The Nine Giants

Chapter Six

Even after the best part of a year in office, Sir Lucas Pugsley was still thrilled at the privileges showered upon him as Lord Mayor of London. The city had always jealously guarded its independence even though this often led to friction with the court and the Parliament at Westminster. Within the city walls, the Lord Mayor ranked above everyone except the Sovereign herself, including princes of the Blood Royal. No fishmonger could ask for more than that. Among his many titles, Pugsley was head of the City Corporation, its chief magistrate, and the chairman of its two governing bodies, the Court of Alderman and the Court of Common Council. Perquisites flourished on all sides but there was one that brought him special delight. He was entitled to any sturgeon caught below London Bridge.

Two features of the office conspired to deter many a possible contender. A year as Lord Mayor was extremely costly since it took you away from your business affairs and involved a great deal of incidental expense. To avoid all this, there had been cases in the past of aldermen bribing their way out of election, paying hundreds of pounds to avoid an honour that would take even heavier toll on their purse. Those rich enough to afford the luxury could yet be halted by another drawback. Being a Lord Mayor committed you to an enormous amount of work. Civic duties were endless and banquets were too frequent and too lavish for many stomachs.

Sir Lucas Pugsley made light of both handicaps. He was wealthy enough to take the job and hungry enough to do it without loss of appetite. Though it took him away from his own business, it was a profitable investment since it gave him an insight into every area of activity in the city. He had considerable patronage at his disposal and could bestow lucrative offices on friends and relations. The head of the city also got the profits from the sale of appointments which were his to make, and received income from rent farms and market leases. Pugsley was an archetypal Lord Mayor. What made him able to savour his public role was the immense assistance he got in private.

The Chamberlain was a rock at all times.

‘I have brought the judicial accounts, Lord Mayor.’

‘Thank you, Aubrey.’

‘Here also is some correspondence from Amsterdam.’

‘I have been awaiting that.’

‘You have to deliver a speech this evening.’

‘Lord save us! I had quite forgot.’

‘That is why I took the liberty of drafting it out for you, Lord Mayor. Three foreign ambassadors dine at your house this night. A speech of welcome is in order. You are too busy to give much time to it yourself.’ He handed the documents over. ‘I hope that my humble scribblings find favour.’

‘Indeed, they do, man. You are my saviour, Aubrey!’

‘I try to be of service.’

As Chamberlain to the city of London, he had wide-ranging duties with regard to finance but his omnicompetence raised him above his calling. Like many before him, Pugsley used the man’s advice and expertise at every turn and confided in him things that he kept from almost everyone. That was another reassuring trait of Aubrey Kenyon. He was the very soul of discretion.

They were in the palatial room that Pugsley used as his office. He was seated at the long oak table with documents piled high in front of him. Without the aid of his Chamberlain, he could never hope to find his way through them. Power made him capricious.

‘Do I have appointments this afternoon?’

‘Five in total, Lord Mayor.’

‘I am in no mood to receive anyone. Cancel them.’

Kenyon bowed. ‘I have already done so.’

‘You know my mind better than I,’ said Pugsley with a chuckle. ‘You have learnt to read me like a book, sir.’

‘Then I hope I have read aright.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dismissed only four of your five visitors.’

‘And the fifth?’

‘He waits outside. I did not think you would wish him to be turned away like the others.’

‘Who is the fellow?’

‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’

‘Once more, you share my thinking, sir. Rowland Ashway must never be sent away from this door. It is largely because of him that I sit this side of it.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Admit him at once.’

‘I will, Lord Mayor.’

Kenyon bowed, left the room quietly then returned almost at once with the waddling Ashway. With another formal bow, the Chamberlain left them alone to trade warm greetings and even warmer gossip. The old friends were soon chatting away happily about the pleasures of high office. Sir Lucas Pugsley let self-importance get the better of him.

‘Nothing can compare with this feeling, Rowland.’

‘I trust it well.’

‘It is a gift from the gods.’

‘And from your admirers on the aldermanic roll.’

‘Think, man! A fishmonger who has the Queen’s ear.’

‘We are two of a kind,’ said Ashway complacently.

‘In what regard?’

‘You have the Queen’s ear. I have the Queen’s Head.’

