The Counterfeit Crank

Chapter Eleven

Another day had done nothing to calm Dorothea Tate’s frayed nerves. She was still very apprehensive and constantly troubled by pangs of guilt. Though Anne Hendrik did her best to keep the girl occupied, she could not divert her for long. As the evening wore on, and the first candles were lighted in the house, Dorothea remained restless and unhappy. The two women were sitting in the parlour. Anne was sewing a dress.

‘Where is Nicholas?’ asked Dorothea, getting to her feet.

‘He will be back again soon.’

‘I pray that nothing untoward has happened to him.’

‘Nick can take care of himself,’ said Anne, looking up from her sewing. ‘Have no fears on his account, Dorothea.’

‘But the men who run Bridewell are so dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing.’

‘All the more reason to bring them to justice.’

‘What can one man do against them and the keepers at the workhouse?’

‘We shall see.’

‘I’m frightened for his safety, Anne.’

‘That’s only natural.’

‘I’ve lost one dear friend already,’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d hate to lose another.’

‘I’m glad that you see Nick as a friend. When he first brought you back here, you had grave doubts about him. You were afraid that he was trying to lead you astray.’ Anne smiled fondly. ‘Nick would never do that.’

‘I know. He’s such a kind man. But I worry about him — and so do you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, Anne,’ she said. ‘I’ve been watching you all evening. You pretend to be calm and collected but every time you hear a horse in the street you look up at the door. I think you are as worried as I am.’

‘I would like him back home, I admit that.’

‘You see? You call it his home, not his lodging.’

‘Nick is rather more than a lodger to me,’ said Anne, discreetly. ‘He’s a close friend. That’s why he knew I’d take you in and look after you.’ She finished her sewing and held up the dress. ‘Here we are. Wear this tomorrow. It’s an old dress of mine that I was going to throw out, but I’ve mended it instead.’

Dorothea took the dress from her. ‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘Try it on.’

‘I can see that it fits,’ said the girl, holding it against herself. ‘I’ve never worn anything as nice as this. You are so generous.’

‘There was a time when I was slim enough to wear it,’ said Anne, wistfully, ‘but no more, alas. I’d much rather you have it.’ She saw the remorse in Dorothea’s face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ replied the girl. ‘I wonder what I have done to deserve this.’

‘You need help. It would be cruel to turn you away.’

‘Yet that’s what everyone else did. Hywel and I begged on the streets for days and most people walked past without even noticing us. Some of those who did spat on us or called us vile names. London is a cruel city.’

‘Some people can be very selfish,’ agreed Anne, sadly.

‘If only Hywel could have lived to enjoy all this,’ said Dorothea, looking around the room. ‘To wear clean clothes and eat good food and have a roof over his head. It’s not fair that I should have it while he lies dead in the morgue.’

‘Do not see it that way, Dorothea.’

‘But I must. I still feel so guilty about what happened to him.’

‘Without reason.’

‘He came to my rescue,’ said Dorothea with feeling. ‘When Master Beechcroft was scolding me, Hywel attacked him and beat him to the ground. That’s why they killed him. It was because of me. And I fear that they’ll do the same to Nicholas. Stop him from going to Bridewell,’ she implored, coming across to Anne. ‘Please, stop him. I don’t want his blood on my conscience as well.’

Doctor John Mordrake removed the cork from the tiny bottle and sniffed it. He was a big man whose face and body had suffered the ravages of time. His long, lank, silver-grey hair merged with a straggly beard. He wore a capacious black gown, black buckled shoes and a large gold chain that hung down to his chest. Astrologer, alchemist, wizard, seer and royal physician, he exuded a strange power. Nicholas Bracewell had befriended him years before and turned to him on more than one occasion. This time, he had brought Mordrake to examine Edmund Hoode.

