The Counterfeit Crank

Chapter Three

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.’

‘Does he not remember all the roles that Edmund has created for him?’

‘He sees them as no more than so many new suits, commissioned from his tailor. Barnaby is such a slave to outward show,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yet he’ll miss Edmund as much as any of us, if indeed we’ve seen the last of him.’

Anne was disturbed. ‘You make him sound as if he’s close to death.’

‘As a playwright, I fear, he may well be. This malady has crippled him in every way. If his mind is crumbling, then his art has truly expired.’

Chastened by the grim thought, they finished their breakfast in silence.

After a farewell kiss, Nicholas soon set out on the long walk to the Queen’s Head. There was much to occupy his mind but he did not let himself become distracted. Even in daylight, Bankside was a hazardous place, its narrow streets and twisting lanes haunted by pickpockets, drunkards, beggars, discharged soldiers and masterless men. Nicholas’s sturdy frame and brisk movement deterred most people from even considering an attack but he had been accosted by thieves on more than one occasion. All of them had been repelled. When he heard heavy footsteps behind him, therefore, he was instinctively on guard. Someone was making an effort to catch him up. Sensing trouble, Nicholas went around a corner and stopped, hand on his dagger in case an assailant came into view.

His caution was unnecessary. The person who followed him around the corner was, in fact, a friend and colleague. Nathan Curtis, the troupe’s carpenter, was striding along with his bag of tools slung from his shoulder. He grinned at Nicholas.

‘I thought I’d never catch you,’ he said, panting slightly. ‘You walk so fast.’

‘How long have you been on my trail?’

‘Since you first set out.’

‘But you had no need to come that way.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Curtis. ‘Walk on and I’ll explain.’

Nicholas was surprised. Curtis lived in a tenement, several streets away. His route to London Bridge should not have taken him anywhere near Anne Hendrik’s house. The carpenter was a big man with the wide shoulders and thick forearms of his trade. Strong, industrious and dependable, he was a true craftsman who made the scenery and the properties for all of the company’s plays. Nathan Curtis was constantly employed to build new items of furniture or to repair old ones. He enjoyed an easy friendship with the book holder and the two men had often travelled back together to Bankside at night, either by foot or, from time to time, by boat across the Thames.

Distance seemed to shrink miraculously when they talked on their journeys and, as a rule, Curtis had much to say for himself. Today, however, he was unusually reticent. They had gone a hundred yards before he ventured his first remark.

‘What work do you have for me today, Nick?’ he asked.

‘Repairs are needed to the throne for The Corrupt Bargain. When he carried it from the stage yesterday, George tripped and threw it to the ground. Two legs snapped off. There’s more besides, Nathan. It will be a busy morning for you.’

‘George Dart will always keep me in work. The lad is so clumsy.’

‘Only when he is shouted at,’ said Nicholas. ‘Left to himself, he’d break nothing at all.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘But you did not lie in wait for me in order to berate George Dart. What brought you out of your way like this?’

Curtis licked his dry lips. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘Could it not have waited until I saw you at the Queen’s Head?’

‘That’s too public a place, Nick. I sought a word in private.’

‘As many as you wish.’

The carpenter obviously felt embarrassed. It was another hundred yards before he finally broached the subject. Having found the right words, he gabbled them.

‘I-need-to-borrow-some-money-Nick-please-say-that-you’ll-help-me.’

‘Slow down, slow down,’ counselled Nicholas. ‘What’s this about a loan?’

‘I must have money.’

‘Everyone will be paid at the end of the week.’

‘I cannot wait until then,’ said Curtis with an edge of desperation. ‘I need the money now. Believe me, Nick, I’d not ask, except under compulsion.’

‘Compulsion?’

‘I’ve debts to settle.’

‘We all have those, Nathan.’

‘Mine are most pressing.’

Nicholas was the victim of his own competence. Because he discharged his duties as the book holder so well, he was always being given additional responsibilities by Lawrence Firethorn. One of them was to act as the company’s paymaster, to keep an account book that related to the wages of the hired men. If an actor was engaged by Westfield’s Men for the first time, Nicholas was even empowered to negotiate his rate of pay. The largest amounts went to the sharers, who were given an appropriate slice of the company’s profits, but the hired men, including actors, musicians, stagekeepers, tiremen, gatherers, who took entrance money for performances, and people like Nathan Curtis, had a fixed weekly wage. With a family to support, the carpenter had always been careful with his money before. It was the only time he had ever asked for a loan and he was very upset at having to do so. Nicholas was sympathetic.

