The Counterfeit Crank Page 7

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘What sins?’ she snorted. ‘I’ve never met a less sinful man than you. I’ve always held that you are too good for this world. If virtue brought any reward, you would be the healthiest man in London.’

  ‘I feel as if I am the sickest.’

  ‘Looks do not lie. When we buried him last month, my uncle was in far better condition than you. It is almost as if you are wasting away before my eyes. Yet Lawrence told me you were improving.’

  ‘Slowly,’ said Hoode. ‘Very slowly.’

  ‘Too slow for my liking. Are you in any kind of pain?’

  ‘No, Margery.’

  ‘Can you pass water? Empty your bowels?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  She felt his forehead. ‘There’s no fever,’ she pronounced. ‘That is good but your head is as cold as stone, Edmund, and you lack any colour. Are you able to sleep?’

  ‘I can do little else,’ he wailed. ‘That’s what vexes me. I am as weak as a kitten.’

  ‘Kittens are playful. You have no spark of life in you.’

  ‘Doctor Zander is sure that I will recover in time.’

  ‘Lawrence tells me that the doctor does not even know what is wrong with you.’

  ‘He cannot put a name to the malady, it is true,’ admitted Hoode, ‘but he brought a colleague with him yesterday, a Doctor Rime, older and more learned. He has seen the disease before and commended a herbal remedy. I started on it this morning.’

  ‘It has made no visible difference,’ she observed.

  ‘I feel better, Margery, that’s the main thing. The fog has cleared slightly.’

  ‘Fog? What are you talking about? The sun is shining brightly today.’

  ‘Not inside my head,’ he explained. ‘My mind has been shrouded in mist for days. I could neither reason nor remember. I feared I would sink into idiocy.’

  ‘Perish the thought! Your imagination is your greatest asset.’

  ‘Until today, that imagination had deserted me, Margery.’

  ‘No wonder you were afraid,’ she said, perching on the edge of the bed and taking his hand between her palms. ‘You poor thing! It must have been an agony for you. What can I do to comfort you, Edmund? Shall I fetch food or water?’

  ‘Neither, neither. Your presence is a comfort in itself.’

  Hoode had finally come round to the view that she was, after all, welcome. Margery Firethorn was a formidable woman when roused and he had always taken great care not to provoke her scorn or anger. As a result, they had become firm friends. In one sense, her forthrightness was a blessing. She was a clear mirror in which he could view himself. Others, out of sympathy, pretended to notice signs of progress that were not really there. Through Margery’s keen eyes, he saw himself as he really was.

  For her part, compassion was now oozing out of Margery. She gazed down at him as if he were one of her own children, fighting a mysterious illness and needing a mother’s love and support. Hoode felt cared for and reassured.

  ‘Is your landlady looking after you?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well. She and her daughter have been angels of mercy.’

  ‘They’ll answer to me if they let you down, Edmund.’

  ‘It’s I who have let them down,’ he confessed, sadly. ‘All that my rent buys me is the use of this lodging yet they have treated me like one of the family. Their tenderness has been a solace to me. I said as much to Adele when she brought my breakfast.’

  ‘Adele? Is that the daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think she would be a solace to any man,’ said Margery with a grin. ‘I begin to see why Lawrence has been such a regular caller here. He comes to feast his eyes on her as well as to see you. Adele is a girl of rare beauty. If she does not make your heart lift up, then you are truly stricken.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know!’

  ‘Apart from my husband, who else has been to see you?’

  ‘Nick Bracewell, of course. He comes every day. Owen Elias, too. And most of the other sharers have looked in at some time. The only one to avoid me is Barnaby.’

  ‘Would he desert you in your hour of need?’

  ‘He has always been squeamish about disease.’

  ‘Squeamish or selfish?’ she asked, sharply. ‘Barnaby is inclined to be both. He ought to be here out of simple friendship, if nothing else. I’ll tax him about it.’

  ‘No, no,’ he pleaded. ‘Let him be. I have visitors enough without him. He is likely to bring more reproach than sympathy, and I would rather avoid that.’

