The Nine Giants

Chapter Four

Nicholas Bracewell was still at The Theatre well after the audience and the cast had departed. With the help of Thomas Skillen and his assistant stagekeepers, he gathered up everything belonging to Westfield’s Men and loaded it into a cart. When he had paid the manager for the rental of the playhouse and confirmed details of their next visit to the venue, he drove the cart back towards the city and in through Bishopsgate with his motley crew sitting on the vehicle behind him. As the old horse pulled them on a jolting ride over the cobbles, Nicholas looked up with misgiving at Stanford Place. It was an imposing edifice but perils loitered within for the whole company. George Dart felt it as well. Shrinking away from the house as it appeared on his left, he heard the distant bark of dogs and shivered violently.

They were all glad to reach the Queen’s Head where their effects would be stored until required on the following Monday. Willing hands unloaded and locked everything away then extended themselves towards the book holder with open palms. It was the end of the week and their wages were paid. Most of them went straight off to spend some of their money on ale and to toast the end of another long and tiring stint of work. The solitary exception was George Dart who scampered off home to his lodgings in Cheapside to appease his landlady with his rent and to catch up on some of the sleep that he invariably lost in the service of Westfield’s Men.

Nicholas went into the taproom to be pounced on by the egregious publican. Alexander Marwood saw the chance to wallow in further misery.

‘One of my serving wenches is with child,’ he said. ‘I blame Westfield’s Men.’

‘All of them?’ queried Nicholas.

‘Actors are born lechers.’

‘Has the lady named the father?’

‘She does not need to, Master Bracewell. The finger points at a member of your company.’

‘Then the finger is too hasty in its accusation,’ said the book holder. ‘Lechery is not confined to our profession. Other men are prey to such urges and you have hundreds of red-blooded customers here during any week. Besides, why must you judge the girl so harshly? Perhaps it was love and not lust that was at work here. Haply, she and her swain plan to wed.’

‘There is no talk of that,’ said Marwood bitterly. ‘She has lost her virtue and I have lost a serving wench. Acting and venery go hand in hand. I will not be loath to see Westfield’s Men quit my premises.’

‘You are unjust, sir. Do not thrust us out before we have been able to argue our case.’

‘What case?’

‘Consider how well our arrangement has worked in the past. We have all been beneficiaries.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘Come now,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘If our contract did not yield advantage, why did you suffer it these three or four years past? When it suited your purpose, you were quick enough to sign the articles of agreement. All that needs to be done now is to make those provisions a little more appealing to you.’

‘The offer comes too late, Master Bracewell.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have another suitor at my door.’

Alexander Marwood gave a sickly grin and pointed towards the corpulent figure at the far end of the bar counter. Rowland Ashway was dispensing some flabby charm on Marwood’s wife, impressing her with his aldermanic importance and wooing her with smiling promises about the rosy future that lay ahead if she and her husband agreed to let him take over their inn. A stone-faced harridan was being turned into a compliant woman. The landlord marvelled at the transformation, then hurried across in the hopes of gaining some personal advantage from it. Marwood was soon beaming alternately at his wife and at Rowland Ashway, hanging on the words of both with an almost childlike eagerness.

Nicholas Bracewell was shaken by what he saw. There was an easy arrogance about the brewer which showed how confident he was of landing his prize. Evidently, he was offering them blandishments with which Westfield’s Men could not hope to compete. It was going to be extremely difficult to fight off the aldermanic challenge but it had to be done somehow. What troubled Nicholas most was that he was likely to be encumbered rather than helped by his fellows. If he broke the news to Lawrence Firethorn and the other sharers, they would react with such violence that any future dealings with Marwood would be greatly imperilled. For the time being, the book holder was on his own. Yet that situation could not last. Sooner or later, he had to take someone into his confidence. It would have to be done in such a way that hysteria did not spread like wildfire through Westfield’s Men.

