The Nine Giants

by Edward Marston

  There was one peril that Strudwick did not mention. The man with the patch stood in the open window of a house on the Bridge and applied a telescope to his good eye. He watched the waterman and his young passenger until the two of them had vanished between the tenements then he put the telescope aside and turned to his thickset companion. His voice was slurred but cultured.

  ‘We must make no mistakes next time, sir.’

  ‘I will carve the boy to pieces myself.’

  ‘Look to that friend of his.’

  ‘What was his name again?’

  ‘Bracewell.’

  ‘That’s the fellow.’

  ‘Master Nicholas Bracewell.’

  Sybil Marwood was proving to be even more unyielding than her husband. She was a stout, sour-faced woman of middle years for whom life was a continuing disappointment. She had little time for Westfield’s Men and even less for the arguments that Nicholas Bracewell was now putting on their behalf in the taproom at the Queen’s Head. Leaning on the counter with her bulging elbows, she cut him down ruthlessly in mid-sentence.

  ‘Hold your peace, sir.’

  ‘I beg leave to finish, mistress.’

  ‘There is no more to say. We sell the inn.’

  ‘And forfeit your birthright?’ he said. ‘Once the premises are in the hands of Alderman Ashway, you will be at his mercy.’

  ‘We will have security of tenure.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘In perpetuity.’

  ‘Even Master Marwood cannot live for ever,’ reasoned Nicholas. ‘What will happen to you if he should die?’

  ‘I would remain here in his place.’

  ‘Is that in the terms of the contract?’

  ‘It must be,’ she insisted. ‘Or Alexander will not be allowed to sign it. I know my rights, sir.’

  ‘Nobody respects them more than us, mistress.’

  Nicholas was making no impact on her. Simple greed had mortgaged her finer feelings. Sybil Marwood was so dazzled by the amount of ready capital that she and her husband would receive that she had blocked out all other considerations. The theatre company was a disposable item in her codex. As long as actors were abroad, the virginity of her daughter was under threat. The skulking landlord did at least have some vestigial feelings of loyalty to the troupe that had brought so much custom to the inn over the years but his wife had none. Her cold heart was only warmed by the idea of a healthy profit.

  ‘Can no words prevail with you?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘None that you can utter, sir.’

  ‘What if Alderman Ashway plays the tyrant?’

  ‘Then he will have me to face.’

  ‘The deed of sale is drawn up by him.’

  ‘Women have ways to get their desires.’

  It was a cynical observation made with the veiled hostility which seemed to encircle her but it also contained some advice on which Nicholas was determined to act. Direct approaches to Marwood and to his wife had borne only diseased fruit. The book holder had to work a different way and he suddenly realised how. There was an element of risk but it had to be discounted. It was the last course of action open to them.

  Nicholas took his leave and sauntered across the taproom. Edmund Hoode was still plotting revenge at his table, Owen Elias was regaling colleagues with the story of how he first discovered his vocation as an actor, George Dart was sharing a drink with Thomas Skillen and Nathan Curtis, and the indefatigable Barnaby Gill, dressed in his finery, was half-trying to seduce a young ostler from the stables. All of the company had now learnt of the grim fate that menaced them and an air of despondency filled the room. The book holder was given fresh incentive to put his new plan into action.

  He went straight to Shoreditch and swore Margery Firethorn to secrecy. She was thrilled. Fond of Nicholas Bracewell, she let herself be persuaded by his charm and his reason. It was wonderful to feel that she might be the one person who could turn the tide and she saw at once the personal advantage she would gain at home. The domineering Lawrence Firethorn would no longer be able to crow over a wife if she rescued Westfield’s Men by her timely intercession.

  ‘I’ll do it, Nicholas!’ she said.

  ‘Privily.’

  ‘Lawrence will suspect nothing.’

  ‘He would not understand this manoeuvre.’

  ‘Teach me what I must say.’

  ‘Appeal to Mistress Marwood as a woman.’

  ‘But she is a dragon in skirts, from what I hear.’

  ‘All the more reason to flatter and fondle her.’

  Margery chortled. ‘You are wicked, sir!’

  ‘I will call you when the time is ripe.’

  ‘You will find me ready.’

