The Nine Giants

Chapter Nine

The sky over Windsor was dark and swollen as the funeral cortège walked solemnly up the path to St John’s Church. Only a select gathering of family and friends had been invited to watch Lieutenant Michael Delahaye lowered into his final resting place. The priest led the way in white surplice and black cassock with his prayer book open in his hands. Six bearers carried the elm coffin with its ornate brass handles and its small brass commemorative plate. The widowed mother led the procession, leaning for support on the arm of her brother, Walter Stanford, and weeping copiously. Next came her four daughters, each one stricken by the loss, each one helped along by a husband. Black was the predominant colour and Matilda Stanford, who came next, wore a taffeta dress trimmed with black lace and a matching hat with a black veil. Leaning on the arm of her stepson, she wept genuine tears of sorrow and her sympathy for the bereaved was clear to see. Behind her came more figures in black and more lamentation. Michael Delahaye was going out of the world on a tide of grief.

The service was accompanied throughout by sobs, cries and moans as suffering mourners tried to come to terms both with the death of the dear departed and with the brutal nature of that death. Walter Stanford had deemed it wise to keep back the worst details of the horror. His sister and the rest of the family had enough misery to accommodate as it was. They had all been fearful when Michael had announced his intention of joining the army that set out for the Netherlands. His safe return was a cause for celebration and they had planned a small banquet in his honour. Instead of a long table loaded with rich food and fine wine, they were marking his homecoming with funeral bakemeats.

Matilda Stanford went through it all in a daze. The church was filled with so much high emotion that she was overwhelmed and heard very little of the service that was being intoned by the vicar. Only when the coffin was taken out into the graveyard and interred in the family vault did she come out of her reverie and she felt a stab of shame that gave her a prickly sensation. She was not thinking about Michael Delahaye, nor yet about his poor mother, nor even about her husband’s grievous pain. She was not listening to any of the muttered words of comfort that were heard all round her as they began to disperse. She was not succumbing to notions of death itself and how it might visit her when the hour drew near.

At a funeral, in a graveyard, close to her husband and in the midst of a family tragedy, she found herself toying with a vision of Lawrence Firethorn. Guilt made her weep the most bitter tears yet and an arm tightened on hers.

But her mind still belonged to the actor.

After a week of upheavals, it was good to get away from the pressures of the city and out into the freedom of the countryside. A fire at his lodging, an attempt on his life and a puzzling encounter at the house on the Bridge had made Nicholas Bracewell more cautious than ever and he kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being followed. It was Sunday morning and he had been instructed by Lawrence Firethorn to ride down to Richmond to take stock of the Nine Giants where the company was due to perform in the near future. Nicholas took Hans Kippel with him so that he could guard the boy and — because she was born there — Anne Hendrik went beside him on the road to Richmond. The book holder was mounted on a chestnut mare with the apprentice clinging on behind him. Anne rode a dapple grey with an easy gait.

It had every appearance of a family outing and this was one of its objects. They had not simply taken on a parental responsibility for Hans Kippel. His damaged mind responded to a sense of familial reassurance and it was only when he was at his most relaxed that his memory began to function properly again. In taking him away from London itself, Nicholas hoped to separate the boy from the well-spring of his malady. The country air of Richmond might do wonders for the lad’s power of recall. At all events, they made a happy picture, moving along at a rising trot and urging the horses into a gentle canter when the terrain invited it.

The book holder was relieved to put the week behind him. Quite apart from personal crises, it had been an extremely taxing period. He had stage-managed four very different plays for Westfield’s Men as well as coping with sundry other duties. Placating Edmund Hoode had proved to be a time-consuming pastime and the ambitious Owen Elias was another constant drain on his patience. Regular sessions with Alexander Marwood had been another burden and Lawrence Firethorn’s demands were endless. Then there was the problem of the versifying waterman.

Hans Kippel raised the problem from the bobbing rump of the horse.

‘May I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow?’

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas.

‘But I wish to see Master Strudwick on the stage.’

