The Nine Giants

Chapter One

Lawrence Firethorn gazed down in horror at the corpse of his young wife and let out a sigh of utter despair that sent tremors through all who heard it. Swaying over the hapless figure of the child-bride who had been plucked from him on his wedding night, he howled like an animal then held up his hands to heaven in supplication. When no comfort came from above, he was seized with an urge to wreak revenge for the savage murder and he pulled out his dagger to slash wildly at the air. The hopelessness of the gesture made him stand quite still and weep fresh tears of remorse. Then, on impulse, with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise, he turned the point of the dagger on himself and used brute power to plunge it deep into his own breast. Firethorn shuddered and fell to one knee. Though fading with each second, he managed to deliver a speech of sixteen lines with poignant clarity. He was down on both knees when he breathed his last.

Firethorn hit the ground with a thud that echoed through the taut silence. His outstretched fingertips made a last contact with the pale and forlorn hand of his bride. Anguished servants entered and the two bodies were lifted onto biers with reverential care before being carried out to solemn music. The noble Count Orlando and his adored young Countess would share a marriage bed in the family vault. Harrowed by the tragedy and caught up in its full implications, the onlookers did not dare to move or speak. Mute distress enfolded them.

It was broken in an instant by the reappearance of Lawrence Firethorn, leading out his company to take their bow before the full audience that was packed into the yard at the Queen’s Head in Gracechurch Street. He was no stricken aristocrat now, no Italian nobleman who had just committed suicide in a fit of unbearable grief. Firethorn was the finest actor in London, pulsing with vitality and bristling with curiosity, coming out to take his place at the centre of the stage and reap his due reward while at the same time scanning the upper gallery for a particular face. Count Orlando was only one in a long line of tragic heroes played by the acknowledged star of Westfield’s Men and it was a role in which he never ceased to work his will upon the raw emotions of the audience. They clapped and cheered and stamped their feet to show their approval of the play. Death and Darkness had weaved its magic web once more. Firethorn was being feted.

Applause was the lifeblood of an actor and each member of the cast felt it coursing through his veins. Firethorn might think that all the adulation was being directed solely at him and he was replying with a bow of almost imperious humility but his fellows could dream their dreams as well. The small, squat figure of Barnaby Gill, standing beside him, believed that the ovation was in recognition of his performance as Quaglino, the ancient retainer, the one comic character in a tragic tale, the single filter of light in the prevailing blackness of the play. Edmund Hoode, tall, spare and with a youthful innocence that belied his age, pretended that the applause was in gratitude both for his affecting performance as the doomed lover of the Countess and for his skill as a playwright. Death and Darkness was an early piece from his pen but it had stood the test of time and the close scrutiny of many an audience.

And so it was with the rest of the company, right down to its meanest member, George Dart, the tiny assistant stagekeeper, pressed into service as a soldier, proudly wearing the uniform of Count Orlando’s guard and quietly congratulating himself on having got his one deathless line — ‘My lord, the Duke of Milan waits upon you’ — right for the first time in weeks. Though put inconspicuously at the outer limit of the semicircle of actors, he bowed as deep as any of them, feeding hungrily on the sustained clapping while he could, knowing that he would be back to a more meagre diet of chores, complaints, gibes, outright abuse and occasional blows once he left the stage and returned to his accustomed role as the lowliest of the low. Theatre was indeed sweet fancy.

Nicholas Bracewell watched it all from his position behind the curtains. He was a big, well-groomed, handsome man with fair hair and a full beard. As book holder with the company, he stage-managed every performance with an attention to detail that lifted Westfield’s Men above so many of their rivals. No matter how generous it might be, applause never penetrated to his domain behind the scenes and this state of affairs suited Nicholas. He had a commanding presence that was offset by a gift for self-effacement and he courted the shadows more than the sun.