  ‘What on earth could he reproach you for, Edmund?’

  ‘Being unable to finish a play that I was contracted to write.’

  ‘Illness delays you. That is not your fault.’

  ‘Barnaby would make me feel that it was. He has badgered me for a new comedy and, when I am on the point of completing it, I am struck down. He feels robbed.’

  ‘I’ll rob him of something else if he dares to chide you,’ vowed Margery, ‘and his voice will be much higher as a result. I think it barbarous that he ignores you when you have taken to your sick bed. Has he no Christian charity?’

  ‘Barnaby is a law unto himself.’

  ‘I think his treatment of you is shameful, and I’ll say so to his face. As for this new comedy,’ she went on, ‘it can surely wait. Lawrence says that they look for another in its stead. Michael Grammaticus is writing a second play.’

  ‘Nick told me as much,’ said Hoode, ‘and I was heartened by the news. If we have something new to offer, I’ll not feel that I have failed the company.’

  ‘You could never do that, Edmund.’

  ‘I pray that Michael can come to our rescue.’

  ‘Oh, what a sweet creature you are!’ she said, bending forward to kiss him on the head. ‘Most authors are green with envy when they hear of the success of others, yet you seek to help your rivals.’

  ‘Michael is no rival. He is a burgeoning playwright. It’s my bounden duty to nurture his talent so that Westfield’s Men can benefit. Caesar’s Fall, as I hear, carried all before it.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Is it possible that Michael Grammaticus can write something as accomplished as that again?’

  Nicholas Bracewell could see the transformation that success had wrought in him. On the eve of its performance, Michael Grammaticus was as taut as a lute string, fearing that the play was inadequate or that it would somehow founder before an audience. The applause that had greeted Caesar’s Fall had put a deep satisfaction in his eyes. He had passed a crucial test and the relief was immense. Although he was still not at ease with most of the company, he somehow felt that he was at last part of them. Nicholas did his best to encourage that feeling.

  ‘Come whenever you wish, Michael,’ he said. ‘We are always pleased to see you at the Queen’s Head. You have earned the right to rub shoulders with Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Thank you, Nick. I regard it as an honour.’

  ‘Then you are a rare author indeed.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Others who live by the pen often believe that it is the actors who should honour them. They demand respect. Some even want veneration.’

  ‘Vanity is nought but weakness of character,’ said Grammaticus.

  Nicholas chuckled. ‘Do not let Lawrence Firethorn hear you say that,’ he advised. ‘Or Barnaby Gill, for that matter. Their vanity is a real source of strength.’

  ‘Long may it flourish!’

  They were sitting alone at a table in a corner of the taproom. It was early evening and some of the actors, having celebrated the afternoon performance of Marriage and Mischief with a tankard of ale, had drifted off. Nicholas was pleased to note that Nathan Curtis and Hugh Wegges were among those who had left, chastened men returning to their families, deeply grateful to the book holder for helping them to discharge their debts by paying them their wages in advance. Michael Grammaticus, by contrast, was patently not a family man, nor did he have any interest in becoming one. T
here was an aura of loneliness about him that made Nicholas feel sorry for the playwright.

  ‘When can we see this new play of yours, Michael?’ he asked.

  ‘I am not sure that it is ready for performance yet.’

  ‘Let us be the judges of that. Is it finished?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Grammaticus, squinting at him. ‘Strictly speaking, it is not a new play. I worked on it for months before setting it aside to write Caesar’s Fall. When I went back to it, I was able to improve it out of all recognition.’

  ‘I like the sound of that. What is its title?’

  ‘The Siege of Troy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nicholas. ‘You are deserting Rome for ancient Greece.’

  ‘Both are rich with possibilities for an author,’ said Grammaticus with a flash of enthusiasm. ‘It is of a different order to Caesar’s Fall. It is as much about the tragedy of Troy itself as about the suffering of individuals. And it has much more comedy in it.’

  ‘That will appeal to Barnaby.’

  ‘The part of the clown was written with him in mind. The role of Ulysses is the one that I tailored to meet Lawrence Firethorn’s talents. I hope that he will be tempted.’

