The Nine Giants (15 page)

‘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.

D
uring 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.’