While Lawrence Firethorn and the others lapped up the tumultuous admiration, the book holder was still calmly doing his job, noting from his vantage point that Barnaby Gill had torn his hose, that Edmund Hoode had dropped a stitch in the rear of his doublet and that George Dart had somehow lost a buckle off his shoe. Nicholas had also observed in the course of a hectic two hours that entrances had been missed, lines had gone astray and the musicians had not been at their most harmonious. He would have stern words for the offenders afterwards and would even be courageous enough to tell the volatile Firethorn that, during one of his major speeches, the leading man had mistakenly inserted four lines from another play. Nicholas was a relentless perfectionist.

He had also come to know his employer very well. Even though his view of Firethorn was confined to a bending back and a pair of thrusting buttocks, he could see what was animating Count Orlando. Somewhere in the gallery was a new female face with a roguish charm that had ensnared the actor. Nicholas had spotted the signs earlier when Firethorn was in the tiring-house, working himself up to full pitch, smiling benignly for once on all around him, evincing a confidence that was fringed with nervousness and hogging the mirror even more than usual. The book holder groaned inwardly. It was bad news for the whole company when its actor-manager blundered into yet another romantic entanglement, and it was an extra burden on Nicholas Bracewell because he was invariably used as a reluctant go-between. There was danger in the air.

Lawrence Firethorn confirmed it within a matter of seconds. After taking a last, loving, lingering bow, he blew a kiss to the upper gallery then led his troupe from the stage. As they poured into the tiring-house, they could still hear the tide of approval as it slowly ebbed away. The actors fell into happy chatter and the musicians began to play in their elevated position to cover the noisy departure of their patrons. With his familiar eagerness, Firethorn swooped down on his book holder.

‘Nick, dear heart! I have important work for you.’

‘There are chores enough to keep me busy, sir.’

‘This is a special commission,’ said Firethorn. ‘It comes direct from Cupid.’

‘Can it not wait, master?’ said Nicholas, trying to evade a duty that was about to be thrust upon him. ‘I am needed here, as you may well judge.’

Firethorn grabbed him by the arm, pushed him towards the curtain then drew it slightly back to give them a view of the yard. His voice was an urgent hiss.

‘Find out who she is!’

‘Which lady has caught your attention?’

‘That creature of pure joy and beauty.’ ‘There are several to fit that description,’ said Nicholas, surveying the crowd as it dispersed. ‘How am I to pick her out from such a throng?’

‘Are you blind, man!’ howled Firethorn, pointing a finger. ‘She is there in the upper gallery.’

‘Amid three dozen or more fair maids.’

‘Outshining them all with her splendour.’

‘I fear I cannot pick her out, master.’

‘The angel wears blue and pink.’

‘As do several others.’

‘Enough of this, you wretch!’

Firethorn punched him playfully and Nicholas saw that he could not escape his appointed task by a show of confusion. He had seen the young woman at once and the sight of her had rung a warning bell inside his skull. Even in the blaze of colour provided by the gallants and the ladies all around her, she stood out with ease. Her face was small, oval and exquisitely lovely with none of the cosmetic aids on which others had to rely so heavily. She was quite petite with a delicate vivacity apparent even at a cursory glance. Nicholas put her age at no more than twenty. She wore a dress in the Spanish fashion with a round, stiff-laced collar above a blue bodice that was fitted with sleeves of a darker hue. Pink ribbons flowed down both arms. Her skirt ballooned out with a matching explosion of blue and pink. Jewellery added the final touch to a glittering portrait.

‘I think you have marked her now,’ said Firethorn with a chuckle. ‘Is she not divine?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ agreed Nicholas. ‘But you are not the first to make that observation.’

‘How so?’

‘She is in the company of two young gentlemen.’

‘What should I care?’

‘Haply, one of them might be her husband.’

‘That will not deter me, Nick. Had she fifty or more husbands, I would still pursue her. It only serves to add spice to the chase. I have something that no other man can offer. True genius upon the stage!’

‘The lady has seen you at your peak.’

‘Count Orlando has conquered her,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘I saw it every time I stepped out upon the boards. I drew tears from those pearls that are her eyes. I made her little heart beat out the tune of love.’

