The Nine Giants

Chapter Seven

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to become aware of the danger. He had developed a sixth sense where fire was concerned because it was such a constant threat to his livelihood. Sparks from careless pipe-smokers had more than once ignited thatch at the Queen’s Head and the other venues used by Westfield’s Men, and though most of their performances took place in the afternoon, some continued on beyond the fall of darkness and had to be lit by torches or by baskets of burning tarred rope. Extreme care was needed at all times and Nicholas was particularly vigilant. Even in his sleep, his nostrils maintained a watch and so it was that night. As soon as the first whiff of smoke was encountered, he came awake in a flash and leapt up naked.

His bedchamber was at the front of the house and he saw the fierce glow through the window. Instinct took over. After shaking Hans Kippel out of his slumbers, he pulled on his breeches and raised the alarm in the rest of the house. With no means of escape through the front door, he quickly hustled Anne Hendrik, the two servants and the boy into the little garden at the rear then dashed back to tackle the blaze itself. It had now got a firm hold and long tongues of flame were licking their way into the room. Acrid smoke was starting to billow. The triumphant crackle grew louder.

Nicholas moved with great speed. Having once been caught in a blaze in the hold of a ship, he knew that fumes could be as deadly as fire itself. He therefore dipped a shirt in one of the leather buckets of water that stood in the kitchen, then wound it around his neck and mouth. With a bucket in each hand, he hurried back into the drawing room and looked anxiously around. On the wall was one of Anne’s most cherished possessions. It was a beautiful tapestry, depicting the town of Ghent, and given to her as a wedding present by Jacob Hendrik who had commissioned it especially for her in Flanders. She would not willingly have parted with it for anything but sentiment had to give way to survival. Nicholas hurled the water over the tapestry then hastily brought two more buckets from the kitchen to repeat the drenching process.

Tearing down the tapestry, he threw it over the floor to douse the smouldering boards then used it to beat out the flames that were coming in through the door. He was soon given support. Anne Hendrik left her servants to look after the quaking apprentice and came back in to help to save her house. She dipped a broom in the last bucket of water then used it to attack the flames as strenuously as she could manage. Smoke invaded her throat and made her cough. Nicholas rent his sodden shirt in two and gave her a piece to cover her mouth and nostrils. The two of them continued the struggle to save the property.

Noise had now reached deafening proportions. The whole street, then the whole neighbourhood, was roused. Panic was readily abroad. Fire was feared almost as much as the plague and its effects were just as devastating. Like the rest of the city, Bankside was predominantly an area of thatched, timber-built dwellings held together with flimsy lath and plaster. Efforts had been made for well over a century to force people to tile their roofs instead of using reed or straw but the ordinances had scant effect. The only precautions that most householders took were to keep buckets of water on hand or, in far fewer cases, to have firehooks hanging at the ready so that they could be used in an emergency to pull down burning wood or thatch. Organised fire-fighting was virtually unknown and pumps were very rudimentary. In any conflagration, people reacted with unashamed self-interest and looked to their own premises. So it was here.

Nicholas and Anne fought the fire from within while their yelling neighbours did their best to stop it from spreading to their tenements. Because the street was so narrow, the houses opposite were as much at risk as those adjoining and their occupants, too, were contributing freely to the communal hysteria. Water was thrown over thatch and timber to keep the fire at bay. Implements of all kinds were used to beat at the flames. As a ferocious glare lit up the night sky, pandemonium ruled. Children screamed, women howled in fear, men bawled unheard orders at each other. Dogs barked, cats shrieked and wild-eyed horses were led neighing from their stables to clatter on the cobbles and add to the gathering confusion. Everyone was soon involved. One old lady in a house directly opposite even opened the upstairs window to hurl the contents of her chamberpot over the small inferno.

