Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘I’m not sure that we will. There could be dark days ahead. All the more reason to make the most of present joys,’ he decided, pulling her close to kiss her on the lips again. ‘Come here, my fallen angel.’

She giggled. ‘Your beard tickles me so.’

‘Is that a complaint, my dove?’

‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘I adore the feeling.’

‘Then you shall have as much adoration as you wish.’

And with an upsurge of lust, he mounted her again and rode his wife with renewed energy until the bed threatened to collapse beneath the weight of their exertions.

They both slept soundly that night.

Adam Crowmere was as good as his word. On his first Sunday as landlord of the Queen’s Head, he set aside a private room at the inn for Westfield’s Men, and filled it with as much food, ale and wine as they could reasonably consume. The company’s sharers were there and even the hired men were bidden to the feast. The one notable absentee was Edmund Hoode, who, though showing a slight improvement, was still too poorly to attend a public event. With great regret, he had declined the kind offer from his friends to carry him to the feast.

Unlike the companies who played at the two Shoreditch theatres, or at The Rose in Bankside, Lawrence Firethorn and his troupe were subject to city jurisdiction and thus unable to perform on the Sabbath. While their rivals drew large audiences to their plays, therefore, they were forced to lay idle and it always vexed them. This Sunday, it was quite different. Jollity was on display. From midday until mid-afternoon, they were the guests of Adam Crowmere and he did his best to make them feel at home.

‘Eat and drink to your heart’s content, my friends,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’

‘Are we like to have this every Sunday?’ asked Owen Elias, hopefully.

Crowmere chortled. ‘Not unless you wish to see me imprisoned for debt, Owen. No, this is my way of thanking you for all the pleasure you have given me, and for the money you’ve put into my coffers by attracting such thirsty customers to the Queen’s Head. My first day here was a revelation. We had such a busy time after Caesar’s Fall that I had to order fresh barrels from the brewery.’

‘You’ll need to order some more before we’ve finished this afternoon.’

‘So be it,’ said Crowmere, happily. ‘I’ll not stint my friends.’

He sauntered around the room to exchange remarks with each and every one of them. Nicholas Bracewell watched him, amazed at the way that he had learnt so many of their names in so short a time. Crowmere was a popular host, able to lapse into easy familiarity with his various guests while somehow retaining the authority of his position as landlord. What convinced Nicholas of the man’s excellence was the effect he had had on his staff. Serving men, who had scurried about in fear of their master when Alexander Marwood was in charge, now moved with the brisk eagerness of people who were happy in their work. Adam Crowmere had created a joyous atmosphere at the Queen’s Head.

‘What do you play tomorrow, Lawrence?’ he enquired of the actor-manager.

‘ Love’s Sacrifice, ’ said Firethorn.

Crowmere grinned. ‘We’ve all made that in our time.’

‘And hope to do so again, Adam.’

‘They say that desire fades with age.’

‘I’ve not found it so. It seems to increase with each year that passes.’

‘Then you are even more remarkable than I imagined,’ said Crowmere, giving him a playful nudge. ‘You can count on one spectator for Love’s Sacrifice. ’

Firethorn was astonished. ‘But you’ve already seen three plays of ours.’

‘I mean to see several more before I’ve done. What is the point of taking over the Queen’s Head if I do not avail myself of its prime benefit? I’ll turn spectator again and be seated in the gallery tomorrow.’

‘We never got that death’s head of a landlord to sit through a single play.’

‘Alexander was blind to the delights of theatre.’

‘Delight never entered his being,’ said Firethorn with rancour. ‘Nor that of the gorgon to whom he was married. How could two hideous creatures like them produce such a lovely daughter as Rose Marwood? It’s unnatural.’

‘It is surprising, I agree,’ said Crowmere. ‘Sybil is my cousin and I must love her for that, but she was never known for her good looks. Wedded bliss can put a bloom on the most ill-favoured woman. Alas, that is not the case with her. Marriage to Alexander has only served to harden my dear cousin.’

‘The woman is pure flint from top till toe.’

‘Make the most of her absence, Lawrence. One day, I fear, Sybil will return.’

‘Is there no way that you could take over the inn?’

‘Not unless they were willing to surrender it,’ said Crowmere, wistfully, ‘and that is unlikely to happen. When they return, I go back to Rochester. Meanwhile, however, I intend to make hay while the sun shines.’

‘Then so shall we, Adam!’

Firethorn clapped him on the shoulder then reached for his wine. The landlord moved on to talk to Barnaby Gill, plying him with flattering remarks about his various performances. Gill basked in the praise. Nicholas was pleased when the landlord finally reached him and he stood up to speak to Crowmere.

‘You have done us proud, Adam,’ he observed.

‘It was the least that I could do, Nick. Westfield’s Men have graced this inn for too long without being given their due reward.’ He looked around. ‘It does me good to see you all in such good humour. The pity of it is that your esteemed patron could not be here to taste my pork and sip my wine.’

‘Lord Westfield sends his apologies,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he is dining in the country with friends today. He hopes to trespass on your generosity another time.’

‘Then so he shall.’

‘We are truly in your debt, Adam. See how everyone is enjoying themselves.’

‘All bar the spectre at the feast.’

‘Who?’

‘Our budding author, dressed in black.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Nicholas, glancing across the room. ‘In such a gathering as this, Michael is a fish out of water. He has my sympathy.’

Bent over the table, Michael Grammaticus was nibbling at a chicken leg without any real appetite. A tankard of ale remained untouched in front of him. While the rest of Westfield’s Men were delighting in the convivial atmosphere, the playwright was finding it a positive trial. He was not helped by the fact that George Dart, the lowliest and least educated member of the company, was seated opposite him. Nobody in the room was more willing or more desperate to be liked than Dart, and he made several attempts to strike up a conversation with Grammaticus. They failed dismally. In his sober garb, the playwright chose to remain aloof and eat in grim silence.

‘What’s wrong with the fellow?’ wondered Crowmere. ‘If he did not relish the notion of a feast, why force himself to join us here?’

‘Because he wishes to be one of us,’ said Nicholas, thoughtfully. ‘He’ll never mix as easily with the players as you contrive to do, Adam, but that does not matter. In one sense, Michael may be suffering. That’s plain for all to see. In another sense, I fancy, he may be taking a quiet satisfaction from the occasion.’

Crowmere gaped. ‘Satisfaction! It’s not the kind of satisfaction for which I yearn, Nick. Give me banter and merriment. Give me something that sets my blood on fire.’

‘Michael has another source of pleasure. I think. But let us leave him to his own devices,’ he went on, recalling his encounter with the two beggars. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to raise with you. You spoke of needing fresh hands to help you here.’