The Nine Giants Page 7

  Firethorn was left alone to deliver the Epilogue.

  Comedy, our sages oft advise us,

  May come accoutred in diverse disguises.

  True laughter wears such various attire,

  Colour, cut, fashion and style conspire

  To catch the eye and to create such mirth,

  That heavenly happiness dwells on earth.

  In dressing up our offering today

  We use twice the apparel of another play.

  Behind a cloak hid brooding Argos of Rome,

  His twin of Florence lurked beneath a dome …

  He was leaving the audience in no doubt about the fact that he had played the two parts. He changed cloaks on the line about the brooding Argos and put on his other hat when he referred to a dome. Then he went on to repeat the process throughout the remainder of the Epilogue, thus confirming his genius as a theatrical chameleon. It was a play in itself and the spectators were spellbound.

  Abel Strudwick had been hypnotised by it all for two hours and this final piece of bravura left him totally awestruck. The furious pace and the freewheeling humour gave him an experience that altered his whole view of himself. He wanted somehow to be part of it all, to shed the onerous burdens of being a waterman and join the marvellous world of theatre. What had aroused most wonder in him was the quality of the verse. Double Deceit was written largely in prose but it did contain a number of speeches in rhyming couplets that struck him as superb. Delivered by the masterful Firethorn, their shortcomings were cunningly concealed. Strudwick longed to write such lines for such an actor, even to become a performer himself. It was a more honourable existence than rowing incessantly across the River Thames. Receiving the plaudits of such a delirious auditorium was infinitely better than dragging dead bodies out of dark water.

  Matilda Stanford was also entranced by the whole experience. Deeply moved at the Queen’s Head, she had been dizzied by the sheer extravagance of today’s frolic. A simple playbill had brought her to The Theatre with a curiosity that was soon satisfied. Lawrence Firethorn himself had sent the invitation and he had left her in no doubt of that. Whether he was playing Argos of Rome or Argos of Florence, he found a way to direct certain lines straight at her by way of tribute. Matilda was utterly enraptured. With his scintillating display in the twin roles, the actor-manager had even surpassed his sublime performance as Count Orlando – and this was the man who had deigned to notice her. Concluding the Epilogue, he blew her a kiss and bowed in acknowledgement of her smile. Even in the thunder of the curtain call, Firethorn found time to speak to her with his eyes.

  A faithful young wife forgot about her husband.

  Walter Stanford was indefatigable. He rose early each day and worked late into the night, attending to his business affairs with jovial energy and pushing out the frontiers of his operations all the time. Sunday was his only day of rest and even then stray thoughts of his latest enterprises mingled with his prayers. The Master of the Mercers’ Company did not believe in resting on his many laurels. Expansion was his watchword.

  Other men would have been daunted by the additional amount of work entailed in being Lord Mayor Elect but Stanford welcomed it. He simply got up even earlier and laboured longer into the darkness. If fatigue ever laid a hand upon him, he never showed it. If obstacles fell across his path, he leapt nimbly over them. If anything even began to depress his spirits, he invoked the memory of his mentor, Dick Whittington, and carried on with restored vigour. It was impossible to compete with Walter Stanford. He was invincible.

  That afternoon found him sitting at the table in his study leafing through some contracts pertaining to the coal mines that he owned up in Newcastle. He checked the figures carefully before entering them into a large account book then he turned to consider another part of his burgeoning empire. It did not worry him in the least that his wife was watching a play at The Theatre while he was slaving on at Stanford Place. He worked so that she might enjoy her leisure and he was content with that arrangement. Rocked by the loss of one wife, he could not believe his luck in being given a second chance of happiness and he did not spurn it. His wife and family were all to him and his industry was at their service.

  A knock on the door interrupted his concentration. He looked up as Simon Pendleton sidled into the room carrying a long flat box that was tied with string. A faint whiff in the air made Stanford’s nose wrinkle.

  ‘I am sorry to intrude, master,’ said the steward.