As he glanced around the taproom, Nicholas could see eight or nine members of the company, relaxing after the exigencies of performance and laughing freely, blissfully unaware of the threat that hung over their livelihood. He did not have the heart to smash their fragile dreams with his grim intelligence. Hiding it deep within him, he went across to a table to join two special friends.

Owen Elias was in the middle of a long monologue but his companion was not listening to a word of it. With his round, clean-shaven moon face aglow, Edmund Hoode stared ahead of him at some invisible object of wonder. When the book holder sat opposite them, the fiery Welshman switched his attack to the newcomer.

‘I was telling Edmund here even now,’ he said with eyes ablaze. ‘I would be Ramon to the life.’

‘Ramon?’

‘Yes, Nick. The Governor of Cyprus.’

‘Ah. You talk of Black Antonio.’

‘We play it on Monday next. I should be Ramon.’

‘The part is already cast.’

‘I have the better claim to it.’

‘That may well be so,’ agreed Nicholas reasonably, ‘but it is a major role and must of necessity be played by one of the sharers.’

‘Even though I have superior talent?’

‘Theatre is not always just, Owen.’

‘Support me in this. Take up cudgels on my behalf.’

‘I have urged your case a dozen times to Master Firethorn. He is a keen judge of acting and recognises your mettle. But there are other needs to satisfy first.’

‘His lice-ridden sharers!’

‘It will not help if you abuse your fellows.’

‘I am sorry, Nick,’ said Elias, lapsing into maudlin vein. ‘But it makes my blood boil to see the way that I am held back. In temper and skill, I am the equal of any in the company save Lawrence Firethorn himself yet I languish in the shallows. Take but Double Deceit, man. I was partnered with that dolt of a stagekeeper.’

‘George Dart does not pretend to be an actor.’

‘Others do and get away with murder!’

‘Some fall short of greatness, I admit.’

‘Help me, Nick,’ said the other seriously. ‘You are my only hope in this company. Find me the chance to show my genius and they will beg me to become a sharer.’

Nicholas doubted it. Owen Elias had many sterling qualities but his relentless self-assertion was a severe handicap. He upset many of his colleagues with his grumbling discontent and would never be accepted by the other sharers, especially as he would show some of them up completely if he were given a sizeable role. Unknown to the Welshman, Nicholas had already saved him from summary dismissal on more than one occasion by pleading on his behalf. The book holder had found an unlikely ally. He had been supported by Barnaby Gill who was highly aware of the potential talent of Owen Elias and who relished the fact that it was akin to that of Lawrence Firethorn. The hired man was no threat at all to Gill but he might steal some of the actor-manager’s thunder if he were given the opportunity.

‘I grow weary of this damnable life!’ said Elias.

‘Your hour will come, Owen.’

‘Too late, too late. I may not be here to enjoy it.’

He emptied his tankard, hauled himself out of his chair and rolled off towards the exit. His story was typical of so many hired men who toiled in the smaller parts while less able actors scooped the cream. It was one of the many bitter facts of life that had to be accepted by those in the lower ranks of the profession.

Nicholas now turned his attention to Edmund Hoode.

‘I am pleased to see you in good spirits.’

‘What’s that?’ Hoode came out of his daydream.

‘You have shed your melancholy.’

‘No, Nick. It was snatched away from me.’

‘By whom?’

‘The fairest creature that I ever beheld.’

‘That phrase has been on your lips before,’ teased the book holder gently.

‘This time it finds its mark directly. She has no equal of her sex. I have witnessed perfection.’

‘Where did this happen, Edmund?’

‘Where else but at The Theatre?’

‘During the performance?’

‘She condescended to smile down on me.’

‘As did the whole assembly. You played your part with great verve and humour.’

‘It was dedicated to her,’ said Hoode impulsively. ‘I noticed her when I had my soliloquy in Act Three. She leant forward in the middle gallery to hear it all the better. Oh, Nick, I all but swooned! She is celestial!’

