‘Rest yourself here,’ said Anne.
‘What happened?’ asked Preben van Loew.
‘I will send for a surgeon directly.’
‘Tell us what befell you, Hans.’
The boy was trembling with fear. On the verge of exhaustion, he could barely dredge up strength enough to speak. When the words finally dribbled out, there was a tattered bravery to them.
‘I saved … it. They … did not get … the money …’
With a ghost of a smile, he pitched forward onto the oak floorboards in a dead faint.
Stanford Place stood in a prime position on the east side of Bishopsgate and dwarfed the neighbouring dwellings. It was built in the reign of Edward IV and had now been arresting eyes and exciting envy for well over a century. With a frontage of almost two hundred feet, it had four storeys, each one jettied out above the floor below. Time had wearied the timber framing somewhat and the beams had settled at a slight angle to give the façade a curiously lopsided look but this only added to the character of the house. It was like a keystone in an arch and the adjacent buildings in Bishopsgate Street leant against it for support with companionable familiarity.
The establishment ran to a dozen bedchambers, a small banqueting hall, a dining parlour, a drawing room, butler’s lodging, servants’ quarters, kitchens, a bake house, even a tiny chapel. There were also stables, outhouses and an extensive garden. It was around this last impressive feature of the house that its owner was perambulating in the early evening sunlight. Walter Stanford was a big, bluff man with apparel that suggested considerable wealth and a paunch which hinted at too ready an appetite. Yet though his body had succumbed to middle age, his plump face still had a boyish quality to it and the large brown eyes sparkled with childlike glee.
‘There is always room for improvement, Simon.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘No expense must be spared in pursuit of it.’
‘That was ever your way, sir.’
‘Look to the example of Theobalds,’ said Stanford with a lordly wave of his hand. ‘When Sir Robert Cecil was gracious enough to invite a party of us there, we were conducted around his garden. Garden, do I say? It was truly a revelation.’
‘You have commended it to me before, master.’
‘No praise is too high, Simon. Why, man, it beggars all description.’ Stanford chortled as he hit his stride. ‘The garden at Theobalds is encompassed with a ditch full of water, so broad and inviting that a man could row a boat between the shrubs if he had a mind to. There was a great variety of trees and plants with labyrinths to provide sport and decoration. What pleased me most was the jet d’eau with its basin of white marble. I must have such a thing here.’
‘Order has already been given for it.’
‘Then there were columns and pyramids of wood at every turn. After seeing these, we were taken by the gardener into the summerhouse, in the lower part of which, built, as it were, in a semicircle, are the twelve Roman emperors in white marble, and a table of touchstone. The upper part of it is set round with cisterns of lead into which the water is conveyed through pipes, so that fish may be kept in them, and in summertime they are very convenient for bathing. And so it went on, Simon.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
As steward of the household, Simon Pendleton was well acquainted with his master’s enthusiasms. Unlike many who make large amounts of money, Walter Stanford was always looking for new ways to spend it and his home provided him with endless opportunities. The steward was a short, slim, unctuous man in his forties with a high forehead and greying beard. Trotting discreetly at the heels of the other, he made a mental note of any new commissions for the garden and there was much to keep him occupied. Every time Stanford paused, he ordered some new trees, shrubs, flowers, or herbs. Whenever a gap presented itself in some quiet corner, he decided to fill it with some statuary or with a pool. Parsimony was unknown to the master of Stanford Place. He was generosity itself when his interest was aroused.
‘It must all be ready in time,’ he warned.
‘I will speak to the gardeners, sir.’
‘My hour of triumph comes ever closer, Simon.’
‘And much deserved it is,’ said the steward with an obsequious bow. ‘Your whole establishment is conscious of the honour that you bestow upon them. It will indeed be a privilege to serve the next Lord Mayor of London.’
‘It will be the summit of my achievement.’
Stanford was lost for a moment in contemplation of the joys that lay ahead. Like his father before him, he was a Master of the Mercers’ Company, the most prestigious Guild in the city, first in order of precedence on all ceremonial occasions, and immortalised by the name of London’s revered mayor, Dick Whittington, who had slipped immoveably into the folk-memory of the capital. The great man had also been Master of the Company and it was Stanford’s ambition to emulate some of his achievements. He wanted to leave his mark indelibly upon the city.
‘He built the largest privy in London,’ he mused fondly. ‘In the year of our Lord, 1419, Richard Whittington erected a convenience in Vintry Ward with sixty seats for Ladies and for Gentlemen, flushed with piped water. What a legacy to bequeath to old London town!’
Pendleton coughed discreetly and Stanford came out of his reverie. He was about to continue his walk when he saw someone flitting through the apple trees towards him on the tips of her toes. She wore a dress of blue and pink that set off the colour of her eyes and the rosiness of her cheeks. Stanford held his arms wide to welcome her and his steward melted quickly into the undergrowth. The young woman came gambolling excitedly up.
‘Matilda!’ said Stanford. ‘What means this haste?’
‘Oh, sir, I have so much to tell you!’ she gasped.
