The Nine Giants

Chapter Two

Anne Hendrik was not normally given to apprehension. She was a strong-minded woman who had survived all the blows that Fate had dealt her and who always met adversity with resolution. Though her marriage had been sound, it had brought pain and grief to her family who disapproved in frank terms of her choice of husband. London had no love of foreigners and those women who had actually rejected decent English stock in order to marry immigrants were looked upon with disdain, if not outright disgust. Having to cope with the sneers and the cold shoulders had helped to harden Anne in many ways but she was still a sensitive person underneath it all and her emotions could be aroused in a crisis.

The present situation was a case in point. She was very distressed by what had happened to Hans Kippel, her young apprentice, all the more so because the boy had been sent expressly at her command to deliver the order. Anne blamed herself for entrusting such an important duty to such an untried youth. In giving Hans Kippel an extra responsibility, she had exposed him unnecessarily to the dangers of city life. The wounds he got in her service were each a separate reproach to her and she could not bear to look on as they were bathed and bandaged. Preben van Loew tried to assure her that it was not her fault but his words fell on deaf ears. What she needed was the more persuasive, objective, down-to-earth comfort of the man who shared her house with her but he was not there.

The longer she waited, the more convinced she became that he, too, had met with violence on his journey home. As evening became night and night slipped soundlessly into the next day, Anne was almost distraught, pacing the floor of her main room with a candle in her hand and racing to peer through the window every time a footstep was heard on the cobbles outside. The house was not large but she had felt the need for male companionship after her husband’s demise and she had taken in a lodger so that she might have the sense of a man about the place once more. It had been a rewarding experiment. The guest had turned out to be not only an exemplary lodger and a loyal friend but — at special moments savoured by both — he had been considerably more. To have lost him at a time when she needed him most would indeed be a cruel stroke of fortune. His movements were uncertain and his hours of work irregular but he should have been back long before now. When there was some unexpected delay, he usually sent word to put her mind at rest.

Where could he be at such a late hour? Bankside was littered with hazards enough in broad daylight. With the cover of darkness, those hazards multiplied a hundredfold. Could he have met the same trouble as Hans Kippel and be lying in his own blood in some fetid lane? Her immediate impulse was to take a lantern and go in search of him but the futility of such a gesture was borne in upon her. It was no use subjecting herself to such grave danger. She was virtually trapped in the house and she had to make the most of it. With a great effort of will, she sat down at the table, put the candle aside, took several deep breaths and told herself to remain calm in the emergency. It worked for a matter of minutes. Worries then flooded back and she was up on her feet again to confront each new horrible possibility that her imagination threw up.

Anne Hendrik was so enmeshed in her concern that she did not hear the key being inserted into the front door. The first she knew of her deliverance was when the solid figure stood before her in the gloom.

Tears came as she flung herself into his arms.

‘God be praised!’

‘What ails you?’

‘Hold me tight, sir. Hold me very tight.’

‘So I will, my love.’

‘I have been in such dread for your safety.’

‘Here I am, unharmed, as you see.’

‘Thank the Lord!’

Nicholas Bracewell held her close and kissed the top of her head softly. It was most unlike her to be so on edge and it took him some time to calm her enough to get the full story out of her. Anne sat opposite him at the table and talked of the deep guilt she felt about Hans Kippel. He heard her out before offering his advice.

‘You do yourself an injustice, Anne.’

‘Do I, sir?’

‘The boy is old enough and sensible enough to take on such a duty. It is all part of his apprenticeship. I warrant that he was delighted when you chose him.’

‘Indeed, he was. It got him away from here.’

‘Out of the dullness of his workplace and into the excitement of the streets,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hans will have been a little careless, that is all. He will not make the same mistake again.’

‘But that is the trouble of it.’

‘What is?’

‘Hans does not understand the nature of his error.’

‘He was off guard for a moment, surely?’

‘Maybe, Nick,’ she said. ‘But he does not remember. Hans took such a blow on the head that it has knocked the memory out of him. All he can recall is that some men attacked him and that he got away. When, where or why are questions that the lad cannot as yet comprehend.’

‘His wounds have been tended?’