It was another phrase which he had sometimes used before and not always with discrimination. During an earlier period of frustration in his life, his romantic urge had focused itself wildly and inappropriately on Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, an attractive wench with the good fortune to resemble neither of her parents. Like so many of Hoode’s attachments, it was wholly unwise and brought him only further grief. Deeply fond of his colleague, Nicholas hoped that another disappointment was not in the offing for him.

Edmund Hoode was back in the playhouse again.

‘She sat beside an ill-favoured gallant in black and silver,’ he recalled. ‘Her own apparel was green, so many hues and each so beautifully blended with the others that she drew my eyes to it. As for her face, it makes all others seem foul and ugly. I will not rest until I have wooed her and won her. Nick, sweet friend, I am in love!’

The poet rhapsodised at length and the book holder’s discomfort grew steadily. In every detail, the description tallied with the one given to him by another member of the company and that could only set up the possibility of horrendous complications. Edmund Hoode was unquestionably talking about Matilda Stanford. He was intent on pursuing a young woman who had already been targeted by Lawrence Firethorn. The implications were frightening.

‘Help me to find out who she is, Nick!’

‘How may I do that?’

‘Wait until she visits us again.’

‘But the lady may never do that.’

‘She will,’ said Hoode confidently. ‘She will.’

The prospect made Nicholas grit his teeth.

The interior of Stanford Place was even more impressive than its façade. Its capacious rooms were elegantly furnished and given over to an ostentatious display of wealth. Large oak cupboards with intricate carvings all over them were loaded to capacity with gold plate that was kept gleaming. Rich tapestries covered walls and hand-worked carpets of exquisite design softened the clatter of the floors. Gilt-framed oil paintings added colour and dignity. Tables, chairs, benches and cushions abounded and there were no less than three backgammon tables. Huge oak chests bore further quantities of gold plate. Four-branched candelabra were everywhere. The sense of prosperity was overwhelming.

Matilda Stanford saw none of it as she ran through the house in her excitement. Her husband was still in his counting-house and she raced to knock on its door but a firm voice stopped her just in time.

‘The master would not be disturbed.’

‘But I have such news for him,’ she said.

‘He left precise instructions.’

‘Do they apply to his wife?’

‘I fear they do,’ said Simon Pendleton with smug deference. ‘The late Mistress Stanford knew better than to interrupt him during the working day.’

‘Am I to be denied access to my own husband?’

‘I do but offer advice.’

Matilda was quite abashed. The steward’s manner was so full of polite reproach that it smothered all her vivacity beneath it. When she gave a resigned shrug and began to move away, Pendleton felt that he had won a trial of strength and that was important to him. He was about to congratulate himself when the door opened and Walter Stanford came out. His face beamed indulgently.

‘Come to me, my darling,’ he said expansively.

‘I am not being a nuisance, sir?’

‘What an absurd thought!’ He glanced at the steward. ‘You do not have to protect me from my own wife, Simon.’

‘I did what I considered right and proper, sir.’

‘For once, your judgement was at fault.’

A hurt bow. ‘I apologise profusely.’

‘Even the best horse stumbles.’

Putting an arm around his wife, Stanford took her into the room and closed the door behind him. Pendleton’s minor triumph had been turned into defeat. It did nothing to endear him to a woman whose presence in the house he resented on a number of grounds. He stalked away to tend to his wounded dignity.

Walter Stanford, meanwhile, had conducted his wife to a chair and stood swaying over her with paternal fondness. She started to recover some of her animation.

‘Oh, sir, we have had such a merry afternoon.’

‘I am delighted to hear it.’

‘William took me to another playhouse.’

‘I cannot have my son leading you astray,’ he said with mock reproof. ‘Where will this levity end?’

‘It was the most excellent comedy, sir, and we have not stopped laughing since.’

‘Tell me about it, Matilda. I could do with some physic to chase away my seriousness. What play was it?’

‘Double Deceit, performed by Westfield’s Men at The Theatre. Such fun, such frolic, such fireworks!’

She tried to outline the plot but got so hopelessly lost that she exploded into giggles. Her husband was a kind listener who was much more amused at her obvious amusement than at anything in the drama itself. When she had finished, she jumped up to seize his hands in hers.

