The Nine Giants (11 page)

‘We are all still reeling from its force.’

‘How can I endure it?’

‘Try to put it out of your mind.’

‘It sits there like an ogre that will not shift.’

‘Master Marwood may be converted to common sense.’

‘What use is that?’ said Hoode peevishly. ‘I want Lawrence Firethorn converted to a eunuch. It is the only way to solve my plight. He compels me to write songs of love to his new doxy when I have a mistress of my own to woo. Come to my aid, Nick. I perish.’

It was hectic. In the short time between rehearsal and performance, Nicholas attended to all his duties, ate a meagre lunch, sympathised with Hoode’s predicament, fought off another sally from Owen Elias (‘Ramon was a disgrace to the theatre this morning. Let me take over’), managed an exchange of pleasantries with Alexander Marwood then went back to his post to watch the stage being swept and strewn with green rushes. When the audience swarmed in to take up their places in the yard or their seats in the galleries, everything was apparently under control.

The sense of order did not last.
Black Antonio
had never been given such a lacklustre performance. Lawrence Firethorn was strangely muted, Barnaby Gill was curiously dull and Edmund Hoode, who usually sparkled in the role of a duplicitous younger brother, was frankly appalling.
The disease was infectious and the whole company was soon in its grip. They played without conviction and the mistakes began to multiply. But for the book holder’s consoling authority behind the scenes,
Black Antonio
might have become a fiasco. As it was, the audience felt so cheated by what it saw that it began to hoot and jeer with gathering displeasure. Only a minor recovery in the fifth act saved the actors from being booed ignominiously off the stage. Westfield’s Men had never taken their bows with such indifference.

Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling into the tiring-house to berate everyone in sight for their incompetence only to be told by Edmund Hoode that he himself was the chief offender. The row that developed between them was not only due to the insecurity they now felt at the Queen’s Head. There was a deeper reason and Nicholas had noted it from the beginning of the performance. Both men had gone out to act to one person in the packed audience.

Matilda Stanford was not there.

Not even the first hints of calamity could keep Walter Stanford away from home. Though he was still deeply concerned about the fate of his nephew, Michael, he did not interrupt his normal schedule to join in the search. That was now being led by his son who had so far come back empty-handed. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had indeed disembarked on the previous Thursday but he was only one of hundreds of soldiers who had poured off the
ship and into the welcoming bosom of London. Nothing further had been gleaned, not even a description of the wound he had collected in the Netherlands. Medical records had not been kept by the army and Michael was, in any case, no longer a member of it. Discharged into civilian life once again, he had contrived to vanish into thin air.

Walter Stanford put it all to the back of his mind as he walked purposefully into the Royal Exchange on Cornhill. Modelled on the Antwerp Bourse, it was the largest building project undertaken in the city during the Tudor dynasty. Eighty houses had been demolished to clear the site. The Exchange was the work of Thomas Gresham, mercer and financial agent to the Crown, who put some of his vast wealth towards the cost. Enmity between England and Spain had led to trading difficulties with Flanders and created a dire need for a bourse in London. Thomas Gresham obliged and it was duly opened in 1570 by Queen Elizabeth. Its value to the merchant community was inestimable and nobody was more aware of this than Walter Stanford. As he looked around, he was struck yet again by the boldness of the concept.

The Exchange was a long, four-storeyed building that was constructed around a huge courtyard. Its belltower was surmounted by a giant grasshopper which was the emblem of the Gresham crest. Covered walks faced out onto the courtyard and statues of English kings stood in the niches above them. It was an inspiring sight at any
time but especially so when it was filled with merchants who stood in groups according to their specialised trading interests. Over the years, the Exchange had also become the haunt of idlers who hung about the gates to mock, jostle, beg, sell their wares or offer their bodies but even this did not detract from the bustling dignity that still prevailed.