Nicholas Bracewell bided his time until the landlord came out into the courtyard to speak to one of his ostlers. As Alexander Marwood broke away, the book holder intercepted him. It was early evening at the Queen’s Head and the disgruntled audience had long since departed. Westfield’s Men had sullied their glowing reputation.

‘Good even, good sir,’ said Marwood. ‘You gave a paltry account of yourselves here today.’

‘Some blame must fall on you, I fear.’

‘I am no actor, Master Bracewell.’

‘Indeed you are not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had you been so, you would know the lurching misery of those without a regular wage or a regular home. The Queen’s Head has been a beacon in our darkness, sir. Take but that away and you plunge us into blackest night.’

‘I must do the best for myself and my family.’

‘Granted, sir. But we are part of that family now and feel cut off. When you threaten to exile us, you lower our spirits and our performance. The result was plain for all to see this afternoon.’

‘Do not put this guilt upon me.’

‘I appeal only to your finer feelings.’

Marwood’s twitch had been quiescent until now, lying dormant while it considered which part of his grotesque face to visit next. It reappeared below his left eye and made him wink with alarming rapidity. Nicholas pursued him for more information.

‘Has anything been settled with Alderman Ashway?’

‘In broad outline.’

‘Our contract still has some weeks to run.’

‘It will not be renewed, Master Bracewell.’

‘Despite the mutual advantage it has brought?’

‘All things must come to an end, sir.’

‘Would you surrender ownership so easily?’

His question made the landlord smart and shifted the nervous twitch to his pursed lips which now opened and shut with fish-like regularity. Evidently, he had some misgivings about the new dispensation. Nicholas tried to apply some gentle pressure.

‘The proud name of Marwood has favoured this inn for over a century. That is a fine achievement.’

‘I know my family history, Master Bracewell.’

‘Then have some thought for your forbears. Would any of them have yielded up their inheritance like this?’

‘No, sir,’ agreed Marwood. ‘Nor would they have given shelter to a troupe of bothersome actors. My father would not have let Westfield’s Men across the threshold.’

‘Would he turn away the custom of our noble patron?’

‘He liked not plays and players.’

‘You have been a kinder host.’

‘It is time to show kindness to myself.’

‘By giving away all that you hold most dear?’

‘Only at a price.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘That is your privilege, sir. But I wonder that you have not looked more fully into this.’

‘More fully?’

‘Alderman Ashway is an ambitious man. The Queen’s Head will not be the only inn he has gobbled up. Look to the Antelope and to the White Hart in Cheapside.’

‘What of them?’

‘Talk to the landlords,’ said the other. ‘See if they are happy that they sold out to the good brewer. You will find them weighed down with regret, I think.’

‘That is their fault,’ insisted Marwood. ‘I have wrested better terms for myself. You cannot frighten me in that way, Master Bracewell. The Antelope is a scurvy hostelry and the White Hart draws in low company. I’ll not compare the Queen’s Head with them.’

‘They all serve Ashway’s Beer.’

‘You have drunk your share without complaint.’

Nicholas was making no headway. Foreseeing the attack, Marwood had shored up his defences with care. The twitch might travel to and fro across his battlements but his wall would not be breached. Another form of entry had to be found. The book holder searched with care.

‘How does your wife face the impending loss?’

‘That is a private matter, sir.’

‘Mistress Marwood has her doubts, then?’

‘She will see sense in time.’

‘Would you sign a contract without her approval?’

The landlord fell into a stony silence but his twitch betrayed him completely. It broke out in four different areas simultaneously so that a swarm of butterflies seemed to have settled on his face. As he watched the fibrillating flesh, Nicholas Bracewell saw that there might be a shaft of hope for them after all. The future of Westfield’s Men rested on a woman.

Matilda Stanford was in reflective mood as she strolled along the winding paths in the garden. Early autumn was offering floral abundance and bending fruit trees, all wrapped in a heady mixture of sweet fragrances and brought alive by bright sunshine and birdsong. Stanford Place was blessed with one of the largest and most luxuriant gardens in the area, and its blend of privacy and tranquillity was exactly what she needed at that moment. The front of the house looked out on the daily turbulence of Bishopsgate Street but its rear gazed down upon an altogether different world. In the heart of the busiest city in Europe was this haven of pure peace. Matilda had loved it from the start but she came to appreciate it far more now. What had once been a pure delight was today a means of escape. In the twisting walks of the garden, she could find true solitude to relieve the sharpness of her melancholy.