Prompt action slowly won the battle. Having subdued the worst of the flames inside the house, Nicholas was able to kick down the charred remains of the door and get into the street. With a clearer view of the danger, he was able to swish the now steaming tapestry against the front of the building. When a few altruists threw buckets and barrels of water at the house, he was grateful for the soaking that he himself got. It enabled him to withstand the fierce heat and get ever closer to its centre. The tapestry eventually secured victory. Torn beyond belief and blackened beyond recognition, it put out the seat of the fire. Nicholas dropped it wearily to the ground and stamped on it with bare feet to stop it smouldering.

Relief spread as rapidly as the fire itself and a ragged cheer went up. People who had been plucked from their beds by the threat of death now saw some cause for celebration. Those terrified neighbours further along the street who had evacuated their homes completely now began to take their furniture and belongings back inside. New friendships grew out of common adversity. Ear-splitting fear was now replaced by gregarious murmur. The crowd began to disperse until the next emergency.

Anne Hendrik stood panting beside her lodger and tried to regain her breath. She was suffering from the effects of inhaling the smoke, but Nicholas Bracewell was in a far worse state. His breeches were scorched, his feet burnt and his chest a mass of black streaks. Sparks had even had the temerity to singe his beard. His umbered face was running with sweat and crumpled by fatigue but he found the strength to slip an arm around her waist. She leant against him for support and looked up at the ravaged frontage of her house.

‘Thank you!’ she gasped.

‘I could not let my lodging go up in smoke.’

‘You saved our lives, Nick.’

‘God was at our side.’

‘How could the fire have started?’ she said between bouts of coughing. ‘Some careless passer-by?’

‘This was no accident, Anne. I see design at work.’

‘To what end?’

‘Someone here was meant to sleep for ever.’

Anne blanched. ‘An attempt on our lives? Why, sir? Who would want to kill us?’

‘We may not have been the targets,’ said Nicholas as he thought it through. ‘It is possible that the fire was lit for someone else — Hans Kippel.’

It was the first night since her marriage that Matilda Stanford had spent entirely alone. With her husband away in Windsor, she had the bed and bedchamber exclusively to herself and she revelled in the new freedom. At the same time, however, she felt even more isolated. The news about Michael Delahaye had been horrific and she was genuinely distressed but it did not touch her heart directly. She had never known the dashing soldier and could not share the desperate loss felt by others. Suffused with real sympathy, she was also distanced from her husband and her stepson as they mourned the death of a loved one and became embroiled in sorrowful duties. Michael had been very much inside the charmed circle of the family. For all her readiness to join in, Matilda remained firmly on the outside.

What kept her awake was not the thought of a dead body pulled from the clutches of the Thames. It was something quite remote from that and it brought its due measure of guilt and recrimination. Indeed, so troubled did she feel that she got up in the middle of the night and went down to the little chapel to pray for guidance and to see if divine intercession could direct her mind to more seemly matters. Even on her knees, she remained unable to sustain more than a passing sigh for the fate of Michael Delahaye. It was another man who occupied her thoughts, not a rotting corpse in a charnel house but a person of almost superhuman vitality, a master of his art, a romantic figure, an imp of magic, a symbol of hope.

Lawrence Firethorn even infiltrated her prayers. Instead of asking for a blessing on a departed soul, she begged for the opportunity to meet her self-appointed lover. Happiness no longer lay beside a wheezing mercer in a four-poster bed. True joy resided at the Queen’s Head in the formidable person of an actor-manager. In thinking about him at all, she was repudiating the vows taken during holy matrimony. In speculating about the way that their love might be consummated, she was committing a heinous sin. Doing both of these things while kneeling on a hassock before her Maker was nothing short of vile blasphemy but her Christian conscience did no more than bring a blush of shame to her cheeks. Matilda Stanford made a decision that could have dire consequences for her and for her whole marriage.

She would accept the invitation to the play.

