The Counterfeit Crank (4 page)

‘
Diolch
,’ said Hywel, squeezing his arm. ‘
Diolch
yn fawr.
’

‘
Cymru
am byth.
’

Hywel gave his first smile and it lit up his face. ‘
Cymru
am byth.
’

‘What does that mean?’ said Nicholas.

‘What else?’ returned Elias. ‘Wales forever!’

Dorothea, too, now felt secure enough to smile, disappointed that Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had failed but sensing that they had made some good friends as a result. London had given them slim pickings since their arrival. On the previous night, they had slept beside the Thames and felt the cold wind of poverty. Thanks to their new acquaintances, she now had some money warming the palm of her hand. Hope began to flicker.

‘We are not afraid of hard work, sirs,’ she volunteered.

Hywel stuck out his jaw. ‘We are not afraid of
anything
.’

‘You know where to find us,’ said Nicholas.

‘Look for me when you come,’ insisted Elias, ‘and you shall have free drink.’

‘And after that, you’ll meet the landlord, Adam Crowmere.’

The young couple thanked them profusely, then stole away. In their tattered clothing, they were sorry figures. Dorothea was eager to look into the offer of possible employment at the Queen’s Head but Hywel was obviously undecided. They were still discussing the subject when they vanished around the corner.

Elias sighed. ‘Do you think we’ll ever see them again, Nick?’

‘I fear not. My guess is that your money will be spent within the hour.’

‘Will not Hywel wish to see a fellow Welshman on the stage?’

‘He’s far more interested in eating food than watching plays,’ said Nicholas. ‘Besides, there’s nothing that you can teach him, Owen.’

‘What say you?’

‘The fellow’s such a fine actor himself.’

‘Yes, that falling sickness of his took me in at first. It was every bit as persuasive as the bout that struck down Lawrence in
Caesar’s Fall.
Indeed,’ he added after reflection, ‘in some ways, it was far better.’

‘Are you going to say that to Lawrence?’

Elias laughed. ‘I’d not dare, Nick. I value my life far too much!’

Margery Firethorn loved to watch her husband on the stage but domestic concerns kept her well away from the Queen’s Head. As well as raising two lively children, she had to look after the company’s apprentices and ensure that the ten people who slept under her roof were fed, clothed and cared for with maternal diligence. Even with the help of two servants, she had to work long and taxing hours at their home in Shoreditch. There were, however, compensations and they were not limited to the pleasures of seeing her sons enjoy a happy and healthy boyhood. While she knew her husband’s defects all to well, she never ceased to love him nor did she forget how privileged she was to be married to the most celebrated actor in London. Whenever a new play achieved success, Margery was able to revel in her unique position.

Returning to the house in Old Street early that evening, Richard Honeydew, the most talented of the apprentices, had enthused about the performance and told Margery how well-received it had been. Modest by nature, he said little about his own role as Portia, wife to Julius Caesar, and instead praised the way that Firethorn had brought the Roman emperor back to life on the boards. Margery knew that the audience would not be the only beneficiaries. When her husband returned home that night, she was waiting in the bedchamber with a glass of Canary wine set out for him. Downing it in one gulp, he plucked at his doublet and gave a throaty chuckle.

‘I have imperial longings, my love,’ he said, eyes blazing with desire.

‘Then take me like the conqueror you are.’

‘You’ll always be my most favoured prize.’

She held out her arms. ‘And you are mine, great Caesar.’

Tearing off his clothes, he flung himself onto the bed and pleasured his wife until she moaned with ecstasy. Firethorn was at his most virile. Exhilarated by his triumph at the Queen’s Head, and by the heady celebrations that followed, he was in the perfect mood to show his wife just how much he loved her. Margery responded with urgent sensuality. Neither of them minded that the rhythmical creaking of their bed could be heard by the apprentices in the room above, or, judging by the girlish giggles from next door, by the servants as well. At that moment, they were the only two people alive in the whole world and they could do whatever they pleased.

‘You are an angel, Margery,’ said Firethorn, rolling off her at last.

‘A fallen angel, perhaps.’

‘They are the best kind.’ He kissed her on the lips. ‘What a day we have had!’

‘Dick Honeydew told me that you were beyond compare.’

‘I always am.’

‘Between these sheets, you are. I can vouch for that.’

He glared at her. ‘With whom have you been comparing me?’

‘With no man,’ she said, pulling him to her, ‘for it would be a waste of time. You are the king of your profession and a monarch of the bedchamber. I am doubly blessed.’

‘Why, so am I,’ he said, fondling her ample breasts in turn.

‘They are always here for you,’ she promised. ‘When Dick told me how well you fared this afternoon, I knew that you’d not be late. Had the play failed badly, as some have done in the past, you’d not have come home at all.’

‘I’d have been too ashamed to do so, Margery. My judgement would have been judged unsound, for it was I who chose the piece and took the leading part. But I had no fears with
Caesar’s Fall,
’ he confided. ‘Nor did Nick Bracewell and he rarely makes a mistake about a new play. Michael Grammaticus is a true discovery.’

‘With a mouth-filling name.’

‘That mouth-filling name will fill the inn yard again. If
Caesar’s Fall
is not revived, and soon, we’ll all be deafened by the clamour. In the space of a couple of hours, I’ve made Michael Grammaticus famous throughout London.’

‘What manner of man is he?’

‘To tell the truth,’ said Firethorn, ‘not one that I could ever like. Michael is too cold, lifeless and scholarly. I doubt that he has any red blood in his veins at all. While the rest of us were toasting his play at the Queen’s Head, he sat alone in a corner with his head in a Latin text. What kind of fellow is that?’

‘Does he have no wife to share his success?’

‘I doubt that he’s ever touched female flesh.’

‘He must have had a mother once.’

‘No, my love. I think not. Michael Grammaticus was not born by any natural means. Some Cambridge professor opened
a tome in the library one day and Michael fell out full-grown.’ He gave a lewd grin. ‘Except for a certain part of his anatomy that grows not at an inch beyond what he deems respectable. The fellow’s a monk. A squinting, sour-faced, celibate monk.’

‘How can such a man as you describe write such a moving tragedy?’

‘How can Edmund Hoode, who had no schooling beyond the age of fifteen, give the world a string of plays that are touched with magic and awash with learning?’ He hunched his naked shoulders. ‘Who can fathom the mystery of the creative mind, Margery?’ he asked. ‘Not me, I know.’

‘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.