Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘I can do little else,’ he wailed. ‘That’s what vexes me. I am as weak as a kitten.’

‘Kittens are playful. You have no spark of life in you.’

‘Doctor Zander is sure that I will recover in time.’

‘Lawrence tells me that the doctor does not even know what is wrong with you.’

‘He cannot put a name to the malady, it is true,’ admitted Hoode, ‘but he brought a colleague with him yesterday, a Doctor Rime, older and more learned. He has seen the disease before and commended a herbal remedy. I started on it this morning.’

‘It has made no visible difference,’ she observed.

‘I feel better, Margery, that’s the main thing. The fog has cleared slightly.’

‘Fog? What are you talking about? The sun is shining brightly today.’

‘Not inside my head,’ he explained. ‘My mind has been shrouded in mist for days. I could neither reason nor remember. I feared I would sink into idiocy.’

‘Perish the thought! Your imagination is your greatest asset.’

‘Until today, that imagination had deserted me, Margery.’

‘No wonder you were afraid,’ she said, perching on the edge of the bed and taking his hand between her palms. ‘You poor thing! It must have been an agony for you. What can I do to comfort you, Edmund? Shall I fetch food or water?’

‘Neither, neither. Your presence is a comfort in itself.’

Hoode had finally come round to the view that she was, after all, welcome. Margery Firethorn was a formidable woman when roused and he had always taken great care not to provoke her scorn or anger. As a result, they had become firm friends. In one sense, her forthrightness was a blessing. She was a clear mirror in which he could view himself. Others, out of sympathy, pretended to notice signs of progress that were not really there. Through Margery’s keen eyes, he saw himself as he really was.

For her part, compassion was now oozing out of Margery. She gazed down at him as if he were one of her own children, fighting a mysterious illness and needing a mother’s love and support. Hoode felt cared for and reassured.

‘Is your landlady looking after you?’ she asked.

‘Very well. She and her daughter have been angels of mercy.’

‘They’ll answer to me if they let you down, Edmund.’

‘It’s I who have let them down,’ he confessed, sadly. ‘All that my rent buys me is the use of this lodging yet they have treated me like one of the family. Their tenderness has been a solace to me. I said as much to Adele when she brought my breakfast.’

‘Adele? Is that the daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think she would be a solace to any man,’ said Margery with a grin. ‘I begin to see why Lawrence has been such a regular caller here. He comes to feast his eyes on her as well as to see you. Adele is a girl of rare beauty. If she does not make your heart lift up, then you are truly stricken.’

‘Oh, I know, I know!’

‘Apart from my husband, who else has been to see you?’

‘Nick Bracewell, of course. He comes every day. Owen Elias, too. And most of the other sharers have looked in at some time. The only one to avoid me is Barnaby.’

‘Would he desert you in your hour of need?’

‘He has always been squeamish about disease.’

‘Squeamish or selfish?’ she asked, sharply. ‘Barnaby is inclined to be both. He ought to be here out of simple friendship, if nothing else. I’ll tax him about it.’

‘No, no,’ he pleaded. ‘Let him be. I have visitors enough without him. He is likely to bring more reproach than sympathy, and I would rather avoid that.’

‘What on earth could he reproach you for, Edmund?’

‘Being unable to finish a play that I was contracted to write.’

‘Illness delays you. That is not your fault.’

‘Barnaby would make me feel that it was. He has badgered me for a new comedy and, when I am on the point of completing it, I am struck down. He feels robbed.’

‘I’ll rob him of something else if he dares to chide you,’ vowed Margery, ‘and his voice will be much higher as a result. I think it barbarous that he ignores you when you have taken to your sick bed. Has he no Christian charity?’

‘Barnaby is a law unto himself.’

‘I think his treatment of you is shameful, and I’ll say so to his face. As for this new comedy,’ she went on, ‘it can surely wait. Lawrence says that they look for another in its stead. Michael Grammaticus is writing a second play.’

‘Nick told me as much,’ said Hoode, ‘and I was heartened by the news. If we have something new to offer, I’ll not feel that I have failed the company.’

‘You could never do that, Edmund.’

‘I pray that Michael can come to our rescue.’

‘Oh, what a sweet creature you are!’ she said, bending forward to kiss him on the head. ‘Most authors are green with envy when they hear of the success of others, yet you seek to help your rivals.’

‘Michael is no rival. He is a burgeoning playwright. It’s my bounden duty to nurture his talent so that Westfield’s Men can benefit. Caesar’s Fall, as I hear, carried all before it.’ He smiled up at her. ‘Is it possible that Michael Grammaticus can write something as accomplished as that again?’

Nicholas Bracewell could see the transformation that success had wrought in him. On the eve of its performance, Michael Grammaticus was as taut as a lute string, fearing that the play was inadequate or that it would somehow founder before an audience. The applause that had greeted Caesar’s Fall had put a deep satisfaction in his eyes. He had passed a crucial test and the relief was immense. Although he was still not at ease with most of the company, he somehow felt that he was at last part of them. Nicholas did his best to encourage that feeling.

‘Come whenever you wish, Michael,’ he said. ‘We are always pleased to see you at the Queen’s Head. You have earned the right to rub shoulders with Westfield’s Men.’

‘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. ’