Edward Marston - The Merry Devils

London was the capital city of noise, a vibrant, volatile place, surging with life and clamorous with purpose. Whips cracked, horses neighed, harness jingled, carts rattled, coaches thundered, pots clinked, canvas flapped, hammers pounded, lathes sang, hells tolled, dogs yelped, poultry clucked, cows lowed, pigs squealed and thousands of urgent voices swelled the tumult of the working day. The whole community was in a state of happy uproar. It was morning.

Nicholas Bracewell shouldered his way through the crowd in Gracechurch Street, ducking beneath frequent obstacles and moving past haphazard ranks of market stalls that were bold, colourful and aromatic, competing loudly with each other for the attention of the swirling mass. Tall, well-groomed and dressed in buff jerkin and hose, Nicholas was at once imposing and nondescript, a striking figure who courted the anonymity of the throng. The weathered face was framed by long fair hair and a beard. The clear blue eyes missed nothing. He combined the physique of a wrestler with the bearing of a gentleman.

As a stout housewife waddled out of a shop and bumped straight into him, he doffed his cap and gave her a polite smile of apology, making light of the fact that she had caused the collision. By your leave, mistress.

His soft West Country tones were drowned by the strident Cockney vowels all around him but his courteous manner conveyed his meaning. Unaccustomed to such civility, the woman nodded her gratitude before being jostled by cruder elbows and rougher tongues. Nicholas plunged on and made steady progress through the sea of bodies. Ahead of him was the familiar outline of St Benet Grass Church, which had given the street its name, and his gaze dwelt for a moment on its thrusting spire. Then he passed beneath the sign of the Queen's Head and swung in through its main gates.

Someone was waiting to ambush him in the yard.

'Thank heavens you have come, Master Bracewell!'

'How now, Master Marwood?'

'All may yet be saved!'

'Saved?'

'God willing!'

'What ails you, sir?' 'I am sore afraid, Master Bracewell.'

'Of what, pray?'

'Certain disaster!'

Alexander Marwood had a close acquaintance with certain disaster. In his febrile imagination, it lurked everywhere and his assiduous pessimism obliged him to rush towards it in willing surrender. Short, thin and balding, the landlord of the Queen's Head was a haunted man with a nervous twitch that animated his gloomy features. It was a face more fit for a charnel house than a taproom and he had none of the geniality associated with his calling.

Nicholas sighed inwardly. He knew what was coming.

'We are in great danger!' wailed the landlord. 'From what source, Master Marwood?'

'Your play, sir.'

'The Merry Devils!'

'It is an abomination.'

'You do the piece a wrong.'

'An act of blasphemy.'

'It is wholly free from such a taint.'

'The play will offend the City authorities.'

'All plays offend them, Master Marwood,' said Nicholas. 'We have learned to live and work in the shadow of their displeasure.'

'Your devilry will provoke the church.'

'I think not, sir.'

'You will bring the wrath of God down upon us!'

Nicholas put a soothing hand on his shoulder. He found himself in a situation that was all too common. Marwood's capacity for sudden panic was boundless and it created stern problems for those who relied on the goodwill or mine host. Nicholas was the book holder with Lord Westfield's Men, one of the leading dramatic companies, and his primary function was to stage manage their performances. Another crucial task which had fallen to him was that of mollifying the landlord during his periodic fits of terror. Westfield's Men used the yard of the Queen's Head as their regular venue so Alexander Marwood had perforce to be humoured.

'The Merry Devils is a harmless comedy,' Nicholas told him. 'It is written by two God-fearing gentlemen and will not raise the slightest blush on the cheeks of Christianity.' He patted the other's back. 'Take heart, Master Marwood. There is no danger here.'

'I have to look to my livelihood, sir.'

'We respect that.'

'I would not fall foul of the authorities.'

'Nor shall you, believe me.'

'Your play will put the Queen's Head in jeopardy.'

'That would hardly serve our turn.'

'I have heard,' said Marwood, eyes bulging and twitch working away, 'the most dread reports.'

'Idle rumours, sir. Ignore them.'

'They say that you bring Satan himself upon the stage.'

'Then they mislead you cruelly.'

'I hey say you show all manner of Vice.'

'Virtue is our constant theme.'

'They say' The landlord's voice became an outraged hiss to accommodate the full horror of his final charge. 'They say that you-raise up devils!

'Indeed, we do not,' said Nicholas reassuringly. 'We merely summon George Dart and Roper Blundell.'

'Who, sir?'"

'Two poor, innocent wights who could not frighten a fly between them. These are no real devils, Master Marwood. They are hirelings with the company. Two small lads who are fitted for the parts by their very smallness. Hugh Wegges, our fireman, has costumed them in red with pointed tails and tiny horns, but it is all in jest.' He gave a wry chuckle. 'Our merry devils will cause more merriment than devilry. And, as they hope to go to heaven, George Dart and Roper Blundell will tell you the same.'

Marwood was not appeased. When he sniffed catastrophe-and it was brought in on every wind that blew-he was not easily put off the scent. To assuage him further, Nicholas patiently explained the whole plot then ushered him across to the rectangle of trestles which jutted out into the yard from one wall and which formed the stage on which Westfield's Men would perform their new piece. He indicated the two trap-doors through which the devils would make their appearance and even divulged the secret of how each of them would make such an explosive entry. The landlord was given fresh matter for alarm.

'Gunpowder, sir! Look to my thatch!'

'Everything needful will be done.'

'Fire could destroy me!' That is why we will take the utmost care.'

'I am deeply troubled, Master Bracewell,' whined the other. 'My feeling is that you should cancel the play.'

'At this late hour?'

'It bodes ill, sir. It bodes ill.'

The twitch went on a lightning tour of his face and his eyes enlarged to the size and colour of ripe plums. Nicholas wooed him again, reminding him of the long and fruitful relationship that existed between Westfield's Men and the Queen's Head and pointing out that The Merry Devils-like every other new play-had had to be submitted to the Master of the Revels before it was granted a licence. Sir Edmund Tilney had given his approval without censoring a single line. Evidently, he did not consider the piece to be in any way blasphemous. When the morose landlord still protested, Nicholas invited him to watch the morning's rehearsal so that he could judge for himself but Marwood declined the offer. He preferred to feed off rumour and instinct, both of which advised him to stop the performance.

'And offer such an insult to Lord Westfield?' said Nicholas. 'Lord Westfield?'

'Our patron will grace your inn with his presence today.'

'Ah'

'Bringing with him, in his entourage, several other members of the nobility. Can the Queen's Head afford to turn away such custom, sir? Am I to tell Lord Westfield that you refuse him hospitality?'