The Nine Giants

Chapter Ten

Domestic tragedy inflicted deep wounds on Walter Stanford and he dragged himself around for days after the funeral. He brought his sister back to Stanford Place so that he could look after her properly and they spent much time together on their knees in the little chapel. His work was not entirely neglected and he burnt large quantities of midnight oil in his counting-house. He also resumed his regular visits to the Royal Exchange. His smiling face hid the pain of an anguished soul, his pleasantries concealed a profound sorrow. Though he had disapproved of much that Michael Delahaye did, he had loved him like a second son and felt that he would at last be able to exert a firm paternal influence on his wayward nephew. That fond hope now lay buried in the family vault at Windsor. Requiescat in pace.

The first floor of the Exchange — the pawn, as it was known — had been rented out to shopkeepers whose booths sold such luxury items as horn, porcelain, ivory, silver and watches. It was from one of these shops that Gilbert Pike looked down to espy his friend below and he hurried down to the courtyard as fast as his venerable legs would carry him. He waded out through the waves of bartering humanity until he reached Walter Stanford. Greetings were followed by the old man’s condolences but the Lord Mayor Elect did not wish to dwell on sadness. He turned to a more uplifting subject.

‘Now, sir, how does my play fare?’

‘It is all but finished, Walter,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I still have the trick of words and I vow that The Nine Giants will please you and your good lady mightily.’

‘Does it beat the drum for the Mercers’ Company?’

‘Until every ear be deafened.’

‘And humour, Gilbert? I asked for lightness.’

‘It will set the table on a roar.’

‘That will be welcome at this bleak time,’ said the other. ‘But tell me now, who are our nine giants?’

‘Dick Whittington is first.’

‘No man could question that.’

‘Then come Geoffrey Boleyn and Hugh Clopton.’

‘Both mercers and mayors of high repute.’

‘Fine fellows,’ agreed Pike. ‘Except that Clopton does not lend itself to rhyme. John Allen is the next in line with Ralph Dodmer and Richard Gresham close behind.’

‘All six of these are giants indeed.’

‘Lionel Duckett, too, and with him Rowland Hill.’

‘That brings the number up to eight.’

‘My ninth giant is Walter Stanford.’

‘I pale in such company, Gilbert.’

‘You may yet stand taller than all the rest, sir.’

They fell into a discussion of the pageant and its simple structure. The doddering author could not resist quoting from his work. One of the nine giants brought special pleasure to Walter Stanford.

‘I like the notion of Ralph Dodmer.’

‘Lord Mayor of London in 1529,’ said the old man. ‘He was a brewer who rebelled against the dominance of the Great Twelve. He refused to translate to one of the dozen leading Guilds even though it was the only way to ensure his mayoralty. No mere brewer could get election.’

‘Dodmer suffered for his principles.’

‘Indeed, sir. A spell in prison and a heavy fine changed his mind for him. Our brewer saw common sense.’

‘And became affiliated to the mercers.’

‘Then did he take revenge on all his fellows,’ said the chortling Pike. ‘He kept the aleconners alert enough. Tavern keepers caught watering the beer or serving short measure were fined and jailed, and had their cheating measures burnt in public. Brewers who tampered with their beer were hauled before the court. An alewife found using pitchers with naughty bottoms was sent to play Bo Peep through a pillory.’

‘He swinged the whole profession.’

‘The Nine Giants will tell it true.’

‘Then harp on the brewers, Gilbert,’ said his friend. ‘That is where we may score against a certain alderman. Let Ralph Dodmer scourge his fellows soundly. I would make another brewer squirm in his seat.’

‘Rowland Ashway, I think?’

‘Turn those red cheeks to a deeper hue.’

‘His blushes will light up the Guildhall!’