Nicholas Bracewell gave the resigned sigh of someone who had heard it all before. The actor had immense talent but it was matched by immense vanity. Firethorn believed that he simply had to perform one of his major roles in front of a woman and she would fling herself into his bed without reservation or delay. What made his latest target more alarming to Nicholas was the fact that she did not conform to the accepted type. Here was no practised coquette, sending hot glances down to stir Firethorn’s ardour. The young woman was self-evidently not the kind of court beauty who enjoyed an occasional dalliance to break up the monotony of an idle and powdered existence. For all her undeniable charms and her gorgeous array, there was a wan simplicity about her, a lack of sophistication, the shy awkwardness of someone who was enthralled by the play without quite knowing how to comport herself at a playhouse.

She was unawakened and Lawrence Firethorn had elected himself as the man to open her eyes.

‘Find out who she is, Nick.’

‘Leave it with me, sir.’

‘About it straight.’

‘As you wish.’

A stocky man of medium height, Firethorn filled his lungs to expand his chest and got a last, fleeting glimpse of her before she left the gallery. He had reached an irrevocable decision. Still in the attire of an Italian aristocrat, he stroked his dark, pointed beard and gave a Machiavellian smile.

‘I must have her!’

Born and brought up in Richmond with its quiet beauty and its abundant royal associations, Anne Hendrik had never regretted her move to Southwark. It was a dirtier, darker and more populous area with lurking danger in its narrow thoroughfares and the threat of disease in its careless filth. But it was also one of the most colourful and cosmopolitan districts of London, a vibrant place that throbbed with excitement and which had become the home of theatres and bear-baiting arenas and other entertainments which could flourish best outside the city boundaries. Anne had chosen to live there when she married Jacob Hendrik, an immigrant hatmaker, who brought his Dutch skill and conscientiousness to his adopted country. Theirs was a happy marriage that produced no children but which gave birth to a steady flow of fashionable headgear for all classes. The Hendrik name became a seal of quality.

When her husband died, Anne inherited a comfortable house and a thriving business in the adjoining premises. A handsome woman in her thirties, she was expected by almost everyone to mourn for a decent interval before taking another man to the altar and there was no shortage of candidates seeking that honour. Anne Hendrik kept them all at bay with a show of independence that was unlikely in a woman in her position. Instead of taking the softer options posed by remarriage, she picked up the reins of the business and proved that she had more than enough shrewdness and acumen to drive it along. Like her husband before her, she was not afraid to use a judicious crack of the whip over her employees.

‘This will not be tolerated much longer,’ she said.

‘Hans is a good craftsman,’ argued her companion.

‘Only when he is here.’

‘The boy was sent on an errand, mistress.’

‘He should have been back this long while.’

‘Give him a little more time.’

‘I have done that too often, Preben,’ she said. ‘I will have to speak more harshly to Master Hans Kippel. If he wishes to remain as an apprentice under my roof, then he must mend his ways.’

‘Let me talk to him in your stead.’

‘You are too fond of the boy to scold him.’

Preben van Loew accepted the truth of the charge and nodded sadly. A dour, emaciated man in his fifties, he was the oldest and best of her employees and he had been a close friend of Jacob Hendrik. Though he specialised in making ostentatious hats for the gentry, the Dutchman was soberly dressed himself and wore only a simple cap upon his bulbous head. Hans Kippel was far and away the most able of the apprentices when he put his mind to it but there was a wayward streak in the youth that made for bad timekeeping and lapses of concentration. Entrusted with the task of delivering some hats in the city itself, he should have been back with the money almost an hour ago. Anne liked him enormously but even her affection was not proof against the nudging suspicion that temptation might have been too much for the lad. The money that he was carrying was worth more than three months’ wages and he would not have been the first apprentice to abscond.

Preben van Loew read her mind and rushed to the defence of his young colleague.

‘Hans is an honest boy,’ he said earnestly.

‘Let us hope so.’

‘I know his family as well as my own. We grew up together in Amsterdam. You can always put your trust in a Kippel. They will never let you down.’

‘Then where is he now?’

‘On the road back, mistress.’

‘By way of Amsterdam?’

