The Nine Giants

Chapter Five

Margery Firethorn came into her own on a Sunday and ruled the roost with a brisk religiosity. It was not only her husband, children and servants who were shouted out of bed to attend Matins. The apprentices and the three actors staying at the house in Shoreditch were also dragged protesting from their rooms to give thanks to God. Wearing her best dress and a look of prim respectability that she reserved for the Sabbath alone, she lined up the entire party before they left and admonished them with six lines that she had been forced to learn in her youth.

When that thou come to Church, thy prayers for to say, See thou sleep not, nor yet talk not, devoutly look to pray, Nor cast thine eyes to and fro, as things thou wouldst still see So shall wise men judge you a fool, and wanton for to be. When thou are in the Temple, see thou do thy Churchly works, Hear thou God’s word with diligence, crave pardon for thy faults.

Her instructions met with only moderate obedience when they reached the Parish Church of St Leonard nearby. Prayers were said, attention wandered, tired souls dozed off. During an interminable sermon based on a text from The Acts of the Apostles (‘And the disciples were filled with joy, and with the Holy Ghost’) Margery was the only occupant of her pew to hear God’s word with anything resembling diligence. The actors slept, the apprentices yawned, the servants suffered, the children bickered in silence and Lawrence Firethorn saw only a naked young woman in the pulpit, shorn of her finery and liberated from her escort, beckoning to him to join her atop a Mount Sinai that was set aside for carnal pleasure. That she was also the wife of the Lord Mayor Elect only served to heighten the joyous feeling of sinfulness.

On the journey home, his wife held confession.

‘What were you thinking about in church, sir?’

‘Sacred matters.’

‘I felt that your mind was wandering.’

‘It was on higher things, Margery.’

‘The Sabbath is a day of rest.’

‘Then must you refrain from scolding your husband.’

‘Church is an act of faith.’

He sighed. ‘How else could we endure that sermon?’

The party brightened as soon as they entered the house. Breakfast was devoured with chomping gratitude and some of them came properly awake for the first time that day. Firethorn adjourned to the small drawing room to receive the visitor that he had invited. Edmund Hoode had put on his best doublet and hose and sported a new hat that cascaded down the side of his head. Amorous thoughts of his lady love painted a beatific smile on his willing features. Firethorn rubbed the smile off at once.

‘Stop grinning at me like a raving madman!’

‘I am happy, Lawrence.’

‘That is what is so unnatural. You were born to be miserable, Edmund. Nature shaped you especially for that purpose. Embrace your destiny and return to the doe-eyed sadness for which your friends adore you.’

‘Do not mock me so.’

‘Then do not set yourself up for mockery.’ He waved his guest to a chair and sat beside him. ‘Let us touch on the business of the day.’

Hoode was wounded. ‘I thought you brought me here for the pleasure of my company.’

‘And so I did, sir. Now that I have had it, we can turn to more important things.’ He glanced around to make sure the door was firmly closed. ‘Edmund, dear fellow, I have work for your pen.’

‘I have already written two new plays this year.’

‘Each one a gem of creation,’ flattered the other. ‘But no new commission threatens. I wish you merely to compose some verse for me.’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Would you refuse, sir?’

‘Yes, Lawrence!’

‘This is not my Edmund Hoode that speaks.’

‘It is, Lawrence.’

‘I am asking you for help. Do not deny me or I will never call you friend again. I am in earnest here.’

‘So am I.’

‘Write me a sonnet to woo my love.’

‘Call in Margery instead and sing her a ballad.’

‘Are you a lunatic!’ hissed Firethorn. ‘What has got into you, sir? I ask but a favour you have done on more than one occasion. Why betray me in this way?’

‘Because my verse is reserved for another.’

The actor-manager was livid. Rising to his feet, he released a few expletives then let himself get as angry as he dared without arousing the attention of his wife in the adjoining room. Edmund Hoode was unperturbed. A man whom Firethorn could usually manipulate at will was showing iron resolution for once and would not be moved. There was only one way to bring him to heel.