Seated on the bed in his nightshirt, the patient watched with some trepidation. He feared that Doctor Zander might make an evening call at the house and catch him seeking another medical opinion. Seeing his concern, Nicholas gave him an encouraging smile. He wanted the playwright to be treated by a doctor who was not so closely connected to Michael Grammaticus. Some people thought Mordrake a mountebank, others decried him as a necromancer, but Nicholas had every faith in him. He turned to watch as the old man dipped his finger into the bottle, then tasted the medicine on the tip of his tongue. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mordrake put the bottle aside. He reached for one of the candles and held the flame close to Hoode’s face, moving it around so that he could conduct a detailed scrutiny.

‘Put out you tongue, sir,’ he ordered.

‘Yes, Doctor Mordrake,’ said Hoode, obeying.

The old man peered at it. ‘You feel no pain?’ Hoode shook his head. Mordrake felt both sides of the patient’s neck. ‘No swelling of the glands?’

‘Only at first, when the fever was upon me.’

‘What have you been eating?’

‘Lots of fruit,’ said Hoode, indicating the bowl. ‘Doctor Zander advised it.’

Mordrake selected an apple, took a large bite from it, then removed the piece from his mouth. He sniffed it and the rest of the apple before putting both on the table.

‘I’ll need to see your water, Master Hoode.’

‘The chamber pot is under the bed. It’s not been emptied.’

‘Good,’ said Mordrake, lowering himself with some difficulty to his knees and extracting the chamber pot. ‘I’ll take a specimen, if I may.’

From a pocket somewhere in his gown, he pulled out a stone bottle and uncorked it before filling it with urine. Once again, his nose made the diagnosis. Corking the bottle, he slipped it back into his pocket and eased the chamber pot beneath the bed. Nicholas stepped forward to help him up.

‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ said Mordrake, leaning heavily on his arm. ‘I can cure the plague, the pox and the sweating sickness, but I’ve yet to find a remedy for old age.’

‘Do you think that you can cure Edmund?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Without a doubt.’

Hoode was heartened. ‘That’s cheering news, Doctor Mordrake,’ he said. ‘How long will it take? Doctor Zander said that it would take several weeks, perhaps even longer.’

‘Leave yourself in the hands of that impostor,’ warned Mordrake, raising a long finger, ‘and you may never recover. You suffer from no disease, Master Hoode.’

‘No? Then what is wrong with me?’

‘You are being poisoned.’

Margery Firethorn had run out of apologies. Expecting her husband to return in order to spend time with their guest, she was mortified to be left alone again in Shoreditch with her brother-in-law. They had always had an uneasy relationship. She found Jonathan Jarrold far too mild and self-effacing for her taste whereas he was patently intimidated by her potency. To be left alone in a room with Margery made him feel shy and inadequate, and he was eternally grateful that he had married the quieter of the two sisters. Since she had little interest in books, and even less in this particular bookseller, Margery had little to say to him. Their conversation was punctuated by long silences.

‘Lawrence will be back soon,’ she said for the fifteenth time.

‘I want to congratulate him on his performance at the rehearsal.’

‘As long as you do not mention this afternoon. According to the apprentices, it was a sorry affair. That will have put Lawrence in a choleric mood.’

‘He was not very cheerful this morning,’ he recalled with a diffident smile. ‘How he yelled at his actors! I’d never heard such curses.’

‘He always snaps at their heels,’ said Margery.

‘Putting on a play is more difficult than I imagined. This is the first time I’ve witnessed a rehearsal and it opened my eyes. Lawrence was in fine voice himself, so was Barnaby Gill, the clown. I remember seeing him at Cambridge.’

‘Who else did you meet? Nick Bracewell, I daresay.’

‘Oh, he was most helpful,’ said Jarrold. ‘That was another revelation. I thought that a book holder simply prompted the actors, but this one did so much more than that. He even told people where to move and stand onstage.’

She gave an affectionate smile. ‘Nick is a jewel.’

‘It was he who told me about Michael Grammaticus. I knew him at Cambridge.’

‘Was he any livelier there? Lawrence says that the fellow is so morose.’

‘I think that Michael still mourns the death of his friend.’