  ‘Show us the play and we will find out.’

  ‘Let me complete the Epilogue first. I have struggled with it for days.’

  ‘Struggle on while we read the rest,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘An epilogue is only an afterthought to the drama itself. Give us the five acts already written and it will be plenty on which to base a decision. Come, Michael,’ he said, seeing the hesitation in the other man’s face. ‘Do you not wish us to present another of your plays?’

  ‘Yes, yes. But only when it is worthy of the stage.’

  ‘How can we know, if you will not let us see the piece?’

  Grammaticus seemed to be wrestling with some inner demon. Desperate for more success, he had doubts about the quality of the other play and did not wish to lose the good opinion of Nicholas and the others by offering them an inferior work. At the same time, he could not let such an opportunity pass. Westfield’s Men were soliciting him.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘You may read The Siege of Troy.’

  ‘I’ll bear you company to your lodging and collect it.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll fetch it, Nick. I’ve no wish to take you so far out of your way.’

  ‘I’d willingly go a hundred miles to find a play like Caesar’s Fall.’

  ‘You’ll not need to walk a hundred yards for this one,’ said Grammaticus, getting to his feet and moving to the door. ‘Stay here with the others. I’ll not be tardy.’

  Nicholas let him go. He had no time to wonder why the playwright was so anxious to keep him away from his lodging. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam Crowmere enter the taproom. The landlord was as full of exuberance as ever. After greeting many of the customers by name, he came across to Nicholas’s table and stood beside it with arms akimbo.

  ‘This hot weather is good for business, Nick,’ he said, happily. ‘We sold far more drink than usual during the play. My servingmen filled pitchers all afternoon.’

  ‘It’s not only the bright sunshine that makes them thirsty. Give some credit to Marriage and Mischief. I have noticed before that comedy seems to quicken the need for ale or wine more readily than any tragedy. Do not ask me why, Adam.’

  ‘If this be so, let’s have more comedies.’

  ‘We need to offer a range of plays,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our audiences would soon tire of comedy if that is all that they could see at the Queen’s Head. Tragedy and history also have their place.’

  Crowmere beamed. ‘Whatever you perform, it is always enchanting.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s a fine tribute. But I am glad you mention enchantment,’ he went on. ‘From what I’ve been told, it is not confined to the inn yard.’

  ‘I do not follow you.’

  Nicholas rose from his seat. ‘Some of the actors, it seems, have been enchanted by one of your guests, a certain Philomen Lavery.’

  ‘A gentleman of that name is staying here, it is true.’

  ‘Did you know that he is playing cards in his room?’

  ‘There is no law to prevent him doing that, Nick. As long as he pays for his lodging, he can do as he wishes. What harm is there in a game of cards?’

  ‘Far too much, if you happen to lose.’

  ‘That’s a chance that every player must take,’ said Crowmere, easily.

  ‘Not so,’ corrected Nicholas. ‘There are some who use all manner of tricks to make sure that it is not a game of chance. Innocent victims are forced into debt, lured by the vain hope that they may win a fortune.’

  The landlord frowned. ‘I hope that you do not accuse Master Lavery of being a cony-catcher, Nick,’ he said, seriously. ‘Come and meet the fellow and you’ll see what a false allegation that is. He is the real victim here, ensnared by a love for card games. Sometimes he wins but he loses just as often. Master Lavery plays for the sheer fun of it.’

  ‘There is no fun is watching decent men being led astray, Adam. Yes,’ he added, holding up a hand before Crowmere could interrupt. ‘I know that they are old enough to make up their own minds. But this ale of yours is strong and it weakens their resistance. One of them told me it was you who pointed him in the direction of the game of cards.’

  ‘I do not deny it. I enjoyed a game or two myself.’

  ‘And was there no suspicion of cheating?’

  ‘None at all,’ asserted Crowmere. ‘If he were a cheat, why would Master Lavery come to the Queen’s Head when he could fleece far more gulls at a gaming house? He asked me to send up anyone who might be interested in a game and this I did. He satisfies a demand. From the moment that I came here,’ he said, ‘I heard complaints that Alexander will not allow dice or cards in the taproom. Master Lavery will not want for company at his table.’

