The Nine Giants

Chapter Eight

During the performance of Love and Fortune, Hans Kippel sat in a corner of the tiring-house and wondered at everything he saw. Actors came and went, changing their costumes, characters and sex with baffling speed. Scenic devices were carried on and off. Stage and hand props were in constant use. Everyone was involved in a hectic event that gained momentum all the time and it was left to the book holder to impose order and sanity on the proceedings. From the stage itself came heightened language and comic songs that were interspersed with waves of laughter and oceans of applause. Swordplay, music and dance added to the magic of it all. In its own way, it was even more thrilling than watching the whole play in rehearsal. Tucked away in the tiring-house, Hans Kippel was part of a strange, new, mad, marvellous world that set fire to his imagination. He believed he was in heaven.

‘I am sorry to leave you alone so long, Hans.’

‘Do not vex yourself about me, Master Bracewell.’

‘There was much for me to do, as you saw.’

‘I have never seen anyone work so hard,’ said the boy with frank admiration. ‘Not even Preben van Loew.’

‘Did the others keep an eye on you?’

‘Dick Honeydew spoke to me many times though his skirts made him look so like a woman. Master Hoode was very kind and so was Master Gill. I also talked a lot with George Dart and even had a few words with Master Curtis, the carpenter, who helped us at the house this morning.’ His face clouded. ‘Who started that blaze?’

‘I will find out, Hans.’

‘But why was it done, sir?’

Nicholas shrugged evasively and brought the boy out into the yard. The experiment of bringing Hans Kippel to the Queen’s Head had been an unqualified success but he was now in the way. Having supervised the dismantling of the stage, the book holder now took time off to shepherd the boy back down to the wharf where Abel Strudwick was waiting. Nicholas paid him in advance and charged him with the task of rowing the apprentice back to the Surrey side of the river and of accompanying him safely home. The boatman was delighted with his commission, not least because his passenger was so enthused by the play he had just seen and so willing to listen to more of Strudwick’s plangent music. Ambition nudged again.

‘What did Master Firethorn say about me?’ he asked.

‘I go back to raise the matter with him now.’

‘Tell him I am at his disposal.’

‘He may not have need of you directly, Abel.’

‘Shall I bring my verses to him?’

‘I will ask.’

Nicholas strode back through the coolness of the early evening to attend to his final duties. He was checking that everything had been securely locked away when a broad palm gave him a hearty slap on the back.

‘Nick, my bawcock! A thousand thanks!’

‘For what, sir?’

‘A thousand acts of goodness,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘But none more welcome than the service you performed for me of late.’

‘You speak of the lady, I think.’

‘And think of her as I speak. Oh, Nick, my friend, she is an empress to my imperial design. I have never met a creature of such flawless perfection and such peerless beauty.’ Another slap fell. ‘And it was you who found out who she was. A thousand thousand thanks!’

Nicholas had grave reservations about his role as go-between and he was uneasy when he heard what had transpired. Matilda Stanford had come to the Queen’s Head with no chaperone but a maidservant and the two of them had been greeted by Firethorn in a private room. It boded ill for the young lady herself and for the company.

‘Conquest is assured,’ said Firethorn dreamily.

‘Beware of what might follow, sir.’

‘I care nothing for that. The present is all to me.’

‘Have concern for the future as well,’ warned Nicholas. ‘The lady is married and to a man of great wealth and influence. Think what hurt he might inflict if he ever found out about this dalliance.’

‘I fear no man alive, sir!’

‘It is the company I have in mind. Master Stanford will be Lord Mayor of London before long. He could take his anger out on Westfield’s Men and expel us promptly.’

‘Only if he is cognisant,’ said Firethorn. ‘And he will not be. We will pull the wool over his mayoral eyes and make a mockery of him. I am no lusty youth with his codpiece points about to pop. Waiting only enhances the prize and I will bide my time until Richmond.’

‘Richmond, sir?’

‘The Nine Giants.’

‘You have made an assignation?’

‘I have but put the sweet thought into her mind.’

‘And until then?’

‘We simply dote on the ecstasy that lies in store.’

Nicholas was relieved that he was not rushing into his entanglement. Advance notice gave the book holder the opportunity to extricate the young bride. Flushed with excitement, Lawrence Firethorn was in a mood to agree to almost anything and Nicholas plied him with a dozen or more requests concerning company business. When the actor-manager acceded to them all, his employee honoured a promise he had been forced to give.