‘Do you have troubles at home, Nathan?’ he asked.

‘I will have, if you spurn my request.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Master Firethorn would never lend a penny in advance. When others tried to borrow from him in the past, they were sent away with a curse or two. And I know that it’s your strict rule to pay wages at the end of the week.’

‘Except in particular circumstances.’

Curtis was rueful. ‘These are very particular.’

‘May I know what they are?’ The carpenter hung his head. ‘If it’s a personal matter, I’ll not pry. And I’ll tell you this, Nathan. If most people came to me with the same plea, I’d turn them down at once because I know that they’d drink the money away that same night. You, however, can be trusted.’

‘Thank you, Nick. How much will you let me have?’

‘Three shillings. Will that suffice?’

‘I was hoping for more,’ said Curtis.

‘Then you’ll have the full amount. Does that relieve your mind?’

‘Mightily.’

‘It’s heartening to know that I’ve done one good deed this day,’ said Nicholas, happily. ‘I’ll pay you when we reach Gracechurch Street, then you can settle your debts.’

‘God bless you, Nick! I knew that I could count on you for help.’

‘Do not make a habit of this,’ warned the other.

‘I’d never do that,’ vowed Curtis. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson, I promise you.’

Propped up in bed at his lodging, Edmund Hoode spent most of the day vainly trying to remember favourite speeches from his plays. It was a pointless exercise. His mind was so befuddled that he could not even recall the names of the plays themselves. His landlady, a considerate woman with a real affection for her lodger, brought him food and drink, yet when her buxom daughter bathed his face tenderly with cold water, Hoode could not feel even the faintest stirrings of lust. That mortified him. His mind and body seemed to have surrendered the power to react. Sleep was his only escape.

It was late afternoon when the doctor eventually called. Emmanuel Zander was a short, round, fussy man in his forties with a black beard that reached to his chest and eyebrows so thick that he had to look at the world through curling strands of hair. When he opened his satchel, he revealed a collection of surgical instruments that made Hoode gurgle with fright but the doctor only extracted a tiny bottle of medicine. He spoke with a guttural accent.

‘I’ve brought something new,’ he said, putting the bottle on the table.

‘Will it cure me?’ asked Hoode.

‘It may or it may not. That remains to be seen, Master Hoode. What I do know is that it will not make your condition any worse.’ He bent over the patient to scrutinise his face. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘Much the same, Doctor Zander.’

‘Have you recovered your appetite?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What of your memory?’

‘Far too uncertain. That worries me most, doctor.’

‘It worries me as well,’ confessed Zander, clicking his tongue. ‘In all my years in medicine, I’ve not seen a condition like this. You’ve lost weight and remain in a state of fatigue. Have you suffered any pain?’

‘None at all,’ said Hoode. ‘There are times when I feel quite numb.’

Zander scratched his head. ‘Why should that be?’

He pulled back the sheets to examine Hoode in more detail, feeling his body and limbs for any sign of swelling before producing an instrument from his satchel to listen to the patient’s heart. When he had finished, he put the instrument away.

‘I’ll need another sample of your water.’

‘You’ll find it in a jar under that cloth,’ said Hoode, pointing to the table. ‘It was darker than ever this morning. Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s disappointing.’

They heard a knock on the front door below. The landlady opened it to admit someone and there was a brief conversation. Feet then ascended the stairs. There was a tap on Hoode’s door and it swung back for Nicholas Bracewell to step into the room. Tears welled up in Hoode’s eyes at the sight of his friend.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he cried. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

‘I’m glad that I came in time to meet Doctor Zander.’

Nicholas introduced himself and shook hands with the doctor.

‘How does he fare?’

‘Not well, not well,’ said Zander, peering at Hoode with a frown. ‘If I knew the exact nature of his malady, I could treat it accordingly but I’ve not seen a case like this before. I’ve been through every book that I possess, but none describe a disease such as the one we have before us.’

‘How, then, can he be cured?’

‘By trial and error.’ He indicated the potion on the table. ‘He is to have two drops of that, three times a day. If nothing else, it will stop the spread of the infection.’

‘It’s already spread too far,’ wailed Hoode.

‘Be brave, be patient. We’ll find the remedy in due course.’

‘How much longer must I suffer, Doctor Zander?’

