The Counterfeit Crank (11 page)

‘I must get out of here,’ said Hywel.

‘We all think that at first.’

‘I have a friend, Dorothea. She needs me to look after her.’

‘You’ll forget her in time.’

‘Never!’ retorted Hywel. ‘I love her.’

Griddle shrugged. ‘You may never see her again,’ he
said. ‘They let us out and keep the women here. There’s far more work for them to do. The lucky ones eat good food and wear fine clothes.’

‘Lucky ones?’

‘Stay here a while. You’ll see.’

Hywel did not have long to wait. Ten minutes later, a carriage appeared and the clatter of hooves reverberated around the courtyard. When the vehicle stopped outside the door to the main hall, five men in rich apparel hauled themselves out and exchanged noisy banter. It was clear from their laughter and unsteady movements that drink had been taken. A tall figure in ostentatious attire emerged from the door to greet them.

‘Master Beechcroft,’ said Griddle.

‘Is this the night of the feast?’

‘Yes, Hywel. The women will be here soon.’

But it was a second carriage that next swept into the yard, bringing with it another bevy of loud and mirthful guests. The four men who alighted were all middle-aged, and they embraced Beechcroft in turn before going into the hall. Hywel watched with growing discomfort as other guests arrived on horseback. They were all men, and, judging by their hilarity, they were intent on enjoying themselves. When they had dismounted and tethered their horses, they followed Beechcroft through the doorway.

When the women finally came into view, Hywel was revolted by what he saw. They were denizens of Bridewell, convicted harlots, let out to play and to provide entertainment for the guests. Dressed in gaudy taffeta and
wearing cheap trinkets, they tripped across the courtyard. Some were young, but most were older women, experienced members of the trade, painted and powdered to make them look more appealing. From the sound of their happy chatter, it was evident that they, too, were looking forward to the festivities in the main hall.

There was one exception. She was the youngest and prettiest of them all, but she wore her dress of red taffeta with great reluctance. While the other women hurried across the courtyard like a gaggle of geese, she was struggling to get away from the keeper, who was dragging her along by the wrist. When she emitted a cry of pain, Hywel leant right out of the window to call to her.

‘Dorothea!’ he yelled.

The meeting took place in a private room at the Queen’s Head because it gave them both quiet and privacy. Since the advent of Adam Crowmere, the inn had become much more popular and the taproom was in a state of happy tumult every evening. It was not just the quality of his ale, the standard of service or the charms of the buxom tavern wenches that brought in more custom. By a combination of hard work and warmth of personality, the new landlord had created a more joyous atmosphere at the inn. Everyone noticed it.

‘The taproom has truly come alive tonight,’ said Owen Elias. ‘It was never like this when our old landlord was here.’

‘No,’ agreed Lawrence Firethorn, pouring a glass of Canary wine for all four of them. ‘Under that ghoul, Marwood, it was more like a morgue. That fearful wife of his used to send shivers down my spine.’

‘Can you imagine sharing a bed with that old crone, Lawrence?’

‘She’d turn my prick to ice!’

‘Can we begin?’ asked Barnaby Gill, impatiently. ‘You may all have time on your hands but I have somewhere important to go.’

‘What’s his name?’ teased Firethorn.

‘There’s much to debate,’ said Nicholas Bracewell. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘Aye, Nick. We must not detain Barnaby from the pleasures of the night.’

They were seated around a table on which a candle had been lighted to stave off the evening shadows. Its flickering flame threw a halo around
The Siege of Troy,
the play they had now all read. There were a number of sharers in the company but its policy was determined, for the most part, by Firethorn, Gill and Edmund Hoode. In the absence of the playwright, Elias had been invited to the table. Though not of equivalent status, Nicholas was always included in such discussions because of his wise counsel.

Firethorn was decisive. ‘I like the play,’ he said, slapping it with the palm of his hand. ‘Nick and Owen are of like opinion. I urge that we accept it.’

‘You are too hasty, Lawrence,’ said Gill, raising a finger. ‘We should not be so rash to part with our money until
The Siege of Troy
meets all our demands. Changes must be made.’

‘Of what kind? I call for no changes.’

‘Nor me,’ said Elias. ‘The only change that I would
gladly make is the name of the author. A fine play it is, I know, but I wish that it had been penned by anyone but Michael Grammaticus.’

‘Yet he’s the only author who
could
have written it,’ argued Nicholas. ‘Even our own dear Edmund does not have that great a knowledge of history.’

‘I agree, Nick. My quarrel is not with
The Siege of Troy.
I take it to wrest the laurel wreath from
Caesar’s Fall.
No,’ he went on, ‘what troubles me is that we will have that mournful face watching us rehearse it. Michael is such lugubrious company.’

‘Ignore his presence. Think only of your role.’

‘That’s what I have done,’ said Gill, tasting his wine, ‘and my role falls short of perfection. It needs at least two more songs to give it body, and a jig in the last act.’

Firethorn bridled. ‘The last act belongs to Ulysses,’ he declared. ‘I’ll not have the audience distracted by your antics, Barnaby. You only follow where I lead.’

