The Nine Giants Read online

  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?’

  Marwood shrugged and started to flutter once more. At one stroke, the brewer cut through the threatened delay to their negotiations.

  ‘I increase my bid by two hundred pounds.’

  ‘You overwhelm me, sir!’

  ‘It is my final offer, mark you.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘Will it please Mistress Marwood?’

  ‘It may do more than that,’ said the other as a ray of hope found its way into his desperation. ‘I’ll raise the matter when we retire tonight.’

  ‘It is settled, then.’

  Alderman Rowland Ashway sealed the bargain with a flabby handshake then allowed himself to be conducted down to the yard. Even with the additional payment, he would be getting the inn at a very attractive price and he had already made plans for its improvement. Before new features could be added, however, one old one had to be removed without compunction.

  ‘What of Westfield’s Men?’ said Ashway. ‘Have you acquainted them with their fate?’

  ‘I have mentioned it to their book holder.’

  ‘That will rattle their noble patron.’

  ‘It is Master Firethorn who will roar the loudest.’

  ‘Let him. Rowland Ashway is a match for any man.’

  ‘Rowland Ashway! That barrel of rancid lard! Ashway!’

  ‘This is what I have been told.’

  ‘That fat turd of aldermanic pomposity!’

  ‘The same man, sir.’

  ‘That leech, that vile toad, that bloated threat to every chair he sits upon! I could spit at the wretch as soon as look at him. He should be weighted down with blocks of lead then drowned in a tub of his own beer! Rowland Ashway is a monster in half-human form. Does the creature possess a wife?’

  ‘I believe that he does, master.’

  ‘Then must we pray for her soul. How can the woman endure to be mounted by that elephant, to be pounded to a pulp by that bed-breaker, to be flattened into a wafer by that scvurvy, lousy, red-faced bladder of bilge!’

  Lawrence Firethorn had not taken the news well. When Nicholas Bracewell called on him that afternoon, the actor had been pleased to see his colleague and took him into the drawing room in the interests of privacy. That privacy had been rescinded now as Firethorn’s voice explored octaves of fury that could be heard half a mile away. Nicholas made a vain attempt to pacify him.

  ‘No contract has as yet been signed, sir.’

  ‘Nor shall it be,’ vowed the other. ‘My God, I’ll grab that walking nightmare of a landlord and hang him up by his undeserving feet. The traitor, the lily-livered hound, the one-eyed, two-faced, three-toed back-stabber!’

  ‘I think it might be better if you steered well clear of Master Marwood,’ suggested Nicholas. ‘To lay rough hands upon him will not advance our cause.’

  ‘I demand revenge!’ howled Firethorn.

  ‘The crime has not yet been committed.’

  ‘But it is planned, is it not?’

  ‘We may yet be able to avert disaster.’

  ‘Only by a show of force, Nick. Let me at him.’

  ‘I counsel the use of diplomacy.’

  ‘Diplomacy! With a twitching publican and a bloated brewer? I’d sooner play the diplomat with a pair of sabre-toothed tigers. Let them hatch their plot and they’ll have us turned out of the Queen’s Head without a word of thanks. Is it not perfidious?’

  ‘That is why I felt you should be warned.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’

  ‘So that we may take the appropriate action.’

  ‘Aye, Nick. Tie those two villains together back to back and drop them in the Thames to curdle the water.’ He prowled around the room as he considered more gruesome deaths for the miscreants then he stopped in his tracks. ‘We’ll attack them from above.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Lord Westfield will be told.’

  ‘Only as a last resort,’ urged Nicholas. ‘It would be wrong to alarm his lordship with a problem that we may be able to solve ourselves. He would not thank us for dragging him into a wrangle of this nature.’

  ‘You may be right,’ admitted Firethorn. ‘We must keep that last card up our sleeve then. Meanwhile, I will vent my spleen upon that lizard of a landlord.’

  ‘Then might our case be ruined altogether.’

  ‘Heavens, Nick, this is
an insult I will not bear! Our plays have helped to fill his coffers generously these last few years. Our art has put his foul establishment on the map of London. We have made the Queen’s Head. Instead of selling it to Alderman Rowland Ashway, he should be giving it to us in appreciation.’