‘It is not for your young eyes,’ decided Anne. ‘And certainly not for your young ears. London watermen use the vilest language in Christendom.’

‘But Master Strudwick makes music.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘He has another kind of harmony in mind for tomorrow, Hans. I will report everything back to you, have no fear.’

‘Who will win the flyting contest?’

‘Neither, if I have my way. It will not take place.’

The boy was disappointed but a half-mile taken at a canter obliged him to hold on tight and suspend his questioning. It was not long before Richmond Palace came into sight to focus all their attention. Overlooking the Thames with regal condescension, it was a magnificent building in the Gothic style, constructed round a paved court and rising up with turreted splendour. Even on such a dull day, its gilded weathervanes added a romantic sparkle and its superfluity of windows lent it an almost crystalline charm. Hans Kippel was awestruck. Glimpsed over the shoulder of his friend, Richmond Palace had a fairy-tale quality that enchanted him.

The village itself had grown steadily throughout the century as more and more people moved out of the plague-ridden city to its healthier suburbs. Many of the local inhabitants gained their livelihood from the Palace itself and it dominated their existence in every way. Nicholas escorted Anne to a cottage on the far side of the village and stayed long enough to witness the tearful reunion with her parents. Hans Kippel was lifted off the sweating chestnut to share in the hospitality. Nicholas rode back across the wide expanse of village green to get to the inn he had come to visit.

One glance told him that the Nine Giants would be ideal for their purposes. It was larger and altogether more generous in its proportions than the Queen’s Head. Erected around a paved courtyard, it had three galleries with thatched roofs. Its timber framing gave it the magpie colouring of most London houses but it was vastly cleaner and more well preserved than its equivalents in the city. Not for the first time, Nicholas reflected on how much filth and pollution a large population could generate. Richmond was truly picturesque. The smile had not been wiped off its face by the crude elbows of the urban multitude. A presenting feature of the inn was the cluster of oak trees which gave it its name. Rising high and wide out of the paddock at the rear, they formed a rough circle of timber that had an almost mystic quality. The nine giants were soon joined by a tenth.

‘Good day to you, master.’

‘And to you, good sir.’

‘Welcome to our hostelry.’

‘It is a fine establishment you have here.’

‘I’ll be with you anon.’

Nicholas had come into the yard to see a huge barrel being carried aloft by a giant of a man in a leather apron. He was loading up a brewer’s dray with empty casks from the cellar and the work was making him grunt. The book holder dismounted and tethered his horse to a post. At that moment, the man dropped his barrel onto the dray with a terrifying thud then wiped his hands on his apron. Nicholas saw his face properly for the first time and laughed with sheer astonishment.

‘Leonard!’

‘Is that you, Master Bracewell?’

‘Come here, dear fellow!’

They embraced warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Nicholas could not believe what he saw.

His friend had come back from the grave.

The thickset man lay on the bed with heavy bandaging around his midriff. His self-inflicted wound had been serious but not fatal and he was recovering with the aid of regular flagons of bottle ale. James Renfrew looked down at him with mild disgust.

‘Drink wine and cultivate some manners,’ he said.

‘I’ll look to my own pleasures, Jamie.’

‘How do you feel today, sir?’

‘Better.’

‘Can you stand?’

‘Stand and walk and carry a weapon.’

‘There’ll be time enough for that.’

‘He is mine,’ hissed the other.

‘Master Bracewell?’

‘Look what he did to me. I want him.’

‘The boy is our main concern. He is a witness.’

‘I’ll pluck his Dutch eyes out!’ He glanced up at the black patch and blurted out a clumsy apology. ‘I am … sorry, Jamie. I did … not mean to …’

‘Enough of that!’ said Renfrew sharply. ‘Hold your peace and get some rest.’

‘Has the time been set?’

‘It is all in hand.’

‘When is it?’

‘You will be told, Firk.’

‘Give me but a day or two and …’

‘The plan is conceived, have no fear. We will not move without your help. It will be needed.’

‘And Master Bracewell?’

‘That will come, too. That will come, too.’