There was another strained silence. Margery’s ears pricked up hopefully at the sound of a horse in the street outside, but it trotted past the house. She settled back in her chair with a grunt of annoyance. Jarrold was perched on the edge of his stool, conscious that his presence was irritating her yet unable to find words to win her over. Even at her most quiescent, he was wary of Margery. When she was fuming, as now, with barely contained rage, he found her nothing short of terrifying. The thought of sharing a bed with such a termagant made him shudder. Jarrold sensed that he would be devoured alive.

Feeling that it was his turn to initiate further conversation, he fell back on a sentence that she had already uttered time and again.

‘Lawrence will be back soon,’ he said.

Margery exploded. ‘Where, in the bowels of Christ, is the rogue?’ she howled.

Lawrence Firethorn watched from a corner as Philomen Lavery dealt the cards. Still reeling from the news of Marwood’s return, Firethorn had drunk far too much wine to be able to resist the landlord’s persuasive tongue. Adam Crowmere had taken him up to the room where three guests were playing cards with Lavery. The landlord advised Firethorn to watch while he took the empty chair at the table. It soon became clear that Crowmere’s run of luck had expired. Time after time he lost a game yet somehow maintained his good humour.

‘I’ll withdraw,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘while I still have money enough to feed myself. Take my place, Lawrence,’ he invited. ‘You can do no worse than me.’

Firethorn shook his head. ‘I’ll not play again.’

‘One game,’ suggested Lavery, gathering up the cards. ‘Just one game.’

‘One always leads to another.’

‘Not if your will is strong enough, Master Firethorn.’

‘My will is like iron,’ boasted the other.

‘Then you can play a single game and walk away.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn. ‘I could, if I wished.’

‘Prove it,’ coaxed Lavery. ‘Take the empty chair.’

With obvious misgivings, Firethorn lowered himself into the seat. Lavery dealt the cards to all the players. Crowmere stood directly behind Firethorn as the actor studied his cards. Seeing what the actor had been dealt, the landlord chortled.

‘Well done, Lawrence,’ he said, patting him on the back. ‘With those cards, I think you’ll win at last. I told you that your luck would change.’

Michael Grammaticus was still poring over his table when the servant entered the room to tell him that he had a visitor. The playwright was puzzled and disturbed. Few people in London even knew where he lodged. When he heard that the caller was Nicholas Bracewell, he relaxed somewhat but he was far from pleased at the intrusion. He told the servant to bring the visitor up then he glanced down again at the scene on which he had been working for so long. When Nicholas was shown in, Grammaticus gave him a guarded welcome.

‘I know why you’ve come,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘Edmund has sent you to chide me for not calling on him today, but I promised to finish this scene for his play first.’

‘How much have you written?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Far too much. Enough to furnish three scenes, in fact, but none of it worthy enough to show to anyone else.’ He gave a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Perhaps I do not have a gift for comedy, after all.’

‘What do you consider to be your strength as an author, Michael?’

‘My sense of drama, Nick. I believe that I have an eye for conflict.’

‘You have an eye for something,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘though I am not yet sure what it is. But forgive me for calling so late in the evening. It was important to see you.’

‘Does it concern The Siege of Troy?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘I knew that Lawrence would require more changes.’

‘This has nothing to do with Lawrence, but rather with his wife, Margery. Did you know that her sister lives in Cambridge?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Because her brother-in-law is an acquaintance of yours, one Jonathan Jarrold.’

‘The bookseller? Yes, I know Master Jarrold well. He keeps a good stock.’

‘He’s visiting London,’ said Nicholas, ‘and chanced to attend our rehearsal this morning. We talked at length. Master Jarrold was surprised to learn that you had turned playwright. That was always the ambition of your friend, Stephen Wragby.’

Grammaticus tensed. ‘Why have you come here, Nick?’

‘To find out who really wrote Caesar’s Fall.’

‘I did!’ said the other, defiantly.

‘What of The Siege of Troy?’

‘Every word of it is mine.’

‘The Epilogue was certainly penned by you,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘That’s why you took so long to finish it, is it not? And why it is such a poor addition to a rich drama. It was the Epilogue that planted the first seed of doubt in my mind, Michael.’