‘You have not forgotten your promise, sir?’

‘Which one? There have been so many.’

‘This comes first. I want a play.’

‘You have had two already this week.’

‘A play of my own,’ she said, dancing on her toes. ‘When you become Lord Mayor, we must have a drama written especially for our entertainment. It will set the seal on a truly memorable day. Say you will oblige me, sir.’

‘I will honour my promise.’

‘And since it is a happy occasion, I would have a sprightly comedy performed. It will crown the whole event for me. I will be in heaven.’

‘With me beside you, my love.’

He gave her a fatherly kiss on the forehead and assured her that he had the matter in hand. Her curiosity bubbled but he would say no more on the subject. Walter Stanford wanted to keep an element of mystery about his plans and this threw her into a paroxysm of pleasure. When her second bout of giggles was over, she remembered another person who would enjoy the projected play.

‘William has told me all about his cousin.’

‘Has he?’

‘I like the sound of this Michael.’

‘He has his good points, certainly.’

‘William says that he is so blithe and sunny.’

‘Indeed, he is,’ conceded Stanford, ‘and they are good qualities in a man. But only when they are matched by responsibility and conscientiousness.’

‘I hear a note of disapproval in your voice.’

‘It is not intended. Michael is very dear to me. He is my sister’s pride and joy but he has brought much heartache to his mother.’

‘In what way?’

‘This merriment of his,’ said Stanford. ‘It has blighted his young life — except that he is not so young any more. Michael put idle pleasures before honest work and has spent the best part of his inheritance already. Were his father alive, it would never have happened but my sister is a soft, forgiving mother who has no power over her wayward son. Things came to such a pass that she asked me to take Michael to task.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘All that was necessary — and in round terms, too, I do assure you. He laughed uproariously but I got my way with him in the end.’

‘William told me that he joined the army.’

‘That was his final fling,’ said her husband. ‘He felt that service in the Netherlands would satisfy his spirit of adventure and send him back a more sober man. That is why I have made a place for him.’

‘Here?’

‘He must learn the rudiments of a real profession.’

‘There is not much jollity in business affairs.’

‘Michael is resigned to that.’

‘Oh!’ Her enthusiasm was punctured. ‘I knew nothing of this. William spoke so well of his cousin. I was hoping for another cheerful companion to escort me to the playhouse.’ She looked up. ‘When is he due home?’

‘His ship should have docked by now.’

‘Has he left the army?’

‘So his letters proclaim.’

‘Do not take all the merriment out of him, sir.’

Stanford chuckled. ‘No man could do that. Michael is a law unto himself. We may check or control him but we can never subdue his spirit entirely. Nor should we wish to do so because it is the essence of the fellow.’ He slipped a fond arm around her shoulders. ‘Have no fears on his account. Michael will prance gaily through life until the day he dies.’

The corpse lay on its slab beneath a tattered shroud. It kept grisly company. Other naked bodies were stretched out all around it in varying stages of decomposition. The charnel house was a repository of human decay and not even the herbs that were scattered around could sweeten the prevailing stink. A flight of stone steps led down to the vault. As soon as Nicholas Bracewell entered the dank atmosphere, he felt the hand of death brush across his face. It was not a place he would have chosen to visit but he had been drawn there by curiosity. A few coins put into the hands of the keeper gained him entrance.

‘Who did you come to see, sir?’ asked the man.

‘The poor wretch brought in two nights ago.’

‘We had four or five delivered to their slabs.’

‘This creature was hauled out of the river,’ said Nicholas, coughing as the stench really hit him. ‘His face was battered, his leg smashed most cruelly and there was a dagger in his throat.’

‘I remember him well. Follow me.’

