‘Then let us go riding together instead.’
‘You are so good to me, William.’
‘It is because you are so good for Father.’
William Stanford was a handsome, upright young man of twenty who had inherited all the best features of his parents. He dressed like a gallant and sought out the pleasures of the day but he also had a shrewd business sense and enjoyed working alongside his father. Shaken by his mother’s violent death, he had at first been hostile to the idea of his father’s remarriage but Matilda had soon won him over with her beauty and sincerity. She had brought much-needed cheer into the gloom of Stanford Place and, now that she was losing her shyness, she was able to show an effervescence that was delightful. It was William who had taken her to the Queen’s Head to watch Westfield’s Men in action. He was now anxious to provide further diversions for her.
‘Do but wait until Michael returns,’ he said.
‘When is your cousin due back, sir?’
‘At any time now. He has been serving as a soldier in the Low Countries out of sheer bravado.’ William gave an affectionate smile. ‘You will love Michael. He is the merriest fellow alive and will make you laugh until you beg him to stop lest your sides split.’
‘I look forward to meeting him.’
‘Michael is the very soul of mirth.’
They were interrupted by a tap on the door. Simon Pendleton oozed into the room with the scroll in his hand and inclined his head in the suspicion of a bow.
‘A messenger delivered this for you, mistress.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘He was a ragged creature,’ said the steward, handing over the scroll. ‘I liked not the look of him and hope that his missive will not cause offence.’
‘I do adore surprises,’ she said with a giggle and began to untie the ribbon. ‘What can it be?’
Pendleton lurked. ‘Nothing untoward, I trust.’
‘That will be all, Simon,’ said William dismissively.
The steward hid his annoyance behind a mask of civility and withdrew soundlessly. Matilda unrolled the playbill and stared at it with sudden ecstasy.
‘Dear God, this is wonderful!’ she cried.
‘May I see?’
‘Look, sir. Westfield’s Men play again tomorrow.’
‘Double Deceit,’ he noted. ‘I have seen the piece before. It is an excellent comedy and well acted.’
‘Let us go to this playhouse to see it, William.’
‘But I already have another treat in store for you tomorrow. I purposed to take you to The Curtain to watch Banbury’s Men go through their paces.’
‘I would see Master Firethorn again.’
‘He is a brilliant actor, I grant you,’ said William, ‘but some people believe that Giles Randolph is even better. He has led Banbury’s Men to the heights and plays the title role in the Tragical History of King John. Take my advice and give Master Randolph his chance.’
‘That I will do at some future time,’ she promised. ‘For tomorrow, I pray, conduct me to The Theatre. It is my earnest wish.’ She held up the playbill. ‘It would be churlish to refuse such an invitation.’
William quickly agreed then began to tell her something of the plot of Double Deceit but his stepmother was not listening. Matilda’s mind was racing. She was young and inexperienced in such matters but she sensed that the playbill had been sent for a purpose. Someone was anxious for her to attend a playhouse in Shoreditch on the following day and that set up all sorts of intriguing possibilities. Matilda Stanford was firmly married and she would be going in the company of her stepson but that did not stop her feeling a surge of joyful expectation such as she had never known before.
A grubby playbill had touched her heart.
Hans Kippel had been told to stay at his lodgings and rest but the force of habit was too strong for the lad. It got him out of his bed and along to his workplace early in the morning. Surprised to see him, Preben van Loew had shown a fatherly care for the apprentice and given him only the simplest tasks but even these were beyond his competence. The boy was clearly suffering the after-effects of his ordeal and could not focus his mind on anything for more than a few minutes. The Dutchman tried to probe him for more details of what had occurred on the previous day but none were forthcoming. A blow to the head had locked all memory of the incident inside the young skull of Hans Kippel.
It was early afternoon when Nicholas Bracewell came back to the house in Bankside. He had spent the morning at The Theatre, finalising the arrangements for the performance of Double Deceit and supervising the transfer of costumes and properties from the Queen’s Head. With a little spare time at his disposal, he had hurried home to see if he could coax any further information out of the wounded apprentice. Hans Kippel was pleased to see him and shook his hand warmly but the boy’s face then became vacant again. Nicholas sat beside him and spoke low.
‘We are all very proud of you, Hans.’
‘Why so, sir?’
‘Because you are a very brave young man.’
‘I do not feel brave, Master Bracewell.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Sore afraid. I am lost and know not where to turn.’
‘You are among friends here, Hans. Safe and sound.’
‘Will you protect me, sir?’
‘From what?’
The blank face clouded. ‘I cannot tell. My mind has cut me adrift. But I know I have enemies.’
‘What enemies? Who are they?’
But Hans Kippel had yielded up all that he could. Not even the patient questioning of Nicholas Bracewell could draw anything further out of him. The book holder consulted with Preben van Loew who gave it as his opinion that the boy would be far better off in the comfort of his bed. He was patently not fit for work and needed all the rest that he could get. Nicholas agreed only partly with this, arguing that the apprentice would never make a full recovery until his mind had been cleared of the horror that had possessed it. Since that might not happen of its own volition, he suggested an idea that might help. He volunteered to accompany Hans Kippel as they retraced the steps the boy had taken on the previous day, hoping that somewhere along the way his memory would be restored by the sight of something familiar.
