The Nine Giants Read online

  ‘Two men are all that I have seen.’

  ‘Can you describe them, lad?’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ said the boy. ‘I have no time for idle wonder. My master would beat me if I did not attend to the shop out here. It is so busy on the Bridge that I see hundreds of faces by the hour. I cannot pick out two of them just to please a stranger.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can tell me?’ said Nicholas.

  The boy broke off to serve his first customer of the day, explaining that a much greater range of wares lay inside the shop. When the woman had made her purchase and moved on with her husband, the apprentice turned back to Nicholas and gave a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘I can offer nought but this, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘One of them wears a patch over his eye.’

  ‘That is small but useful intelligence.’

  ‘And all that I can furnish.’

  ‘Save this,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who owns the house?’

  ‘That I do know, sir.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Sir Lucas Pugsley.’

  The Lord Mayor of London awoke to another day of self-congratulation. After breakfast with his family, he spent time with the Common Clerk who handled all secretarial matters for him, then he devoted an hour to the Recorder. The City Marshal was next, a dignified man of military bearing, whose skill as a horseman – so vital to someone whose job was to ride ahead of the Lord Mayor during all processions to clear the way – had been learnt in a dozen foreign campaigns. Among other things, the Marshal headed the Watch and Ward of the city, rounding up rogues and vagabonds as well as making sure that lepers were ejected outside the walls. Sir Lucas Pugsley loved to feed off the respect and homage of a man who wore such a resplendent uniform and plumed helmet. It increased the fishmonger’s feeling of real power.

  Aubrey Kenyon was the next visitor, cutting a swathe through the dense thickets of the working day with his usual calm efficiency. When they had discussed financial affairs at length, the Chamberlain turned to an area that would normally have been outside his remit had not the Lord Mayor encouraged him to offer opinions on almost every subject of discussion that arose. Kenyon’s sage counsel was its own best advertisement.

  ‘Have you taken note of next week, Lord Mayor?’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said the other pompously. ‘I am to have another audience with Her Majesty at the Royal Palace. The Queen seeks my advice once more.’

  ‘I was referring to another event.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘On Thursday. It is a public holiday.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You should be forewarned, Lord Mayor.’

  Pugsley nodded importantly. The preservation of peace and the maintenance of law and order were his responsibility and they were arduous duties in a city that was notorious for its unruly behaviour. Crimes and misdeameanors flourished on a daily basis and there were parts of London, feared by the authorities, that hid whole fraternities of thieves, whores, tricksters, beggars and masterless men. Cripples, vagrants and discharged soldiers swelled the ranks of those who lived by criminal means. These denizens of the seedy underworld were a perpetual nuisance but the law-abiding could also present serious problems. Public holidays were seized on by many as occasions for riot and excess when the anonymity of the crowd shielded miscreants from punishment at the same time as it fired them on to grosser breaches of the peace. For hundreds of years, the mayoralty had learnt to rue the days when the city was at play.

  Aubrey Kenyon had strong views on the matter.

  ‘Wild and licentious behaviour must be quashed.’

  ‘So it shall be, sir.’

  ‘Apprentices so soon get out of hand.’

  ‘I know it well,’ said Pugsley with a nostalgic smirk. ‘I was one myself, Aubrey, and felt that stirring of the blood on every high day and holiday. The pranks that we lads got up to!’ He corrected himself at once. ‘But it is a tradition much mocked and abused of late. Harmless pleasure can so easily turn to an affray – and I will not permit that in my city.’

  ‘Take steps to ward it off then.’

  ‘You have my word that it shall be done.’ His beady eyes lit up. ‘I take my cue from Geoffrey Boleyn.’

  ‘He was a brave Mayor indeed, sir.’

  ‘In 1458, the King in his wisdom ordered a council of reconciliation in St Paul’s between the rival nobility. During the month it took them to arrive, Mayor Boleyn patrolled the streets by day in full armour and he kept three thousand armed men ready by night.’ Pugsley’s chest expanded. ‘I would ride out at the head of my constables if you think that it is needful.’