He was a thin, hollow-eyed wraith of a man whose grim occupation had given him a deathly pallor and an easy indifference to the cadavers with whom he spent his day. Moving between his prostrate charges like the curator of a museum, he led Nicholas to the slab in the corner and held up his torch to shed flickering light. With a deft flick of the wrist, he pulled the shroud off the corpse. The book holder blenched. Though the body had been washed and laid out, he recognised it immediately as the one that he had dragged out of the Thames. The facial injuries had been hidden beneath bandaging and the dagger had been extracted from the throat but the right leg was still a tortured mass of flesh and bone. For the first time, he noticed something else. There was a long, livid scar on the man’s chest, a fairly recent wound that was just starting to heal. Nicholas examined the hands.

‘What are you doing?’ said the keeper suspiciously.

‘Looking at his palms, sir. They are quite smooth and the fingernails are well pared. These are the hands of a gentleman.’

‘Not any more. Death treats all as one.’

‘This body was strong and upright while it lived.’

‘The grave is wide enough for anyone.’

‘He would have been able to defend himself.’

‘Not any more, sir.’

Nicholas took a last, sad look at the corpse then indicated that it should be covered over again in the name of decency. He headed for the exit with the man shuffling along behind him.

‘Will you see anyone else?’ said the keeper.

‘I have gazed my fill.’

‘But we have more interesting sights here.’ He plucked at his visitor’s sleeve to stop him. ‘A young woman was brought in but yesternight. Some punk that was strangled in her bed. She is no more than sixteen with a body as soft and lovely as you could wish. One more coin and I would gladly show you.’ He nudged the other. ‘If you have money enough, I will let you touch her.’

Nicholas turned away in disgust and stormed out before he gave in to the impulse to hit the man. He vowed to report the incident when he appeared at the Coroner’s Court on the following Monday. No matter who they were or what they had been, the dead deserved the utmost respect. He came up into the fresh air and inhaled it gratefully. Light was fading and so he hurried in the direction of the river before it went completely. From the wharf where he had been picked up by Abel Strudwick, he looked out across the water and tried to estimate the point at which they had encountered the body. It was somewhere in mid-stream and he wondered how far it had drifted in order to reach them. He decided that the dead man had been put into the Thames under the cover of darkness but the swift current could still have brought him some distance.

The book holder was no stranger to the wharves and harbours along the Thames. The son of a West Country merchant, he had fallen in love with the sea at an early age and been on numerous voyages with his father. The bold venture of Francis Drake caught his imagination and he sailed around the world with him for three long years. That experience had brought endless disillusion but it had not entirely stilled the call of the sea. When he first came to London, he would often come down to the river to watch the ships putting in and to talk with the sailors about their voyages and their cargoes. This visit was a far less pleasant one.

His eye inevitably fell on the Bridge. It was an extraordinary sight that never palled and Nicholas felt a surge of admiration for those who conceived and built it. Twenty solid piers supported nineteen arches of varying widths. Islands were created around the piers to protect them from the tide race. These starlings, as they were called, were shaped like great flat boats and narrowed the water channels under the arches so much that the tide race was dramatically increased. Nicholas had not been surprised to learn that the Bridge had taken over thirty years to complete and had claimed the lives of some one hundred and fifty workmen. It had stood for some four centuries and more as a tribute to their craftsmanship. Because it was the only structure to span the broad Thames, it became the most important thoroughfare in London and properties along its length were much coveted. The Bridge was also the healthiest part of the city. When the Black Death was decimating the population in every other ward, it could only boast two recorded deaths among those who lived above the swirling waters of the river.

Respect soon changed to foreboding. It was that same Bridge which had put such deep fear into the heart of Hans Kippel that he could not even stand there and behold it. Two of the most appealing parts of London had taken on a different character for Nicholas. The Bridge held the clue to what had happened to a Dutch apprentice and the River Thames knew the secret of the maimed body that it had washed up into the hands of the book holder. He stood there in deep contemplation until evening had washed the last rays of light from the sky.

