The Merry Devils

As he reclined in his chair in the parlour with a restorative pint of sherry, he saw how much he had squandered by one foolish action. He was an opinionated Alderman of the city of London, yet he dared not assert himself any longer in his own home.

There was a tap on the door and a manservant entered.

'Master Pollard is without, sir.'

'Tell him that I am not here.'

'But he says he has called on a most important matter.'

'Get rid of the fellow!'

The servant went off to implement the order but Isaac Pollard would not be sent way. Knocking on the door of the parlour, he surged in like a monstrous black bat and fluttered over Drewry.

'Why do you send me lies, sir?'

'You must be mistaken,' said the other with a gulp.

'I am told you are not at home and you sit here drinking sherry.'

The Puritan glared disapprovingly at the liquid.

'I take it on medical advice,' said Drewry quickly. 'I am unwell.'

'You must be if you tell untruths on the Sabbath.'

'What brings you here, Isaac?'

'Profanity, sir!'

'Again?' muttered the other wearily.

'Wickedness is abroad.'

'I have not yet been out to see.'

'The Merry Devils is to be performed again.'

'Do not mention that play to me!' howled Drewry.

'But I hear that it will be given at Parkbrook House on the estate of Lord Westfield. It must be stopped.'

'If it is a private performance, we can do nothing. Besides, we have no power in the county of Hertfordshire.'

'We have the power of God Himself,' said Pollard impressively, 'and that covers every shire in the land. There is a way to halt this performance if we but move swift enough.'

'And what is that, sir?'

'Get the play declared a blasphemous document and have its authors incarcerated for their sins. There must be legislation that favours us. We must attack with a statute book in our hand.'

Henry Drewry preferred to relax with a pint of sherry in his.

'I grow tired of all this, Isaac,' he said.

'Tired of God? Tired of our Christian duty? Tired of the paths of righteousness?' Pollard rippled the eyebrow at him. 'We must fight harder than ever against the Devil.'

'He has a strong voice at our meetings.'

'What say you?'

'My fellow Aldermen do not share your opinion of the theatre.'

'It is a market-place of bestiality!'

'Haply, that is what draws them thither,' said Drewry under his breath. 'I put the case against the Queen's Head and they would not hear me.'

'Speak louder, Henry.'

'Alderman Ashway has more powerful lungs.'

'Shout him down.'

'Nothing is so vociferous as a brewer whose inn is under threat.'

'Strong drink is the potion of Hell.'

'Yes,' agreed the other, downing some sherry. 'But it can bring a man more comfort than a pinch of salt.' Disillusion set in. 'I chose the wrong trade, I see it now.'

'What's this, sir? Are you slipping?'

'I tried, Isaac, but they will not enforce the law against the Queen's Head. It will still be used as a playhouse.'

'We must fight on regardless!'

'I'll lay down my weapon and take my ease.'

'Do I hear you aright, Henry?' said Pollard with horror. 'You cannot stand aside from the fray, sir. That is to condone what goes on at that vile place. Have you so soon forgot what we said on our journey back from The Rose? You saw the depravity there with your own eyes.'

'Ah, yes,' recalled the other with nostalgia.

'Would you let your daughter visit such a place?'

Fatigued by being browbeaten, the salter hit back with the truth.

'I would, sir.'

'Expose the child to corruption?'

'It is her own choice and she is old enough to make it. Isobel went to the Queen's Head on Wednesday, on Thursday and again on Friday. She saw three plays and came home smiling each time. I would not vote to close an entertainment so dear to her.' He took a long, defiant sip of his sherry. 'Changes have occurred, Isaac, and you must bear the blame. It was you that got to The Rose. It has cost me more than I can say. Wave your puritanical fist at the theatre alone, sir. I withdraw!'

Isaac Pollard could not believe that he had heard such words on a Sunday. He had put on the whole armour of God and now found that it was full of chinks. His eyebrow writhed across his forehead like a snake impaled on a spike as he tried to cope with a new experience.

He was rendered speechless for the first time ever.

*

Nicholas made an early start to his long journey. It was the best part of twenty miles to Lord Westfield's estate which lay to the north of St Albans. He needed to nurse his horse carefully over such a distance. Since there was no performance on the next day, he was to stay the night at Parkbrook and ride back at his leisure on the Monday. Anne Hendrik was sad to be parted from him. She had spent two long nights comforting him after his ordeal at the Counter and had hoped to spend a third in like fashion but his visit was important and she had to accept it.

He made frequent stops at hostelries along the way to rest his mount, refresh himself and garner what information he could. One coaching inn had an observant landlord. He saw Lord Westfield's crest driven past on Thursday evening and remembered two fine young ladies who stopped their carriage there on Saturday and talked of reaching St Albans before nightfall.

It was late afternoon when Nicholas reached his own destination. Westfield Hall was a familiar landmark to him now but he had never been to Parkbrook House before. As he viewed it from the crest of the hill, he was struck by its severity and sense of proportion. If the Hall was the visual embodiment of its master, Parkbrook could claim to be the like. Francis Jordan was echoed in his architecture. The place was cold, unyielding, ungenerous behind a striking facade.

Nicholas Bracewell soon met the new master.

'Welcome to Parkbrook, sir!'

'Thank you, Master Jordan.'

'Your journey was a long but necessary one. An event like this needs careful forethought and preparation.'

'We are honoured to be invited to such a fine house,' said Nicholas politely. 'Master Firethorn sends his regards and assures you that we will strive to please you in every particular.'

'Good. I must have The Merry Devils played here. It will be a rousing start to my time here at Parkbrook and I feel that it will somehow bring me luck.'

It had not done that for Westfield's Men.

Francis Jordan conducted him across to the Great Hall. Progress had been marked. Plasterers and carpenters had now completed their work and only the masons and the painters remained, the former providing a musical clink as they chiselled away at the bay window and the latter adding an astringent smell with their paint. Nicholas noted that none of the men dared to stop working and he could sense their resentment of their employer.