The Nine Giants Page 22

  ‘What is that?’ asked the brewer.

  ‘Murder the man himself.’

  ‘Walter Stanford?’

  ‘Cut him down without mercy!’

  ‘No,’ said Ashway. ‘We can disable his mayoralty by another means. It is far too dangerous to attack him directly. That must only be done as a last resort.’

  ‘By me,’ insisted Renfrew.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is my right and I claim it now. The worthy mercer is all mine and nobody else must touch him. I have waited a long time to settle my score with him.’

  ‘Do you detest your uncle so much?’

  ‘Beyond all imagining,’ said the other. ‘He ruined my life. I was young, I was free, I was happy. I spread joy among the ladies of the city and they could not get enough of me. Good Uncle Walter called me to order. He told me that my days in the sun were over. Henceforward, I had to work for him in some dingy room and learn responsibility.’

  ‘Is that why you went in the army?’

  Renfrew nodded. ‘It was my only escape. My only way of prolonging my freedom – or so I fondly thought. The army was a living hell! Thanks to Walter Stanford, I went through two years of complete misery and ended up looking like this.’ He lifted the eye patch to show an ugly, red, raw socket. ‘Do you see, sirs? I went into the army as a handsome man with his whole life in front of him. I came out disfigured!’ He put the patch back in position. ‘My uncle killed the real Michael Delahaye. He deserves to die himself.’

  ‘This wound is deep indeed,’ said Ashway.

  ‘He talks of nothing else,’ added Firk.

  ‘I share his loathing of Walter Stanford.’

  ‘Nobody could despise him as I do,’ said the vengeful nephew. ‘I denounce all that he is and all that he stands for and will do anything to maim his chances as Lord Mayor. He has condemned me to a half-life under a stolen name. Two short years ago, ladies flocked to me and showered me with their favours. Now I have to buy their bodies and fornicate in darkness where they cannot see my face. That is what I owe to this monster of goodness, Walter Stanford!’

  Rowland Ashway and Firk were mesmerised by the intensity of his anger. None of them saw the drayman lift a barrel onto his shoulder and struggle off upstairs with it. He moved ponderously and took care not to drop his cargo. It was a long and troublesome climb.

  Leonard was carrying onerous news.

  Walter Stanford made no objection at all when his wife asked permission to visit her cousin near Wimbledon. Acting on her maidservant’s advice, Matilda claimed to have been invited to call on her sick relative at the earliest opportunity. Her husband did not even ask the nature of the putative illness because he was too overwhelmed with work and with worry. He simply put his coach at her disposal and told her that he would see her on her return. Grief had aged him visibly and put more distance between him and his wife. Matilda took sad note of it.

  ‘I feel that I no longer know him,’ she confided.

  ‘That is often the way in marriage.’

  ‘We seem to be growing apart.’

  ‘Fill your life another way.’

  ‘My husband’s work always comes first.’

  ‘That is hardly a compliment to you.’

  They were being driven along a bumpy road on a dull afternoon by a coachman who was there only to obey orders. Matilda travelled with Prudence Ling and both were thrilled to get away from the confinements of London life. The verdant acres all around them gave promise of a freedom that neither had enjoyed for some time. On the command of his mistress, the coachman drove on to Richmond and stopped at the Nine Giants. While the ladies went inside to dine, he shared a drink with the ostlers and listened amiably to their country gossip. Matilda and her maidservant, meanwhile, had been shown upstairs to the room that had already been reserved by Lawrence Firethorn. Candles were lit and the table was set but the room was dominated by a large fourposter. Prudence giggled.

  ‘It is big enough for you and him and me besides.’

  ‘For shame, girl!’

  ‘You cannot think this room an accident.’

  ‘Master Firethorn is a gentleman.’

  ‘Then he will say a proper thank you afterwards.’

  ‘Prudence!’

  ‘Why else have we come all this way, mistress?’

  ‘To dine with my love.’

  ‘Meat before supper. You are that supper.’

  ‘I will not hear this vulgarity!’

