The Nine Giants (23 page)

Nicholas’s immediate concern was the safety of the passenger inside the coach and he set off after it. With a wave of his hand, he sent his fellows off after the lone rider who was moving at a full gallop towards the shelter of a small wood. The coach was now completely out of control and swayed dangerously from side to side. It lurched high in the air as one of its wheels struck a large stone then it veered over at a crazy angle as it was pulled across a slope. Nicholas knew that it was only a matter of time before the
vehicle overturned or smashed into a tree. He used his heels to demand even more from his mount and slowly caught up with the coach, keeping well clear of the whirring wheels as they swung towards him. Above the din, he could hear the screams of the terrified occupant as she was thrown wildly around.

Pulling level with the bolting horses, he timed his moment then dived sideways onto the back of the nearest animal and held on grimly to the harness. When he had hauled himself up and sat astride the horse, he gathered up the reins and applied steady pressure until the headlong flight became a measured canter then eventually diminished to a merciful trot. When he finally pulled them to a stop, he jumped down and ran to open the coach door. Tied hand and foot, Matilda Stanford fell into his arms.

An evening of happiness and light ended in a darker vein. The body of Firk was taken away to the local undertaker and a statement about his death given to the county coroner. Matilda Stanford and Prudence Ling were driven on to Wimbledon by the coachman to pass a restorative night with the cousin. Along with the rest of the company, Lawrence Firethorn was shocked by the attempted hanging of Owen Elias. He took Nicholas Bracewell up to his room so that the full details could emerge in private.

The book holder was explicit and unfolded the tale without any trimmings. Murder, arson, riot, kidnap and municipal corruption were revealed in their true light. Firethorn heard it all with immense interest, feeling for the
plight of Owen Elias and coming to see how his own wilful involvement with Matilda Stanford had indirectly led to it. If she had not been enticed to the Nine Giants to satisfy him, then the Welshman would still be able to contribute his skills to the company instead of languishing in bed with a bandaged neck. The actor-manager was ashamed and shaken but his priorities remained unchanged. When Rowland Ashway was named as the architect of all the villainy, Firethorn saw it entirely in personal terms and actually grinned.

‘If the alderman be arrested,’ he said jauntily, ‘then will his contract with Marwood be null and void. Westfield’s Men will stay at the Queen’s Head. Some good may yet come of all the upset I have borne!’

Nicholas had to exhibit supreme self-control.

Next day found Lawrence Firethorn at his best. He assembled the company early on and delivered a moving speech about the importance of overcoming all the setbacks they had endured. Concern for Owen Elias was understandable but the best way to speed his recovery was to put on the finest performance they could manage. In the space of ten minutes, Firethorn transformed a jaded group of men into an alert and determined theatre company. Nicholas had returned from his earlier visit to the Nine Giants with sketches and measurements of the acting area. It did not take long to erect a stage to begin rehearsal.

They heard the bells from the wedding nearby and gave a rousing welcome to the bride and groom when they arrived at the inn to begin the celebrations. Fine weather
enabled the banquet to be served in the yard itself and the whole gathering was in excellent spirits by the time the play was due. Lord Westfield himself was the guest of honour, sitting beside the bride in his flamboyant attire and telling her that he would now give his wedding present. Westfield’s Men took over.

The Wise Woman of Dunstable
could not have been a more appropriate choice. It was a pastoral comedy about the virtues of true love and fidelity. Three suitors vied for the hand of a rich and beautiful widow who wanted nothing more than to live quietly in happy contemplation of her departed husband. All sorts of stratagems were employed to get her to the altar, the most ludicrous by Lord Merrymouth, an egregious old fop with a game leg. Firethorn showed brilliant comic invention in this role and equipped the posturing peer with all sorts of humorous ailments. The widow herself finally agreed to make a choice and everyone thought it would be between the two young, handsome suitors. But the ghost of her former husband – Edmund Hoode at his best – came back to give her sage advice. She chose Lord Merrymouth.

This not only put the other over-amorous gentlemen to flight, it ensured her widowhood, for the old aristocrat was so overwhelmed with pleasure that he drank himself to a stupor then fell into a pond and drowned. Firethorn even made the death scene unbearably comic. In the title role itself, Richard Honeydew was a wise woman of great charm and lightness of heart. The play ended with a dance then the audience pounded their tables in appreciation.
Westfield’s Men bowed in acknowledgement of their rapturous reception then went into their closing dance once more by way of an encore. Led by Firethorn, they directed their final bow at the window through which Owen Elias had watched their performance. Still in pain from his ordeal, he applauded with gusto and the tears ran down his cheeks. Westfield’s Men had given him the most exhilarating tonic. He belonged.