First light found Nicholas Bracewell out in the street to assess the damage to the house and to begin running repairs. Word was sent to Nathan Curtis, master carpenter with Westfield’s Men, who lived not far away in St Olave’s Street, and he hastened across with tools and materials. The front of the house would need to be partially rebuilt and completely replastered but the two men patched it up between them and gave its occupants a much-needed feeling of security and reassurance. Curtis was rewarded with a hearty breakfast and a surge of gratitude but he would accept none of the money that Anne Hendrik offered. As a friend and colleague of the book holder, he was only too glad to be able to repay some of the kindness and consideration that Nicholas Bracewell had always shown him. He shambled off home with the warm feeling that he had done his good deed for the day.

Hans Kippel had been kept ignorant of his role as the intended victim of the arson. Shocked by the grisly experience on the Bridge, he had withdrawn into himself again and could not explain the rashness of his conduct. In the wake of the fire, he was even more alarmed and they did not add to his afflictions by subjecting him to any interrogation. Instead, Nicholas Bracewell set out for the Bridge and walked to the little house which had provoked such an intense reaction from the boy.

There was no answer when he knocked on the door but he felt that someone was at home and he persisted with his banging. In the shop next door, an apprentice was letting down the board as a counter and laying out a display of haberdashery for the early customers. Nicholas turned to the lad for information.

‘Who lives in this house?’

‘I do not know, sir.’

‘But they are near neighbours of yours.’

‘They moved in but recently.’

‘Tenants, then? A family?’

‘Two men are all that I have seen.’

‘Can you describe them, lad?’

‘Oh, sir,’ said the boy. ‘I have no time for idle wonder. My master would beat me if I did not attend to the shop out here. It is so busy on the Bridge that I see hundreds of faces by the hour. I cannot pick out two of them just to please a stranger.’

‘Is there nothing you can tell me?’ said Nicholas.

The boy broke off to serve his first customer of the day, explaining that a much greater range of wares lay inside the shop. When the woman had made her purchase and moved on with her husband, the apprentice turned back to Nicholas and gave a gesture of helplessness.

‘I can offer nought but this, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘One of them wears a patch over his eye.’

‘That is small but useful intelligence.’

‘And all that I can furnish.’

‘Save this,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who owns the house?’

‘That I do know, sir.’

‘His name?’

‘Sir Lucas Pugsley.’

The Lord Mayor of London awoke to another day of self-congratulation. After breakfast with his family, he spent time with the Common Clerk who handled all secretarial matters for him, then he devoted an hour to the Recorder. The City Marshal was next, a dignified man of military bearing, whose skill as a horseman — so vital to someone whose job was to ride ahead of the Lord Mayor during all processions to clear the way — had been learnt in a dozen foreign campaigns. Among other things, the Marshal headed the Watch and Ward of the city, rounding up rogues and vagabonds as well as making sure that lepers were ejected outside the walls. Sir Lucas Pugsley loved to feed off the respect and homage of a man who wore such a resplendent uniform and plumed helmet. It increased the fishmonger’s feeling of real power.

Aubrey Kenyon was the next visitor, cutting a swathe through the dense thickets of the working day with his usual calm efficiency. When they had discussed financial affairs at length, the Chamberlain turned to an area that would normally have been outside his remit had not the Lord Mayor encouraged him to offer opinions on almost every subject of discussion that arose. Kenyon’s sage counsel was its own best advertisement.

‘Have you taken note of next week, Lord Mayor?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said the other pompously. ‘I am to have another audience with Her Majesty at the Royal Palace. The Queen seeks my advice once more.’

‘I was referring to another event.’

‘Next week?’

‘On Thursday. It is a public holiday.’

‘Ah.’

‘You should be forewarned, Lord Mayor.’

Pugsley nodded importantly. The preservation of peace and the maintenance of law and order were his responsibility and they were arduous duties in a city that was notorious for its unruly behaviour. Crimes and misdeameanors flourished on a daily basis and there were parts of London, feared by the authorities, that hid whole fraternities of thieves, whores, tricksters, beggars and masterless men. Cripples, vagrants and discharged soldiers swelled the ranks of those who lived by criminal means. These denizens of the seedy underworld were a perpetual nuisance but the law-abiding could also present serious problems. Public holidays were seized on by many as occasions for riot and excess when the anonymity of the crowd shielded miscreants from punishment at the same time as it fired them on to grosser breaches of the peace. For hundreds of years, the mayoralty had learnt to rue the days when the city was at play.