‘Of course, sir. The surgeon said it is not uncommon to find a lapse of memory in such cases. Hans must be given time to recover. As his body mends, haply his mind will be made whole again.’ Anne seized his hands to squeeze them. ‘Speak to him, Nick. The boy likes you and looks up to you. Help the poor creature for pity’s sake.’

‘I will do all that is needful. Trust it well.’

‘Your words are a balm to me.’

He leant forward to embrace her then turned to his own story. When he explained what had detained him, Anne was thrown into disarray once more. The injuries of a young apprentice paled beside the discovery of a dead body in the River Thames. Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick had taken the corpse back to the wharf from which they had departed. After rousing the watch, they had been required to give sworn statements to a magistrate before being allowed to go. Strudwick had then rowed his friend to Bankside in a grim silence that no music could break. Tragedy had knocked all poetic skills out of him.

Anne was in a state of total dismay.

‘Who was the man?’ she said.

‘We have no means of knowing as yet.’

‘But why was he stripped of his clothing?’

‘The murderer may have thought his apparel worth the taking,’ he said. ‘And that argues rich garments which could be sold for gain. I think, however, that there could be another reason behind it. His clothing could have helped to identify him and much care was taken to render the poor soul anonymous. The way that his face was beaten to a pulp, his own kin would not be able to recognise him. He went out of this world in the most damnable way.’

‘Could nothing be learnt from the corpse, Nick?’

‘Only some idea of his age, which I would put around thirty summers. And one thing more, Anne.’

‘Well, sir?’

‘The body had not long been in the water.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’

‘By bitter experience,’ he said. ‘I have seen all too many men who have found a watery grave. Rigor mortis sets in after a time and the miserable creatures become bloated in a way too hideous to describe. The person we found tonight was dropped into the river only a short time beforehand.’

‘Was any other villainy wreaked upon him?’

‘He was stabbed through the neck and one of his legs was horribly broken.’ He saw her flinch. ‘But these are details enough for you. I would not vex you any more.’

‘My joy at seeing you again is blackened by this grim intelligence.’ Fresh tears threatened. ‘The body in the river could so easily have been yours, Nick.’

‘With Abel Strudwick to look after me?’ he said with a smile. ‘I could not ask for a better guard. A whole armada would not dare to take on Abel when he is afloat. He would give them a broadside with his curses then rake their decks with a fusillade of poems.’

She went back into his arms and hugged him close.

‘It has been a long and lonely night for me.’

‘I did not stay away from you out of choice, Anne.’

‘There is almost too much for me to bear.’

‘Let us share the load, my love.’

‘That was my hope.’

‘Consider it fulfilled.’

‘Welcome home, Nick,’ she whispered.

They went slowly upstairs to her bedchamber. It was something which they both felt they had deserved.

The change of venue was significant. The meeting was scheduled to take place at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch, a rather modest but welcoming abode that gave shelter to the actor’s own family and their servants as well as hospitality to the company’s four apprentices. What made the establishment function with such relative smoothness was the presiding genius of Margery Firethorn, a redoubtable woman who combined the roles of wife, mother, housekeeper and landlady with consummate ease and who still had enough energy left over to pursue other interests, to maintain a high standard of Christian observance and to terrorise anyone foolhardy enough to stand in her way. Even her husband, fearless in any other way, had been known to quail before her. Indirectly, it was she who had dictated the move to another place and Barnaby Gill spotted this at once.

‘Lawrence is on heat again!’ he moaned.

‘Lord save us!’ cried Edmund Hoode.

‘That is why he dare not have us at his house. In case Margery gets wind of his new amour.’

‘Who is the luckless creature, Barnaby?’

‘I know not and care not,’ said Gill with studied indifference. ‘Women are all one to me and I like not any of the infernal gender. My passions are dedicated to intimacy on a much higher plane.’ He puffed at his pipe and blew out rings of smoke. ‘What else did our Creator in his munificence make pretty boys for, I ask?’

It was a rhetorical question and Edmund Hoode would in any case not have been drawn into such a discussion. Barnaby Gill’s tendencies were well known and generally tolerated by a company that valued his acting skills and his remarkable comic gifts. Hoode had never plumbed the secret of why his companion — such a gushing fountain of pleasure upon the stage — was so morose and petulant when he left it. The playwright preferred the public clown to the private cynic. They were sitting in a room at the Queen’s Head as they waited for Firethorn to arrive. The three men were all sharers with Lord Westfield’s Men, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the leading roles in any performance. There were four other sharers but it was this triumvirate that effectively dictated policy and controlled the day-to-day running of the company.

