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up to them, the spy grabbed the huge-bellied, white-bearded man who played the lead role, Faustus, and shook him alert.
    ‘What caused this outcry?’ Will demanded in a cold, authoritarian tone.
    In the stage’s lantern light, the make-up that made the player’s features stand out to theupper galleries transformed him into a grotesque – white skin, red lips and cheeks, dark rings around his eyes.
    ‘The devil—’ the player croaked, barely audible above the shouting audience crowding towards the doors.
    With his fist gripping the neck of the costume, Will shook the man roughly once more. ‘No superstition. Keep a clear head. What was seen?’
    A young, smooth-cheeked man stepped forward, his hair tied back ready for the wig that would transform him into the spirit of the beautiful Helen of Troy. ‘I saw it,’ he declared in a clear voice that belied the terror in his eyes. He indicated the magic circle inscribed on the boards, surrounded by anagrams of Jehovah’s names, astrological symbols and ancient sigils. ‘When Faustus completed his incantation to summon the devil Mephistophilis, in the presence of Lucifer, a second devil did appear. But this was no man! He … it! … wore no make-up!’
    Faustus gripped his head, reeling. ‘The devil was summoned here this night to torment us for speaking his name, and making a mockery of his dark majesty!’
    ‘There are devils aplenty in this world to worry me first before I turn my attention to Hob. Now, good lad, which way?’ Will glanced around the empty yard.
    The young player pointed backstage.
    Faustus caught Will’s arm. ‘He will take your soul,’ he said in a tremulous voice.
    ‘If I still have one to give.’ Drawing his rapier, Will jumped back to the mortar floor and slipped along the side of the stage to a small cluttered area with a space for the players to await their cue, heavy with the smells of paint, chalk and make-up. Timber frames, winches, painted scenery, and the artefacts used to make sound effects looked strange and unsettling in the half-light.
    Watching the shadows for signs of movement, Will edged beyond the backstage jumble. He found himself in a walkway leading past the tiring house to a series of small chambers used for storage or recreation, places where the players would game with dice or cards while waiting for their moment on the boards. The backstage area was still. Yet he noticed it was unaccountably colder than the rest of the hot, crowded theatre, and an unpleasant smell hung in the air. Brimstone.
    If this is a trick, it is designed well to tug at our fears , he thought.
    He glanced into the first room on his left. The stub of a single candle guttered on the floor in the far corner, its flickering light revealing row upon row of costumes in emerald and crimson and sapphire, as well-made as the finest court clothes to cope with the wear and tear of multiple performances. A pair of intricately constructed wings of goose feathers hung from the ceiling, like an invisible angel taking flight.
    A whisper rustled somewhere ahead in the gloom of the walkway, the words unclear.
    Will’s breath caught in his throat. With a fluid movement, he stepped into the costume room just as a shadowy presence emerged from a room three doors ahead. He remained still, his breathing measured, the tip of his sword resting on the floor so it made no noise when he moved.
    Soft footsteps came to a halt, and Will pictured whoever was there waiting outside the room. He heard a low growl, like one of the beasts in the Queen’s menagerie.
    From that inhuman sound, Will tried to imagine what stood in the walkway, but nothing came to mind that made any sense to him. The devil , the player had said, gripped with fear of whatever he had witnessed. Will remained calm, despite the pull of age-old superstitions. He had faced many men, and many things, that had been called devils and he had held them all to account.
    The rumbling sound ebbed and flowed. The