‘No, Emmanuel,’ he cried. ‘Do not kill him. Nick has helped me.’
‘Do you want him to help you to a prison cell?’
‘I’d rather that than stand accused of murder.’
‘Out of my way,’ snapped Zander. ‘I’ll be his executioner.’
‘I’ll not allow it!’ yelled Grammaticus.
He grabbed the wrist that was holding the gun and there was a fierce struggle. Before Nicholas could intervene, the pistol went off and Grammaticus emitted a cry of agony before slumping to the floor. Bending over him, Nicholas saw that he had been wounded in the shoulder. He looked up at Zander.
‘Now, doctor,’ he said. ‘Do you think that you can help a patient for once?’
Lawrence Firethorn berated himself for his own folly. Having won several games in a row, he knew that he should have quit the card table and returned to Shoreditch. But the hope of even larger winnings spurred him on. He soon began to falter. Though he had lost at the start of the evening, Philomen Lavery suddenly improved to take game after game. The money that Firethorn had won was slowly whittled away. By the time that the actor finally fled from the inn, he had barely enough coins in his purse to bribe the gatekeeper to let him out of the city through the postern. He rode home at a somnolent canter. When he got to the house in Old Street, he found it in darkness. Margery, it seemed, had either gone to bed or was waiting to ambush him again.
After stabling the horse, he approached the front door with furtive steps. Firethorn remembered how bitter his wife had been on his return the previous night. Rehearsing his excuses, he felt ready to withstand her fury again. But, when he tried the door, it would not budge. He pushed it, kicked it and even hurled his shoulder against it, but it had been bolted from inside and withstood all his assaults. He was about to yell up at the window of his bedchamber when he realised how futile that would be. Margery would not let him in and he would be telling the whole neighbourhood that he had been locked out. He wanted to save himself from that ignominy.
Firethorn ended the worst day of his life in the stable, sleeping in the straw.
Nicholas Bracewell was up at the crack of dawn. After an early breakfast, he did his best to reassure Dorothea Tate that he could cope with any dangers that lay ahead, and that the man who had violated her would soon be punished. As she saw him off at the door, Anne Hendrik was more composed. Horrified to learn that Edmund Hoode had been deliberately poisoned, she was relieved that he would soon be cured.
‘When you see him today,’ she said, ‘give him my love.’
‘Edmund will be back at the Queen’s Head with us before long.’
‘He’s endured so much needless suffering.’
‘I know, Anne,’ he said. ‘The culprits will be duly punished.’
He gave her a kiss and set off, walking briskly through the streets of Bankside and realising that he was unlikely to see them again that day. London Bridge was clogged with traffic as carriages, carts, and visitors on horseback or foot streamed into the city to buy or sell in the various markets. Nicholas had to dodge through the crowd to make any speed. Gracechurch Street was even more populous and he had to force his way through the press in order to reach the Queen’s Head. As he turned into the yard, the first person he saw was Leonard, using his broom to sweep up horse manure. Nicholas waved to him and Leonard ambled over with a vacant grin of welcome.
‘Good morrow, Nick,’ he said. ‘You are the first one here as usual.’
‘We have a busy day ahead of us.’
‘The Knights of Malta is a rousing tale. I’ve seen bits of it before.’
‘You’ve never seen it like this, I fear,’ said Nicholas, ‘for we lack the costumes to dress the play in all its pomp. I came early to see what Hugh Wegges proposes to do.’
‘Did that gentleman find you yesterday?’
‘What gentleman?’
‘The one who asked after you and Owen,’ said Leonard. ‘He wanted me to point you out but both of you had left by then.’
‘Did he say what business he had with us?’
‘No, Nick. He did not even know you were the book holder here until I told him.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘It seemed to please him.’
‘Did he ask after anyone else in the company?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Leonard. ‘The gentleman was only interested in Nick Bracewell and Owen Elias.’
‘Describe the fellow to me.’
