The Nine Giants

Chapter Twelve

Ridings were an integral part of life in the capital. The processions were not merely a source of entertainment and wonder for the commonalty but a means of impressing upon them the dignity and power of their rulers. In medieval times, the most splendid processions were those on royal occasions, especially a coronation or a wedding. By the later years of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, however, the Lord Mayor’s Show had come to rival even these, taking the whole city as its stage and encompassing traditions that went back to the very origin of old London town. The Show had now completely taken over from the Midsummer Marching Watch as the main civic annual parade and nobody dared to miss it. Ridings meant public holidays when people could enjoy a dazzling spectacle then go off to celebrate what they had seen in general merry-making.

Extra soldiers and constables were on duty as a result of the recent riot but nobody expected that there would be any real troubles. A Lord Mayor’s Show did not stir up apprentices to attack the immigrant craftsmen of Southwark. It was an attestation of civil power in a city that was nominally ruled by a sovereign, a shared belief that London was the most eminent place in Europe, a time when the whole populace was bathed in feelings of pride and identity and well-being. Walter Stanford was known to be exceptionally keen on civic tradition. The Show which carried him into office promised to be an outstanding one.

Some wanted to make it more memorable still.

‘Everything turns on today,’ said Rowland Ashway.

Aubrey Kenyon nodded. ‘We must not lose our nerves.’

‘Indeed, sir, or we are like to lose our heads.’

‘Hopefully, that might be Stanford’s fate.’

‘It has to be, Aubrey, or we are undone.’

They were talking in Kenyon’s house before going out to take up their places in the procession. The aldermanic robes made Ashway look fatter and more florid than ever whereas the Chamberlain’s stateliness was enhanced by his regalia. They looked an ill-matched pair but they were yoked together in crime now and depended critically upon each other. There was someone else upon whom they relied.

‘Can he be trusted to do his office?’ said Kenyon.

‘Nobody is more eager to perform it.’

‘He let us down at Richmond.’

‘That was the fault of Firk,’ sneered Ashway. ‘He hanged the wrong man and fell foul of that book holder. Did he but know it, Master Bracewell did us a favour. He killed off Firk and saved us the trouble of doing it ourselves. Delahaye is another kind of man again.’

‘Renfrew,’ said the other. ‘He likes to be called James Renfrew. Lieutenant Delahaye is dead.’

‘So will this Captain James Renfrew be in time,’ said Ashway quietly. ‘When he has done what we have paid him for, we must finish him off as well. He knows too much, Aubrey. It is the only way.’

‘And today?’

‘We must put our faith in his madness.’

‘He hates Stanford even more than we do.’

Ashway smirked. ‘I love him for that.’

Since 1453, when Sir John Norman was rowed up the river in a fine barge with silver oars, the Lord Mayor’s Show had taken place on both land and water. Both banks of the Thames were thus lined with ranks of spectators who waited expectantly to see a floating marvel. Everyone knew the itinerary. Walter Stanford, Lord Mayor of London, would first tour his ward — that of Cornhill in which the Royal Exchange symbolically stood — then proceed to the nearest stairs where he would embark and be rowed up to Westminster to take his oath in the Exchequer before the judge. After that, he would return by barge to Blackfriars and progress to St Paul’s for a service of thanksgiving before going on to the Guildhall for his Banquet. Veteran onlookers knew how to move around the city to get several perspectives on the Show. Newcomers with staring country eyes stayed rooted to the same spot for hours in order to catch a mere glimpse of the pomp and circumstance that marked the occasion.

Walter Stanford himself took it all with the utmost seriousness. Dressed in the traditional robes and wearing the famous mayoral hat, he was for that day alone the father of the whole city but it was his position as an uncle that worried him. Somewhere along the way was a crazed nephew with a grudge against him and a need to nip his mayoralty in the bud. Behind his smiles and his waves and his apparent delight, therefore, was an anxiety that would not leave him. His faith had been placed in a man who was nothing more than a book holder in a theatrical company. Was his trust well founded?

Leaving his ward, he followed the procession along a cheering avenue that led to the river. At the front of the parade were two men who bore the arms of the Mercers’ Company. They were followed by a drummer, a flute-player and a man with a fife. Behind them, in blue gowns and caps and hose and blue silk sleeves, were sixteen trumpeters blowing their instruments in strident unison. Horse-drawn floats came next, each one elaborately mounted by an individual Guild and competing with each other in colour and spectacle. The Fishmongers’ Ship was among the finest on display, a huge galleon that seemed to sail above the craned heads of the populace as it passed by. Another favoured contender was the Goldsmith’s Castle, a quite magnificent structure that was first produced for the coronation of Richard II. And there were many others to keep the fingers pointing and the jaws dropping.