Renfrew crossed to the window of the bedchamber and surveyed the river below. It was a forest of rigging that rose and fell on the undulating surface. He watched a boat being rowed expertly across the Thames and followed it until it vanished from sight behind a larger vessel.

Renfrew threw a nonchalant question over his shoulder.

‘Firk …’

‘What?’

‘Have you ever killed a waterman?’

Nicholas Bracewell was delighted to see the mountain of flesh again. Leonard had a natural gentleness to offset his immense bulk and his big, round, freckled face shone with hope. He was still in his twenties with receding hair that exposed a wide forehead and a full beard that was split with a snaggle-toothed grin. They had met in the most trying circumstances. Both had been incarcerated in the Counter in Wood Street, one of the city’s worst and most repulsive prisons. Nicholas had been falsely accused of assault by enemies who had wanted him out of the way for a time but his connection with Lord Westfield had soon purchased his release. Even that brief period of custody had been enough to convince him that he must never be locked away in one of the city’s hellholes again.

Leonard’s case had been far more serious. He faced a murder charge that would lead to certain execution. It was a sad tale of being at the mercy of his own muscles. The genial giant had the most easy temperament and no aggressive instincts. When his workmates took him to Hoxton Fair, however, they decided it was time to goad him into some kind of action. Leonard was cajoled into taking on the invincible wrestler, the Great Mario, a towering Italian with too much guile in combat for any of the challengers who came forward in his booth. Most were dispatched without any difficulty but the newcomer was a tougher proposition.

‘I did not think to win the bout,’ said Leonard as he recounted the story again. ‘I only fought to please my fellows. But the Great Mario did not wrestle fair. He tripped and punched and kicked and bit me. I got angry. Ale had been drunk and the weather was hot. My fellows were shouting me on at the top of their voices.’

‘I remember. You grappled with the Great Mario.’

‘And broke his neck. It snapped in two.’

‘He provoked you to it, Leonard.’

‘No matter, sir. They arrested me for murder.’

‘How then came you to escape?’

‘By the grace of God.’

‘Was a general release signed?’

London prisons were notoriously overcrowded and many died inside them from the cramped conditions. Every so often the number of inmates would swell so dramatically that the prisons were bursting at the seams. A general release was sometimes issued to thin out the population in the cells to make room for more malefactors. Leonard would not have been the first alleged murderer to have been granted his freedom in this way but his delivery occurred by a slightly different means.

‘The Lord Mayor of London took up my case.’

‘In person?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell. I was much honoured.’

‘Were you brought to trial?’

‘Sir Lucas Pugsley saved me from that.’

‘But how, Leonard?’

‘I know not but his power is without limit.’ He gave a defensive smile. ‘One minute, I was lying in the straw at the Counter and saying my prayers. Next minute, the sergeant is taking off my chains and letting me go free. If that is what a Lord Mayor can do, then I bow down to him in all humility.’

‘Have you ever met Sir Lucas Pugsley?’

‘Indeed, no.’

‘Then why did he take an interest in you?’

‘Out of the kindness of his heart.’

‘There must be more to it than that.’

‘My master says it was just good fortune.’

‘Your master?’

‘He it was who brought the release to the Counter.’

‘But how was it obtained?’

‘As I told you. From the Lord Mayor’s hand.’

Nicholas was puzzled by the intercession from above.

‘Who is your master, Leonard?’

‘Alderman Ashway. I work for his brewery.’

Rowland Ashway arrived importantly at the Queen’s Head early on Monday morning. He brought his lawyer with him who, in turn, brought the contract for the sale of the premises. Alexander Marwood had his own lawyer waiting and the four of them went though the document with painstaking care for a couple of hours. A few doubts were raised, a few objections stated, a few emendations made. When the quibbling was over, both lawyers claimed their fees then withdrew to the other side of the room to leave the others alone. Alderman Ashway loomed over the funereal publican with oily complacence.

‘All is therefore settled, Master Marwood.’

‘I would like my wife to see the contract.’

‘When you have signed it, sir.’

‘She may have anxieties.’

‘Still them in the marriage bed.’