‘Legal process is on my side, Edmund.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your contract with the company.’

‘There is nothing in that to make me act as your pandar and fetch in your game with pretty rhymes.’

‘Will you push me to violence here!’

‘Remember the Sabbath and lead a better life.’

Lawrence Firethorn’s rage was about to burst into full flame when he controlled it. What came crackling from his mouth instead were the terms of Edmund Hoode’s contract with Westfield’s Men, exact in every detail.

‘One, that you shall write for no other company.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Two, that you shall provide three plays a year.’

‘I have honoured that clause.’

‘Three, that you shall receive five pounds for each new drama performed by Westfield’s Men. Four, that you shall publish none of the said plays. Five, that you will receive a weekly wage of nine shillings together with a share of any profit made by the company.’

‘All this I accept,’ said Hoode. ‘Where is my obligation to wear the livery of your wandering eye?’

‘I am coming to that.’ Firethorn turned the screw with a slow smile. ‘Six, that you shall write prologues and epilogues as required. Seven, that you shall add new scenes to revived plays. Eight, that you shall add songs as required. Nine, that you shall write inductions to order. Finis!’ The smile became a smirk. ‘This is covenanted and agreed between us. Do you concede that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then must you bow to my purpose here.’

‘How can it be enforced?’

‘By those same terms I listed even now, Edmund.’

‘No lawyer would support you.’

‘I think he might.’ Firethorn swooped. ‘I require you to write prologues and epilogues. I instruct you to add new material to a revived text. I desire that songs be inserted. Inductions will I command. Shall you follow my meaning now, sir? What I demand for public plays I can use for my personal advantage — and I have a legal contract to hold you to your duty.’

‘This is treachery!’ spluttered Hoode.

‘I think I will start with a song.’

‘Can you descend to such foul devices?’

‘Only upon compulsion,’ said the genial Firethorn. ‘Now, sir, write me a ballad of love to be included in Cupid’s Folly. I will sing it before my inamorata.’

‘My quill would moult in disgust at such a task!’

‘Then cut yourself a new one and pen me a prologue to Love and Fortune. Let it touch on the themes of the play and speak tenderly to my lady.’

‘You will drain my inspiration dry!’ wailed Hoode.

‘Do your duty with a gladsome mind.’

‘I want to woo my own beloved.’

‘Watch me, Edmund,’ advised Firethorn with avuncular condescension. ‘And I will show you how it is done.’

Consternation broke out at Stanford Place to ruffle the smooth piety of a Sunday at home. Matilda was listening to her stepson read from the Bible when her husband came striding into the room. Walter Stanford’s affability was for once edged with concern. Without even apologising for the interruption, he held up the letter in his hand.

‘I have received disquieting news.’

‘From whom?’ said Matilda.

‘My sister in Windsor. She sends word that Michael has still not returned home. Yet his ship docked at the harbour here some three days ago.’

‘That is cause for alarm,’ she agreed.

‘Not if you know Michael,’ said her stepson. ‘Do not vex yourselves about him too soon. He has been fighting for his country in the Netherlands. After the hardship of a soldier’s lot, he will want to celebrate his return by seeking out the pleasure haunts of the city. That is where we will find him, have no fear.’

‘I like not that thought,’ said Stanford solemnly. ‘Michael promised to turn his back on his idle ways.’

‘Give him but a few days of licence, Father.’

‘When he shows no consideration to his mother?’

‘All will be mended very soon.’

‘Not until I have said my piece to him!’ Stanford moved between anger and apprehension. ‘He is so careless and crack-brained, some ill may have befallen him. If he has been carousing all this while, I’ll fill his ears with the hot pitch of my tongue. Yet what if he has strayed into danger? I scorn him — yet fear for his safety.’

‘Can he not be tracked down?’ said Matilda.

‘I have already set a search in train, my love.’

‘Look that they visit the taverns,’ added William.

