The Nine Giants Page 12

  Matilda Stanford was in reflective mood as she strolled along the winding paths in the garden. Early autumn was offering floral abundance and bending fruit trees, all wrapped in a heady mixture of sweet fragrances and brought alive by bright sunshine and birdsong. Stanford Place was blessed with one of the largest and most luxuriant gardens in the area, and its blend of privacy and tranquillity was exactly what she needed at that moment. The front of the house looked out on the daily turbulence of Bishopsgate Street but its rear gazed down upon an altogether different world. In the heart of the busiest city in Europe was this haven of pure peace. Matilda had loved it from the start but she came to appreciate it far more now. What had once been a pure delight was today a means of escape. In the twisting walks of the garden, she could find true solitude to relieve the sharpness of her melancholy.

  Ever since she had realised she was unhappy, it had been more and more of an effort to pretend otherwise and she was almost glad of the crisis about her husband’s missing nephew, Michael, because it relieved her of the need to be so wifely and vivacious. In sharing the general concern, she could conceal her own feelings of loss and disappointment. In worrying about Lieutenant Michael Delahaye, she was expressing a deeper anxiety about someone else who had gone astray. Matilda Stanford was also missing and the search for her was fruitless.

  There were moments of joy but they lay in the fond contemplation of one who was for ever beyond her reach. Lawrence Firethorn was unattainable. Though he had sent her a playbill and signalled his admiration during the performance of Double Deceit, that was as far as the relationship could realistically go. She was a married woman with no freedom of movement and he was a roving actor. There was no way that she could return the interest he had shown in her even though the desire to do so grew stronger by the hour. Michael’s disappearance was a mortal blow to her fleeting hopes. A man who might have accompanied her to the Queen’s Head was making sure that she had no means of going there. It was William Stanford who was leading the hunt and thereby depriving his stepmother of her means of attending a play.

  As she looked ahead, her spirits sank even more. Her husband was a wonderful man in so many ways but he did not give her anything of the stimulation she received from a ranting actor upon a makeshift stage. When Walter Stanford became Lord Mayor of London, her situation could only get far worse as she was dragged along behind him into an endless round of social events. She would see even less of him and experience more inner torment. A marriage which had brought her such pleasure was now turning into a comfortable ordeal. She was stifled.

  The lifeline was brought by Simon Pendleton.

  ‘Hold there, mistress.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Another missive has arrived for you.’

  ‘Who delivered it?’

  ‘That same miserable creature as before,’ said the steward, wrinkling his nose with polite contempt. ‘I have brought it to your hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon.’

  ‘Will there be anything else, mistress?’

  ‘Not at this time.’

  He bowed and glided off into the undergrowth with practised ease. Though Matilda could not bring herself to like the man, she was profoundly grateful to him at the moment because he had fetched the thing she most desired. It was a playbill, rolled up as before and tied with a pink ribbon. As her nervous fingers released it, the scroll unwound and a sealed letter dropped to the ground. Matilda snatched it up immediately. A glance at the playbill told her that Westfield’s Men were due to stage Love and Fortune at the Queen’s Head on the following day but it was the letter that produced the real elation.

  As she tore it open, she found herself reading a sonnet in praise of her beauty that itemised her charms with such playful delicacy that she almost swooned. It was unsigned but the sender – presumably the poet – was no less a person than Lawrence Firethorn himself. All her doubts were cast aside. Hers was no wild infatuation for a man beyond her grasp. It was a shared passion that drew them ineluctably together. A second message lay in the choice of play. Love and Fortune could be no accidental selection. It reinforced the sentiments of the sonnet and was an invitation to romance.

  She read the poem again, weighing each word on the scales of her mind to extract maximum pleasure from it. That she could have inspired such a mellifluous flight of language was dizzying enough on its own. For it to have come from the hand of the man on whom she doted made the whole thing quite intoxicating. Walter Stanford could not be faulted as a loyal husband who treated his wife with respect. But he had no pretty rhymes in his soul.

  Tears of joy formed. During her dark night of disenchantment, she had come to see that she was not happy in her marriage. During her walk in the afternoon sun, she made a discovery of equal import and adjusted her own view of herself yet again. In a garden in London, standing beneath a juniper tree, seeing the colour clearly, inhaling the sweet odours, hearing the melodious birdsong, Matilda Stanford had another revelation. Her heart was no longer bound by the vows made on her wedding day because it had not truly been engaged in the ceremony. Fourteen lines of poetry and a cheap playbill taught her something that sent a thrill through her entire being.

  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 church
es 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.

  Now here upon this field of Agincourt

  Let each man take his oath to fight with me

  And give these French a taste of English steel,

  With bravest arrows cutting down their knights,

  With stoutest hearts o’ercoming any odds

  That angry France can muster ’gainst our will.

  March onwards, lads, into the ranks of death,

  Until we vanquish, no man pause for breath!

  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.