‘If it will not serve,’ said Grammaticus, ‘I’ll write a new and better one.’

‘Do you really have the skill to do that?’

‘You know that I have!’

‘What I know is that The Siege of Troy was first written in Greek by Stephen Wragby. Every word of it may be yours, but only in the sense that you translated it.’

‘I worked on the play with Stephen,’ insisted the other. ‘I was a co-author.’

‘Taking the credit for someone else’s genius,’ said Nicholas, pointing to the sheets of parchment on the table. ‘As you are trying to do with A Way to Content All Women. Your friend was dead, and unable to stop you, but Edmund Hoode is still alive. So you had to render him helpless.’

Grammaticus was appalled. ‘What are you talking about? I love Edmund.’

‘No, Michael. You only love and covet the position that he holds.’

‘He has ever been my inspiration.’

‘Is that why you and Doctor Zander conspired to poison him?’ said Nicholas, calmly. ‘I wondered why you were so loath to let anyone visit your lodging. We’d have discovered that you and the doctor slept under the same roof. It also explains why you paid the bills and bought all of Edmund’s food. You were never caring for him, Michael, only making sure that he did not recover.’

‘He was recovering,’ argued the playwright. ‘Edmund improved a little each day. You saw that, Nick. It was thanks to the medicine that Doctor Rime prescribed. Or do you accuse him of being in league with us as well?’

‘No, I do not. To call in a second doctor was a cunning trick. It made me think that Edmund’s malady was genuine. When I chanced upon the fact that you and Doctor Zander shared a cottage,’ said Nicholas, ‘my suspicion was aroused. I decided to ask for a third opinion on Edmund’s condition.’ Grammaticus was becoming agitated. ‘I fancy that you’ll have heard the name of Doctor Mordrake?’

The other man gulped. ‘Doctor John Mordrake? The Queen’s physician?’

‘The very same. He’s a friend of mine and, since I was able to do him a favour when we travelled to Bohemia, he felt that he was in my debt. That debt,’ explained Nicholas, advancing on him, ‘has been handsomely repaid. The medicine that Edmund has been taking is an antidote to poison.’

‘That’s what Doctor Rime told us.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘but he did not realise that you had been supplying the poison in the first place. You first brought Edmund to his knees, then you kept him weak by feeding him more venom day by day.’

‘No, no!’ exclaimed the other. ‘Why on earth should I do that?’

Nicholas pointed to the table. ‘There lies your answer, Michael. You wanted to get your hands on Edmund’s work and usurp his position. The antidote may have revived him a little but you hindered his recovery by administering more poison in the fruit and in the broth that you brought for him.’

‘I worshipped the man, Nick. I’d not harm him for the world.’ He crossed to the door. ‘Let Emmanuel explain it to you. He’ll convince you that we acted for the best.’

Grammaticus let himself out and clattered down the stairs. Nicholas crossed to the table, standing in its own pool of light. Sheets of parchment had already been covered in words but to little effect. When he read one attempt at the new scene, Nicholas found scant wit and feeble humour. Evidently, A Way to Content All Women had found the would-be author out.

The door swung open again and Grammaticus returned with Doctor Zander at his elbow. Because they were at the darker end of the room Nicholas could only see them in shadow. Zander was pulsing with righteous indignation.

‘What’s this I hear?’ he demanded. ‘You called in a doctor behind my back when I was engaged to treat the patient? That’s unforgivable.’

‘It was essential,’ returned Nicholas. ‘Doctor Mordrake unmasked you both.’

‘Mordrake! Ha! That old fool is no doctor. He’s a mad alchemist who believes he can turn base metal into gold.’

‘Her Majesty sees fit to retain him, Doctor Zander. Can you claim that honour?’

‘I dispute Mordrake’s conclusion.’

‘Then let us call in a fourth and fifth doctor to examine Edmund,’ said Nicholas. ‘They’ll only find what Doctor Rime and Doctor Mordrake did. The patient was being poisoned to keep him away from Westfield’s Men.’

Zander stamped a foot. ‘Do you dare to insult my reputation?’

