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 lastmemory 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 mostnotorious 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
‘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 lastmemory 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 mostnotorious 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
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