  She planted a kiss of gratitude on his cheek then sent him on his way. Setting her on Sybil Marwood might just be the solution. They were two of a kind, sisters under the skin, powerful women with red blood in their veins and fire in their bellies. With even moderate luck, Margery might be able to get through to the landlord’s wife in a way that no man – not even Marwood himself – could possibly manage. It was all down to the ladies in the case. They spoke the same language.

  As Nicholas marched homewards, he reflected on the day and the crisis with which it had begun. Hans Kippel was in grave danger. Enemies who would resort to arson would stop at nothing. Evidently, the boy had witnessed something on the Bridge which he should not have and his life was forfeit as a result. The only way to save him was to unmask his attackers first and bring them to justice. These thoughts took the book holder all the way down Gracechurch Street and back onto the Bridge.

  The shops were closed now but there were still plenty of people milling around. Nicholas stood aside as two horses cantered past him. He then walked up to the house which he had visited that morning and appraised it more carefully. It was a small, narrow, two-storey property that consisted of a tiny drawing room, a dining room, two bedchambers, and a kitchen that jutted out over the river so that a supply of water could be hauled up in a bucket tied to the end of a long rope. The dwelling also had its own privy. There was a public convenience on the Bridge itself but most householders took advantage of the site to make their own arrangements. The Thames was its own form of sanitation.

  Nicholas saw the light in the downstairs window but he did not immediately knock on the door. Instead, he turned sideways to go down the slender gap between the house and the shop next door so that he could reach the parapet. Directly below was one of the starlings into which the stone pillars which supported the Bridge were set. The swift current foamed the water as it sluiced its way under the arch. Nicholas leant right over to get a better view and discovered that he could see right into the kitchen of the house. Its timber-framing had sagged dramatically and it looked as if it was hanging on to the rest of the building with the tips of its fingers. He bent right over the parapet to peer into the kitchen.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’

  The voice was polite but unfriendly. Nicholas swung round to see a short, neat, erect figure blocking the narrow passage. His apparel suggested service in a grand establishment. The man stroked his greying beard.

  ‘You are trespassing here,’ he said.

  ‘Do you live in this house, sir?’

  ‘No, I have just been visiting.’

  ‘You know the tenants, then?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ His suspicion was candid. ‘Have you any business to be here?’

  ‘I was looking for someone.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘He has a patch over one eye.’

  Simon Pendleton stared at him with cool distaste and took some time before he spoke. His tone was offhand.

  ‘That is Master Renfrew,’ he said.

  ‘May I speak with him?’

  ‘He is not at home, sir.’

  ‘Will he return soon?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I fear not,’ said the steward dismissively. ‘He has gone away for a long time. You will not be able to see Maste
r Renfrew. He is not here in London.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘Far away, sir. Far, far away.’

  The bed creaked and groaned noisily as they flailed around on top of it at the height of their passion. He was a considerate lover who aroused her patiently by degrees and made her yield herself completely to him. She loved the weight of his body with its firm muscles and its thrusting power. She shared his total lack of fear or inhibition. Here was no ordinary client who tumbled into her arms for five minutes of overeager satisfaction or who rolled off her in a drunken stupor before he could complete the business of the night. Kate had found herself a real lover and she revelled in the discovery.

  When it was all over, they lay side by side in a peaceful togetherness. His chest was heaving, her heart was pounding and both of their bodies were lathered with sweat. It was minutes before either could speak. He then propped himself up on his elbow to gaze down at her with his one eye. His smile had a rugged tenderness.

  ‘Thank you, my love,’ he said softly.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘We’ll meet again some night.’

  ‘That is my hope.’

  ‘And my intention.’

  He leant over to kiss her gently on the lips then he reached across to the chair on which he had tossed his clothes. Fumbling at his purse, he brought back some coins to slip into the palm of her hand. Kate knew their value by touch and was instantly grateful.

  ‘Oh, sir, you are too kind!’

  ‘I repay good service handsomely.’

  ‘Be assured of it here at any time.’

  ‘I will always ask for you in this house.’

  Another kiss sealed their friendship. Kate was no common whore from the stews. She was a very beautiful and shapely young woman of seventeen who chose her clients at the Unicorn Tavern with some care. They were always true gentlemen even if they could not always hold their wine or complete their transactions between the sheets. Kate had standards and the latest guest to her perfumed little bedchamber was a prime example of those standards. She even liked the black patch over one eye. It gave him a raffish charm that sorted well with his relaxed manner. This was a man who knew how to please a woman properly.