Walter Stanford’s face was designed for mirth and good humour but it was furrowed by anger and disillusion now. At the suggestion of Nicholas Bracewell, his wife had set up an interview between the two men in a private room at the Royal Exchange so that the household steward at Stanford Place would not be aware of the net that was now closing in on him. The Lord Mayor Elect first thanked the book holder profusely for saving the life of his young bride by stopping the runaway horses, though her reason for being at the Nine Giants in the first place was tactfully concealed from her husband. No intimacy had occurred between her and Firethorn. She would not go astray again.

Nicholas had been right in his instincts. Once the connection between Rowland Ashway and Aubrey Kenyon was made, much was explained. With a sudden increase in wealth, the brewer was able to buy up the inns and taverns to whom he supplied his beer. Stanford suspected a whole network of corruption in the conduct of municipal affairs with the Chamberlain at the centre. Only he would be in a position to mastermind such financial chicanery. With a
willing but credulous man like Sir Lucas Pugsley as Lord Mayor, the two men had been able to feather their own nests without the slightest suspicion falling on them. Ashway worked on the fishmonger as a friend while Kenyon used his expertise as an administrator to pull the wool over the latter’s eyes. They were a potent combination.

Their reign was threatened by the election of Walter Stanford to office. Whatever his weaknesses, the mercer had tremendous acumen and a nose for any mismanagement. Under his surveillance, the corruption would not only have to cease but its extent during the previous mayoralty would have been uncovered. Ashway and Kenyon were left with only one option. Stanford had to be stopped.

‘And so they killed Michael,’ he said. ‘Because so much of me was invested in my nephew, they hoped that my grief would rob me of the urge to go on.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘How was it done, Master Bracewell?’

‘The murder was committed in that house on the Bridge,’ said the other. ‘I was deceived for a while when I learnt that it was owned by Sir Lucas Pugsley. It was borrowed from him by Alderman Ashway for the purpose. Though the murder happened by daylight, the body was not disposed of until night. Under the cover of darkness, it was dropped out of the window but it struck the starling on its way to the water.’

‘The smashed leg!’ said Stanford.

‘Yes, sir. It must have been caught in the eddies then buoyed up by a piece of driftwood that carried it downstream. By complete chance, we encountered it.’

‘You and your waterman.’

‘Abel Strudwick. A sound man with all his faults.’

‘One question, sir. Why was my nephew’s face so mangled and bloody? We could scarce recognise him.’

‘That was the intention.’

‘What say you?’

‘It was not your nephew, sir.’

‘
Not
? But William and I saw him.’

‘You saw only what looked like him,’ explained the other. ‘Michael Delahaye is still alive.’

‘But that does not make sense.’

When Nicholas enlarged on his claim, Walter Stanford was forced to accept that it was all too logical. The army surgeon had told the book holder everything. Michael Delahaye was not just another grumbling soldier, he was a complete dissolute who resented his uncle for cutting short his strenuous overindulgence. Joining the army in order to prolong his wasteful ways, the soldier had found it so intolerable and depressing that it had turned a merry gentleman into a malevolent one. Walter Stanford became the target for that malevolence. When Michael Delahaye was offered a chance to strike back at his uncle, he seized it because it gave him the opportunity to escape for ever from the oppression of respectability and start a new life of debauchery under a new name. It also gave him the supreme satisfaction of killing off the mortal enemy he had made in the army.

Cold silence had fallen on Stanford as he listened. To lose a loving nephew was one form of misery. To learn that
he was the object of that same person’s hate was far worse. The one saving grace was that the whole plot had been exposed by a man of such evident discretion.

‘What must I do, Master Bracewell?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘But they will flee the approach of justice.’

‘Only if you frighten them away,’ said Nicholas. ‘We must tempt your nephew out of hiding or this will never be settled. Be ruled by me, sir. Prepare yourself for action but take none yet. Wait but a little while and they will surely strike again. Be patient.’

Stanford thought it over and nodded his agreement. He was deeply disturbed by what he had heard and he needed time to assimilate it all. What really cut him to the quick was the news about Michael Delahaye and he did not try to shuffle off his responsibility in the matter. His intentions had been good but he had applied intense pressure to his nephew to get him to conform and to abandon his wilder ways. He had helped to turn an idle but relatively harmless young man into a monster and it preyed on him. Having been through one grim ordeal, he now faced an even more punitive one.