Scratching his head, Leonard gave a rough and halting description of the stranger who had accosted him in the yard. Nicholas was disturbed. The man was clearly neither Joseph Beechcroft nor Ralph Olgrave, but the book holder sensed that he had been sent by one of them. That raised the worrying question of how they had linked his name to that of Elias and traced the both of them to the Queen’s Head. Realising that they had both been misled by him, Beechcroft and Olgrave would want to strike back at Nicholas but he was relying on his ability to disappear into the crowd. All that they had was his name. How had they discovered his occupation?
Seeing the consternation on Nicholas’s face, Leonard became remorseful.
‘I did wrong, Nick. I can see that I did.’
‘No, no, Leonard. You merely answered a civil question. I’ll not fault you for that. But, should you see him again, I’d ask you to be wary of this man.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s no friend of ours,’ said Nicholas. ‘Of that I’m certain. Do not point us out to him. Instead, warn us of his arrival.’
‘Yes, Nick. I will.’
‘Keep your eyes peeled for the fellow. I fancy that he’ll be back.’
‘No question but that he will.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because he said so,’ explained Leonard. ‘He told me that he had to see you both on urgent business. I asked him if I could carry a message to you but he gave me none. Indeed, he bade me not even mention that he was looking for you.’
‘Why did he do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I think that he wanted to surprise you.’
Westfield’s Men responded to the challenge with collective vigour. Not only did they arrive early for rehearsal, they brought with them a determination to wipe away the shame of the previous afternoon by giving a performance that would eclipse all else. Even with an attenuated wardrobe, they felt capable of reaching their best. Lawrence Firethorn was the last to arrive, riding into the yard with the hangdog look of a chastened husband, and highly embarrassed when someone pointed out that he smelt of horse dung and still had some wisps of straw stuck the back of his doublet.
Nicholas took him aside to tell him about the prospect of Edmund Hoode’s swift recovery. Delighted to hear the news, Firethorn was soon bubbling with anger when he learnt of the way that Michael Grammaticus and Doctor Zander had conspired to bring the playwright down so that he was unable to work.
‘I’ll strangle the pair of them until their deceitful eyes pop out!’ he vowed.
‘They are beyond your reach,’ said Nicholas. ‘When the doctor had seen to Michael’s wound, I took them both before a magistrate, where they confessed their crime. The law must take its course now.’
‘The law will be too lenient, Nick. Deliver them up to me.’
‘We are well rid of both of them, and we have Edmund back in exchange.’
‘That gladdens my heart, Nick,’ said Firethorn. His face darkened. ‘But there’s one loss we suffer. The Siege of Troy was a wondrous play yet we must disown it.’
‘Why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘Now that we know who the true author is, we give him his due reward. We bought the play in good faith, remember. All that we have to do is to have the name of Stephen Wragby printed upon the playbills and justice will been done.’
Firethorn slapped his thigh. ‘The Lord bless thee!’ he shouted. ‘You are right. The play is ours.’ He embraced the book holder warmly. ‘We owe this all to you, Nick. You saved Edmund from further misery and caught th
ose two deep-dyed villains.’
‘Margery’s brother-in-law deserves our thanks as well.’
‘What? That milksop, Jonathan Jarrold?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was he who told me about Michael during his time at Cambridge. Master Jarrold knew him and his friend very well. That was what first set me wondering about how good a playwright Michael Grammaticus really was. But you must know some of this,’ he went on. ‘Did not Margery’s brother-in-law mention that he and I had conversed at length about Michael?’
Firethorn shuffled his feet. ‘I got back home too late to speak to him last night.’ He recoiled from Nicholas’s look of rebuke. ‘Yes, yes, I know that I should not have gone anywhere near that card table,’ he admitted. ‘But I was tempted beyond my power to refuse. Still,’ he said, cheerily, ‘enough of my worries. Let’s share the good tidings with the others. If this does not lift their hearts, then nothing will.’
