The Counterfeit Crank (3 page)

The story of Julius Caesar was a familiar one and other dramatists had explored it in various ways. What set this new version apart from other plays on the same subject was the emphasis placed on Caesar’s earlier career, showing him as a fearless soldier and a brilliant administrator. It was only later that the martial hero was corrupted by over-ambition. To maintain sympathy for a man with such a glaring flaw in his character, the play offered insights into Caesar’s domestic life and – in one of the most vivid scenes in the play – it anticipated the assassination with a fall of another kind.

Until that point, Firethorn had given a stirring account of Caesar, brave, proud, intelligent, adventurous and endlessly resourceful. By the sheer force of his acting, he had transformed Julius Caesar into a demi-god. Then, at the height of his power, when the audience believed they
were looking at an indestructible human being, Firethorn suffered from an attack of falling sickness, dropping to the ground without warning and having such a frenzied epileptic fit that everyone in the yard thought that it was real. It was Brutus, later to conspire against Caesar, who came to his friend’s aid by inserting the handle of a dagger into his mouth to keep his teeth apart in order to prevent him from biting off his tongue. The same dagger would later help to bring about his ultimate fall.

Seated in the lower gallery, Michael Grammaticus watched with teeth clenched and hands clasped tightly together. Though the spectators were engaged from the start, he could not relax, fearing that the piece would lose its grip on the audience or that rain would come to dampen their ardour. His admiration for Westfield’s Men increased with every scene. The problems that had dogged them during rehearsals had miraculously disappeared. Led by Firethorn, the whole company was in tremendous form. Grammaticus was also impressed by the way that the loss of Edmund Hoode was covered. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the part of Trebonius was cut out altogether and James Ingram, who had taken the role, instead became Casca. Nobody missed a lesser conspirator.

Enlivened by the antics of Barnaby Gill throughout, the play mixed tragedy and comedy in judicious proportions, moving towards its climax with gathering speed. When the assassination came, it was so vicious and dramatic that there were cries of horror from all corners of the yard. Julius Caesar then gave them all a death scene to remember,
staggering around the stage with bloodied hands trying to stem the flow from his various wounds and reviling his enemies in a speech of defiance that showed his true nobility. While his corpse was finally borne away to solemn music, the audience was in a state of profound shock. They had witnessed a sublime tragedy.

As the emperor reappeared to lead his company on to the stage, dark clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight peeped through. It was like a heavenly benediction. Applause was slow at first but it quickly built to a crescendo. Those in the pit stamped and cheered, those in the balconies were on their feet to acknowledge a magnificent performance by Lawrence Firethorn and his company. The ovation seemed to go on forever. Nobody clapped louder than Michael Grammaticus. Released at last from the tension that had made the afternoon something of an ordeal, he was overcome with joy at having fulfilled his ambition. A play with his name on it had taken the stage by storm. A whole new life had suddenly opened out before him.

While the actors discarded their costumes and adjourned to the taproom to celebrate, Nicholas Bracewell organised the dismantling of the stage and made sure that the scenery and properties were safely locked away. He and Owen Elias then permitted themselves only one tankard of ale with their fellows at the Queen’s Head before they slipped away to visit a friend. Edmund Hoode was dozing when they arrived at his lodging but his eyelids soon fluttered open. He gave them a tired smile of welcome.

‘Nick … Owen,’ he murmured. ‘What brings you here?’

‘We came to see how you are,’ said Nicholas.

Elias grinned. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he joked. ‘I only came to catch a glimpse of the landlady’s beautiful daughter. What a fetching young creature she is, Edmund! Were I lodged here, I’d never spend a night alone in that bed.’

‘Both mother and daughter have been very good to me,’ said Hoode.

‘You’ve enjoyed the
two
of them?’ said Elias with a cackle of delight. ‘No wonder you look so weary, if you’ve been ravishing them in turn. Your chamber is a veritable leaping house.’

‘This is no time for mockery, Owen,’ warned Nicholas, distressed at the sight of Hoode’s deathly pallor. ‘It’s cruel to tease him so.’ He put a considerate hand on the patient’s shoulder. ‘How are you, Edmund?’

‘All the better for seeing two friendly faces,’ replied Hoode in a querulous voice. ‘I just feel so fatigued, Nick. I’ve scarcely the strength to sit up in bed.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘That the only remedy is a long rest.’

‘A long rest?’ echoed Elias, anxiously. ‘I can see that the doctor knows little of a theatre company. If our beloved playwright has a long rest, we suffer the consequences. Westfield’s Men without Edmund Hoode is like a river without water.’

‘I think that you exaggerate, Owen.’

‘We miss you on and offstage. It’s like losing a limb. Is it not so, Nick?’

‘Edmund is certainly missed,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but he must be fully recovered before he returns to the fray. What has the doctor given you?’

‘A magic potion that took aware all my pain,’ said Hoode, gratefully. ‘I was in agony when you carried me back here and thought I was like to die. Then I took this
potion that Doctor Zander mixed. It saved my life.’

Elias was suspicious. ‘Zander? That sounds like a foreign name.’

‘So does Owen Elias,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘for nobody is more foreign to us than the Welsh. What does it matter where the good doctor hails from as long as he can cure this strange disease? Do you have faith in him, Edmund?’

‘I do. Emmanuel Zander is kind and gentle.’

‘When will he call again?’

‘Tomorrow, Nick. But enough of me,’ he said, trying to bring himself fully awake. ‘Tell me about the play. How did
Caesar’s Fall
fare this afternoon?’

‘Excellently well.’

‘Apart from scenes involving Casca, that is,’ said Elias, trying to rally him with praise. ‘Strive as he might, James Ingram was but a poor shadow of you in the part. You were Casca to the life, Edmund.’

‘Is this true, Nick?’

‘True enough, you were indeed a fine Casca,’ said Nicholas, ‘but James was a capable deputy. He never faltered. Lawrence and Barnaby stole most of the plaudits, as is usual, but Owen here matched them for quality as Brutus, and Frank Quilter’s scheming Cassius was his best performance yet.
Caesar’s Fall
was a signal triumph.’

‘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 heels, 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.’