With his florid cheeks shining almost as brightly as his scarlet nose, Alderman Rowland Ashway stood in the window of a room that overlooked the inn yard. The White Hart in Cheapside had been chosen because of its size and its situation. Preparations were being made against the morrow. Extra benches and trestle tables had been procured. Additional servingmen had been hired. Fresh barrels of Ashway’s Best Beer were even now being rolled across the pavestones. The brewer was pleased by what he saw. When there was a knock on the door, he swung round and welcomed the tall figure who entered with a grunt of almost porcine satisfaction.

‘Is everything in order, sir?’ said the newcomer.

‘I have seen to it myself.’

‘Then have we no cause for vexation.’

‘Unless our plans go awry.’

‘They will not,’ said the other confidently. ‘Errors cannot be tolerated. All will be done as discussed.’

‘Good. Here’s gold to help your purposes.’

Ashway tossed a bag of coins onto the table and his companion nodded his thanks before picking it up. The man was well favoured and dressed with a lazy elegance that came in sharp contrast to the sartorial pomposity of the brewer. A feathered hat was angled on his head so that its brim came down over one eye that was shielded by a black patch. His chin was clean-shaven. They were not natural friends but mutual advantage had turned them into partners. Rowland Ashway spelt out the terms of that partnership.

‘We are in this together, sir, remember that.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

‘Fail me and you fail yourself even worse.’

‘Success attends my mission.’

‘And Firk?’

‘He is recovered enough to aid me.’

‘I hope to hear good news from both of you.’

‘And so you shall,’ said James Renfrew with a grim smile. ‘So you shall, sir.’

Public holidays did not please the city authorities. They were at best occasions for drunken excess and at worst an excuse for violence and destruction of property. Nobody charged with maintaining the peace could rest easy and the more suggestible of their number had nightmares about total loss of control. The main problems came from the apprentices, exuberant young men who chafed under the yoke of their masters and who seized every opportunity to assert their manhoods with unruly behaviour and passages of mob hysteria. Holidays gave law-abiding citizens a chance to rest from their labours and to celebrate a sacred or secular festival. Those same holidays also spilt a deal of blood, clogged up the prisons and led to a rash of unwanted pregnancies.

Shrovetide was carnival time, a final fling before the rigours of Lent. Mothering Sunday came next, a public holiday when those away from home — the rowdy apprentices in the workshops of London — could visit families with gifts and eat the simnel cakes baked for the occasion. Easter solemnity was offset by Hockside fairs and a variety of entertainments. May Day was the major source of concern. This most important spring festival had no Christian foundation at all for the ancient custom of going a-maying was unashamedly pagan. Londoners revelled in its spacious jollity and its sexual freedom. There was often rioting through the bawdy houses or affrays at playhouses or gratuitous attacks on shops and houses. Those who had to enforce order never lost sight of the spectre of Evil May Day in 1517 when a riot saw hundreds of frenzied youths on the rampage, terrorising the city and showing open defiance to authority. Thirteen of the mob were later arrested and hanged in a savage gesture that imprinted the day for ever on the minds of London.

Whitsun and Midsummer Eve produced their potential dangers but none could rival May Day. October was a quieter month but even the occasional saint’s day could be fraught with difficulty. Caution was advisable.

‘Stay indoors with your mistress, Hans.’

‘I would rather visit the play with you, sir.’

‘The city is too turbulent a place today.’

‘You will keep me safe, Master Bracewell.’

‘Remain here at home.’

The apprentice was plainly disappointed. Though he had yet to recover his memory, his youthful instincts had returned intact. He wanted to be off in search of sport with his fellows or, at the very least, to be part of the audience which would come in high humour to the Queen’s Head to watch a performance of The Constant Lover given by Westfield’s Men. Anne Hendrik ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.

‘Stay here and keep me company, Hans.’

A resigned nod. ‘As you wish, mistress.’

‘Preben van Loew and I will dream up games for you.’

‘Where is the holiday in that?’

