The Nine Giants (2 page)

‘Hans is an honest boy,’ he said earnestly.

‘Let us hope so.’

‘I know his family as well as my own. We grew up
together in Amsterdam. You can always put your trust in a Kippel. They will never let you down.’

‘Then where is he now?’

‘On the road back, mistress.’

‘By way of Amsterdam?’

She had meant it as a joke but she rued it when his face crumpled. Preben van Loew was the mainstay of the business and she did not want to upset him in any way. At the same time, she could not allow an apprentice too much leeway or he would be bound to take advantage. Anne tried to make amends by praising the handiwork of her senior employee who was about to put the last carefully chosen feather into a tall hat with a curling brim. It was a small masterpiece that would grace the head of a gallant. The Dutchman allowed himself to be mollified then fell into a refrain that she had heard all too often on the lips of her husband.

‘They do us wrong to keep us out,’ he moaned.

‘It is the English way, I fear.’

‘Why do they fear the foreigner so?’

‘Simply because he is foreign.’

‘We make hats as good as theirs but they will not let us join their Guilds. They have the first choice of all the work that is on offer. We have to struggle on down here, outside the city limits, so that we do not offend their noses with our Dutch smell.’

‘They are jealous of your skills, Preben.’

‘It is unjust, mistress.’

‘Jacob said as much every day,’ she recalled. ‘He went
to them and put his arguments but they were deaf to his entreaties. All they would do was to boast about their history. They told him that the Hatters and the Furriers united with the Haberdashers at the very start of this century. Among those Hatters were the Feltmakers who have been trying to form their own Guild of late.’

‘I know, mistress,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the move has been opposed. What does it matter to us? None of these precious Guilds will appreciate our quality. They just wish to look after themselves and keep us out.’

‘It may change in time, Preben.’

‘I will not live to see it.’

‘Justice will one day be done.’

‘It has no place in business.’

Anne Hendrik was unable to reply. Before she could open her mouth, the door flew open and a scrawny youth in buff jerkin and hose came staggering in. Hans Kippel could not have made a more dramatic entrance. Anne moved across to reproach him and Preben van Loew stepped in to protect him then they both took a closer look at the newcomer. He was in great distress. His clothes were torn, his face was bruised and blood was oozing freely from a deep gash in his temple. Hans Kippel could barely stand. They helped him quickly to a seat.

‘Rest yourself here,’ said Anne.

‘What happened?’ asked Preben van Loew.

‘I will send for a surgeon directly.’

‘Tell us what befell you, Hans.’

The boy was trembling with fear. On the verge of
exhaustion, he could barely dredge up strength enough to speak. When the words finally dribbled out, there was a tattered bravery to them.

‘I saved … it. They … did not get … the money …’

With a ghost of a smile, he pitched forward onto the oak floorboards in a dead faint.

Stanford Place stood in a prime position on the east side of Bishopsgate and dwarfed the neighbouring dwellings. It was built in the reign of Edward IV and had now been arresting eyes and exciting envy for well over a century. With a frontage of almost two hundred feet, it had four storeys, each one jettied out above the floor below. Time had wearied the timber framing somewhat and the beams had settled at a slight angle to give the façade a curiously lopsided look but this only added to the character of the house. It was like a keystone in an arch and the adjacent buildings in Bishopsgate Street leant against it for support with companionable familiarity.

The establishment ran to a dozen bedchambers, a small banqueting hall, a dining parlour, a drawing room, butler’s lodging, servants’ quarters, kitchens, a bake house, even a tiny chapel. There were also stables, outhouses and an extensive garden. It was around this last impressive feature of the house that its owner was perambulating in the early evening sunlight. Walter Stanford was a big, bluff man with apparel that suggested considerable wealth and a paunch which hinted at too ready an appetite. Yet though his body had succumbed to middle age, his plump face still had a
boyish quality to it and the large brown eyes sparkled with childlike glee.

‘There is always room for improvement, Simon.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘No expense must be spared in pursuit of it.’

‘That was ever your way, sir.’