The doctor clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘We’ve conquered the pain,’ he said, defensively. ‘Do not forget that. And we’ve brought some colour back to your cheeks. That, too, is encouraging. Rest is still your best medicine, Master Hoode.’ He closed his satchel, collected the jar from the table and made to leave. ‘I’ll come again in two days.’ He gave Nicholas a glance. ‘Do not stay too long, sir. Company tires him.’

Nicholas opened the door then closed it behind him. He crossed to sit beside the bed so that he could hold his friend’s hand. There was no strength in Hoode’s grip. The playwright managed a pale smile.

‘Thank you for coming, Nick,’ he said. ‘The very sight of you revives me.’

‘How do you feel, Edmund?’

‘As if I’m beyond feeling. It’s strange and worrying. I’m in another world.’

‘Come back to ours, for we miss you dreadfully.’

‘I’m no use to you like this, Nick. My mind is a ball of wool. No sooner do I try to think than it unravels.’ He looked balefully around the room. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of plays written in here for Westfield’s Men. I’ve penned hundreds of scenes and thousands of lines. Yet I struggle to recall a single speech. All those wondrous words have gone as if they were never there. I shake with terror. What’s happening to me, Nick?’ he implored, grabbing his friend with both hands. ‘Has my brain grown dull? Am I to end my days as a gibbering idiot in Bedlam?’

‘No, Edmund,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘Put away that thought.’

‘I fear that I may wake up one day and not know who I am.’

‘We know who you are, and we’ll not rest until you’re restored to us in rude health. The truth may be that we are to blame,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘The company asks you to carry too burdensome a load and you’ve cracked under the weight. As well as writing new plays for us, you keep old ones, by other hands, in a goodly state of repair. Yet you still manage to tread the boards as often as anyone else.’

‘The theatre is my home,’ said Hoode, simply. ‘At least, it was until now.’

‘It shall be so again.’

‘Tell me what you played this afternoon. Rekindle my spirit, Nick.’

‘I’ll try.’

Nicholas told him about the second successful performance of Caesar’s Fall and made him laugh at some of the antics that took place behind the scenes. Hoode began to show some animation at last. He was even able to quote a few lines that he had learnt as Casca in the play. It brought a cry of joy to his lips. Nicholas crossed to the table to pick up the bottle left by Doctor Zander. Uncorking it, he sniffed the contents. A sweet odour invaded his nostrils. He corked the bottle and put it back.

‘The doctor will not treat you out of charity, Edmund,’ he said. ‘Let me know how much we owe him and I’ll gladly pay the amount. I’ll not have you worrying about such things as that.’

‘But I’ve no need to worry. Doctor Zander’s services are free.’

‘Free?’

‘They come at no cost to me,’ explained Hoode. ‘That was made clear at the start of my illness. The doctor told me that my bills would be paid by a friend of mine, who insists on bearing all the expenses.’

Nicholas was puzzled. ‘A friend of yours? Who can that be?’

‘The author of Caesar’s Fall — one Michael Grammaticus.’

The cottage in Cornhill had stood for over a hundred and fifty years, long enough for the beams to settle and to distort the original shape of the half-timbered structure. Light was partially restricted to the upper rooms because the thatched roof overhung the windows, and the problem was compounded by the property on the opposite side of the street. Built and owned by a wealthy merchant, it rose to four storeys and left the thatched cottage in permanent shadow. Michael Grammaticus had particular cause to complain. Since the room in which he lodged was at the front of the cottage, it enjoyed very little natural light. Even on a fine summer’s evening, therefore, he was obliged to work with the aid of a candle. It made him squint more than ever.

Grammaticus was slow and methodical. Dipping his quill in the ink, he wrote with great care and with frequent pauses for meditation. Every line of the Epilogue was subjected to scrutiny and revision. It would be the last memory of the play that an audience would carry away with them and he wished it to have a lasting impact. Since it was in the form of a sonnet, each word had to earn its keep and dovetail neatly with its fellows. Grammaticus was tired and his eyes were burning slightly but he pressed on. Buoyed up by the second performance of Caesar’s Fall that afternoon, he longed to hear the ringing cheers of acclaim once more. London had accepted him as a playwright of rare promise. His position now had to be confirmed.

Hunched over the table in the window, he cudgelled his brain for a telling rhyme.