His father bristled. ‘It will be the worse for him if they find him in such a place. Michael was due to report first to me before travelling to see his mother in Windsor. I am not just his uncle now. For my sins, I have elected to be his employer.’

‘Then there is the explanation,’ said his son with a fatuous grin. ‘Michael is in hiding from your strict rule.’

‘This is not an occasion for levity, sir!’

‘Nor yet for wild surmise, Father.’

‘My nephew has been missing for three days. Only accident or dissipation can explain his absence and both give grounds for concern.’ He waved the letter. ‘There is fresh intelligence here. Michael saw action as a soldier and received a wound.’

‘Merciful heavens!’ said Matilda. ‘Of what nature?’

‘He did not say but it bought him his discharge.’

‘This throws fresh light,’ said William anxiously.

‘Indeed, it does,’ reinforced his father. ‘If my nephew carries an injury, why did he not mention it in his letters to me? How serious is it? Will it disable him from working? Then there is the darkest fear of all.’

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked his wife.

‘A wounded man may not defend himself so well.’

Walter Stanford said no more but the implication was frightening. A person whose return had been awaited with such pleasure was unaccountably missing. The even tenor of their Sunday morning had been totally disrupted.

A troubled William spoke for all three of them.

‘In God’s good name, Michael — where are you?’

The burly figure crouched over the corpse and studied the great scar that ran the whole width of the pale chest. Having recovered from one dreadful wound, the man had been subjected to far grosser injuries in the course of his murder. Abel Strudwick had paid his money to view the body and he now stood over it with almost ghoulish interest. A low murmuring sound came from his lips and cut through the cold silence of the charnel house. The keeper inched closer with his torch and let the flames illumine his visitor’s face.

‘Did you say something, sir?’

‘Only to myself,’ grunted Strudwick.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Writing a poem.’

Rowland Ashway finished off a plate of eels and a two-pint tankard of ale by way of an appetiser for the huge meal that awaited him at home. He was seated in a private room at the Queen’s Head and gazing around its ornate furnishings with proprietary satisfaction. It was the finest room at the inn and was always set aside for Lord Westfield and his cronies whenever they came to see a play performed in the yard outside. The rotund Alderman smacked his lips with good humour. To have penetrated to the inner sanctum of a disdainful aristocrat was in the nature of a victory. It remained only to expel Lord Westfield completely and the triumph would be complete.

Alexander Marwood fluttered around the table like a moth around a flame, anxious to please a potential owner yet keen to drive as hard a bargain as he dared. His twitch was at its most ubiquitous as he moved in close.

‘I have been having second thoughts, master.’

‘About what?’ said Ashway.

‘The sale of the Queen’s Head.’

‘But it is all agreed in principle.’

‘That was before I listened to my wife.’

‘A fatal error, sir. Wives should be spoken at and not listened to. They will undo the best plans we may make with their womanly grumbles and their squawking reservations. Ignore the good lady.’

‘How, sir?’ groaned Marwood. ‘It is easier to ignore the sun that shines and the rain that falls. She will give me no sleep in bed at nights.’

‘There is but one cure for that!’ His crude laugh made the landlord recoil slightly. ‘Have your pleasure with her until she succumbs from fatigue.’

‘Oh, sir,’ said the other, sounding a wistful note. ‘You touch on sore flesh there.’ He became businesslike. ‘And besides, her major objection mirrors my own.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Tradition. My family has owned the Queen’s Head for generations now. I am loath to see that end.’

‘Nor shall it, Master Marwood. You and your sweet wife will run the establishment as before with full security of tenure. To all outward appearance, the inn will remain yours.’

‘But ownership will transfer to you.’

‘In return for a handsome price.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Marwood quickly. ‘That is very much at the forefront of our minds. You have been most kind and generous in that respect.’

‘So what detains you? Sentiment?’

‘It has its place, surely.’

‘What else?’

‘Fear of signing away my birthright.’

