The Counterfeit Crank

by Edward Marston

  Crowmere smiled. ‘All that grieves Alexander is the fact that he and Reuben fell out with each other many years ago. He’s hurrying to Dunstable to repair the rift so that his brother will remember him in his will. Reuben Marwood is a wealthy man.’

  ‘How long will our landlord be away?’

  ‘Long enough for me to make my mark at the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that you take a more kindly view of our presence here. Where our landlord is concerned,’ said Nicholas, tactfully, ‘I fear that it has never been a true meeting of minds.’

  ‘Alexander hates you,’ said Crowmere, frankly. ‘Before you came in, he was telling me that Westfield’s Men were detestable vermin, but that a certain Nicholas Bracewell was the least detestable of them.’ He gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Coming from him, that’s praise indeed.’ His face clouded. ‘But you say that one of your fellows has been stricken. Not the great Lawrence Firethorn, I hope?’

  ‘No, no, he has the constitution of an ox.’

  ‘Nor that clown of yours either, I trust? Barnaby Gill made me laugh until I felt I was about to burst. I’d hate to think that he has been carried off to his bed.’

  ‘Master Gill is not the invalid,’ said Nicholas. ‘If either he or Master Firethorn had been taken ill, our chances of staging a new play tomorrow would disappear. Nobody could replace them in time. Casca, a much smaller role, can be substituted and he will need to be for Edmund Hoode is far too sick to perform.’

  ‘What’s the nature of his sickness?’

  Nicholas gave a shrug. ‘That’s what troubles us. We do not rightly know. The doctor, too, is mystified. All that he can do is to ease Edmund’s pain with medicine.’

  ‘I hope that he soon recovers,’ said Crowmere with obvious sincerity. ‘But I’m delighted to hear that you will be staging a new play here tomorrow. That will bring the crowds flocking to the Queen’s Head.’

  ‘We never lack for spectators.’

  ‘I wonder that Alexander does not treasure Westfield’s Men for increasing his takings every time they perform at the inn.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘How will his departure be greeted?’

  ‘With some relief,’ admitted Nicholas.

  Crowmere laughed. ‘And no small amount of celebration, I think.’

  ‘I’ll not pretend that our absent landlord will be mourned.’

  ‘Would that my arrival will also be a cause for joy! I’m no enemy to your endeavours, Nicholas, be certain of that. Look to me for any help that you need. Where you once found coldness, you’ll now meet nothing but encouragement.’ ‘That’s good news indeed.’

  ‘Then here’s better to take back to your fellows,’ said Crowmere, hands on hips. ‘When Alexander is safely on the road, I plan to treat you in the way that you deserve, and to that end, I’ll invite the whole company – nay, and your patron as well – to a feast under this roof at my expense.’ He grinned amiably. ‘Will this content you, my friend?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Nicholas, unable to believe what he had heard. ‘I see that I was mistaken in you, sir. You are no new landlord – you are a gift from God.’

  Superstition ruled the lives of the actors. They were always looking for signs, portents, tokens, auguries, and anything else that might be construed as a harbinger of good or ill fortune. Edmund Hoode’s mysterious illness was seen by most of them as an evil omen, a clear warning of imminent disaster. Caesar’s Fall, they believed, was doomed and they were helpless to avert that doom. Even though the final rehearsal went exceptionally well, voices were still raised in consternation.

  ‘Trouble lies ahead,’ warned Barnaby Gill. ‘I feel it in my water.’

  ‘I see it in the stars,’ said James Ingram. ‘They foretell catastrophe.’

  ‘Caesar’s Fall will be our collapse as well,’ decided a mournful Frank Quilter. ‘There is something about the piece that presages danger.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Owen Elias, scornfully. ‘It is because you three merchants of misery are in the cast. Hell’s fire! Why talk yourselves into defeat when we have such a strong chance of victory? If we had to rely on Barnaby’s piss, James’s stargazing and Frank’s instincts, we’d never stage any play with success. Weak minds are prey to foolish fears.’

  ‘Do you call Edmund’s illness a foolish fear?’ asked Gill.

  ‘No,’ replied the Welshman. ‘It was a blow to us but we’ve endured far worse.’