  ‘How long is he staying?’

  ‘For a week or so.’

  Nicholas was worried. ‘He could empty many more purses in that time.’

  ‘And fill a few in return. I won ten times what I wagered.’

  ‘Others have not be so lucky, Adam.’

  ‘Nobody is forced to sit at that table,’ said Crowmere, reasonably. ‘They do so because they are ready to take the risk. Actors are grown men, Nick. You cannot watch over them all the time like a mother hen.’

  It was a fair comment and Nicholas accepted it as such. He took comfort from Crowmere’s judgement of the character of Philomen Lavery. The landlord’s instincts had been sharpened by many years in a trade where an ability to weigh strangers up was a necessity. It might be that the man who was staying at the Queen’s Head was not the cunning cheat he imagined him to be, but Nicholas nevertheless resolved to take a closer look at him in due course. He did not want other friends getting into debt.

  ‘Alexander is too much the puritan,’ said Crowmere, looking around. ‘Customers should be allowed to revel in any way that they choose. There’d be many more of them, if he was to loosen the reins a little. Dice, cards and bowling are pleasures that every Englishman loves. Why frown on them so?’

  ‘You will have to ask him that.’

  ‘It may be some time before I can do so, Nick.’

  ‘You’ve heard from him again?’

  ‘A letter came this very afternoon,’ explained Crowmere. ‘His brother has rallied a touch and is clinging to life with a tenacious grip. Alexander is annoyed that he lingers so and fears the wait may go on for weeks.’

  ‘Nobody here will wish for his speedy return.’

  Crowmere laughed. ‘Then I must be getting something right at last. Custom has increased and I’ve had to take on new labour. Oh,’ he went on, ‘and that reminds me, Nick. There’s been no sign of those two young friends of yours. I’ve had perforce to look elsewhere.’

  ‘It was good of you to think of them, Adam,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am sorry that they have let you down. Hywel and Dorothea must have found wo
rk on their own account.’

  Bridewell Palace was a large, rambling structure that was built around three courtyards. It stood on a site west of Ludgate Hill, bounded by the Fleet River to the north and by the Thames to the south. Originally a royal home for Henry VIII, it had been presented to the city by his only legitimate son, Edward, so that it could become a workhouse for the poor and idle who thronged the streets of London. In the intervening years, Bridewell had lost much of its regal charm but there was still a faded magnificence about its exterior. It was not something that those inside the building appreciated. They felt that they were locked in a kind of prison.

  ‘Keep working,’ warned the old woman, ‘or you’ll be whipped again.’

  ‘But we did nothing wrong,’ complained Dorothea Tate.

  ‘You are poor, my girl. That’s your crime.’

  ‘Are we prisoners, then?’

  ‘Of a sort.’

  Dorothea was still in a daze. After their arrest in Eastcheap, she and Hywel Rees had been dragged before a Justice of the Peace, convicted of vagrancy and taken to Bridewell where they each received twelve harsh strokes of the whip on their bare backs. As she sat at the rough wooden table, carding wool with the others, Dorothea’s pain was still intense and it was matched by the embarrassment of having to strip to the waist in order to receive her punishment. Bridewell was no palace for her. It was a species of Hell in which she was forced to labour throughout the day while being kept apart from Hywel.

  ‘Where might he be?’ she wondered.

  ‘Forget about your friend,’ said the old woman.

  ‘Have they hurt him? I keep hearing cries of agony.’

  ‘Enemies of the state. They torture them.’

  Dorothea gasped. ‘They will not torture Hywel, will they?’

  ‘If he is slack, he’ll feel the whip again but that is all. Carding wool and winding silk is woman’s work,’ declared the other. ‘Your friend will be put to wire-drawing or, if he rebels against that, to nail-making among the more stubborn souls. It’s foul work.’

  ‘Can they keep us here against our will?’

  ‘They can do as they wish.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Years.’