As he turned into the yard of the Queen’s Head, the first person that Nicholas Bracewell saw was a giant of a man, who was wheeling an empty barrel along before standing it beside two others. Wiping his hands on his leather apron, he was about to go back into the building when he noticed the book holder. A broad grin ignited his face.

‘Nick!’ he said. ‘I wondered where you had gone after the play.’

‘I promised to call on Edmund,’ explained Nicholas.

‘How is he?’

‘Much the same, alas. I saw no change on him, Leonard.’

‘Be sure to give him my best wishes when you see him next. Edmund Hoode has always been kind to me. I look upon him as a friend.’

Leonard was a shambling man with slow speech and limited intelligence but Nicholas was very fond of him. They had met by chance in the Counter, one of the city’s most notorious jails, where the book holder had been wrongly imprisoned for a short time. Fortunate to be absolved of his own crime, Leonard was unable to resume his former occupation as a brewer’s drayman. It was Nicholas who found him work at the Queen’s Head and the latter was eternally grateful to him, even though he was at the mercy of Alexander Marwood’s strictures.

‘Do you miss your old landlord, Leonard?’ asked Nicholas.

‘Yes, Nick. As a dray horse misses the whip.’

‘You have a kinder master now, I think.’

‘It’s a joy to work for such a man,’ said Leonard, folding his arms. ‘He treats us with respect and knows how to get the best out of us. Everyone will tell you the same. Adam Crowmere is a saint. I’ve not met a better landlord, and I met dozens when I was working for the brewery. He’s even talked of putting up our wages.’

‘He recognises your true worth.’

‘It’s wonderful, Nick. We’ll make the most of it while we can, for it will all change when he leaves. Summer will be over then,’ he sighed, ‘and the cold winter will return in the shape of our landlord and his wife.’

‘They left the Queen’s Head in excellent hands.’

Leonard nodded sadly. ‘There’ll be tears when he goes back to Rochester.’

Nicholas was glad to have his own impression confirmed. Adam Crowmere had not merely made the inn more congenial to those who visited it. He put new spirit into those employed there so that even someone like Leonard, who did menial chores, felt the benefit of his arrival. The Queen’s Head was a different place under Crowmere.

‘It grieves me that Edmund is not here to witness the transformation,’ said Nicholas. ‘He was struck down at the very moment when your landlord took his leave.’

‘We are all praying that our master is away for a very long time.’

‘Westfield’s Men will join you in those prayers.’

He waved farewell to Leonard and headed for the taproom. The place was full and the atmosphere boisterous, but Nicholas was surprised to see that a number of people were missing. There was no sign of Owen Elias or Frank Quilter, and some of the hired men who invariably congregated there of an evening had somehow vanished as well, Nathan Curtis among them. Given the improvements under the new landlord, it seemed strange that so many of Westfield’s Men had chosen to leave. Nicholas crossed to a table where Lawrence Firethorn and Barnaby Gill were sitting.

‘Well, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘How is he?’

‘As weary as before,’ replied Nicholas, taking the empty chair. ‘Edmund has no fever, no pain and no evident sickness. Yet he is so listless that he needs help to walk across the room. Doctor Zander is perplexed beyond measure.’

‘So are we,’ said Gill, gloomily. ‘A new comedy was promised to us.’

‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, ruffling his beard. ‘That’s our other concern. Edmund was contracted to deliver it within ten days.’

‘Then you must release him from the contract,’ advised Nicholas. ‘There is no way that he’ll be able to fulfil its terms. Edmund is not even able to read a play, let alone write one. You’ll have to wait.’

Gill was tetchy. ‘I cannot bear to wait,’ he said, ‘nor can my host of admirers. They have not seen me in a new comedy for months. Instead of creating fresh wonders to dazzle them, I am forced to rescue dark tragedies like Caesar’s Fall from the boredom into which they would otherwise sink.’

‘There’s nothing boring about my Julius Caesar,’ boomed Firethorn, striking his barrel chest with a palm. ‘Distraction only sets in when the soothsayer is onstage.’

‘Yes, Lawrence. I distract the audience from the misery, carnage and tedium that you inflict upon them. Tragedy needs the saving grace of a clown.’

‘Then it’s a pity we do not have one worthy of the title.’

Gill was outraged. ‘That’s unforgivable!’

‘And quite unjust,’ said Nicholas, bringing the exchange to an end before the insults really began to flow. ‘Everyone knows that in Barnaby we have the finest clown in London. Since we also have the greatest actor, the company will always outshine its rivals. Together — and only together — you help to make us what we are.’