A boat took him across to Bankside and he walked briskly along the winding lanes on his way home. Another problem now concentrated his mind. Alexander Marwood had lit a raging bonfire of uncertainty. An impending change of ownership at the Queen’s Head was a serious threat to the well-being of Westfield’s Men. The landlord was a difficult enough man with whom to bargain but Alderman Rowland Ashway would not even talk terms. Nicholas had thought to confide in Edmund Hoode but his friend was too infected with lovesickness to hear any sense. Lawrence Firethorn would need to be told soon and the book holder resolved to call on him the next day. Trying times lay ahead and they could only be made worse by the fact that a fond poet and a lustful actor had chosen as the object of their passion the same unsuspecting young woman. If tragedy was to be averted, Nicholas would have to provide some highly skilful stage-management.

He walked along between rows of tenements then turned into the street where he lived. The house was still some thirty yards away when he sensed danger and it caused him to slow his pace. Someone was lurking beside the front door, seated on the ground and curled up in an attitude of sleep that he did not trust for a second. Those who walked through the darkness of Southwark were used to the skulking presence of thieves and they used all kinds of tricks to lull the unwary off guard. As Nicholas closed in on the house, one hand fondled the dagger at his waist. The figure on the ground was rough and sturdy with a hat pulled down over his face. There was a sense of crude power about him. Ready for any attack, Nicholas extended a foot to push the man over.

‘God’s blood! I’ll cut your rotten liver out!’

A gushing waterfall of vile abuse came from the man’s mouth until he recognised who had roused him from his slumbers. He leapt up at once to issue a stream of apologies and to ingratiate himself with bows and shrugs. Abel Strudwick had waited a long time for his hope of a new future. A broad grin split his hideous face in two and gave it an even more alarming quality.

‘You may change my whole life, Master Bracewell.’

‘May I?’

‘Put me upon the stage, sir!’

Sir Lucas Pugsley never tired of admiring himself in his full regalia as Lord Mayor of London. He paraded up and down in front of the long mirror and watched his black and gold gown trail along the floor. Power had turned an ambitious man into a dangerous one who sought means both to retain and enlarge that power. As Alderman Luke Pugsley of the Fishmongers’ Company, he was rich, secure and very influential. When he was elevated to the highest civic office, he became like a demi-god and was consumed with his own self-esteem. Over thirty officers belonged to the Lord Mayor’s House. They included the Sword-bearer, the Common Crier, the City Marshall and the Coroner for London as well as the Common Hunt, the Water Bailiff and other assorted bailiffs, sergeants and yeomen. There were always three meal-weighers at his beck and call.

The man on whom he relied most was the Chamberlain.

‘Will you put on your chain of office, Lord Mayor?’

‘Bring it to me, sir.’

‘It becomes you so well.’

‘I carry it with dignity and good breeding.’

Aubrey Kenyon was tall, well built and quite stately with greying temples lending an air of distinction to the clear, clean-shaven face. The Chamberlain was responsible for the financial affairs of the city but Kenyon’s role had enlarged well beyond that. Like his predecessors, the present Lord Mayor found him a source of comprehensive information about civic life and duty, and befriended him early on. Aubrey Kenyon had no airs and graces. Despite the importance of his position, he was happy to perform more menial tasks for the man whom he served. He stood back to appraise the chain.

‘It looks exceeding fine,’ he said.

‘Its weight reminds me of my civic burdens.’

‘You have borne them with lightness.’

‘Thank you, Aubrey.’ He stroked the gold collar. ‘This chain was bequeathed to the mayoralty in 1545 by John Allen who held the office twice. I venture to suggest that nobody has worn it with such pride and with such distinction. Am I not the most conscientious Lord Mayor you have ever encountered? Be honest with me, Aubrey, for I trust your opinion above all others. Have I not been a credit to my office?’

‘Indeed, indeed.’

Kenyon bowed his agreement then adjusted the chain slightly to make it completely straight. It consisted of twenty-six gold knots, interspersed with roses and the Tudor portcullis and it set off the gold thread which weighted the gown of stiff silk. Beneath his gown, Pugsley wore the traditional court dress of knee breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes. Aubrey Kenyon held out the mayoral hat with its flurry of ostrich feathers. When it was placed carefully in position, the Lord Mayor of London was ready to attend yet another civic banquet.

