‘Your prayers were meant to save them!’
Firethorn conceded there was an element of truth in it. If real devils were going to appear, he wanted God to be at his side. He urged her to say nothing to the others. He and Nicholas had agreed to suppress all mention of the incident at The Rose. It would disrupt an already uneasy company. Their task was to present a play to the public.
‘You’ll keep them ignorant of their danger?’ she said.
‘I’ll see they come to no harm.’
The day was warm and muggy with a hint of thunder in the bloated clouds. A tawny sun played hide and seek all morning.
Isaac Pollard was up early to visit church, breakfast with his wife and children, then sally forth to meet his brethren. Four other members of the Puritan faction consented to go with him. His descriptions of
The Merry Devils
had roused their ire against the piece and they decided to view it in order to know its full horror. They fondly imagined that their fivefold presence at The Rose would spread some much-needed guilt around the galleries and scatter some piety into the pit.
Since they met in St Paul’s Churchyard, their easiest route to Bankside lay in making straight for the river to cross in a boat. Isaac Pollard ruled against this. Thames watermen were justly famed for their vulgarity and two or more of them engaged in argument could turn the air blue with their language. The last time that Pollard was rowed across in a wherry, he tried to reprove his boatman for this fault of nature and met with such a volcanic eruption of profanity that he had to close his ears to it and so missed the concluding threat of baptism in the river. Accordingly, he now led his colleagues towards the single bridge that spanned the Thames with its magnificence.
As the leader of the expedition, he passed on sage advice.
‘Stay close to me, brethren, and guard your purses.’
‘Will there be pickpockets?’ said one.
‘By the score.’
‘But would they dare to touch
us
?’ said another.
‘They would rob an Archbishop of his mitre.’
‘As would we, brother,’ observed a theologian among them without any trace of irony. ‘We would deprive that reverend gentleman of his mitre, his staff, his sacerdotal
robes and anything else with such a Romish tinge to them. But tell us more of these pickpockets.’
‘Their fingers are ever busy,’ warned Pollard. ‘Did I not relate to you my experience at the Queen’s Head when a young wife but two rows in front of me was deprived of her purse by some rogue?’
‘How was it done?’ asked the theologian.
‘With such skill that she did not discover it until later. Being so close at hand, I could not but overhear what passed between her and her friend, another married lady who had come to that libidinous place without her spouse. “Oh!” said the young woman. “My purse is taken.” Her friend asked where it was kept. “Beneath my skirts,” said the young woman. “I had thought it would be safe there.” Her friend agreed then asked her if she had not felt a man’s hand upon her thigh. “Why, yes,” replied the young woman, “but I did not think it came there for that purpose.”’
Five married men crossed London Bridge in grim silence.
The reputation of
The Merry Devils
went before it and stirred up great interest and anticipation. Large boisterous crowds descended on The Rose and it was soon evident that the theatre would not be able to accommodate all the potential spectators. There was much good-humoured pushing and shoving at the entrances and gatherers worked at full stretch. Those who had a special reason to be there made sure of their seats by an early arrival and they felt the atmosphere build steadily as other patrons surged in.
Anne Hendrik was there with Preben van Loew, the most
skilful and senior of her hat-makers, a dour man in his fifties with a redeeming glint in his eye. The Dutchman was caught in two minds. His Huguenot conscience baulked at the idea of visiting a playhouse yet he could not allow his respected employer to venture there alone. Besides, he soon began to enjoy the envious glances that he was getting from those who assumed he was more than just the consort of the handsome and well-dressed lady at his side. Moral scruples still flickered, but he was ready to ignore them for a couple of hours.
Grace Napier and Isobel Drewry had cushioned seats in the middle gallery and stayed behind their veils. Wearing a gown of blue figured velvet that she had borrowed from her friend, Isobel felt armoured against discovery. Settling down to enjoy the occasion to the full, she giggled inwardly at her own daring. Grace Napier was as poised as ever. That morning she had received another sonnet from Edmund Hoode, declaring his love for her once more and urging her to watch his performance for further proof of his devotion. Her affection for him deepened but it was still edged with regret.