‘What am I to tell my sister?’ he asked.

‘What she needs to know.’

‘She believes her son was hauled out of the river.’

‘Then that is what happened, sir,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘There is no need for her to learn the full truth. The son whom she loved and knew died in the Netherlands. Do not bring him back to torment her.’

Once again, Stanford accepted sage advice and looked across at the other with increased respect. Nicholas clearly had to be given some freedom where the stage-management of everything was concerned. He would know how to flush the villains out of their holes.

‘When will they strike?’ said Stanford.

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘At the Lord Mayor’s Show.’

R
idings were an integral part of life in the capital. The processions were not merely a source of entertainment and wonder for the commonalty but a means of impressing upon them the dignity and power of their rulers. In medieval times, the most splendid processions were those on royal occasions, especially a coronation or a wedding. By the later years of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, however, the Lord Mayor’s Show had come to rival even these, taking the whole city as its stage and encompassing traditions that went back to the very origin of old London town. The Show had now completely taken over from the Midsummer Marching Watch as the main civic annual parade and nobody dared to miss it. Ridings meant public holidays when people could enjoy a dazzling spectacle then go off to celebrate what they had seen in general merry-making.

Extra soldiers and constables were on duty as a result
of the recent riot but nobody expected that there would be any real troubles. A Lord Mayor’s Show did not stir up apprentices to attack the immigrant craftsmen of Southwark. It was an attestation of civil power in a city that was nominally ruled by a sovereign, a shared belief that London was the most eminent place in Europe, a time when the whole populace was bathed in feelings of pride and identity and well-being. Walter Stanford was known to be exceptionally keen on civic tradition. The Show which carried him into office promised to be an outstanding one.

Some wanted to make it more memorable still.

‘Everything turns on today,’ said Rowland Ashway.

Aubrey Kenyon nodded. ‘We must not lose our nerves.’

‘Indeed, sir, or we are like to lose our heads.’

‘Hopefully, that might be Stanford’s fate.’

‘It
has
to be, Aubrey, or we are undone.’

They were talking in Kenyon’s house before going out to take up their places in the procession. The aldermanic robes made Ashway look fatter and more florid than ever whereas the Chamberlain’s stateliness was enhanced by his regalia. They looked an ill-matched pair but they were yoked together in crime now and depended critically upon each other. There was someone else upon whom they relied.

‘Can he be trusted to do his office?’ said Kenyon.

‘Nobody is more eager to perform it.’

‘He let us down at Richmond.’

‘That was the fault of Firk,’ sneered Ashway. ‘He hanged the wrong man and fell foul of that book holder. Did he but know it, Master Bracewell did us a favour. He killed off Firk
and saved us the trouble of doing it ourselves. Delahaye is another kind of man again.’

‘Renfrew,’ said the other. ‘He likes to be called James Renfrew. Lieutenant Delahaye is dead.’

‘So will this Captain James Renfrew be in time,’ said Ashway quietly. ‘When he has done what we have paid him for, we must finish him off as well. He knows too much, Aubrey. It is the only way.’

‘And today?’

‘We must put our faith in his madness.’

‘He hates Stanford even more than we do.’

Ashway smirked. ‘I love him for that.’

Since 1453, when Sir John Norman was rowed up the river in a fine barge with silver oars, the Lord Mayor’s Show had taken place on both land and water. Both banks of the Thames were thus lined with ranks of spectators who waited expectantly to see a floating marvel. Everyone knew the itinerary. Walter Stanford, Lord Mayor of London, would first tour his ward – that of Cornhill in which the Royal Exchange symbolically stood – then proceed to the nearest stairs where he would embark and be rowed up to Westminster to take his oath in the Exchequer before the judge. After that, he would return by barge to Blackfriars and progress to St Paul’s for a service of thanksgiving before going on to the Guildhall for his Banquet. Veteran onlookers knew how to move around the city to get several perspectives on the Show. Newcomers with staring country eyes stayed rooted to the same spot for hours in order to
catch a mere glimpse of the pomp and circumstance that marked the occasion.

Walter Stanford himself took it all with the utmost seriousness. Dressed in the traditional robes and wearing the famous mayoral hat, he was for that day alone the father of the whole city but it was his position as an uncle that worried him. Somewhere along the way was a crazed nephew with a grudge against him and a need to nip his mayoralty in the bud. Behind his smiles and his waves and his apparent delight, therefore, was an anxiety that would not leave him. His faith had been placed in a man who was nothing more than a book holder in a theatrical company. Was his trust well founded?