  But Matilda Stanford had heard it in a way that had not impinged upon her consciousness before. Infatuation had made her deceive a kind husband and drive miles to her assignation. What had sustained her all this while was the thought of being alone with the man she loved and admired so that she could feel once again those wonderful sensations that he elicited from her. To dine alone with Lawrence Firethorn was an end in itself to her and she was distressed by the idea that it might only be a means for him. It was a long wait in the upstairs room and the bed seemed to get larger all the time.

  Westfield’s Men journeyed to Richmond at a slower pace than the coach. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and the other sharers rode their own horses but most of the company travelled on the waggon that was carrying their costumes, properties and scenic devices. George Dart and some of the other menials trotted at the cart’s tail and dodged any messages left up ahead by the two carthorses. The imminent departure from the Queen’s Head had lowered them all and Nicholas Bracewell tried to lighten the mood of dejection by ordering the musicians to play. Country air and lively ditties soon dispelled the city gloom.

  Nicholas drove the cart with Owen Elias beside him.

  ‘You have strange friends, sir,’ said the Welshman.

  ‘I would not call you that strange, Owen.’

  ‘Not me, man. That mountain who accosted you as we left Gracechurch Street. Diu! I thought that you would harness him and let him pull the waggon alone.’

  ‘And so he might. That was Leonard.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To show his friendship in the kindest way.’

  ‘One giant sends us off to find the other nine.’

  ‘He did more than that,’ said Nicholas, recalling the warning that Leonard had given about the plot against his life. ‘We met in peculiar lodgings, he and I. Imprisonment binds two such men together.’

  ‘Do not speak of imprisonment!’ moaned Elias. ‘I am chained hand and foot in this company.’

  ‘Master Firethorn would release you.’

  ‘’Tis he who keeps me in bondage. He takes all the leading roles and I serve my sentence as a galley-slave.’

  ‘The Wise Woman of Dunstable offers you a hope.’

  ‘In some small way,’ said Elias. ‘I have a part in which I may briefly shine but it is not enough, Nick. I would be in the centre of the stage. Look at my Jupiter, sir. I was taken for Master Firethorn himself.’

  ‘No man is great by imitation.’

  ‘I have skills that are all my own but they wither on the vine. Give me the role I covet above all others and I will prove my worth!’

  ‘What role is that, Owen?’

  ‘A Welsh one, sir.’

  ‘Henry the Fifth?’

  ‘Aye, man – Harry of Monmouth!’

  Lawrence Firethorn had to mix desire with diplomacy in a way that irked him. The company reached the Nine Giants a mere half an hour after the two ladies and his first impulse was to bound up to his room to claim the favours of his mistress. But Edmund Hoode’s sensibilities had to be borne in mind. If he were to learn of Matilda’s presence at the inn – let alone of her tryst with Firethorn – he would be uncontrollable. It was important, therefore, to settle him and the rest of the company down before its leading man could slip away to enjoy the spoils of war.

  What he did do – while the others were being shown to their accommodation – was to make contact with his beloved to reassure her that all was well.

  Matilda Stanford jumped up with
a mixture of joy and alarm when he let himself into the room. He showered her hand with kisses and told her that he would return within the hour to dine alone with her, making it very clear that Prudence was expected to withdraw tactfully to the next chamber. He was at once inspiring and frightening, a noble knight with high ideals of chivalry and a lecher in search of a lay. Matilda was thrown into confusion. He swung open the door and paused for effect.

  ‘When I come back, my love,’ he said softly, ‘I will tap on the door like this.’ He knocked three times. ‘That is my password to paradise. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘At least!’ he said under his breath. ‘Admit no other to this chamber until I knock thrice.’ He blew her a kiss and withdrew. ‘Out, then, into the night.’

  The door closed and Matilda clutched at her breast to stop her heart pounding. She wanted him more than ever but not in the way that he had implied. Her plan had been to dine with him alone before being driven on to spend the night near Wimbledon with her cousin, who had been advised by letter in advance of the visit. Firethorn evidently had ideas for her sleeping arrangements and the anxious Matilda did not know how to cope with them. Part of her wanted to flee, another part urged her to stay. A wild suggestion sprang from Prudence.