  ‘What have you brought me?’

  ‘This has just been delivered, sir.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘He did not stay to declare himself,’ said the other with mild disapproval. ‘When I opened the front door, I found this box upon the step. It is addressed to you.’

  ‘What is that strange odour?’

  ‘I am not sure, sir, but it made the dogs sniff their fill. That is why I brought the box straight to you. They would have torn it open else.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon. Put it on the table.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pendleton laid the box down as if he was glad to part with it then stood back so that its pungency did not invade his nostrils any more. Stanford used a knife to cut through the string then lifted the lid with interest. His eyebrows shot up in amazement when he saw what lay inside. It was almost two feet long and weighed several pounds. The silver scales glittered in the light. He took the item out and held it on the palms of both hands to feel its substance and wonder at its meaning. Gifts from friends or debtors were quite common but he had never received an anonymous present of this nature before. Master and steward stared in complete bafflement.

  They were looking at a dead fish.

  Chapter Four

  Nicholas Bracewell was still at The Theatre well after the audience and the cast had departed. With the help of Thomas Skillen and his assistant stagekeepers, he gathered up everything belonging to Westfield’s Men and loaded it into a cart. When he had paid the manager for the rental of the playhouse and confirmed details of their next visit to the venue, he drove the cart back towards the city and in through Bishopsgate with his motley crew sitting on the vehicle behind him. As the old horse pulled them on a jolting ride over the cobbles, Nicholas looked up with misgiving at Stanford Place. It was an imposing edifice but perils loitered within for the whole company. George Dart felt it as well. Shrinking away from the house as it appeared on his left, he heard the distant bark of dogs and shivered violently.

  They were all glad to reach the Queen’s Head where their effects would be stored until required on the following Monday. Willing hands unloaded and locked everything away then extended themselves towards the book holder with open palms. It was the end of the week and their wages were paid. Most of them went straight off to spend some of their money on ale and to toast the end of another long and tiring stint of work. The solitary exception was George Dart who scampered off home to his lodgings in Cheapside to appease his landlady with his rent and to catch up on some of the sleep that he invariably lost in the service of Westfield’s Men.

  Nicholas went into the taproom to be pounced on by the egregious publican. Alexander Marwood saw the chance to wallow in further misery.

  ‘One of my serving wenches is with child,’ he said. ‘I blame Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘All of them?’ queried Nicholas.

  ‘Actors are born lechers.’

  ‘Has the lady named the father?’

  ‘She does not need to, Master Bracewell. The finger points at a member of your company.’

  ‘Then the finger is too hasty in its accusation,’ said the book holder. ‘Lechery is not confined to our profession. Other men are prey to such urges and you have hundreds of red-blooded customers here during any week. Besides, why must you judge the girl so harshly? Perhaps it was love and not lust that was at work here. Haply, she and her swain plan to wed.’

  ‘There is no talk of that,’ said Marwood bitterly. ‘She has lost her virtue and I have lost a
serving wench. Acting and venery go hand in hand. I will not be loath to see Westfield’s Men quit my premises.’

  ‘You are unjust, sir. Do not thrust us out before we have been able to argue our case.’

  ‘What case?’

  ‘Consider how well our arrangement has worked in the past. We have all been beneficiaries.’

  ‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘If our contract did not yield advantage, why did you suffer it these three or four years past? When it suited your purpose, you were quick enough to sign the articles of agreement. All that needs to be done now is to make those provisions a little more appealing to you.’

  ‘The offer comes too late, Master Bracewell.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have another suitor at my door.’

  Alexander Marwood gave a sickly grin and pointed towards the corpulent figure at the far end of the bar counter. Rowland Ashway was dispensing some flabby charm on Marwood’s wife, impressing her with his aldermanic importance and wooing her with smiling promises about the rosy future that lay ahead if she and her husband agreed to let him take over their inn. A stone-faced harridan was being turned into a compliant woman. The landlord marvelled at the transformation, then hurried across in the hopes of gaining some personal advantage from it. Marwood was soon beaming alternately at his wife and at Rowland Ashway, hanging on the words of both with an almost childlike eagerness.