‘Only if I am given the opportunity to shine in a comedy,’ said Gill.

Firethorn flicked a hand. ‘Comedy, tragedy or history,’ he said, airily. ‘Give me any of them you wish and I’ll turn it to gold with my Midas touch.’

‘Midas touch! Your touch is like a leper’s handshake.’

‘You are the one whose performances are always diseased, Barnaby.’

‘Need we bicker so?’ asked Nicholas, looking from one to the other. ‘We’ll not solve our problem by calling each other names. Edmund must be allowed to rest. If we want a new play, we must look elsewhere.’

‘Only Edmund can show me at my best,’ said Gill, haughtily. ‘Is there not someone else we can employ to finish the piece while the author languishes in bed? Lucius Kindell, perhaps?’

Firethorn shook his head. ‘He’d not be equal to the task.’

‘He and Edmund have worked together before.’

‘Lucius has his strengths,’ argued Nicholas, ‘and he will grow as a dramatist, but he’s no counterfeit Edmund Hoode. Ask him to finish the play and you’d see a glaring join between what each of them wrote. It could not be concealed. And there is the question of Edmund’s pride. He might not wish another hand to meddle with his play.’

‘Yet we must offer some novelty for our audience,’ said Firethorn. ‘Look how well they respond to Caesar’s Fall. It allows us to display our skills in new ways. And there is nothing to match the challenge of performing a work for the first time. It keeps us on our toes.’

‘As a dancer,’ boasted Gill, ‘I am always on my toes.’

‘Your fault, dear Barnaby, is that you keep treading on everyone else’s.’

‘There is one hope,’ said Nicholas, rubbing his chin. ‘Michael Grammaticus may be able to furnish us with what we need. He told me that he was working on something else, though I’ve no idea how far he has advanced, or if the piece would be suitable.’

Gill was dismissive. ‘It would be another tragedy. You only have to look at the fellow to know that he has no humour in his soul. Michael is too saturnine. He inhabits the murky underworld of drama, creating tragic heroes with besetting faults that lead to their destruction.’

‘That may be so,’ said Firethorn, ‘but his tale of Ancient Rome had spectators queuing halfway down Gracechurch Street this afternoon. Speak to him, Nick. I’d be interested to read anything that comes from his fertile brain.’ He pulled a face. ‘I just wish that I could bring myself to like Michael a little more.’

‘He has many good qualities,’ said Nicholas, ‘and is generous to a fault. Did you know that he’s been paying Doctor Zander’s bills?’

Firethorn was taken aback. ‘Why should he do that?’

‘Because he worships Edmund and draws his inspiration from him. He also feels guilty that it was during the rehearsal of Caesar’s Fall that Edmund suffered his own collapse. It seems that Michael insisted on paying for any treatment needed.’

‘That could be costly if the illness drags on.’

‘It makes no difference to Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘He told Edmund that nothing was more important to him than finding a cure for this mysterious ailment.’

‘I begin to admire this Michael Grammaticus, after all,’ said Firethorn.

Gill was more critical. ‘He’s too arid a companion for me.’

‘He’ll be relieved to hear that, Barnaby. He’s shown no interest in women but, by the same token, he’d not wish to become one of your pretty boys either. I think the fellow’s taken a vow of chastity.’

‘What’s this about chastity?’ asked the landlord, cheerfully, coming to stand beside their table. ‘If you seek it here, my friends, you are in the wrong place. Chastity’s the one thing that’s not on our bill of fare. Some have lost it here,’ he added with a chortle, ‘but none, I dare swear, have ever managed to find it.’

Firethorn laughed. ‘I cannot even remember what chastity is, Adam.’

‘You were born a rampant satyr,’ taunted Gill.

‘It’s the secret of a happy life.’

‘Happiness comes from having an occupation that you love,’ said Adam Crowmere, complacently. ‘The stage is your kingdom, Lawrence, and I hold court here. As you see,’ he went on, using an arm to take in the whole room, ‘my happiness consists in spreading happiness. Listen to that laughter and merriment.’

‘We had precious little of that under our last landlord. What news of him?’

‘A letter came from Dunstable today. Alexander complains that his brother’s hanging on to life by his fingernails, but will not have the grace to go. It may be weeks before he’s ready for his coffin.’

‘If only they would bury that rogue, Marwood, alongside him.’