‘Look to the example of Theobalds,’ said Stanford with a lordly wave of his hand. ‘When Sir Robert Cecil was gracious enough to invite a party of us there, we were conducted around his garden. Garden, do I say? It was truly a revelation.’

‘You have commended it to me before, master.’

‘No praise is too high, Simon. Why, man, it beggars all description.’ Stanford chortled as he hit his stride. ‘The garden at Theobalds is encompassed with a ditch full of water, so broad and inviting that a man could row a boat between the shrubs if he had a mind to. There was a great variety of trees and plants with labyrinths to provide sport and decoration. What pleased me most was the
jet d’eau
with its basin of white marble. I must have such a thing here.’

‘Order has already been given for it.’

‘Then there were columns and pyramids of wood at every turn. After seeing these, we were taken by the gardener into the summerhouse, in the lower part of which, built, as it were, in a semicircle, are the twelve Roman emperors in white marble, and a table of touchstone. The upper part of it is set round with cisterns of lead into which the water is conveyed through pipes, so that fish may be kept in them,
and in summertime they are very convenient for bathing. And so it went on, Simon.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

As steward of the household, Simon Pendleton was well acquainted with his master’s enthusiasms. Unlike many who make large amounts of money, Walter Stanford was always looking for new ways to spend it and his home provided him with endless opportunities. The steward was a short, slim, unctuous man in his forties with a high forehead and greying beard. Trotting discreetly at the heels of the other, he made a mental note of any new commissions for the garden and there was much to keep him occupied. Every time Stanford paused, he ordered some new trees, shrubs, flowers, or herbs. Whenever a gap presented itself in some quiet corner, he decided to fill it with some statuary or with a pool. Parsimony was unknown to the master of Stanford Place. He was generosity itself when his interest was aroused.

‘It must all be ready in time,’ he warned.

‘I will speak to the gardeners, sir.’

‘My hour of triumph comes ever closer, Simon.’

‘And much deserved it is,’ said the steward with an obsequious bow. ‘Your whole establishment is conscious of the honour that you bestow upon them. It will indeed be a privilege to serve the next Lord Mayor of London.’

‘It will be the summit of my achievement.’

Stanford was lost for a moment in contemplation of the joys that lay ahead. Like his father before him, he was a Master of the Mercers’ Company, the most prestigious Guild
in the city, first in order of precedence on all ceremonial occasions, and immortalised by the name of London’s revered mayor, Dick Whittington, who had slipped immoveably into the folk-memory of the capital. The great man had also been Master of the Company and it was Stanford’s ambition to emulate some of his achievements. He wanted to leave his mark indelibly upon the city.

‘He built the largest privy in London,’ he mused fondly. ‘In the year of our Lord, 1419, Richard Whittington erected a convenience in Vintry Ward with sixty seats for Ladies and for Gentlemen, flushed with piped water. What a legacy to bequeath to old London town!’

Pendleton coughed discreetly and Stanford came out of his reverie. He was about to continue his walk when he saw someone flitting through the apple trees towards him on the tips of her toes. She wore a dress of blue and pink that set off the colour of her eyes and the rosiness of her cheeks. Stanford held his arms wide to welcome her and his steward melted quickly into the undergrowth. The young woman came gambolling excitedly up.

‘Matilda!’ said Stanford. ‘What means this haste?’

‘Oh, sir, I have so much to tell you!’ she gasped.

‘Catch your breath first while I steal a kiss.’ He bent over to peck her on the cheek then stood back to admire her. ‘You are truly the delight of my life!’

‘I have found delights of my own, sir.’

‘Where might they be?’

‘At the playhouse,’ she said. ‘We saw Westfield’s Men perform this dolorous tragedy at the Queen’s Head. It made
me weep piteously but it also filled me with such wonder. I beg of you to indulge me. When you are made Lord Mayor of London, let us have a play to mark the occasion.’

‘There will be a huge procession, child, a ceremonial parade through the streets of the city. It will lack nothing in pomp and pageant, that I can vouch.’

‘But I want a play,’ she urged. ‘To please me, say that I may have my way in this matter. It was a transport of delight from start to finish. Master Firethorn is the best actor in the whole world and I worship at his feet.’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Do not deny me, sir. I know it is
your
day but I would round it off with a performance of some lively play.’