Clapping his hands to get their attention, Firethorn called everyone together before handing over to the book holder. Nicholas gave them a shortened version of events, emphasising that their beloved playwright would soon be back in the fold. While the whole company was thrilled with the news, not one of them had any sympathy for Michael Grammaticus. They rejoiced at his downfall. It was Firethorn who pointed out the implications of it all.
‘We have been through a dark night, my friends,’ he declared, ‘but we’ve emerged into the sunshine. Let us celebrate onstage this afternoon. Lord Westfield will be in his accustomed seat, our loyal spectators will be flooding into the yard and, before too long, Edmund will be here to take up his place once more.’ Smiling broadly, he held out both arms. ‘It will be just like old times.’
‘Yes,’ observed Barnaby Gill, grimly. ‘Our landlord will soon be back.’
Eager to hear what he had learnt, Ralph Olgrave met him at a tavern near Bridewell.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘What did you find out, Gregory?’
‘More than I expected, sir. Both of them are employed by Westfield’s Men.’
‘Nicholas Bracewell is also an actor?’
‘No,’ said the other. ‘He’s their book holder and, according to the simpleton I talked to at the Queen’s Head, he’s held in high esteem there.’
‘Did you get a sighting of him?’
‘Neither of him, nor of Owen Elias. Both of them had left the inn.’
Olgrave handed him a purse. ‘You’ve done well, Gregory,’ he said. ‘Take this. There’ll be much more when we’ve seen this business through. So,’ he added, sampling his wine, ‘the two of them are yoked together in Westfield’s Men, are they?’
‘That makes our task much easier, Master Olgrave.’
‘Did you find out where they live?’
‘Alas, no,’ said Gregory, slipping the purse into a pocket. ‘The shambling oaf who spoke to me did not know their addresses. I doubt if he could remember his own. All that he could say was that Nicholas Bracewell lived in Bankside, and that the Welshman lodged somewhere near Coleman Street.’
‘Now that we know where they work, we’ll soon track them to their lairs.’
‘They play The Knights of Malta this afternoon.’
‘Do they? Is that a comedy or tragedy?’
‘How would I know, Master Olgrave? I’ve never seen it acted.’
‘Then we’ll have to repair that omission,’ said Olgrave with a chuckle. ‘You and I will both join the crowd at the Queen’s Head today. I’d love to see what Owen Elias looks like. If he’s the only Welshman in the company, we’ll pick him out by his voice.’ He glanced across at his companion. ‘Come well armed, Gregory,’ he instructed. ‘We may catch a glimpse of their book holder as well.’
While she did her best to look after her young guest, Anne Hendrik could not neglect her own work. She invited Dorothea to go with her into the adjoining house that morning but the girl soon tired of watching the industrious Dutchmen, even though the apprentice kept smiling up at her. Dorothea excused herself to return to the house. Preben van Loew, the oldest and most experienced of the hatmakers, waited until the girl had left.
‘The child is too restless,’ he commented.
‘I was like that at her age, Preben.’
‘I do not believe that you ever had time on your hands,’ he said with admiration. ‘You could not be idle if you tried. As for Dorothea, she needs employment.’
‘I’ve tried to give her simple jobs to do.’
‘Her mind is on other things.’
‘She is beset with worries.’
Anne did not enlarge on her remark. The Dutchman was a good friend and a loyal servant but she did not wish to confide details of what had happened to Dorothea Tate. He would not be able to help the girl out of her predicament. Anne gave him a sketch she had made of a hat that had been commissioned by a mercer’s wife in the city. Since it would be expensive and difficult to make, she assigned it to Preben van Loew. Staring at it with interest, he discussed its finer points with her.
It was half an hour before Anne was able to go back to her house. Letting herself in, she was surprised not to find the girl in the parlour. She went across to the stairs.
‘Dorothea!’ she called. ‘Dorothea, are you there?’