Lawrence Firethorn was the undisputed leader. Even when he burst through the door and gave them an elaborate bow, he was simply asserting his superiority.

‘Gentlemen, your servant!’

‘You are late as usual, sir,’ snapped Gill.

‘I was detained by family matters.’

‘Your drink awaits you, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

‘Thank you, Edmund. I am glad that one of my partners in this enterprise has some concern for me.’

‘Oh, I have concern in good measure,’ said Gill. ‘I was a model of concern during yesterday’s performance when I feared you might not survive to the end of it.’

‘Me, sir?’ Firethorn bridled. ‘You speak of me?’

‘Who else, sir? It was Count Orlando who was puffing and panting so in the heat of the day. And it was that same noble Italian who became so flustered that he inserted four lines from Vincentio’s Revenge.’

‘You lie, you dog!’ howled Firethorn.

‘Indeed, I do. It was six lines.’

‘My Count Orlando was simon pure.’

‘Give or take an occasional blemish.’

‘You dare to scorn my performance!’

‘By no means,’ said Gill, ready with a final thrust. ‘I thought that your Count Orlando was excellent — but not nearly as fine as your Vincentio in the same play!’

‘You viper! You maggot! You pipe-smoking pilchard!’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ soothed Hoode. ‘We have come together to do business and not to trade abuse.’

‘The man is a scurvy rogue!’ yelled Firethorn.

‘At least I remember my lines,’ retorted the other.

‘None are worth listening to, sir.’

‘My admirers will be the judge of that.’

‘You have but one and that is Master Barnaby Gill.’

‘I will not brook insults!’

‘Then do not wear such ridiculous attire, sir.’

Gill flared up immediately. The one certain way to bring out his choleric disposition was to criticise his appearance because he took such infinite pains with it. Dressed in a peach-coloured doublet and scarlet hose, he wore a tall hat that was festooned with feathers. Rings on almost every finger completed a dazzling effect. Roused to a fever pitch, he now strutted up and down the room, pausing from time to time to stamp a foot in exasperation. Having routed his enemy, Firethorn reclined in the high-backed chair and took his first sip of the Canary wine that stood ready for him.

Hoode, meanwhile, devoted his energy to calming down the anguished clown, an almost daily task in view of the professional jealousy between Gill and Firethorn. Verbal clashes between them were the norm but they were quickly forgotten when the two actors were on stage together. Both were supreme in their own ways and it was from the dynamic between them that Westfield’s Men drew much of their motive force.

Edmund Hoode eventually imposed enough calm for the meeting to begin. As they sat around the table, he reached gratefully for his pint of ale to wash away the memory of yet another needless row between his colleagues who had left him feeling that he had been ground into dust by two whining millstones. Lawrence Firethorn, poised and peremptory, opened the business of the day.

‘We are met to confirm our future engagements,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, as you know, we play Double Deceit at The Theatre in Shoreditch. It is a well-tried piece but that is no reason for us to be complacent. We will have a testing rehearsal in the morning to add what polish we may. Westfield’s Men must be at their best, sirs.’

‘I never give less,’ said Gill sulkily.

‘As to our immediate future …’

Firethorn outlined the programme that lay ahead, most of it confined to the Queen’s Head which was their home base. One new performing venue did, however, surface.

‘We have received an invitation to visit Richmond,’ said Firethorn. ‘The date lies some weeks hence but it is important to address our minds to it now.’

‘Where will we play?’ asked Hoode.

‘In the yard of an inn.’

‘Its name?’

‘The Nine Giants.’

‘I have never heard of the place,’ sneered Gill.

‘That is no bar to it,’ said Firethorn easily. ‘It is a sizeable establishment, by all accounts, and like to give us all that the Queen’s Head can offer. The Nine Giants are nine giant oak trees that grace its paddock.’

Gill snorted. ‘You ask me to perform amid trees?’