A retrospective wheeze. ‘Times have changed.’

‘Nothing now detains us,’ said the alderman. ‘Our attorneys have pronounced on the document and I have the money waiting for you to collect. Do but scrawl your name and the business is complete.’

‘Must it be done today, sir?’

‘I grow weary of your prevarication.’

‘It shall be signed, it shall be signed,’ gabbled the other. ‘But I must have a moment to reflect. The Queen’s Head was willed to me by my father. I must pray for his guidance and be reconciled with his soul.’

‘Will you then reach out for your pen?’

‘Most assuredly.’

Marwood bowed obsequiously and rubbed his hands together as if he were grating rotten cheese between them. He had bought another small delay but Rowland Ashway was determined that it would be the last.

‘We will return later,’ he announced.

‘You are always welcome here.’

‘To witness the signature.’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘This is the day of decision, Master Marwood, and I will brook no more evasion. Append your name and your good will to that same document or I will tear it up and leave you to the mercy of Westfield’s Men.’

He sailed out of the room with his lawyer in tow. Alexander Marwood trotted meekly after him and smoothed his acceptance of the ultimatum. When he came out into the yard, however, something stopped the landlord and he became prey to fleeting regret.

The actors were gathering for rehearsal.

Abel Strudwick was a creature of extremes. Once he was committed to a course of action, he went the whole way with no hint of holding back. He had been shocked and wounded by Lawrence Firethorn’s cavalier treatment of him at the Queen’s Head and felt the pangs of the discarded. As one dream crumbled, however, another came into being. In cutting the actor-manager down in a verbal duel, he would not only be gaining his revenge, he would be showing the world his true merit as a performer. When he had made the final thrust into Firethorn’s black heart — he was confident of a swift victory — he intended to bestow the ultimate favour upon the audience by reading some of his poems. This was no mere flyting contest. It was the harbour from which his new career could be launched.

To this end, the visionary waterman had handbills printed to advertise his feat and distributed them freely to his passengers, around the taverns and among his fellows at the wharfside. Abel Strudwick was pitting his skills against a famous thespian. It was an intriguing prospect and it drew scores of people who would not normally have visited a theatrical event. The large audience which had come to watch The Queen of Carthage was thus further enlarged by an influx of rowdy watermen who jockeyed for position near the apron stage. As a prelude to an inspiring tragedy, they were being offered a clash of naked steel.

Somebody was doing his best to spoil their fun.

‘It is not too late to change your mind, Abel.’

‘That would be cowardly!’

‘I talk of a dignified withdrawal.’

‘Talk of what you wish, Master Bracewell,’ said the angry waterman. ‘I have vowed to do battle this day.’

‘Both of you will incur severe injury.’

‘It matters not, sir.’

‘But what if you should lose?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘This would do harm to your reputation.’

‘Defeat is impossible. Rest your tongue.’

They were in the taproom at the Queen’s Head not long before the contest was scheduled to take place. The book holder had made several attempts to talk his friend out of the whole thing but the latter was adamant. He had been slighted and sought recompense in the only way that would satisfy him. By way of preparation, he was sinking pints of Ashway’s Beer to clear his mind for argument.

Nicholas left him alone and slipped off to the tiring-house to make a last appeal to the other half of the dispute. Like the waterman, Lawrence Firethorn had steadfastly refused to listen to reason so far and he could not be diverted from his purpose now. Before he gave his acclaimed performance as Aeneas in the play, he meant to visit destruction upon the hirsute head of Abel Strudwick. The book holder got short shrift.

‘Speak not to me of retreat, Nick.’

‘Think of the good name of the company, sir.’

‘It is to defend that name that I measure swords with this unbarbered ruffian.’

‘You should not descend to a vulgar brawl with him.’

‘There will be no brawl,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘I will disarm the rogue with my first speech and he will stand there helpless while I cut him to shreds.’

‘A little diplomacy might save a lot of pain.’

‘Begone, sir! I’ll not be flouted out of my purpose.’

Nicholas Bracewell had foreseen the impasse and had evolved a contingency plan. It was time to activate it.