Walter Stanford mingled happily and struck many deals that Monday morning. Well known and much respected, his position as Lord Mayor Elect made him a popular target and he was courted on every side. Productive hours soon scudded by but it was not only profit that interested him. A gnarled face in the crowd reminded him of a promise to his young wife.

‘Good day to you, Gilbert.’

‘Well met, sir.’

‘Are you not too old for this madhouse?’

‘I will come to the Exchange until I drop, Walter.’

Gilbert Pike was by far the most ancient of the wardens of the Mercers’ Company. Thin, silver-haired and decrepit, he was bent almost double and hobbled along with the aid of a stick. But his mind was still as razor-sharp as it had always been and he could more than hold his own in any business deal. There was also another facet to the old man’s skills and Walter Stanford drew him aside to gain some advantage from it.

‘I need your kind help, Gilbert.’

‘Speak on and it is yours.’

‘My young wife must be pleased.’

Pike cackled merrily. ‘Do not call on me for that!’

‘Matilda is adamant. When I become Lord Mayor, she would have a play performed in my honour.’

‘Then she is a woman after my own heart,’ said the other with croaking enthusiasm. ‘The Mercers’ Company put on many pageants in times past. I wrote many of them myself and took the leading part.’

‘That is why I came to you, Gilbert. Nobody is so well versed in the drama. Would it be possible to stage another piece to brighten up my banquet?’

‘It would be an honour!’ said Pike eagerly. ‘What is more, I have the very play to hand.
The Nine Worthies.
’

‘Is that not an antiquated piece?’

‘Not in my version, sir.’

‘Who are these nine worthies?’

‘Three Paynims, three Jews and three Christian men.’

‘Explain.’

‘Hector of Troy, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar; then come Joshua, David and Judas Maccabeus; last are Arthur, Charlemagne and Godefroi de Bouillon.’

‘I see no comedy there,’ said Stanford. ‘Matilda orders laughter. Have you no more lively piece?’

‘The Nine Worthies
is my finest invention.’

‘I’m sure it is, Gilbert, but it does not suit our purpose here. Unless …’ An idea took root in his mind and blossomed spontaneously. ‘Unless we change these nine fellows to fit our purpose and advance our Guild.’

‘How say you?’

‘Supposing those same gentlemen wore the livery of the
Mercers’ Company? Do you follow my inspiration here? Instead of Hector and the rest, we choose nine persons who have brought our Guild most honour as Lord Mayors of London. I like it well. Richard Whittington must be our first worthy, of that there is no question.’

Gilbert Pike took a few minutes to understand and adapt to the notion but he welcomed it with a toothless grin and clapped his claw-like hands. Other names sprang from him for consideration.

‘Richard Gardener, Lionel Duckett and John Stockton. Ralph Dodmer should be there and even Geoffrey Boleyn that was a hatter first and then a mercer. John Allen must be there, who presented the mayoral collar. Then there is Richard Malorye and many more besides.’ The gums came into view again. ‘Nor must we forget the worthiest man of our own day.’

‘Who is that, Gilbert?’

‘Who else but you, sir?’ The old man was warming to the idea rapidly. ‘Walter Stanford. You shall be the ninth in the line. It will be a fitting climax.’

‘And a wonderful surprise for Matilda,’ agreed the other. ‘But can this play have humour in it, too? May not these nine honourable men make us laugh as well?’

‘They will provide drama and mirth, sir.’

‘This is truly excellent, Gilbert!’

‘And my title remains –
The Nine Worthies.
’

‘No,’ said Stanford. ‘It would serve to confuse. That title is too familiar. We must find a new one.’

‘But it describes the play so well,’ argued the old man.
‘Are these men not worthy? And are there not nine of them in number? Each one a giant of the company? What is the objection to my title?’

‘You have just given me a better one.’

‘Have I, sir?’

‘Yes, Gilbert.
That
is what the play will be called.’

‘What?’

‘The Nine Giants
!’