Nicholas Bracewell took his leave of his young friend and was seen off at the front door by Anne. The outside of the house was still bruised and blackened from the fire and the very sight of it was warning enough. He gave her a kiss then set off through the streets. Wanting to visit the house on the Bridge again, he yet felt a strong obligation to cross the river by boat. It had given him no pleasure to see Abel Strudwick so totally outwitted at the flyting contest but he felt that it was a necessary hurt to ward off heavier blows for all of them. When he found the waterman at the wharf, he made an apology that was never completed. Strudwick interrupted with chuckling resilience.

‘Nay, sir, do not bother about me. My back is broad though I would rather bend it in the service of these oars than let that harridan beat it with her scoldings. She gave good insults and they were justly deserved.’

‘You take your punishment nobly, sir.’

‘I spoke out of turn, Master Bracewell,’ admitted the other. ‘I’ll face any man in the kingdom with my curses but I’ll not offend a lady if I have choice.’

‘Mistress Firethorn is an honest woman.’

‘She proved that on my pate.’

Abel Strudwick rowed between two other boats that all but collided with him. Ripe language hit both of them like a tidal wave. Replies were foul and fierce but he got the better of them with the virulence of his tongue. It put him into excellent humour again.

‘Have you fresh music?’ asked Nicholas.

‘My Muse has left me awhile, good sir.’

‘She will return again.’

‘Then I will keep her here on the water with me,’ said the other. ‘My verses do not belong on the stage in front of baying clods and sneering gallants.’ He looked all around. ‘This is my playhouse, sir. The gulls can hear my music and applaud with their wings. I am author and actor when I am out in midstream. No bawling woman can drag me down in my occupation, however well she swim. I am a true waterman, sir.’

Nicholas was delighted that his friend had bowed so humbly to the reality of the situation and he gave him an extra tip when he disembarked. Other passengers clambered into the boat at once. Holidays turned the Thames into a thousand moving bridges. Abel Strudwick would be kept busy until nightfall. He still found time for a farewell.

‘Good fortune attend the play, sir!’

‘Thank you, Abel.’

‘It is a comedy that you stage, I think.’

‘Tragedy is out of place on such a merry day.’

‘Pray God some rabble do not spoil your offering.’

‘No fear of that, I hope.’

Celebrations began early at the White Hart in Cheapside. Wine, beer and ale were plentiful and there was food enough to satisfy the most gluttonous appetites. As the day wore on, the taproom became so full with boisterous apprentices that they spilt out into the yard and passed the time in japes and jeers and being sick in the privies. Serving wenches were groped, ostlers were mocked and scapegoats had their breeches torn off. Small fights broke out to liven up the occasion and old scores were settled between youths from rival trades. Afternoon found the drunken rowdiness slowly changing into a brawling fever for which the area was famous.

Cheapside was the broadest and straightest of London’s streets, a major artery that carried the lifeblood of the city. Along the centre of the street, from St Paul’s to the Carfax, was an open market for all manner of goods. Every important public procession passed through Cheapside and shoddily produced goods were traditionally burnt there. It was another kind of procession that now staggered along, a ragged band of apprentices who had been gathered up from other inns and taverns along the street by the industrious Firk who had spread the word that beer was being sold at reduced prices in the White Hart and that a wild time was in store for all who came. As Firk led the way into the yard, the newcomers were given a hostile reception by those already packed in and there was much preliminary pushing and shoving. Abundant supplies of beer and ale were brought out to quench the thirst of all and incite them on to more destructive pleasures. Firk watched until a stew was bubbling furiously and he gave a signal to the man who was watching it all from a room in the upper gallery with his one good eye.

James Renfrew calmly finished his glass of wine and crossed to give the naked woman who lolled on the bed a last kiss. Then he pulled on his doublet and went off downstairs to take charge of the fire that his accomplice was so busily stoking up. With sword in hand, he ran into the yard and jumped up onto a table so that he could stamp on it with his feet to gain attention. Even the swirling revelry was stilled for a second. Renfrew was a striking figure with a voice that knew how to command.