‘The contract keeps you here until you die.’ Rowland Ashway used podgy hands to pull himself up from the table to confront the landlord. ‘Do not see me as a threat here. We are equal partners in this enterprise and both of us can profit from the venture.’

‘My wife might need more persuasion.’

‘Do it in the watches of the night.’

‘That is when I am least in command.’

‘What will content the lady, then?’

Marwood shrugged and started to flutter once more. At one stroke, the brewer cut through the threatened delay to their negotiations.

‘I increase my bid by two hundred pounds.’

‘You overwhelm me, sir!’

‘It is my final offer, mark you.’

‘I understand that.’

‘Will it please Mistress Marwood?’

‘It may do more than that,’ said the other as a ray of hope found its way into his desperation. ‘I’ll raise the matter when we retire tonight.’

‘It is settled, then.’

Alderman Rowland Ashway sealed the bargain with a flabby handshake then allowed himself to be conducted down to the yard. Even with the additional payment, he would be getting the inn at a very attractive price and he had already made plans for its improvement. Before new features could be added, however, one old one had to be removed without compunction.

‘What of Westfield’s Men?’ said Ashway. ‘Have you acquainted them with their fate?’

‘I have mentioned it to their book holder.’

‘That will rattle their noble patron.’

‘It is Master Firethorn who will roar the loudest.’

‘Let him. Rowland Ashway is a match for any man.’

‘Rowland Ashway! That barrel of rancid lard! Ashway!’

‘This is what I have been told.’

‘That fat turd of aldermanic pomposity!’

‘The same man, sir.’

‘That leech, that vile toad, that bloated threat to every chair he sits upon! I could spit at the wretch as soon as look at him. He should be weighted down with blocks of lead then drowned in a tub of his own beer! Rowland Ashway is a monster in half-human form. Does the creature possess a wife?’

‘I believe that he does, master.’

‘Then must we pray for her soul. How can the woman endure to be mounted by that elephant, to be pounded to a pulp by that bed-breaker, to be flattened into a wafer by that scvurvy, lousy, red-faced bladder of bilge!’

Lawrence Firethorn had not taken the news well. When Nicholas Bracewell called on him that afternoon, the actor had been pleased to see his colleague and took him into the drawing room in the interests of privacy. That privacy had been rescinded now as Firethorn’s voice explored octaves of fury that could be heard half a mile away. Nicholas made a vain attempt to pacify him.

‘No contract has as yet been signed, sir.’

‘Nor shall it be,’ vowed the other. ‘My God, I’ll grab that walking nightmare of a landlord and hang him up by his undeserving feet. The traitor, the lily-livered hound, the one-eyed, two-faced, three-toed back-stabber!’

‘I think it might be better if you steered well clear of Master Marwood,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘To lay rough hands upon him will not advance our cause.’

‘I demand revenge!’ howled Firethorn.

‘The crime has not yet been committed.’

‘But it is planned, is it not?’

‘We may yet be able to avert disaster.’

‘Only by a show of force, Nick. Let me at him.’

‘I counsel the use of diplomacy.’

‘Diplomacy! With a twitching publican and a bloated brewer? I’d sooner play the diplomat with a pair of sabre-toothed tigers. Let them hatch their plot and they’ll have us turned out of the Queen’s Head without a word of thanks. Is it not perfidious?’

‘That is why I felt you should be warned.’

‘Indeed, indeed.’

‘So that we may take the appropriate action.’

‘Aye, Nick. Tie those two villains together back to back and drop them in the Thames to curdle the water.’ He prowled around the room as he considered more gruesome deaths for the miscreants then he stopped in his tracks. ‘We’ll attack them from above.’

‘How so?’

‘Lord Westfield will be told.’

‘Only as a last resort,’ urged Nicholas. ‘It would be wrong to alarm his lordship with a problem that we may be able to solve ourselves. He would not thank us for dragging him into a wrangle of this nature.’

‘You may be right,’ admitted Firethorn. ‘We must keep that last card up our sleeve then. Meanwhile, I will vent my spleen upon that lizard of a landlord.’