Aubrey Kenyon had strong views on the matter.

‘Wild and licentious behaviour must be quashed.’

‘So it shall be, sir.’

‘Apprentices so soon get out of hand.’

‘I know it well,’ said Pugsley with a nostalgic smirk. ‘I was one myself, Aubrey, and felt that stirring of the blood on every high day and holiday. The pranks that we lads got up to!’ He corrected himself at once. ‘But it is a tradition much mocked and abused of late. Harmless pleasure can so easily turn to an affray — and I will not permit that in my city.’

‘Take steps to ward it off then.’

‘You have my word that it shall be done.’ His beady eyes lit up. ‘I take my cue from Geoffrey Boleyn.’

‘He was a brave Mayor indeed, sir.’

‘In 1458, the King in his wisdom ordered a council of reconciliation in St Paul’s between the rival nobility. During the month it took them to arrive, Mayor Boleyn patrolled the streets by day in full armour and he kept three thousand armed men ready by night.’ Pugsley’s chest expanded. ‘I would ride out at the head of my constables if you think that it is needful.’

‘There are other precautions we may take,’ said Kenyon tactfully. ‘Your bravery does you credit but you do not have to expose yourself to danger.’

‘What are these precautions, Aubrey?’

‘Appoint sufficient men to keep watch on the city.’

‘It shall be done.’

‘Look to the selling of ale that it should not be given to those too young to hold it like a gentleman. Discourage large crowds from gathering. Arrest known troublemakers early in the day before they can work up the apprentices.’ Aubrey Kenyon reserved his deepest contempt for another area of social life. ‘Subdue what entertainment we can, especially the theatres.’

‘Theatres?’

‘That is where corruption breeds,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘If it were left to me, I would close down every playhouse in London.’

Abel Strudwick was ruthless in pursuit of the new career that he now felt awaited him. He was rowing away from a Bankside wharf with two passengers in the stern of his boat when he saw Nicholas Bracewell and Hans Kippel in search of transport. The waterman lost all interest in his current fare and swung the prow of the boat around to head back towards the wharf. His passengers complained bitterly but they were no match for Strudwick. His combination of brawn and bellicosity had them scampering out of the boat and he welcomed Nicholas and the boy instead. All three were soon threading their way through the flotilla of craft that was afloat that day. The waterman was impatient.

‘Have you acquainted Master Firethorn with my ambitions?’ he asked with hirsute eagerness.

‘I mean to speak to him today,’ said Nicholas.

‘Tell him of my quality.’

‘It will not go unremarked, Abel.’

‘I would strut upon the scaffold with him.’

‘That may not be so easy a wish to fulfil.’

‘But I have the trick of it,’ said the other. ‘Let me come out onto the stage before the play begins to woo the audience with my sweet music.’

Nicholas gave a non-committal nod. Hans Kippel, at first alarmed by Strudwick’s grinning ugliness, now took an interest in him.

‘Are you a musician, sir?’ he said.

‘Yes, lad. Would you hear me play?’

‘What is your instrument?’

‘Lie back in the boat and you shall hear it.’

Before Nicholas could stop him, the poet recited a long narrative about his visit to the Queen’s Head and its extraordinary effect on his life. The verse had the same rocking-horse rhythm as usual and it was imprisoned hopelessly in its rhyme scheme. A pun of resounding awfulness brought the saga to a grinding conclusion.