‘Yes, Barnaby,’ said his tormentor. ‘You simply lift your back leg like any common cur and make water. Even you may win a laugh by that device.’

‘I am against the whole idea,’ said the other.

‘Your opposition is a waste of bad breath.’

‘The Nine Giants does not get my assent.’

‘Too late, sir. I have accepted the invitation on behalf of the company.’

‘You had no right to do that, Lawrence!’

‘Nor any chance to refuse,’ said Firethorn, producing the one reason that could silence Gill. ‘It was given by Lord Westfield himself. Our noble patron has commanded us to appear in Richmond.’

‘To what particular end?’ said Hoode.

‘As part of the wedding celebrations of a friend.’

‘And what will we play?’

‘That is what we must decide, Edmund. Lord Westfield has asked for a comedy that touches upon marriage.’

‘There is sense in that,’ agreed Gill, reviving at once and seeing a chance to steal some glory. ‘The ideal choice must be Cupid’s Folly.’

‘The piece grows stale, sir.’

‘How can you say that, Lawrence? My performance as Rigormortis is as fresh as a daisy.’

‘Daisies are low, dishonest flowers.’

Barnaby Gill banged the table with irritation. His fondness for Cupid’s Folly was well founded. A rustic comedy with a farcical impetus, it was the one play in the company’s repertoire which gave him a central role that allowed him to dominate throughout. As a result, it was staged whenever they needed to mollify the little actor or to dissuade him for implementing his regular threat to walk out on Westfield’s Men. No such exigency obtained here.

‘I favour Marriage and Mischief,’ said Hoode.

‘Then you should have wed Margery,’ added Firethorn. ‘It is an interesting suggestion, Edmund, to be sure, but the play begins to show its age.’

‘I stand by Cupid’s Folly,’ said Gill.

‘And I by Marriage and Mischief,’ said Hoode.

‘That is why we need a happy compromise.’ Firethorn gave a ripe chuckle which showed that the decision had already been made. ‘We will favour the nuptials with some sage advice. Let us play The Wise Widow of Dunstable.’

It was a compromise indeed and his fellow sharers came to see much virtue in it. Edmund Hoode, fearing that he might be commissioned to write a new play for the occasion, was ready to settle for a seasoned comedy by another hand, especially as it offered him a telling cameo as the ghost of the widow’s departed husband. Barnaby Gill, robbed of the opportunity to star in his favourite play, warmed quickly to the idea of a piece which gave him a prominent role and allowed him to execute no less than four of his famous comic jigs. Inevitably, it was Lawrence Firethorn who would shine in the leading part of Lord Merrymouth but there was light enough for others. The Wise Woman of Dunstable satisfied all needs.

They discussed their plans in more detail then the meeting broke up. Barnaby Gill was first to leave. When Edmund Hoode tried to follow him out, he was detained by the actor-manager. The glowing countenance of Lawrence Firethorn said it all and the other braced himself.

‘I may have work for you, Edmund.’

‘Spare me, sir, I pray you.’

‘But I am in love, man.’

‘I have long admired your beautiful wife.’

‘It is not Margery I speak of!’ hissed Firethorn. ‘Another arrow has been fired into my heart.’

‘Pluck it out in the name of marital bliss.’

‘Come, come, Edmund. We are men of the world, I hope. Our passions are too fiery to be sated by a single woman. Each of us must spread his love joyously among the sex.’

Hoode sighed. ‘Could I but find her, I would be faithful to one dear mistress.’

‘Then help me secure mine by way of rehearsal.’

‘I will not write verses for you, Lawrence.’

‘They would be for her, man. For a divinity.’

‘Offer up prayers instead.’

‘I come to you in the name of friendship, Edmund. Do not let me down in my hour of need. Stand by to help, that is all I ask. Nothing is required from you now.’

‘Why cannot you do your wooing alone?’

‘And throw away the best chance that I have? Your poems are love potions in themselves, Edmund. No woman can resist your honeyed phrases and your sweet sadness.’

Hoode gave a hollow laugh. In recent months, several women had been proof against the most affecting verse that his pen could produce. It would be ironic if his poetic talent helped to ensnare a new victim for the capacious bed of Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Who is the doomed lady?’ he asked.

‘That is the beauty of it, man. Nick Bracewell found out her name for me and it has increased my raptures.’