She had meant it as a joke but she rued it when his face crumpled. Preben van Loew was the mainstay of the business and she did not want to upset him in any way. At the same time, she could not allow an apprentice too much leeway or he would be bound to take advantage. Anne tried to make amends by praising the handiwork of her senior employee who was about to put the last carefully chosen feather into a tall hat with a curling brim. It was a small masterpiece that would grace the head of a gallant. The Dutchman allowed himself to be mollified then fell into a refrain that she had heard all too often on the lips of her husband.

‘They do us wrong to keep us out,’ he moaned.

‘It is the English way, I fear.’

‘Why do they fear the foreigner so?’

‘Simply because he is foreign.’

‘We make hats as good as theirs but they will not let us join their Guilds. They have the first choice of all the work that is on offer. We have to struggle on down here, outside the city limits, so that we do not offend their noses with our Dutch smell.’

‘They are jealous of your skills, Preben.’

‘It is unjust, mistress.’

‘Jacob said as much every day,’ she recalled. ‘He went to them and put his arguments but they were deaf to his entreaties. All they would do was to boast about their history. They told him that the Hatters and the Furriers united with the Haberdashers at the very start of this century. Among those Hatters were the Feltmakers who have been trying to form their own Guild of late.’

‘I know, mistress,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the move has been opposed. What does it matter to us? None of these precious Guilds will appreciate our quality. They just wish to look after themselves and keep us out.’

‘It may change in time, Preben.’

‘I will not live to see it.’

‘Justice will one day be done.’

‘It has no place in business.’

Anne Hendrik was unable to reply. Before she could open her mouth, the door flew open and a scrawny youth in buff jerkin and hose came staggering in. Hans Kippel could not have made a more dramatic entrance. Anne moved across to reproach him and Preben van Loew stepped in to protect him then they both took a closer look at the newcomer. He was in great distress. His clothes were torn, his face was bruised and blood was oozing freely from a deep gash in his temple. Hans Kippel could barely stand. They helped him quickly to a seat.

‘Rest yourself here,’ said Anne.

‘What happened?’ asked Preben van Loew.

‘I will send for a surgeon directly.’

‘Tell us what befell you, Hans.’

The boy was trembling with fear. On the verge of exhaustion, he could barely dredge up strength enough to speak. When the words finally dribbled out, there was a tattered bravery to them.

‘I saved … it. They … did not get … the money …’

With a ghost of a smile, he pitched forward onto the oak floorboards in a dead faint.

Stanford Place stood in a prime position on the east side of Bishopsgate and dwarfed the neighbouring dwellings. It was built in the reign of Edward IV and had now been arresting eyes and exciting envy for well over a century. With a frontage of almost two hundred feet, it had four storeys, each one jettied out above the floor below. Time had wearied the timber framing somewhat and the beams had settled at a slight angle to give the façade a curiously lopsided look but this only added to the character of the house. It was like a keystone in an arch and the adjacent buildings in Bishopsgate Street leant against it for support with companionable familiarity.

The establishment ran to a dozen bedchambers, a small banqueting hall, a dining parlour, a drawing room, butler’s lodging, servants’ quarters, kitchens, a bake house, even a tiny chapel. There were also stables, outhouses and an extensive garden. It was around this last impressive feature of the house that its owner was perambulating in the early evening sunlight. Walter Stanford was a big, bluff man with apparel that suggested considerable wealth and a paunch which hinted at too ready an appetite. Yet though his body had succumbed to middle age, his plump face still had a boyish quality to it and the large brown eyes sparkled with childlike glee.

‘There is always room for improvement, Simon.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘No expense must be spared in pursuit of it.’

‘That was ever your way, sir.’

‘Look to the example of Theobalds,’ said Stanford with a lordly wave of his hand. ‘When Sir Robert Cecil was gracious enough to invite a party of us there, we were conducted around his garden. Garden, do I say? It was truly a revelation.’

‘You have commended it to me before, master.’

‘No praise is too high, Simon. Why, man, it beggars all description.’ Stanford chortled as he hit his stride. ‘The garden at Theobalds is encompassed with a ditch full of water, so broad and inviting that a man could row a boat between the shrubs if he had a mind to. There was a great variety of trees and plants with labyrinths to provide sport and decoration. What pleased me most was the jet d’eau with its basin of white marble. I must have such a thing here.’