Preben van Loew gave his blessing to the enterprise and waved the two of them off at the door. Hans Kippel was a sad figure with his bandaged head and his limp. It had already occurred to Nicholas that it might have been his nationality which told against the youth. His sober attire, open face and general mien marked him out as a Dutch immigrant and thus the natural target for the resentment of many people. In the company of someone as tall and muscular as Nicholas Bracewell, the boy was not likely to be mocked so openly but he might just recognise the point in the journey at which his humiliation took place. They walked slowly on together.
‘Look all about you, Hans,’ said Nicholas.
‘I will do so, sir.’
‘Tell me if you see aught that you remember.’
‘My mind is still empty.’
‘We will try to put something in it.’
The journey came to an abrupt end. One minute, Hans Kippel was dragging himself along in a daze, the next, he was staring ahead in terror and refusing to move another step. They had come out of the Bankside labyrinth by St Saviour’s Church and were heading towards the Bridge. It was one of the finest sights in London, a truly imposing structure that spanned the murky Thames with a series of arches and which housed a miniature city on its broad back. Visitors came from all over Europe to marvel at London Bridge but here was one foreigner who had no sense of wonder. Hans Kippel turned white with fear and let out a scream of intense pain. His trembling finger pointed at the Bridge. Before Nicholas could stop him, he turned around and limped away as fast as his injured legs would carry him.
Chapter Three
Abel Strudwick passed a troubled night in restless contemplation of the incident. Not even the sonorous snoring of the wife who lay beside him could lull him in
to slumber and this was unusual. As a rule, the waterman enjoyed his sleep to the full, wearied by the physical strains of his working day and by the consumption of ample quantities of bottle ale. He would be dead to the world within minutes and spend a restorative night in dreams of being plucked from the toil of his occupation to become a revered poet. A corpse in the Thames had changed all that. Strudwick had hauled bodies out of the water before now but none had been so gruesome as this one and even his strong stomach had rebelled. Memory turned night into one long, lacerating ordeal.
The next day found him tired and fractious, more ready than ever to burn the ears off his customers with a positive inferno of vituperation. Unlike most watermen, Strudwick plied his trade on his own. The bulk of his fellows took their passengers across the river in six-or eight-oared wherries that enabled them to cope with large parties. Strudwick had only a small rowing boat. He and his son had operated very successfully in it until the latter was press-ganged during the panic that preceded the news of the approach of the Spanish Armada. The loss of their apprentices to the navy was a source of great pain in the watermen’s community but their protests went unheard and unregarded. It was not surprising that they therefore resorted to all kinds of stratagems to protect their young men from such a dire fate.
Strudwick paid a young lad to help him from time to time and to sleep in the boat at night to prevent it from being stolen, but the aspiring poet mostly worked alone. The others mocked him cruelly for his ambitions but none dared do so to his face. In contests of verbal abuse and in wharfside brawls, he was a fearsome opponent who could see off the best. Abel Strudwick’s black tongue and bulging biceps created the space in which his verse could thrive unhampered. Drink lubricated his creative powers and it was in a tavern that most of his inspiration came.
So it was that afternoon as he sat in the corner of the taproom at the Jolly Sailor and gave his fertile mind free rein. The verse came haltingly at first, then more fluently and, finally, in a torrent that had him leaping up from his stool. Keen to oblige a regular customer, the landlord had pen and ink at the ready for the waterman and Strudwick pulled out the scrap of parchment that he always carried with him for such precious moments. He scratched away happily for half an hour before he felt it was time to return to work. The Bankside theatres would be emptying soon and there would be passengers for every boatman who was moored on the Surrey side of the river.
As Abel Strudwick came tumbling out of the inn, it was another playhouse that caught his attention. Stuck to a post nearby was something which he felt had been put there by the hand of God. It was a playbill advertising the performance of Double Deceit by Westfield’s Men on the following day and it crystallised a plan which had been forming in his mind for several months. His days as a fumbling amateur in the world of words were numbered. He wanted to see and hear how a professional pen could write verse in a dramatic vein and get the encouragement to fulfil his vaulting ambition. Nicholas Bracewell was a good friend who had never let him down in the past.
It was time to put that friendship to the test.
Margery Firethorn was kept as busy as ever. In addition to her normal household complement of souls, she had to cater for the three actors who were staying with them in Shoreditch and whom she had packed into the attic room to keep them out of the way of the other inhabitants. She ran a tight ship and nobody was allowed to flout her captaincy. When one of the actors dared to ogle a servant girl, Margery gave him a fierce sermon on self-restraint and warned him that his voice would rise by two octaves if ever she caught him fraternising again. Since she was carrying the kitchen knife at the time, he understood her meaning all too well and withdrew hastily to the attic to acquaint his fellows with what had passed. All females in the house were treated with excessive respect from that time on and even the she-cats earned more consideration.
