The Nine Giants (12 page)

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

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

‘Lord help us!’ exclaimed Stanford.

‘God rest his soul!’ said his son.

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

‘Well, sirs?’ he said.

‘That is him,’ whispered Stanford.

‘You have no doubt?’

‘None at all,’ added William.

‘Would you like to view him again?’

Walter Stanford winced and held up a large palm.

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

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

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

‘Thirty-two,’ he said.

‘What’s that, Hans?’ asked Anne.

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

‘Have pity on their souls,’ said Nicholas.

‘Who were they, sir?’

‘Misguided men.’

‘Did they deserve such treatment?’

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

‘What was it, Master Bracewell?’

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

‘That is Nonesuch House,’ said Anne.

‘I have admired it often, mistress.’

‘Did you know that it was Dutch?’

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

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

Nicholas Bracewell supplied more details for him.

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

‘Will I be reassembled?’ he said plaintively.

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

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

‘Like the hats of Jacob Hendrik.’

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

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

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

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

‘No, mistress.’

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

‘What happened, mistress?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy had been found.

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

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

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

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

‘Chance may contrive that for you.’

‘How say you?’

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

‘I would welcome the axe.’

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

‘Retire from the stage?’

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

‘What about Lawrence?’

‘What about him?’ challenged Gill.

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

‘A new prologue for
Love and Fortune?
’

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

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

‘I’ll not endure it longer, Barnaby!’

‘Write sixteen lines for Master Codpiece.’

‘Lawrence must relent.’

‘Not until Margery bites off his pizzle.’

‘He’ll use me this way no longer.’

‘Free yourself from womankind and learn true love.’

‘I’ll tell him straight.’

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

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

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

‘Speak to
me
instead, sir.’

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

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