‘I have a friend who writes verses, sir.’

‘Let me see them, let me see them.’

‘He is but a humble waterman.’

‘What of that, Nick?’ said the actor proudly. ‘I am the son of a common blacksmith yet I have risen to the pinnacle of my profession. Who is this fellow?’

‘Abel Strudwick.’

‘I will read his work and give my opinion.’

Firethorn waved his farewell and swept off down the corridor. Nicholas was glad that he had mentioned his friend but held out little hope for him. The actor would have forgotten all about the request by the next day. Abel Strudwick would be only one of countless dejected scribes who were spurned by the star of Westfield’s Men.

The taproom was the next port of call for the book holder. His intention was to speak to Marwood’s wife but someone else claimed his attention first. Edmund Hoode was almost suicidal. Seated alone at a table, he was pouring beer down his throat as if he were emptying a bucket of water into a sink. Nicholas intervened and put the huge tankard aside.

‘Give it to me, Nick!’ gasped Hoode.

‘I think you have drunk enough, sir.’

‘Fill it to the brim with poison and make me happy.’

‘We love you too well for that, Edmund.’

‘You might but she does not. I am betrayed.’

‘Only by yourself,’ said Nicholas gently, sitting beside him. ‘You do the lady wrong to expect too much from her. She does not even know of your existence.’

‘But she read my sonnet!’

‘Sent by another.’

‘Yes!’ growled Hoode, trying to stand. ‘Lawrence has used me cruelly in this matter. On my honour, I will not permit it! I will challenge him to a duel!’

He reached for an invisible sword at his side and fell back ridiculously onto his seat. Nicholas steadied his friend then found himself the object of attack.

‘I blame you, sir!’ said Hoode.

‘For what?’

‘Foul deception. Why did you not tell me the truth?’

‘I thought to save you from pain.’

‘But you have made it all the worse,’ howled the poet. ‘You knew that Lawrence was in pursuit of my fair mistress yet you did not even warn me.’

‘I hoped to head him off, Edmund.’

‘Head him off, sir? When he is at full gallop? It would be easier to head off a charging bull!’

‘Nevertheless, it may still be done.’

Hoode clutched at straws. ‘How, Nick? How? How? How?’

‘I will bethink me.’

‘Matilda Stanford.’ Fantasy had returned. ‘I could weave such pretty conceits around a name like Matilda. It is a description of a divinity. Matilda the Magnificent. I cannot stop saying it — Matilda, Matilda, Matilda …’

‘Remember to add her surname,’ said the other.

‘What?’

‘Stanford. Matilda Stanford.’

‘She will always be plain Matilda to me.’

‘But not to her husband.’

‘Husband!’ He choked. ‘The child is married?’

‘To Walter Stanford. Master of the Mercers.’

‘I have heard of him.’

‘So should you have. He is the Lord Mayor Elect.’

Edmund Hoode stared blankly at the ceiling as he tried to process this new information. It introduced many unforeseen difficulties but romance could overcome them. He fell in love indiscriminately and let nothing stand in the way of his surging passion. The presence of a husband was a problem but it was not insurmountable. Far more serious was the existence of a rival of the calibre of Lawrence Firethorn. He had all the advantages. Hoode shifted his ground dramatically.

‘I believe in the sanctity of marriage,’ he said.

‘So should we all.’

‘Matilda must be saved from damnation.’

‘That is my wish, too, Edmund.’

‘I will protect her from the prickly Firethorn.’

‘Do it with cunning.’

‘I’ll move with stealth,’ he said. ‘If I cannot have her as mine, she will be returned safe and sound to her lawful husband. Lawrence will fail this time. Should he try to board her, I’ll take her by the ankles and pull her out from under him. He will not prevail.’

‘We two are agreed on that.’

‘Yes, Nick. It will be my mission!’

Abel Strudwick rowed with undiminished gusto across the river and guided his boat around and between the endless bobbing obstacles. Hans Kippel urged him to pull harder and play more music. The waterman was overjoyed. He saw in the Dutch apprentice something of the son who had been snatched from him by the navy and his affection for the boy grew. With a captive audience who appreciated his work so much, he launched into some of his most ambitious poems, long, meandering narratives about life on the Thames and the perils that it presented. His music took them all the way to Bankside then out onto the wharf and up the stone steps. A friendship was being consolidated.