Walter Stanford gave an indulgent chuckle.

‘You shall have your wish, Matilda,’ he said.

‘Oh, sir! You are a worthy husband!’

‘And you, a wife among thousands. I strive to satisfy every whim of my gorgeous young bride.’

Nicholas Bracewell paid the penalty for being so reliable and resourceful. The more competent he proved himself in every sphere, the more onerous became his duties. While he made himself indispensable to the company and thereby attained a degree of security that none of the other hired men could aspire to, he found himself coping with additional responsibilities all the time. Nicholas made light of them. Having run his errand for Lawrence Firethorn, he went straight back to his post to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of the costumes and properties.
Westfield’s Men were not due to perform at the Queen’s Head until the following week and so their makeshift theatre had to be taken down so that the yard could be returned to its more workaday function as a stabling area for visitors to the inn. The valuable accoutrements of the actor’s art had to be carefully gathered up and locked away in a private room that was rented from the landlord.

While marshalling the stagekeepers, Nicholas also had to deal with countless enquiries from members of the company who wanted details of future engagements, repairs made to some hand prop or other, simple praise for their afternoon’s work and, most of all, confirmation of when and where they would get their wages. The book holder was also the central repository of complaints and there was never a shortage of these as peevish actors pursued their vendettas or argued their case for a larger role. It was tiring work but Nicholas sailed through it with the quiet smile of a man who revels in his occupation.

When the last complaint had been fielded – George Dart wondering why Count Orlando had boxed him on the ear in the middle of Act Two – Nicholas went on to tackle one of his most daunting tasks. This was his all too regular encounter with Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, a man temperamentally unsuited to the presence of actors because he believed, in that joyless wasteland known as his heart, that their avowed purpose in life was to destroy the fabric of his inn, scandalise his patrons and debauch his nubile daughter. That none of these things had so far actually happened did nothing to
subdue his restless pessimism or to still his nervous twitch.

Nicholas met this merchant of doom in the taproom and smiled into the cadaverous, ever-mobile face.

‘How now, Master Marwood!’

‘You do me wrong to vex me so,’ said the landlord.

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Fire, Master Bracewell. Yellow flames of fire. It is not enough that my thatch is at risk from those pipe-smokers who crowd my galleries. Westfield’s Men have to bring it onto the stage as well. It was almost
Death and Darkness
indeed for me. Those torches could have set my whole establishment ablaze. Do but consider, I might have lost my inn, my home, my livelihood and my hopes of future happiness.’

‘Water was at hand in case of any mishap.’

‘Would you burn me to the ground, sir?’

‘Indeed not, Master Marwood,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘We would never destroy that which we hold most dear. Namely, your good opinion which is attested by your contractual dealings with us. In token of which, allow me to pay the rent that is now due. In full, sir.’

He handed over a bag of coins and sought to steal away but the landlord’s skeletal fingers clutched at his sleeve to detain him.

‘I crave a word with you, Master Bracewell.’

‘As many as you wish.’

‘It concerns your contract with the Queen’s Head.’

‘We are anxious to renew it.’

‘On what terms, though?’

‘On those satisfactory to both parties.’

‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ said Marwood, using a hand to push back a strand of greasy hair from his furrowed brow. ‘The case is altered, sir.’

‘I am sure that we can come to composition.’

‘Westfield’s Men bring me many woes.’

Alexander Marwood recited them with morbid glee. It was a litany that Nicholas had heard many times and always with the same wringing of hands, the same sighing of sighs and the same uncontrollable facial contortions. Use of the Queen’s Head came at a high price. Westfield’s Men had to put up with the sustained hysteria of a landlord who was whipped into action by a nagging wife. Ready to reap the financial advantages of having a theatre company in his yard, Marwood also harvested a bumper crop of outrage and apprehension. He was at his most febrile when the contract was due for renewing, hoping to exact more money and greater assurances of good conduct from the acting fraternity. What disturbed Nicholas was that a new note was being sounded.