The Counterfeit Crank (8 page)

‘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. There 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 work 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.’

‘Do you look for an early release?’

‘Where would I go?’

‘Back to your family.’

The old woman grimaced. ‘What family? They all starved to death.’

Dorothea was one of nine women in the room, all wearing the same blue dress and slaving away at a task that she found both tedious and tiring. Her hands and shoulders were already beginning to ache. Yet she dared not stop. One of the keepers, a burly man with an arrogant strut, walked through the room at regular intervals to make sure that they did their allotted work properly. Dorothea glanced around. As well as being the youngest person there, she was by far the healthiest. The old woman beside her had a face that was pitted with disease and a body that was hooped by age. Weak eyesight meant that she could barely see to thread the wool with her skeletal fingers.

It was the same with the others. All were disfigured by a lifetime of poverty and deprived of any spirit. Dorothea was horrified to think that she belonged in such a hideous place alongside such broken women. The high hopes with which she and Hywel had set out for London had now turned sour. Her greatest fear was that she might never see him again. Hywel had rescued her and changed her life.
As fond thoughts of him came flooding back, Dorothea let her hands fall to her lap. She soon came out of her reverie when the old woman’s elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

Striding down the room was the keeper. Before his gaze fell on her, Dorothea quickly resumed her work but he nevertheless stopped beside her. He was not alone. His companion was a tall, wiry, gaunt individual in his thirties. The flamboyant colours of his doublet and hose were in stark contrast to the bleakness of the surroundings for the room, high and vaulted, had only the meanest furniture in it. As she worked on, Dorothea could feel the newcomer’s eyes upon her but she dared not look up. The wounds on her back still smarted and she did not wish to invite another whipping.

‘What is your name, child?’ asked the stranger.

‘Dorothea Tate, sir,’ she whimpered.

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen, sir.’

‘Let me see you properly.’

With a finger under her chin, her turned her head towards him and stared at her with an intensity that unnerved her. The frankness of his scrutiny brought a blush to her cheeks. Pulling his hand away, the man let out a soft laugh.

‘We will see more of you, Dorothea,’ he said. ‘I look forward to it.’

One of the many things that Anne Hendrik admired about him was his ability to stick to any task that he set himself. After a full day at the Queen’s Head, he had come back
to the house in Bankside that evening with a new play under his arm, determined to read it before he went to bed. She did not disturb him. Seated opposite Nicholas at the table, she studied her designs for new hats while he applied himself to
The Siege of Troy.
His expression gave nothing away and she could not tell whether the play that Michael Grammaticus had given him was good, bad or a mixture of both. All that she could hear was the crisp rustle of parchment as he turned over each page.