The Nine Giants Read online

  The Thames was lapping noisily at the timbers of the wharf when he arrived and the moored craft were thudding rhythmically against each other. Daylight turned the river into a floating village and even at this late hour many of the inhabitants were still promenading over the water. Barges, wherries, hoys, fishing smacks and an occasional tilt-boat could be seen and there was a lone coracle wending its way along. Nicholas did not have to choose his means of transport. His pilot came hopping across to him with gruff deference.

  ‘This way, Master Bracewell. Let me serve you, sir.’

  ‘I will do that gladly, Abel.’

  ‘I have missed you for a se’n-night or more.’

  ‘My legs took me home.’

  ‘Sit in my boat and make the journey in style, sir. There is more music to please your ears.’

  Abel Strudwick was an unprepossessing individual, a heavy, round-shouldered man of middle height with unkempt hair and a hirsute beard doing their best to hide an ugly, pockmarked face. Though roughly the same age as his favourite passenger, he looked a decade older. Strudwick had the vices and virtues of his breed. Like all watermen, he had a stentorian voice to hail his customers and a savage turn of phrase with which to assault them if they failed to tip him handsomely. On the credit side, he was an honest, reliable citizen who put the strength of his arms and the warmth of his company at the disposal of anyone who sat in the boat.

  What set Abel Strudwick apart from the rest and gave him a special relationship with Nicholas Bracewell was his addiction to what he called music. When the book holder was offered fresh melodies, he knew that the waterman had been busy with his pen, for Strudwick had poetic ambitions. His music came in the form of mundane verse that was always at the mercy of its rhyme scheme and which flowed from him as readily and roughly as the Thames itself. Nicholas was his preferred audience because he always listened with genuine interest and because his connections with the theatre were a distant promise of some kind of literary recognition.

  As they got into the boat, Nicholas felt a sailor’s surge of excitement at being afloat again, albeit in a modest craft. Before he came into the theatre, he had sailed with Drake on the circumnavigation of the world and it had made a deep impression on him. The experience gave him another bond with the waterman. Though Strudwick had never been more than ten miles upstream, he saw himself as a great voyager like his friend and it fed his invention.

  He declaimed his latest piece of music.

  ‘Row on, row on, across the waves,

  Thou monarch of the sea.

  Steer past those rocks, avoid those caves,

  Row on to eternity.’

  There was much more to come and Nicholas heard it patiently as he sat in the stern of the boat with his hand trailing gently in the water. Strudwick’s methodical rowing was matched by the repetitive banality of his latest verses but his passenger would nevertheless pay him with kind words and encouragement. A warbling poet was milder company than a foul-mouthed waterman.

  ‘A turd in your teeth!’

  ‘How so, Abel?’

  ‘A pox upon your pox-ridden pizzle!’

  Strudwick had not lapsed back into his normal mode of speech to berate Nicholas. He was cursing the obstacle which the prow of his boat had struck and which had turned his music to discord. Swearing volubly, he manoeuvred his craft round so that he could see what he was abusing. Nicholas felt it first and it made his blood run cold. His trailing hand met another in the water, five pale, thin, lifeless fingers that touched his own in a clammy greeting. He sat up in the boat and peered into the darkness. Even the roaring Strudwick was frightened into silence.

  Caught up in a piece of driftwood was the naked body of a man. There was enough moonlight for them to see that the corpse had met a gruesome death. The head had been battered in and one of the legs was twisted out at an unnatural angle. A dagger was lodged in the throat.

  Abel Strudwick was still emptying the contents of a full stomach into the river as Nicholas hauled their sorry cargo aboard.

  Chapter Two

  Anne Hendrik was not normally given to apprehension. She was a strong-minded woman who had survived all the blows that Fate had dealt her and who always met adversity with resolution. Though her marriage had been sound, it had brought pain and grief to her family who disapproved in frank terms of her choice of husband. London had no love of foreigners and those women who had actually rejected decent English stock in order to marry immigrants were looked upon with disdain, if not outright disgust. Having to cope with the sneers and the cold shoulders had helped to harden Anne in many ways but she was still a sensitive person underneath it all and her emotions could be aroused in a crisis.