Meanwhile, in another part of the inn, another plan of his was being implemented. Margery Firethorn was paying a call on Sybil Marwood. They were in a private room that overlooked the courtyard and their interview was thus punctuated by the throbbing murmur of the crowd. Margery eschewed her usual over-assertive conversational style and opted for a softer and more confiding approach. She had been well primed by the book holder with information that he had gleaned from his chat at the Nine Giants with his old friend from the Counter. The mighty Leonard had unwittingly provided valuable insights into the working methods of Rowland Ashway.

‘I came to express my sympathy, Mistress Marwood.’

‘On what account, pray?’

‘Why, this betrayal that your husband is about.’

‘Betrayal?’

‘He intends to sell the inn to Alderman Ashway.’

‘For a good price, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘What do men know of price?’ said Margery with cold scorn. ‘When they have money in their hand, they cannot conceive its value. Only a woman can set a true price.’

‘That is so,’ conceded the other.

‘Your husband sells the Queen’s Head and gets a fair return for the inn, that is agreed. But, mistress, how much does he get for the home he is also losing? For the good will he has built up here? For the years of sweat and toil that both of you have put into the establishment?’ Margery heaved a sympathetic sigh. ‘This is a place with historic value. It breathes tradition. Did your spouse exact payment for that?’

‘I have not seen the terms of the contract.’

‘No?’ said the other, driving a wedge between husband and wife. ‘That is not considerate. My own dear husband would never dare to sign away our property without my amen to the notion. Master Marwood abuses you. He writes his name on a document and your whole lives are at risk.’

‘Risk?’ The alarm bell was ringing.

‘Surely, your husband has informed you.’

‘What risk, madam? Speak it plain.’

‘Eviction.’

‘From our own home!’

‘It will belong to Alderman Ashway.’

‘The contract will protect us.’

‘How do you know when you have not seen it?’ Margery got up and headed for the door. ‘Thank you for listening to me. I will not take up any more of your time.’

‘Wait!’ said Sybil Marwood. ‘I desire more clarity.’

‘It would only distress you further.’

‘I wish to know, madam. Advise me in this matter and I will be deeply in your debt.’

Margery turned with queenly charm and smiled at her.

‘I talk to you but as a woman.’

‘Let me hear you.’

‘And I do not take sides in this quarrel. But …’

‘Well?’ said the other impatiently. ‘But, but, but …’

‘The Queen’s Head is not the only inn that the gluttonous alderman has gobbled up. The Antelope and the White Hart in Cheapside have both been swallowed and the Brazen Serpent is to be his next meal.’

‘That is his pleasure. He is a wealthy man.’

‘Whence comes this wealth, Mistress Marwood?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Alderman Ashway seeks a good profit,’ said Margery sweetly, ‘but that cannot be obtained if he gives too good a price for the property. Or if he pays too good a wage to his tenant publican. Do you follow me here?’

‘I begin to, madam.’

‘The landlord of the Antelope was driven out within six months of yielding up ownership. His successor works for longer hours and a lower wage.’

‘Can this be so?’ gasped the other.

‘Look to the suburbs. The alderman bought both the Bull and Butcher in Shoreditch and the Carpenters Arms in Islington. Speak to the unhappy landlords. They are now mere slaves where before they were masters. Would you and your husband wear this humiliation?’

A rousing cheer from the yard below took Margery over to the window but she had done her work. Stung with rage and flustered with fear, Sybil Marwood raced out of the room in search of her husband. She felt that she had been kept wilfully in the dark by the menfolk and it was time to voice her complaint. As she stormed into the taproom, her husband greeted her with open arms.

‘Come, Sybil! Our future joy is assured.’

‘What say you, sir?’

‘I have signed the contract with Alderman Ashway.’

‘Tear it up at once!’ she yelled.

‘Too late, madam.’

‘Why?’

‘It has been sent back to him by messenger.’