  ‘There are other precautions we may take,’ said Kenyon tactfully. ‘Your bravery does you credit but you do not have to expose yourself to danger.’

  ‘What are these precautions, Aubrey?’

  ‘Appoint sufficient men to keep watch on the city.’

  ‘It shall be done.’

  ‘Look to the selling of ale that it should not be given to those too young to hold it like a gentleman. Discourage large crowds from gathering. Arrest known troublemakers early in the day before they can work up the apprentices.’ Aubrey Kenyon reserved his deepest contempt for another area of social life. ‘Subdue what entertainment we can, especially the theatres.’

  ‘Theatres?’

  ‘That is where corruption breeds,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘If it were left to me, I would close down every playhouse in London.’

  Abel Strudwick was ruthless in pursuit of the new career that he now felt awaited him. He was rowing away from a Bankside wharf with two passengers in the stern of his boat when he saw Nicholas Bracewell and Hans Kippel in search of transport. The waterman lost all interest in his current fare and swung the prow of the boat around to head back towards the wharf. His passengers complained bitterly but they were no match for Strudwick. His combination of brawn and bellicosity had them scampering out of the boat and he welcomed Nicholas and the boy instead. All three were soon threading their way through the flotilla of craft that was afloat that day. The waterman was impatient.

  ‘Have you acquainted Master Firethorn with my ambitions?’ he asked with hirsute eagerness.

  ‘I mean to speak to him today,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Tell him of my quality.’

  ‘It will not go unremarked, Abel.’

  ‘I would strut upon the scaffold with him.’

  ‘That may not be so easy a wish to fulfil.’

  ‘But I have the trick of it,’ said the other. ‘Let me come out onto the stage before the play begins to woo the audience with my sweet music.’

  Nicholas gave a non-committal nod. Hans Kippel, at first alarmed by Strudwick’s grinning ugliness, now took an interest in him.

  ‘Are you a musician, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, lad. Would you hear me play?’

  ‘What is your instrument?’

  ‘Lie back in the boat and you shall hear it.’

  Before Nicholas could stop him, the poet recited a long narrative about his visit to the Queen’s Head and its extraordinary effect on his life. The verse had the same rocking-horse rhythm as usual and it was imprisoned hopelessly in its rhyme scheme. A pun of resounding awfulness brought the saga to a grinding conclusion.

  Upon a road did Saul see his new light.

  My Damascus was a theatre bright.

  A water poet, I am the stuff of fable,

  Let Strudwick do all that he is able.

  Nicholas manufactured a smile of approval but Hans Kippel was truly impressed. The boy was amazed to hear such fine words coming from such a foul source and he clapped his hands. Abel Strudwick beamed as if he had been given an ovation by a huge audience and he sealed an instant friendship with the Dutch apprentice. The fact was not lost on Nicholas who saw its value at once. He had only brought the boy with him in order to ensure his safety. If Hans Kippel was in danger of attack, he had to be watched over carefully at all times. Taking him
away from Southwark had the extra advantage of shifting any threat away from Anne Hendrik. As it was, Nicholas had given Preben van Loew and the other workmen stern orders to be vigilant on her behalf but he did not feel she was now at risk. Unknown to himself, the boy was the target. Friendship with Abel Strudwick meant that there was another safe refuge in the event of an emergency.

  They landed, paid their fare and took their leave. The boatman’s tuneless music had served another turn. So mesmerised was Hans Kippel that he did not look once towards the Bridge which held such terrors for him. He was in an inquisitive mood and they picked their way through the busy market in Gracechurch Street.

  ‘What is the name of the play, Master Bracewell?’

  ‘Love and Fortune.’

  ‘And shall I be able to watch it?’

  ‘Only during the rehearsal, Hans.’