‘You will lead us into boredom if there’s no comedy in Act Five.’

‘What of the scene between the three servingmen? That must earn laughs.’

‘But I do not happen to be in it,’ said Gill, tapping his chest. ‘Why have a clown if he is not allowed to clown his way to the end of the play?’

‘Why have an author if you do not obey his dictates?’

Gill sneered. ‘Since when did
you
ever obey the dictates of an author, Lawrence? If it serves your purpose, you carve his work to shreds without a scruple.’

‘I make improvements, Barnaby, that is all.’

‘Then let me do the same.’

‘A fair point,’ said Nicholas, searching for a compromise. ‘Barnaby’s complaint is easily answered. Ask our playwright to amend the scene with the servingmen so that it involves the clown and all objections vanish. Is that not so?’

Elias congratulated him on having found the solution and Gill was mollified. With a little persuasion from the book holder, Firethorn was eventually reconciled to the idea. There were other scenes that aroused discussion but none that required any major alteration. They were soon able to move on to the scenery and the costumes. An hour later, it was all settled.

‘Good!’ said Firethorn, rubbing his hands together. ‘We can come to composition with Michael Grammaticus. I’ll have our lawyer draw up the contract.’

‘May I suggest one of its terms?’ asked Nicholas.

‘No,’ said Gill, flatly. ‘You have no voting power here.’

‘He ought to have,’ attested Elias, loyally.

‘Let’s hear him out,’ said Firethorn. ‘Nick talks more sense than any of us.’

‘Then listen to my device,’ resumed Nicholas, picking up the play from the table. ‘
The Siege of Troy
is more than a work of high quality. Were we to turn it down, one of our rivals would surely take it up and use it to their advantage. What it proves is that Michael Grammaticus is an author we must nurture.’

‘Edmund said as much from the very start,’ recalled Firethorn.

‘Then he would approve what I advise. When you draw up a contract for this play,’ said Nicholas, ‘write into it that Westfield’s Men have first refusal on the next play that comes from the same pen. That way, we safeguard ourselves from poachers.’

‘Why stop at one more play, Nick? We’ll bind the fellow to us in perpetuity. Let it be set down that everything written by Michael Grammaticus is first offered to us.’ He patted Nicholas on the arm. ‘As always, you point us in the right direction.’

‘Nick gives us sage advice,’ said Elias. ‘Is it not so, Barnaby?’

Gill rose to his feet. ‘I was about to advocate it myself,’ he lied, ‘even though it is less like sage advice than common sense. If we are to lose Edmund, we need a playwright who can match his steady flow of work.’

‘Edmund will be back,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘He is not lost forever. He begins to show hopeful signs, Barnaby, as you would know if you deigned to visit him.’

‘I never sit beside a sick bed. It always upsets me.’

‘He would be well pleased to see you.’

‘And that is more than any of us would dare to say,’ remarked Firethorn. ‘Think of someone else for once, Barnaby. Go and call on Edmund.’

‘I’d not wish to look upon him in that parlous condition,’ said Gill, crossing to open the door. ‘I prefer to remember Edmund as he was, in his prime. To watch him dwindle away before my eyes is more than I can bear.’

He left the room and the others exchanged a knowing
glance. Elias was the next to depart, anxious to join his friends in the taproom. Nicholas and Firethorn got up from the table. The actor-manager was pleased with the way their deliberations had gone.

‘Michael will still be here,’ he said. ‘Acquaint him with our decision and ride over any objections he may have to what we propose. If he wishes to ally himself with Westfield’s Men, he’ll do so on our terms.’

‘I’ll mention the changes that you require,’ said Nicholas, snuffing out the candle between a finger and thumb. ‘When they are made, I’ll take
The Siege of Troy
to the scrivener and set him to work.’

Firethorn sighed. ‘We lose one author but gain another. Is it a fair exchange?’

‘Nobody could replace Edmund Hoode. He brings so much more to the company than Michael ever will. And he’ll do so again,’ said Nicholas, hopefully. ‘This malady of his cannot last forever.’

Edmund Hoode was dozing when his visitor arrived but he soon awoke. Not expecting anyone to call that late in the evening, he was delighted to see his friend and to share in his good news. Michael Grammaticus had come from the Queen’s Head in a state of suppressed excitement, believing that only another playwright could understand how he felt. Hoode was thrilled for him.

‘These tidings are the best medicine yet, Michael.’

‘Nick Bracewell said that all who read
The Siege of Troy
enjoyed it greatly.’

‘If it reads well, it will play even better,’ said Hoode. ‘And Lawrence wants more work from that teeming brain of yours. That shows the faith he has in you.’

‘I hope I have the means to justify it, Edmund.’

‘No more of this modesty. A man who can write
Caesar’s Fall
is destined for the highest rewards. Take what is due to you.’

‘I will,’ said Grammaticus, a tear in his eye. ‘But enough of me,’ he added, briskly. ‘I am still a novice where you are a master. Nobody in London has written as many plays as you.’

‘If only I could remember how I did it!’

‘What mean you?’