Ever since she had realised she was unhappy, it had been more and more of an effort to pretend otherwise and she was almost glad of the crisis about her husband’s missing nephew, Michael, because it relieved her of the need to be so wifely and vivacious. In sharing the general concern, she could conceal her own feelings of loss and disappointment. In worrying about Lieutenant Michael Delahaye, she was expressing a deeper anxiety about someone else who had gone astray. Matilda Stanford was also missing and the search for her was fruitless.

There were moments of joy but they lay in the fond contemplation of one who was for ever beyond her reach. Lawrence Firethorn was unattainable. Though he had sent her a playbill and signalled his admiration during the performance of Double Deceit, that was as far as the relationship could realistically go. She was a married woman with no freedom of movement and he was a roving actor. There was no way that she could return the interest he had shown in her even though the desire to do so grew stronger by the hour. Michael’s disappearance was a mortal blow to her fleeting hopes. A man who might have accompanied her to the Queen’s Head was making sure that she had no means of going there. It was William Stanford who was leading the hunt and thereby depriving his stepmother of her means of attending a play.

As she looked ahead, her spirits sank even more. Her husband was a wonderful man in so many ways but he did not give her anything of the stimulation she received from a ranting actor upon a makeshift stage. When Walter Stanford became Lord Mayor of London, her situation could only get far worse as she was dragged along behind him into an endless round of social events. She would see even less of him and experience more inner torment. A marriage which had brought her such pleasure was now turning into a comfortable ordeal. She was stifled.

The lifeline was brought by Simon Pendleton.

‘Hold there, mistress.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Another missive has arrived for you.’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘That same miserable creature as before,’ said the steward, wrinkling his nose with polite contempt. ‘I have brought it to your hand.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’

‘Will there be anything else, mistress?’

‘Not at this time.’

He bowed and glided off into the undergrowth with practised ease. Though Matilda could not bring herself to like the man, she was profoundly grateful to him at the moment because he had fetched the thing she most desired. It was a playbill, rolled up as before and tied with a pink ribbon. As her nervous fingers released it, the scroll unwound and a sealed letter dropped to the ground. Matilda snatched it up immediately. A glance at the playbill told her that Westfield’s Men were due to stage Love and Fortune at the Queen’s Head on the following day but it was the letter that produced the real elation.

As she tore it open, she found herself reading a sonnet in praise of her beauty that itemised her charms with such playful delicacy that she almost swooned. It was unsigned but the sender — presumably the poet — was no less a person than Lawrence Firethorn himself. All her doubts were cast aside. Hers was no wild infatuation for a man beyond her grasp. It was a shared passion that drew them ineluctably together. A second message lay in the choice of play. Love and Fortune could be no accidental selection. It reinforced the sentiments of the sonnet and was an invitation to romance.

She read the poem again, weighing each word on the scales of her mind to extract maximum pleasure from it. That she could have inspired such a mellifluous flight of language was dizzying enough on its own. For it to have come from the hand of the man on whom she doted made the whole thing quite intoxicating. Walter Stanford could not be faulted as a loyal husband who treated his wife with respect. But he had no pretty rhymes in his soul.

Tears of joy formed. During her dark night of disenchantment, she had come to see that she was not happy in her marriage. During her walk in the afternoon sun, she made a discovery of equal import and adjusted her own view of herself yet again. In a garden in London, standing beneath a juniper tree, seeing the colour clearly, inhaling the sweet odours, hearing the melodious birdsong, Matilda Stanford had another revelation. Her heart was no longer bound by the vows made on her wedding day because it had not truly been engaged in the ceremony. Fourteen lines of poetry and a cheap playbill taught her something that sent a thrill through her entire being.

She was in love for the first time in her life.

