The Nine Giants (9 page)

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

‘Unless she be the Queen of England.’

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

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

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

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

He had to cling on to office somehow.

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

‘You are a welcome sight, Aubrey!’

‘Good even, good sir.’

‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Time is beginning to run out for us.’

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

‘How is our mutual friend?’ said Ashway.

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

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

‘The truth will not escape Walter Stanford.’

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

The Chamberlain calmly pronounced a death sentence.

‘They must find that boy.’

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

‘I will be poor company, Master Bracewell.’

‘That is for me to decide.’

‘I would not keep you awake.’

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

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

‘Thank you, mistress. Good night.’

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

‘It is kindness indeed, Nick.’

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

‘As do I.’

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

‘You do not snore,’ she said fondly.

‘How do you know?’

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

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

‘I hope not, sir.’

‘Accompany me through these difficulties.’

‘I’ll pray in church tomorrow.’

‘Add something else while down upon your knees.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Abel Strudwick runs mad.’

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

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

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

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

‘Hold off, sirs! Leave me alone!’

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

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

His delirium was worse than ever.

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

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

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

Lawrence Firethorn was hers to command.

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

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

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

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

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

On the journey home, his wife held confession.

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

‘Sacred matters.’

‘I felt that your mind was wandering.’

‘It was on higher things, Margery.’

‘The Sabbath is a day of rest.’

‘Then must you refrain from scolding your husband.’

‘Church is an act of faith.’

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

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

‘Stop grinning at me like a raving madman!’

‘I am happy, Lawrence.’

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

‘Do not mock me so.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Would you refuse, sir?’

‘Yes, Lawrence!’

‘This is not my Edmund Hoode that speaks.’

‘It is, Lawrence.’

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

‘So am I.’

‘Write me a sonnet to woo my love.’

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

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

‘Because my verse is reserved for another.’

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

‘Legal process is on my side, Edmund.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your contract with the company.’

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

‘Will you push me to violence here!’

‘Remember the Sabbath and lead a better life.’

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

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

‘Agreed.’

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

‘I have honoured that clause.’

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

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

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

‘Of course.’

‘Then must you bow to my purpose here.’

‘How can it be enforced?’

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

‘No lawyer would support you.’

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

‘This is treachery!’ spluttered Hoode.

‘I think I will start with a song.’

‘Can you descend to such foul devices?’

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

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

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

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

‘Do your duty with a gladsome mind.’

‘I want to woo my
own
beloved.’

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

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

‘I have received disquieting news.’

‘From whom?’ said Matilda.

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

‘That is cause for alarm,’ she agreed.

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

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

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

‘When he shows no consideration to his mother?’

‘All will be mended very soon.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nor yet for wild surmise, Father.’

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

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

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

‘This throws fresh light,’ said William anxiously.

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

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked his wife.

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

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

A troubled William spoke for all three of them.

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

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

‘Did you say something, sir?’

‘Only to myself,’ grunted Strudwick.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Writing a poem.’

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

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

‘I have been having second thoughts, master.’

‘About what?’ said Ashway.

‘The sale of the Queen’s Head.’

‘But it is all agreed in principle.’

‘That was before I listened to my wife.’

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

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

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

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

‘What might that be?’

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

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

‘But ownership will transfer to you.’

‘In return for a handsome price.’

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

‘So what detains you? Sentiment?’

‘It has its place, surely.’

‘What else?’

‘Fear of signing away my birthright.’

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

‘My wife might need more persuasion.’

‘Do it in the watches of the night.’

‘That is when I am least in command.’

‘What
will
content the lady, then?’