Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘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 those 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.