‘Friends!’ he yelled. ‘There’s villainy abroad!’

‘Where, sir?’ shouted Firk on cue.

‘Close by this inn. I saw it with my own eyes. Five brawny Dutch apprentices set on one poor English lad and gave him such a drubbing that I fear for his life.’

‘Shame!’ roared Firk.

‘Where are they?’ howled a dozen voices.

‘They are everywhere!’ replied Renfrew, pointing his sword in different directions as he spoke. ‘Aliens are taking over London. We have Genoese, we have Venetians, we have cheese-eating Swiss. You may find Germans in every street and Frenchmen in every bawdy house. There are Dutchmen in Billingsgate and Polish in Rotherhithe. We are beset by strangers!’

‘Drive the aliens out!’ bellowed Firk.

‘Vengeance on the strangers!’

‘Break their foreign heads!’

‘Smash their houses!’

‘Kill them! Kill them!’

‘London belongs to Londoners!’ urged Renfrew.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

‘We defeated the Spanish Armada,’ he said, ‘yet those same swarthy gentlemen now swagger through our city and defile our womenfolk! Foreigners out, I say!’

‘Foreigners out! Foreigners out!’

Renfrew whipped them up until their bloodlust was so strong it simply wanted direction in order to expend itself. He and Firk led the charge out of the yard. With a hundred or more berserk apprentices at their back, they ran along Eastcheap and into Lombard Street, knocking aside anyone who got in their way, smashing windows out of sheer malice and screaming obscenities. Constables came out to confront them but the ferocity of the mob swept the thin line of authority aside as if it had not been there, surging on into Gracechurch Street then swinging right towards the Bridge with gathering fury. In the space of a few minutes, aimless youths with too much beer in their bellies had been turned into a vicious machine of destruction. It rolled remorselessly on.

Hans Kippel was close to the wharf when he heard the rising tumult. Frustrated at being kept indoors on a public holiday, he had begged permission to go out into the little garden at the rear of the house and had wandered off down to the river when nobody was looking. The boy hoped to find Abel Strudwick so that he could listen to some more verses but the waterman was nowhere in sight. What he saw instead was a torrent of baying apprentices, leaving a trail of debris on the Bridge as they poured into the object of their hate. Southwark was a haven for immigrants from many lands. Swinging boards from shops advertised craftsmen from all over Europe.

Enraged beyond all control, the mob tore down the boards and kicked in doors and shattered windows. Any opposition was ruthlessly stamped on and innocent bystanders were knocked flying on every side. Hans Kippel was hypnotised by the horror of it all. As the angry crowd ran towards him, he stood there trembling for his young life. Out of the mass of faces that bore down on him, he picked out two that he had seen before and quailed even more. One of the men wore a patch over the eye and the other a stubby beard. A memory which had been trapped inside his brain for a long time was suddenly released and it made him cry out in agony.

He found the strength to run but his flight was in vain. They were too fast and too crazed and too numerous. Before he had gone twenty yards, he was knocked over in the stampede and trampled by a score of feet. Using the cover of the mob, Firk slipped a knife into the boy’s back then staggered on after James Renfrew. They had done what they had planned without even having to storm Anne Hendrik’s house to get at their prey. The apprentices were still carried along by their own senselessness as the two agitators who had started the riot now vanished quietly around a corner.

Hans Kippel lay motionless. His holiday was over.

In a house of sorrow there was still an avenue of escape. All that Matilda Stanford had to do was to read again the letter which Lawrence Firethorn had sent her. In flowery language and a beautiful hand, he had written to give her details of the performance at the Nine Giants in Richmond the following week. It never occurred to her that he had not actually penned the missive himself but had instead dictated it to Matthew Lipton, the scrivener who was used by Westfield’s Men to copy out the sides from the one complete version of any play they staged. Lipton’s fine calligraphy was also in evidence in the poem that accompanied the letter. Here again, Firethorn had relied on another to supply his inspiration. Unable to coax any new verses out of Edmund Hoode, the actor-manager had used a poem he had once commissioned from the resident poet while in pursuit of Lady Rosamund Varley at an earlier phase of his lustfulness.