‘You no longer have a reputation. Before I’ve finished, I’ll see the pair of you behind bars for this. You put a friend of mine through a dreadful ordeal to satisfy your own designs. Heavens!’ said Nicholas. ‘You might have killed him.’

‘We’d never have done that,’ insisted Grammaticus. ‘I swear it.’

‘Be quiet, Michael,’ said Zander.

‘No, Emmanuel. What is the point? He knows too much.’

‘Admit nothing, man. He has no proof.’

‘I’ve ample proof,’ said Nicholas. ‘There’s even more on that table. Michael has been humbled. He’s no Edmund Hoode, and it appears that he’s no Stephen Wragby either.’ Grammaticus lowered his head. ‘Who did write those plays, Michael?’

‘Stephen did,’ confessed the other.

‘Wrote them and translated them?’

‘Yes, Nick. But I helped him every inch of the way. I simply wanted to preserve his memory by having Stephen’s work performed upon a London stage.’

‘Then why not leave his name on the plays?’

‘Because they were bequeathed to me. Don’t you see? They were mine.’

‘Listen,’ said Zander, changing his tone. ‘There is a way out of this unfortunate dilemma. What we did was wrong, I grant you, that but there was no malice in it. Why,’ he added with a forced laugh, ‘we kept Edmund Hoode alive to write another day. Do not destroy Michael’s ambition like this. Let his new play be performed.’

‘Yes,’ pleaded Grammaticus. ‘We’ll pay you anything, Nick. It’s my dearest wish that The Siege of Troy is seen at the Queen’s Head. Let me have but that and you’ll see no more of me.’

Zander felt his purse. ‘Come, sir, how much will it cost to buy your silence?’

‘We are friends, Nick. Do it as a favour to me.’

‘The only favour I’ll do is for Edmund Hoode,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘The two of you will be arrested, tried and convicted. What you did was evil and unpardonable.’

‘You are a very foolish man,’ said Zander, putting a hand to his belt.

‘And you are a corrupt one. You were there to cure, not to inflict more misery.’

‘Michael paid me well for my help. Had you been more sensible, you might have shared some of that money. As it is,’ Zander went on, pulling something from his belt, ‘you will get nothing beyond a last farewell.’

He moved forward so that Nicholas could see that he was holding a pistol. His hand was steady and he looked as if he was determined to shoot. Nicholas was tensing himself to leap at the man when Grammaticus flew into a panic.

‘No, Emmanuel,’ he cried. ‘Do not kill him. Nick has helped me.’

‘Do you want him to help you to a prison cell?’

‘I’d rather that than stand accused of murder.’

‘Out of my way,’ snapped Zander. ‘I’ll be his executioner.’

‘I’ll not allow it!’ yelled Grammaticus.

He grabbed the wrist that was holding the gun and there was a fierce struggle. Before Nicholas could intervene, the pistol went off and Grammaticus emitted a cry of agony before slumping to the floor. Bending over him, Nicholas saw that he had been wounded in the shoulder. He looked up at Zander.

‘Now, doctor,’ he said. ‘Do you think that you can help a patient for once?’

Lawrence Firethorn berated himself for his own folly. Having won several games in a row, he knew that he should have quit the card table and returned to Shoreditch. But the hope of even larger winnings spurred him on. He soon began to falter. Though he had lost at the start of the evening, Philomen Lavery suddenly improved to take game after game. The money that Firethorn had won was slowly whittled away. By the time that the actor finally fled from the inn, he had barely enough coins in his purse to bribe the gatekeeper to let him out of the city through the postern. He rode home at a somnolent canter. When he got to the house in Old Street, he found it in darkness. Margery, it seemed, had either gone to bed or was waiting to ambush him again.

After stabling the horse, he approached the front door with furtive steps. Firethorn remembered how bitter his wife had been on his return the previous night. Rehearsing his excuses, he felt ready to withstand her fury again. But, when he tried the door, it would not budge. He pushed it, kicked it and even hurled his shoulder against it, but it had been bolted from inside and withstood all his assaults. He was about to yell up at the window of his bedchamber when he realised how futile that would be. Margery would not let him in and he would be telling the whole neighbourhood that he had been locked out. He wanted to save himself from that ignominy.