‘Order has already been given for it.’

‘Then there were columns and pyramids of wood at every turn. After seeing these, we were taken by the gardener into the summerhouse, in the lower part of which, built, as it were, in a semicircle, are the twelve Roman emperors in white marble, and a table of touchstone. The upper part of it is set round with cisterns of lead into which the water is conveyed through pipes, so that fish may be kept in them, and in summertime they are very convenient for bathing. And so it went on, Simon.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

As steward of the household, Simon Pendleton was well acquainted with his master’s enthusiasms. Unlike many who make large amounts of money, Walter Stanford was always looking for new ways to spend it and his home provided him with endless opportunities. The steward was a short, slim, unctuous man in his forties with a high forehead and greying beard. Trotting discreetly at the heels of the other, he made a mental note of any new commissions for the garden and there was much to keep him occupied. Every time Stanford paused, he ordered some new trees, shrubs, flowers, or herbs. Whenever a gap presented itself in some quiet corner, he decided to fill it with some statuary or with a pool. Parsimony was unknown to the master of Stanford Place. He was generosity itself when his interest was aroused.

‘It must all be ready in time,’ he warned.

‘I will speak to the gardeners, sir.’

‘My hour of triumph comes ever closer, Simon.’

‘And much deserved it is,’ said the steward with an obsequious bow. ‘Your whole establishment is conscious of the honour that you bestow upon them. It will indeed be a privilege to serve the next Lord Mayor of London.’

‘It will be the summit of my achievement.’

Stanford was lost for a moment in contemplation of the joys that lay ahead. Like his father before him, he was a Master of the Mercers’ Company, the most prestigious Guild in the city, first in order of precedence on all ceremonial occasions, and immortalised by the name of London’s revered mayor, Dick Whittington, who had slipped immoveably into the folk-memory of the capital. The great man had also been Master of the Company and it was Stanford’s ambition to emulate some of his achievements. He wanted to leave his mark indelibly upon the city.

‘He built the largest privy in London,’ he mused fondly. ‘In the year of our Lord, 1419, Richard Whittington erected a convenience in Vintry Ward with sixty seats for Ladies and for Gentlemen, flushed with piped water. What a legacy to bequeath to old London town!’

Pendleton coughed discreetly and Stanford came out of his reverie. He was about to continue his walk when he saw someone flitting through the apple trees towards him on the tips of her toes. She wore a dress of blue and pink that set off the colour of her eyes and the rosiness of her cheeks. Stanford held his arms wide to welcome her and his steward melted quickly into the undergrowth. The young woman came gambolling excitedly up.

‘Matilda!’ said Stanford. ‘What means this haste?’

‘Oh, sir, I have so much to tell you!’ she gasped.

‘Catch your breath first while I steal a kiss.’ He bent over to peck her on the cheek then stood back to admire her. ‘You are truly the delight of my life!’

‘I have found delights of my own, sir.’

‘Where might they be?’

‘At the playhouse,’ she said. ‘We saw Westfield’s Men perform this dolorous tragedy at the Queen’s Head. It made me weep piteously but it also filled me with such wonder. I beg of you to indulge me. When you are made Lord Mayor of London, let us have a play to mark the occasion.’

‘There will be a huge procession, child, a ceremonial parade through the streets of the city. It will lack nothing in pomp and pageant, that I can vouch.’

‘But I want a play,’ she urged. ‘To please me, say that I may have my way in this matter. It was a transport of delight from start to finish. Master Firethorn is the best actor in the whole world and I worship at his feet.’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Do not deny me, sir. I know it is your day but I would round it off with a performance of some lively play.’

Walter Stanford gave an indulgent chuckle.

‘You shall have your wish, Matilda,’ he said.

‘Oh, sir! You are a worthy husband!’

‘And you, a wife among thousands. I strive to satisfy every whim of my gorgeous young bride.’