There was one peril that Strudwick did not mention. The man with the patch stood in the open window of a house on the Bridge and applied a telescope to his good eye. He watched the waterman and his young passenger until the two of them had vanished between the tenements then he put the telescope aside and turned to his thickset companion. His voice was slurred but cultured.

‘We must make no mistakes next time, sir.’

‘I will carve the boy to pieces myself.’

‘Look to that friend of his.’

‘What was his name again?’

‘Bracewell.’

‘That’s the fellow.’

‘Master Nicholas Bracewell.’

Sybil Marwood was proving to be even more unyielding than her husband. She was a stout, sour-faced woman of middle years for whom life was a continuing disappointment. She had little time for Westfield’s Men and even less for the arguments that Nicholas Bracewell was now putting on their behalf in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Leaning on the counter with her bulging elbows, she cut him down ruthlessly in mid-sentence.

‘Hold your peace, sir.’

‘I beg leave to finish, mistress.’

‘There is no more to say. We sell the inn.’

‘And forfeit your birthright?’ he said. ‘Once the premises are in the hands of Alderman Ashway, you will be at his mercy.’

‘We will have security of tenure.’

‘For how long?’

‘In perpetuity.’

‘Even Master Marwood cannot live for ever,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘What will happen to you if he should die?’

‘I would remain here in his place.’

‘Is that in the terms of the contract?’

‘It must be,’ she insisted. ‘Or Alexander will not be allowed to sign it. I know my rights, sir.’

‘Nobody respects them more than us, mistress.’

Nicholas was making no impact on her. Simple greed had mortgaged her finer feelings. Sybil Marwood was so dazzled by the amount of ready capital that she and her husband would receive that she had blocked out all other considerations. The theatre company was a disposable item in her codex. As long as actors were abroad, the virginity of her daughter was under threat. The skulking landlord did at least have some vestigial feelings of loyalty to the troupe that had brought so much custom to the inn over the years but his wife had none. Her cold heart was only warmed by the idea of a healthy profit.

‘Can no words prevail with you?’ asked Nicholas.

‘None that you can utter, sir.’

‘What if Alderman Ashway plays the tyrant?’

‘Then he will have me to face.’

‘The deed of sale is drawn up by him.’

‘Women have ways to get their desires.’

It was a cynical observation made with the veiled hostility which seemed to encircle her but it also contained some advice on which Nicholas was determined to act. Direct approaches to Marwood and to his wife had borne only diseased fruit. The book holder had to work a different way and he suddenly realised how. There was an element of risk but it had to be discounted. It was the last course of action open to them.

Nicholas took his leave and sauntered across the taproom. Edmund Hoode was still plotting revenge at his table, Owen Elias was regaling colleagues with the story of how he first discovered his vocation as an actor, George Dart was sharing a drink with Thomas Skillen and Nathan Curtis, and the indefatigable Barnaby Gill, dressed in his finery, was half-trying to seduce a young ostler from the stables. All of the company had now learnt of the grim fate that menaced them and an air of despondency filled the room. The book holder was given fresh incentive to put his new plan into action.

He went straight to Shoreditch and swore Margery Firethorn to secrecy. She was thrilled. Fond of Nicholas Bracewell, she let herself be persuaded by his charm and his reason. It was wonderful to feel that she might be the one person who could turn the tide and she saw at once the personal advantage she would gain at home. The domineering Lawrence Firethorn would no longer be able to crow over a wife if she rescued Westfield’s Men by her timely intercession.

‘I’ll do it, Nicholas!’ she said.

‘Privily.’

‘Lawrence will suspect nothing.’

‘He would not understand this manoeuvre.’

‘Teach me what I must say.’

‘Appeal to Mistress Marwood as a woman.’

‘But she is a dragon in skirts, from what I hear.’

‘All the more reason to flatter and fondle her.’

Margery chortled. ‘You are wicked, sir!’

‘I will call you when the time is ripe.’

‘You will find me ready.’

She planted a kiss of gratitude on his cheek then sent him on his way. Setting her on Sybil Marwood might just be the solution. They were two of a kind, sisters under the skin, powerful women with red blood in their veins and fire in their bellies. With even moderate luck, Margery might be able to get through to the landlord’s wife in a way that no man — not even Marwood himself — could possibly manage. It was all down to the ladies in the case. They spoke the same language.