Nicholas manufactured a smile of approval but Hans Kippel was truly impressed. The boy was amazed to hear such fine words coming from such a foul source and he clapped his hands. Abel Strudwick beamed as if he had been given an ovation by a huge audience and he sealed an instant friendship with the Dutch apprentice. The fact was not lost on Nicholas who saw its value at once. He had only brought the boy with him in order to ensure his safety. If Hans Kippel was in danger of attack, he had to be watched over carefully at all times. Taking him away from Southwark had the extra advantage of shifting any threat away from Anne Hendrik. As it was, Nicholas had given Preben van Loew and the other workmen stern orders to be vigilant on her behalf but he did not feel she was now at risk. Unknown to himself, the boy was the target. Friendship with Abel Strudwick meant that there was another safe refuge in the event of an emergency.

They landed, paid their fare and took their leave. The boatman’s tuneless music had served another turn. So mesmerised was Hans Kippel that he did not look once towards the Bridge which held such terrors for him. He was in an inquisitive mood and they picked their way through the busy market in Gracechurch Street.

‘What is the name of the play, Master Bracewell?’

‘Love and Fortune.’

‘And shall I be able to watch it?’

‘Only during the rehearsal, Hans.’

‘I have never been to a theatre before,’ said the boy. ‘Preben van Loew was not happy that I should come to this one today. I was brought up strictly in Amsterdam and such things are frowned upon. Will it cause me harm?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Old Preben believes that it will.’

‘Do not pay too much heed to him.’

Nicholas smiled fondly as he remembered an occasion when the Protestant rectitude of the Dutch hatmaker was put to the test by Westfield’s Men. Preben van Loew had been asked to escort Anne Hendrik to a performance of the controversial piece, The Merry Devils, and he had been embarrassed to find just how much he enjoyed it. The book holder was confident that Hans Kippel would get equal pleasure out of the present offering. With a paternal arm around the boy’s shoulders, he guided him in through the main entrance of the Queen’s Head.

The apprentice was an incongruous figure amid the flamboyance of the actors and he came in for some good-natured ribbing. George Dart warmed to him at once because he recognised a kindred spirit in the waiflike youth with his pale face and his wide-eyed wonder. Nicholas introduced his companion to everyone then left him with Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the four apprentices, a bright, alert, soft-skinned boy with a mop of fair hair and a friendly grin. While the book holder was busy setting the rehearsal up, the little actor took the visitor under his wing. Inevitably, there was especial interest shown from one quarter.

‘Welcome to our humble show, Master Kippel.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Barnaby Gill, at your service.’ He gave a mock bow and appraised the newcomer. ‘Is not that jerkin a trifle warm for you in this weather?’

‘There is a cold breeze blowing, sir.’

‘That will not hurt you. Come, let me help you off with it. I promise you will feel more comfortable.’

Hans Kippel did not get the chance to find out. Before the actor could even touch the boy, Nicholas came over to interpose himself between them. Having rescued the lad from an attempt on his young life, he was not going to let him fall into the dubious clutches of Barnaby Gill. One glance from the book holder made the actor back off at once. Neither Hans Kippel nor Richard Honeydew fully understood what had happened in that moment. Their innocence remained intact.

The voice of authority boomed out across the yard.

‘Gentlemen, we tarry!’ yelled Firethorn.

‘All is ready, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘Then let us show our mettle.’

With no more ado, the rehearsal began. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the dangers of committing the heart too soon and too completely. It featured three sets of lovers and its use of mistaken identity was both deft and effective. Westfield’s Men put real spirit into it and the play romped along at speed. Lawrence Firethorn crackled hilariously in the leading role, ably supported by Edmund Hoode as a lovelorn gallant and by Barnaby Gill as an ageing cuckold. The small but demanding part of Lorenzo was played with Celtic ebullience by Owen Elias who tackled the speeches as if he were auditioning for much greater theatrical honours. After their patent failure with Black Antonio, the company was determined to vindicate its reputation in the most positive manner. The rehearsal had edge.

