The Merry Devils

Firethorn pounded on the timber with his foot but there was no answering flash of devilry. The creature had gone back to the place from which he came. Given time to recover his wits. Barnaby Gill came across to support his fellow in an extempore duologue, in the course of which it was decided to summon the devils again. Music played and Doctor Castrato went into his macabre ritual, dispensing with the circle of mystic objects which had been scattered far and wide. The audience watched with bated breath.

High drama was taking place in the tiring-house where the merry devils were refusing to go back on stage again. George Dan was still shuddering and Roper Blundell speechless with agitation. Gentle persuasion from the book holder was having no effect and so he adopted a more forthright method. As the incantations reached their height and the devils were called forth, they were more or less propelled out from behind the curtains by the strong hands of Nicholas Bracewell. No sprightly jig this time, only abject fear as they fell to their knees and prayed that their devilish companion would not return again.

Stepping between them, Firethorn gave each a squeeze of encouragement on the shoulder, then fed them lines as solicitously as a mother spooning medicine into the mouth of a sick child. Very slowly, they were coaxed back into their roles and the play resumed its former course. Other players ventured out with trepidation but Edmund Hoode came on with uncharacteristic assertiveness and threw himself into the fight to salvage his work. He would not let a supernatural accident--if that was what it was--come between him and his dearest hope. Too much was at stake.

The Merry Devils gradually revived. Wit sparkled, skul-duggery thickened, drama heightened. By the end of the last act, the spectators were so absorbed in the action once more that they heaved a collective sigh of disappointment when it was all over. A sustained ovation was accorded to Westfield's Men. Standing before his company to give a series of elaborate bows, Lawrence Firethorn kept a wary eye on the fatal trap-door. He was not ready to relinquish one second of his precious applause to another eruption from the nether-world.

Ralph Willoughby joined in the acclamation but his mind was in a turmoil. He had written the scene in which the devils were raised up and had discussed with Nicholas Bracewell the special effects required. They had devised everything around two devils. If a third came uninvited, then it was a dire warning, a punishment inflicted on them for dabbling in the black arts. It was highly disturbing. Still outwardly debonair, Willoughby was plunged into profound spiritual torment.

As he made his way towards the exit, the playwright walked straight into the bustling figure of Isaac Pollard who was pushing his way down the stairs. Two worlds came face to face.

'Out of my way, sir!' said Pollard.

'By your leave.'

'I must quit this house of idolatry!'

'You did not like the comedy, sir?' It was a profanation of the worst kind.'

'Why, then, this rapturous applause?' said Willoughby.

An audience of heathens!'

I think you do not love the playhouse.'

'It is the creation of the Devil!' affirmed Pollard. 'I will not rest until every such place in London is burned to the ground!'

With a final snarl of disgust, he unfurled his bristling eyebrow and took his Christian conscience hurriedly down the stairs.

He was a man with a mission.

*

Hysteria enveloped the whole company. The effort of getting through the performance had concentrated their minds but there was a general collapse now that it was all over. Fear held sway over the tiring-house. Almost everyone was convinced that a real devil had been summoned up, and those who had not actually witnessed the creature now claimed to have been party to other manifestations.

'I felt a fierce heat shoot up through my body.'

'And I an icy cold that froze my entrails.'

'The ground did shake wondrously beneath my feet.'

'I heard the strangest cry.'

'My eyes were dazzled by a blinding light.'

'I saw a vision of damnation.'

'The devil called me privily by my name.'

It all served to stoke up the communal delirium.

George Dart and Roper Blundell could not tear off their costumes fast enough, Richard Honeydew wept copiously for his mother, Barnaby Gill needed a restorative cup of brandy, Caleb Smythe pulled out a dagger to protect himself, Martin Yeo hid in a basket, Ned Rankin beat himself on the chest with clenched Fists and Thomas Skillen, the ancient stagekeeper, who had long since strayed from the straight and narrow, and who had not entered a church for over a decade, now fell meekly to his knees and gabbled his way through the only psalm that he could remember.

Nicholas Bracewell stood apart and viewed it all with calm objectivity. He had caught only the merest glimpse of the third devil and it was a startling experience, but he was still keeping an open mind. Actors were superstitious by nature and the incident touched off their primal anxieties, convincing them that they were marked by Satan for an early demise. The book holder knew that lie had to keep a cool head so that he could search for an explanation of the phenomenon.

Lawrence Firethorn came over to lean on him for support.

'May I never see such a horrid sight again!' he said.

'You were equal to it, master.'

'Someone had to confront the creature, Nick. The foulest fiend will not fright me from my calling. A true actor never deserts his place upon the stage.'

'You were at the height of your powers.'

'I surpassed myself,' said Firethorn bluntly then he slipped a conspiratorial arm around the other's shoulder. 'There is much matter here, Nick, and we must debate it to the full at another time. For the nonce, duty beckons.'

'I know,' said Nicholas with a rueful smile.

'Master Marwood must be answered.'

'It will be a labour of Hercules.'

'That's why I assign it to you, dear heart,' said the actor with evident affection. 'Your silver tongue and my golden talent hold Westfield's Men together. We are the prop and mainstay of this company.'

'Shall you speak with mine host as well?'

'Heaven forbid! I could knock the wretch to the ground as soon as look at him. Keep that mouldy visage away from me! But he must be satisfied. This over-merry devil will drive us from the Queen's Head else.'

'What will I say to Master Marwood?'

'That which will keep our contract alive.'

'He will tax me about this afternoon's business.'

'Tell him it was all part of the play,' suggested Firethorn. 'And if that tale falls on stony ground, swear that it was a jest played on us by Banbury's Men, who furnished us with one more devil than our drama required.'

'That may yet turn out to be the truth,' said Nicholas.

'Villainy from our rivals?'