‘Catch your breath first while I steal a kiss.’ He bent over to peck her on the cheek then stood back to admire her. ‘You are truly the delight of my life!’
‘I have found delights of my own, sir.’
‘Where might they be?’
‘At the playhouse,’ she said. ‘We saw Westfield’s Men perform this dolorous tragedy at the Queen’s Head. It made me weep piteously but it also filled me with such wonder. I beg of you to indulge me. When you are made Lord Mayor of London, let us have a play to mark the occasion.’
‘There will be a huge procession, child, a ceremonial parade through the streets of the city. It will lack nothing in pomp and pageant, that I can vouch.’
‘But I want a play,’ she urged. ‘To please me, say that I may have my way in this matter. It was a transport of delight from start to finish. Master Firethorn is the best actor in the whole world and I worship at his feet.’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Do not deny me, sir. I know it is your day but I would round it off with a performance of some lively play.’
Walter Stanford gave an indulgent chuckle.
‘You shall have your wish, Matilda,’ he said.
‘Oh, sir! You are a worthy husband!’
‘And you, a wife among thousands. I strive to satisfy every whim of my gorgeous young bride.’
Nicholas Bracewell paid the penalty for being so reliable and resourceful. The more competent he proved himself in every sphere, the more onerous became his duties. While he made himself indispensable to the company and thereby attained a degree of security that none of the other hired men could aspire to, he found himself coping with additional responsibilities all the time. Nicholas made light of them. Having run his errand for Lawrence Firethorn, he went straight back to his post to supervise the dismantling of the stage and the storing of the costumes and properties. Westfield’s Men were not due to perform at the Queen’s Head until the following week and so their makeshift theatre had to be taken down so that the yard could be returned to its more workaday function as a stabling area for visitors to the inn. The valuable accoutrements of the actor’s art had to be carefully gathered up and locked away in a private room that was rented from the landlord.
While marsha
lling the stagekeepers, Nicholas also had to deal with countless enquiries from members of the company who wanted details of future engagements, repairs made to some hand prop or other, simple praise for their afternoon’s work and, most of all, confirmation of when and where they would get their wages. The book holder was also the central repository of complaints and there was never a shortage of these as peevish actors pursued their vendettas or argued their case for a larger role. It was tiring work but Nicholas sailed through it with the quiet smile of a man who revels in his occupation.
When the last complaint had been fielded – George Dart wondering why Count Orlando had boxed him on the ear in the middle of Act Two – Nicholas went on to tackle one of his most daunting tasks. This was his all too regular encounter with Alexander Marwood, the gloomy landlord of the Queen’s Head, a man temperamentally unsuited to the presence of actors because he believed, in that joyless wasteland known as his heart, that their avowed purpose in life was to destroy the fabric of his inn, scandalise his patrons and debauch his nubile daughter. That none of these things had so far actually happened did nothing to subdue his restless pessimism or to still his nervous twitch.
Nicholas met this merchant of doom in the taproom and smiled into the cadaverous, ever-mobile face.
‘How now, Master Marwood!’
‘You do me wrong to vex me so,’ said the landlord.
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Fire, Master Bracewell. Yellow flames of fire. It is not enough that my thatch is at risk from those pipe-smokers who crowd my galleries. Westfield’s Men have to bring it onto the stage as well. It was almost Death and Darkness indeed for me. Those torches could have set my whole establishment ablaze. Do but consider, I might have lost my inn, my home, my livelihood and my hopes of future happiness.’
‘Water was at hand in case of any mishap.’
‘Would you burn me to the ground, sir?’
‘Indeed not, Master Marwood,’ soothed Nicholas. ‘We would never destroy that which we hold most dear. Namely, your good opinion which is attested by your contractual dealings with us. In token of which, allow me to pay the rent that is now due. In full, sir.’
He handed over a bag of coins and sought to steal away but the landlord’s skeletal fingers clutched at his sleeve to detain him.
‘I crave a word with you, Master Bracewell.’
‘As many as you wish.’
‘It concerns your contract with the Queen’s Head.’
‘We are anxious to renew it.’
‘On what terms, though?’
‘On those satisfactory to both parties.’
‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ said Marwood, using a hand to push back a strand of greasy hair from his furrowed brow. ‘The case is altered, sir.’
‘I am sure that we can come to composition.’
‘Westfield’s Men bring me many woes.’
Alexander Marwood recited them with morbid glee. It was a litany that Nicholas had heard many times and always with the same wringing of hands, the same sighing of sighs and the same uncontrollable facial contortions. Use of the Queen’s Head came at a high price. Westfield’s Men had to put up with the sustained hysteria of a landlord who was whipped into action by a nagging wife. Ready to reap the financial advantages of having a theatre company in his yard, Marwood also harvested a bumper crop of outrage and apprehension. He was at his most febrile when the contract was due for renewing, hoping to exact more money and greater assurances of good conduct from the acting fraternity. What disturbed Nicholas was that a new note was being sounded.
‘We may have to part company, Master Bracewell.’
‘You would drive us away to another inn?’
‘No other landlord would be foolish enough to have you,’ said Marwood fretfully. ‘They lack my patience and forbearance. You’ll not easily find another home.’