Firethorn ended the worst day of his life in the stable, sleeping in the straw.

Nicholas Bracewell was up at the crack of dawn. After an early breakfast, he did his best to reassure Dorothea Tate that he could cope with any dangers that lay ahead, and that the man who had violated her would soon be punished. As she saw him off at the door, Anne Hendrik was more composed. Horrified to learn that Edmund Hoode had been deliberately poisoned, she was relieved that he would soon be cured.

‘When you see him today,’ she said, ‘give him my love.’

‘Edmund will be back at the Queen’s Head with us before long.’

‘He’s endured so much needless suffering.’

‘I know, Anne,’ he said. ‘The culprits will be duly punished.’

He gave her a kiss and set off, walking briskly through the streets of Bankside and realising that he was unlikely to see them again that day. London Bridge was clogged with traffic as carriages, carts, and visitors on horseback or foot streamed into the city to buy or sell in the various markets. Nicholas had to dodge through the crowd to make any speed. Gracechurch Street was even more populous and he had to force his way through the press in order to reach the Queen’s Head. As he turned into the yard, the first person he saw was Leonard, using his broom to sweep up horse manure. Nicholas waved to him and Leonard ambled over with a vacant grin of welcome.

‘Good morrow, Nick,’ he said. ‘You are the first one here as usual.’

‘We have a busy day ahead of us.’

‘The Knights of Malta is a rousing tale. I’ve seen bits of it before.’

‘You’ve never seen it like this, I fear,’ said Nicholas, ‘for we lack the costumes to dress the play in all its pomp. I came early to see what Hugh Wegges proposes to do.’

‘Did that gentleman find you yesterday?’

‘What gentleman?’

‘The one who asked after you and Owen,’ said Leonard. ‘He wanted me to point you out but both of you had left by then.’

‘Did he say what business he had with us?’

‘No, Nick. He did not even know you were the book holder here until I told him.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘It seemed to please him.’

‘Did he ask after anyone else in the company?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Leonard. ‘The gentleman was only interested in Nick Bracewell and Owen Elias.’

‘Describe the fellow to me.’

Scratching his head, Leonard gave a rough and halting description of the stranger who had accosted him in the yard. Nicholas was disturbed. The man was clearly neither Joseph Beechcroft nor Ralph Olgrave, but the book holder sensed that he had been sent by one of them. That raised the worrying question of how they had linked his name to that of Elias and traced the both of them to the Queen’s Head. Realising that they had both been misled by him, Beechcroft and Olgrave would want to strike back at Nicholas but he was relying on his ability to disappear into the crowd. All that they had was his name. How had they discovered his occupation?

Seeing the consternation on Nicholas’s face, Leonard became remorseful.

‘I did wrong, Nick. I can see that I did.’

‘No, no, Leonard. You merely answered a civil question. I’ll not fault you for that. But, should you see him again, I’d ask you to be wary of this man.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s no friend of ours,’ said Nicholas. ‘Of that I’m certain. Do not point us out to him. Instead, warn us of his arrival.’

‘Yes, Nick. I will.’

‘Keep your eyes peeled for the fellow. I fancy that he’ll be back.’

‘No question but that he will.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because he said so,’ explained Leonard. ‘He told me that he had to see you both on urgent business. I asked him if I could carry a message to you but he gave me none. Indeed, he bade me not even mention that he was looking for you.’

‘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.

‘No tyrant from the east shall conquer here.

The Knights of Malta will protect the isle

And fight with God Almighty on their side

To bless their cause and urge them on to feats

Of valour, acts of noble note, triumphing

At the last o’er Turkish hordes, whate’er their

Strength and purpose.’