  Nicholas Bracewell was shaken by what he saw. There was an easy arrogance about the brewer which showed how confident he was of landing his prize. Evidently, he was offering them blandishments with which Westfield’s Men could not hope to compete. It was going to be extremely difficult to fight off the aldermanic challenge but it had to be done somehow. What troubled Nicholas most was that he was likely to be encumbered rather than helped by his fellows. If he broke the news to Lawrence Firethorn and the other sharers, they would react with such violence that any future dealings with Marwood would be greatly imperilled. For the time being, the book holder was on his own. Yet that situation could not last. Sooner or later, he had to take someone into his confidence. It would have to be done in such a way that hysteria did not spread like wildfire through Westfield’s Men.

  As he glanced around the taproom, Nicholas could see eight or nine members of the company, relaxing after the exigencies of performance and laughing freely, blissfully unaware of the threat that hung over their livelihood. He did not have the heart to smash their fragile dreams with his grim intelligence. Hiding it deep within him, he went across to a table to join two special friends.

  Owen Elias was in the middle of a long monologue but his companion was not listening to a word of it. With his round, clean-shaven moon face aglow, Edmund Hoode stared ahead of him at some invisible object of wonder. When the book holder sat opposite them, the fiery Welshman switched his attack to the newcomer.

  ‘I was telling Edmund here even now,’ he said with eyes ablaze. ‘I would be Ramon to the life.’

  ‘Ramon?’

  ‘Yes, Nick. The Governor of Cyprus.’

  ‘Ah. You talk of Black Antonio.’

  ‘We play it on Monday next. I should be Ramon.’

  ‘The part is already cast.’

  ‘I have the better claim to it.’

  ‘That may well be so,’ agreed Nicholas reasonably, ‘but it is a major role and must of necessity be played by one of the sharers.’

  ‘Even though I have superior talent?’

  ‘Theatre is not always just, Owen.’

  ‘Support me in this. Take up cudgels on my behalf.’

  ‘I have urged your case a dozen times to Master Firethorn. He is a keen judge of acting and recognises your mettle. But there are other needs to satisfy first.’

  ‘His lice-ridden sharers!’

  ‘It will not help if you abuse your fellows.’

  ‘I am sorry, Nick,’ said Elias, lapsing into maudlin vein. ‘But it makes my blood boil to see the way that I am held back. In temper and skill, I am the equal of any in the company save Lawrence Firethorn himself yet I languish in the shallows. Take but Double Deceit, man. I was partnered with that dolt of a stagekeeper.’

  ‘George Dart does not pretend to be an actor.’

  ‘Others do and get away with murder!’

  ‘Some fall short of greatness, I admit.’

  ‘Help me, Nick,’ said the other seriously. ‘You are my only hope in this company. Find me the chance to show my genius and they will beg me to become a sharer.’

  Nicholas doubted it. Owen Elias had many sterling qualities but his relentless self-assertion was a severe handicap. He upset many of his colleagues with his grumbling discontent and would never be accepted by the other sharers, especially as he would show some of them up completely if he were given a sizeable role. Unknown to the Welshman, Nicholas had already saved him from summary dismissal on more than one occasion by pleading on his behalf. The book holder had found an unlikely ally. He had been supported by Barnaby Gill who was highly aware of the potential talent of Owen Elias and who relished the fact that it was akin to that of Lawrence Firethorn. The hired man was no threat at all to Gill but he might steal some of the actor-manager’s thunder if he were given the opportunity.

  ‘I grow weary of this damnable life!’ said Elias.

  ‘Your hour will come, Owen.’

  ‘Too late, too late. I may not be here to enjoy it.’

