The Counterfeit Crank Read online

  ‘Is there any word of Edmund?’ she wondered.

  ‘Nick and Owen called on him earlier. They found him so tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Yet he’s no longer in pain. That’s one good sign.’

  ‘I’ll visit him myself, when I have the time.’

  ‘Please do,’ he said. ‘I worry about him greatly. Edmund has never been robust yet he always manages to keep disease at bay somehow. I’ve never known him this unwell before.’

  ‘When is he like to recover?’

  ‘The doctor can give us no hope there, it seems. He is talking of a long rest.’

  Margery was alarmed. ‘How will you manage without Edmund Hoode?’

  ‘I’m not sure that we will. There could be dark days ahead. All the more reason to make the most of present joys,’ he decided, pulling her close to kiss her on the lips again. ‘Come here, my fallen angel.’

  She giggled. ‘Your beard tickles me so.’

  ‘Is that a complaint, my dove?’

  ‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘I adore the feeling.’

  ‘Then you shall have as much adoration as you wish.’

  And with an upsurge of lust, he mounted her again and rode his wife with renewed energy until the bed threatened to collapse beneath the weight of their exertions.

  They both slept soundly that night.

  Adam Crowmere was as good as his word. On his first Sunday as landlord of the Queen’s Head, he set aside a private room at the inn for Westfield’s Men, and filled it with as much food, ale and wine as they could reasonably consume. The company’s sharers were there and even the hired men were bidden to the feast. The one notable absentee was Edmund Hoode, who, though showing a slight improvement, was still too poorly to attend a public event. With great regret, he had declined the kind offer from his friends to carry him to the feast.

  Unlike the companies who played at the two Shoreditch theatres, or at The Rose in Bankside, Lawrence Firethorn and his troupe were subject to city jurisdiction and thus unable to perform on the Sabbath. While their rivals drew large audiences to their plays, therefore, they were forced to lay idle and it always vexed them. This Sunday, it was quite different. Jollity was on display. From midday until mid-afternoon, they were the guests of Adam Crowmere and he did his best to make them feel at home.

  ‘Eat and drink to your heart’s content, my friends,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘Are we like to have this every Sunday?’ asked Owen Elias, hopefully.

  Crowmere chortled. ‘Not unless you wish to see me imprisoned for debt, Owen. No, this is my way of thanking you for all the pleasure you have given me, and for the money you’ve put into my coffers by attracting such thirsty customers to the Queen’s Head. My first day here was a revelation. We had such a busy time after Caesar’s Fall that I had to order fresh barrels from the brewery.’

  ‘You’ll need to order some more before we’ve finished this afternoon.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Crowmere, happily. ‘I’ll not stint my friends.’

  He sauntered around the room to exchange remarks with each and every one of them. Nicholas Bracewell watched him, amazed at the way that he had learnt so many of their names in so short a time. Crowmere was a popular host, able to lapse into easy familiarity with his various guests while somehow retaining the authority of his position as landlord. What convinced Nicholas of the man’s excellence was the effect he had had on his staff. Serving men, who had scurried about in fear of their master when Alexander Marwood was in charge, now moved with the brisk eagerness of people who were happy in their work. Adam Crowmere had created a joyous atmosphere at the Queen’s Head.

  ‘What do you play tomorrow, Lawrence?’ he enquired of the actor-manager.

  ‘Love’s Sacrifice,’ said Firethorn.

  Crowmere grinned. ‘We’ve all made that in our time.’

  ‘And hope to do so again, Adam.’

  ‘They say that desire fades with age.’

  ‘I’ve not found it so. It seems to increase with each year that passes.’

  ‘Then you are even more remarkable than I imagined,’ said Crowmere, giving him a playful nudge. ‘You can count on one spectator for Love’s Sacrifice.’

  Firethorn was astonished. ‘But you’ve already seen three plays of ours.’

  ‘I mean to see several more before I’ve done. What is the point of taking over the Queen’s Head if I do not avail myself of its prime benefit? I’ll turn spectator again and be seated in the gallery tomorrow.’

