Mark Chadbourn - The Scar-Crow Men

‘Are you enjoying Kit’s work?’ he asked. He cupped his hand to his ear, pretending to listen to the players’ words. ‘It tells of a man surrounded by devils.’

Cecil’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not speak to me of Marlowe. He can no longer be trusted.’

Will fought to control a flush of anger. ‘Kit has always been a faithful servant,’ he said as calmly as he could.

‘He is consumed by his weaknesses. Drink. Gold. And the unnatural desires he takes no pains to conceal. He has passed his point of usefulness.’ Beside Cecil, Sinclair nodded his agreement. Rowland looked away, pretending to be intrigued by the play.

The loud declaiming of the players rose up from the stage below.

‘ Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute ,

And try the utmost magic can perform .’

The words were followed by the clatter of iron and wood to signify thunder.

Will studied Cecil to see if this was another barb to prick a response. His master’s face gave nothing away. ‘I know Kit has been reporting to the Privy Council every day,’ he said. ‘Is the council to proceed with the charge of blasphemy?’

The secretary looked around the sea of colourful masks, either ignoring the spy or seeking some platitude that would deflect Will’s question.

Laced with fear, a cry rang out from the stage.

Cecil, Sinclair and Rowland all started, and jerked their heads towards the rail. The scream soared higher and was then swamped by a rising tide of panic from the audience. All around the gallery, the crowd surged forward to get a better view of what lay below.

‘What is happening?’ Rowland exclaimed. Sinclair had already disappeared into the mass of bodies.

‘No player ever acted that well,’ Will shouted above the clamour.

Leaving Cecil behind, the spy shouldered his way to the rail and peered down the well of the theatre. The day’s light was fading rapidly, the sky turning cerulean, and all around the yard and stage, lanterns now glowed a soft gold. The flickering light illuminated the pale faces peering down from the packed upper tiers, which were cloaked in dense shadow.

In the yard, a wave of bodies crashed towards the doors that had been locked to prevent curious commoners wandering in from the plague-ravaged city. Screams and cries became one constant shriek. A man in a harlequin mask shouldered his way through those ahead of him, regardless of status or gender. A woman with a now-tangled mane of grey hair hooked her fingers and raked and spat like a frightened cat. The surging mob crushed a lady-in-waiting against one of the timbers. An elderly man as thin as a sapling disappeared beneath the trampling feet. Across the yard, the masks came off. Will saw terror in the features of some, confusion in others. The cause of the tumult was not clear.

Nathaniel arrived at his side.

‘Nat, there will be disaster here.’ Will watched the infection of fear spread across the audience. ‘Find Master Henslowe or one of his associates. The doors must be opened immediately.’

In the upper gallery, bodies pressing forward to witness what was transpiring below pinned Will against the rail. Fighting his way to the stairs would take too long, he knew. With a jab of his elbows, he dragged himself out of the mass and up on to the rail, where he balanced on the balls of his feet. Pointing at him, a woman cried out in alarm. From his precarious position, he had a brief impression of the dizzying drop into the pit of heaving bodies below.

Glancing back across the sea of heads in the upper gallery, he accepted the truth: there was no way to go but down.

Steeling himself, the spy made a graceful pivot and grasped one of the rose carvings on the timber column. His cloak billowed in the updraught from the hot yard. Knuckles white, he clung on to the carving, praying that Henslowe’s carpenters had done a masterful job. Blood pumped in his head. Will allowed himself one look down into the depths, and then felt around for a foothold on the carving below.

His leather shoe slipped on the polished wood, and caught, just. The drop pulled at him.

Then, through the cacophony of screams below, a single cry rang out clear: ‘The devil is here! The devil!’

Will swung down the timber post from carving to carving and dropped the final few feet to the now-deserted yard in front of the Rose’s stage. On it, a knot of players huddled in fear. Leaping up to them, the spy grabbed the huge-bellied, white-bearded man who played the lead role, Faustus, and shook him alert.

‘What caused this outcry?’ Will demanded in a cold, authoritarian tone.

In the stage’s lantern light, the make-up that made the player’s features stand out to the upper galleries transformed him into a grotesque — white skin, red lips and cheeks, dark rings around his eyes.

‘The devil-’ the player croaked, barely audible above the shouting audience crowding towards the doors.

With his fist gripping the neck of the costume, Will shook the man roughly once more. ‘No superstition. Keep a clear head. What was seen?’

A young, smooth-cheeked man stepped forward, his hair tied back ready for the wig that would transform him into the spirit of the beautiful Helen of Troy. ‘I saw it,’ he declared in a clear voice that belied the terror in his eyes. He indicated the magic circle inscribed on the boards, surrounded by anagrams of Jehovah’s names, astrological symbols and ancient sigils. ‘When Faustus completed his incantation to summon the devil Mephistophilis, in the presence of Lucifer, a second devil did appear. But this was no man! He … it! … wore no make-up!’

Faustus gripped his head, reeling. ‘The devil was summoned here this night to torment us for speaking his name, and making a mockery of his dark majesty!’

‘There are devils aplenty in this world to worry me first before I turn my attention to Hob. Now, good lad, which way?’ Will glanced around the empty yard.

The young player pointed backstage.

Faustus caught Will’s arm. ‘He will take your soul,’ he said in a tremulous voice.

‘If I still have one to give.’ Drawing his rapier, Will jumped back to the mortar floor and slipped along the side of the stage to a small cluttered area with a space for the players to await their cue, heavy with the smells of paint, chalk and make-up. Timber frames, winches, painted scenery, and the artefacts used to make sound effects looked strange and unsettling in the half-light.

Watching the shadows for signs of movement, Will edged beyond the backstage jumble. He found himself in a walkway leading past the tiring house to a series of small chambers used for storage or recreation, places where the players would game with dice or cards while waiting for their moment on the boards. The backstage area was still. Yet he noticed it was unaccountably colder than the rest of the hot, crowded theatre, and an unpleasant smell hung in the air. Brimstone.

If this is a trick, it is designed well to tug at our fears , he thought.

He glanced into the first room on his left. The stub of a single candle guttered on the floor in the far corner, its flickering light revealing row upon row of costumes in emerald and crimson and sapphire, as well-made as the finest court clothes to cope with the wear and tear of multiple performances. A pair of intricately constructed wings of goose feathers hung from the ceiling, like an invisible angel taking flight.

A whisper rustled somewhere ahead in the gloom of the walkway, the words unclear.

Will’s breath caught in his throat. With a fluid movement, he stepped into the costume room just as a shadowy presence emerged from a room three doors ahead. He remained still, his breathing measured, the tip of his sword resting on the floor so it made no noise when he moved.