‘Is everything in order, Aubrey?’

‘We await but your august self, Lord Mayor.’

‘My wife?’

‘She has been standing by this half-hour.’

‘That is a welcome change,’ said Pugsley with a quiet snigger. ‘When we live at home together, it is always I who am kept waiting if we are dining out. I like this new order of precedence. A Lord Mayor of London can even put a woman in her place.’

‘Unless she be the Queen of England.’

‘Even then, sir. I have spoken honestly with Her Majesty before now and she has respected me for it. My generosity is also well known to her.’

‘As to the whole city.’ The Chamberlain pointed towards the door of the apartment. ‘Will you descend? The coach has been at the door this long time.’

‘There is no hurry,’ said Pugsley grandly. ‘Though the Guildhall be full, none will dare to start before me. I claim the privilege of my office in arriving late.’

The Chamberlain smiled quietly and crossed to open the door. Two servants bowed low at the approach of the Lord Mayor. Sir Lucas Pugsley sailed past them and went down the wide staircase to be met by a further display of obeisance in the hall. With his wife on his arm, he left the house and was assisted into the ceremonial coach. The journey to the Guildhall was marred by only one thought. His year of triumph would be over all too soon. Power invaded his brain and gave his resolve a manic intensity.

He had to cling on to office somehow.

Aubrey Kenyon, meanwhile, was pulling a cloak around his shoulders before slipping discreetly out of the house. He walked quickly through the dark lanes until he came to an imposing property in Silver Street near Cripplegate. He was no deferential Chamberlain now but a determined man with an air of self-importance about him. When he knocked at a side-door of the house, he was admitted instantly by a servant and conducted to the main room. His host was waiting anxiously.

‘You are a welcome sight, Aubrey!’

‘Good even, good sir.’

‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Time is beginning to run out for us.’

Rowland Ashway dismissed his servant then poured two cups of fine wine. Handing one to his guest, he conducted him to a seat at the long oak table. The portly brewer and the poised Chamberlain were an incongruous pair but they had common interests which tied them indissolubly together.

‘How is our mutual friend?’ said Ashway.

‘Sir Lucas is besotted with his authority. He will not easily yield it up.’

‘Nor will we, Aubrey. You are the real power behind the Lord Mayor of London and the beauty of it is that Luke is far too addle-brained to notice it.’

‘The truth will not escape Walter Stanford.’

‘That is why he must never take office. Never, sir!’

The Chamberlain calmly pronounced a death sentence.

‘They must find that boy.’

The passage of time had not so far improved the sleeping habits of Hans Kippel. His body had profited from rest but his mind remained a prey to phantoms. The young apprentice was at the mercy of an unknown enemy who would not show his face.

‘I will be poor company, Master Bracewell.’

‘That is for me to decide.’

‘I would not keep you awake.’

‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘After the day I have endured, I will sleep like a baby.’

‘Go upstairs, Hans,’ advised Anne Hendrik. ‘We have put a truckle bed ready for you.’

‘Thank you, mistress. Good night.’

They exchanged farewells and he went off upstairs. Disturbed nights were taking such a toll on the boy that Nicholas volunteered to share a room with him, hoping that his presence might bring a degree of reassurance. At the same time, he wanted to be on hand in case there was any trickle of information from the memory that had so far been completely dammed up. Anne Hendrik was immensely grateful to her lodger.

‘It is kindness indeed, Nick.’

‘I hate to see that look of terror upon him.’

‘As do I.’

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘Hans may still get the worst end of it. If he does fall asleep, my snoring might yet pull him out of his slumbers.’

‘You do not snore,’ she said fondly.

‘How do you know?’

They shared a gentle laugh then he reviewed his day for her. She was fascinated by it all but understandably alarmed at the news about the Queen’s Head. If the future of Westfield’s Men was in jeopardy, then so was her close relationship with her lodger. He read her concern.

‘You will not shake me off so easily, Anne.’

‘I hope not, sir.’