E
ven after the best part of a year in office, Sir Lucas Pugsley was still thrilled at the privileges showered upon him as Lord Mayor of London. The city had always jealously guarded its independence even though this often led to friction with the court and the Parliament at Westminster. Within the city walls, the Lord Mayor ranked above everyone except the Sovereign herself, including princes of the Blood Royal. No fishmonger could ask for more than that. Among his many titles, Pugsley was head of the City Corporation, its chief magistrate, and the chairman of its two governing bodies, the Court of Alderman and the Court of Common Council. Perquisites flourished on all sides but there was one that brought him special delight. He was entitled to any sturgeon caught below London Bridge.

Two features of the office conspired to deter many a possible contender. A year as Lord Mayor was extremely
costly since it took you away from your business affairs and involved a great deal of incidental expense. To avoid all this, there had been cases in the past of aldermen bribing their way out of election, paying hundreds of pounds to avoid an honour that would take even heavier toll on their purse. Those rich enough to afford the luxury could yet be halted by another drawback. Being a Lord Mayor committed you to an enormous amount of work. Civic duties were endless and banquets were too frequent and too lavish for many stomachs.

Sir Lucas Pugsley made light of both handicaps. He was wealthy enough to take the job and hungry enough to do it without loss of appetite. Though it took him away from his own business, it was a profitable investment since it gave him an insight into every area of activity in the city. He had considerable patronage at his disposal and could bestow lucrative offices on friends and relations. The head of the city also got the profits from the sale of appointments which were his to make, and received income from rent farms and market leases. Pugsley was an archetypal Lord Mayor. What made him able to savour his public role was the immense assistance he got in private.

The Chamberlain was a rock at all times.

‘I have brought the judicial accounts, Lord Mayor.’

‘Thank you, Aubrey.’

‘Here also is some correspondence from Amsterdam.’

‘I have been awaiting that.’

‘You have to deliver a speech this evening.’

‘Lord save us! I had quite forgot.’

‘That is why I took the liberty of drafting it out for you, Lord Mayor. Three foreign ambassadors dine at your house this night. A speech of welcome is in order. You are too busy to give much time to it yourself.’ He handed the documents over. ‘I hope that my humble scribblings find favour.’

‘Indeed, they do, man. You are my saviour, Aubrey!’

‘I try to be of service.’

As Chamberlain to the city of London, he had wide-ranging duties with regard to finance but his omnicompetence raised him above his calling. Like many before him, Pugsley used the man’s advice and expertise at every turn and confided in him things that he kept from almost everyone. That was another reassuring trait of Aubrey Kenyon. He was the very soul of discretion.

They were in the palatial room that Pugsley used as his office. He was seated at the long oak table with documents piled high in front of him. Without the aid of his Chamberlain, he could never hope to find his way through them. Power made him capricious.

‘Do I have appointments this afternoon?’

‘Five in total, Lord Mayor.’

‘I am in no mood to receive anyone. Cancel them.’

Kenyon bowed. ‘I have already done so.’

‘You know my mind better than I,’ said Pugsley with a chuckle. ‘You have learnt to read me like a book, sir.’

‘Then I hope I have read aright.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dismissed only four of your five visitors.’

‘And the fifth?’

‘He waits outside. I did not think you would wish him to be turned away like the others.’

‘Who is the fellow?’

‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’

‘Once more, you share my thinking, sir. Rowland Ashway must never be sent away from this door. It is largely because of him that I sit this side of it.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Admit him at once.’

‘I will, Lord Mayor.’

Kenyon bowed, left the room quietly then returned almost at once with the waddling Ashway. With another formal bow, the Chamberlain left them alone to trade warm greetings and even warmer gossip. The old friends were soon chatting away happily about the pleasures of high office. Sir Lucas Pugsley let self-importance get the better of him.

‘Nothing can compare with this feeling, Rowland.’

‘I trust it well.’

‘It is a gift from the gods.’

‘And from your admirers on the aldermanic roll.’

‘Think, man! A fishmonger who has the Queen’s ear.’