Fittingly, it was the Mercer’s Maiden Chariot which outshone them all. This pageant was a Roman chariot, some twenty feet or more high, with sides of embossed silver and surmounted by a golden canopy above which sat Fame blowing her trumpet. In the chariot sat the Mercer’s Maiden. This was customarily a young and beautiful gentlewoman with a gold and jewelled coronet on her head. At the Lord Mayor’s feast, she dined royally at a separate table. This year, however, there was a significant break with tradition. Instead of choosing some long-haired young lady from one of the mercers’ families, Walter Stanford selected his own wife as the Maiden and she was overjoyed. Seated high above the long ribbons of yelling people, Matilda Stanford felt the thrill of being a performer and the extraordinary honour of being wife to the Lord Mayor. The journey in the chariot helped her to forget all about Lawrence Firethorn and find her husband instead.

At the rear of it all came the Lord Mayor himself. He was preceded by the Sword Bearer in his immense fur hat and by the Sergeant-at-Arms who bore the mace. Other ceremonial officers walked close by with the Chamberlain among them but Stanford paid him no attention. It was important not to arouse the suspicions of Aubrey Kenyon or of any of the others until they could all be safely apprehended. When the Lord Mayor was not bestowing a genial wave on the crowd, he was keeping one eye on the soldier who marched just ahead of him. Dressed in an armoured breastplate and wearing a steel helmet, the man trailed his pike in the same manner as his fellows but he was no ordinary member of the guard. Nicholas Bracewell had a duty that went well beyond the ceremonial.

Abel Strudwick had rowed his boat out into the middle of the river to be part of the huge armada that accompanied the procession up to Westminster. All around him were other craft with eager spectators and it gave him a feeling of superiority to think that they had simply come to gawp and goggle. Poetry had put the waterman on the Thames that day. He was there to find inspiration for some new verses, to immortalise a great event with the creative fire of his imagination. From where he sat and bobbed, he had a fine view of the parade as it moved from land to water.

First to set off was the Mercers’ Barge with its coat of arms proudly displayed aloft. Behind it came the Bachelors’ Barge which was followed in turn by the vessels of the other companies, strictly in order of precedence. Strudwick saw the arms of the Grocers, the Drapers, the Fishmongers — with Sir Lucas Pugsley aboard — the Goldsmiths, the Skinners, the Merchant Taylors, the Haberdashers, the Salters, the Ironmongers, the Vintners and the Clothworkers. No place for Rowland Ashway there. The alderman had to wait upon the Dyers before his Guild could step forward for attention. It was an imposing sight that was made even more vivid by the fact that the companies wore their distinctive liveries.

The waterman felt no verse stirring as yet but he remained confident. What drew his gaze now was a sight that never failed to impress and even frighten a little at a Lord Mayor’s Show. Two huge and grotesque creatures were in the prow of the last barge, pretending to draw a model of Britain’s Mount. Strudwick recognised them as Corinaeus and Gogmagog, fabled inhabitants of the city in ancient days.

They were giants.

Walter Stanford was vastly more confident now that he was afloat with his guard all around him. Out in the open street, he felt he was a target for a knife, an arrow, even for a sword if its owner could get close enough. He began to enjoy the procession as it sailed slowly down river between the echoing banks of applause. Nicholas was close enough to him for a brief conversation.

‘Your fears were groundless, sir,’ said Stanford.

‘The day is yet young.’

‘What harm could touch us here?’

‘None, I hope,’ said Nicholas.

But his instincts told him otherwise. The Lord Mayor and his retinue were standing on the upper deck of the barge so that they could be seen more clearly. Corinaeus and Gogmagog were several yards in front of them. The book holder took a professional interest in how the giants had been fashioned. They were about twelve feet high and made out of carved and gilded limewood. Skilful painters had given them hideous leering faces. Corinaeus was dressed like a barbarian warrior and sported a morning star on a chain. Gogmagog wore the costume of a Roman centurion and carried a spear and a shield that was decorated with a symbolic phoenix. Nicholas admired the strength of the men inside each of the models. They were even able to manipulate levers that made their weapons lift and fall in the air.

It was when Walter Stanford stepped forward to take a closer look at the giants that the danger came. Corinaeus made no move but Gogmagog responded at once. Through the slit in the bodywork, the man inside saw his chance and acted. Raising his spear, he tried to jab it hard at Walter Stanford but a soldier was there to parry the blow with his pike. What came next caused even more panic in the barge. Gogmagog rose feet in the air and then hurled himself directly at the Lord Mayor with a force that would have killed him had the giant made contact. But the pike of Nicholas Bracewell again did sterling duty and guided the huge wooden object over the side of the barge and into the water. The splash drenched people for twenty yards around and caused some of the smaller boats nearby to capsize.