  The present situation was a case in point. She was very distressed by what had happened to Hans Kippel, her young apprentice, all the more so because the boy had been sent expressly at her command to deliver the order. Anne blamed herself for entrusting such an important duty to such an untried youth. In giving Hans Kippel an extra responsibility, she had exposed him unnecessarily to the dangers of city life. The wounds he got in her service were each a separate reproach to her and she could not bear to look on as they were bathed and bandaged. Preben van Loew tried to assure her that it was not her fault but his words fell on deaf ears. What she needed was the more persuasive, objective, down-to-earth comfort of the man who shared her house with her but he was not there.

  The longer she waited, the more convinced she became that he, too, had met with violence on his journey home. As evening became night and night slipped soundlessly into the next day, Anne was almost distraught, pacing the floor of her main room with a candle in her hand and racing to peer through the window every time a footstep was heard on the cobbles outside. The house was not large but she had felt the need for male companionship after her husband’s demise and she had taken in a lodger so that she might have the sense of a man about the place once more. It had been a rewarding experiment. The guest had turned out to be not only an exemplary lodger and a loyal friend but – at special moments savoured by both – he had been considerably more. To have lost him at a time when she needed him most would indeed be a cruel stroke of fortune. His movements were uncertain and his hours of work irregular but he should have been back long before now. When there was some unexpected delay, he usually sent word to put her mind at rest.

  Where could he be at such a late hour? Bankside was littered with hazards enough in broad daylight. With the cover of darkness, those hazards multiplied a hundredfold. Could he have met the same trouble as Hans Kippel and be lying in his own blood in some fetid lane? Her immediate impulse was to take a lantern and go in search of him but the futility of such a gesture was borne in upon her. It was no use subjecting herself to such grave danger. She was virtually trapped in the house and she had to make the most of it. With a great effort of will, she sat down at the table, put the candle aside, took several deep breaths and told herself to remain calm in the emergency. It worked for a matter of minutes. Worries then flooded back and she was up on her feet again to confront each new horrible possibility that her imagination threw up.

  Anne Hendrik was so enmeshed in her concern that she did not hear the key being inserted into the front door. The first she knew of her deliverance was when the solid figure stood before her in the gloom.

  Tears came as she flung herself into his arms.

  ‘God be praised!’

  ‘What ails you?’

  ‘Hold me tight, sir. Hold me very tight.’

  ‘So I will, my love.’

  ‘I have been in such dread for your safety.’

  ‘Here I am, unharmed, as you see.’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’

  Nicholas Bracewell held her close and kissed the top of her head softly. It was most unlike her to be so on edge and it took him some time to calm her enough to get the full story out of her. Anne sat opposite him at the table and talked of the deep guilt she felt about Hans Kippel. He heard her out before offering his a
dvice.

  ‘You do yourself an injustice, Anne.’

  ‘Do I, sir?’

  ‘The boy is old enough and sensible enough to take on such a duty. It is all part of his apprenticeship. I warrant that he was delighted when you chose him.’

  ‘Indeed, he was. It got him away from here.’

  ‘Out of the dullness of his workplace and into the excitement of the streets,’ said Nicholas. ‘Hans will have been a little careless, that is all. He will not make the same mistake again.’

  ‘But that is the trouble of it.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Hans does not understand the nature of his error.’

  ‘He was off guard for a moment, surely?’

  ‘Maybe, Nick,’ she said. ‘But he does not remember. Hans took such a blow on the head that it has knocked the memory out of him. All he can recall is that some men attacked him and that he got away. When, where or why are questions that the lad cannot as yet comprehend.’

  ‘His wounds have been tended?’

