His seafaring days had given him something else as well and it came to his aid now. Nicholas had a sixth sense of danger, a tickling sensation that was full of foreboding. Standing in the middle of the stage, he had a strong feeling that someone was watching. He swung round to scan the galleries but they appeared to be empty. The sun was now nuzzling the horizon and dark shadows had invaded the theatre. In the half-light, he searched the place for signs of life but saw none. The manager was still on the premises but he was in his office. Besides, the manager was a business colleague and the presence that Nicholas felt was an alien one.
He was about to dismiss it all as a trick of the imagination when he heard a cackle. Before he could even begin to wonder who made the noise, one of the trap-doors suddenly opened and up popped a flame-red devil. The creature had a malevolent face, a crooked body, twisted limbs, long horns and a pointed tail. It looked like the one who had caused such a fright at the Queens Head. Moving at speed, the devil executed three somersaults then vanished into the tiring-house. Nicholas ran after him but he did not get very far. He heard the sound of the other trap-door and turned back to see that the devil had reappeared. This time the creature cart wheeled off the edge of the stage and was lost in the shadows around the edge of the pit.
Nicholas was both startled and bewildered. He did not know which way to look or search. Forcing himself to make a decision, he ran to the tiring-house to find it quite empty. A search beneath the stage and around the full circumference of the pit also proved fruitless. He was mystified. Had he seen one apparition or two? Was it some random act of malice that had taken place or had the visit been an omen? Did he now know what to expect during the performance next day?
He walked to the front of the stage and rested his elbows upon it as he weighed his thoughts. A creaking sound came from behind him. He turned to look up and see a tall, elegant silhouette in the topmost gallery. The voice was familiar and its tone was fearful.
'Now will you believe that it was a real devil?'
Ralph Willoughby had watched it all.
Margery Firethorn ran her household on firm Christian principles. As a variant on her scolding, she sometimes chastised her servants or her children by making them attend an impromptu prayer meeting. In the rolling cadences of the Book of Common Prayer she found both a fund of reassurance and a useful weapon. For most of the occupants of the house in Shoreditch, the regular visit to the Parish Church of St Leonard's was imposition enough. To have the Church brought into the house was a nightmare.
'Let us pray.'
'That includes you, Martin Yeo.'
'Let us pray.'
'Lower your head, John Tallis.'
'Let us pray.'
'Close your mouth, Stephen Judd.'
'Let us all pray!'
The day began with a profound shock. It was Lawrence Firethorn who instigated and led the prayers. Inclined to be lax in his religious observances-especially where the sixth commandment was concerned-he astonished everyone by reaching for the prayer book before breakfast. Margery reverted to the scolding while her husband handled the service. Around the table were their two children, the four apprentices, Caleb Smythe, who had spent the night there, and the two assistant stagekeepers, George Dart and Roger Blundell, who had been summoned from their lodgings to partake in a ceremony that might have a special bearing on their safety and their souls.
They listened in silence as Firethorn intoned the prayers. Even on such a solemn occasion, he had to give a performance. When he reached the end of an interminable recitation, he signalled their release.
'Amen.'
'Amen' came the collective sigh of relief.
'That should stand us in good stead,' said Firethorn breezily.
'I feel better for that, master,' confessed George Dart.
'It gives me new heart, said Roger Blundell.
'I like not prayers,' muttered Caleb Smythe.
'They were most beautifully read,' said Firethorn pointedly.
'It was not the reading that I mind, sir,' said the other. 'It is the weight they place upon my heart. When I hear prayers, I am undone. They make me think so of death.'
'Oh, heavens!' wailed Dart. 'Death, he cries!'
'What a word to mention on a day like this!' said Blundell.
An argument started but Margery quelled it by serving breakfast. She believed in providing a hearty meal at the start of the day and the others fell ravenously upon it. Eleven heads were soon bent over the table in contentment.
When the meal was over, Firethorn retired to the bedchamber for a few minutes. His wife followed him and accosted him.
'What lies behind this, Lawrence?'
'Behind what, dearest?'
'These unexpected prayers.'
'I was moved by the spirit, Margery.' It has never shifted you one inch before, sir.'
'You wrong me, sweeting,' he said in aggrieved tones. 'I heard a voice from above.'
'It sounded like Nicholas Bracewell to me.'
'Ah…’
'Why did he call here so early this morning?' she pressed. 'It is not like him to come all the way from Bankside on a whim. Did he bring bad tidings?'
'Nothing to trouble your pretty little head about, angel.'
'My head is neither pretty nor little. It contains a brain as big as yours and I would have it treated with respect. Speak out, sir. Do not protect me from the truth.'
He was aghast. 'When have I held back the truth from you?'
'It has been your daily habit these fifteen years.'
'Margery!'
'Honesty has never been your strong suit.'
'I am the most veracious fellow in London.'
'Another lie,' she said levelly. 'Come, sir, and tell me what I need to know. Why did Master Bracewell come here today?'
'On a personal matter, my love.'
'There is another woman involved?'
'That is a most ignoble thought, Margery.'
'You put it into my pretty little head.' She folded her arms and came to a decision. 'The tidings concerned the play. I will come to The Rose myself this afternoon.'
'No, no!' he protested. 'That will not do at all!'
'Why do you keep me away, Lawrence?'
'I do not, my pigeon.'
'Is it because of this other woman?'
'What other woman?'
'You tell me, sir. Their names change so often.'
Firethorn knew that he would never shake her off when she was in that mood and so he compromised. He gave her a highly edited version of what Nicholas Bracewell had told him and since the book holder's report had itself been softened-no mention of Willoughby-she got only a diluted account. When she heard about the devils shooting up from trap-doors, she crossed herself in fear.
'They may not be real fiends, Margery.'
'They sound so to me.'
'Nicholas believes otherwise and he is a shrewd judge.'
'What of you, Lawrence?'
He shrugged. 'I only half-believe they came from Hell.'