Matilda Stanford knew nothing of this and swooned at his ardour as if it had been new-minted that second. As she sat in her bedchamber with the letter and poem on her knees, she thought only of her lover’s irresistible charm and felt the touch of his lips on her hand. Married to a mature and preoccupied husband, she had never known true passion before and could only guess at its implications. Innocence protected her from understanding Firethorn’s true intent. All that she knew was that she had been offered an assignation by a prince among men. Though it would be immensely difficult to contrive, she had to find a way to get to Richmond.

Prudence Ling knocked on the door and came tripping in on her toes. Obliged to be sombre elsewhere in the house, she could show her girlish spirits when alone with her mistress. She saw what Matilda was reading and gave a conspiratorial giggle.

‘I think I know the way of it,’ she said.

‘Of what, Prudence?’

‘Bringing you to your lover.’

‘In Richmond?’

‘Even there.’

‘Teach me how and I’ll adore thee for ever.’

‘Then here is the manner of it …’

The Constant Lover had displayed the constancy of his love, a volatile audience had been held throughout and the stage was now being dismantled. Nicholas Bracewell was in the thick of the action when Preben van Loew arrived panting in the yard of the Queen’s Head. With tears streaming, the Dutchman told his story and begged his friend to come at once. Hans Kippel was close to death and calling for Nicholas. The book holder did not pause for a second. Leaving Thomas Skillen in charge, he borrowed a horse from the stables and rode home as fast as the thick crowds would allow. All the way across the Bridge, he saw evidence of the furious passage of the apprentices. The noise up ahead was muted now as the riot spent its energy in a raid on some of the Bankside stews. Soldiers had been called out to back up the constables and the sight of organised authority was enough to disperse the remnants of the mob.

Nicholas reined in his horse outside the house and dismounted to race upstairs to the bedchamber. Hans Kippel was lying on the truckle bed with his head cradled lovingly by a distraught Anne Hendrik. The doctor in the background shook his head sadly. He had done what he could but the boy was beyond medical help. Nicholas came to kneel beside the bed and took the hand of his young friend. Weak and fading, Hans Kippel rallied briefly at the sight of the book holder and there was a brave flicker of a smile. Words dribbled out of his mouth with painful slowness.

‘I … saw them … again.’

‘Who?’ whispered Nicholas.

‘The … two … men.’

‘From that house on the Bridge?’

‘Yes …’

‘Did one have an eyepatch?’

A faint nod. ‘My … cap …’

‘What about your cap, Hans?’

‘They … took … it.’

‘The two men?’

‘No … some … boys …’

‘And what did they do with it?’

‘Threw … river …’

The apprentice was near to expiry. Nicholas tried to fill in some of the gaps to squeeze the last precious bits of information out of him.

‘Some boys took your cap. They ran off. You chased them. They threw your cap over the Bridge. Was it by that house? In that narrow passage?’ Flickering eyelids confirmed his guess. ‘Did your cap land on the starling below?’

‘I … climbed …’

‘You climbed down to retrieve it. Then you came up again past the window at the rear of the house. You saw something, Hans. What was it?’ Nicholas squeezed his hand to encourage him. ‘Try to tell us. Try.’

‘They … killed …’

‘The two men murdered someone? With a dagger?’