Caught up as she was in feeding and caring for her extended family, Margery yet found time to keep an alert eye on her husband. Lawrence Firethorn had swept her off her feet with one of the most sublime performances of his career then borne her off down the aisle before she could even begin to resist. It had been a magical experience that could still flicker in the memory on rare occasions but it was dulled beneath the accumulated debris that a marriage inevitably builds up. One thing she had learnt at an early stage: her husband had the defects of his virtues. His overwhelming talent as an actor had indeed seduced her but she was realistic enough to see that it had a powerful effect on other women as well. Temptation was ever-present and Firethorn was not always able to resist it. Without her vigilance, he would be led astray by every red lip and arched eyebrow. She sensed that he was beginning to look elsewhere and decided to fire a warning shot across his bows.
‘Good morning to you, sir!’
‘Good morning, my dove,’ he said expansively. ‘The sun is streaming down from the heavens to gild the marital couch.’
‘You may well say that from where you lie,’ she observed tartly, ‘but I have been up these two hours to make all ready downstairs. Besides,’ she added, ‘if our marital couch is so special to you, why did you return to it so late last night?’
‘Work and worry kept me away.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Margery! How can you even suggest such a thing?’
He sat up in the four-poster with rumpled dignity and scratched at his beard. His wife stood over him with folded arms and snarled her next question.
‘Do you love me, sir?’
‘I dote on you, my treasure.’
‘But do you dote on me enough?’
‘My devotion is without human limit.’
‘That is my complaint, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘I would that your devotion was limited to me but it flies away like a bird on the wing.’
‘Only to return with joy. I am your homing pigeon.’
‘You are an eagle, sir, who searches out new prey.’
‘These suspicions are unfair and unfounded.’
‘Prove it!’
He struck a pose. ‘My conscience is clear.’
‘You do not possess such a thing.’
‘Sweetness,’ he said. ‘What means this discord so early in the day? What crime have I committed?’
‘It still lies festering in your brain.’
‘That brain is occupied with fond thoughts of you.’
‘Only when I stand before you.’
‘And lie beneath me, my little pomegranate.’
He spoke with such tender lechery that even her resolve weakened. A big, buxom, bustling woman in a simple working dress, she let herself be flattered by his words and by the admiring glances he now directed at her. With all its faults, the marriage had never lacked excitement or pleasure. Another episode now beckoned.
‘You left my side too soon,’ he cooed.
‘There was much to be done below.’
‘Come back to me for a moment of wild madness.’
‘It would be madness indeed at this hour.’
‘Let me show you how much I love you, Margery.’
Her doubts were temporarily wiped away and she moved in close to be gathered into whirling embrace. She was lifted bodily into the bed and let out a girlish laugh as he rolled on top of her but their joy was short-lived. Before he could plant the first whiskery kiss on her eager lips, pandemonium broke out. A pan boiled over in the kitchen and set off an argument between the two servant girls. The children began a noisy fight and the four apprentices went thundering down the stairs for their breakfast. Worst of all, there was a loud knock on the door of the bedchamber and one of the actors put a decisive end to the snatched happiness.
‘I must speak with you at once, sir,’ he said.
Firethorn’s howl of rage deafened all of Shoreditch.
The Theatre was the first purpose-built public playhouse in London. Situated just north of Holywell Lane, at the angle of Curtain Road and New Inn Yard, it was outside the city boundaries and thus free of its niggling regu
lations yet close enough to attract the large audiences that came streaming out through Bishopsgate to enjoy its facilities and view its productions. It had been constructed in 1576 under the supervision of James Burbage, a determined man who had begun life as a joiner only to renounce his trade in favour of the theatre. Talent and application helped him to become the leading actor with Leicester’s Men but he had a fondness for security and a flair for management that led him to erect The Theatre at an estimated cost of some £666. Even though he bickered thereafter with his partner, John Brayne, a litigious grocer who also happened to be his brother-in-law, the importance of his pioneering work could not be denied. The first permanent home for actors gave their art a new lustre and status. They were at last taken seriously.
Animals influenced humans. For it was the bear-and bull-baiting arenas of Bankside which provided the basic principles of construction. The Theatre was a polygonal building made of stout timber and a modicum of ironwork. Where it differed from the animal-baiting houses was in its imaginative detail. The ring itself was covered with brick and stone, thus turning it into a paved yard with efficient drainage. A stage thrust out boldly into the yard, supported by solid posts rather than by the trestles and barrels used at places like the Queen’s Head. At the rear of the stage was a tiring-house which gave the company easy access to the playing area. Above the back section of this area was a cover known as the heavens. Held aloft by tall pillars, it was in turn surmounted by a small hut that could be used to house any suspension gear that was needed for a particular play or, indeed, as a tiny acting area in itself.
The last major difference that separated The Theatre from the standard arena was its use of a third gallery. The Bankside baiting houses were all two-storey buildings that were roughly similar in design. James Burbage did not make his playhouse tower above Shoreditch simply in order to attest its presence. An extra gallery meant an increase in the number of patrons and a corresponding rise in the income that any company could expect. And though the place was an outdoor venue, its cylindrical shape was a form of umbrella against inclement weather and the thatched roofs above the galleries added a great measure of comfort and protection. Much care and thought had gone into the whole venture. It was the brainchild of a true man of the theatre.
The Nine Giants Page 5