‘How can this be?’

Firethorn shook his head. ‘I may not tell you until after my prize is secured. But this I will say, Edmund. The lady in question is not only the most splendid creature in London. She will present me with the sternest challenge that I have ever faced. Your assistance will be the difference betwixt success and failure.’

‘Or betwixt failure and disaster.’

‘I like your spirit,’ said Firethorn, slapping his mournful companion between the shoulder blades. ‘We are yoke-fellows in this business. Mark my words, sir, we will bed this angel between us.’

‘Abandon this folly now, Lawrence.’

‘It is my mission in life.’

‘Draw back while you still have time.’

‘Too late, man. Plans have already been set in motion.’

Nicholas Bracewell set out early next morning with his mind still racing. A night in the arms of Anne Hendrik had lifted his spirits but failed to obliterate his abiding anxieties. The first of these concerned the dead body which he had dragged out of the murky waters on the previous night. As he was rowed back across the Thames in the sunlight, he felt once more the touch of the dead man’s hand and saw again the mutilated corpse bobbing about before him. The body had been young, firm and well muscled, sent to its grave before its time with the most grotesque injuries. Nicholas was filled with horror and racked by a sense of waste. The life of some nameless man had been viciously cut short by unknown hands that had worked with malign purpose. Evidently, someone had hated the victim — but who had loved him? Who had borne him and cared for him? What family depended on him? What friends would mourn his absence? Why had he been hacked so cruelly out of existence and sent anonymously to meet his Maker? Over and over again, Nicholas asked himself the question that contained all the others — who was he?

One mystery led him on to another. What had really happened to Hans Kippel? He had been given a very incomplete account by Anne Hendrik because she herself did not know the full facts. Something very unpleasant had befallen the apprentice and Nicholas resolved to find out what it was as soon as he was able. He had always liked the boy — despite his lapses — and taken an almost fatherly interest in him. Again, he was upset by Anne’s patent agitation and wanted to do all he could to help. It was as important to find Hans Kippel’s assailant as it was to identify the body from the Thames.

The boat reached the wharf and he paid the waterman before stepping ashore and making his way towards Gracechurch Street. With his feet on dry land again and his place of work in prospect, he turned to another grim subject. A violent death and a hounded youth had occupied his thoughts this far and those same images still lurked as he considered the walking misery that was Alexander Marwood. The threat of expulsion was indeed real. It was the reputation of Westfield’s Men which could meet a violent death if the company was deprived of its home. Sharers and hired men alike would become hounded youths who were driven way from the Queen’s Head. Nicholas took a realistic view of possible consequences and shuddered.

Without their base, the company would find it very difficult to survive, certainly in its present form. It might limp along in some attenuated shape for a short while by appearing intermittently at a variety of venues but this could only ever be a temporary expedient. Other companies would move in quickly to pick the bones clean. Outstanding talents such as Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode would soon be employed elsewhere but lesser mortals would stay out in the cold. Nicholas was confident that he himself would find work somewhere in the theatre but his concern was for his fellows, for the hired men who made up the bulk of the company and who clung to it with the desperate loyalty of those who have tasted the bitterness of neglect. To be thrust once more into unemployment would be a fatal blow to some of them and they might never work again.

Nicholas caught sight of the inn sign outside the Queen’s Head and he sighed. Elizabeth Tudor looked as regal and defiant as ever but she might harbour tragedy for some of her subjects. Those least able to defend themselves would be cast adrift in a hostile city. The book holder thought of Thomas Skillen, the old stagekeeper, of Hugh Wegges, the tiremen, of Peter Digby and his consort of musicians. He thought of all the other poor souls to whom Westfield’s Men gave a shred of dignity and a semblance of security. One in particular haunted Nicholas.

It was George Dart.

Being a member of a celebrated theatre company was not an unqualified honour. George Dart found that he had to earn his keep and suffer for his art. Even on days when there was no performance, the hard work did not cease and his status as the youngest and smallest of the stagekeepers meant that all the most menial and demanding tasks were assigned to him. It was manifestly unjust and, though that injustice was often reduced by the kindly intercession of Nicholas Bracewell, it could still rankle. George Dart was the company workhorse, the shambling beast of burden onto whom anything and everything could be loaded by uncaring colleagues. In rare moments of introspection, when he could pause to review his lot, he generated such a lather of self-pity that he toyed with the idea of leaving the theatre altogether, a bold move that always evaporated before his eyes when he considered how impossible it would be for him to find employment elsewhere. With all its disadvantages and its insecurities, working with Westfield’s Men was the only life he had ever known.

