrato went through all the preliminaries of sorcery. Weird music played, mystic objects were placed in a circle and strange incantations were uttered. Barnaby Gill invested it all with an amalgam of humour and horror that was spell-binding. He stretched both arms wide to display the magical symbols painted on his huge cloak then he gave a stern command.

'Come forth!

Gunpowder exploded, red smoke went up, trap-doors opened and two merry devils leapt out. It all happened with such speed and precision that George Dart and Roper Blundell really did seem to have materialised out of thin air. Their trap-doors closed soundlessly behind them and they executed a little dance to music. Justice Wildboare beamed and Doctor Castrato bowed obsequiously. When they finished their sprightly capering, the two devils came to kneel before their new master. Complete silence now fell on the makeshift playhouse.

It was broken with heart-rending suddenness. To the sound of another, much louder, explosion and through a larger effusion of smoke, a third devil shot up on to the stage. There was a surface similarity to the others but there were also marked differences. The third devil was smaller, quicker, more compact. He had longer horns, a shorter tail and a deeper, blood-red hue. Slit-like eyes had a malevolence that glowed. The grotesque face was twisted into a sadistic grin.

Here was no assistant stagekeeper pressed into service.

This merry devil looked like the real thing.

Not a murmur was heard, not a movement was made. Everyone was hypnotised. The newcomer had taken instantaneous command. Actors were rooted to the spot. Groundlings became standing statues. Galleries were frankly agog. They were not quite sure what they were witnessing but they did not dare to turn away. Revelling in his power, the third devil held them in thrall and gazed menacingly around the massed gathering. With a wild cry and a crude gesture of threat, the creature suddenly jumped to the very edge of the stage and made the audience shrink back in fear. But it was only in jest. After letting out a low cackle of derision, the devil did a series of backsomersaults in the direction of the players.

George Dart and Roper Blundell fled at once to the tiring-house and Barnaby Gill flinched but Lawrence Firethorn stood his ground manfully. It was his stage when he was upon it and he would defy Satan himself to rob him of his authority. The devil landed on his feet in front of him, spun round and regarded him with malicious glee. Showing great dexterity and speed, he then knocked Firethorn's hat off, pulled the cloak up over Gill's head, pushed over a table, kicked aside two stools then hurled the circle of mystic objects into the crowd. After cartwheeling around the stage in a red blur, the interloper vanished down the trap-down that had been left open and pulled it shut behind him.

A buzz ran through the audience. They did not know whether to be afraid or amused but they were all astonished. Some laughed to break the tension, others put hands to pounding hearts, others again shuffled towards the exits. Firethorn moved quickly to reestablish his control and to smooth any ruffled feathers. Pretending that the intrusion was all part of the play, he strode down to the trap-door and banged his foot on it, collecting yells of admiration at his bravery.

The voice of Justice Wildboare rang out with conviction.

‘This was the merriest devil of them all. Come forth again, sir, and know thy master. Show that impish face. I would have you before me that I may judge your case and pass sentence. An' you knock off my hat again, you saucy varlet, I'll fetch you a box o the ears that shall make your head ring all the way back to Hell. Stand forth once more, thou restless spirit. If you can do such tricks as these to order, I'll have you play them on the lusty Youngthrust to still the throbbing codpiece of his ambition. Return, I command.’

Firethorn pounded on the timber with his foot but there was no answering flash of devilry. The creature had gone back to the place from which he came. Given time to recover his wits. Barnaby Gill came across to support his fellow in an extempore duologue, in the course of which it was decided to summon the devils again. Music played and Doctor Castrato went into his macabre ritual, dispensing with the circle of mystic objects which had been scattered far and wide. The audience watched with bated breath.

High drama was taking place in the tiring-house where the merry devils were refusing to go back on stage again. George Dan was still shuddering and Roper Blundell speechless with agitation. Gentle persuasion from the book holder was having no effect and so he adopted a more forthright method. As the incantations reached their height and the devils were called forth, they were more or less propelled out from behind the curtains by the strong hands of Nicholas Bracewell. No sprightly jig this time, only abject fear as they fell to their knees and prayed that their devilish companion would not return again.

Stepping between them, Firethorn gave each a squeeze of encouragement on the shoulder, then fed them lines as solicitously as a mother spooning medicine into the mouth of a sick child. Very slowly, they were coaxed back into their roles and the play resumed its former course. Other players ventured out with trepidation but Edmund Hoode came on with uncharacteristic assertiveness and threw himself into the fight to salvage his work. He would not let a supernatural accident-if that was what it was-come between him and his dearest hope. Too much was at stake.

The Merry Devils gradually revived. Wit sparkled, skul-duggery thickened, drama heightened. By the end of the last act, the spectators were so absorbed in the action once more that they heaved a collective sigh of disappointment when it was all over. A sustained ovation was accorded to Westfield's Men. Standing before his company to give a series of elaborate bows, Lawrence Firethorn kept a wary eye on the fatal trap-door. He was not ready to relinquish one second of his precious applause to another eruption from the nether-world.

Ralph Willoughby joined in the acclamation but his mind was in a turmoil. He had written the scene in which the devils were raised up and had discussed with Nicholas Bracewell the special effects required. They had devised everything around two devils. If a third came uninvited, then it was a dire warning, a punishment inflicted on them for dabbling in the black arts. It was highly disturbing. Still outwardly debonair, Willoughby was plunged into profound spiritual torment.

As he made his way towards the exit, the playwright walked straight into the bustling figure of Isaac Pollard who was pushing his way down the stairs. Two worlds came face to face.

'Out of my way, sir!' said Pollard.

'By your leave.'

'I must quit this house of idolatry!'

'You did not like the comedy, sir?' It was a profanation of the worst kind.'

'Why, then, this rapturous applause?' said Willoughby.

An audience of heathens!'

I think you do not love the playhouse.'

'It is the creation of the Devil!' affirmed Pollard. 'I will not rest until every such place in London is burned to the ground!'

With a final snarl of disgust, he unfurled his bristling eyebrow and took his Christian conscience hurriedly down the stairs.