Edward Marston - The Counterfeit Crank

‘Why, yes. If trade increases the way that I hope, serving men, cooks and kitchen wenches will be in demand. Aye,’ he continued, ‘and a chambermaid or two as well. I mean to offer more rooms to weary travellers. Why do you ask?’

‘I may be able to guide two people in your direction.’

‘Men or women?’

‘One of each, both sound in wind and limb.’

‘Seasoned in the work of a busy inn?’

‘I’ll not claim that,’ said Nicholas, ‘but they are quick to learn and ready to work every hour of the day. Might there be a place for them here, do you think?’

‘If they come on your recommendation, there’s every chance.’

‘With luck, they may soon cross your threshold.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Hywel Rees and Dorothea Tate. Young, fit and able.’

‘Where are they now?’

Nicholas was honest. ‘Now, that is one thing that I’m unable to tell you.’

They eventually found a place not far from St Paul’s. Those who streamed out of the cathedral precincts on that side had to pass the spot. Hywel Rees bided his time until he saw three men approaching in clerical attire. If he could not find compassion in the Church, he decided, he would find it nowhere. When the trio was almost upon him, Hywel let out a cry and hurled himself to the ground before twitching convulsively. It was a piteous sight. Dorothea knelt to hold him in her arms and looked up with desperation in her gaze. She did not even need to speak. Most of the people in the small crowd that formed around them tried to assuage their consciences by offering charity. Coins fell quickly in Dorothea’s hands.

After thanking their benefactors, she helped Hywel to his feet and supported him as they moved to the shelter of an alleyway. Once out of sight, they embraced happily. In a matter of minutes, they had made enough money to last them for days.

‘I’ll be a true counterfeit crank yet,’ boasted Hywel.

Dorothea smiled. ‘Do not forget my part in the deceit.’

‘Without you, I’d be lost. Together, we can do anything.’

‘That Welshman helped us,’ she reminded him. ‘Owen Elias told us that we had to pick the right place. We could not have chosen more wisely.’

‘Yes, you could!’ snarled a voice behind them. ‘Give me that money.’

They turned to see a burly man, standing over them with a cudgel in his hand. Like Hywel, he was dressed in rags that were sodden with mud and spattered with blood.

‘I work here,’ warned the man. ‘Hand over what you stole from me.’

Hywel squared up to him. ‘We stole nothing,’ he said, defiantly.

The blow from the cudgel was so quick and hard that he had no time to avoid it. Catching him on the temple, it sent Hywel to the ground with blood oozing from the wound. He was too dazed even to speak. Letting out a cry, Dorothea knelt to help her wounded friend, but the man had no respect for the fairer sex. It took only a sharp flick with the cudgel to knock her out. As her hand opened, the coins were scattered on the ground. Their attacker collected them in a flash before he fled down the alleyway.

Breakfast was always eaten early at Anne Hendrik’s house in Bankside. Ever since the death of her Dutch husband, Anne, an attractive Englishwoman who had kept her good looks into her thirties, had taken over the running of his business in the adjoining property. Though she knew little about the making of hats when she first married, she turned out to have a natural talent for design and, when she was put in charge of the enterprise, Anne revealed herself as a person with administrative skills as well. Like many immigrants from abroad — so often reviled as ‘strangers’ — her husband had been refused admittance to the appropriate guild and was therefore compelled to work outside the city boundaries. Thanks to his application, the business slowly developed. Under the care of his widow, it had really prospered.

As she sat down for breakfast that morning, she glanced through the window.

‘We are blessed with another fine day, Nick,’ she said.

‘Except for some rain later this morning.’

‘But there’s not a cloud to be seen.’

‘There will be,’ promised Nicholas. ‘Mark my words. We’ll have a light shower towards noon, then it will be sunshine for the rest of the day.’

Anne did not dispute his prediction. Ever since he had come to lodge with her, she, like Westfield’s Men, had benefited from his ability to read the skies. It was only one of the talents that made him such a remarkable and wholly reliable man. Having rented out a room because she felt the need for companionship, Anne had been slowly drawn to Nicholas Bracewell and she soon discovered that the affection was mutual. By the time it had matured into love, they were sharing more than breakfast.

‘What do you play this afternoon, Nick?’ she asked.

‘ Caesar’s Fall. ’

‘So soon?’

‘The public demands it, Anne.’

‘That must be music to your ears.’

‘It is,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s always an element of danger when we stage a new play, for so many things can go awry. In this case — thank heaven — they did not.’

‘Except that you lost poor Edmund,’ she noted.

‘That was not the fault of the play or the playwright.’

‘No, but it must have hindered you.’

‘Oh, it did. We had to make hurried changes at the eleventh hour.’

‘Are you still worried about Edmund?’

‘Very much so,’ he confessed, reaching for some bread. ‘It’s almost a week now and he is still not back on his feet. Edmund tells me that he feels better, but there are no clear signs of it. His landlady says that he sleeps half the day. That alarms me, Anne.’

‘Have you spoken with the doctor?’

‘I expect to do so today. Doctor Zander is due to call on him again.’

Anne sipped her cup of whey. ‘I can see why you fret so,’ she said. ‘Edmund is more than a fine playwright and a good actor. He’s your dear friend.’

‘I love him like a brother, Anne. To see him in this woeful condition stabs me in the heart. His illness could not have come at a worse time,’ he said, soulfully. ‘We have a large stock of plays — many by Edmund Hoode — but novelty is always in request or our work grows stale. It’s the reason that Edmund has laboured so hard on his latest comedy. It was promised to us by the end of the month.’

‘Is there no chance that he may complete it in time?’

‘None at all. He can barely raise his head, leave alone lift a pen to write a play. That’s the worst of it, Anne,’ he went on, eyes filled with disquiet. ‘Edmund tells me that he can no longer think straight. His brain is addled. Do you see what that portends?’

She gave a nod. ‘It could be a disease of the mind.’

‘And we may have lost that wonderful imagination forever.’

‘That’s a frightening notion. Who could replace a man like Edmund Hoode?’

‘No such person exists, Anne.’

An idea struck her. ‘I have a customer who dwells not far from his lodging,’ she said. ‘Preben has all but finished work on the lady’s hat. When we deliver it to her, I could call in to see Edmund. Do you think that he would welcome a visitor?’

‘As many as he can get,’ said Nicholas, ‘so that he knows how much we care for him. Owen and I have been there every day. Lawrence, too, has been regular in his visits and Margery has promised to go as well.’

‘What of Barnaby?’

‘He sends his best wishes but refuses to enter the house himself.’

‘Why? Does he fear infection?’

‘There’s no danger of that or we’d all be struck down. No, Anne, he says that he hates to look on sickness for it distresses him so.’ Nicholas swallowed another piece of bread and washed it down with a sip of his drink. ‘Barnaby Gill is too selfish a man to spare much thought for others.’