  ‘To save your honour, I will change places with you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Lend me that dress,’ she said, ‘and blow out some of the candles. If the room be dark enough, I’ll make him think I am you, mistress.’ She giggled again. ‘And when we lie abed together, he will not know the difference.’

  ‘Prudence!’

  ‘I do it but as an act of sacrifice.’

  ‘Leave off these jests.’

  ‘This way, all three get satisfaction.’

  ‘I will not hear another word,’ said Matilda firmly. ‘Both of us will stay here. Your presence will shield me from any danger.’

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

  Before they could debate it further, they heard footsteps outside the door and craned their necks to listen. There were three loud knocks on the door. They exchanged an astonished look. Firethorn had talked about a delay before his return. Obviously, he had dealt with his business much faster than expected. The three knocks were repeated. Matilda gave a signal and Prudence rushed to throw the door wide open.

  ‘Welcome again, good sir!’

  The man with the black eyepatch smiled slyly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Westfield’s Men were given excellent hospitality by mine host and found another treat in store. Staying at the inn with them were several who were due to be guests at the wedding on the morrow. It was as part of the nuptials that the company were to present their play. Hearing of this, the wedding guests called for some entertainment in advance and were quickly answered. Peter Digby and his musicians played for them, Richard Honeydew sang sweet madrigals, Barnaby Gill made them guffaw with his comic dances and Firethorn obliged with a speech or two off the cuff from his extensive repertoire. Westfield’s Men were not only given free cakes and ale. The wedding guests each tossed in a few coins to make their gratitude more substantial. With one exception, the company was thrilled.

  That exception was Owen Elias, an eager talent who was proud of abilities that were just never given an opportunity to display themselves. It was others who won the plaudits from the guests. He lurked somnolently on the fringes and drank too much beer. When Gill was asked to perform his jig for a fourth time, Elias could take no more and slunk quietly out into the yard in search of his own audience.

  Nicholas was pleased by the turn of events but he had not forgotten Leonard’s warning and kept his wits about him. He was much exercised, too, by the information that Abel Strudwick had supplied. If there was a form of conspiracy afoot and the Chamberlain were part of it, then it must reach to the very highest levels of municipal administration. Alderman Rowland Ashway was deeply involved in it and his agents were totally ruthless. If a defenceless young apprentice like Hans Kippel could be murdered, then the killers would stoop to anything – even to an attack on Lawrence Firethorn. The book holder started as he recalled the warning. Leonard had told him that both he and the actor-manager were marked men. In the middle of a large gathering in the taproom, Nicholas was quite safe but there was no sign of Firethorn. Concern flared up.

  A quick search of the ground floor of the premises yielded nothing. Nicholas was about to go upstairs when he heard a distant sound that stilled him somewhat. Out in the darkness was a voice so quintessentially that of Lawrence Firethorn that he relaxed at once. The great man was merely rehearsing under the stars and giving the angels themselves some nocturnal entertainment. Letting himself out in the yard, the book holder realised at once from where the speech was coming. The paddock was a ghostly silhouette in the moonlight. Nine giant oak trees stood in a circle to form a natural amphitheatre. Sublime verse was declaimed with such feeling and ferocity that it sailed upwards into the branches of the trees and came back in weird echoes.

  Lawrence Firethorn was truly supreme. Only he could make a speech crackle with such intensity and only he would steal off into the night to rehearse alone and to perfect his art. Nicholas walked towards the paddock so that he might enjoy the treat to the full. It was only when he recognised the play that his panic returned. Henry the Fifth was haranguing his troops before battle in the lilting cadences of a true Celt. Once again, the imitation had been uncanny but this was not the actor-manager in conference with the giant oak trees. It was Owen Elias.

  The moment Nicholas realised this, the speech was cut dead to be replaced by a loud gurgling. He ran towards the paddock as fast as he could but the foliage was so dense and widespread that it shadowed the whole area. Only the terrible noise guided him, the final, fading cries of an actor on the verge of the ultimate exit. Nicholas sprinted all round the circle until he collided with a pair of dangling legs and was knocked to the ground. High above him, swaying to and fro, was the twitching Owen Elias who grasped feverishly at the rope around his neck. For a man whose voice was his own greatest joy, it was a cruel way to die.