The commotion which drew Margery Firethorn to the window was caused by the appearance onstage of Abel Strudwick. With the aid of his fellow watermen, he scrambled up onto the scaffold and paraded around like a wrestler showing off his muscles. Good-natured jeers went up and there was a ripple of applause. It was only when Strudwick stopped to acknowledge his reception that he realised how much beer he had consumed. His head was muzzy and he had to splay his legs to prevent himself from swaying. There was another, more immediate problem. Viewed from the yard below, the work of the actors had looked as easy as it was stimulating. Now that he was actually up there himself as the cynosure, he became aware of what a test of nerve it was. A sea of heaving bodies lay below. Galleries of grinning faces stretched above. Shouts and cheers and wild advice came from hundreds of throats. His iron confidence began to melt in the fiery heat of all the attention.

It was not helped by the sonorous bell that chimed the half-hour and made him jump with fright. Before he could recover, there was a fanfare of trumpets and then Lawrence Firethorn made a triumphal entry. Flanked by six resplendent soldiers, he wore golden armour, a golden helmet and golden greaves upon his shins. A glittering sword was held aloft in one hand while the other bore a golden shield. The contrast was startling. On one side of the stage was a dishevelled, bow-legged waterman with a round-shouldered stoop: on the other was a virile warrior who stood straight and proud. As the fanfare ended, the actor delivered his rebuke with imperious force.

With the words still echoing around the yard, the godlike presence turned on his sandalled heel and made his exit with dignified briskness. Lawrence Firethorn had been so impressive that he had robbed Strudwick of all power to reply. It was only when a burst of applause broke out for Jupiter that the boatman came out of his daze and tried to strike back. When he lurched after the actor, however, he found his way barred by the six soldiers in shining armour, each holding a pike whose blade had been dutifully polished that morning by George Dart. In the heat of the moment, Strudwick resorted to intemperate abuse.

‘Come back, you hound! You snivelling, sneaking rat! Come here, you caitiff. Show your monkey’s face again and I will knock off your knavish helmet and put a cuckold’s horns upon your head. ’Twas I that rode your foul fiend of a wife and had such clamorous sport between her spindly legs. Thy dame is pizzle-mad, sir, and her oily duckies are sucked by every gallant in the town!’

‘WHAT!!!!!’

The scream of fury was so loud and penetrating that it silenced Strudwick and the whole audience at once. Margery Firethorn climbed out through the window like a tiger hurtling out of its lair in search of prey. She pushed her way through the seated spectators in the lower gallery and cocked a leg over the balustrade before jumping down onto the stage itself. Words came hissing out of her like poisonous steam.

‘Who are you to speak, you pimp, you goose, you carrion crow! I am that same wife you talk so rudely of and I am as sound a Christian as any woman alive. Fie on your foul tongue, you varlet, on your sewer of a mouth, on that running sore of a mind that you scratch for argument to make it bleed villainy. Out, out, you clod, you tottering wretch, you drunken bawd, you scheming devil, you thrice-ugly beggar, you vile and noisome vapour. Draw off lest you infect us all with this leprous speech of yours!’ She stood over him with such fearsome rage that he cowered before her. ‘A foul fiend, am I, sir? I will haunt your haunches with my housewife’s toe for that. I have spindly legs, you say. They hold me better than those poor, mean sticks of yours that cannot hold up the weight of a beer-filled belly without they bend like longbows at full draw. Pizzle-mad, you claim …’

Abel Strudwick’s defeat was comprehensive and the audience howled and jeered at his expense. He yet had one card to play. Shrugging off Margery’s attack, he ran to the front of the stage and tried to redeem himself by reciting his latest poem about a humble waterman who becomes a famous actor and who plays before the Queen. It was a disastrous remedy. The spectators were provoked to such cruel mirth and ribaldry that missiles soon began to be hurled at the stocky figure. Strudwick kept on, dodging the apple cores and rotten eggs as best he could, caught between death and damnation, between the still-fulminating Margery behind him and the foaming torrent of abuse in front of him. The Queen of Carthage rescued him.

