The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  ‘That will have made Michael happy.’

  ‘You’d never have thought it from his face,’ complained Elias. ‘He squinted at us as if he was trying to read scribble. Michael Grammaticus lives inside his head. That’s the failing of these university men. They do not know how to enjoy life.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘That’s not what I hear, Owen. The cry against most who study at Oxford or Cambridge is that they enjoy life far too much. They are forever being swinged for their indulgences. Michael is the exception to the rule,’ he said. ‘He’s a true scholar, wedded to his studies.’

  ‘Is that why he is so disdainful?’

  ‘I’ve not seen that particular fault in him.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Hoode. ‘Michael Grammaticus has been politeness itself to me and, as you well know, I’m no university wit whose brain is crammed with Greek and Latin sayings. Compared to him, I’m raw and untutored.’

  ‘But a far better playwright, for all that,’ said Elias, loyally.

  ‘Be fair,’ urged Nicholas. ‘Michael has great promise.’

  ‘But he lacks Edmund’s humanity. He’s a dry stick, and I’ve never met a young man who carries such an old head on his stooping shoulders. Still,’ he went on, ‘let’s forget our creeping playwright. We’ve news for you that will make you jump out of your sick bed with delight.’

  ‘What news is that, Owen?’ asked Hoode, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Our landlord has quit London.’

  ‘Only for a matter of weeks,’ explained Nicholas. ‘He has gone to Dunstable. His elder brother is ill and he means to keep vigil. For a while, it seems, we’ll have no more black looks and stern reproaches from Alexander Marwood and his wife.’

  ‘And the best of it is,’ said Elias, ‘that the new landlord admires our work. He watched the play this afternoon and cheered us to the echo. Do you see what this means? In place of an arch enemy, we have gained a dear friend, one Adam Crowmere by name.’

  Hoode yawned again. ‘Fortune has smiled on us at last.’

  ‘We deserve some consolation for the loss of Edmund Hoode.’

  ‘What is the inn like without that melancholy landlord?’

  ‘A place of mirth and merriment. But you shall judge for yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘Adam Crowmere wants to atone for the shabby treatment meted out to us at the inn. He also wishes to get to know us better. With that in mind, he is laying on a feast for the whole company on Sunday next, inviting Lord Westfield to join us in the festivities.’

  Elias grimaced. ‘Can you imagine Alexander Marwood doing such a thing?’

  ‘He’d sooner turn us out into the street, Owen.’

  ‘Adam Crowmere is a breath of fresh air, blowing through the Queen’s Head. He understands the trade. His cordiality will double the profits of the inn. Our fellows cannot believe the changes he has wrought in a single day.’

  ‘But you’ll meet this paragon for yourself, Edmund,’ insisted Nicholas. ‘When Sunday comes, you’ll feast alongside us. And if you are not well enough to walk to the inn, Owen and I will gladly carry you there.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Elias. ‘Being with the company will be a medicine in itself.’

  ‘What do you say, Edmund? Are these not glad tidings?’

  There was no reply. The effort of staying awake to greet his friends had exhausted Hoode’s limited strength. His eyes rolled, his lids closed and he went off into a deep slumber. A gentle snore soon rose from the bed. Nicholas looked down at him with mingled affection and sadness.

  ‘Come, Owen,’ he said, quietly. ‘He needs his rest.’

  The lane was long, narrow and twisting. Because it linked two main thoroughfares, it was always busy as people hurried to and fro about their affairs. Suddenly, the traffic came to a halt. Dressed in mud-covered rags, a young man promptly dropped to the ground as if he had been shot and went into a series of violent convulsions. There was blood on his face and he was foaming at the mouth. His female companion immediately went down on her knees and cradled him in her arms as she tried to stay his fit. The convulsions slowly died away but he lay unconscious in the dirt. Everyone crowded around to see what had happened to the unfortunate young man

  ‘It’s the falling sickness,’ sighed the girl, looking up in despair at the faces that encircled her. ‘My brother is too ill to work and too weak to fend for me. Spare a coin or two to help us, dear friends,’ she pleaded, holding out a hand. ‘If I had enough money, I could take him to a doctor.’

  The young man twitched uncontrollably a few times and more white foam came bubbling from his mouth. It was a sight that played on the sympathy of the passers-by. A decrepit old woman in faded attire was the first to reach into her purse.

  ‘Hold on, kind soul,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Do not part with money that you clearly need yourself. You are being tricked.’

  ‘That is not so,’ argued the girl, bursting into tears. ‘You all saw what happened to my brother. He is grievous sick.’

  ‘I think not.’

  Nicholas Bracewell came forward to bend over the fallen man and grab him by the collar. With a firm heave, he pulled him upright then smacked him hard in the middle of the back. The young man spat out a piece of soap. Nicholas retrieved it from the ground and held it up for all to see.

