Edward Marston
The Counterfeit Crank
These that do counterfeit the crank be young knaves and young harlots, that deeply dissemble the falling sickness. For the crank in their language is the falling evil.
A slipper and subtle knave, a finder-out of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself; a devilish knave!
Chapter One
‘What ails you?’ asked Nicholas Bracewell, peering at his friend with concern.
‘Nothing,’ said Edmund Hoode. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Your face is pale and drawn.’
‘I am well, I do assure you.’
‘Your eyes are bloodshot.’
‘Pay no heed to that, Nick.’
‘Are you in pain?’
Hoode shook his head. ‘No, no.’
‘Yet I saw you wince even now.’
‘Only because of the mistakes I made in that last scene.’
‘That, too, was unlike the Edmund Hoode I know. You so rarely make mistakes.’
‘Even the best horse stumbles.’
Hoode smiled bravely but Nicholas was not fooled. The company’s book holder had worked so closely with his friend over the years that he could always tell what the latter was thinking and feeling. Something was amiss. Hoode, the resident playwright with Westfield’s Men, was also a gifted actor and he was rehearsing a role for the first performance of Caesar’s Fall, a play by a new dramatist. Known for his reliability, he was uncharacteristically hesitant that morning, forgetting lines, inventing moves that had not been specified and, at one point, clumsily knocking over a piece of scenery in the Forum. They were in the yard of the Queen’s Head, the London inn where the company was based, and where they had to compete with the pandemonium of the market outside in Gracechurch Street. The sky was overcast. A cool breeze was blowing yet Nicholas thought he saw beads of sweat on Hoode’s brow.
‘Do you feel hot, Edmund?’ he said.
‘No more than usual.’
‘Not troubled by a fever, I hope?’
‘All that troubles me is this damnable memory of mine. It keeps failing me, Nick, and I’ll not abide that. I must serve the playwright much better than this.’ Hoode turned away. ‘Forgive me while I con my lines.’
Though he unrolled some parchment to check his speeches for the next scene, he really wanted to escape Nicholas’s scrutiny. Edmund Hoode felt distinctly unwell, but, not wishing to let the actors or the playwright down, he was being stoical, forcing himself to go on and trying to ignore the growing queasiness in his stomach. His head was pounding and sweat was starting to trickle down his face. He wiped it off with a sleeve.
Nicholas was not the only person to be worried about him during the break in rehearsal. Michael Grammaticus, author of Caesar’s Fall, looked even more anxious. He came across to the book holder.
‘What is wrong with Edmund this morning?’ he wondered.
‘I wish I knew, Michael.’
‘Does he always stumble so badly through a part?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s a matter of pride with him to learn his lines. Edmund has great faith in your play. He strives to do his utmost on your behalf.’
‘He has been my greatest ally.’
‘How so?’
‘Without his help, Caesar’s Fall would never have reached the stage.’
‘You wrote it, Michael,’ Nicholas reminded him.
‘Yes,’ agreed the other, ‘but Edmund Hoode inspired it. Do you know how often I sat up there in the gallery, watching a performance of one of his plays and marvelling at its quality? It was he who first fired my ambition. Edmund was my teacher and the Queen’s Head, my school. I dreamt of the day when I would emulate him as an author.’
‘That day is at hand. Your play is set fair for success.’
‘Not if someone blunders through the role of Casca like that.’
Michael Grammaticus shot an anxious glance in the direction of Hoode. Caesar’s Fall was his first venture into the world of theatre and he had set great store by it. Having been taken up by the finest troupe in London, he wanted to forge a partnership with them that would go well beyond the tragedy they were about to perform. Grammaticus was a tall, spare, phlegmatic man in his late twenties with a scholarly stoop and a habit of squinting. A graduate of Cambridge, he was steeped in learning, highly conscientious and — on the evidence of Caesar’s Fall — a talented playwright.
Nicholas understood why the man was so tense and nervous. The performance of a new play was always fraught with difficulty because the actors were translating it into live performance for the first time without having any idea how it would be received. On their makeshift stage in the inn yard, Westfield’s Men had launched many new works and not all had found favour. Some had simply bored the spectators, others had aroused them to such a pitch of anger that they had yelled abuse, hurled food and other missiles at the cast or just walked out in disgust. On such occasions, the first performance had also been the last. Grammaticus did not wish his play to meet that fate.
‘What is your opinion, Nick?’ he asked. ‘Does the piece work?’
‘It works very well, Michael. You could not have a more commanding Caesar than Lawrence Firethorn and he is ably supported by all the company. Have no fears,’ said Nicholas, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I sense that we may have a triumph on our hands. The story may be old but you have given it new life and direction. I have no qualms about what will happen when we present it before an audience.’
Grammaticus was relieved. ‘That contents me more than I can say.’
Nicholas Bracewell was the book holder and, as such, only a hired man with no financial stake in the company, but the newcomer had soon discovered how central a figure he was. Lawrence Firethorn, the actor-manager, might dazzle on stage along with the other sharers but it was Nicholas who controlled things behind the scenes and who helped to keep the troupe at the forefront of their profession. He was the solid foundation on which everything else rested and Grammaticus had especial reason to be grateful to him. Before buying a new play, Firethorn always sought Nicholas’s advice and the book holder had given his unequivocal approval to Caesar’s Fall. He had also devised some of its most dramatic effects on stage, enhancing its impact in the process.
‘Is Edmund ill, do you think?’ asked Grammaticus.
‘He denies it, Michael.’
‘What else could make him so disordered?’
Nicholas heaved a sigh. ‘There is one explanation.’
‘Pray, tell me what it is.’
‘Edmund is in love. He is ever inclined to wear his heart on his sleeve and there are times when it is too heavy to carry. Edmund gets distracted. But he will do his duty when the play is staged,’ Nicholas assured him. ‘Put him in front of an audience and a hundred unrequited loves would not divert him.’
‘I hope that it is so,’ said Grammaticus, screwing up his eyelids. ‘Casca is not a large role but it is an important one.’
Nicholas gave a nod of agreement then picked up a signal from Lawrence Firethorn. It was time to resume. The book holder checked that the correct scenery had been set up on the stage then he called the cast to order. After reading his lines for the last time, Hoode thrust the scroll inside his doublet. He looked paler than ever and seemed to be in some distress, but he was determined to soldier on. They were about to rehearse the assassination of Julius Caesar. Before they did so, Firethorn issued a stern warning.
‘Strike as if you mean to kill,’ he ordered, ‘but be sure to move away once you have used your daggers. Above all else, I must be seen. Do not dare to cheat the audience by blocking their view, or you’ll answer to me. A mighty emperor deserves a memorable end. That is what they will get.’