  He emptied his tankard, hauled himself out of his chair and rolled off towards the exit. His story was typical of so many hired men who toiled in the smaller parts while less able actors scooped the cream. It was one of the many bitter facts of life that had to be accepted by those in the lower ranks of the profession.

  Nicholas now turned his attention to Edmund Hoode.

  ‘I am pleased to see you in good spirits.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Hoode came out of his daydream.

  ‘You have shed your melancholy.’

  ‘No, Nick. It was snatched away from me.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The fairest creature that I ever beheld.’

  ‘That phrase has been on your lips before,’ teased the book holder gently.

  ‘This time it finds its mark directly. She has no equal of her sex. I have witnessed perfection.’

  ‘Where did this happen, Edmund?’

  ‘Where else but at The Theatre?’

  ‘During the performance?’

  ‘She condescended to smile down on me.’

  ‘As did the whole assembly. You played your part with great verve and humour.’

  ‘It was dedicated to her,’ said Hoode impulsively. ‘I noticed her when I had my soliloquy in Act Three. She leant forward in the middle gallery to hear it all the better. Oh, Nick, I all but swooned! She is celestial!’

  It was another phrase which he had sometimes used before and not always with discrimination. During an earlier period of frustration in his life, his romantic urge had focused itself wildly and inappropriately on Rose Marwood, the landlord’s daughter, an attractive wench with the good fortune to resemble neither of her parents. Like so many of Hoode’s attachments, it was wholly unwise and brought him only further grief. Deeply fond of his colleague, Nicholas hoped that another disappointment was not in the offing for him.

  Edmund Hoode was back in the playhouse again.

  ‘She sat beside an ill-favoured gallant in black and silver,’ he recalled. ‘Her own apparel was green, so many hues and each so beautifully blended with the others that she drew my eyes to it. As for her face, it makes all others seem foul and ugly. I will not rest until I have wooed her and won her. Nick, sweet friend, I am in love!’

  The poet rhapsodised at length and the book holder’s discomfort grew steadily. In every detail, the description tallied with the one given to him by another member of the company and that could only set up the possibility of horrendous complications. Edmund Hoode was unquestionably talking abo
ut Matilda Stanford. He was intent on pursuing a young woman who had already been targeted by Lawrence Firethorn. The implications were frightening.

  ‘Help me to find out who she is, Nick!’

  ‘How may I do that?’

  ‘Wait until she visits us again.’

  ‘But the lady may never do that.’

  ‘She will,’ said Hoode confidently. ‘She will.’

  The prospect made Nicholas grit his teeth.

  The interior of Stanford Place was even more impressive than its façade. Its capacious rooms were elegantly furnished and given over to an ostentatious display of wealth. Large oak cupboards with intricate carvings all over them were loaded to capacity with gold plate that was kept gleaming. Rich tapestries covered walls and hand-worked carpets of exquisite design softened the clatter of the floors. Gilt-framed oil paintings added colour and dignity. Tables, chairs, benches and cushions abounded and there were no less than three backgammon tables. Huge oak chests bore further quantities of gold plate. Four-branched candelabra were everywhere. The sense of prosperity was overwhelming.

  Matilda Stanford saw none of it as she ran through the house in her excitement. Her husband was still in his counting-house and she raced to knock on its door but a firm voice stopped her just in time.

  ‘The master would not be disturbed.’

  ‘But I have such news for him,’ she said.

  ‘He left precise instructions.’

  ‘Do they apply to his wife?’

  ‘I fear they do,’ said Simon Pendleton with smug deference. ‘The late Mistress Stanford knew better than to interrupt him during the working day.’

  ‘Am I to be denied access to my own husband?’

  ‘I do but offer advice.’

  Matilda was quite abashed. The steward’s manner was so full of polite reproach that it smothered all her vivacity beneath it. When she gave a resigned shrug and began to move away, Pendleton felt that he had won a trial of strength and that was important to him. He was about to congratulate himself when the door opened and Walter Stanford came out. His face beamed indulgently.