Nicholas Bracewell paid the penalty for being so reliable and resourceful. The more competent he proved himself in every sphere, the more onerous became his duties. While he made himself indispensable to the company and thereby attained a degree of security that none of the other hired men could aspire to, he found himself coping with additional responsibilities all the time. Nicholas made light of them. Having run his errand for Lawrence Firethorn, he went straight back to his post to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of the costumes and properties. Westfield’s Men were not due to perform at the Queen’s Head until the following week and so their makeshift theatre had to be taken down so that the yard could be returned to its more workaday function as a stabling area for visitors to the inn. The valuable accoutrements of the actor’s art had to be carefully gathered up and locked away in a private room that was rented from the landlord.

While marshalling the stagekeepers, Nicholas also had to deal with countless enquiries from members of the company who wanted details of future engagements, repairs made to some hand prop or other, simple praise for their afternoon’s work and, most of all, confirmation of when and where they would get their wages. The book holder was also the central repository of complaints and there was never a shortage of these as peevish actors pursued their vendettas or argued their case for a larger role. It was tiring work but Nicholas sailed through it with the quiet smile of a man who revels in his occupation.

When the last complaint had been fielded — George Dart wondering why Count Orlando had boxed him on the ear in the middle of Act Two — Nicholas went on to tackle one of his most daunting tasks. This was his all too regular encounter with Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, a man temperamentally unsuited to the presence of actors because he believed, in that joyless wasteland known as his heart, that their avowed purpose in life was to destroy the fabric of his inn, scandalise his patrons and debauch his nubile daughter. That none of these things had so far actually happened did nothing to subdue his restless pessimism or to still his nervous twitch.

Nicholas met this merchant of doom in the taproom and smiled into the cadaverous, ever-mobile face.

‘How now, Master Marwood!’

‘You do me wrong to vex me so,’ said the landlord.

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Fire, Master Bracewell. Yellow flames of fire. It is not enough that my thatch is at risk from those pipe-smokers who crowd my galleries. Westfield’s Men have to bring it onto the stage as well. It was almost Death and Darkness indeed for me. Those torches could have set my whole establishment ablaze. Do but consider, I might have lost my inn, my home, my livelihood and my hopes of future happiness.’

‘Water was at hand in case of any mishap.’

‘Would you burn me to the ground, sir?’

‘Indeed not, Master Marwood,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘We would never destroy that which we hold most dear. Namely, your good opinion which is attested by your contractual dealings with us. In token of which, allow me to pay the rent that is now due. In full, sir.’

He handed over a bag of coins and sought to steal away but the landlord’s skeletal fingers clutched at his sleeve to detain him.

‘I crave a word with you, Master Bracewell.’

‘As many as you wish.’

‘It concerns your contract with the Queen’s Head.’

‘We are anxious to renew it.’

‘On what terms, though?’

‘On those satisfactory to both parties.’

‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ said Marwood, using a hand to push back a strand of greasy hair from his furrowed brow. ‘The case is altered, sir.’

‘I am sure that we can come to composition.’

‘Westfield’s Men bring me many woes.’

Alexander Marwood recited them with morbid glee. It was a litany that Nicholas had heard many times and always with the same wringing of hands, the same sighing of sighs and the same uncontrollable facial contortions. Use of the Queen’s Head came at a high price. Westfield’s Men had to put up with the sustained hysteria of a landlord who was whipped into action by a nagging wife. Ready to reap the financial advantages of having a theatre company in his yard, Marwood also harvested a bumper crop of outrage and apprehension. He was at his most febrile when the contract was due for renewing, hoping to exact more money and greater assurances of good conduct from the acting fraternity. What disturbed Nicholas was that a new note was being sounded.

‘We may have to part company, Master Bracewell.’

‘You would drive us away to another inn?’

‘No other landlord would be foolish enough to have you,’ said Marwood fretfully. ‘They lack my patience and forbearance. You’ll not easily find another home.’