Hans Kippel loved every moment of it. Seated on an empty firkin in the middle of the yard, he was the lone spectator of a comedy that made him laugh so loud and so much for two whole hours that he kept falling off his perch. The pace of the action bewildered him but that did not dull his appreciation of the play itself or of the many splendid performances. Without quite knowing why, he was happy for the first time in a week. The only things that puzzled him were the absence of Richard Honeydew and the other boy apprentices, and the sudden appearance of four beautiful young women on the stage. When the most affecting of these creatures — a demure maid in a high-waisted dress of pink taffeta — spoke to him, Hans Kippel felt his cheeks burn with modesty.

‘Did you like the entertainment?’ she said.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Be honest with me, Hans.’

‘I liked it exceedingly, good mistress.’

‘And did you recognise us all?’

‘Well …’

The visitor’s confusion was total. Richard Honeydew cut through it by taking off his auburn wig to reveal the telltale mop of fair hair. Hans Kippel jumped up with a shock that quickly turned to amusement as he realised how completely he had been fooled by the excellence of the playing. The four apprentices had been so convincing in their female roles that he had never suspected for a moment that they might be anything but young ladies themselves. As he looked at his new friend now, then saw the lantern-jawed John Tallis ease off the shoulders of his dress to expose a padded bust, he beat out a tattoo of joy on the firkin. This was the funniest thing of all and it put some of the old zest back into the Dutch boy.

Nicholas Bracewell watched with approval from the back of the stage. The decision to bring Hans Kippel to the Queen’s Head had been a sound one. It had not only guaranteed his safety, it gave a lift to his spirits that nothing else had been able to do. The antics of Love and Fortune might be able to unlock the demons that were chained up in his mind.

Demons of another kind prompted Lawrence Firethorn.

‘Nick, dear heart!’ he sighed.

‘I am here, sir.’

‘Have you spoken with that creeping insect yet?’

‘Master Marwood will not be moved.’

‘Then shall he feel the end of my sword up his mean-spirited arse. That will move him, I vow!’

‘We must do nothing rash,’ said Nicholas.

‘He’ll not disown us without a fight.’

‘Let me use subtler weapons.’

‘They have no power to kill.’

‘Yet might they preserve our place here, master.’

‘Can you be certain of that, Nick?’

The book holder shook his head and replied honestly.

‘No, sir. The portents are bad.’

Alderman Rowland Ashway surveyed the inn yard through the window of an upstairs room. With the fidgeting landlord at his shoulder, he pronounced the death sentence.

‘I want them out of here at once,’ he said.

‘Their contract still has weeks to run, sir.’

The alderman was peremptory. ‘My attorneys will find a way out of that. Good lawyers will sniff out a loophole in any document. When you have signed the Queen’s Head over to me, we’ll have Westfield’s Men out on the street before they draw breath to protest.’

‘Hold fast,’ said Alexander Marwood. ‘Do they not deserve a fair warning?’

‘Notice of eviction is all that they will get.’

‘I have scruples.’

‘There is no such thing in business affairs.’

Ashway’s easy brutality made the landlord pause to consider his own position. If the alderman dealt with his enemies so callously, how would he handle Marwood himself if the two of them ever fell out? Cunning lawyers who could revoke a legal contract with Westfield’s Men could do as much with any document of sale. Security of tenure might turn out to rest on the whim of Rowland Ashway.

‘I need more time to think this over,’ said Marwood.

‘You have had weeks already, sir.’

‘Fresh doubts arise.’

‘Smother them at birth.’

‘I must make safe our future.’

‘That is my major concern here,’ said the other with adipose affability. ‘The Queen’s Head is nothing without the name of Marwood and I would not dream of buying one without the other. Your family have a proud heritage, sir. It is my sincerest wish to preserve and honour that.’

‘I must peruse the contract with my own attorney.’

‘So shall you, Master Marwood.’

‘And my wife still has her quibbles.’

‘I thought my two hundred pounds took care of them.’

‘It helped,’ said the landlord with a laugh like a death rattle. ‘It helped to soften her inclinations.’

‘Work on her earnestly.’

‘It has been my life’s endeavour.’