The charnel house had a new keeper. Nicholas Bracewell’s formal complaint to the Coroner’s Court had led to the dismissal of the man who treated the dead bodies in his charge with such grotesque lack of respect. His hollow-cheeked successor was no more companionable but he had a greater sense of decency and decorum. Conducting the small party to the slab in the corner, he took hold of the tattered shroud and looked up for a signal from the watchman. The latter deferred to the two visitors he had brought into the grim vault. Walter Stanford exchanged a glance with his son and both braced themselves. A nod was then given to the keeper who drew back the shroud with clumsy reverence, unveiling only the head and trunk of the corpse so that the repulsive injuries to the leg remained hidden away.

‘Lord help us!’ exclaimed Stanford.

‘God rest his soul!’ said his son.

Both were thunderstruck by what they saw and fought to control their stomachs. Neither of them needed to view a crippled leg to confirm the identity of the battered body. Walter Stanford was looking at the nephew who was due to renounce a hedonistic existence and commit himself to a more responsible life. His son was staring at a beloved cousin whose merriment was its own justification. Grief dazed them both completely. The watchman gestured to the keeper and the shroud was pulled back over the corpse to check the hostile smell of death. There was a long, bruised silence as the visitors were given time to compose themselves. The watchman then spoke.

‘Well, sirs?’ he said.

‘That is him,’ whispered Stanford.

‘You have no doubt?’

‘None at all,’ added William.

‘Would you like to view him again?’

Walter Stanford winced and held up a large palm.

‘We have seen enough,’ he said. ‘My son and I know our own kin. That is Michael Delahaye.’

It was Anne Hendrik’s idea. After what she felt was the relative success of taking Hans Kippel to church, she believed he might now be ready for a more important outing, especially if it could be presented to the boy as something else. Nicholas Bracewell agreed to her plan. Since Westfield’s Men were not playing that Tuesday, he managed to find an hour in the middle of the afternoon when he could slip back home to Bankside to join in the expedition. The intention was to help the apprentice to confront his fear of the Bridge. This could not be done by simply taking him there and forcing him to cross it. Anne told him that all three of them were going to visit the market in Cheapside. With two adults at his side, he felt as if he were part of a family setting out on a small adventure. Apprehensions did not surface.

After prior discussion, Nicholas and Anne tried to keep his mind engaged by feeding him with snippets of information about some of the buildings and churches that they passed on the way. Their casual tone did not alter when the Bridge came in sight and the gatehouse loomed up ahead of them. Hans Kippel gulped when he saw the heads of executed traitors crudely exhibited on poles but he did not check his stride. The barbarous custom had always upset and fascinated the boy.

‘Thirty-two,’ he said.

‘What’s that, Hans?’ asked Anne.

‘Thirty-two heads today. I have not seen so many.’

‘Have pity on their souls,’ said Nicholas.

‘Who were they, sir?’

‘Misguided men.’

‘Did they deserve such treatment?’

‘No, Hans. They have paid for their crime already.’

‘What was it, Master Bracewell?’

By the time that Nicholas had explained, they were passing through the gate and beneath the sightless eyes of the severed heads. Another feature of the Bridge now rose up to dominate and impress.

‘That is Nonesuch House,’ said Anne.

‘I have admired it often, mistress.’

‘Did you know that it was Dutch?’

‘There is no mistaking it,’ he said with a proud smile. ‘I have seen other houses like it in Amsterdam.’

Nonesuch House was well named. No other such house or building stood in the whole of London. Built entirely out of wood, it was a huge, rambling structure that was heavily encrusted with ornament and crowned with carved gables and onion-shaped cupolas. The woodwork was painted with such vivid colours that a remarkable house became quite dazzling in every sense. Nonesuch House was one of the wonders of London and it added immeasurably to the awe-inspiring impact of the Bridge.

Nicholas Bracewell supplied more details for him.

‘The foundation stone was laid in 1577,’ he said. ‘The house was built in Holland and shipped over, section by section, to be reassembled here. Just think, Hans. That building made the same journey as you.’

‘Will I be reassembled?’ he said plaintively.

‘We’ll put you together again somehow, lad.’

‘It has no nails,’ continued Anne. ‘That is the real miracle of it. The whole house is held together with wooden pegs. What you see there is Dutch perfection.’

‘Like the hats of Jacob Hendrik.’