As Nicholas marched homewards, he reflected on the day and the crisis with which it had begun. Hans Kippel was in grave danger. Enemies who would resort to arson would stop at nothing. Evidently, the boy had witnessed something on the Bridge which he should not have and his life was forfeit as a result. The only way to save him was to unmask his attackers first and bring them to justice. These thoughts took the book holder all the way down Gracechurch Street and back onto the Bridge.

The shops were closed now but there were still plenty of people milling around. Nicholas stood aside as two horses cantered past him. He then walked up to the house which he had visited that morning and appraised it more carefully. It was a small, narrow, two-storey property that consisted of a tiny drawing room, a dining room, two bedchambers, and a kitchen that jutted out over the river so that a supply of water could be hauled up in a bucket tied to the end of a long rope. The dwelling also had its own privy. There was a public convenience on the Bridge itself but most householders took advantage of the site to make their own arrangements. The Thames was its own form of sanitation.

Nicholas saw the light in the downstairs window but he did not immediately knock on the door. Instead, he turned sideways to go down the slender gap between the house and the shop next door so that he could reach the parapet. Directly below was one of the starlings into which the stone pillars which supported the Bridge were set. The swift current foamed the water as it sluiced its way under the arch. Nicholas leant right over to get a better view and discovered that he could see right into the kitchen of the house. Its timber-framing had sagged dramatically and it looked as if it was hanging on to the rest of the building with the tips of its fingers. He bent right over the parapet to peer into the kitchen.

‘May I help you, sir?’

The voice was polite but unfriendly. Nicholas swung round to see a short, neat, erect figure blocking the narrow passage. His apparel suggested service in a grand establishment. The man stroked his greying beard.

‘You are trespassing here,’ he said.

‘Do you live in this house, sir?’

‘No, I have just been visiting.’

‘You know the tenants, then?’

‘Why do you ask?’ His suspicion was candid. ‘Have you any business to be here?’

‘I was looking for someone.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘He has a patch over one eye.’

Simon Pendleton stared at him with cool distaste and took some time before he spoke. His tone was offhand.

‘That is Master Renfrew,’ he said.

‘May I speak with him?’

‘He is not at home, sir.’

‘Will he return soon?’ asked Nicholas.

‘I fear not,’ said the steward dismissively. ‘He has gone away for a long time. You will not be able to see Master Renfrew. He is not here in London.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘Far away, sir. Far, far away.’

The bed creaked and groaned noisily as they flailed around on top of it at the height of their passion. He was a considerate lover who aroused her patiently by degrees and made her yield herself completely to him. She loved the weight of his body with its firm muscles and its thrusting power. She shared his total lack of fear or inhibition. Here was no ordinary client who tumbled into her arms for five minutes of overeager satisfaction or who rolled off her in a drunken stupor before he could complete the business of the night. Kate had found herself a real lover and she revelled in the discovery.

When it was all over, they lay side by side in a peaceful togetherness. His chest was heaving, her heart was pounding and both of their bodies were lathered with sweat. It was minutes before either could speak. He then propped himself up on his elbow to gaze down at her with his one eye. His smile had a rugged tenderness.

‘Thank you, my love,’ he said softly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We’ll meet again some night.’

‘That is my hope.’

‘And my intention.’

He leant over to kiss her gently on the lips then he reached across to the chair on which he had tossed his clothes. Fumbling at his purse, he brought back some coins to slip into the palm of her hand. Kate knew their value by touch and was instantly grateful.

‘Oh, sir, you are too kind!’

‘I repay good service handsomely.’

‘Be assured of it here at any time.’

‘I will always ask for you in this house.’

Another kiss sealed their friendship. Kate was no common whore from the stews. She was a very beautiful and shapely young woman of seventeen who chose her clients at the Unicorn Tavern with some care. They were always true gentlemen even if they could not always hold their wine or complete their transactions between the sheets. Kate had standards and the latest guest to her perfumed little bedchamber was a prime example of those standards. She even liked the black patch over one eye. It gave him a raffish charm that sorted well with his relaxed manner. This was a man who knew how to please a woman properly.

As he got up from the bed and began to dress, she reached out for the rapier that lay against the chair. It glinted in the light of the candles. Kate pulled it a little way from its scabbard before pushing it slowly back in again. Then she noticed the name that was inscribed in large italics on the handle of the weapon.

‘James Renfrew,’ she read.

‘At your service, madam.’