‘Throat …’

Hans Kippel let out a deep sigh. The effort of dragging the words out of himself and of confronting the memory that lay behind them had drained the last of his resistance. He slipped gently away and his head flopped to one side. Anne Hendrik sobbed and Nicholas comforted her with his own eyes moist. Then he laid the boy’s head gently on the pillow and covered it with a sheet. The doctor stole quietly away to let them share their grief. Racked with remorse, they looked down at the prone figure in the little bed and hugged each other tight. The loss of a child of their own could not have been more painful or poignant because that was what Hans Kippel had become in the last sad days of his doomed life. He had turned lovers into a family and taught them a new kind of love.

The Dutch boy had witnessed a horrific murder and been chased by the killers. He had scrambled to safety for a while but had taken refuge in the dark recesses of his young and impressionable mind. They had caught up with him eventually and the nightmare was relived. The irony of it all was not lost on Nicholas. Mocking youths had snatched off the apprentice’s cap and hurled it over the edge of the Bridge. In retrieving it, he had seen something which was to have fatal consequences. If Hans Kippel had not bothered about his cap, he would still be alive and happy. But the pride of a craftsman worked against him. The fledgling hatmaker could not leave his cap to the rising waters of the Thames. It simply had to be rescued somehow.

He had made it himself.

Threat of ejection from the Queen’s Head had bonded the company together and lent their performance that holiday afternoon a freshness and defiance that transformed a good play into an enthralling experience. The Constant Lover was a form of a reply to a landlord who was neither constant nor loving and who had now sold the home of Westfield’s Men from under them. Word had leaked out that the contract with Rowland Ashway had actually been signed and it was only a question of time before the alderman expelled them from his premises. Adversity may have drawn them together onstage. When they came off, it only served to heighten their differences. Edmund Hoode and Lawrence Firethorn chose the empty tiring-house as the venue for their argument. Deep insecurity gave them both an edge of wildness.

‘I oppose it with every bone in my body, sir!’

‘Take your skeleton away from me.’

‘Have you no scruples at all?’

‘Come, sir. None of that. You lusted after the lady yourself. You longed to lie in her enchanted garden.’

‘I am not married,’ said Hoode. ‘You are.’

‘So is Mistress Stanford. Where are your scruples?’

‘I intend the lady no harm.’

‘It matters not,’ said Firethorn airily. ‘I am the fitter man for her in every way. Both of us are wed and that gives our love some balance. We take equal risks in this business. One fire consumes us both.’

‘It will burn up the whole company!’

‘Conquer your jealousy, Edmund, and take your defeat like a man. Think not of yourself in this.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Hoode forcefully. ‘It is the sweet lady herself who occupies my mind. I would save her from the disgrace that beckons.’

‘Disgrace!’ bawled the other.

‘She must only suffer in this enterprise.’

‘I offer her my true love.’

‘Give her your breeches instead, sir, for that is where it is lodged.’

‘Take care, Edmund. I have a temper.’

‘Save it for the stage, sir.’

‘My devotion to Mistress Stanford comes from a pure heart. I have sent her poems of love.’

‘Written by me!’

‘I have kissed her fair hand.’

‘Rape upon rape!’

‘She has been shown the utmost respect, sir.’

‘Then prove it now by releasing her entirely,’ said Hoode with vehemence. ‘You have a loyal wife to warm your bed and if her loyalty will not suffice, there are others who clamour for your favours. Take one of them, sir, take two or take them all. But spare this gentle creature.’

‘So that you may take my place?’

‘No! I renounce her here and now.’

‘Then stand aside for I do not.’

‘Lawrence, this is plain idiocy!’

‘Love makes a fool of all of us.’

‘She is married to the Lord Mayor Elect,’ said the other. ‘Nick counselled well. Too much peril follows. The beery alderman may only put us out of the Queen’s Head. Walter Stanford may put us out of our profession.’

‘He is the cause I cannot now pull back.’

‘Our new Lord Mayor?’

‘Do you know how he intends to enter his mayoralty?’ said Firethorn with rolling contempt. ‘With a play. His wife requested a drama such as Westfield’s Men present and he has replied with some rambling pageant.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘We are the finest company in London. We — and only we — should be summoned to make this occasion memorable. Westfield’s Men have performed before the Queen and all her Court. Yet this mercer, this man of no taste, this money-grubbing merchant of a Lord Mayor spurns our talents and turns to amateurs! It is an insult.’