  ‘We never got that death’s head of a landlord to sit through a single play.’

  ‘Alexander was blind to the delights of theatre.’

  ‘Delight never entered his being,’ said Firethorn with rancour. ‘Nor that of the gorgon to whom he was married. How could two hideous creatures like them produce such a lovely daughter as Rose Marwood? It’s unnatural.’

  ‘It is surprising, I agree,’ said Crowmere. ‘Sybil is my cousin and I must love her for that, but she was never known for her good looks. Wedded bliss can put a bloom on the most ill-favoured woman. Alas, that is not the case with her. Marriage to Alexander has only served to harden my dear cousin.’

  ‘The woman is pure flint from top till toe.’

  ‘Make the most of her absence, Lawrence. One day, I fear, Sybil will return.’

  ‘Is there no way that you could take over the inn?’

  ‘Not unless they were willing to surrender it,’ said Crowmere, wistfully, ‘and that is unlikely to happen. When they return, I go back to Rochester. Meanwhile, however, I intend to make hay while the sun shines.’

  ‘Then so shall we, Adam!’

  Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then reached for his wine. The landlord moved on to talk to Barnaby Gill, plying him with flattering remarks about his various performances. Gill basked in the praise. Nicholas was pleased when the landlord finally reached him and he stood up to speak to Crowmere.

  ‘You have done us proud, Adam,’ he observed.

  ‘It was the least that I could do, Nick. Westfield’s Men have graced this inn for too long without being given their due reward.’ He looked around. ‘It does me good to see you all in such good humour. The pity of it is that your esteemed patron could not be here to taste my pork and sip my wine.’

  ‘Lord Westfield sends his apologies,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he is dining in the country with friends today. He hopes to trespass on your generosity another time.’

  ‘Then so he shall.’

  ‘We are truly in your debt, Adam. See how everyone is enjoying themselves.’

  ‘All bar the spectre at the feast.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our budding author, dressed in black.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Nicholas, glancing across the room. ‘In such a gathering as this, Michael is a fish out of water. He has my sympathy.’

  Bent over the table, Michael Grammaticus was nibbling at a chicken leg without any real appetite. A tankard of ale remained untouched in front of him. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were delighting in the convivial atmosphere, the playwright was finding it a positive trial. He was not helped by the fact that George Dart, the lowliest and least educated member of the company, was seated opposite him. Nobody in the room was more willing or more desperate to be liked than Dart, and he made several attempts to strike up a conversation with Grammaticus. They failed dismally. In his sober garb, the playwright chose to remain aloof and eat in grim silence.

  ‘What’s wrong with the fellow?’ wondered Crowmere. ‘If he did not relish the notion of a feast, why force himself to join us here?’

  ‘Because he wishes to be one of us,’ said Nicholas, thoughtfully. ‘He’ll never mix as easily with the players as you contrive to do, Adam, but that does not matter. In one sense, Michael may be suffering. That’s plain for all to see. In another sense, I fancy, he may be taking a quiet satisfaction from the occasion.’

  Crowmere gaped. ‘Satisfaction! It’s not the kind of satisfact
ion for which I yearn, Nick. Give me banter and merriment. Give me something that sets my blood on fire.’

  ‘Michael has another source of pleasure. I think. But let us leave him to his own devices,’ he went on, recalling his encounter with the two beggars. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to raise with you. You spoke of needing fresh hands to help you here.’

  ‘Why, yes. If trade increases the way that I hope, serving men, cooks and kitchen wenches will be in demand. Aye,’ he continued, ‘and a chambermaid or two as well. I mean to offer more rooms to weary travellers. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I may be able to guide two people in your direction.’

  ‘Men or women?’

  ‘One of each, both sound in wind and limb.’

  ‘Seasoned in the work of a busy inn?’

  ‘I’ll not claim that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but they are quick to learn and ready to work every hour of the day. Might there be a place for them here, do you think?’