‘What do your friends call you, sir?’

‘Jamie.’

‘Then that shall be my name for you. Jamie.’

‘I will come when you call it.’

‘Then will you never leave this bed, sir.’

He laughed merrily and pulled her to him in a warm embrace. Kate was the finest company he had found in Eastcheap and he would not neglect her. Cupping her chin in his hand, he brushed his lips past hers then smiled.

‘I will be back soon, Kate.’

‘I will be waiting, Jamie.’

Only a small party of foreign visitors was dining at the Lord Mayor’s house that evening but they were accorded the lavish hospitality for which Sir Lucas Pugsley was justly famed. He sat beside his wife at the head of the table, fielding compliments and savouring the deference of other nations. Exuding good humour, he made his guests feel thoroughly at home. As soon as they had all left, however, he was able to show his true feelings to Aubrey Kenyon.

‘I hate these grinning Italians,’ he said.

‘You showed them great civility, sir.’

‘What else could I do, Aubrey? I am bound by the duties of my office here. But private opinion is another matter and in private, I tell you, these greasy fellows are not to my liking. We have enough aliens of our own.’

‘London is a melting-pot of nations.’

‘And it does not stop here,’ said Pugsley irritably. ‘Bristol, Norwich and other towns besides have their own foreign quarters. The rot is slowly spreading.’

‘I know it well,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘There are over five thousand registered aliens here and that does not include the many who conceal the origin and escape the census. We have French, German, Italian, Dutch …’

‘Dutch! Those are the ones I hate most.’

‘An industrious people, sir.’

‘Then let them stay in their own country and be industrious, Aubrey. We do not want them here to compete with honest English traders and craftsmen.’ He was so animated now that his chain jingled. ‘London is fast becoming the sewer of Europe. What other nations spew out, we take in and suffer. It is not good, sir.’

‘The city has never welcomed foreigners.’

‘Can you blame it?’

Before the Lord Mayor could develop his theme, they were interrupted by the arrival of a friend. Alderman Rowland Ashway was perspiring freely from his exertions. He was conducted into the dining room and rested on the back of a chair while he recovered, letting an expert eye rove around the tempting remains of the banquet. Aubrey Kenyon gave his graceful bow then slid out through the door to leave them alone together.

‘What means this haste?’ said Pugsley.

‘I bring news that may advantage you.’

‘Then let me hear it.’

‘Walter Stanford is much discomfited.’

‘That is sweet music to my ear. How?’

‘His nephew has been killed,’ said Ashway. ‘They pulled the dead body of Lieutanant Michael Delahaye from the Thames. He was cruelly murdered.’

‘How has Stanford taken it?’

‘Sorely. He had high hopes of the young man and made a place for him in his business. Coming after the death of his first wife, this blow is doubly painful.’

Pugsley smirked. ‘This is good news indeed. But will it make the Master of the Mercers abandon his mayoralty?’

‘It will make him think twice.’

‘That is some consolation. Thank you, Rowland. You shower many favours on me. I know not how to repay them all. You did well to bring me this intelligence.’

‘We must pray that further disasters befall him.’

‘If that young wife of his should vanish,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘Now that would really cut him to the quick.’

Ashway was thoughtful. ‘Most certainly.’

‘Lieutenant, you say? The nephew was in the army?’

‘Recently discharged.’

‘Remind me of his name.’

‘Michael Delahaye.’

‘Michael Delahaye, sir. A soldier lately returned from the Netherlands.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘The body was released an hour ago.’

‘To whom?’

‘His uncle. Alderman Stanford.’ ‘The Lord Mayor Elect?’

‘Even he.’

Nicholas was surprised. Having called at the charnel house to see if the body had yet been identified, he found the old keeper replaced by a more respectful individual and the corpse from the river replaced by one that was hauled out of a ditch. He collected all the details he could then came back up into the living world again. The livid scar on the chest of the dead man could now be explained. It was patently a wound sustained in battle but its owner had been cut down before it had been allowed to heal. The connection with Walter Stanford intrigued him. It had been a bad week for the mercer. While he was learning of the murder of his nephew, his wife was being courted by Lawrence Firethorn. If the actor were not prevented, Stanford might well find a corpse on the slab of his marriage as well.

