Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

Lavery grinned unashamedly. ‘It was a profitable visit.’

‘Then you’ll have some pleasant memories to take with you to prison.’

Crowmere thought only of himself. His confederate was too puny to fight his way out but the landlord was a strong man. Pretending to concede all the charges against him, he offered his hand to Nicholas in congratulation then brought it up suddenly to push the book holder in the chest. He lunged for the door but Leonard stood in his way. When he tried to shove him aside, Crowmere had the costumes thrust in his face. He was then lifted bodily by Leonard and tossed back into the room with ridiculous ease. Falling to the floor with a thump, he stared up resentfully at the man he used to employ.

‘Why did you do that, you lumbering fool?’ he demanded.

Leonard shrugged. ‘Nick is my friend,’ he said. ‘You pushed him.’

Lawrence Firethorn could not remember a time when he had been so happy. Reconciled with his wife, he was the manager of a theatre company that had its wardrobe restored, its stolen money repaid, its playwright returned from his sick bed and its book holder back in charge. It even had an exciting new play, The Siege of Troy, to present that afternoon. The final rehearsal went so well that the diminutive George Dart only dropped his spear once by mistake, and took four minor roles without ever getting them confused. As they broke for refreshment, Firethorn came bounding over to Nicholas Bracewell.

‘I sense another triumph in the air, Nick,’ he said, confidently.

‘I always thought it a fine play.’

‘Thanks to you, its fine author now gets credit. Otherwise, we would be staging a tragedy by a counterfeit playwright. The real tragedy is that Stephen Wragby was the one to die while Michael Grammaticus lived.’

‘Wish no man to an early grave, Lawrence.’

‘Why not?’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d happily dig the graves of Philomen Lavery and that crafty landlord, then bury their bodies while the two of them were still breathing.’

‘They are not here to vex us any more,’ observed Nicholas.

‘Thanks to you again.’

‘Leonard helped me, remember. He discovered our wardrobe.’

‘Hidden away right under our noses,’ said Firethorn, snorting. ‘Have you ever met a more audacious rogue than Adam Crowmere?’

‘Yes, I have. Two of them, in fact.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Joseph Beechcroft and Ralph Olgrave,’ said Nicholas. ‘Both of them, born liars, cheats, thieves, lechers, embezzlers, murderers and much more. It gives me great pleasure to send them to the gallows.’

Firethorn was vengeful. ‘I’d have Crowmere and Lavery dangling beside them,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Yes, and if there was any rope left, I’d make a noose for Michael and that poisonous Doctor Zander.’ He put a companionable arm around Nicholas’s shoulder. ‘You’ve had a busy time of late, Nick, filling the city’s prisons.’

‘Each one of those villains deserves his new residence.’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, overhearing them. ‘Do not forget to include Gregory Sumner. He’s behind bars as well. His confession will drown out all the lies of his egregious masters. We did the city good service by revealing what was happening behind the walls of Bridewell.’

‘I know,’ said Nicholas. ‘But only because we met a counterfeit crank.’

‘What we met was a true Welshman. No man can counterfeit his nation.’

‘We’ll need to do so this afternoon,’ argued Firethorn. ‘I’ll be a warlike Greek and you’ll be a worthy Trojan. Beware, Owen. I’ll besiege your Welshness.’

‘Never!’ said Elias.

‘I’ll pelt your Celtic heritage.’

‘Over my dead body!’

‘Let’s move this quarrel into the tiring house,’ said Nicholas, easing the two men away. ‘We need to clear the stage. Our audience will be here ere long. Do not let them see you in costume until the play begins or you rob us of surprise.’

‘True, Nick,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘But Owen and I will not quarrel.’

‘No,’ said Elias. ‘We’ll settle this dispute with swords.’

‘Swords or leeks?’ taunted the other.

‘Both, Lawrence!’

Still bickering, the actors went off, leaving Nicholas to make sure that everything was ready for the performance that afternoon. When the stage had been set for the first scene, he checked that the gatherers were at their posts, and that all the properties stood in readiness in the tiring house. Returning to the yard once more, he saw that the first two spectators were already taking their seats in the lower gallery. Anne Hendrik had brought Dorothea Tate to take her first excited look at Westfield’s Men.

An hour later, they were only a tiny part of the large crowd that had descended on the Queen’s Head to watch The Siege of Troy. Surrounded by his entourage, Lord Westfield was in his usual place, quite unaware of the vicissitudes endured by his company. Two people who did have some insight into what the troupe had suffered sat side by side in the upper gallery. Doctor John Mordrake and Margery Firethorn made an unlikely couple but they had been invited along at the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell to see a new play being launched upon the choppy waters of a demanding audience.

Margery’s principal interest was in her husband, but Mordrake was more concerned to see how his patient fared. Recovered enough to take a supporting role, Edmund Hoode was overjoyed to be back with his fellows and, from the moment that he entered in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue, it was clear that his doctor had effected a remarkable cure. Like Caesar’s Fall, by the same author, The Siege of Troy recounted a story that had been told on stage many times. Where it outshone rival versions, and where it rose above Stephen Wragby’s other play, was in the quality of its verse, the delineation of its characters and the sheer verve of its action.

A decade of war was displayed at the Queen’s Head. Lawrence Firethorn was a wily Ulysses, spinning seductive webs of words, while Owen Elias was a defiant King Priam. Richard Honeydew found pathos and cynicism in the role of Cressida. James Ingram was a commanding Agamemnon and Frank Quilter, a bellicose Ajax, teased and tormented by Barnaby Gill’s prancing clown. Mistakes were inevitably made but they went unnoticed by the audience as the play swept on from scene to arresting scene. In the final act, when the huge wooden horse made by Nathan Curtis was wheeled out of the stables where it had been concealed, it earned the biggest cheer of the afternoon.

Appropriately, it fell to Edmund Hoode, who had suffered the worst ordeal because of his unique position in the company, to deliver the Epilogue that he had written to replace that by Michael Grammaticus. Standing in the centre of the stage, relishing his moment, he declaimed the speech to the sound of music.

‘Our tale is told of Trojan and of Greek,

Of ancient malice, treachery and meek

Surrender to a wooden horse, a toy

Whose silent neigh brought down the walls of Troy.

Upon these boards, false Cressida has walked,

Ulysses hatched his plots, Achilles stalked

The gallant Hector with a shameful plan

To murder him by ambush. Every man

Was traitor or betrayed. This self-same flower

Of perfidy and lies has left its dower

To each succeeding age. It charms our mind

And with its scent makes all of us go blind.

We do not see what stands before our eyes

Until it is too late. Deceit now thrives

And forgery runs wild. This Grecian trick

Has spawned a thousand ruses just as quick