Nicholas coaxed another smile from the boy and a wink of satisfaction from Anne. Their scheme had so far worked. Instead of rebelling at the very sight of the Bridge, the boy was walking steadily across it. Their afternoon stroll was not unimpeded. As ever, the Bridge was liberally overpopulated. Houses and shops stretched every inch of its length and leant over towards each other with such amiable curiosity that they could almost shake hands. The narrow road was made even narrower by the swirling crowds that moved along it in both directions and horse-drawn traffic had to carve its own rough passage through the human wall. Beautiful to behold from a distance, the Bridge was a dangerous place to cross and rolling wheels all too often brought disfigurement and even death.

It was impossible for the three of them to walk abreast. Holding each by the hand, Nicholas led the way and shouldered a path through the press. There were almost forty shops selling their wares. They included a cutler, a glover, a pouch-maker, a goldsmith, a pinner and a painter but many of the tiny establishments sold articles of apparel. Lavishly decorated, the shops faced inwards and advertised their presence with swinging signs. The merchandise was invariably made on the premises and sold by apprentices from a wooden board which was hinged to the open-fronted shop to form a counter. Behind the boards, shrill-throated youths called for attention.

Hans Kippel edged through it all with bemused interest. While Nicholas had one eye on him, Anne kept up her commentary to relax the boy.

‘Do you know the tale of William Hewet?’ she said.

‘No, mistress.’

‘He was Lord Mayor of London over thirty years ago. A clothworker,’ she explained, pointing a finger, ‘who owned that house you see up ahead. Note how the windows hang out over the water. William Hewet’s daughter fell from one of them straight into the Thames.’

‘What happened, mistress?’

‘One of the apprentices dived in after her and dragged her to safety. His name was Edward Osborne. The girl grew up to be a beauty who was much courted but the father turned them away. “Osborne saved her, Osborne shall have her,” he said. And so it was, Hans. He married her and inherited the business. Edward Osborne then became Lord Mayor of London himself.’

‘Apprentices may yet thrive, then?’ said the boy.

‘Indeed,’ said Nicholas. ‘But one detail of the story was missing. The lovely daughter was named Anne.’

He smiled at her by way of compliment and she gave a gracious nod of acknowledgement. In that instant when their attention wandered from the boy, he lost all curiosity in the history of the Bridge. Hans Kippel came to a halt and stared at a house that was boxed in between two shops. Memories came back to test him and to make him gibber soundlessly. He took a few steps towards the house and touched it with his hand as if to make sure that it was the right place. The identification was complete. Mad panic gripped him once again and he turned to race back in the direction of Southwark.

But his way was blocked. A large cart was trundling towards him and it took no account of his youth or his urgency. Before he could get out of the way, the boy was knocked flying by the careless brutality of the vehicle. Nicholas rushed to pick him up in his arms and to search for injury while Anne upbraided the carter roundly. She then joined the little crowd who had gathered around the semi-conscious apprentice. No bones seemed to have been broken and no blood showed but he was severely winded. Nicholas and Anne tended him with concern.

But the keenest interest was shown by someone else. As the sagging body of Hans Kippel was borne away, a pair of dark, malignant eyes stared out from the upstairs window of the house which had alarmed the apprentice so much.

The boy had been found.

Edmund Hoode suffered the pangs of rank injustice. As he toyed with his pint of sack at the Queen’s Head, he came to appreciate just how selfish and sadistic Lawrence Firethorn could be. It was unforgivable. After months of emotional stagnation, the poet had finally found someone to rescue him from his plight and supply a focus for the creative energy of his romantic inclinations. His new love had been blighted before it could blossom. Firethorn was exploiting a cruel contractual advantage over him. Instead of releasing his passion in verses dedicated to his own love, Hoode was simply helping to satisfy the actor-manager’s libidinous desires. Despair made him groan aloud and turn to Barnaby Gill who was seated beside him on the oak settle.

‘Truly, I am out of love with this life.’

‘That was ever your theme,’ said Gill cynically.

‘This time I am in earnest, Barnaby. I would sue to be rid of this wretched existence.’

‘Chance may contrive that for you.’

‘How say you?’

‘Westfield’s Men are threatened with execution, sir. If Alderman Rowland Ashway takes possession here, ours will be the first heads on the block.’

‘I would welcome the axe.’

‘Well, I would not, Edmund,’ said the other peevishly. ‘Blood would ruin my new doublet and ruff. And I would not have my career cut off by the whim of a brewer. If Marwood sells the inn, I must think the unthinkable.’