  ‘I have never been to a theatre before,’ said the boy. ‘Preben van Loew was not happy that I should come to this one today. I was brought up strictly in Amsterdam and such things are frowned upon. Will it cause me harm?’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘Old Preben believes that it will.’

  ‘Do not pay too much heed to him.’

  Nicholas smiled fondly as he remembered an occasion when the Protestant rectitude of the Dutch hatmaker was put to the test by Westfield’s Men. Preben van Loew had been asked to escort Anne Hendrik to a performance of the controversial piece, The Merry Devils, and he had been embarrassed to find just how much he enjoyed it. The book holder was confident that Hans Kippel would get equal pleasure out of the present offering. With a paternal arm around the boy’s shoulders, he guided him in through the main entrance of the Queen’s Head.

  The apprentice was an incongruous figure amid the flamboyance of the actors and he came in for some good-natured ribbing. George Dart warmed to him at once because he recognised a kindred spirit in the waiflike youth with his pale face and his wide-eyed wonder. Nicholas introduced his companion to everyone then left him with Richard Honeydew, the youngest and most talented of the four apprentices, a bright, alert, soft-skinned boy with a mop of fair hair and a friendly grin. While the book holder was busy setting the rehearsal up, the little actor took the visitor under his wing. Inevitably, there was especial interest shown from one quarter.

  ‘Welcome to our humble show, Master Kippel.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Barnaby Gill, at your service.’ He gave a mock bow and appraised the newcomer. ‘Is not that jerkin a trifle warm for you in this weather?’

  ‘There is a cold breeze blowing, sir.’

  ‘That will not hurt you. Come, let me help you off with it. I promise you will feel more comfortable.’

  Hans Kippel did not get the chance to find out. Before the actor could even touch the boy, Nicholas came over to interpose himself between them. Having rescued the lad from an attempt on his young life, he was not going to let him fall into the dubious clutches of Barnaby Gill. One glance from the book holder made the actor back off at once. Neither Hans Kippel nor Richard Honeydew fully understood what had happened in that moment. Their innocence remained intact.

  The voice of authority boomed out across the yard.

  ‘Gentlemen, we tarry!’ yelled Firethorn.

  ‘All is ready, sir,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Then let us show our mettle.’

  With no more ado, the rehearsal began. Love and Fortune was a romantic comedy about the dangers of committing the heart too soon and too completely. It featured three sets of lovers and its use of mistaken identity was both deft and effective. Westfield’s Men put real spirit into it and the play romped along at speed. Lawrence Firethorn crackled hilariously in the leading role, ably supported by Edmund Hoode as a lovelorn gallant and by Barnaby Gill as an ageing cuckold. The small but demanding part of Lorenzo was played with Celtic ebullience by Owen Elias who tackled the speeches as if he were auditioning for much greater theatrical honours. After their patent failure with Black Antonio, the company was determined to vindicate its reputation in the most positive manner. The rehearsal had edge.

  Hans Kippel loved every moment of it. Seated on an empty firkin in the middle of the yard, he was the lone spectator of a comedy that made him laugh so loud and so much for two whole hours that he kept falling off his perch. The pace of the action bewildered him but that did not dull his appreciation of the play itself or of the many splendid performances. Without quite knowing why, he was happy for the first time in a week. The only things that puzzled him were the absence of Richard Honeydew and the other boy apprentices, and the sudden appearance of four beautiful young women on the stage. When the most affecting of these creatures – a demure maid in a high-waisted dress of pink taffeta – spoke to him, Hans Kippel felt his cheeks burn with modesty.

  ‘Did you like the entertainment?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Be honest with me, Hans.’

  ‘I liked it exceedingly, good mistress.’

  ‘And did you recognise us all?’