‘We are two of a kind,’ said Ashway complacently.

‘In what regard?’

‘You have the Queen’s ear.
I
have the Queen’s Head.’

Nicholas Bracewell bided his time until the landlord came out into the courtyard to speak to one of his ostlers. As Alexander Marwood broke away, the book holder intercepted him. It was early evening at the Queen’s Head and the disgruntled audience had long since departed.
Westfield’s Men had sullied their glowing reputation.

‘Good even, good sir,’ said Marwood. ‘You gave a paltry account of yourselves here today.’

‘Some blame must fall on you, I fear.’

‘I am no actor, Master Bracewell.’

‘Indeed you are not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had you been so, you would know the lurching misery of those without a regular wage or a regular home. The Queen’s Head has been a beacon in our darkness, sir. Take but that away and you plunge us into blackest night.’

‘I must do the best for myself and my family.’

‘Granted, sir. But we are part of that family now and feel cut off. When you threaten to exile us, you lower our spirits and our performance. The result was plain for all to see this afternoon.’

‘Do not put this guilt upon me.’

‘I appeal only to your finer feelings.’

Marwood’s twitch had been quiescent until now, lying dormant while it considered which part of his grotesque face to visit next. It reappeared below his left eye and made him wink with alarming rapidity. Nicholas pursued him for more information.

‘Has anything been settled with Alderman Ashway?’

‘In broad outline.’

‘Our contract still has some weeks to run.’

‘It will not be renewed, Master Bracewell.’

‘Despite the mutual advantage it has brought?’

‘All things must come to an end, sir.’

‘Would you surrender ownership so easily?’

His question made the landlord smart and shifted the nervous twitch to his pursed lips which now opened and shut with fish-like regularity. Evidently, he had some misgivings about the new dispensation. Nicholas tried to apply some gentle pressure.

‘The proud name of Marwood has favoured this inn for over a century. That is a fine achievement.’

‘I know my family history, Master Bracewell.’

‘Then have some thought for your forbears. Would any of them have yielded up their inheritance like this?’

‘No, sir,’ agreed Marwood. ‘Nor would they have given shelter to a troupe of bothersome actors. My father would not have let Westfield’s Men across the threshold.’

‘Would he turn away the custom of our noble patron?’

‘He liked not plays and players.’

‘You have been a kinder host.’

‘It is time to show kindness to myself.’

‘By giving away all that you hold most dear?’

‘Only at a price.’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘That is your privilege, sir. But I wonder that you have not looked more fully into this.’

‘More fully?’

‘Alderman Ashway is an ambitious man. The Queen’s Head will not be the only inn he has gobbled up. Look to the Antelope and to the White Hart in Cheapside.’

‘What of them?’

‘Talk to the landlords,’ said the other. ‘See if they are happy that they sold out to the good brewer. You will find them weighed down with regret, I think.’

‘That is their fault,’ insisted Marwood. ‘I have wrested better terms for myself. You cannot frighten me in that way, Master Bracewell. The Antelope is a scurvy hostelry and the White Hart draws in low company. I’ll not compare the Queen’s Head with them.’

‘They all serve Ashway’s Beer.’

‘You have drunk your share without complaint.’

Nicholas was making no headway. Foreseeing the attack, Marwood had shored up his defences with care. The twitch might travel to and fro across his battlements but his wall would not be breached. Another form of entry had to be found. The book holder searched with care.

‘How does your wife face the impending loss?’

‘That is a private matter, sir.’

‘Mistress Marwood has her doubts, then?’

‘She will see sense in time.’

‘Would you sign a contract without her approval?’

The landlord fell into a stony silence but his twitch betrayed him completely. It broke out in four different areas simultaneously so that a swarm of butterflies seemed to have settled on his face. As he watched the fibrillating flesh, Nicholas Bracewell saw that there might be a shaft of hope for them after all. The future of Westfield’s Men rested on a woman.

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.