‘Retire from the stage?’

‘My admirers would never countenance that. No, sir, I would need to put survival first and join Banbury’s Men.’ He saw Hoode’s shock and sailed over it. ‘Yes, it might be an act of betrayal but my art must take precedence. If Westfield’s Men cannot sustain me, I must look to the highest bidder and that must be Giles Randolph. He has coveted my services this long time.’

‘What about Lawrence?’

‘What about him?’ challenged Gill.

Hoode pondered. ‘You are right, sir. We owe him no loyalty after the way he has treated us. I’ll not let him stroke the bodies of his mistresses with my conceits. Do you know his latest demand?’

‘A new prologue for Love and Fortune?’

‘Even so. It is to contain an intimate message.’

‘His intimate messages are all contained in his codpiece,’ sneered Gill. ‘I wonder that he does not teach it to speak for itself. It cannot declaim lines any worse than he and it holds the major organ of his ambition.’

‘I’ll not endure it longer, Barnaby!’

‘Write sixteen lines for Master Codpiece.’

‘Lawrence must relent.’

‘Not until Margery bites off his pizzle.’

‘He’ll use me this way no longer.’

‘Free yourself from womankind and learn true love.’

‘I’ll tell him straight.’

Fortified by the sack and by the conversation, Edmund Hoode leapt up from the table and went in search of his colleague. Firethorn had gone to give instructions about some new costumes to Hugh Wegges, their tireman, who worked with needle and thread in the room where the company’s equipment was stored. Hoode strode purposefully in that direction but he soon slowed down. A strident voice began to fill the inn yard.

Now here upon this field of Agincourt

Let each man take his oath to fight with me

And give these French a taste of English steel,

With bravest arrows cutting down their knights,

With stoutest hearts o’ercoming any odds

That angry France can muster ’gainst our will.

March onwards, lads, into the ranks of death,

Until we vanquish, no man pause for breath!

The voice of Lawrence Firethorn thrilled the ear as it reverberated around the empty yard to fill the place with sound and frighten the stabled horses. Edmund Hoode knew the lines well because he had written them himself for King Henry the Fifth, a stirring saga of military heroism. Firethorn had always been superb in the role but this time he added some Welsh cadences by way of tribute to the king’s birthplace of Monmouth. Stoked up with rage to confront the actor-manager, Hoode yet spared a moment to admire his art afresh. No man could equal Firethorn even when he was just showing off his talent as now. That did not excuse his treatment of his resident poet and it was with seething indignation that Hoode swept out into the yard to tackle the barrel-chested figure who stood right in the middle of it.

‘Lawrence!’ he said. ‘I demand to speak to you!’

‘Speak to me instead, sir.’

The man turned around with an arrogant smile that stunned Hoode completely. It was not Firethorn at all. The extempore performance had been given by Owen Elias.

Walter Stanford and his son were grief-stricken when they returned home. Michael’s death was a shattering blow in itself but the nature of his exit made it unbearably worse. Someone so young and full of promise had been cut down savagely in his prime. Stanford resolved that he would not rest until the murderer had been found and made to pay the full penalty of the law. Vengeful as he was, he did not let his feelings warp his behaviour. In an effort to protect his wife from the full horror, he gave her only an attenuated account of what they had seen. Matilda was devastated by the news. Even though she had never met Michael Delahaye, she had heard enough about him to form some very favourable impressions. Sharing the loss with her husband and stepson, she reserved most sympathy for her sister-in-law.

‘What of dear Winifred?’ she asked.

‘She must be told at once,’ said Stanford. ‘William and I will ride to Windsor today to break the sad tidings to her. It will be the ruination of poor Win.’

‘Let me come with you,’ she offered. ‘I may be of help at this trying time.’

‘Your kindness is appreciated, my love, but this is a task for me alone. I need to frame Win’s mind to accept what has happened. It will be a long and arduous business and too distressing for you to witness.’

‘Have funeral arrangements been made?’

‘They are set in motion,’ he said. ‘When Michael’s body is released, it will be brought to Windsor for burial in the family vault. It is then that I will call upon you for your comfort and company.’

‘Take both for granted, Walter.’

‘You are a solace to me.’