  ‘Master Marwood is a businessman.’

  Firethorn glowered. ‘So am I, sir.’

  There was a long pause as the actor-manager fought to subdue his temper and take a more objective view of the crisis into which he was now plunged. Behind all the bombast about the primacy of Westfield’s Men there lurked a simple truth. The company’s survival depended on the income that it could generate and that would shrink alarmingly if they lost their regular home. Lawrence Firethorn stared blankly ahead as cruel practicalities were borne in upon him. His immediate impulse was to launch an attack but it could bring only short-term benefits. In the long run, they relied on one man.

  ‘What must we do, Nick?’ he muttered.

  ‘Move with great stealth.’

  ‘Has anyone else been told of this?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Nicholas. ‘Nor should they, except for Edmund and Master Gill. If we spread panic now, it will show in our work and damage our reputation.’

  ‘You give sound advice as usual.’

  ‘Leave me to work on Master Marwood.’

  ‘I’d do so with the sharpest sword in Christendom!’

  ‘Then would we lose all. We must deal softly with the man or he will take fright and run. It is only by talking to him that we can keep abreast of any moves that are made by Alderman Ashway.’

  Firethorn snorted. ‘The whole city is aware of any moves made by that spherical gentleman. Whenever he stirs abroad, the very earth does shake. If he stood by the river and broke wind, he could launch a whole armada.’ He gave a crumpled smile. ‘Help us, Nick.’

  ‘I will do everything in my power.’

  ‘That comforts me greatly.’ His eyes moistened. ‘I would not lose the Queen’s Head for a queen’s ransom. That stage has seen the full panoply of my genius. Those boards are sacrosanct. Tarquin has walked there. So have Pompey and Black Antonio. King Richard the Lionheart and Justice Wildboare have strutted their hour. A few days past, it was the turn of Count Orlando and I have burnt dozens of other fine parts into the imagination of my audience.’ He looked up. ‘I would not have it end like this, dear heart.’

  ‘There has to be a means of escape.’

  Lawrence Firethorn’s voice faded into a whisper.

  ‘Find it, Nick. Save us from extinction …’

  Anne Hendrik’s anxiety over her apprentice did not ease. The boy was no better on the following day than he had been during a torrid night. Nor could he provide any clue as to what had upset him so dramatically while he slept. Sunday was no day of rest for Hans Kippel. Watched over carefully by Anne and visited by Preben van Loew, he was unable to do more than hold desultory conversation with either. A depression had settled on his young mind. His face was one large puckered frown and his eyes were dull. All the spirit which had made him so boisterous had been knocked out of him by the experience he had undergone. It would clearly take some time yet before the details of that experience began to emerge.

  In the hope that prayer might succeed where all else had failed, Anne took him with her to Evensong at the parish church of St Saviour. It was too close to the Bridge for the boy’s complete comfort but far enough away for his attention to be diverted from it by his employer. As the Gothic beauty and the sheer bulk of the building rose up before them, she told him an apocryphal story about its past.

  ‘It was once the Priory church of St Mary Overy,’ she explained. ‘Do you know how it got its name?’

  ‘No, mistress.’

  ‘From the legend of John Overy, who was the ferryman before ever a bridge was built across the river. Because his ferry was rented by the whole city – small as it must have been in those days – he became exceedingly rich. But there was a problem, Hans.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘John Overy was a notorious miser. He hoarded his money and looked for new ways to increase his wealth. Shall I tell you how mean this fellow really was?’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘He believed that if he pretended to die, his family and servants would fast out of respect and thus save him the expense of a whole day’s food for the household.’

  ‘That is meanness indeed.’

  ‘Master Overy put his plan into action,’ said Anne. ‘But his servants were so overjoyed by his death that they began to feast and make merry. He was so furious that he jumped up out of his bed to scold them. One of the servants, thinking he was the Devil, picked up the butt end of an oar and knocked out his brains.’

  ‘It served him right, mistress.’

  ‘Many thought likewise, Hans. But his daughter was grief-stricken. She used her inheritance to found a convent and retreated into it. That convent became, in time, the Priory of St Mary Overy so his name lingers on.’