Seeing his friend in such a quandary, Nicholas gave the signal to start the play early. The trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak. Margery and Strudwick went mute and backed away. When the first scene swirled onto the stage, the two of them nimbly dodged the Carthaginian soldiers to escape. Strudwick dived gratefully forward into the arms of his fellows who felt that he had been somewhat maltreated. Margery beat her retreat through the curtain and hurried into the tiring-house. She made straight for the gold-clad figure of Jupiter and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Well spoken, Lawrence! You mammocked him!’

‘Thank you, mistress,’ said a Welsh voice.

She jumped back. ‘You are not my husband!’

‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That honour is denied me.’

‘But you were the very image of his Jupiter.’

‘That was the intention,’ said Nicholas, waving another four soldiers onto the stage. ‘I sought to uphold Master Firethorn’s reputation while keeping him from any real harm.’

She was bemused. ‘He had Lawrence’s own voice.’

‘But not his luck in love,’ said Elias with a touch of gallantry, placing a bearded kiss on her hand. ‘Edmund Hoode wrote the words. I but learnt them in the manner of our master.’ Celestial music sounded. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, Jupiter is needed elsewhere.’

With Ganymede beside him, he made his entry.

Margery began to see how the whole thing had been carefully arranged by the book holder. But for her spirited intervention, the flyting match would never have taken place. As it was, she had conquered a worthy foe in place of her husband. She pulled at Nicholas’s sleeve.

‘Where is Lawrence?’ she whispered.

‘He will be here even now.’

‘How did you keep him away from that ruffian?’

‘See there, mistress.’

Lawrence Firethorn was brought into the tiring-house by four strong men who clung on to him for their lives. Costumed as Aeneas, he was palpitating with anger and spitting out curses. On a nod from Nicholas, the actor was released by his terrified captors.

‘Heads will roll for this!’ warned Firethorn.

‘Stand by, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll wreak havoc on the whole lot of you.’ He saw his wife. ‘Margery! You have no place here, woman.’

‘I have acted my scene and bowed out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your cue, sir,’ said the book holder.

‘Am I locked in a madhouse?’ growled the actor.

‘Enter Aeneas.’

Music played and personal suffering was put aside. Lawrence Firethorn went out into the cauldron of the action as the cunning Aeneas and dallied with the affections of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as portrayed with winsome charm by Richard Honeydew. Here was the actor as his admirers really wanted to see him, not trading verbal blows with a contentious waterman, but operating at the very height of his powers and thrilling minds and hearts with uncanny skill. Back in the tiring-house, Margery raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nicholas smiled.

‘All will be explained in time,’ he said quietly.

Sir Lucas Pugsley sat before a daunting pile of judicial documents and sifted slowly through them. Aubrey Kenyon was on hand to give any help and advice that was needed. The Lord Mayor had to preside at all meetings of the city’s administrative courts. As chief magistrate, he had to act as judge, dealing with an enormous range of cases. Everything from petty law-breaking to complex commercial disputes came before him. It was also his avowed task to supervise the conduct of trade in the city and see that it was carried out in accordance with civic regulations. This function of his office often brought him up against the names of his friends.

He studied a new document and gave a wry smirk.

‘Rowland Ashway is arraigned again.’

‘For what, Lord Mayor?’

‘Adulterating his beer. The charge will not stick.’

‘His brewery has a good reputation.’

‘There will always be those who seek to bring a conscientious man down,’ said Pugsley. ‘How can one trust the word of a landlord, I ask you? These fellows pour water into their beer then swear it was done at the brewery so that they may claim some recompense. The law here is nothing but a whip with which a guileful publican can beat an honest tradesman.’

‘Will the case come to court?’

‘Not while I sit in judgement, Aubrey.’

‘That is the third time Alderman Ashway is indebted to your wisdom,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He has aroused much resentment among jealous landlords.’

‘They’ll get no help from me.’ He put the document aside, picked up another then cast that after the first. ‘Enough legality for one day, sir. I sometimes think that London runs on the quibbles of attorneys.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘We have worked hard, Aubrey. I flatter myself that I do the labour of any three men.’

‘At least.’

‘Walter Stanford will not be able to keep my pace.’