‘It is also his prerogative.’

‘I do not give a fig for that!’ barked Firethorn. ‘If he will betray our eminence, then I will gladly betray his. His wife has told me of this pageant that he has arranged. Do you know its subject? Nine worthies of his Guild. What drama lies in that? Was ever such a stale subject foisted upon an audience? And that is what has put us in the shade here.’

‘You take it as a personal affront.’

‘I do, sir. Matilda alone can recompense me.’

‘Yet you spoke just now of love.’

‘Love of her and love of my profession.’

‘You would take revenge on Walter Stanford?’

‘Indeed, I will,’ said Firethorn heartily. ‘Let him have his nine giants. In Richmond, I will have mine.’

The Bull and Butcher was a small tavern in Shoreditch that offered them an excellent meal in a private room. Rowland Ashway sat on one side of the table and ate with noisy gusto. Seated opposite him, James Renfrew was more interested in the Canary wine than the food. The table was loaded. They started with a dish of boiled carp then had been served with a boiled pudding. Chines of veal and of mutton came next with a calf’s-head pie to follow. A leg of beef roasted whole then made its appearance. Capons were then set before them. A dish of tarts helped to sweeten the taste of all the meat and the rich sauces.

Ashway raised a cup to announce a toast.

‘To our success, my friend!’

‘It is not achieved as yet.’

‘We have not far to go,’ said the other. ‘The boy has been killed and with him goes the fear of discovery. Now we may turn back to the main business of our little partnership. Walter Stanford must be stopped.’

‘I thought to have done that already.’

‘We have maimed him but not yet cut him down.’

‘Do we proceed against him now?’

‘With all haste, sir. He cannot and must not be Lord Mayor or all our hopes will founder.’ Ashway reached for another tart. ‘Luke Pugsley has served my purposes so well that I would keep him there in perpetuity, but the law will not allow it. That is why I chose a successor of like temperament and soft intelligence.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Henry Drewry, the salter.’

‘But you could not secure his election.’

‘Stanford won the contest by a single vote. The case was altered cruelly. Instead of a pliant salter, I have to contend with a shrewd mercer and that’s not good.’

‘What of yourself?’ said Renfrew. ‘Does your own ambition rise as high as the office?’

Ashway grunted. ‘As high and much higher. But the Brewers come fourteenth in the order of precedence. That puts me two places away from the Great Twelve and it is from them that the mayor is chosen.’

‘You could translate to another Guild.’

‘That is in hand, sir. Why do you think I have been at such pains to woo this fool of a fishmonger? Luke Pugsley has sworn to take me into his Guild and promote me to the mayoralty.’ He scowled darkly. ‘All that will vanish if this mercer takes the chain.’

‘I hate the man,’ said Renfrew flatly.

‘Enough?’

‘More than enough.’

The younger man picked up a capon and tore at it with his teeth. There was a violence in him which had not been appeased by the murder of a Dutch apprentice. He was ready to add more deaths to the list in pursuit of his ends. As he emptied another cup of wine, he looked across at the gross figure on whom his future depended.

‘What of Master Bracewell?’

‘His turn will surely come.’

‘Let it be soon. Firk is promised.’

‘We may bide our time a little.’

‘But this book holder pursues us hotly.’

‘He will find nothing,’ said Ashway smugly. ‘What he may know, he cannot prove. The boy was the witness and his voice has been silenced. Do not concern yourself about this Nicholas Bracewell. He is no threat to us now.’