  ‘Can you not see any significance in what happened?’ said Quilter. ‘Edmund was struck down during the play. That means this tragedy is tainted.’

  ‘This tragedy will end in tragedy,’ moaned Ingram.

  ‘Not if we bend our back and give of our best,’ argued Elias, bunching a fist. ‘Everyone knows that I do not care for Michael Grammaticus – he is too much the university man for me – but I think he has written a wonderful play that deserves to be played to the hilt. Put aside your worries. Dear God! You sound like three old ladies, too frightened to step out into the street in case it rains.’

  ‘And that’s the other thing, Owen,’ said Gill, wagging a finger at him. ‘Have you seen the clouds? The sky will open this afternoon and we’ll all be drowned by the rain.’

  Elias was sarcastic. ‘Do you feel water in your water as well, Barnaby?’

  ‘Look to the heavens, man.’

  ‘I prefer to look to our reputation and it will be sorely damaged if you step out on to that stage like three virgins tiptoeing into a bawdy house. Think of the good tidings we have had. Our melancholy landlord has left the city. We can revel in his absence.’

  But even that reminder did not cheer his fellows. They were in the room that they used as their tiring-house, putting on their costumes for the afternoon performance of the new play. Acutely aware of the growing audience in the yard outside, Gill, Ingram and Quilter were not pleased to hear the buzz of expectation from the spectators because they had genuine doubts about Caesar’s Fall. Like others in the company, they felt that ruination lay in ambush. If the play were not washed off the stage by a torrential downpour, it would, they felt, surely be bedevilled by some other means. Owen Elias, the ebullient Welshman, clicked his tongue as he surveyed the other sharers.

  ‘I am disappointed in you, James,’ he said to Ingram, ‘and in you as well, Frank. I expected Barnaby to be full of woe because it is his natural condition. Every time he empties his bladder, he foresees the end of the world. You two should know better.’

  James Ingram and Frank Quilter, the two youngest and most handsome sharers, had the grace to look shamefaced. In listening to Gill, they had allowed themselves to be drawn into a bleak pessimism. Elias had tried to lift them out of it and, though they still had lingering anxieties, they were grateful to him. The Welshman was not merely a fine actor, he had a spirit and determination that burnt inside him like a flame. Ingram and Quilter were reassured by his confidence. Gill remained dejected.

  ‘Caesar’s Fall has already caused Edmund’s fall. We are next to drop.’

  Elias was defiant. ‘Not while I have breath in my body.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Lawrence Firethorn, coming to stand beside him, ‘My back is broad. If I have to, I’ll carry this entire play on my own. Listen to me,’ he went on, raising his voice so that it reached everyone in the room. ‘This is no time for doubt and hesitation. Forget this talk of ill omens. We owe it to our playwright to breathe life into his work so that it bewitches all who see it. Yes,’ he conceded, ‘we have lost dear Edmund but what would he think of us if we let a fellow author down? He sends love and best wishes to us in this venture. He looks to receive glad tidings from us.’

  ‘Then he looks in vain,’ said Gill. ‘This play is tarnished with bad luck.’

  ‘That can be ascribed to your presence,’ said Firethorn, sharply. ‘Bad luck, thy name is Barnaby Gill. You’d poison any enterprise, were it not for the fact that we have acted with you so often that we know how to subdue your malign influence. Let’s have no more carping from you, Barnaby.
We go forth to certain triumph.’ He indicated the book holder. ‘Nick craves a word with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, stepping into the middle of the room. ‘Two things will give you heart. As you know, I was a sailor for three long years and learnt to read the skies like a book. The day is cloudy, I grant you, and rain looks certain but I give you my word that it will not fall during the play. Shake that fear from your mind.’

  There was a collective sigh of relief. Nicholas’s ability to forecast the weather was almost uncanny. It came from having sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the earth, an experience that left its scars on Nicholas but which also taught him so much about the vagaries of wind and rain. The second piece of information he was about to impart had already been confided to Firethorn, who had agreed with the book holder that it should be deliberately kept from the others until just before the performance. Aware that their fellows would be shackled by superstition, Nicholas hoped to liberate them with his announcement.