Ralph Willoughby made for the highest gallery. He was dressed in emerald green with a slashed doublet, an orange codpiece and hose that displayed the length and shapeliness of his legs. A small, round, jewelled cap was set at a rakish angle on his head. An opal dangled from one ear. He was a debonair and carefree man about town again. Whatever stirred within him was kept well-hidden.
Isaac Pollard brought in his colleagues and they found places in the lower gallery, a solid phalanx of black disapproval amid a sea of multi-coloured excitement. They
glared at the stage as if it were the gates of Hell, ready to disgorge its fiendish contents at any moment. Preoccupied in this way, they did not observe the low portly figure who was seated opposite. Tricked out in finery that indicated wealth and respectability, he had the look of a man who had come to glower yet might stay to laugh. Henry Drewry was mellowing visibly.
Lord Westfield provoked a cheer of recognition as he took his seat amid his entourage. He wore a high-starched collar, a stiffened doublet which had been neatly tailored to allow for the contours of his paunch, padded and embroidered breeches and blue silk stockings. His gloves were of the finest blue leather. He favoured a large hat with an explosion of feathers and looked like the image of a middle-aged dandy. With their patron at his place, Westfield’s Men could begin.
The last few spectators were allowed in to join the crush in the pit or shoulder themselves a space on a bench. One silver-haired old man in a long robe inserted himself into a narrow seat in the bottom gallery and looked around the theatre with calculating wonder. He absorbed every detail of its structure and noted every feature of its occupants. It was as if he was repairing the one tiny gap that existed in his knowledge of the universe. Combining scholarly curiosity with scientific detachment, he got the measure of The Rose and was not displeased. He came on the heels of his own prediction. Something sinister was going to happen that afternoon and he wished to be there to see it.
Doctor John Mordrake had a personal stake in the event.
Superstition was the life-blood of the theatre. Most actors carried lucky charms or recited favourite pieces or went through an established ritual before a performance in the belief that it conferred good fortune. It was standard practice. Among Westfield’s Men, it now became something far more.
The Merry Devils
enslaved them to superstition. Hardly a man in the company did not take some precautions. Several of them went to the cunning woman in Vixen Lane to purchase charms that would ward off evil spirits. Two of them spent the night in prayer. Three more had parted with a groat apiece for a phial of liquid that was guaranteed to preserve them from any supernatural manifestation, and they were not in the least put out by its close resemblance to vinegar both in appearance and taste. Other charlatans had made their profits in other ways from the credulous players. Their situation was desperate. They would try anything.
Lawrence Firethorn evinced the confidence of old. He had the seasoned calmness of the veteran before battle. Yet even he had made one concession to the possibility of an unexpected guest. He wore his rapier at his side and kept one hand upon it.
Nicholas Bracewell appraised him in the tiring-house.
‘Justice Wildboare has no need of a sword,’ he said.
‘Lawrence Firethorn might.’
‘There is no real devil, master.’
‘Then a counterfeit one will feel my blade.’
‘None will appear.’
‘How can you say that after last night?’
They kept their voices low and both wore smiles to mask
their inner doubts. It was their duty to set an example to the others and to instil some confidence.
‘Has everything been checked?’ asked Firethorn.
‘Several times, master.’
‘Below stage?’
‘I was there myself but two minutes ago. All is in order. The gunpowder is in place and the trap-doors are ready.’
‘And if something should go awry?’
‘It will not, sir.’
‘But if it does …’
‘Ned Rankin holds the book for me during that scene,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll be free to watch more closely and take action if the need arises. Trust in me.’
‘I always do, dear heart!’
Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then wandered off. Nicholas went across to the three men who suffered the most – the merry devils. Seen from behind, George Dart, Roper Blundell and Caleb Smythe looked identical in their startling costumes. Dart was silent, Blundell was wide-eyed with nervousness, Smythe was reciting a children’s rhyme to himself by way of a diversion.