There was no reply. She went quickly up the steps and let herself into the girl’s room. Her worst fears were realised. The dress that Dorothea had been wearing had been discarded, and the tattered garments in which she had first arrived were missing. An upsurge of guilt made Anne cry out in alarm. The girl had run away.
In spite of their poor account of Love and Fortune on the previous day, Westfield’s Men enticed a full audience into the Queen’s Head that afternoon. Whether they had come to mock or to admire, it did not matter. The company had the chance to vindicate itself and it was resolved to succeed. Lawrence Firethorn, in the leading role of Jean de Valette, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John Jerusalem, led his actors as if he was a general, taking a real army into battle. His voice was like the boom of a cannon.
‘No tyrant from the east shall conquer here.
The Knights of Malta will protect the isle
And fight with God Almighty on their side
To bless their cause and urge them on to feats
Of valour, acts of noble note, triumphing
At the last o’er Turkish hordes, whate’er their
Strength and purpose.’
Firethorn had such spirit and authority that nobody in the yard seemed to notice that the cloak he wore over his armour was only a velvet curtain, borrowed from the house of a friend. Hugh Wegges had worked hard to transform the mass of costumes into something that looked vaguely appropriate to the play, and – apart from occasional moments of sartorial incongruity – nobody’s appearance provoked derision. Barnaby Gill, as the jester, Hilario, was clothed in yellow from head to foot and, because the costume had been tailored to fit him perfectly, he was able to dance and turn somersaults with his usual freedom.
It was clear from the start that here was a performance of exceptional power and commitment. Having seized the attention of their audience, the company did not let it wander for a second. The Knights of Malta moved on with gathering momentum. Owen Elias had two parts in the play. Having first given a vivid portrayal of a Turkish spy, he changed sides to reappear in the final scene as Don Garcia de Toledo, Viceroy of Sicily, the man who raised the siege and liberated the gallant knights. But it was Firethorn who, having spoken the first lines in the play, brought it to a conclusion with a speech that thundered around the yard.
An ovation greeted the actors and everyone in the galleries rose spontaneously to signal their joy. Even Lord Westfield, their sybaritic patron, disentangled himself from the arms of his mistress long enough to get to his feet and applaud. When they surged back into the tiring-house, the actors were in a state of euphoria. Their only disappointment was that Edmund Hoode had not been there to share in the acclaim. Though The Knights of Malta had been written by another han
d, it had been so greatly improved by Hoode’s deft touches that he was looked upon as the author. In previous performances, he had always reserved the role of the Viceroy of Sicily for himself.
Firethorn was ecstatic. ‘Did you hear that applause, Nick?’
‘It was no more than you deserved.’
‘Costumes or not, we set their hearts and minds alight today.’
‘You have never played the part better,’ said Nicholas with sincerity. ‘Everyone in the company was inspired by you.’
‘All but Barnaby. He gave us the same stale antics.’
‘The audience loved him, as they should. Nobody can deny that.’
‘True,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘When you’ve heard those jests as often as I have, you are bound to find them barren. I think our clown did very well.’ He leant over to whisper into Nicholas’s ear. ‘But do not tell Barnaby that I said so.’
‘An encouraging word from you would be savoured,’ said Nicholas.
‘That’s why he must never hear it.’ Firethorn’s broad grin suddenly vanished. ‘O woeful day!’ he sighed, putting a hand against a wall for support. ‘What a case I am in, Nick. This afternoon, I was Jean de Valette himself, lately Governor of Tripoli and Captain General of the Order’s galleys, now the Grand Master. Yet this evening,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I must creep home to Shoreditch with my tail between my legs and try to make peace with Margery.’
‘Do not call in on Master Lavery on the way,’ counselled Nicholas.
‘I’ll not, you have my word on it!’
Firethorn moved away to take off his costume. Still carrying his sword and wearing his armour, Frank Quilter came over to speak to the book holder.
‘When do you want us, Nick?’ he asked, quietly.
‘When everything has been cleared away.’
‘James and I will be in the taproom.’
The Counterfeit Crank Page 21