It was a painful truth. Public performance of plays was forbidden within the city boundaries and it was only municipal weakness in enforcing this decree that allowed companies such as Westfield’s Men to flourish unscathed. More than once, they aroused aldermanic ire by their choice of repertoire or by the bad influence they were alleged to have on their audiences but they had never actually faced prosecution. Though fearing that every day the hand of authority would descend on his bony shoulder, Alexander Marwood, out of naked self-interest, yet ran the risk of contravening regulations. Other publicans would not be so adventurous, quite apart from the fact that their premises, in most cases, were not at all suitable for the presentation of drama. For some years now, the Queen’s Head had furnished Westfield’s Men with the illusion of having a permanent base. That illusion could be completely shattered.

‘Do not make any hasty decision,’ said Nicholas.

‘It is one that may be forced upon me, sir.’

‘For what reason?’

‘The Queen’s Head may change hands.’

Nicholas was jolted. ‘You are leaving?’

‘No, sir, but we may yield up ownership. We have received an offer too generous to ignore. It would give us security in our old age and provide a fit dowry for our daughter, Rose.’ He attempted a smile but it came out as a hideous leer. ‘There is but one main condition.’

‘What might that be?’

‘If we sell the inn, the new owner insists that Westfield’s Men must go.’

‘And who is this stern fellow?’

‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’

Nicholas winced. He knew the man by reputation and liked nothing of what he had heard. Rowland Ashway was not merely one of the most prosperous brewers in London, he was also alderman for the very ward in which the Queen’s Head was located. His disapproval of inn-yard theatre did not spring from any puritanical zeal. It arose from notions of prejudice and profit. Like others who felt they created the wealth of the capital city, Ashway had a deep suspicion of an idle aristocracy that fawned away its time at court and held the whiphand over the growing middle class of which he was a prominent member. To his way of thinking, a theatrical company was an indulgence on the part of a highly privileged minority. In ousting Westfield’s Men, he could strike a blow at the epicurean Lord Westfield himself.

It was not only social revenge that activated the brewer. In the final analysis, his account book dictated all his business decisions. If he was buying the Queen’s Head, he obviously felt that he could more than compensate in other ways for the revenue he would forgo if he expelled the company. Nicholas was seriously alarmed. The resourceful book holder might be thrown out of work by a ruthless book keeper.

‘This matter must be discussed in full,’ he said.

‘I give you but advance warning.’

‘Speak with Master Firethorn about it.’

‘That I will not,’ said Marwood. ‘I like not his ranting and raving. My ears buzz for a week after I have talked with him. I would rather treat with you, sir. We have always been congenial to each other.’

Nicholas Bracewell had never met a human being less congenial than the twitching publican but he did not want to upset the tricky negotiations that lay ahead by saying so. He thanked Marwood for alerting him to the potential danger. In the circumstances, he did not feel like putting more money into Rowland Ashway’s pocket by buying a pint of his celebrated ale. Instead, he nodded his farewell and sauntered across to Edmund Hoode who was hunched over a cup of sack in the corner of the taproom.

The two men were good friends and the playwright always consulted the other during the writing of a new work if any special dramatic effects were required. Nicholas had an instinctive feel for the practicalities of theatre and a way of making even the most difficult effects work. The book holder’s willingness to confront any technical problems made Hoode’s job as resident poet much easier.

Nicholas had intended to pass on the grim tidings he had just gleaned from the landlord but he saw that his friend already had anxieties enough.

‘What, Edmund? All amort?’

‘In sooth, I am in the pit of misery, Nick.’

‘Why so? Your play was as ever a shining success.’

‘Actors must quit the stage when they are done.’

‘Your meaning?’

‘I detest the role I must play now.’

Nicholas understood at once. Edmund Hoode was going through a fallow period in his personal life. A hopeless romantic, he was always losing his heart and dedicating his verses to some new fancy and, although his love was usually unrequited, the blissful agony of infatuation was reward enough in itself. Without a fresh mistress to make him truly unhappy, he was plunged into despair. It took Nicholas well over an hour to instil some hope into his friend. The questing love of Edmund Hoode and the roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn could be equal tyrannies to him.