  ‘Our choleric landlord has departed,’ he said, drawing a ragged cheer from the actors, ‘and a more worthy host has taken his place. I can now tell you that Adam Crowmere has promised to honour us with a feast as a gesture of good will.’ There was general jubilation. ‘One condition only is attached to the invitation,’ Nicholas continued, looking round the smiling faces. ‘Our new and hospitable landlord insists that Caesar’s Fall – the very first play to be staged here under his aegis – be yet another success for Westfield’s Men so that we have something to celebrate.’

  With Firethorn’s connivance, Nicholas had invented the condition in order to spur the actors on and the device had worked. Instead of the pervading gloom, a buoyant optimism now filled the tiring house. Firethorn traded a knowing glance with his book holder. Nicholas had made the actors forget all about their trepidation. They were now positively straining on the leash to get out on stage.

  They did not have long to wait. At a signal from Nicholas, the musicians began to play and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. Though his voice was appropriately firm, his mind was on the promised feast and he could almost smell the roast pig upon the spit. He raised a hand to silence the murmurs in the crowd.

  ‘Good friends, all you that now are gathered here,

  Behold a tale of villainy and fear

  In which a mighty conqueror is killed

  By those with spite and naked envy filled

  Until it drives them on to heinous crime

  And offers us a lesson for all time.

  For, mark this well, all subtle minds that can,

  This Caesar’s Fall is like the Fall of Man.’

  And on he went. The rhyming couplets were deceptively simple at first but they had grown more intricate by the time the Prologue ended. Acknowledging a round of applause with a bow, Elias withdrew from the stage until it was time for him to re-enter in the guise of Brutus. The play, meanwhile, opened with a lively scene between a group of gullible citizens and a comical soothsayer. No sooner did Barnaby Gill skip on to the boards in the latter roll than the laughter started. The recognised clown was there to make sure that tragedy was shot through with a dark and ironic humour and, whatever his earlier reservations about the performance, Gill acted as if his life depended on it. His energy and commitment set the tone for the rest of the play.

  The story of Julius Caesar was a familiar one and other dramatists had explored it in various ways. What set this new version apart from other plays on the same subject was the emphasis placed on Caesar’s earlier career, showing him as a fearless soldier and a brilliant administrator. It was only later that the martial hero was corrupted by over-ambition. To maintain sympathy for a man with such a glaring flaw in his character, the play offered insights into Caesar’s domestic life and – in one of the most vivid scenes in the play – it anticipated the assassination with a fall of another kind.

  Until that point, Firethorn had given a stirring account of Caesar, brave, proud, intelligent, adventurous and endlessly resourceful. By the sheer force of his acting, he had transformed Julius Caesar into a demi-god. Then, at the height of his power, when the audience believed they were looking at an indestructible human being, Firethorn suffered from an attack of falling sickness, dropping to the ground without warning and having such a frenzied epileptic fit that everyone in the yard thought that it was real. It was Brutus, later to conspire against Caesar, who came to his friend’s aid by inserting the handle of a dagger into his mouth to keep his teeth apart in order to prevent him from biting off his tongue. The same dagger would later help to bring about his ultimate fall.

  Seated in the lower gallery, Michael Grammaticus watched with teeth clenched and hands clasped tightly together. Though the spectators were engaged from the start, he could not relax, fearing that the piece would lose its grip on the audience or that rain would come to dampen their ardour. His admiration for Westfield’s Men increased with every scene. The problems that had dogged them during rehearsals had miraculously disappeared. Led by Firethorn, the whole company was in tremendous form. Grammaticus was also impressed by the way that the loss of Edmund Hoode was covered. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, the part of Trebonius was cut out altogether and James Ingram, who had taken the role, instead became Casca. Nobody missed a lesser conspirator.

  Enlivened by the antics of Barnaby Gill throughout, the play mixed tragedy and comedy in judicious proportions, moving towards its climax with gathering speed. When the assassination came, it was so vicious and dramatic that there were cries of horror from all corners of the yard. Julius Caesar then gave them all a death scene to remember, staggering around the stage with bloodied hands trying to stem the flow from his various wounds and reviling his enemies in a speech of defiance that showed his true nobility. While his corpse was finally borne away to solemn music, the audience was in a state of profound shock. They had witnessed a sublime tragedy.