‘Accompany me through these difficulties.’

‘I’ll pray in church tomorrow.’

‘Add something else while down upon your knees.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Abel Strudwick runs mad.’

When he told about how he had been waylaid by the stagestruck waterman, she was torn between laughter and sympathy. Nicholas was placed in a difficult position. He had somehow to deflect his poetic friend without hurting the man’s feelings. It was an impossible assignment. As the last of the day dwindled, they parted with a kiss and went off to their separate chambers. When he crept quietly into bed, Nicholas was relieved to hear the steady breathing of Hans Kippel beside him in the dark. The boy was asleep at last. It seemed as if the experiment of bringing him there had worked.

The book holder allowed himself to drift and he was soon lost in a world of floating dreams. How long he stayed there he did not know but when he left there, it was with sudden violence.

‘Stop it! No, sirs! Stop it! Stop it!’

Hans Kippel was threshing about in his bed. He sat bolt upright and let out a screech that raised the whole house. He held hands up to defend himself against attack.

‘Hold off, sirs! Leave me alone!’

‘What is the matter?’ said Nicholas, rushing across to him. ‘What ails you, lad?’

He put a consoling arm around the apprentice but it provoked the opposite response. Fearing that he was being grabbed by an assailant, Hans Kippel kicked and fought with all his puny might. Anne Hendrik came rushing into the chamber with a candle to hold over the boy. He was neither awake nor asleep but in some kind of trance. His whole body trembled and perspiration came from every pore. His breathing was faster, deeper and much noisier. Demons of the night turned him into a gibbering wreck. It was a disturbing sight and it destroyed all vain hopes that sleep would restore the pitiable creature.

His delirium was worse than ever.

Night was far kinder to Matilda Stanford. She lay beside her husband in the spacious four-poster that graced their bedchamber and watched moonlight throw ghostly patterns onto the low ceiling. Sleep came imperceptibly and she was led into a land that was full of delight. Sweet songs and lovely images came and went with pulsing beauty and Matilda surrendered to the lackadaisical joy of it all. Greater pleasure yet lay in store for her. A splendid new playhouse appeared before her eyes and she was wafted towards it. When she took up her seat in the topmost gallery, she was part of a large and bubbling audience.

But the play was performed solely for her. Other spectators merely watched from afar. She was engaged from the start. Every gesture was aimed at her, every glance directed her way, every speech laid at her feet in simple homage. Characters came and went with bewildering speed. She saw emperors, kings, soldiers, statesmen, brave knights, bold adventurers and many more besides. Each acted out a story that moved her heart or provoked her laughter, that contained a message for her, that drew her ever closer to the magic of the experience.

And all the parts were played by the same man. He was of solid build and medium height with a fine head and a dark pointed beard. Dazzling apparel changed with each minute as the characters flashed by but his essential quality remained intact throughout. He was Count Orlando about to die, he was Argos of Rome in pensive mood, he was Argos of Florence in hilarious vein, he was here and there to please Matilda in a hundred ways.

Lawrence Firethorn was hers to command.

The next moment she was on the stage beside him, a person in the drama, an anguished young lover greeting the return of her hero from the trials he has undergone on her behalf. She flung herself into his strong arms and lost herself in the power of his embrace. Firethorn’s lips touched hers in a kiss of passion that was quite unlike anything she had ever conceived.

It brought her awake in an instant. Matilda Stanford sat up and looked around. It was early morning but her husband had already risen to begin some work before paying his first visit of the day to church. Matilda was stranded alone on the huge, empty beach of their bed. This was the story of their young marriage but it had never caused her any regret before. One dream had altered that. There was a life elsewhere that made her own seem dull and futile. In her own bed, in her own marriage, in one of the finest private houses in London, she was overcome with such a feeling of sadness and loneliness that it made her shudder all over.

Matilda Stanford wept tears of disenchantment. Night had tempered its kindness with a subtle cruelty. She had lost her way. For the first time since she had married Walter Stanford, she realised that she was unhappy.