Morning found him attending to one of the jobs that he liked least. He had been sent out early to put up the playbills advertising the performance of Double Deceit at the Theatre on the morrow. His first problem was to get the playbills from the printer without having the money to pay for them, assuring the man that Firethorn himself would be around to settle the debt that very day, hoping that the trusting soul was not aware of all the other printers still awaiting payment by Westfield’s Men. This time he was lucky and got off lightly with a clip across the ear and a few blood-curdling oaths. Dart left the premises in Paternoster Lane with the playbills under his arm and began the familiar round.

The perils that befall the puny awaited him at every turn. He was jostled by elbows, pushed by hands, tripped by feet, abused by tongues and even chased by a gang of urchins but he continued steadfastly on his way and put up the playbills on every post and fence along the route. The reputation of Westfield’s Men went before them and they had built up an appreciable following in a city that was clamouring for lively theatre but that same following needed to be informed of dates and times and places. Though he was involved in unrelieved drudgery, George Dart told himself that he was a vital link between the company and its prospective audience and thereby sought to check his rising sensation of worthlessness.

When the dispiriting work was over, there was one last chore for him. At the command of Lawrence Firethorn himself, he was to deliver the remaining playbill at a house in Bishopsgate. Since it was a continuation of Gracechurch Street, he knew it well but the market was its usual seething mass of humanity and he had to struggle with all his depleted might to make headway. Stanford Place eventually came into sight and he was daunted. Its monstrous size was forbidding and he could hear the barking of dogs from within as he hovered at the threshold. He stepped back involuntarily and was about to turn tail when he remembered the order that had been given to him by Firethorn. Facing his master with the news that he had disobeyed would be worse than hurling his frail body into the midst of a pack of ravening mastiffs. He opted for the lesser punishment and reached out to pull the bell at Stanford Place.

Response was immediate. The barking increased in volume and clawed feet could be heard scrabbling at the other side of the door. When it was opened with a dignified sweep, three dogs let him know that they did not welcome his arrival. They were silenced by a curt command from the slim and supercilious man who was now gazing down his nose at the unsolicited caller. Years as the household steward had given Simon Pendleton an ability to sum up stray visitors in an instant. He felt able to use a tone of complete contempt for the crumpled George Dart.

‘Depart from this place at once, boy.’

‘But I have business here, sir,’ pleaded the other.

‘None that need be taken seriously.’

‘Do but hear me, master.’

‘Away with you and your confounded begging bowl!’

‘I ask for nothing,’ said Dart hurriedly. ‘Except that this be delivered to the mistress of the house.’

Pendleton was taken aback as the handbill was passed over to him. Rolled up into a scroll, it was tied with a piece of pink ribbon to give it a hint of importance. Even though it was covered by the sweaty fingerprints of its bearer, it enforced more serious consideration.

‘Who are you?’ asked Pendleton.

‘A mere messenger, sir.’

‘From whom, boy?’

‘The lady will understand.’

‘I desire further information.’

‘My duty has been done,’ said Dart gratefully.

And before the dogs could even begin to growl, he swung around and scurried off into the crowd with a speed born of desperation. A typical morning had ended.

Marriage to a much older man was turning out to have many unforeseen advantages and Matilda Stanford enjoyed the process of discovering what they were. When a young woman consents to wed a partner of more mature years, it is usually more of an arranged match than a case of irresistible love and so it was with her. Doting parents had been delighted when so august a figure as the Master of the Mercers’ Company took an interest in their daughter and they encouraged that interest as wholeheartedly as they could. While the father worked sedulously on the potential suitor, the mother began to frame the girl’s mind to the concept of marriage as social advance and she had slowly broken down all of Matilda’s reservations. Now that she had been a wife for five months, the new mistress of Stanford Place was revelling in her good fortune.

