‘It’s the falling sickness,’ sighed the girl, looking up in despair at the faces that encircled her. ‘My brother is too ill to work and too weak to fend for me. Spare a coin or two to help us, dear friends,’ she pleaded, holding out a hand. ‘If I had enough money, I could take him to a doctor.’
The young man twitched uncontrollably a few times and more white foam came bubbling from his mouth. It was a sight that played on the sympathy of the passers-by. A decrepit old woman in faded attire was the first to reach into her purse.
‘Hold on, kind soul,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Do not part with money that you clearly need yourself. You are being tricked.’
‘That is not so,’ argued the girl, bursting into tears. ‘You all saw what happened to my brother. He is grievous sick.’
‘I think not.’
Nicholas Bracewell came forward to bend over the fallen man and grab him by the collar. With a firm heave, he pulled him upright then smacked him hard in the middle of the back. The young man spat out a piece of soap. Nicholas retrieved it from the ground and held it up for all to see.
‘You have been gulled by a counterfeit crank,’ he declared. ‘This young man is as healthy as any of us here but he feigns the falling sickness to lure money from your purses. That is why he wears these rags and rolls in the mud. As for the blood,’ he went on, using a hand to wipe it from the man’s face, ‘it comes from no wound, as you see. This fellow keeps a bladder of animal’s blood to daub himself for effect.’
‘The rogue!’ cried the old woman. ‘Send for an officer.’
‘They should be whipped at the cart’s-arse!’ said a thickset man. ‘Both of them.’
‘Spare us,’ implored the girl. ‘We meant no harm. We are starving.’
‘Beat the pair of them!’ demanded the man, pushing forward.
‘There is no need for that,’ said Nicholas, standing in front of the couple to protect them. ‘Their cunning has been duly exposed and your purses spared. That is enough. Go your way, friends, and do not be fooled again by a counterfeit crank.’
The crowd slowly dispersed in a flurry of mutters and imprecations. Danger was over. Nicholas and Owen Elias had been on their way back to the Queen’s Head when they chanced upon the two beggars. Taking care not to impede those who walked past, the book holder took a closer look at them. The man was in his early twenties, slim, dark and angular. Matted hair and a ragged beard covered what had once been handsome features. There was a scar on the side of his nose. His companion was younger, no more than sixteen or seventeen, with a trim figure and a pretty face that was masked by apprehension. Nicholas could detect no family likeness between the two of them.
‘You are no brother and sister,’ he remarked.
‘Yes, we are,’ lied the girl. ‘We came to London when our parents died.’
‘What are your names?’
‘Why should we tell you?’ retorted the young man, defensively.
‘Because you might find we have something in common,’ said Elias with a chuckle. ‘That’s a Welsh voice I hear, as clear and melodious as my own. Noswaith da.’
The beggar was tentative. ‘Noswaith da.’
Elias turned to the girl. ‘I have two sisters back home in Wales and they both have my lilt. So should you, if you were raised across the border. Let’s have no more of this nonsense about being brother and sister.’ He smiled at them. ‘I am Owen Elias and this is Nick Bracewell. We are not here to harry you.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, adopting a softer tone. ‘But I could not bear to see that poor old woman giving you what might have been her last groat. You are new to the city, I see, and picked the wrong place to beg.’
‘Yes,’ advised Elias. ‘Always choose somewhere in the open so that you can take to your heels, if you are found out. Here, in this lane, you were trapped. Nick may have laid bare your device, but he also saved you from a sound beating.’
The young man gave a grudging nod. ‘Thank you for that, at least.’
‘So tell us your names.’
‘I am Hywel Rees and this is Dorothea.’
‘Dorothea Tate,’ she admitted. ‘And, no, we are not brother and sister. We met in St Albans, where Hywel rescued me from much worse than a beating.’ She pulled back a sleeve to reveal ugly bruises all the way up her arm. ‘There were two of the devils and they’d not be denied. Hywel took them on alone.’
‘And sent them on their way,’ said Hywel, proudly. ‘I look after Dorothea now.’
‘Then do it with more care,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘Do you have any money?’
‘None at all. But we met this man on the road who told us that beggars could prosper, if they were guileful enough. He talked of a counterfeit crank he knew who could make six shillings a day with the falling sickness.’
‘Six shillings a day!’ exclaimed Elias. ‘Hell’s teeth! That’s far more than I could earn, Hywel, and yet we are in the same trade.’
‘Are we?’
‘I am an actor with Westfield’s Men. Nick here is our book holder.’
‘Yes,’ added Nicholas. ‘This afternoon, we performed the tragedy of Julius Caesar and our manager, Lawrence Firethorn, in the role of the emperor, was called upon to do exactly what you did and feign the falling sickness.’
‘We’ll tell him about the soap to make him foam at the mouth. A clever touch.’
‘It tastes foul,’ said Hywel. ‘The first time I tried it, I swallowed a piece.’
‘It made him sick,’ remembered Dorothea.
‘There must be easier ways to earn a living.’
‘There are, Hywel,’ said Nicholas. ‘You can do it by honest toil. Have you better clothing than these filthy rags?’ Hywel nodded. ‘Then we might be able to find you employment at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. Our company performs there. We have a new landlord and he was looking to hire some more labour. If Dorothea was taken on as a kitchen wench, would you work as a serving man?’
Hywel was doubtful. ‘I do not know.’
‘It might be worth it,’ said Dorothea. ‘At least, we’d not go hungry.’
‘Would you like me to speak to the landlord on your behalf?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Not yet,’ said Hywel. ‘Let us think it over. The Queen’s Head, you say?’
‘In Gracechurch Street. You’ll always find us there.’
Elias reached into his purse. ‘For a penny apiece, you can stand in the yard and watch us perform,’ he said, pulling out some coins. ‘Here’s enough to buy you a good meal and take you to a wondrous play tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dorothea, grasping the money. ‘You are very kind.’
‘I hate to see a fellow Welshman having to beg.’ He winked at her. ‘And the same goes for his sister. I dare swear you are pretty enough to come from Wales.’
‘Diolch,’ said Hywel, squeezing his arm. ‘Diolch yn fawr.’
‘Cymru am byth.’
Hywel gave his first smile and it lit up his face. ‘Cymru am byth.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Nicholas.
‘What else?’ returned Elias. ‘Wales forever!’
Dorothea, too, now felt secure enough to smile, disappointed that Hywel’s performance as a counterfeit crank had failed but sensing that they had made some good friends as a result. London had given them slim pickings since their arrival. On the previous night, they had slept beside the Thames and felt the cold wind of poverty. Thanks to their new acquaintances, she now had some money warming the palm of her hand. Hope began to flicker.