  ‘If they come on your recommendation, there’s every chance.’

  ‘With luck, they may soon cross your threshold.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Hywel Rees and Dorothea Tate. Young, fit and able.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Nicholas was honest. ‘Now, that is one thing that I’m unable to tell you.’

  They eventually found a place not far from St Paul’s. Those who streamed out of the cathedral precincts on that side had to pass the spot. Hywel Rees bided his time until he saw three men approaching in clerical attire. If he could not find compassion in the Church, he decided, he would find it nowhere. When the trio was almost upon him, Hywel let out a cry and hurled himself to the ground before twitching convulsively. It was a piteous sight. Dorothea knelt to hold him in her arms and looked up with desperation in her gaze. She did not even need to speak. Most of the people in the small crowd that formed around them tried to assuage their consciences by offering charity. Coins fell quickly in Dorothea’s hands.

  After thanking their benefactors, she helped Hywel to his feet and supported him as they moved to the shelter of an alleyway. Once out of sight, they embraced happily. In a matter of minutes, they had made enough money to last them for days.

  ‘I’ll be a true counterfeit crank yet,’ boasted Hywel.

  Dorothea smiled. ‘Do not forget my part in the deceit.’

  ‘Without you, I’d be lost. Together, we can do anything.’

  ‘That Welshman helped us,’ she reminded him. ‘Owen Elias told us that we had to pick the right place. We could not have chosen more wisely.’

  ‘Yes, you could!’ snarled a voice behind them. ‘Give me that money.’

  They turned to see a burly man, standing over them with a cudgel in his hand. Like Hywel, he was dressed in rags that were sodden with mud and spattered with blood.

  ‘I work here,’ warned the man. ‘Hand over what you stole from me.’

  Hywel squared up to him. ‘We stole nothing,’ he said, defiantly.

  The blow from the cudgel was so quick and hard that he had no time to avoid it. Catching him on the temple, it sent Hywel to the ground with blood oozing from the wound. He was too dazed even to speak. Letting out a cry, Dorothea knelt to help her wounded friend, but the man had no respect for the fairer sex. It took only a sharp flick with the cudgel to knock her out. As her hand opened, the coins were scattered on the ground. Their attacker collected them in a flash before he fled down the alleyway.

  Chapter Three

  Breakfast was always eaten early at Anne Hendrik’s house in Bankside. Ever since the death of her Dutch husband, Anne, an attractive Englishwoman who had kept her good looks into her thirties, had taken over the running of his business in the adjoining property. Though she knew little about the making of hats when she first married, she turned out to have a natural talent for design and, when she was put in charge of the enterprise, Anne revealed herself as a person with administrative skills as well. Like many immigrants from abroad – so often reviled as ‘strangers’ – her husband had been refused admittance to the appropriate guild and was therefore compelled to work outside the city boundaries. Thanks to his application, the business slowly developed. Under the care of his widow, it had really prospered.

  As she sat down for breakfast that morning, she glanced through the window.

  ‘We are blessed with another fine day, Nick,’ she said.

  ‘Except for some rain later this morning.’

  ‘But there’s not a cloud to be seen.’

  ‘There will be,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Mark my words. We’ll have a light shower towards noon, then it will be sunshine for the rest of the day.’

  Anne did not dispute his prediction. Ever since he had come to lodge with her, she, like Westfield’s Men, had benefited from his ability to read the skies. It was only one of the talents that made him such a remarkable and wholly reliable man. Having rented out a room because she felt the need for companionship, Anne had been slowly drawn to Nicholas Bracewell and she soon discovered that the affection was mutual. By the time it had matured into love, they were sharing more than breakfast.

  ‘What do you play this afternoon, Nick?’ she asked.

  ‘Caesar’s Fall.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘The public demands it, Anne.’

  ‘That must be music to your ears.’

  ‘It is,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s always an element of danger when we stage a new play, for so many things can go awry. In this case – thank heaven – they did not.’

