A submissive smile covered his face but his mind was wrestling with practical problems. If they risked staging the play again, how could they guarantee the requisite number of devils? Would the intruder deign to return on cue? Could they, indeed, prevent him from doing so?
*
St Benet Grass Church had served its parishioners with unwavering devotion for over four long centuries and in that time it had witnessed all manner of worship, but it had never before encountered anything quite so incongruous as the sight which now presented itself in the chancel. Kneeling at the altar rail was a figure of such showy elegance that he seemed more fitted for a gaming den than for a house of prayer. It was as if he had wandered into the church by mistake and been vanquished by the power of God. A shudder went through his body then he prostrated himself on the cold stone steps, assuming an attitude of extreme penitence so that he could have conference with his Maker.
A mitred bishop in the meanest brothel could not have looked more out of place. The man remained prone for several minutes, a colourful guest in the consecrated shadows, a living embodiment of the sacred and the profane. When he raised his eyes to the crucifix, they were awash with tears of contrition. Racked with guilt and speared with pain, he muttered a stream of prayers under his breath then slowly dragged himself to his feet. He backed down the aisle and genuflected when he reached the door.
Ralph Willoughby went out into bustling Gracechurch Street.
His affability returned at once. In his cheerful progress through the crowd, there was no hint of the malaise which took him to St Benet's, still less of the turbulence he experienced while he was there. His innermost feelings were cloaked once more. Willoughby now gave the impression that he did not have a care in the world.
When he reached the Queen's Head, he went straight to the yard where the stage was being dismantled. Westfield's Men were not due to perform there until the following week and so their temporary playhouse could make way for the ordinary business of the inn. Everybody worked with unwonted alacrity, eager to clear away all trace of The Merry Devils so that they could put behind them the memory of what had happened that afternoon. There was none of the usual idle chat. They went about their task in grim silence.
Nicholas Bracewell came out of a door and crossed the yard. He had laboured long and hard with Marwood and the effort had taken its toll, but it had brought a modicum of success. The landlord had been sufficiently quelled by the book holder's reasoning to hold back from tearing up the contract with Westfield's Men. The players were neither welcome nor expelled from the Queen's Head. Nicholas had won them a period of grace.
Pleased to see Willoughby, he bore down on him.
'A word in your ear, Ralph,' he said.
‘As many as you choose, dear fellow.’
‘Master Firethorn was roused by that third devil of ours.'
'So we were all!'
'His anger glows. Avoid him until it has cooled.'
'Why so, Nick?'
'Be warned. He lays the blame on you.'
'Ah!' sighed the other softly.
'Away, sir!' urged Nicholas. 'He'll be here anon. He stays but for brief converse with Lord Westfield.'
'This is kind advice but I'll stand my ground in spite of it.'
'Fly the place now, Ralph.'
'I'll not turn tail for any man.'
'Master Firethorn will rant and rave unjustly at you.'
'He has good cause.'
'What's that?'
'It was my fault.' Willoughby shook his head and smiled wryly. 'Lay it at my door, Nick. I penned that scene and I summoned that furious devil from Hell.'
'No, not from Hell. His journey was of much shorter length.'
'How say you?'
'It was a creature of flesh and blood, Ralph.'
'But I saw the fiend with my own eyes.'
'Only in a twinkling.' Nicholas pointed to the trestles that were being taken down. 'If that was one of Satan's brood, why did he leave by an open trap whose device had been cut for the purpose?'
'A devil may do as he wishes,' argued Willoughby. 'He could have disappeared down the trap or up the nearest chimney, if fancy had seized him that way. This was no illusion, Nick. It was real and authenticate.'
'I cannot believe that.'
'What other explanation suits the case?'
'T he creature was placed there for our discomfort.'
'By whom, sir?'
'We have rivals, we have enemies.'
'But how came they to have intelligence of our play? This was no random fiend, breaking forth wildly to mar all our doings. This merry devil knew exactly when to appear. No rival could have prompted him.'
It was a valid point and it halted Nicholas in his tracks. Plays were the exclusive property of the companies who staged them and they were jealously guarded during the rehearsal period. Plagiarism was rife and Westfield's Men-it was an article of faith with Firethorn-took especial care to protect their interests while, at the same time, keeping a close eye on the work of their rivals to see if they themselves might filch an occasional idea or steal some occasional thunder. Only one complete copy of The Merry Devils existed and it had been entrusted to the capable hands of Nicholas Bracewell, who kept it under lock and key when not using it as a prompt book.
Nobody outside the company had had a sight of the full text of the play. It was impossible for someone to introduce a third merry devil into the action without prior knowledge of the time, place and manner in which George Dart and Roper Blundell emerged on to the stage.
Ralph Willoughby jabbed a finger to reinforce his argument.
'The devil came forth in answer to my call.'
'If devil it was,' said Nicholas sceptically.
'Of that there can be no doubt.'
'I am not persuaded, Ralph.
'Then I must unfold something to you,' said the other, peering around to make sure that they were not overheard. 'The speeches of Doctor Castrato were not invention. Those incantations were not the product of my wayward brain. I took counsel.'
'From whom?'
'A man well-versed in such matters.'
'A sorcerer?'
'An astrologer of some renown, practised in all the arts of medicine, alchemy and necromancy. Every aspect of demonology is known to him and he instructed me patiently in the subject.'
Nicholas did not need to be told the name. The description could only apply to one person in London, an astrologer of such eminence that his services had been retained by Queen Elizabeth herself and by various members of the royal household. An educated man like Ralph Willoughby would have no dealings with mountebanks who performed their wizardry in back alleys. He would search out the best advice and that would surely come from the celebrated Doctor John Mordrake of Knightrider Street.
'He showed me the charms to use,' said Willoughby. 'He taught me the correct form of words.'
'Did Edmund know of all this?'
'I had no reason to tell him, Nick. It fell to me to write that fatal scene and I wanted a ring of truth in it. I had no notion that I would raise a devil in broad daylight.'
'Were you not warned against it?'
'My mentor assured me that the summons would only work in private, in some cloistered place where darkness was softened by candlelight. Yet here was this fiend of Hell for all to see.'
Ralph Willoughby was no credulous fool who could be tricked by a flash of gunpowder and a flame-red costume. Watching intently from the gallery, he was convinced that he had seen a real devil materialise upon the