It was late evening by the time Nicholas finally left the inn and darkness was pulling its malodorous shroud over the city. Instead of walking back home to Southwark by way of London Bridge, he elected to be rowed across by one of the army of watermen who populated the river. As he headed for the wharf, he had time properly to reflect on what Alexander Marwood had told him. Ejection from the Queen’s Head would be a disaster for the company and might even lead to its extinction. How serious the threat really was he had no means of knowing but one thing he did resolve upon. He would not spread panic unnecessarily. Insecurity was rife enough in their blighted profession and he did not wish to add to it in any way. The imminent peril should be concealed for the time being until more details emerged because he did not rule out the possibility of finding a way to solve this horrendous problem. He could best do that by working quietly behind the scenes rather than in an atmosphere of communal frenzy. Meanwhile, therefore, Nicholas would have to keep a very dark and very heavy secret to himself.

The Thames was lapping noisily at the timbers of the wharf when he arrived and the moored craft were thudding rhythmically against each other. Daylight turned the river into a floating village and even at this late hour many of the inhabitants were still promenading over the water. Barges, wherries, hoys, fishing smacks and an occasional tilt-boat could be seen and there was a lone coracle wending its way along. Nicholas did not have to choose his means of transport. His pilot came hopping across to him with gruff deference.

‘This way, Master Bracewell. Let me serve you, sir.’

‘I will do that gladly, Abel.’

‘I have missed you for a se’n-night or more.’

‘My legs took me home.’

‘Sit in my boat and make the journey in style, sir. There is more music to please your ears.’

Abel Strudwick was an unprepossessing individual, a heavy, round-shouldered man of middle height with unkempt hair and a hirsute beard doing their best to hide an ugly, pockmarked face. Though roughly the same age as his favourite passenger, he looked a decade older. Strudwick had the vices and virtues of his breed. Like all watermen, he had a stentorian voice to hail his customers and a savage turn of phrase with which to assault them if they failed to tip him handsomely. On the credit side, he was an honest, reliable citizen who put the strength of his arms and the warmth of his company at the disposal of anyone who sat in the boat.

What set Abel Strudwick apart from the rest and gave him a special relationship with Nicholas Bracewell was his addiction to what he called music. When the book holder was offered fresh melodies, he knew that the waterman had been busy with his pen, for Strudwick had poetic ambitions. His music came in the form of mundane verse that was always at the mercy of its rhyme scheme and which flowed from him as readily and roughly as the Thames itself. Nicholas was his preferred audience because he always listened with genuine interest and because his connections with the theatre were a distant promise of some kind of literary recognition.

As they got into the boat, Nicholas felt a sailor’s surge of excitement at being afloat again, albeit in a modest craft. Before he came into the theatre, he had sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the world and it had made a deep impression on him. The experience gave him another bond with the waterman. Though Strudwick had never been more than ten miles upstream, he saw himself as a great voyager like his friend and it fed his invention.

He declaimed his latest piece of music.

‘Row on, row on, across the waves,

Thou monarch of the sea.

Steer past those rocks, avoid those caves,

Row on to eternity.’

There was much more to come and Nicholas heard it patiently as he sat in the stern of the boat with his hand trailing gently in the water. Strudwick’s methodical rowing was matched by the repetitive banality of his latest verses but his passenger would nevertheless pay him with kind words and encouragement. A warbling poet was milder company than a foul-mouthed waterman.

‘A turd in your teeth!’

‘How so, Abel?’

‘A pox upon your pox-ridden pizzle!’

Strudwick had not lapsed back into his normal mode of speech to berate Nicholas. He was cursing the obstacle which the prow of his boat had struck and which had turned his music to discord. Swearing volubly, he manoeuvred his craft round so that he could see what he was abusing. Nicholas felt it first and it made his blood run cold. His trailing hand met another in the water, five pale, thin, lifeless fingers that touched his own in a clammy greeting. He sat up in the boat and peered into the darkness. Even the roaring Strudwick was frightened into silence.

Caught up in a piece of driftwood was the naked body of a man. There was enough moonlight for them to see that the corpse had met a gruesome death. The head had been battered in and one of the legs was twisted out at an unnatural angle. A dagger was lodged in the throat.

Abel Strudwick was still emptying the contents of a full stomach into the river as Nicholas hauled their sorry cargo aboard.