The Merry Devils

The single eye blinked until it managed to focus.

'Jack!' said the man with the patch. 'How are you?"

'What do you care?'

'I heard you'd left Parkbrook.'

'Thrown out.'

'Master Jordan is a hard man, sir.'

'I heard you use his name in the tavern.'

'Did I?' An evasive smile came. 'I doubt it.'

'What did you say?' grunted the forester.

'Who knows?'

'Tell me.'

'About Master Jordan?' He gave a drunken laugh then became rueful. 'There's things I could say about that one! He's bad, Jack, bad as they come. He gave me this here on my face.' He exhibited the long scar that had been caused by the riding crop. 'Keep out of his way.'

'Why?'

'No matter. I must go.'

'Answer me,' said Harsnett, holding him by his hair.

'More than my life's worth, Jack, and that's the truth.'

"Tell me about Master Jordan,' insisted the forester.

The man with the black patch twitched and whined.

'He'll kill me if T do that.'

Harsnett thrust the blade of his axe against the other's throat.

'I'll kill you if you don't.'

*

It was a pleasant ride across the estate. Nicholas borrowed a horse from the stables so that his own could recover against its journey on the morrow. Having got directions from the ostler, he headed in the direction of the adjoining property and reached it after a couple of miles. It was less of a mansion than an overgrown cottage but its half-timbering was well-maintained and the thatch was recent. Stables and outbuildings spread out behind it and it was towards these that Nicholas now spurred his horse.

The man was cleaning the carriage with a rag that he dipped into a bucket of water. Though his back was to the visitor, Nicholas knew him at once. The thick bandage that was wound around his head and down over the top of one eye was further confirmation.

Hearing the approach of hooves, the man turned around with easy curiosity. His smile froze when he saw who it was and he dropped his rag back in the water. Nicholas dismounted, tethered his horse then came across for a confrontation. From his garb and his bearing, it was clear that the man was a coachman.

'I was arrested at your suit, Master Grice.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I did not like my lodging at the Counter.'

'Nor I the cut over my eye,' said Grice warily. 'Besides, you would have been released after a couple of days. The case would have been dropped long before it came to court.'

'That does not salve my wounds.'

He took a step towards Grice who put up his large fists.

'Stay where you are, sir, or you'll feel the weight of my punches again.' He turned to the house to raise the alarm. Master!'

Reaching for the driving seat of the carriage, he then grabbed his long whip and drew back his arm but he was given no chance to demonstrate his skill. As he tried to lash Nicholas, the latter stepped smartly out of the way then dived at Grice, twisting the whip from his hand within seconds. Grice was powerful but he had none of the other's experience in a brawl. Nicholas punched his body hard and ducked the savage blows that came in return. A punch on Grice's chin made the coachman reel. Recovering after a few moments, he flung himself at Nicholas with such force that he would have knocked him flying had the charge succeeded.

But the book holder used the man's lunge against himself. As he came in, Nicholas dodged him, caught hold of his shoulders and pushed him hard against the side of the carriage where Grice's head took the main impact. He buckled at the knees and cursed violently.

'Hold still, Walt! I will take him.'

The other nocturnal assailant came running out of the house, followed by the young man with the signet ring. Nicholas squared up to the newcomer then flashed out a straight left which drew blood from the other's nose. Enraged by the pain, the man flailed and kicked but he was unable to make contact. Another straight left darkened his cheek and a sequence of punches to the body slowed him right down. Mustering his strength for a last effort, the man dashed to the stable, caught hold of a hay rake, then brandished it above his head as he stormed back. Nicholas ducked just in time as the rake scythed through the air. He closed with the man and wrested the implement from him. Grice was now getting up to rejoin the fray and that could not be allowed. Holding his opponent by one arm, Nicholas suddenly swung him around with great force and let go. The hurtling body collided with Grice and both went down groaning.

'That will be enough from you, sir,' said the young man.

Nicholas was now threatened by the point of a rapier.

'Why have you come here?' continued the swordsman.

'To settle a score.'

'Leave us while you still may.'

'No, Master Napier,' said Nicholas. 'That is your name, I believe? You had a familiar look and I remember where I had seen it before. It was upon your sister, Grace. You are her brother, Gregory.'

The young man held him at bay with the sword but it was a very temporary advantage. With dazzling speed, Nicholas stooped to take hold of the bucket and hurl its contents all over the young man. Before the latter could resist, he had the rapier plucked from him and was pressed backwards against the carriage. Nicholas kept the point of the sword against Gregory Napier's heart to discourage either of his servants from coming to his aid. The young man paled.

'Do not kill me, sir! We meant you no harm.'

'You have a peculiar way of showing it.'

'We bore no grudge against you.'

'I know,' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield was your target. You sought to hurt him through me just as you tried to damage the company with your merry devils. You wanted revenge, Master Napier. Why?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'Then I will have to loosen your tongue, sir.'

He lei the sword-point gently explore the other's doublet.

'Have a care, Master Bracewell!'

'You had no care of me when I was thrown into the Counter.

'Please, sir. Be gentle with that sword.'

Nicholas let the rapier slice through the satin doublet.

'Why did you attack Lord Westfield?'

'Do not ask me.'

'I'll have an answer if I have to cut it out of you,' said Nicholas dangerously. 'We have suffered much at your hands, sir. A whole company was terrified because of you. One of our sharers narrowly escaped injury. A stagekeeper lost his life. So do not wave me away.' He split the doublet open again. 'Why did you do all this to Lord Westfield?'

The voice behind him was clear and unashamed.

'Because I made him, Master Bracewell.'

Grace Napier stood in the doorway of the house.

*

It was not an entirely new play. Ralph Willoughby had devised the plot some time earlier and constructed scenes in his mind. When he got the commission from Banbury's Men, therefore, he was not starting from scratch. Rather was he developing and refining a drama which he had carried around inside his head for months. Now that he came to write it, the words flowed freely and he remained at his table for long hours each day, sustained by an inner fire and by the firmness of his purpose. There was no drinking during the period of composition and no debauchery. It obsessed him totally. Appropriately, it was finished on a Sunday. Willoughby had never before worked so quickly or felt so happy with the result of his creative endeavours. As he blotted the last line, he knew that the play was exactly as lie envisaged it. With the crucial help of Doctor John Mordrake, he had given it a texture of authenticity that would beguile spectators. Banbury's Men would appreciate the play's wit and wisdom, its topicality at a time when there was growing witch-mania, and its sheer entertainment value. They would also enjoy his many clever allusions to the part of Oxford-shire from which their noble patron hailed.