Firethorn had such spirit and authority that nobody in the yard seemed to notice that the cloak he wore over his armour was only a velvet curtain, borrowed from the house of a friend. Hugh Wegges had worked hard to transform the mass of costumes into something that looked vaguely appropriate to the play, and — apart from occasional moments of sartorial incongruity — nobody’s appearance provoked derision. Barnaby Gill, as the jester, Hilario, was clothed in yellow from head to foot and, because the costume had been tailored to fit him perfectly, he was able to dance and turn somersaults with his usual freedom.

It was clear from the start that here was a performance of exceptional power and commitment. Having seized the attention of their audience, the company did not let it wander for a second. The Knights of Malta moved on with gathering momentum. Owen Elias had two parts in the play. Having first given a vivid portrayal of a Turkish spy, he changed sides to reappear in the final scene as Don Garcia de Toledo, Viceroy of Sicily, the man who raised the siege and liberated the gallant knights. But it was Firethorn who, having spoken the first lines in the play, brought it to a conclusion with a speech that thundered around the yard.

An ovation greeted the actors and everyone in the galleries rose spontaneously to signal their joy. Even Lord Westfield, their sybaritic patron, disentangled himself from the arms of his mistress long enough to get to his feet and applaud. When they surged back into the tiring-house, the actors were in a state of euphoria. Their only disappointment was that Edmund Hoode had not been there to share in the acclaim. Though The Knights of Malta had been written by another hand, it had been so greatly improved by Hoode’s deft touches that he was looked upon as the author. In previous performances, he had always reserved the role of the Viceroy of Sicily for himself.

Firethorn was ecstatic. ‘Did you hear that applause, Nick?’

‘It was no more than you deserved.’

‘Costumes or not, we set their hearts and minds alight today.’

‘You have never played the part better,’ said Nicholas with sincerity. ‘Everyone in the company was inspired by you.’

‘All but Barnaby. He gave us the same stale antics.’

‘The audience loved him, as they should. Nobody can deny that.’

‘True,’ conceded Firethorn. ‘When you’ve heard those jests as often as I have, you are bound to find them barren. I think our clown did very well.’ He leant over to whisper into Nicholas’s ear. ‘But do not tell Barnaby that I said so.’

‘An encouraging word from you would be savoured,’ said Nicholas.

‘That’s why he must never hear it.’ Firethorn’s broad grin suddenly vanished. ‘O woeful day!’ he sighed, putting a hand against a wall for support. ‘What a case I am in, Nick. This afternoon, I was Jean de Valette himself, lately Governor of Tripoli and Captain General of the Order’s galleys, now the Grand Master. Yet this evening,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I must creep home to Shoreditch with my tail between my legs and try to make peace with Margery.’

‘Do not call in on Master Lavery on the way,’ counselled Nicholas.

‘I’ll not, you have my word on it!’

Firethorn moved away to take off his costume. Still carrying his sword and wearing his armour, Frank Quilter came over to speak to the book holder.

‘When do you want us, Nick?’ he asked, quietly.

‘When everything has been cleared away.’

‘James and I will be in the taproom.’

‘I’ll find you there,’ said Nicholas.

‘Does Lawrence know what we are about?’

‘No, Frank. Nor must he, until it is all over. Impress that upon James.’

Quilter was puzzled. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’

‘You’ll be told anon.’

It took some time for the yard to empty. Hundreds of spectators had hailed the play and some wanted to remain there to discuss it with their companions. Many people headed for the taproom to slake their thirst or to take the opportunity to have a closer look at the actors who had entertained them so royally. Up in the galleries, several of the gallants and their ladies lingered until the rougher sort had dispersed. Still seated at the rear of the upper gallery, two men watched as George Dart and the other assistant stagekeepers came out to take down the trestles. Ralph Olgrave and Gregory had enjoyed the play more than they expected, even though they had been distracted by the sight of Owen Elias in his contrasting roles. When a burly

figure strode out of the tiring house to take control of the dismantling, Olgrave nudged his friend.

‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘He’s a strapping fellow,’ noted Gregory. ‘Look at those shoulders of his.’

‘A broad back gives you a bigger target.’

‘What of the Welshman, Owen Elias?’

‘Kill him first,’ decided Olgrave. ‘And do it as soon as you can.’