  ‘Of course, sir. The surgeon said it is not uncommon to find a lapse of memory in such cases. Hans must be given time to recover. As his body mends, haply his mind will be made whole again.’ Anne seized his hands to squeeze them. ‘Speak to him, Nick. The boy likes you and looks up to you. Help the poor creature for pity’s sake.’

  ‘I will do all that is needful. Trust it well.’

  ‘Your words are a balm to me.’

  He leant forward to embrace her then turned to his own story. When he explained what had detained him, Anne was thrown into disarray once more. The injuries of a young apprentice paled beside the discovery of a dead body in the River Thames. Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick had taken the corpse back to the wharf from which they had departed. After rousing the watch, they had been required to give sworn statements to a magistrate before being allowed to go. Strudwick had then rowed his friend to Bankside in a grim silence that no music could break. Tragedy had knocked all poetic skills out of him.

  Anne was in a state of total dismay.

  ‘Who was the man?’ she said.

  ‘We have no means of knowing as yet.’

  ‘But why was he stripped of his clothing?’

  ‘The murderer may have thought his apparel worth the taking,’ he said. ‘And that argues rich garments which could be sold for gain. I think, however, that there could be another reason behind it. His clothing could have helped to identify him and much care was taken to render the poor soul anonymous. The way that his face was beaten to a pulp, his own kin would not be able to recognise him. He went out of this world in the most damnable way.’

  ‘Could nothing be learnt from the corpse, Nick?’

  ‘Only some idea of his age, which I would put around thirty summers. And one thing more, Anne.’

  ‘Well, sir?’

  ‘The body had not long been in the water.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘By bitter experience,’ he said. ‘I have seen all too many men who have found a watery grave. Rigor mortis sets in after a time and the miserable creatures become bloated in a way too hideous to describe. The person we found tonight was dropped into the river only a short time beforehand.’

  ‘Was any other villainy wreaked upon him?’

  ‘He was stabbed through the neck and one of his legs was horribly broken.’ He saw her flinch. ‘But these are details enough for you. I would not vex you any more.’

  ‘My joy at seeing you again is blackened by this grim intelligence.’ Fresh tears threatened. ‘The body in the river could so easily have been yours, Nick.’

  ‘With Abel Strudwick to look after me?’ he said with a smile. ‘I could not ask for a better guard. A whole armada would not dare to take on Abel when he is afloat. He would give them a broadside with his curses then rake their decks with a fusillade of poems.’

  She went back into his arms and hugged him close.

  ‘It has been a long and lonely night for me.’

  ‘I did not stay away from you out of choice, Anne.’

  ‘There is almost too much for me to bear.’

  ‘Let us share the load, my love.’

  ‘That was my hope.’

  ‘Consider it fulfilled.’

  ‘Welcome home, Nick,’ she whispered.

  They went slowly upstairs to her bedchamber. It was something which they both felt they had deserved.

  The change of venue was significant. The meeting was scheduled to take place at Lawrence Firethorn’s house in Shoreditch, a rather modest but welcoming abode that gave shelter to the actor’s own family and their servants as well as hospitality to the company’s four apprentices. What made the establishment function with such relative smoothness was the presiding genius of Margery Firethorn, a redoubtable woman who combined the roles of wife, mother, housekeeper and landlady with consummate ease and who still had enough energy left over to pursue other interests, to maintain a high standard of Christian observance and to terrorise anyone foolhardy enough to stand in her way. Even her husband, fearless in any other way, had been known to quail before her. Indirectly, it was she who had dictated the move to another place and Barnaby Gill spotted this at once.

  ‘Lawrence is on heat again!’ he moaned.

  ‘Lord save us!’ cried Edmund Hoode.

  ‘That is why he dare not have us at his house. In case Margery gets wind of his new amour.’

  ‘Who is the luckless creature, Barnaby?’

  ‘I know not and care not,’ said Gill with studied indifference. ‘Women are all one to me and I like not any of the infernal gender. My passions are dedicated to intimacy on a much higher plane.’ He puffed at his pipe and blew out rings of smoke. ‘What else did our Creator in his munificence make pretty boys for, I ask?’