Ashway pulled away from the window and walked back into the room. Watching the end of the rehearsal had only deepened his hatred of Westfield’s Men. Their very existence was a reminder of the privilege and title from which he was excluded by birth. To oust them would be to promote worth in place of idleness. Theatre was nothing but a distraction from the working world of the city.

He fixed an eye on the squirming publican.

‘You have given me your word, Master Marwood.’

‘It is my bond, sir.’

‘I expected no less.’

‘We have always dealt honestly with each other.’

‘And both of us have prospered,’ noted Ashway. ‘Bear that in mind in case your wife has further doubts. I will have the contract sent to you forthwith.’

‘Give me time to study it at my leisure.’

‘Keep me waiting and my interest will wane.’

‘All will be well, I am sure.’

‘Good,’ said the alderman going back to the window to gaze down. ‘I’ll take possession of the Queen’s Head and throw Westfield’s Men back into the gutter where they belong, vile rabble that they are! Let their illustrious patron give them all begging bowls!’ Something aroused his curiosity. ‘Come here to me.’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘That man below there.’

‘Which one?’

‘The sturdy fellow with the boy.’

‘I see him.’

‘Who is he?’

Alexander Marwood watched the tall, muscular figure take his scrawny young companion across the yard to the stage and hoist him up with one fluent movement of his strong arms. The landlord knew him as the one member of the company whom he could respect and trust.

‘Well, sir,’ said Ashway. ‘Who is he?’

‘The book holder.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

Expectation put colour in her cheeks and rekindled the spark in her eyes. The day was rich with promise and she let it show in her face, her voice and her movements even though she collected some glances of disapproval from the household steward. Matilda Stanford had been stirred by the touch of true love and nothing could subdue her. The staid Simon Pendleton might expect her to share in the family sorrow over the murder of Michael Delahaye but she did not put on a false show of mourning for his benefit. All her thoughts were fixed on the afternoon ahead. Love and Fortune was more than just another performance by Westfield’s Men. If she had the courage to respond to the message of the sonnet, it was a tryst with her beloved.

‘Shall we be safe, mistress?’

‘Stay close to me, Prudence.’

‘I do not know whether to be excited or afraid.’

‘I confess I am a little of each.’

‘Would that we had a gentleman to protect us!’

‘We shall have. Be patient.’

Prudence Ling was far more than just a maidservant. Small, dark and spry, she was an attractive young woman with lively conversation and plenty of bounce. Most important of all, she was utterly trustworthy. Prudence had been in service with Matilda for some years now and their friendship had reached the point where they could exchange any confidences. The maidservant had no time for moral judgement. If her mistress wished to deceive her husband while he was away, then Prudence was ready to help with all her considerable guile. It was she who had procured the hooded cloaks that the two of them now wore and it was she who had led the way out through the garden gate so that their exit was unobserved by the steward of Stanford Place. Hiding their faces behind masks, they joined the crowd that was converging on the Queen’s Head.

‘I have but one fear, mistress.’

‘Be still, child.’

‘What if they mistake us for ladies of pleasure?’

‘Think on goodness and ignore them.’

The two women paid their entrance fee and went up to the middle gallery to claim seats on the front bench. They were wedged in between a couple of leering gallants but their masks gave them concealment and the badinage soon died. Other ladies with more available charms were taking their places nearby to watch the entertainment and to ply their trade at the same time. Prudence sneaked a sideways look at them and giggled her amusement.

The wind had freshened now and the sky was overcast. A full and fractious audience needed a vigorous comedy to warm them up and that is what they were given. Inspired by the speech that Lawrence Firethorn delivered just before they began, Westfield’s Men played Love and Fortune with a verve and commitment that was lacking from their previous offering. In place of tepid tragedy was a joyous comedy of romantic misunderstanding. Riotous laughter soon filled the makeshift auditorium and hearts were moved by the shifts and sufferings within the drama.