Leaving his ward, he followed the procession along a cheering avenue that led to the river. At the front of the parade were two men who bore the arms of the Mercers’ Company. They were followed by a drummer, a flute-player and a man with a fife. Behind them, in blue gowns and caps and hose and blue silk sleeves, were sixteen trumpeters blowing their instruments in strident unison. Horse-drawn floats came next, each one elaborately mounted by an individual Guild and competing with each other in colour and spectacle. The Fishmongers’ Ship was among the finest on display, a huge galleon that seemed to sail above the craned heads of the populace as it passed by. Another favoured contender was the Goldsmith’s Castle, a quite magnificent structure that was first produced for the coronation of Richard II. And there were many others to keep the fingers pointing and the jaws dropping.

Fittingly, it was the Mercer’s Maiden Chariot which outshone them all. This pageant was a Roman chariot, some twenty feet or more high, with sides of embossed silver and surmounted by a golden canopy above which sat Fame blowing her trumpet. In the chariot sat the Mercer’s Maiden. This was customarily a young and beautiful gentlewoman with a gold and jewelled coronet on her head. At the Lord Mayor’s feast, she dined royally at a separate table. This year, however, there was a significant break with tradition. Instead of choosing some long-haired young lady from one of the mercers’ families, Walter Stanford selected his own wife as the Maiden and she was overjoyed. Seated high above the long ribbons of yelling people, Matilda Stanford felt the thrill of being a performer and the extraordinary honour of being wife to the Lord Mayor. The journey in the chariot helped her to forget all about Lawrence Firethorn and find her husband instead.

At the rear of it all came the Lord Mayor himself. He was preceded by the Sword Bearer in his immense fur hat and by the Sergeant-at-Arms who bore the mace. Other ceremonial officers walked close by with the Chamberlain among them but Stanford paid him no attention. It was important not to arouse the suspicions of Aubrey Kenyon or of any of the others until they could all be safely apprehended. When the Lord Mayor was not bestowing a genial wave on the crowd, he was keeping one eye on the soldier who marched just ahead of him. Dressed in an armoured breastplate and wearing a steel helmet, the man trailed his pike in the same
manner as his fellows but he was no ordinary member of the guard. Nicholas Bracewell had a duty that went well beyond the ceremonial.

Abel Strudwick had rowed his boat out into the middle of the river to be part of the huge armada that accompanied the procession up to Westminster. All around him were other craft with eager spectators and it gave him a feeling of superiority to think that they had simply come to gawp and goggle. Poetry had put the waterman on the Thames that day. He was there to find inspiration for some new verses, to immortalise a great event with the creative fire of his imagination. From where he sat and bobbed, he had a fine view of the parade as it moved from land to water.

First to set off was the Mercers’ Barge with its coat of arms proudly displayed aloft. Behind it came the Bachelors’ Barge which was followed in turn by the vessels of the other companies, strictly in order of precedence. Strudwick saw the arms of the Grocers, the Drapers, the Fishmongers – with Sir Lucas Pugsley aboard – the Goldsmiths, the Skinners, the Merchant Taylors, the Haberdashers, the Salters, the Ironmongers, the Vintners and the Clothworkers. No place for Rowland Ashway there. The alderman had to wait upon the Dyers before his Guild could step forward for attention. It was an imposing sight that was made even more vivid by the fact that the companies wore their distinctive liveries.

The waterman felt no verse stirring as yet but he remained confident. What drew his gaze now was a sight that never failed to impress and even frighten a little at a
Lord Mayor’s Show. Two huge and grotesque creatures were in the prow of the last barge, pretending to draw a model of Britain’s Mount. Strudwick recognised them as Corinaeus and Gogmagog, fabled inhabitants of the city in ancient days.

They were giants.

Walter Stanford was vastly more confident now that he was afloat with his guard all around him. Out in the open street, he felt he was a target for a knife, an arrow, even for a sword if its owner could get close enough. He began to enjoy the procession as it sailed slowly down river between the echoing banks of applause. Nicholas was close enough to him for a brief conversation.

‘Your fears were groundless, sir,’ said Stanford.

‘The day is yet young.’

‘What harm could touch us here?’

‘None, I hope,’ said Nicholas.