  The Welshman was an unintended victim. Taken for Lawrence Firethorn, he was at least quitting his life in a leading role. The rope was slung over a branch then secured around the trunk of a tree. Nicholas drew his dagger and hacked through the hemp to bring his friend crashing to the ground.

  There was no time to attend to him because Firk leapt out from his hiding place with a sword in his hand. He circled his prey menacingly. Nicholas had only the dagger with which to defend himself. Firk rushed in and slashed the air viciously with his blade, catching the other a glancing blow on the left arm. The stinging pain and the gouting blood made Nicholas change his tactics at once. At their last encounter, his attacker had been stabbed in the stomach and must still be suffering from that injury. The book holder put pressure on the wound. He dodged behind a tree then skipped on to another so that Firk had to waddle after him. Nicholas broke into a run and weaved in and out of the nine giants with the sword whistling at his heels all the way. The further he went, the more he tired his pursuer. Firk was panting violently and threshing the air with increasing fury. Leaves fell at each stroke and whole branches were lopped off. Fatigue eventually slowed him and he leant against a tree to catch his breath, one hand holding the sword while the other grabbed at his wounded stomach.

  Nicholas switched from defence to attack, moving in to circle his man with the dagger at the ready. Firk responded with a few murderous swipes but his strength was clearly diminished. He made a sudden lunge at his foe but Nicholas parried the sword with his dagger, stepped back a few yards, flicked the blade into his hand then threw the weapon hard at the advancing Firk. It hit him in the shoulder and spun him round. The rapier dropped to the ground and Firk staggered after it. Nicholas was on to him like a shot, grappling madly and rolling in the grass until both were muddied all o
ver. Even in his weakened state, Firk was still strong but he was up against someone who had more than strength on his side.

  New power surged through Nicholas. As well as fighting for his own life, he was avenging the deaths of his friends. He was pitted against the man who had cut down Hans Kippel with callous violence in the street. He was wrestling with the creature who had hanged a poor actor intent on improving his craft. They rolled again and Nicholas finished on top, pinning his opponent to the ground and managing to get both hands to his neck. His first squeeze drew a roar of protest from Firk but that did not halt him. The book holder ignored the punches that rained on his chest and the grasping fingers that tried to pluck out his eyes.

  He tightened his grip as hard as he could. The spirit of Hans Kippel lent his puny strength and Owen Elias groaned his encouragement from the ground. Between the three of them, they throttled every semblance of breath out of Firk and left him prone on the ground in an attitude of complete submission. The weary Nicholas hauled himself up and went over to the purple-faced Welshman who was slowly recovering from his brush with death. Loosening the knot around his friend’s neck, the book holder pulled the noose off and tossed it over to the corpse.

  Owen Elias croaked his gratitude and raised a weak arm in salute. There would be no part for him in the play but at least he would live to act another day.

  Lawrence Firethorn, meanwhile, was loping along the passage to the private room where his treasure was stored away. Having spoken to the landlord and ordered that food and wine be sent up, he could now begin the soft preliminaries of love and prepare her for the joyful consummation that was to follow. He paused outside the door to adjust his doublet, smooth his beard and lick his lips then he knocked boldly three times and sailed through the door to claim his prize.

  ‘I have come to you, my love!’ he sighed.

  But Matilda Stanford was not there to receive him. Most of the candles had been extinguished and the room looked empty in the half-dark. Fierce disappointment then gave way to rekindled lust as her inviting noises came from the four-poster. He crossed to the bed to see her body writhing under the bedclothes to allure and excite. Evidently, she could not wait for the leisurely meal and the long seduction. Her ardour brooked no delay and it produced a like passion in him. Running to the door, he slammed home the bolt so that they would not be disturbed then he began to tear at the hooks on his doublet and pull down his breeches. The sounds from the bed grew more desperate every second and he amplified them with his own grunting and groaning.