Matilda Stanford was entranced from the moment when Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in a magnificent costume of red and gold velvet to deliver the Prologue in tones of ringing sincerity. Her mask fell from her hand to reveal her in her true beauty and the actor spotted her immediately. Though heard by all, his words were clearly directed at her and she let herself be caressed by the language of pure love. Firethorn continued to woo her throughout in such a way that she was impervious to the presence of other spectators and believed herself to be the sole witness of a command performance. Love and Fortune was bursting at the seams with fun and frolic but her attention never wandered from Lawrence Firethorn. She did not notice the lovelorn swain with his clean-shaven naivety who was also dedicating his performance to her. Nor did she consider for a second that it was he who had written the new Prologue as well as the additional lines which were included for her benefit alone.

Suddenly, it was all over. Matilda was caught up in a torrent of applause that went on for several minutes as Firethorn led his company out onto the stage. His eyes sent further messages of desire to her but she could not fathom their meaning. When the cast vanished behind the curtain and the crowd began to leave, she was plunged into despair. During the play itself, Lawrence Firethorn had been so close to her in spirit that she felt she could reach out to touch him but now he was miles away. Had she taken all those risks to such little purpose? Did her blossoming romance amount simply to this? Was there nothing more?

‘A word with you, mistress!’

‘Away, sir!’ said Matilda.

‘But I bring you a letter.’

‘Do not trouble me further.’

‘It is from Master Firethorn.’

Breathless and battered, George Dart had struggled through the press to get to her with his missive. She snatched it from him and rewarded him with a coin that turned his elfin misery into beaming delight. Matilda opened the letter and read its contents with rising elation. It was an invitation to join Lawrence Firethorn in a private room and share a cup of Canary wine. She accepted on impulse and waved George Dart on so that she and her maidservant might follow. During the journey along the gallery, she showed the letter to Prudence. The maidservant was at once intrigued and concerned.

‘Is this wise, mistress?’

‘There is only one way to find out, Prudence.’

‘What of danger?’

‘I embrace it willingly.’

‘He is certainly the handsomest of men.’

‘Master Firethorn is a god whom I would worship.’

Their guide took them through a maze of corridors until he reached a stout oak door. He paused to knock with timid knuckles. His master’s roar came from within. George Dart opened the door for the two ladies to enter then he closed it behind them as Lawrence Firethorn bent low to plant a first delicate kiss on the hand of Matilda Stanford. Having done his office, the stagekeeper was now superfluous and could return to the multifarious tasks that still awaited him below. He made for the stairs but his way was blocked by a looming figure with staring eyes and gaping jaw. Edmund Hoode was aghast.

‘Who were those ladies?’ he demanded.

‘Guests of Master Firethorn, sir.’

‘But that was her! And she is mine!’

‘I was sent to bid them here. That is all I know.’

‘This is torture indeed!’

‘You look ill, sir. Shall I send for help?’

Hoode grabbed him. ‘Who was she?’

‘Which one, master?’

‘There is only one, George. That beauteous creature with the luminous skin. That angel from the gallery.’ He shook his colleague hard. ‘What is her name, man?’

‘Matilda Stanford, sir.’

‘Matilda, Matilda …’ Hoode played with the name and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, yes, it becomes her. Sweet Matilda. O, Matilda mine. Edmund and Matilda. Matilda and Edmund. How well they flow together!’ Titters of amusement came from within the room to darken his face. ‘Lawrence and Matilda. There’s discord and damnation for you!’

‘May I go now, Master Hoode?’ whimpered Dart.

‘What’s that?’

‘You are hurting me, sir.’

The poet released his quarry and let him scuttle away down the stairs. His own pain now preoccupied him. The cruel irony of it all lanced his very soul. Hoode’s own verses had been used to deliver up his mistress into the steamy embrace of Lawrence Firethorn. Deprived of the chance to write to her himself, he had been doing so unwittingly on another’s behalf. It was insupportable and the horror of it made him sway and moan. When he put his ear to the door, he heard flattery and laughter and the betrayal of his greatest hopes. Inside the room, mutual desire was flowering into something more purposive.

Edmund Hoode had murder in his heart.