  As the emperor reappeared to lead his company on to the stage, dark clouds parted and a shaft of sunlight peeped through. It was like a heavenly benediction. Applause was slow at first but it quickly built to a crescendo. Those in the pit stamped and cheered, those in the balconies were on their feet to acknowledge a magnificent performance by Lawrence Firethorn and his company. The ovation seemed to go on forever. Nobody clapped louder than Michael Grammaticus. Released at last from the tension that had made the afternoon something of an ordeal, he was overcome with joy at having fulfilled his ambition. A play with his name on it had taken the stage by storm. A whole new life had suddenly opened out before him.

  Chapter Two

  While the actors discarded their costumes and adjourned to the taproom to celebrate, Nicholas Bracewell organised the dismantling of the stage and made sure that the scenery and properties were safely locked away. He and Owen Elias then permitted themselves only one tankard of ale with their fellows at the Queen’s Head before they slipped away to visit a friend. Edmund Hoode was dozing when they arrived at his lodging but his eyelids soon fluttered open. He gave them a tired smile of welcome.

  ‘Nick … Owen,’ he murmured. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘We came to see how you are,’ said Nicholas.

  Elias grinned. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he joked. ‘I only came to catch a glimpse of the landlady’s beautiful daughter. What a fetching young creature she is, Edmund! Were I lodged here, I’d never spend a night alone in that bed.’

  ‘Both mother and daughter have been very good to me,’ said Hoode.

  ‘You’ve enjoyed the two of them?’ said Elias with a cackle of delight. ‘No wonder you look so weary, if you’ve been ravishing them in turn. Your chamber is a veritable leaping house.’

  ‘This is no time for mockery, Owen,’ warned Nicholas, distressed at the sight of Hoode’s deathly pallor. ‘It’s cruel to tease him so.’ He put a considerate hand on the patient’s shoulder. ‘How are you, Edmund?’

  ‘All the better for seeing two friendly faces,’ repli
ed Hoode in a querulous voice. ‘I just feel so fatigued, Nick. I’ve scarcely the strength to sit up in bed.’

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘That the only remedy is a long rest.’

  ‘A long rest?’ echoed Elias, anxiously. ‘I can see that the doctor knows little of a theatre company. If our beloved playwright has a long rest, we suffer the consequences. Westfield’s Men without Edmund Hoode is like a river without water.’

  ‘I think that you exaggerate, Owen.’

  ‘We miss you on and offstage. It’s like losing a limb. Is it not so, Nick?’

  ‘Edmund is certainly missed,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘but he must be fully recovered before he returns to the fray. What has the doctor given you?’

  ‘A magic potion that took aware all my pain,’ said Hoode, gratefully. ‘I was in agony when you carried me back here and thought I was like to die. Then I took this potion that Doctor Zander mixed. It saved my life.’

  Elias was suspicious. ‘Zander? That sounds like a foreign name.’

  ‘So does Owen Elias,’ said Nicholas with a smile, ‘for nobody is more foreign to us than the Welsh. What does it matter where the good doctor hails from as long as he can cure this strange disease? Do you have faith in him, Edmund?’

  ‘I do. Emmanuel Zander is kind and gentle.’

  ‘When will he call again?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Nick. But enough of me,’ he said, trying to bring himself fully awake. ‘Tell me about the play. How did Caesar’s Fall fare this afternoon?’

  ‘Excellently well.’

  ‘Apart from scenes involving Casca, that is,’ said Elias, trying to rally him with praise. ‘Strive as he might, James Ingram was but a poor shadow of you in the part. You were Casca to the life, Edmund.’

  ‘Is this true, Nick?’

  ‘True enough, you were indeed a fine Casca,’ said Nicholas, ‘but James was a capable deputy. He never faltered. Lawrence and Barnaby stole most of the plaudits, as is usual, but Owen here matched them for quality as Brutus, and Frank Quilter’s scheming Cassius was his best performance yet. Caesar’s Fall was a signal triumph.’