There was much to do in the aftermath of Hans Kippel’s death. The body had to be cleaned and laid out. A report on the circumstances of his death had to be given to the relevant authorities. In the wake of the riot, the city magistrates would be busy the next day but a murder was a more serious matter than assault or damage to property. Nicholas Bracewell was realistic. The chances of the killers being tracked down by official means was very slim indeed since the crime had been committed behind a shield. An outbreak of holiday anarchy had been provoked by guileful men. Nicholas recognised stage-management.

It took him a long time to calm Anne Hendrik down and to convince her that it was not her fault. Even if she had kept the boy locked up at home, he would still have been taken. Men who could set fire to a house could just as easily smash down its front door. He left her with Preben van Loew and set out on what was to be a long journey around the taverns of London. The riot was his starting place and it was not difficult to trace it back to the White Hart. Frightened witnesses from Eastcheap all the way down to Southwark had marked its searing trajectory. The inn was still very busy and the drink was still flowing freely. Nicholas was not surprised to learn how the apprentices were first aroused and he knew at once who had supplied the strong beer.

But he was not in search of unruly youths who had been turned into a marauding pack. His quarry was a man who might be anywhere in the teeming city on that raucous night. With strong legs and a full purse, Nicholas was determined to find him. The first soldiers were in the Antelope, carousing with whores and far too inebriated to give him anything more than the names of other taverns which they frequented. The book holder trailed around them all and bought his information bit by bit with drinks for already drunken men. It was like trying to piece together a jigsaw out of wisps of smoke. Discharged soldiers did not wish to talk about their soldiery. On a public holiday such as this, they simply wanted to submit themselves wholly to the pleasures of the city. Nicholas was therefore sent on what seemed like one long and circuitous tour of every inn, ale-house, stew, ordinary and gambling den within the city walls.

One man half-remembered Michael Delahaye, another had gone whoring with him, a third knew him better but was too sodden to recall any useful details. It was painstaking but each new fact took Nicholas one step closer to the person who could really help him. He got the name at the Royal Oak, the address of his lodgings from the Smithfield Arms then found the man himself after midnight in the taproom of the Falcon Inn. Though he was fatigued by a whole day of celebration, the reveller responded warmly to the offer of a pint of sack and a plate of anchovies and made room for Nicholas on his settle.

Geoffrey Mallard was a small, stooping and rather dishevelled individual with a habit of scratching at his ginger beard. He had been an army surgeon with the English expeditionary force to the Netherlands and his memory was not entirely addled by overindulgence.

‘Michael Delahaye? I knew him well.’

‘Tell me all you can, sir.’

‘Do you ask as a friend?

‘I pulled his dead body from the Thames.’

When Nicholas told his tale, the surgeon was sobered enough by the news to supply all manner of new details. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had not taken to soldiering at all. The glamour which had attracted him proved to be illusory and the muddy reality of service abroad was a trial to his free spirit. He writhed under the discipline and cursed the privations. There was worse friction.

‘He made an enemy of his captain,’ said Mallard.

‘Why?’

‘They loathed each other on sight, sir. Two worthy fellows in their own right who could never lie straight in the same bed together. They were warned and they were threatened but their enmity continued to the point where a gentleman must defend his honour.’

‘A duel?’

‘A bloody event it was,’ said Mallard. ‘Had they come to any surgeon but me, they would have been reported and hauled up for court martial. They were there to fight against our foes not against each other.’

‘You say it was bloody …’

‘Both of them were injured.’

‘Was there a wound that ran across the chest?’ He indicated the direction of the gash. ‘Like this, sir?’

‘There was indeed. I dressed that wound myself.’

‘Then was the body that of Michael Delahaye.’

‘How say you?’

‘He was dropped into the Thames from the Bridge.’

‘It could not have been Michael, sir.’

‘No?’

‘His wound was on his face,’ said Mallard. ‘The point of a rapier took the fellow’s eye out. He is condemned to wear a patch for the rest of his life.’

‘Who, then, was his opponent in the duel?’

‘The captain whose chest was sliced open.’

‘What was his name?’

‘James Renfrew.’