Nicholas turned towards Gracechurch Street and strolled on as quickly as he could through the morning crush. No play was being performed that day but he was summoned to a meeting about the planned visit to the Nine Giants in Richmond. Night had been quiet at the house and he had felt it safe to leave Hans Kippel there now. The boy’s compatriots took their duties as bodyguards with the utmost seriousness. They had armed themselves with swords or staves in case of attack and Preben van Loew had found an antiquated pike. Under the command of Anne Hendrik, they were a motley but effective crew. Besides, there was no performance at the Queen’s Head to amuse the boy this time and he would only be in the way.

The book holder let Abel Strudwick row him across the river from Bankside so that he could thank his friend for taking care of the apprentice on the previous day. The waterman was delighted to have been of help and got what he felt was a rich reward when he was told that his name had indeed been mentioned to Lawrence Firethorn. He could not wait to take his verses to the actor-manager before embracing the stardom that beckoned. Nicholas had tried to dampen his overzealous reaction but to no avail. Strudwick had sensed recognition at last.

As he turned into Gracechurch Street, Nicholas had put all thought of the water poet out of his mind. His preoccupation was with a murdered soldier who had been stripped of his clothes and his dignity then hurled into the Thames without even a face to call his own. Service to his country should have earned Michael Delahaye some kinder treatment than that. Was the soldier killed by his own enemies or did his relationship with the Lord Mayor Elect have any bearing on the case?

So caught up was he in his rumination that he did not observe the thickset man who was trailing him through the crowded market. The first that Nicholas knew of it was when a hand grabbed his arm from behind and the point of a knife pricked his spine.

‘Do as I bid,’ hissed a voice. ‘Or I kill you here.’

‘Who are you?’

‘One that is sent to bear a message.’

‘With a dagger in my back.’

‘Walk towards that alley or I finish you here.’

The book holder pretended to agree. In the heaving mass of a market day, he had no choice. His assailant had caught him off guard and was now easing him towards a narrow alley. Once he entered that, Nicholas knew, he would never come out again alive. He tried to distract the man.

‘You are Master Renfrew, I think.’

‘Then must you think again, sir.’

‘There is no patch over your eye?’

‘No, sir. I see well enough to stab you in the back.’

‘Do you lodge at a house on the Bridge?’

‘That is of no concern to you.’

‘Did you play with fire the other night?’

‘Keep moving,’ grunted the man.

As Nicholas was prodded by the dagger again, he reacted with sudden urgency. Hs free arm struck out at the canopy of a market stall while a heel was jabbed hard into the shin of his captor. Wrenching his other arm away at the same time, he lurched forward a few paces then swung around to confront the man who was now hopping on one leg and trying to disentangle himself from the canopy while being abused by the stallholder. Nicholas had only a few seconds to study the swarthy, bearded face before the bull-like frame came hurtling angrily at him. He caught the wrist that held the dagger and grappled with his attacker. Uproar now spread as the two men cannoned off the bodies all around them. The irate stallholder joined in the fight with a broom which he used to belabour both of them.

The assailant was strong but Nicholas was a match for him. Recognising this, the man made a last desperate effort to seize the advantage, angling the dagger towards the other’s body and thrusting home with all his might. The book holder took evasive action in the nick of time. He turned the man’s wrist sharply and sent the blade towards the latter’s stomach. The animal howl of pain was so loud and frightening that it silenced the crowd and even made the stallholder hold off with his broom. With a surge of strength, the man flung off Nicholas and ran off through the crowd with bullocking force. The book holder looked down at the front of his jerkin.

It was spattered with blood that was not his own.

Triumph was followed by setback. After his victory in the field on the previous afternoon, Lawrence Firethorn came off badly in skirmishes the next day. It began at home with a spectacular row over the household accounts. He fought hard but his wife was at her most vehement and sent him off with his ears ringing. No comfort awaited him at the Queen’s Head. His first encounter was with Edmund Hoode who refused outright to provide any more verses for the actor-manager’s romantic purposes and backed up that refusal with the threat of quitting the company. While Firethorn was still recovering from that shock, Barnaby Gill chose his moment to praise the fine performance given by Owen Elias in Love and Fortune and to let his colleague know that he was in danger of being eclipsed by one of the hired men. There was worse to come. Alexander Marwood sidled past with a hideous smile to announce that he had now decided to sign a contract with Rowland Ashway for the sale of the inn.

When he had received Matilda Stanford in a private room, he had felt like a king. That was yesterday. Today his subjects were in armed revolt and he could not put them down. He prowled the yard at the Queen’s Head while he tried to compose himself. It was the worst possible time to accost him with a handful of poems.