But his instincts told him otherwise. The Lord Mayor and his retinue were standing on the upper deck of the barge so that they could be seen more clearly. Corinaeus and Gogmagog were several yards in front of them. The book holder took a professional interest in how the giants had been fashioned. They were about twelve feet high and made out of carved and gilded limewood. Skilful painters had given them hideous leering faces. Corinaeus was dressed like a barbarian warrior and sported a morning star on a chain. Gogmagog wore the costume of a Roman centurion and carried a spear and a shield that was decorated with
a symbolic phoenix. Nicholas admired the strength of the men inside each of the models. They were even able to manipulate levers that made their weapons lift and fall in the air.

It was when Walter Stanford stepped forward to take a closer look at the giants that the danger came. Corinaeus made no move but Gogmagog responded at once. Through the slit in the bodywork, the man inside saw his chance and acted. Raising his spear, he tried to jab it hard at Walter Stanford but a soldier was there to parry the blow with his pike. What came next caused even more panic in the barge. Gogmagog rose feet in the air and then hurled himself directly at the Lord Mayor with a force that would have killed him had the giant made contact. But the pike of Nicholas Bracewell again did sterling duty and guided the huge wooden object over the side of the barge and into the water. The splash drenched people for twenty yards around and caused some of the smaller boats nearby to capsize.

Michael Delahaye had failed. He glared at his hated uncle with his one malignant eye then hurled a rope at the advancing guards to beat them back. Before they could get him, he had dived over the side of the barge into the river. It all happened with such speed that everyone was totally confused but Nicholas had his wits about him. Throwing off his helmet and divesting himself of his breastplate, he ran to the side of the barge and flung himself after the would-be assassin. Delahaye was strong and cleaved his way through the water but his pursuer was the better swimmer and clawed back the distance between them. Bewildered
spectators on boat and bank watched in silence at the two pinheads that seemed to be floating on the waves. None of them understood the significance of what they were witnessing.

Abel Strudwick was well placed to view the final struggle. When Nicholas caught the kicking legs of his man, the latter turned to fight, pulling a dagger from his belt and hacking madly at his assailant. But the latter got his wrist in a grip of steel that would not slacken. They struggled and splashed with frenetic energy then both disappeared beneath the dark waters. Strudwick rowed in closer and peered down but he could see nothing. Long minutes passed when nothing happened and then blood came up to the surface of the water to brighten its scum. A head soon followed, surging up with desperation so that lungfuls of air could be inhaled. The swimmer then lay on his back to recover from the fatigue of a death-grapple. The waterman rowed in close and helped Nicholas Bracewell into his boat so that he could enjoy some of the cheers of congratulation that were ringing out.

Michael Delahaye did not surface.

The atmosphere at the Queen’s Head was vastly lighter now that the threat of eviction had disappeared. With the arrest of Rowland Ashway, the contract to buy the inn was effectively rescinded. The alderman would never be able to take possession of his intended purchase now. Relief was so great and comprehensive that a smile dared to flit across the face of Alexander Marwood. He had not only
been reprieved from a deal which turned out to be more disadvantageous than he had thought. The landlord was also reunited with a termagant wife who had badgered him incessantly about the idiocy of his action in signing. Nocturnal reconciliation let Marwood recall happier days.

Edmund Hoode was in a generous mood. He bought pints of sack for himself and his friend then sat at the table opposite him. A week had passed since the Lord Mayor’s Show but it still vibrated in the memory.

‘You were the hero of the hour, Nick,’ said Hoode.

‘I thought but of poor Hans Kippel.’

‘His death is well revenged now. And all those other villains are locked secure away, including the Chamberlain himself. Who would have thought a man in such a place would have stooped to such crimes?’

‘Temptation got the better of him, Edmund.’

‘Yes,’ said the other harshly. ‘The same may be said of Lawrence. But for you again, that dalliance might have led us into further disaster. What an actor, Nick! But what a dreadful lecher, too! Margery has much to endure.’

‘She is made of stern stuff.’

They sipped their drinks and enjoyed the comfort of being in their own home again. The Queen’s Head might not be as well appointed as some inns but it was their chosen base and its landlord was anxious to renew his dealings with them. Nicholas had negotiated a new contract that favoured the company and he extracted an important concession from Marwood. A job had to be found at the inn for a man who had been an immense help to the book holder and whose
occupation was now at risk. Leonard would henceforth be working at the Queen’s Head and it would be good to see his friendly face around the establishment.