  It was a rhetorical question and Edmund Hoode would in any case not have been drawn into such a discussion. Barnaby Gill’s tendencies were well known and generally tolerated by a company that valued his acting skills and his remarkable comic gifts. Hoode had never plumbed the secret of why his companion – such a gushing fountain of pleasure upon the stage – was so morose and petulant when he left it. The playwright preferred the public clown to the private cynic. They were sitting in a room at the Queen’s Head as they waited for Firethorn to arrive. The three men were all sharers with Lord Westfield’s Men, ranked players who were named in the royal patent for the company and who took the leading roles in any performance. There were four other sharers but it was this triumvirate that effectively dictated policy and controlled the day-to-day running of the company.

  Lawrence Firethorn was the undisputed leader. Even when he burst through the door and gave them an elaborate bow, he was simply asserting his superiority.

  ‘Gentlemen, your servant!’

  ‘You are late as usual, sir,’ snapped Gill.

  ‘I was detained by family matters.’

  ‘Your drink awaits you, Lawrence,’ said Hoode.

  ‘Thank you, Edmund. I am glad that one of my partners in this enterprise has some concern for me.’

  ‘Oh, I have concern in good measure,’ said Gill. ‘I was a model of concern during yesterday’s performance when I feared you might not survive to the end of it.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ Firethorn bridled. ‘You speak of me?’

  ‘Who else, sir? It was Count Orlando who was puffing and panting so in the heat of the day. And it was that same noble Italian who became so flustered that he inserted four lines from Vincentio’s Revenge.’

  ‘You lie, you dog!’ howled Firethorn.

  ‘Indeed, I do. It was six lines.’

  ‘My Count Orlando was simon pure.’

  ‘Give or take an occasional blemish.’

  ‘You dare to scorn my performance!’

  ‘By no means,’ said Gill, ready with a final thrust. ‘I thought that your Count Orlando was excellent – but not nearly as fine as your Vincentio in the same play!’

  ‘You viper! You maggot! Y
ou pipe-smoking pilchard!’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ soothed Hoode. ‘We have come together to do business and not to trade abuse.’

  ‘The man is a scurvy rogue!’ yelled Firethorn.

  ‘At least I remember my lines,’ retorted the other.

  ‘None are worth listening to, sir.’

  ‘My admirers will be the judge of that.’

  ‘You have but one and that is Master Barnaby Gill.’

  ‘I will not brook insults!’

  ‘Then do not wear such ridiculous attire, sir.’

  Gill flared up immediately. The one certain way to bring out his choleric disposition was to criticise his appearance because he took such infinite pains with it. Dressed in a peach-coloured doublet and scarlet hose, he wore a tall hat that was festooned with feathers. Rings on almost every finger completed a dazzling effect. Roused to a fever pitch, he now strutted up and down the room, pausing from time to time to stamp a foot in exasperation. Having routed his enemy, Firethorn reclined in the high-backed chair and took his first sip of the Canary wine that stood ready for him.

  Hoode, meanwhile, devoted his energy to calming down the anguished clown, an almost daily task in view of the professional jealousy between Gill and Firethorn. Verbal clashes between them were the norm but they were quickly forgotten when the two actors were on stage together. Both were supreme in their own ways and it was from the dynamic between them that Westfield’s Men drew much of their motive force.

  Edmund Hoode eventually imposed enough calm for the meeting to begin. As they sat around the table, he reached gratefully for his pint of ale to wash away the memory of yet another needless row between his colleagues who had left him feeling that he had been ground into dust by two whining millstones. Lawrence Firethorn, poised and peremptory, opened the business of the day.

  ‘We are met to confirm our future engagements,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, as you know, we play Double Deceit at The Theatre in Shoreditch. It is a well-tried piece but that is no reason for us to be complacent. We will have a testing rehearsal in the morning to add what polish we may. Westfield’s Men must be at their best, sirs.’