‘Good day, Master Firethorn.’

‘Who are you?’ snarled the other.

‘Abel Strudwick. I believe that you know of me.’

‘As much as I care to, sir. Away with you!’

‘But Master Bracewell mentioned my name.’

‘What care I for that?’

‘I am a poet, sir. I would perform on the scaffold.’

‘Then get yourself hanged for ugliness,’ said the irate Firethorn. ‘You may twitch on the gallows and provide good entertainment for the lower sort.’

Strudwick bristled. ‘What say you, sir?’

‘Avoid my sight, you thing of hair!’

‘I am a water poet!’

‘Then piss your verses up against a wall, sir.’

‘I looked for more civility than this.’

‘You have come to the wrong shop.’

‘So I see,’ said the waterman, casting aside his former reverence for the actor. ‘But I’ll not be put down by you, sir, you strutting peacock with a face like a dying donkey, you whoreson, glass-gazing, beard-trimming cozener!’

‘Will you bandy words with me, sir!’ roared Firethorn with teeth bared. ‘Take that epileptic visage away from here before it frights the souls of honest folk. I’ll not talk to you, you knave, you rascal, you rag-wearing son of Satan. Stand off, sir, and take that stink with you.’

‘I am as wholesome a man as you, Master Firethorn, and will not give way to a brazen-faced lecher who opens his mouth but to fart out villainy.’

‘You bawd, you beggar, you slave!’

‘Thief, coward, rogue!’

‘Dog’s-head!’

‘Trendle-tail!’

‘Hedge-bird!’

‘You walking quagmire!’

Abel Strudwick cackled at the insult and circled his man to attack again. Having come to offer poetry, he was instead trading invective. It was exhilarating.

‘Your father was a pox-riddled pimp!’ he yelled.

‘Your mother, Mistress Slither, conceived you in a fathom of foul mud. She was mounted by a rutting boar and dropped you in her next litter, the old sow.’

‘Snotty nose!’

‘Pig face!’

‘Pandar!’

‘Mongrel!’

Strudwick grinned. ‘Your wife, sir, under pretence of keeping a decent home, cuckolds you with every gamester in the city. Diseased she is, surely, and dragged through the cesspits of whoredom by the hour. Even as we speak, some lusty bachelor is riding her pell mell to damnation!’

Firethorn writhed at the insult and replied in kind. The volume and intensity of the argument had risen so much by now that a small crowd had formed to cheer and jibe and urge the combatants on. It was a fascinating contest with advantage swinging first one way and then the other. Firethorn had clear vocal superiority and used all the tricks of his art to subdue the waterman. Strudwick had greater experience on his side and vituperation gushed out of him in an endless, inventive stream. Actor met streetfighter in a war of words. It was at the point where they were about to exchange blows that Nicholas Bracewell came running across the yard and dived between them to hold them off.

‘Peace, sirs!’ he exclaimed. ‘Stand apart.’

‘I’ll run this black devil through!’ said Firethorn.

‘I’ll tear his liver out and eat it!’ said Strudwick.

‘Calm down and talk this over as friends.’

‘Friends!’ howled the waterman.

‘Mortal enemies,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d not befriend this whelp if he was the last man alive in creation.’

‘Let me be judge of this quarrel,’ said Nicholas.

But they were too inflamed for a reasoned discussion of their complaints. They eyed each other aggressively like two dogs bred for fighting. Since the book holder was still keeping them apart, they resolved on another form of attack. Abel Strudwick waved a sheaf of poems in the air and glared at Firethorn.

‘I challenge you to a flyting contest, sir!’ he said.

‘Let it be in public,’ retorted the other.

‘Upon the stage in this yard.’

‘Before a full audience.’

‘Name the day and the time.’

‘Next Monday,’ said Firethorn. ‘Be here at one. When the clock strikes the half-hour, we’ll begin.’

‘My waterman’s wit will destroy you utterly.’

‘Take care you do not drown yourself in it.’

‘I will bring friends to support me.’

‘All London knows my reputation.’

‘Stop, sirs,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is madness.’

But his pleas went unheard. Pride dictated terms. Lawrence Firethorn and Abel Strudwick had gone too far to pull back now. They would continue their duel on the following Monday with sharper weapons.

It would be a fight to the death.