‘Then might our case be ruined altogether.’

‘Heavens, Nick, this is an insult I will not bear! Our plays have helped to fill his coffers generously these last few years. Our art has put his foul establishment on the map of London. We have made the Queen’s Head. Instead of selling it to Alderman Rowland Ashway, he should be giving it to us in appreciation.’

‘Master Marwood is a businessman.’

Firethorn glowered. ‘So am I, sir.’

There was a long pause as the actor-manager fought to subdue his temper and take a more objective view of the crisis into which he was now plunged. Behind all the bombast about the primacy of Westfield’s Men there lurked a simple truth. The company’s survival depended on the income that it could generate and that would shrink alarmingly if they lost their regular home. Lawrence Firethorn stared blankly ahead as cruel practicalities were borne in upon him. His immediate impulse was to launch an attack but it could bring only short-term benefits. In the long run, they relied on one man.

‘What must we do, Nick?’ he muttered.

‘Move with great stealth.’

‘Has anyone else been told of this?’

‘No, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor should they, except for Edmund and Master Gill. If we spread panic now, it will show in our work and damage our reputation.’

‘You give sound advice as usual.’

‘Leave me to work on Master Marwood.’

‘I’d do so with the sharpest sword in Christendom!’

‘Then would we lose all. We must deal softly with the man or he will take fright and run. It is only by talking to him that we can keep abreast of any moves that are made by Alderman Ashway.’

Firethorn snorted. ‘The whole city is aware of any moves made by that spherical gentleman. Whenever he stirs abroad, the very earth does shake. If he stood by the river and broke wind, he could launch a whole armada.’ He gave a crumpled smile. ‘Help us, Nick.’

‘I will do everything in my power.’

‘That comforts me greatly.’ His eyes moistened. ‘I would not lose the Queen’s Head for a queen’s ransom. That stage has seen the full panoply of my genius. Those boards are sacrosanct. Tarquin has walked there. So have Pompey and Black Antonio. King Richard the Lionheart and Justice Wildboare have strutted their hour. A few days past, it was the turn of Count Orlando and I have burnt dozens of other fine parts into the imagination of my audience.’ He looked up. ‘I would not have it end like this, dear heart.’

‘There has to be a means of escape.’

Lawrence Firethorn’s voice faded into a whisper.

‘Find it, Nick. Save us from extinction …’

Anne Hendrik’s anxiety over her apprentice did not ease. The boy was no better on the following day than he had been during a torrid night. Nor could he provide any clue as to what had upset him so dramatically while he slept. Sunday was no day of rest for Hans Kippel. Watched over carefully by Anne and visited by Preben van Loew, he was unable to do more than hold desultory conversation with either. A depression had settled on his young mind. His face was one large puckered frown and his eyes were dull. All the spirit which had made him so boisterous had been knocked out of him by the experience he had undergone. It would clearly take some time yet before the details of that experience began to emerge.

In the hope that prayer might succeed where all else had failed, Anne took him with her to Evensong at the parish church of St Saviour. It was too close to the Bridge for the boy’s complete comfort but far enough away for his attention to be diverted from it by his employer. As the Gothic beauty and the sheer bulk of the building rose up before them, she told him an apocryphal story about its past.

‘It was once the Priory church of St Mary Overy,’ she explained. ‘Do you know how it got its name?’

‘No, mistress.’

‘From the legend of John Overy, who was the ferryman before ever a bridge was built across the river. Because his ferry was rented by the whole city — small as it must have been in those days — he became exceedingly rich. But there was a problem, Hans.’

‘What was it?’

‘John Overy was a notorious miser. He hoarded his money and looked for new ways to increase his wealth. Shall I tell you how mean this fellow really was?’

‘If you please.’

‘He believed that if he pretended to die, his family and servants would fast out of respect and thus save him the expense of a whole day’s food for the household.’

‘That is meanness indeed.’