Her husband was kind, attentive and ready to please her with touching eagerness. At the same time, Walter Stanford was a wealthy merchant whose continued success depended on the unremitting work he put into his business affairs. His preoccupation with those — and with the many duties of being Lord Mayor Elect — meant that his wife was given ample free time to spread her wings and to learn the power of his purse. Nor was Matilda put under any undue pressure in the marriage bed. He was a patient and considerate man, never enforcing any conjugal rights that she did not willingly concede and treating her with unflagging respect. There was another element in the relationship. Though devoted to his new wife, Walter Stanford was still, to some degree, in mourning for her predecessor, his first wife, Alice, mother of his two children, a charming woman who had been killed before her time in a tragic accident some eighteen months earlier.

What pleased Matilda was the fact that she was not expected to be a complete replacement for someone who had shared her husband’s life and bed for well over twenty years. Alice Stanford lay in the past. Matilda was the present and future, a rich prize owing to a rich man, an envied catch, a superb item to display in a household that prided itself above all else on the quality of its decoration. She had no illusions about it. Walter Stanford had married her to fill a gap in nature. She was there primarily to be seen as a wife rather than to satisfy his lust or provide him with heirs. It was a situation she came to appreciate.

Romance was signally lacking but there had been none of that in her parents’ marriage and that was the model on which she based her judgements. Walter Stanford might not be able to stir her emotions but he could impress her with his wealth, please her with his gallantry and amuse her with the way that he showered gifts upon her. Matilda was indeed unawakened but only because she slept so soundly in such a comfortable existence.

‘Where shall we go next?’

‘I have not recovered from yesterday’s outing yet.’

‘London has much more to offer,’ he said. ‘It is the most exciting city in Europe.’

‘I am learning that to be true.’

‘Let us sail up the river to Hampton Court.’

‘Hold on, sir. Do not hurry me so.’

‘Then let us go riding together instead.’

‘You are so good to me, William.’

‘It is because you are so good for Father.’

William Stanford was a handsome, upright young man of twenty who had inherited all the best features of his parents. He dressed like a gallant and sought out the pleasures of the day but he also had a shrewd business sense and enjoyed working alongside his father. Shaken by his mother’s violent death, he had at first been hostile to the idea of his father’s remarriage but Matilda had soon won him over with her beauty and sincerity. She had brought much-needed cheer into the gloom of Stanford Place and, now that she was losing her shyness, she was able to show an effervescence that was delightful. It was William who had taken her to the Queen’s Head to watch Westfield’s Men in action. He was now anxious to provide further diversions for her.

‘Do but wait until Michael returns,’ he said.

‘When is your cousin due back, sir?’

‘At any time now. He has been serving as a soldier in the Low Countries out of sheer bravado.’ William gave an affectionate smile. ‘You will love Michael. He is the merriest fellow alive and will make you laugh until you beg him to stop lest your sides split.’

‘I look forward to meeting him.’

‘Michael is the very soul of mirth.’

They were interrupted by a tap on the door. Simon Pendleton oozed into the room with the scroll in his hand and inclined his head in the suspicion of a bow.

‘A messenger delivered this for you, mistress.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘He was a ragged creature,’ said the steward, handing over the scroll. ‘I liked not the look of him and hope that his missive will not cause offence.’

‘I do adore surprises,’ she said with a giggle and began to untie the ribbon. ‘What can it be?’

Pendleton lurked. ‘Nothing untoward, I trust.’

‘That will be all, Simon,’ said William dismissively.

The steward hid his annoyance behind a mask of civility and withdrew soundlessly. Matilda unrolled the playbill and stared at it with sudden ecstasy.

‘Dear God, this is wonderful!’ she cried.

‘May I see?’

‘Look, sir. Westfield’s Men play again tomorrow.’

‘Double Deceit,’ he noted. ‘I have seen the piece before. It is an excellent comedy and well acted.’

‘Let us go to this playhouse to see it, William.’

‘But I already have another treat in store for you tomorrow. I purposed to take you to The Curtain to watch Banbury’s Men go through their paces.’

‘I would see Master Firethorn again.’

‘He is a brilliant actor, I grant you,’ said William, ‘but some people believe that Giles Randolph is even better. He has led Banbury’s Men to the heights and plays the title role in the Tragical History of King John. Take my advice and give Master Randolph his chance.’