‘He’ll not know the Queen’s Head when he returns,’ said Crowmere. ‘We’ve more trade and livelier company in here. Oh, and that reminds me, Nick,’ he added, turning to the book holder. ‘You spoke of two friends in need of work. If they care to come here tomorrow, I’ve places for them now.’

‘You may need to fill them with someone else,’ said Nicholas, accepting the truth of the situation. ‘I fancy that Hywel and Dorothea changed their minds about coming here. They must have found employment elsewhere.’

London was not the ready source of money that they had imagined. Until they arrived in the capital, Hywel Rees and Dorothea Tate had not realised how many beggars were already there. They were competing with a whole army of vagrants, wounded soldiers, disabled children, vagabonds, tricksters and rogues, many of whom had staked out their territory and who were prepared to defend it with brutal force. The newcomers had been repeatedly beaten, cursed, chased, harried and, in one street, had even suffered the indignity of having the contents of a chamber pot emptied over them from an upper window. It left them in low spirits.

‘We should have gone to that inn they told us of,’ argued Dorothea.

‘No,’ said Hywel.

‘Any work is better than this.’

‘Who would employ us, Dorothea? We have neither passport nor licence. We are strangers in the city, with no fixed abode. What innkeeper would look at us?’

‘The one at the Queen’s Head might do so. Those friends offered to speak up for us and I judge them to be as good as their word. That Welshmen liked you, I could see. What was his name?’

‘Owen Elias.’

‘Let’s seek him out and ask for his help.’

‘We’ll manage on our own,’ he said, stubbornly. ‘We are still learning the trade.’

She was sorrowful. ‘Must we spend the rest of our lives like this?’

‘We have each other, Dorothea. I’d endure anything to be with you.’

‘And I with you,’ she said, brightening. ‘I never knew such love until we met.’

Hywel took her in his arms and hugged her. After giving her a kiss, he released her so that he could get himself ready. They were standing in a quiet lane where nobody bothered them except an occasional scavenging dog. Before they began the day’s begging, Hywel required her assistance. When he tucked one leg up behind his buttocks, Dorothea used a piece of rope to tie it into position, pulling his tattered clothing over the leg so that it was concealed. Hywel reached for the crutch that he had fashioned out of a piece of driftwood rescued from the Thames. Dorothea, meanwhile, tied a bloodstained bandage around her head then tucked one arm inside her dress so that it looked as if she had also lost the limb. They were a sorry sight. Composing their features into expressions of great suffering, they went off to take up their position.

The Raven was a small tavern in Eastcheap and it had proved a wise choice on their previous visit. Customers going into the place hardly noticed the two beggars who lurked outside because such people were all too familiar on the streets of London. When they had been drinking, however, some customers became more benevolent, and, as they tumbled out of the tavern in a joyful mood, spared a few coins for the sad-faced girl with one arm and the young man forced to hop through life on a single leg.

While Dorothea collected the money, Hywel always raised his cap in gratitude. If anyone hesitated to give them alms, she told them that her brother had lost his leg while fighting abroad for his country. An appeal to patriotic spirit seemed to loosen the strings on a purse. In the first hour, they had garnered almost a shilling and felt that their luck had changed at last. Hywel was more watchful now. After violent encounters with other beggars, he made sure that he kept an eye out for any rivals who might resent their presence outside the Raven. Fortunately, none appeared.

‘Dorothea,’ he said at length. ‘I need to rest.’

‘Is the leg hurting you?’

‘It does not like being strapped up like this.’

‘Let me help you,’ she offered.

With the crutch under one arm, he put a hand on her shoulder and limped back to their refuge. As soon as they left the main thoroughfare, Dorothea undid the rope so that he could lower the leg that had been tied out of sight. Cramp had set in and he was wincing with pain. He rubbed his leg with both hands.

‘I hate to see you suffer so,’ she said.

‘It was in a good cause, Dorothea. How much did we get?’

‘I’ll need two hands to count it.’

While she struggled to pull out the arm that was hidden beneath her dress, two figures came around the corner with purposeful strides. Hywel saw the constables first and he yelled a warning but, when he tried to run, his weakened leg would not hold him and he fell to the ground. Dorothea bent to help him up but a pair of firm hands pulled her away. The other constable seized Hywel and hauled him to his feet.

‘Ah!’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You’ve grown another leg since you left the Raven, have you? And the little lady now has a second arm. Out of kindness, God has seen fit to restore your missing limbs. It means that there’s more of you to arrest.’