‘Master Overy put his plan into action,’ said Anne. ‘But his servants were so overjoyed by his death that they began to feast and make merry. He was so furious that he jumped up out of his bed to scold them. One of the servants, thinking he was the Devil, picked up the butt end of an oar and knocked out his brains.’

‘It served him right, mistress.’

‘Many thought likewise, Hans. But his daughter was grief-stricken. She used her inheritance to found a convent and retreated into it. That convent became, in time, the Priory of St Mary Overy so his name lingers on.’

The apprentice had listened with interest and almost smiled at one point in the story. Anne had a fleeting sensation of making real contact with him at last, of breaking through the mental barrier which surrounded him. They went into the massive church and walked along the shiny-smooth flagstones of the nave beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Breathtaking architecture and artistry enveloped them and it was impossible not to be touched by the scrupulous magnificence of it all.

They filed into a pew. As Anne knelt in prayer, she felt Hans Kippel drop down beside her and start to gabble in Dutch. She could hear the note of alarm in his voice and sense his trembling. Words that she could recognise finally slipped out of the boy.

‘Please, God … do not let them kill me …’

The Coroner’s Court was held early on Monday morning and among those charged to appear were Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick. The book holder was the first to give his testimony, speaking under oath and explaining exactly how and when he had found the dead body in the Thames. His friend made more of the opportunity that was offered. The waterman was not content with a simple recital of the facts of the case. He had transformed it into a dramatic event. Standing before the Coroner and the whole court, he responded to the presence of an audience with alacrity.

They never found out. With stern command, the Coroner ordered him to stop and give his evidence in a more seemly manner. Strudwick was truculent and had to be cowed into obedience by the sternest warnings. When he gave a straightforward account of the incident, it tallied in every respect with that of Nicholas Bracewell. Both were dismissed and hurried out.

The waterman was anxious for some praise at least.

‘What did you think of my music?’

‘Quite unlike anything I have ever heard, Abel.’

‘Will you commend me to Master Firethorn?’

‘I shall mention your name.’

‘Instruct him in my purpose.’

‘I must away. Rehearsal soon begins.’

Nicholas was glad of the chance to break away and race off to Gracechurch Street. Abel Strudwick could be entertaining enough as a versifying waterman. As a prospective member of the theatrical profession, he was a menace. The book holder was going to have to row very carefully with him through choppy waters.

He made up for his late arrival at the Queen’s Head by hurling himself into his work. The stage was set up on its trestles, the props, furniture and scenic devices made ready, and the costumes were brought into the room that was used as the tiring-house. Black Antonio was another tragedy of revenge with some powerful scenes and some unlikely but effective comedy from the Court Fool. It had been part of their repertoire for some time now and posed no serious problems. The rehearsal was rather flat but without any mishap. Lawrence Firethorn gave them only a touch of the whip before dismissing them from the stage.

Nicholas knew the cause of the general lethargy. The company took its cue from its acknowledged stars and both were jaded. Fear of ejection from the Queen’s Head had seeped into the performances of Black Antonio himself and of the Court Fool. They were still in costume as they accosted the book holder.

‘Keep that ghoul away from me, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Or I will slit his ungrateful throat and string up his polecat of a body for all to see.’

‘Master Marwood keeps his own counsel, sir.’

‘I spurn the ruffian!’

He went out with a swirl of his cloak and left the book holder alone with Barnaby Gill. The latter was no friend of Nicholas but adversity had taken the edge off his animosity. Dressed as the Fool, he advised wisdom.

‘Reason closely with the man, sir.’

‘I will, Master Gill.’

‘Do nothing to provoke this starchy landlord.’

‘We may win him around yet.’

‘Remind him of the magic of my art. I have reached the heights upon this stage to please the vulgar throng. Master Marwood owes it to me to let me continue. Let him know the full quality of my work.’

‘It speaks for itself,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘We count on you for our salvation.’