‘That I will do at some future time,’ she promised. ‘For tomorrow, I pray, conduct me to The Theatre. It is my earnest wish.’ She held up the playbill. ‘It would be churlish to refuse such an invitation.’

William quickly agreed then began to tell her something of the plot of Double Deceit but his stepmother was not listening. Matilda’s mind was racing. She was young and inexperienced in such matters but she sensed that the playbill had been sent for a purpose. Someone was anxious for her to attend a playhouse in Shoreditch on the following day and that set up all sorts of intriguing possibilities. Matilda Stanford was firmly married and she would be going in the company of her stepson but that did not stop her feeling a surge of joyful expectation such as she had never known before.

A grubby playbill had touched her heart.

Hans Kippel had been told to stay at his lodgings and rest but the force of habit was too strong for the lad. It got him out of his bed and along to his workplace early in the morning. Surprised to see him, Preben van Loew had shown a fatherly care for the apprentice and given him only the simplest tasks but even these were beyond his competence. The boy was clearly suffering the after-effects of his ordeal and could not focus his mind on anything for more than a few minutes. The Dutchman tried to probe him for more details of what had occurred on the previous day but none were forthcoming. A blow to the head had locked all memory of the incident inside the young skull of Hans Kippel.

It was early afternoon when Nicholas Bracewell came back to the house in Bankside. He had spent the morning at The Theatre, finalising the arrangements for the performance of Double Deceit and supervising the transfer of costumes and properties from the Queen’s Head. With a little spare time at his disposal, he had hurried home to see if he could coax any further information out of the wounded apprentice. Hans Kippel was pleased to see him and shook his hand warmly but the boy’s face then became vacant again. Nicholas sat beside him and spoke low.

‘We are all very proud of you, Hans.’

‘Why so, sir?’

‘Because you are a very brave young man.’

‘I do not feel brave, Master Bracewell.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore afraid. I am lost and know not where to turn.’

‘You are among friends here, Hans. Safe and sound.’

‘Will you protect me, sir?’

‘From what?’

The blank face clouded. ‘I cannot tell. My mind has cut me adrift. But I know I have enemies.’

‘What enemies? Who are they?’

But Hans Kippel had yielded up all that he could. Not even the patient questioning of Nicholas Bracewell could draw anything further out of him. The book holder consulted with Preben van Loew who gave it as his opinion that the boy would be far better off in the comfort of his bed. He was patently not fit for work and needed all the rest that he could get. Nicholas agreed only partly with this, arguing that the apprentice would never make a full recovery until his mind had been cleared of the horror that had possessed it. Since that might not happen of its own volition, he suggested an idea that might help. He volunteered to accompany Hans Kippel as they retraced the steps the boy had taken on the previous day, hoping that somewhere along the way his memory would be restored by the sight of something familiar.

Preben van Loew gave his blessing to the enterprise and waved the two of them off at the door. Hans Kippel was a sad figure with his bandaged head and his limp. It had already occurred to Nicholas that it might have been his nationality which told against the youth. His sober attire, open face and general mien marked him out as a Dutch immigrant and thus the natural target for the resentment of many people. In the company of someone as tall and muscular as Nicholas Bracewell, the boy was not likely to be mocked so openly but he might just recognise the point in the journey at which his humiliation took place. They walked slowly on together.

‘Look all about you, Hans,’ said Nicholas.

‘I will do so, sir.’

‘Tell me if you see aught that you remember.’

‘My mind is still empty.’

‘We will try to put something in it.’

The journey came to an abrupt end. One minute, Hans Kippel was dragging himself along in a daze, the next, he was staring ahead in terror and refusing to move another step. They had come out of the Bankside labyrinth by St Saviour’s Church and were heading towards the Bridge. It was one of the finest sights in London, a truly imposing structure that spanned the murky Thames with a series of arches and which housed a miniature city on its broad back. Visitors came from all over Europe to marvel at London Bridge but here was one foreigner who had no sense of wonder. Hans Kippel turned white with fear and let out a scream of intense pain. His trembling finger pointed at the Bridge. Before Nicholas could stop him, he turned around and limped away as fast as his injured legs would carry him.