‘That I have to take your word,’ said Hoode, ‘and that of my other friends. Since all of you praise my achievements, I must accept that they were mine to praise. Yet I’ve neither the memory to recall them nor the will to add to them. I’m done for, Michael,’ he confided. ‘Behold a posthumous playwright.’

‘Away with such thoughts! You are but resting between plays.’

‘If only I could believe that.’

‘You must,’ said Grammaticus. ‘Two doctors have attended you and both foretell your recovery. Time and patience must be your nurses, Edmund. When your health returns, as surely it must, your mind will be as fruitful as ever. Why,’ he went on, ‘I can see an improvement in you since this very morning.’

‘True,’ said Hoode, sitting up in bed. ‘This afternoon,
I was able at last to walk around the room. I sat in the window for an hour to watch people walk by. That cheered me more than I can say.’ His face crumpled. ‘But the feeling did not last.’

‘Why not?’

‘I tried to read my new play, Michael. I’ve three acts finished and a fourth begun. If I picked it up again, I thought, the juices of creation would run inside me again.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘I was asking for a miracle.’

‘What happened?’

‘I could not read a line, let alone write one.
A Way To Content All Women,
that is the title. How cruel it now seems!’ exclaimed Hoode, looking down at himself. ‘I’ve not the strength to give
one
woman contentment. My manhood is but an empty husk.’

Grammaticus was curious. ‘You’ve three acts written, you say?’

‘And almost half of the fourth.’

‘There may be one way to get your new comedy finished, Edmund.’

‘I despair of ever seeing it upon a stage. The play is stillborn, Michael.’

‘Not if someone else were to give it life,’ said the other, thoughtfully. ‘I confess that I know little of how to content women but, it seems, I am entitled to call myself a playwright now. Let me put my meagre talents at your service,’ he offered, leaning over the patient. ‘I’ll be your co-author, if you wish, and finish the play with you.’

Rain fell throughout the night but it had eased by morning. When he left the house in Bankside, all that Nicholas had to contend with was light drizzle. The streets were glistening and he had to step around the frequent puddles that had formed. He had just crossed London Bridge when he caught up with another resident of Bankside.

‘Good morrow, Nathan!’ he called, quickening his stride.

Curtis turned round. ‘Well met, Nick!’ he said, adjusting the bag of tools over his shoulder. ‘I thought to make an early start today. There’s much to do.’

‘And even more when our new play goes into rehearsal.’

‘Is this the comedy promised by Edmund Hoode?’

‘Alas, no.’

Nicholas told him about the purchase of
The Siege of Troy
and explained what scenery and properties it would require. Curtis grumbled at the prospect of additional work until the book holder pointed out that extra hours would increase his wages. The carpenter nodded soulfully.

‘Give me all the work you can, Nick,’ he said. ‘I need the money.’

‘Not to lose to Master Lavery, I trust?’

‘No, I’ve told that particular Satan to get behind me.’

‘He does not look like Satan,’ observed Nicholas. ‘I found him to be a reasonable man. And he does not win at his table all the time. Master Lavery told me of his losses.’

‘All that I think of are my own losses,’ said Curtis, balefully.

‘When you asked for your wages, why did you not tell me how you went astray?’

‘I was too ashamed, Nick. It was a grievous fault. When I picked up those cards, I betrayed my family. All that I look for now is a chance to redeem myself.’

‘You are not the only one to say that. Hugh Wegges has made the same vow.’

‘There’ll be others who’ll suffer at the hands of Philomen Lavery.’

‘Then they must accept the blame,’ said Nicholas. ‘They’ve been warned. When he addressed the whole company about the danger, Lawrence did not mince his words.’

Curtis grinned. ‘He does not know how to mince his words.’

In spite of the drizzle, the market in Gracechurch Street was as busy as ever and the two men had to shoulder their way through the crowd. Amid the deafening noise, conversation was almost impossible so they did not even attempt it. They walked on and let the rich compound of smells invade their nostrils. Eventually, they turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head. George Dart came trotting obediently towards Nicholas.

‘I’m glad to see you here so early, George,’ said the book holder.

‘I know how much there is to do today.’ He looked at Curtis. ‘I’m sorry that I broke that stool yesterday, Nathan. It was an accident.’

‘It always is,’ moaned the carpenter. ‘Try to be less clumsy.’

‘I will. Oh, Nicholas,’ he went on, turning back to him. ‘You have a visitor.’

‘Do I?’

Dart pointed to a figure curled up in a corner of the yard. Nicholas did not at first recognise her. Dressed in rags and soaked to the skin, Dorothea Tate got up nervously and came across to him. When she brushed the hair back from her face, Nicholas could see that she had been crying.

‘Please!’ she begged. ‘I need your help.’

By the time that Owen Elias arrived, Nicholas had calmed the girl down, taken her inside to dry off and bought her some breakfast. Dorothea consumed it hungrily. While she ate, Nicholas was able to take a closer look at her. She was not simply bedraggled. She was heavily bruised. Her temples were discoloured, her lip swollen and both her wrists had telltale marks of violence on them. Alerted by the message from the book holder, Elias came hurrying into the taproom.