‘He may not wish to try, Lord Mayor.’

‘Signs of hesitation?’

‘This death in the family has preyed upon his mind. It has slowed down his steps towards the mayoralty.’

‘That is the best news yet. What of this play?’

‘The Nine Giants?’

‘Is the monstrous piece still promised?’

‘By Gilbert Pike. He has written such plays before.’

‘This will tax his imagination most,’ said Pugsley sourly. ‘Where will they find nine giants among the mercers? Where eight? Five? One?’

‘Richard Whittington must be allowed, sir.’

‘Even so. But do not mention his name to Rowland.’

‘That story still smarts with Alderman Ashway.’

‘And so it should,’ noted the Lord Mayor. ‘When the much-vaunted Whittington sat in my place, he made himself very unpopular with the brewers when he tried to enforce standard sizes for barrels.’

‘He also attempted to regulate the price of beer.’

‘The brewers got no mercy from a mercer!’

Aubrey Kenyon creased his face at the feeble joke and took the opportunity to work in a reminder of a subject that he took very seriously.

‘The noble gentleman did sterling work during his terms of office. He kept the city busy and he kept its citizens well subdued.’ He crossed over to Pugsley. ‘You have not forgotten the public holiday?’

‘This Thursday. Preparations are under way.’

‘A strict hand is a sign of a sound mayoralty.’

‘Then that is what you will get from me, sir. Let others talk of Dick Whittington. If you want discipline and good government, look no further than Sir Lucas Pugsley. On Thursday I will keep a very careful watch.’

It took an hour to pacify Lawrence Firethorn and only the presence of his wife held him back from reviling his whole company. In his opinion, he was the victim of a dreadful conspiracy that could never be forgotten or forgiven. A stoup of wine, a barrel of flattery and the gentle persuasiveness of Nicholas Bracewell finally made him see the true value of the stratagem. Abel Strudwick had been bested, Firethorn’s reputation had been enhanced and the performance of The Queen of Carthage scaled peaks it had never before assayed. There could be no better advertisement for the work of Westfield’s Men.

Warming to it all, Firethorn summoned George Dart to escort his wife back to Shoreditch then he touched on two important issues with the book holder.

‘Has that death’s-head of a landlord signed yet?’

‘I have not spoken with Master Marwood yet.’

‘Give him my compliments and bring him to heel.’

‘Alderman Ashway has much influence.’

‘See that you counteract it, Nick.’ He became secretive. ‘First, I have another errand for you. Deliver this letter to Stanford Place.’

‘Is this sensible, master?’

‘Do as you are bid, sir. The letter is expected and you will present it at the garden gate upon the stroke of five. Someone shall be there to receive it.’

Nicholas was not happy to leave the Queen’s Head when such a vital talk with the landlord was imminent but he could not refuse the commission. He hastened out into Gracechurch Street and headed north towards Bishopsgate. Fine drizzle was now falling out of a pockmarked sky. When he reached Stanford Place, he went around to the garden and lurked beside the gate until the chimes of the clock were heard. Prudence Ling was a punctual gatekeeper and snatched the letter from him with a giggle before hiding it under the folds of her cloak. She also gave the visitor an admiring glance. Nicholas did not waste his advantage.

‘There is sorrow in the house, we hear.’

‘The master’s nephew, sir. Most horribly killed.’

‘Has the murderer been found?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Tell me the way of it, mistress.’

Prudence needed no second invitation. She gabbled her way through the details and answered every question that he asked. Ten minutes at a garden gate turned out to be a revelation. Nicholas hated being a party to the projected betrayal of a loyal wife but there had been some consolation. Prudence was a mine of information. There was more value yet in his visit. As he made his way back to the front of the house, a coach was just drawing up and Walter Stanford himself was getting out. He was weighted down with sadness and the spring had gone out of his step but it was not the Lord Mayor Elect who commanded attention. Nicholas was far more interested in the steward who opened the door to welcome his master and who bowed ingratiatingly before him. The book holder felt a thrill of recognition as connections were made.

He had met Simon Pendleton on the Bridge.