Barnaby Gill gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, an uncharacteristic gesture that showed how upset he was by the shadow hanging over them. As Gill sloped off to the tiring-house, another voice sought the book holder’s ear.

‘We must talk alone, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode.

‘When I have finished here. Meet me in the taproom.’

‘It is the worst blow I have ever suffered.’

‘We are all still reeling from its force.’

‘How can I endure it?’

‘Try to put it out of your mind.’

‘It sits there like an ogre that will not shift.’

‘Master Marwood may be converted to common sense.’

‘What use is that?’ said Hoode peevishly. ‘I want Lawrence Firethorn converted to a eunuch. It is the only way to solve my plight. He compels me to write songs of love to his new doxy when I have a mistress of my own to woo. Come to my aid, Nick. I perish.’

It was hectic. In the short time between rehearsal and performance, Nicholas attended to all his duties, ate a meagre lunch, sympathised with Hoode’s predicament, fought off another sally from Owen Elias (‘Ramon was a disgrace to the theatre this morning. Let me take over’), managed an exchange of pleasantries with Alexander Marwood then went back to his post to watch the stage being swept and strewn with green rushes. When the audience swarmed in to take up their places in the yard or their seats in the galleries, everything was apparently under control.

The sense of order did not last. Black Antonio had never been given such a lacklustre performance. Lawrence Firethorn was strangely muted, Barnaby Gill was curiously dull and Edmund Hoode, who usually sparkled in the role of a duplicitous younger brother, was frankly appalling. The disease was infectious and the whole company was soon in its grip. They played without conviction and the mistakes began to multiply. But for the book holder’s consoling authority behind the scenes, Black Antonio might have become a fiasco. As it was, the audience felt so cheated by what it saw that it began to hoot and jeer with gathering displeasure. Only a minor recovery in the fifth act saved the actors from being booed ignominiously off the stage. Westfield’s Men had never taken their bows with such indifference.

Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling into the tiring-house to berate everyone in sight for their incompetence only to be told by Edmund Hoode that he himself was the chief offender. The row that developed between them was not only due to the insecurity they now felt at the Queen’s Head. There was a deeper reason and Nicholas had noted it from the beginning of the performance. Both men had gone out to act to one person in the packed audience.

Matilda Stanford was not there.

Not even the first hints of calamity could keep Walter Stanford away from home. Though he was still deeply concerned about the fate of his nephew, Michael, he did not interrupt his normal schedule to join in the search. That was now being led by his son who had so far come back empty-handed. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had indeed disembarked on the previous Thursday but he was only one of hundreds of soldiers who had poured off the ship and into the welcoming bosom of London. Nothing further had been gleaned, not even a description of the wound he had collected in the Netherlands. Medical records had not been kept by the army and Michael was, in any case, no longer a member of it. Discharged into civilian life once again, he had contrived to vanish into thin air.

Walter Stanford put it all to the back of his mind as he walked purposefully into the Royal Exchange on Cornhill. Modelled on the Antwerp Bourse, it was the largest building project undertaken in the city during the Tudor dynasty. Eighty houses had been demolished to clear the site. The Exchange was the work of Thomas Gresham, mercer and financial agent to the Crown, who put some of his vast wealth towards the cost. Enmity between England and Spain had led to trading difficulties with Flanders and created a dire need for a bourse in London. Thomas Gresham obliged and it was duly opened in 1570 by Queen Elizabeth. Its value to the merchant community was inestimable and nobody was more aware of this than Walter Stanford. As he looked around, he was struck yet again by the boldness of the concept.

The Exchange was a long, four-storeyed building that was constructed around a huge courtyard. Its belltower was surmounted by a giant grasshopper which was the emblem of the Gresham crest. Covered walks faced out onto the courtyard and statues of English kings stood in the niches above them. It was an inspiring sight at any time but especially so when it was filled with merchants who stood in groups according to their specialised trading interests. Over the years, the Exchange had also become the haunt of idlers who hung about the gates to mock, jostle, beg, sell their wares or offer their bodies but even this did not detract from the bustling dignity that still prevailed.

