The Merry Devils

'Then why does he talk like the village idiot?' The actor-manager stalked the room. 'I have fifteen special moments in Vincentio's Revenge and I'll not be denied one of them. It stays.'

'And so does Cupid's Folly,' said Gill petulantly.

It was stalemate again. While the two of them withdrew once more into a hurt silence, Edmund Hoode tried to sound impartial as he proffered his advice. But the removal of Vincentio's Revenge suited his purposes very well. Losing the part of a decrepit old lecher, he instead became a lovelorn shepherd in the pastoral comedy of Cupid's Folly. It would give him the chance to impress Grace Napier with his readiness to bear the cross of unrequited passion. Hoode worked hard to soothe Firethorn, telling him how incomparable his performance as Vincentio was, yet reminding him of his dazzling role as a prince in the other play. Siding imperceptibly with Gill, he slowly brought Firethorn to the realisation that there was no alternative. Without Cupid's Folly, they would have no Doctor Castrato. Vincentio would have to forgo his revenge.

'Put the company before yourself for once,' said Gill spitefully. Lawrence always does that,' said Hoode. 'And I am sure that he will make this supreme sacrifice for the sake of Westfield's Men and our esteemed patron.'

Firethorn showed one last flash of surging arrogance.

'But for me, there would be no company. I am Westfield's Men.'

'Right, sir,' sniped Gill. 'Play Doctor Castrato yourself, then.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen...' calmed Hoode.

'Play Droopwell. Play Youngthrust. Play the merry devils themselves.' Gill's tone was cruelly sarcastic. 'Since you have such an appetite for solo performance, carry a fan to hide your beard and play Lucy Hembrow into the bargain.' Enough, sir!'

Firethorn's exclamation was like the roar of a cannon. Circling the room in a frenzy, he kicked a chair, pounded the table, spat into the empty fireplace and sent a warming pan clattering from its nail on the wall. He came to rest before a window and stared out unseeing at the small but well-tended garden.

Hoode waited a full minute before he dared to speak.

'Is it agreed, Lawrence?'

There was an even longer pause before the hissed reply came. Castrato is to have no new songs or dances!'

'It's agreed!' shouted Gill in exultation, then lie expressed his gratitude to Hoode by kissing him on the lips. 'God bless all poets!'

Yet another meeting thus reached its amicable conclusion.

*

Anne Hendrik was not a typical resident of Bankside. In an area that was notorious for its brothels, bear gardens and bull rings, for its cockpits, carousing and cutpurses, she was a symbol of respectability. She was the widow of Jacob Hendrik, who had fled from his native Holland and settled in Southwark because the City Guilds did not welcome immigrants into their exclusive fraternities. Overcoming initial problems, Jacob slowly prospered. By the time he married a buxom English girl of nineteen, he could offer her the comfort of a neat house in one of the twisting lanes. Though childless, it was a happy marriage and it left Anne Hendrik with many fond memories. It also gave her a liking for male company.

'Ralph Willoughby has gone?' , 'Banished from the company.'... 'What does Master Firethorn have against him?' ' 'Everything, Anne.'

'It seems so unfair.'

'Unfair, unwarranted and unnecessary.'

'Can Edmund Hoode revise the play on his own?'

'I have my doubts.'

They were sitting over the remains of supper at the Bankside house. The mood was relaxed and informal. Nicholas Bracewell had lodged there for some time now and had come to appreciate all of his landlady's finer qualities. Anne Hendrik was a tall, graceful woman in her thirties with attractive features of the kind that improved with the passage of time. She was a widow who never settled back into widowhood, and there was nothing homely or complacent about her. Intelligent and perceptive, she had a fund of compassion for people in distress and a practical streak that urged her to help them. Her apparel was always immaculate, her manner pleasant and her interest genuine.

'What will Master Willoughby do?' she asked.

'I have no idea.'

'Poor man! To be hounded out like that.'

'Master Firethorn can be brutal at times.'

'Yet he wants the play staged again?'

'Lord Westfield's command.'

Anne had liked him from the start. He was solid, reliable and undemanding in a way that reminded her of her husband. Nicholas was also a very private man with an air of mystery about him and she loved that most of all because it was something that Jacob Hendrik did not possess. In place of a dear but predictable partner, she had taken on a deep and thoughtful individual who could always surprise her. Their friendship soon matured and they now enjoyed a closeness that was untrammelled by any need for a formal commitment on either side. They could trust and confide in each other.

'Give me your true opinion, Nicholas,' she said.

'Of what?'

'The apparition.'

'I hardly saw it, Anne.'

'But those on stage who did took it for a devil.'

'Each one of them. As did Ralph Willoughby.'

'Yet you are not convinced.'

'I am trying to be.'

'What holds you back?'

A vague feeling, no more.'

'Do you not believe in devils?'

He looked at her shrewdly for a moment then chuckled softly, reaching across to pat her arm with an affectionate hand. The concern on her face changed to puzzlement.

'Answer my question,' she pressed.

'It was answered the day I was baptised,' he said evasively. 'A man who bears the Devil's name must perforce believe in Hell. I am Old Nick. The Prince of Darkness. His Satanic Majesty. Lucifer.'

'You have still not given me a Pit reply.

'Very well. He sat back and became serious. 'I will tell you the truth, Anne. I do not know. I do not know if devils exist and if I believe in them. I've lived long enough and travelled far enough to see some strange sights, but none of them came straight from Hell. Ralph Willoughby and the others saw a real devil but I did not. If I had done so, I would have believed in it. That is my honest reply.'

And what of God?' she said.

'No doubts there, Anne,' he affirmed. 'I have seen God's hand at work many times. You cannot go to sea without entrusting yourself to His special providence. When I sailed around the world, I witnessed more than enough miracles to strengthen my faith. I know that there is a God in Heaven.' He smiled pensively. 'What I cannot yet accept is that there was a devil in Gracechurch Street.'

There was a tap on the door and the maid came in to clear the table. Anne studied her lodger. After all their time together, there were still many things she did not know about him. The son of a West Country merchant, Nicholas voyaged with Drake on the Golden Hind and survived the onerous circumnavigation of the globe. Those three years spent beneath the billowing canvas of an English ship had made a lasting impression on him yet he never talked about them. Nor would he ever explain how and why he chose to move into the choppy waters of the London theatre. Nicholas Bracewell felt the need to be secretive in such matters and she had come to respect that.