Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

To steal our purses or to take our lives.

The innocent go down, the cheat survives.

For proof of this, behold our little stage,

Where you have seen the bloody battles rage

And mighty generals meeting face to face

While cunning politicians swift embrace.

You let illusion take its benefit

For we, your actors, did but counterfeit.’

Alexander Marwood was a picture of dejection. The high hopes that had taken him to Dunstable had been dashed. After sitting interminably beside his dying brother, he did his best to put aside old enmities, only to learn, when the will was finally read after the funeral, that he had been left nothing at all. Accompanied by a vindictive wife, who blamed him for wasting their time, he travelled back to London in great discomfort on their cart. Not even the sight of the capital could inspire him. Having left a brother who had betrayed him, he was going back, with a wife he feared, to an inn he hated and an occupation that he despised.

They reached Gracechurch Street towards the end of the afternoon, just in time to watch the happy crowds pouring out of the Queen’s Head to remind the landlord that he would have to contend with the actors who loathed him almost as much as he detested them. It was a heavy cross to bear. He and Sybil drove into the yard in grim silence, furious at the noise of revelry that was coming from the taproom. It sounded as if a riot was taking place there. Marwood jumped down from the cart and rushed off to save what he could of his inn before what he believed was an unruly mob got completely out of hand. But, when he charged into the taproom, a miracle occurred.

The noise ceased instantly and everyone turned to look at him with a respect that bordered almost on reverence. During his absence, Westfield’s Men had been assailed by a whole series of setbacks, testing them to the limit of their tolerance. Much of their suffering had been inflicted by Adam Crowmere, the very man engaged to replace their old landlord. He and his false friendship had now gone. Alexander Marwood was back to revile them as before but they found that strangely reassuring. Whatever his faults, the landlord was sincere. He was no counterfeit.

With a spontaneous release of affection, the whole company clapped and cheered him to the echo. Lawrence Firethorn even went so far as to hug the man warmly and kiss him on his pate. Marwood was overwhelmed by his reception. Against all the odds, he was wanted. As the ovation continued, and as the actors patted him warmly on the back, he was caught up in the spirit of the moment. For the first time since his wedding night, he put back his head and laughed with unreserved joy.