Michael Delahaye had failed. He glared at his hated uncle with his one malignant eye then hurled a rope at the advancing guards to beat them back. Before they could get him, he had dived over the side of the barge into the river. It all happened with such speed that everyone was totally confused but Nicholas had his wits about him. Throwing off his helmet and divesting himself of his breastplate, he ran to the side of the barge and flung himself after the would-be assassin. Delahaye was strong and cleaved his way through the water but his pursuer was the better swimmer and clawed back the distance between them. Bewildered spectators on boat and bank watched in silence at the two pinheads that seemed to be floating on the waves. None of them understood the significance of what they were witnessing.

Abel Strudwick was well placed to view the final struggle. When Nicholas caught the kicking legs of his man, the latter turned to fight, pulling a dagger from his belt and hacking madly at his assailant. But the latter got his wrist in a grip of steel that would not slacken. They struggled and splashed with frenetic energy then both disappeared beneath the dark waters. Strudwick rowed in closer and peered down but he could see nothing. Long minutes passed when nothing happened and then blood came up to the surface of the water to brighten its scum. A head soon followed, surging up with desperation so that lungfuls of air could be inhaled. The swimmer then lay on his back to recover from the fatigue of a death-grapple. The waterman rowed in close and helped Nicholas Bracewell into his boat so that he could enjoy some of the cheers of congratulation that were ringing out.

Michael Delahaye did not surface.

The atmosphere at the Queen’s Head was vastly lighter now that the threat of eviction had disappeared. With the arrest of Rowland Ashway, the contract to buy the inn was effectively rescinded. The alderman would never be able to take possession of his intended purchase now. Relief was so great and comprehensive that a smile dared to flit across the face of Alexander Marwood. He had not only been reprieved from a deal which turned out to be more disadvantageous than he had thought. The landlord was also reunited with a termagant wife who had badgered him incessantly about the idiocy of his action in signing. Nocturnal reconciliation let Marwood recall happier days.

Edmund Hoode was in a generous mood. He bought pints of sack for himself and his friend then sat at the table opposite him. A week had passed since the Lord Mayor’s Show but it still vibrated in the memory.

‘You were the hero of the hour, Nick,’ said Hoode.

‘I thought but of poor Hans Kippel.’

‘His death is well revenged now. And all those other villains are locked secure away, including the Chamberlain himself. Who would have thought a man in such a place would have stooped to such crimes?’

‘Temptation got the better of him, Edmund.’

‘Yes,’ said the other harshly. ‘The same may be said of Lawrence. But for you again, that dalliance might have led us into further disaster. What an actor, Nick! But what a dreadful lecher, too! Margery has much to endure.’

‘She is made of stern stuff.’

They sipped their drinks and enjoyed the comfort of being in their own home again. The Queen’s Head might not be as well appointed as some inns but it was their chosen base and its landlord was anxious to renew his dealings with them. Nicholas had negotiated a new contract that favoured the company and he extracted an important concession from Marwood. A job had to be found at the inn for a man who had been an immense help to the book holder and whose occupation was now at risk. Leonard would henceforth be working at the Queen’s Head and it would be good to see his friendly face around the establishment.

Nicholas thought of another friend and smiled.

‘What do you make of Abel Strudwick?’ he said.

‘His verse is an abomination,’ snapped Hoode.

‘Yet he has finally found a market. His ballad on the Lord Mayor’s Show is the talk of the town. He describes my fight below the water in more detail than I could myself.’

‘The fellow is a bungling wordsmith.’

‘Let him have his hour, Edmund.’

‘He uses rhyme, like a sword, to hack.’

‘There are worse things a man may do.’

Hoode agreed and took a kinder view of the waterman. He felt a vestigial sympathy for him because of the way that he was routed at the flyting contest. It had been a fight between the world of the amateur and that of the professional. Abel Strudwick had no chance. He was entitled to his brief moment of glory as a ballad-maker. Such thoughts led Hoode on to consider the merits of the raw amateur whose passions were not inhibited by too great a knowledge of the technicalities of poetry. He recalled the Lord Mayor’s banquet to which Nicholas had been bidden as an honoured guest.

‘Tell me, Nick. What was it like?’

‘What?’

‘This play of theirs — The Nine Giants.’

‘Do I detect jealousy here?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ said Hoode quickly. ‘I am above such things, as you well know. My plays have held the stage for years and I fear no rival. I just wish you to tell me what this pageant of the nine worthy mercers was like.’ He fished gently. ‘Tedious, perhaps? Over-long and underwritten? Basely put together?’

‘It was very well received,’ said Nicholas.

‘By Mistress Stanford?’

‘By her especially.’

Hoode drooped. ‘Then is my cause truly lost.’

‘I liked the piece myself. It had quality.’

‘What sort of quality, man?’

‘Height and hardness.’

‘You lose me here.’

‘The Nine Giants resembled our own at Richmond.’

‘They stood in a circle?’

‘They were tall, straight and monstrously wooden.’

Edmund Hoode laughed for an hour.