It was a painful truth. Public performance of plays was forbidden within the city boundaries and it was only municipal weakness in enforcing this decree that allowed companies such as Westfield’s Men to flourish unscathed. More than once, they aroused aldermanic ire by their choice of repertoire or by the bad influence they were alleged to have on their audiences but they had never actually faced prosecution. Though fearing that every day the hand of authority would descend on his bony shoulder, Alexander Marwood, out of naked self-interest, yet ran the risk of contravening regulations. Other publicans would not be so adventurous, quite apart from the fact that their premises, in most cases, were not at all suitable for the presentation of drama. For some years now, the Queen’s Head had furnished Westfield’s Men with the illusion of having a permanent base. That illusion could be completely shattered.
‘Do not make any hasty decision,’ said Nicholas.
‘It is one that may be forced upon me, sir.’
‘For what reason?’
‘The Queen’s Head may change hands.’
Nicholas was jolted. ‘You are leaving?’
‘No, sir, but we may yield up ownership. We have received an offer too generous to ignore. It would give us security in our old age and provide a fit dowry for our daughter, Rose.’ He attempted a smile but it came out as a hideous leer. ‘There is but one main condition.’
‘What might that be?’
‘If we sell the inn, the new owner insists that Westfield’s Men must go.’
‘And who is this stern fellow?’
‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’
Nicholas winced. He knew the man by reputation and liked nothing of what he had heard. Rowland Ashway was not merely one of the most prosperous brewers in London, he was also alderman for the very ward in which the Queen’s Head was located. His disapproval of inn-yard theatre did not spring from any puritanical zeal. It arose from notions of prejudice and profit. Like others who felt they created the wealth of the capital city, Ashway had a deep suspicion of an idle aristocracy that fawned away its time at court and held the whiphand over the growing middle class of which he was a prominent member. To his way of thinking, a theatrical company was an indulgence on the part of a highly privileged minority. In ousting Westfield’s Men, he could strike a blow at the epicurean Lord Westfield himself.
It was not only social revenge that activated the brewer. In the final analysis, his account book dictated all his business decisions. If he was buying the Queen’s Head, he obviously felt that he could more than compensate in other ways for the revenue he would forgo if he expelled the company. Nicholas was seriously alarmed. The resourceful book holder might be thrown out of work by a ruthless book keeper.
‘This matter must be discussed in full,’ he said.
‘I give you but advance warning.’
‘Speak with Master Firethorn about it.’
‘That I will not,’ said Marwood. ‘I like not his ranting and raving. My ears buzz for a week after I have talked with him. I would rather treat with you, sir. We have always been congenial to each other.’
Nicholas Bracewell had never met a human being less congenial than the twitching publican but he did not want to upset the tricky negotiations that lay ahead by saying so. He thanked Marwood for alerting him to the potential danger. In the circumstances, he did not feel like putting more money into Rowland Ashway’s pocket by buying a pint of his celebrated ale. Instead, he nodded his farewell and sauntered across to Edmund Hoode who was hunched over a cup of sack in the corner of the taproom.
The two men were good friends and the playwright always consulted the other during the writing of a new work if any special dramatic effects were required. Nicholas had an instinctive feel for the practicalities of theatre and a way of making even the most difficult effects work. The book holder’s willingness to confront any technical problems made Hoode’s job as resident poet much easier.
Nicholas had intended to pass on the grim tidings he had just gleaned from the landlord but he saw that his friend already had anxieties enough.
‘What, Edmund? All amort?’
‘In
sooth, I am in the pit of misery, Nick.’
‘Why so? Your play was as ever a shining success.’
‘Actors must quit the stage when they are done.’
‘Your meaning?’
‘I detest the role I must play now.’
Nicholas understood at once. Edmund Hoode was going through a fallow period in his personal life. A hopeless romantic, he was always losing his heart and dedicating his verses to some new fancy and, although his love was usually unrequited, the blissful agony of infatuation was reward enough in itself. Without a fresh mistress to make him truly unhappy, he was plunged into despair. It took Nicholas well over an hour to instil some hope into his friend. The questing love of Edmund Hoode and the roving lust of Lawrence Firethorn could be equal tyrannies to him.
It was late evening by the time Nicholas finally left the inn and darkness was pulling its malodorous shroud over the city. Instead of walking back home to Southwark by way of London Bridge, he elected to be rowed across by one of the army of watermen who populated the river. As he headed for the wharf, he had time properly to reflect on what Alexander Marwood had told him. Ejection from the Queen’s Head would be a disaster for the company and might even lead to its extinction. How serious the threat really was he had no means of knowing but one thing he did resolve upon. He would not spread panic unnecessarily. Insecurity was rife enough in their blighted profession and he did not wish to add to it in any way. The imminent peril should be concealed for the time being until more details emerged because he did not rule out the possibility of finding a way to solve this horrendous problem. He could best do that by working quietly behind the scenes rather than in an atmosphere of communal frenzy. Meanwhile, therefore, Nicholas would have to keep a very dark and very heavy secret to himself.
The Nine Giants Page 2