He gave her a perfunctory embrace then held back tears as he thought about the body on the slab. It had been hauled out of the Thames without a shred of clothing to give it decency in its last moments. A thought struck him with sudden force.

‘I see the meaning of it now,’ he said.

‘Of what, sir.’

‘That present I received, Matilda.’

‘Present?’

‘The salmon.’

‘What did it signify?’

‘That Michael slept with the fishes.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley chewed happily on a crisp mouthful of whitebait. Being the Lord Mayor of London obliged him to entertain on a regular basis but only a small number of guests were dining at his house that evening. One of them was the massive figure of Rowland Ashway who was tucking into his meal with voracious appetite. Placed at the right hand of his friend, he was able to have private conference with a lowered voice.

‘Has that contract been allocated, Sir Lucas?’

‘What contract?’

‘We spoke of it even yesterday.’

‘Ah, that,’ said the Lord Mayor airily. ‘Have no fears on that score, Rowland. You will get your just deserts. I have instructed Aubrey Kenyon to handle the matter.’

‘That contents me. Master Kenyon is most reliable.’

‘He is the chiefest part of my regalia. I wear him about my neck like the mayoral collar. My year in office would not have been the same without Aubrey.’

‘Haply, he will notice the change as well.’

‘Change?’

‘When you hand over to Walter Stanford.’

‘Perish the thought!’ snarled Pugsley.

‘Master Kenyon must feel the same. You and he have worked hand in glove. He will not have the same kind indulgence from that damnable mercer.’

General laughter interrupted their chat and they were forced to join in the hilarity. It was over half an hour before a lull allowed them another murmured debate. Rowland Ashway was remarkably well informed.

‘Have you heard of Stanford’s latest plot?’

‘What idiocy has he invented now?’

‘The Nine Giants.’

‘Nine, sir? We have but two giants in London.’

‘That I know. Gogmagog and Corinaeus.’

‘From where do the other seven hail?’

‘The Mercers’ Company,’ said Ashway. ‘They are to perform a play at the Lord Mayor’s banquet to celebrate the triumph of their master. It is called The Nine Giants and shows us nine worthies from the ranks of that Guild.’

Pugsley grunted. ‘They do not have nine worthies.’

‘Dick Whittington is first in number.’

‘And the last, Rowland. They have none to follow him. If the mercers would stage a play, let them be honest and call it The Nine Dwarves. They have plenty of those in their company. Walter Stanford is bold indeed.’

‘You have not heard the deepest cut.’

‘Tell me, sir.’

‘He himself will be the ninth giant.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley choked on his meat and had to swill down the obstruction with some Rhenish wine. All his hatred and jealousy swelled up to enlarge his eyes and turn his face purple.

‘I should remain as Lord Mayor,’ he growled.

‘No question but that you should. But the law stands in your way. It is decreed that no retiring mayor can serve another term of office until seven years has passed.’

‘That law might yet be revoked.’

‘By whom?’

‘By force of circumstance.’

‘Speak more openly, Sir Lucas.’

‘This is not the time or place,’ muttered Pugsley. ‘All I will tell you is this. If Walter Stanford were to fall at the very last hurdle — if something serious were to disable his mayoralty — might not your fellow aldermen turn to me to help them in their plight?’

Sir Lucas Pugsley began to laugh. Rowland Ashway enlarged the sound with his throaty chuckle. Others found the hilarity infectious and joined in at will. The whole table was soon rocking with mirth even though most of those around it had no idea at what they were laughing. Such was the power of the Lord Mayor of London.

They moved with great stealth through the dark streets of Bankside. One of them was tall, muscular and well groomed with a patch over his right eye. The other was shorter and more thickset, a bull of a man with rough hands and rough ways. They each carried a bundle of rags that had been soaked in oil to advance their purpose. When they came to the house, they checked all the adjoining lanes to make sure that they were not seen. Revellers delayed their work by blundering out of a nearby tavern and rolling past them in full voice. Only when the sound died away did the two men set about their nefarious business.

The rags were stuffed tight up against the front door of the dwelling then set alight. The accomplices waited until the flames began to get a hold on the timber then they took to their heels and fled into the night. Disaster crackled merrily behind them.

Anne Hendrik’s house was on fire.