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.'