Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

Pleased to see Willoughby, he bore down on him.

'A word in your ear, Ralph,' he said.

‘As many as you choose, dear fellow.’

‘Master Firethorn was roused by that third devil of ours.'

'So we were all!'

'His anger glows. Avoid him until it has cooled.'

'Why so, Nick?'

'Be warned. He lays the blame on you.'

'Ah!' sighed the other softly.

'Away, sir!' urged Nicholas. 'He'll be here anon. He stays but for brief converse with Lord Westfield.'

'This is kind advice but I'll stand my ground in spite of it.'

'Fly the place now, Ralph.'

'I'll not turn tail for any man.'

'Master Firethorn will rant and rave unjustly at you.'

'He has good cause.'

'What's that?'

'It was my fault.' Willoughby shook his head and smiled wryly. 'Lay it at my door, Nick. I penned that scene and I summoned that furious devil from Hell.'

'No, not from Hell. His journey was of much shorter length.'

'How say you?'

'It was a creature of flesh and blood, Ralph.'

'But I saw the fiend with my own eyes.'

'Only in a twinkling.' Nicholas pointed to the trestles that were being taken down. 'If that was one of Satan's brood, why did he leave by an open trap whose device had been cut for the purpose?'

'A devil may do as he wishes,' argued Willoughby. 'He could have disappeared down the trap or up the nearest chimney, if fancy had seized him that way. This was no illusion, Nick. It was real and authenticate.'

'I cannot believe that.'

'What other explanation suits the case?'

'T he creature was placed there for our discomfort.'

'By whom, sir?'

'We have rivals, we have enemies.'

'But how came they to have intelligence of our play? This was no random fiend, breaking forth wildly to mar all our doings. This merry devil knew exactly when to appear. No rival could have prompted him.'

It was a valid point and it halted Nicholas in his tracks. Plays were the exclusive property of the companies who staged them and they were jealously guarded during the rehearsal period. Plagiarism was rife and Westfield's Men-it was an article of faith with Firethorn-took especial care to protect their interests while, at the same time, keeping a close eye on the work of their rivals to see if they themselves might filch an occasional idea or steal some occasional thunder. Only one complete copy of The Merry Devils existed and it had been entrusted to the capable hands of Nicholas Bracewell, who kept it under lock and key when not using it as a prompt book.

Nobody outside the company had had a sight of the full text of the play. It was impossible for someone to introduce a third merry devil into the action without prior knowledge of the time, place and manner in which George Dart and Roper Blundell emerged on to the stage.

Ralph Willoughby jabbed a finger to reinforce his argument.

'The devil came forth in answer to my call.'

'If devil it was,' said Nicholas sceptically.

'Of that there can be no doubt.'

'I am not persuaded, Ralph.

'Then I must unfold something to you,' said the other, peering around to make sure that they were not overheard. 'The speeches of Doctor Castrato were not invention. Those incantations were not the product of my wayward brain. I took counsel.'

'From whom?'

'A man well-versed in such matters.'

'A sorcerer?'

'An astrologer of some renown, practised in all the arts of medicine, alchemy and necromancy. Every aspect of demonology is known to him and he instructed me patiently in the subject.'

Nicholas did not need to be told the name. The description could only apply to one person in London, an astrologer of such eminence that his services had been retained by Queen Elizabeth herself and by various members of the royal household. An educated man like Ralph Willoughby would have no dealings with mountebanks who performed their wizardry in back alleys. He would search out the best advice and that would surely come from the celebrated Doctor John Mordrake of Knightrider Street.

'He showed me the charms to use,' said Willoughby. 'He taught me the correct form of words.'

'Did Edmund know of all this?'

'I had no reason to tell him, Nick. It fell to me to write that fatal scene and I wanted a ring of truth in it. I had no notion that I would raise a devil in broad daylight.'

'Were you not warned against it?'

'My mentor assured me that the summons would only work in private, in some cloistered place where darkness was softened by candlelight. Yet here was this fiend of Hell for all to see.'

Ralph Willoughby was no credulous fool who could be tricked by a flash of gunpowder and a flame-red costume. Watching intently from the gallery, he was convinced that he had seen a real devil materialise upon the stage. Nicholas still had vestigial doubts.

'The cord was cut, the trap was up.'

'A devil could have done that.'

'But why?'

'To spread more confusion, Nick. To mislead us afresh.'

'My instinct takes me to another explanation.'

'It was a devil,' insisted Willoughby. 'I was the one who called him and I was the one who was punished. Master Firethorn is right to put the blame on me. I raised up this spirit.'

Further dispute with him was useless. He would never be shifted from his belief and Nicholas was forced to admit that his friend did actually witness the supernatural event. So did the four actors on stage at the time and they were of the same mind as Ralph Willoughby. Panic scattered the entire company with the honourable exceptions of Lawrence Firethorn and Edmund Hoode. It was the latter who now excited curiosity.

'Why was Edmund not unnerved?' said Willoughby.

'He is a brave man in his own way.'

'His performance went beyond bravery, Nick.'

'He was driven forward.

'It was Youngthrust to the life.'

'That was his fervent hope.'

'In his place, I would have been trembling with fear.'

'Edmund was armoured against it. There is something that is even stronger than fear, Ralph.'

'Is there?'

'Love.'

'That is the cause?'

'Why do you think he chose to play Youngthrust?' asked Nicholas with a kind smile. 'Edmund Hoode is in love.'

*

Grace Napier was not an overwhelming vision of loveliness. Men beholding her for the first time would notice her pleasant features and her trim figure, her seemly attire and her modest demeanour. They were impressed but never smitten. Hers was a stealthy beauty that crept up on its prey and pounced when least expected. She could reveal a vivacity that was usually banked down, a hidden radiance that came through to suffuse her whole personality. Those who stayed long enough to become fully acquainted with Grace Napier found that she was a remarkable young woman. Behind her many accomplishments lay a strong will and a questing intelligence, neither of which involved the slightest sacrifice of her femininity.

'You deserve congratulation, Master Hoode,' she said.

'Thank you, thank you!'

'Your portrayal was sublime.'

'I dedicate it to you, mistress.'

'It is the finest I have seen of your performances.'

'The role was created with my humble talents in mind.'

'There is nothing humble about your talent, sir,' she said firmly. 'As a poet and as a player, you are supremely gifted.'

'Your praise redeems everything.'

Edmund Hoode was in a private room at the Queen's Head, enjoying a rare meeting with Grace Napier. The presence of her companion, the pert Isobel Drewry, imposed a restraint as well as a propriety on the occasion but Hoode was not deterred by it. In the few short weeks that he had known her, he had fallen deeply in love with Grace Napier and would have shared the room with a hundred female companions if it gave him the opportunity to speak with his beloved.