  ‘Except that you lost poor Edmund,’ she noted.

  ‘That was not the fault of the play or the playwright.’

  ‘No, but it must have hindered you.’

  ‘Oh, it did. We had to make hurried changes at the eleventh hour.’

  ‘Are you still worried about Edmund?’

  ‘Very much so,’ he confessed, reaching for some bread. ‘It’s almost a week now and he is still not back on his feet. Edmund tells me that he feels better, but there are no clear signs of it. His landlady says that he sleeps half the day. That alarms me, Anne.’

  ‘Have you spoken with the doctor?’

  ‘I expect to do so today. Doctor Zander is due to call on him again.’

  Anne sipped her cup of whey. ‘I can see why you fret so,’ she said. ‘Edmund is more than a fine playwright and a good actor. He’s your dear friend.’

  ‘I love him like a brother, Anne. To see him in this woeful condition stabs me in the heart. His illness could not have come at a worse time,’ he said, soulfully. ‘We have a large stock of plays – many by Edmund Hoode – but novelty is always in request or our work grows stale. It’s the reason that Edmund has laboured so hard on his latest comedy. It was promised to us by the end of the month.’

  ‘Is there no chance that he may complete it in time?’

  ‘None at all. He can barely raise his head, leave alone lift a pen to write a play. That’s the worst of it, Anne,’ he went on, eyes filled with disquiet. ‘Edmund tells me that he can no longer think straight. His brain is addled. Do you see what that portends?’

  She gave a nod. ‘It could be a disease of the mind.’

  ‘And we may have lost that wonderful imagination forever.’

  ‘That’s a frightening notion. Who could replace a man like Edmund Hoode?’

  ‘No such person exists, Anne.’

  An idea struck her. ‘I have a customer who dwells not far from his lodging,’ she said. ‘Preben has all but finished work on the lady’s hat. When we deliver it to her, I could call in to see Edmund. Do you think that he would welcome a visitor?’

  ‘As many as he can get,’ said Nicholas, ‘so that he knows how much we care for him. Owen and I have been there every day. Lawrence, too, has been regular in his visits and Margery has promised to go as well.’

  ‘What of Barnaby?’

  ‘He sends his best wishes but refuses to enter the house himself.’

  ‘
Why? Does he fear infection?’

  ‘There’s no danger of that or we’d all be struck down. No, Anne, he says that he hates to look on sickness for it distresses him so.’ Nicholas swallowed another piece of bread and washed it down with a sip of his drink. ‘Barnaby Gill is too selfish a man to spare much thought for others.’

  ‘Does he not remember all the roles that Edmund has created for him?’

  ‘He sees them as no more than so many new suits, commissioned from his tailor. Barnaby is such a slave to outward show,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yet he’ll miss Edmund as much as any of us, if indeed we’ve seen the last of him.’

  Anne was disturbed. ‘You make him sound as if he’s close to death.’

  ‘As a playwright, I fear, he may well be. This malady has crippled him in every way. If his mind is crumbling, then his art has truly expired.’

  Chastened by the grim thought, they finished their breakfast in silence.

  After a farewell kiss, Nicholas soon set out on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. There was much to occupy his mind but he did not let himself become distracted. Even in daylight, Bankside was a hazardous place, its narrow streets and twisting lanes haunted by pickpockets, drunkards, beggars, discharged soldiers and masterless men. Nicholas’s sturdy frame and brisk movement deterred most people from even considering an attack but he had been accosted by thieves on more than one occasion. All of them had been repelled. When he heard heavy footsteps behind him, therefore, he was instinctively on guard. Someone was making an effort to catch him up. Sensing trouble, Nicholas went around a corner and stopped, hand on his dagger in case an assailant came into view.

  His caution was unnecessary. The person who followed him around the corner was, in fact, a friend and colleague. Nathan Curtis, the troupe’s carpenter, was striding along with his bag of tools slung from his shoulder. He grinned at Nicholas.

  ‘I thought I’d never catch you,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘You walk so fast.’