  ‘You have been gulled by a counterfeit crank,’ he declared. ‘This young man is as healthy as any of us here but he feigns the falling sickness to lure money from your purses. That is why he wears these rags and rolls in the mud. As for the blood,’ he went on, using a hand to wipe it from the man’s face, ‘it comes from no wound, as you see. This fellow keeps a bladder of animal’s blood to daub himself for effect.’

  ‘The rogue!’ cried the old woman. ‘Send for an officer.’

  ‘They should be whipped at the cart’s-arse!’ said a thickset man. ‘Both of them.’

  ‘Spare us,’ implored the girl. ‘We meant no harm. We are starving.’

  ‘Beat the pair of them!’ demanded the man, pushing forward.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ said Nicholas, standing in front of the couple to protect them. ‘Their cunning has been duly exposed and your purses spared. That is enough. Go your way, friends, and do not be fooled again by a counterfeit crank.’

  The crowd slowly dispersed in a flurry of mutters and imprecations. Danger was over. Nicholas and Owen Elias had been on their way back to the Queen’s Head when they chanced upon the two beggars. Taking care not to impede those who walked past, the book holder took a closer look at them. The man was in his early twenties, slim, dark and angular. Matted hair and a ragged beard covered what had once been handsome features. There was a scar on the side of his nose. His companion was younger, no more than sixteen or seventeen, with a trim figure and a pretty face that was masked by apprehension. Nicholas could detect no family likeness between the two of them.

  ‘You are no brother and sister,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ lied the girl. ‘We came to London when our parents died.’

  ‘What are your names?’

  ‘Why should we tell you?’ retorted the young man, defensively.

  ‘Because you might find we have something in common,’ said Elias with a chuckle. ‘That’s a Welsh voice I hear, as clear and melodious as my own. Noswaith da.’

  The beggar was tentative. ‘Noswaith da.’

  Elias turned to the girl. ‘I have two sisters back home in Wales and they both have my lilt. So should you, if you were raised across the border. Let’s have no more of this nonsense about being brother and sister.’ He smiled at them. ‘I am Owen Elias and this is Nick Bracewell. We are not here to harry you.’

  ‘No,’ said Nicholas, adopting a softer tone. ‘But I could not bear to see that poor old woman giving you what might have been her last groat. You are new to the city, I see, and picked the wrong place to beg.’

  ‘Yes,’ advised Elias. ‘Always choose somewhere in the open so that you can take to your heel
s, if you are found out. Here, in this lane, you were trapped. Nick may have laid bare your device, but he also saved you from a sound beating.’

  The young man gave a grudging nod. ‘Thank you for that, at least.’

  ‘So tell us your names.’

  ‘I am Hywel Rees and this is Dorothea.’

  ‘Dorothea Tate,’ she admitted. ‘And, no, we are not brother and sister. We met in St Albans, where Hywel rescued me from much worse than a beating.’ She pulled back a sleeve to reveal ugly bruises all the way up her arm. ‘There were two of the devils and they’d not be denied. Hywel took them on alone.’

  ‘And sent them on their way,’ said Hywel, proudly. ‘I look after Dorothea now.’

  ‘Then do it with more care,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Do you have any money?’

  ‘None at all. But we met this man on the road who told us that beggars could prosper, if they were guileful enough. He talked of a counterfeit crank he knew who could make six shillings a day with the falling sickness.’

  ‘Six shillings a day!’ exclaimed Elias. ‘Hell’s teeth! That’s far more than I could earn, Hywel, and yet we are in the same trade.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘I am an actor with Westfield’s Men. Nick here is our book holder.’

  ‘Yes,’ added Nicholas. ‘This afternoon, we performed the tragedy of Julius Caesar and our manager, Lawrence Firethorn, in the role of the emperor, was called upon to do exactly what you did and feign the falling sickness.’

  ‘We’ll tell him about the soap to make him foam at the mouth. A clever touch.’

  ‘It tastes foul,’ said Hywel. ‘The first time I tried it, I swallowed a piece.’

  ‘It made him sick,’ remembered Dorothea.

  ‘There must be easier ways to earn a living.’

  ‘There are, Hywel,’ said Nicholas. ‘You can do it by honest toil. Have you better clothing than these filthy rags?’ Hywel nodded. ‘Then we might be able to find you employment at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. Our company performs there. We have a new landlord and he was looking to hire some more labour. If Dorothea was taken on as a kitchen wench, would you work as a serving man?’

  Hywel was doubtful. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘It might be worth it,’ said Dorothea. ‘At least, we’d not go hungry.’

  ‘Would you like me to speak to the landlord on your behalf?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hywel. ‘Let us think it over. The Queen’s Head, you say?’

  ‘In Gracechurch Street. You’ll always find us there.’

  Elias reached into his purse. ‘For a penny apiece, you can stand in the yard and watch us perform,’ he said, pulling out some coins. ‘Here’s enough to buy you a good meal and take you to a wondrous play tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dorothea, grasping the money. ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘I hate to see a fellow Welshman having to beg.’ He winked at her. ‘And the same goes for his sister. I dare swear you are pretty enough to come from Wales.’

  ‘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, pul
ling 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.’