Nicholas gave what reassurance he could but it was wasted on Blundell and Smythe, who were far too steeped in misery. Dart, however, responded with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The others stared at him. When the most timorous member of the company could face his ordeal with amusement, there was only one explanation.
‘Have you been drinking, George?’ said Nicholas sternly.
‘Yes, master,’ came the happy reply.
‘You know where you are?’
‘In Bankside at The Rose.’
‘You know what you have to do?’
Another chuckle. ‘Pop up through a trap-door and cry “Boo!”’
‘Are you fit for this work?’ said the book holder seriously.
‘I’ll not let you down, master.’
Nicholas did not have the heart to castigate him. It was a strict rule of the company that nobody went on stage inebriated. Dismissal was a real threat to offenders. George Dart was no drunkard. Apart from anything else, his meagre wage would not sustain such a habit. Only the need to combat a terrible fear could have sent him to a tavern. Nicholas understood and made allowances. Dart was sober enough to play his part and drunk enough not to worry about it.
‘We count on you, George. Mark that.’
‘I know my role, sir.’
‘Then do not play it too close to Master Firethorn. You know his rule about drink. Be merry, George, but not to excess.’
‘I’ll be a devil to the life!’
When the black cloak of the Prologue swished on to the stage, there was a tumultuous reception. It was surpassed only by the cannonade of sound that greeted the entry of Justice Wildboare. The audience surrendered to Lawrence Firethorn before he even opened his mouth. When he did finally launch into his first long expository speech, he found humour in every phrase – sometimes, in a single word – and set the whole place at a roar. By the time the other
characters joined in the action, the spectators had been thoroughly warmed up.
As the play gathered pace and the laughter intensified, it soon became clear that this performance was vastly better in every way than the earlier one. Some important changes had been made. Edmund Hoode had tightened the construction, introduced a new comic duel, provided some new songs and generally improved the whole texture of the play. The most notable alteration came with his own character. Youngthrust had even more prominence now – his codpiece was stupendous – and he wept buckets of glorious blank verse. Some of the words were written for Grace Napier but the whole theatre appreciated them.
Doctor Castrato had lost lines but gained extra stage business. His mincing steps and piping voice mined new veins of hilarity. When he promised Justice Wildboare that he would raise a devil, the loudest shout of the afternoon went up from the onlookers. This was the moment which they had come to relish and they tensed themselves in readiness.
As she had been instructed, Anne Hendrik kept her eyes on the trap-doors. Henry Drewry stood up to look over the head of the man in front of him. Doctor John Mordrake felt a tingle of premonition. Isaac Pollard bunched his fists and lifted the single eyebrow. Lord Westfield nudged his companions to watch carefully.
Ralph Willoughby went faint with dread.
Castrato went into his attenuated chanting. Then he did an elaborate mime that culminated in his act of summons when he scattered a magic powder in two different places
on the stage. Response was immediate. One trap-door opened and out jumped George Dart to the accompaniment of a blinding flash and a resounding bang. The effect was so well-timed that it completely stunned the audience. Emboldened by drink, the first merry devil scuttled around the stage with gleeful abandon.
Nicholas Bracewell was concealed behind the arras to get a better view. He wondered why the second trap-door did not open. Roper Blundell should have appeared simultaneously with Dart. Had there been a problem with the mechanism. He was given no time to speculate. There was a longer, louder, brighter explosion and Caleb Smythe catapulted up through the first trap-door. He did a wild jig, turned a somersault, then went with his co-devil to kneel before their new master.
Justice Wildboare took over.
Nicholas slipped quietly into the tiring-house and made his way to the steps at the rear. He went down under the stage to find it gloomy and permeated with the smells of the multitude. The play continued above his head. It was quite eerie. As he picked his way along, he could hear the actors strutting about on the boards and feel the roar of the spectators pressing in upon him.
Something sparkled in the half-light. It was the protruding eyes of Roper Blundell. He lay flat on his back in a little red heap, gazing up sightlessly at the drama that he should have joined. Nicholas knelt down beside him and learned the worst. Here was one merry devil who would never go up through a trap-door again.