The Counterfeit Crank (5 page)

‘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 satisfaction 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.

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.’

‘How long have you been on my trail?’

‘Since you first set out.’

‘But you had no need to come that way.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Curtis. ‘Walk on and I’ll explain.’

Nicholas was surprised. Curtis lived in a tenement, several streets away. His route to London Bridge should not have taken him anywhere near Anne Hendrik’s house. The carpenter was a big man with the wide shoulders and thick forearms of his trade. Strong, industrious and dependable, he was a true craftsman who made the scenery and the properties for all of the company’s plays. Nathan Curtis was constantly employed to build new items of furniture or to repair old ones. He enjoyed an easy friendship with the book holder and the two men had often travelled back together to Bankside at night, either by foot or, from time to time, by boat across the Thames.

Distance seemed to shrink miraculously when they talked on their journeys and, as a rule, Curtis had much to say for himself. Today, however, he was unusually reticent. They had gone a hundred yards before he ventured his first remark.

‘What work do you have for me today, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Repairs are needed to the throne for
The Corrupt Bargain.
When he carried it from the stage yesterday, George tripped and threw it to the ground. Two legs snapped off. There’s more besides, Nathan. It will be a busy morning for you.’

‘George Dart will always keep me in work. The lad is so clumsy.’

‘Only when he is shouted at,’ said Nicholas. ‘Left to himself, he’d break nothing at all.’ He glanced at his
companion. ‘But you did not lie in wait for me in order to berate George Dart. What brought you out of your way like this?’

Curtis licked his dry lips. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘Could it not have waited until I saw you at the Queen’s Head?’

‘That’s too public a place, Nick. I sought a word in private.’

‘As many as you wish.’

The carpenter obviously felt embarrassed. It was another hundred yards before he finally broached the subject. Having found the right words, he gabbled them.

‘I-need-to-borrow-some-money-Nick-please-say-
that-you’ll-
help-me.’

‘Slow down, slow down,’ counselled Nicholas. ‘What’s this about a loan?’

‘I must have money.’

‘Everyone will be paid at the end of the week.’

‘I cannot wait until then,’ said Curtis with an edge of desperation. ‘I need the money now. Believe me, Nick, I’d not ask, except under compulsion.’

‘Compulsion?’

‘I’ve debts to settle.’

‘We all have those, Nathan.’

‘Mine are most pressing.’

Nicholas was the victim of his own competence. Because he discharged his duties as the book holder so well, he was always being given additional responsibilities by Lawrence Firethorn. One of them was to act as the
company’s paymaster, to keep an account book that related to the wages of the hired men. If an actor was engaged by Westfield’s Men for the first time, Nicholas was even empowered to negotiate his rate of pay. The largest amounts went to the sharers, who were given an appropriate slice of the company’s profits, but the hired men, including actors, musicians, stagekeepers, tiremen, gatherers, who took entrance money for performances, and people like Nathan Curtis, had a fixed weekly wage. With a family to support, the carpenter had always been careful with his money before. It was the only time he had ever asked for a loan and he was very upset at having to do so. Nicholas was sympathetic.

‘Do you have troubles at home, Nathan?’ he asked.

‘I will have, if you spurn my request.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Master Firethorn would never lend a penny in advance. When others tried to borrow from him in the past, they were sent away with a curse or two. And I know that it’s your strict rule to pay wages at the end of the week.’

‘Except in particular circumstances.’

Curtis was rueful. ‘These are very particular.’

‘May I know what they are?’ The carpenter hung his head. ‘If it’s a personal matter, I’ll not pry. And I’ll tell you this, Nathan. If most people came to me with the same plea, I’d turn them down at once because I know that they’d drink the money away that same night. You, however, can be trusted.’

‘Thank you, Nick. How much will you let me have?’

‘Three shillings. Will that suffice?’

‘I was hoping for more,’ said Curtis.

‘Then you’ll have the full amount. Does that relieve your mind?’

‘Mightily.’

‘It’s heartening to know that I’ve done one good deed this day,’ said Nicholas, happily. ‘I’ll pay you when we reach Gracechurch Street, then you can settle your debts.’

‘God bless you, Nick! I knew that I could count on you for help.’

‘Do not make a habit of this,’ warned the other.

‘I’d never do that,’ vowed Curtis. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson, I promise you.’

Propped up in bed at his lodging, Edmund Hoode spent most of the day vainly trying to remember favourite speeches from his plays. It was a pointless exercise. His mind was so befuddled that he could not even recall the names of the plays themselves. His landlady, a considerate woman with a real affection for her lodger, brought him food and drink, yet when her buxom daughter bathed his face tenderly with cold water, Hoode could not feel even the faintest stirrings of lust. That mortified him. His mind and body seemed to have surrendered the power to react. Sleep was his only escape.

It was late afternoon when the doctor eventually called. Emmanuel Zander was a short, round, fussy man in his forties with a black beard that reached to his chest and eyebrows so thick that he had to look at the world through
curling strands of hair. When he opened his satchel, he revealed a collection of surgical instruments that made Hoode gurgle with fright but the doctor only extracted a tiny bottle of medicine. He spoke with a guttural accent.

‘I’ve brought something new,’ he said, putting the bottle on the table.

‘Will it cure me?’ asked Hoode.

‘It may or it may not. That remains to be seen, Master Hoode. What I do know is that it will not make your condition any worse.’ He bent over the patient to scrutinise his face. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘Much the same, Doctor Zander.’

‘Have you recovered your appetite?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What of your memory?’

‘Far too uncertain. That worries me most, doctor.’

‘It worries me as well,’ confessed Zander, clicking his tongue. ‘In all my years in medicine, I’ve not seen a condition like this. You’ve lost weight and remain in a state of fatigue. Have you suffered any pain?’

‘None at all,’ said Hoode. ‘There are times when I feel quite numb.’

Zander scratched his head. ‘Why should that be?’

He pulled back the sheets to examine Hoode in more detail, feeling his body and limbs for any sign of swelling before producing an instrument from his satchel to listen to the patient’s heart. When he had finished, he put the instrument away.

‘I’ll need another sample of your water.’

‘You’ll find it in a jar under that cloth,’ said Hoode, pointing to the table. ‘It was darker than ever this morning. Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s disappointing.’

They heard a knock on the front door below. The landlady opened it to admit someone and there was a brief conversation. Feet then ascended the stairs. There was a tap on Hoode’s door and it swung back for Nicholas Bracewell to step into the room. Tears welled up in Hoode’s eyes at the sight of his friend.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he cried. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

‘I’m glad that I came in time to meet Doctor Zander.’

Nicholas introduced himself and shook hands with the doctor.

‘How does he fare?’

‘Not well, not well,’ said Zander, peering at Hoode with a frown. ‘If I knew the exact nature of his malady, I could treat it accordingly but I’ve not seen a case like this before. I’ve been through every book that I possess, but none describe a disease such as the one we have before us.’