Walter Stanford mingled happily and struck many deals that Monday morning. Well known and much respected, his position as Lord Mayor Elect made him a popular target and he was courted on every side. Productive hours soon scudded by but it was not only profit that interested him. A gnarled face in the crowd reminded him of a promise to his young wife.

‘Good day to you, Gilbert.’

‘Well met, sir.’

‘Are you not too old for this madhouse?’

‘I will come to the Exchange until I drop, Walter.’

Gilbert Pike was by far the most ancient of the wardens of the Mercers’ Company. Thin, silver-haired and decrepit, he was bent almost double and hobbled along with the aid of a stick. But his mind was still as razor-sharp as it had always been and he could more than hold his own in any business deal. There was also another facet to the old man’s skills and Walter Stanford drew him aside to gain some advantage from it.

‘I need your kind help, Gilbert.’

‘Speak on and it is yours.’

‘My young wife must be pleased.’

Pike cackled merrily. ‘Do not call on me for that!’

‘Matilda is adamant. When I become Lord Mayor, she would have a play performed in my honour.’

‘Then she is a woman after my own heart,’ said the other with croaking enthusiasm. ‘The Mercers’ Company put on many pageants in times past. I wrote many of them myself and took the leading part.’

‘That is why I came to you, Gilbert. Nobody is so well versed in the drama. Would it be possible to stage another piece to brighten up my banquet?’

‘It would be an honour!’ said Pike eagerly. ‘What is more, I have the very play to hand. The Nine Worthies.’

‘Is that not an antiquated piece?’

‘Not in my version, sir.’

‘Who are these nine worthies?’

‘Three Paynims, three Jews and three Christian men.’

‘Explain.’

‘Hector of Troy, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar; then come Joshua, David and Judas Maccabeus; last are Arthur, Charlemagne and Godefroi de Bouillon.’

‘I see no comedy there,’ said Stanford. ‘Matilda orders laughter. Have you no more lively piece?’

‘The Nine Worthies is my finest invention.’

‘I’m sure it is, Gilbert, but it does not suit our purpose here. Unless …’ An idea took root in his mind and blossomed spontaneously. ‘Unless we change these nine fellows to fit our purpose and advance our Guild.’

‘How say you?’

‘Supposing those same gentlemen wore the livery of the Mercers’ Company? Do you follow my inspiration here? Instead of Hector and the rest, we choose nine persons who have brought our Guild most honour as Lord Mayors of London. I like it well. Richard Whittington must be our first worthy, of that there is no question.’

Gilbert Pike took a few minutes to understand and adapt to the notion but he welcomed it with a toothless grin and clapped his claw-like hands. Other names sprang from him for consideration.

‘Richard Gardener, Lionel Duckett and John Stockton. Ralph Dodmer should be there and even Geoffrey Boleyn that was a hatter first and then a mercer. John Allen must be there, who presented the mayoral collar. Then there is Richard Malorye and many more besides.’ The gums came into view again. ‘Nor must we forget the worthiest man of our own day.’

‘Who is that, Gilbert?’

‘Who else but you, sir?’ The old man was warming to the idea rapidly. ‘Walter Stanford. You shall be the ninth in the line. It will be a fitting climax.’

‘And a wonderful surprise for Matilda,’ agreed the other. ‘But can this play have humour in it, too? May not these nine honourable men make us laugh as well?’

‘They will provide drama and mirth, sir.’

‘This is truly excellent, Gilbert!’

‘And my title remains — The Nine Worthies.’

‘No,’ said Stanford. ‘It would serve to confuse. That title is too familiar. We must find a new one.’

‘But it describes the play so well,’ argued the old man. ‘Are these men not worthy? And are there not nine of them in number? Each one a giant of the company? What is the objection to my title?’

‘You have just given me a better one.’

‘Have I, sir?’

‘Yes, Gilbert. That is what the play will be called.’

‘What?’

‘The Nine Giants!’