  ‘Well …’

  The visitor’s confusion was total. Richard Honeydew cut through it by taking off his auburn wig to reveal the telltale mop of fair hair. Hans Kippel jumped up with a shock that quickly turned to amusement as he realised how completely he had been fooled by the excellence of the playing. The four apprentices had been so convincing in their female roles that he had never suspected for a moment that they might be anything but young ladies themselves. As he looked at his new friend now, then saw the lantern-jawed John Tallis ease off the shoulders of his dress to expose a padded bust, he beat out a tattoo of joy on the firkin. This was the funniest thing of all and it put some of the old zest back into the Dutch boy.

  Nicholas Bracewell watched with approval from the back of the stage. The decision to bring Hans Kippel to the Queen’s Head had been a sound one. It had not only guaranteed his safety, it gave a lift to his spirits that nothing else had been able to do. The antics of Love and Fortune might be able to unlock the demons that were chained up in his mind.

  Demons of another kind prompted Lawrence Firethorn.

  ‘Nick, dear heart!’ he sighed.

  ‘I am here, sir.’

  ‘Have you spoken with that creeping insect yet?’

  ‘Master Marwood will not be moved.’

  ‘Then shall he feel the end of my sword up his mean-spirited arse. That will move him, I vow!’

  ‘We must do nothing rash,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He’ll not disown us without a fight.’

  ‘Let me use subtler weapons.’

  ‘They have no power to kill.’

  ‘Yet might they preserve our place here, master.’

  ‘Can you be certain of that, Nick?’

  The book holder shook his head and replied honestly.

  ‘No, sir. The portents are bad.’

  Alderman Rowland Ashway surveyed the inn yard through the window of an upstairs room. With the fidgeting landlord at his shoulder, he pronounced the death sentence.

  ‘I want them out of here at once,’ he said.

  ‘Their contract still has weeks to run, sir.’

  The alderman was peremptory. ‘My attorneys will find a way out of that. Good lawyers will sniff out a loophole in any document. When you have signed the Queen’s Head over to me, we’ll have Westfield’s Men out on the street before they draw breath to protest.’

  ‘Hold fast,’ said Alexander Marwood. ‘Do they not deserve a fair warning?’

  ‘Notice of eviction is all that they will get.’

  ‘I have scruples.’

  ‘There is no such thing in business affairs.’

  Ashway’s easy brutality made the landlord pause to consider his own position. If the alderman dealt with his enemies so callously, how would he handle Marwood himself if the two of them ever fell out? Cunning lawyers who could revoke a legal contract with Westfield’s Men could do as much with any document of sale. Security of tenure mig
ht turn out to rest on the whim of Rowland Ashway.

  ‘I need more time to think this over,’ said Marwood.

  ‘You have had weeks already, sir.’

  ‘Fresh doubts arise.’

  ‘Smother them at birth.’

  ‘I must make safe our future.’

  ‘That is my major concern here,’ said the other with adipose affability. ‘The Queen’s Head is nothing without the name of Marwood and I would not dream of buying one without the other. Your family have a proud heritage, sir. It is my sincerest wish to preserve and honour that.’

  ‘I must peruse the contract with my own attorney.’

  ‘So shall you, Master Marwood.’

  ‘And my wife still has her quibbles.’

  ‘I thought my two hundred pounds took care of them.’

  ‘It helped,’ said the landlord with a laugh like a death rattle. ‘It helped to soften her inclinations.’

  ‘Work on her earnestly.’

  ‘It has been my life’s endeavour.’

  Ashway pulled away from the window and walked back into the room. Watching the end of the rehearsal had only deepened his hatred of Westfield’s Men. Their very existence was a reminder of the privilege and title from which he was excluded by birth. To oust them would be to promote worth in place of idleness. Theatre was nothing but a distraction from the working world of the city.

  He fixed an eye on the squirming publican.

  ‘You have given me your word, Master Marwood.’

  ‘It is my bond, sir.’

  ‘I expected no less.’

  ‘We have always dealt honestly with each other.’

  ‘And both of us have prospered,’ noted Ashway. ‘Bear that in mind in case your wife has further doubts. I will have the contract sent to you forthwith.’

  ‘Give me time to study it at my leisure.’

  ‘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.’