  The apprentice had listened with interest and almost smiled at one point in the story. Anne had a fleeting sensation of making real contact with him at last, of breaking through the mental barrier which surrounded him. They went into the massive church and walked along the shiny-smooth flagstones of the nave beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Breathtaking architecture and artistry enveloped them and it was impossible not to be touched by the scrupulous magnificence of it all.

  They filed into a pew. As Anne knelt in prayer, she felt Hans Kippel drop down beside her and start to gabble in Dutch. She could hear the note of alarm in his voice and sense his trembling. Words that she could recognise finally slipped out of the boy.

  ‘Please, God … do not let them kill me …’

  The Coroner’s Court was held early on Monday morning and among those charged to appear were Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick. The book holder was the first to give his testimony, speaking under oath and explaining exactly how and when he had found the dead body in the Thames. His friend made more of the opportunity that was offered. The waterman was not content with a simple recital of the facts of the case. He had transformed it into a dramatic event. Standing before the Coroner and the whole court, he responded to the presence of an audience with alacrity.

  The night was dark, the water fast and fierce,

  No moonlight could the inky blackness pierce.

  I rowed full hard, I strove against the flood,

  And Master Bracewell helped me all he could.

  But when we reached the middle of the stream,

  I glimpsed a sight that almost made me scream.

  A naked body floated on the tide

  With mangled limbs and injuries beside.

  What did I do, sirs, at this fateful hour?

  They never found out. With stern command, the Coroner ordered him to stop and give his evidence in a more seemly manner. Strudwick was truculent and had to be cowed into obedience by the sternest warnings. When he gave a straightforward account of the incident, it tallied in every respect with that of Nicholas Bracewell. Both were dismissed and hurried out.

  The waterman was anxious for some praise at least.

  ‘What did you think of my music?’

  ‘Quite unlike anything I have ever heard, Abel.’

  ‘Will you commend me to Master Firethorn?’

  ‘I shall mention your name.’

  ‘Instruct him in my purpose.’

  ‘I must away. Rehearsal soon begins.’

  Nicholas was glad of the chance to break away and race off to Gracechurch Street. Abel Strudwick could be entertaining enough as a versifying waterman. As a prospective member of the theatrical profession, he was a menace. The book holder was going to have to row very carefully with him through choppy waters.

  He made up for his late arrival at the Queen’s Head by hurling himself into his work. The stage was set up on its trestles, the props, furniture and scenic devices made ready, and the costumes were brought into the
room that was used as the tiring-house. Black Antonio was another tragedy of revenge with some powerful scenes and some unlikely but effective comedy from the Court Fool. It had been part of their repertoire for some time now and posed no serious problems. The rehearsal was rather flat but without any mishap. Lawrence Firethorn gave them only a touch of the whip before dismissing them from the stage.

  Nicholas knew the cause of the general lethargy. The company took its cue from its acknowledged stars and both were jaded. Fear of ejection from the Queen’s Head had seeped into the performances of Black Antonio himself and of the Court Fool. They were still in costume as they accosted the book holder.

  ‘Keep that ghoul away from me, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Or I will slit his ungrateful throat and string up his polecat of a body for all to see.’

  ‘Master Marwood keeps his own counsel, sir.’

  ‘I spurn the ruffian!’

  He went out with a swirl of his cloak and left the book holder alone with Barnaby Gill. The latter was no friend of Nicholas but adversity had taken the edge off his animosity. Dressed as the Fool, he advised wisdom.

  ‘Reason closely with the man, sir.’

  ‘I will, Master Gill.’

  ‘Do nothing to provoke this starchy landlord.’

  ‘We may win him around yet.’

  ‘Remind him of the magic of my art. I have reached the heights upon this stage to please the vulgar throng. Master Marwood owes it to me to let me continue. Let him know the full quality of my work.’

  ‘It speaks for itself,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

  ‘We count on you for our salvation.’

  Barnaby Gill gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, an uncharacteristic gesture that showed how upset he was by the shadow hanging over them. As Gill sloped off to the tiring-house, another voice sought the book holder’s ear.

  ‘We must talk alone, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode.

  ‘When I have finished here. Meet me in the taproom.’

  ‘It is the worst blow I have ever suffered.’

  ‘We are all still reeling from its force.’

  ‘How can I endure it?’