  As he got up from the bed and began to dress, she reached out for the rapier that lay against the chair. It glinted in the light of the candles. Kate pulled it a little way from its scabbard before pushing it slowly back in again. Then she noticed the name that was inscribed in large italics on the handle of the weapon.

  ‘James Renfrew,’ she read.

  ‘At your service, madam.’

  ‘What do your friends call you, sir?’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Then that shall be my name for you. Jamie.’

  ‘I will come when you call it.’

  ‘Then will you never leave this bed, sir.’

  He laughed merrily and pulled her to him in a warm embrace. Kate was the finest company he had found in Eastcheap and he would not neglect her. Cupping her chin in his hand, he brushed his lips past hers then smiled.

  ‘I will be back soon, Kate.’

  ‘I will be waiting, Jamie.’

  Only a small party of foreign visitors was dining at the Lord Mayor’s house that evening but they were accorded the lavish hospitality for which Sir Lucas Pugsley was justly famed. He sat beside his wife at the head of the table, fielding compliments and savouring the deference of other nations. Exuding good humour, he made his guests feel thoroughly at home. As soon as they had all left, however, he was able to show his true feelings to Aubrey Kenyon.

  ‘I hate these grinning Italians,’ he said.

  ‘You showed them great civility, sir.’

  ‘What else could I do, Aubrey? I am bound by the duties of my office here. But private opinion is another matter and in private, I tell you, these greasy fellows are not to my liking. We have enough aliens of our own.’

  ‘London is a melting-pot of nations.’

  ‘And it does not stop here,’ said Pugsley irritably. ‘Bristol, Norwich and other towns besides have their own foreign quarters. The rot is slowly spreading.’

  ‘I know it well,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘There are over five thousand registered aliens here and that does not include the many who conceal the origin and escape the census. We have French, German, Italian, Dutch …’

  ‘Dutch! Those are the ones I hate most.’

  ‘An industrious people, sir.’

  ‘Then let them stay in their own country and be industrious, Aubrey. We do not want them here to compete with honest English traders and craftsmen.’ He was so animated now that his chain jingled. ‘London is fast becoming the sewer of Europe. What other nations spew out, we take in and suffer. It is not good, sir.’

  ‘The city has never welcomed foreigners.’

  ‘Can you blame it?’

  Before the Lord Mayor could develop his theme, they were interrupted by the arrival of a friend. Alderman Rowland Ashway was perspiring freely from his exertions. He was conducted into the dining room and rested on the back of a chair while he recovered, letting an expert eye rove around the tempting remains of the banquet. Aubrey Kenyon gave his graceful bow then slid out through the door to leave them alone together.

  ‘What means this haste?’ said Pugsley.

  ‘I bring news that may advantage you.’

  ‘Then let me hear it.’

  ‘Walter Stanford is much discomfited.’

  ‘That is sweet music to my ear. How?’

  ‘His nephew has been killed,’ said Ashway. ‘They pulled the dead body of Lieutanant Michael Delahaye from the Thames. He was cruelly murdered.’

  ‘How has Stanford taken it?’

  ‘Sorely. He had high hopes of the young man and made a place for him in his business. Coming after the death of his first wife, this blow is doubly painful.’

  Pugsley smirked. ‘This is good news indeed. But will it make the Master of the Mercers abandon his mayoralty?’

  ‘It will make him think twice.’

  ‘That is some consolation. Thank you, Rowland. You shower many favours on me. I know not how to repay them all. You did well to bring me this intelligence.’

  ‘We must pray that further disasters befall him.’

  ‘If that young wife of his should vanish,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘Now that would really cut him to the quick.’

  Ashway was thoughtful. ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Lieutenant, you say? The nephew was in the army?’

  ‘Recently discharged.’

  ‘Remind me of his name.’

  ‘Michael Delahaye.’

  ‘Michael Delahaye, sir. A soldier lately returned from the Netherlands.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘The body was released an hour ago.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘His uncle. Alderman Stanford.’ ‘The Lord Mayor Elect?’

  ‘Even he.’

  Nicholas was surprised. Having called at the charnel house to see if the body had yet been identified, he found the old keeper replaced by a more respectful individual and the corpse from the river replaced by one that was hauled out of a ditch. He collected all the details he could then came back up into the living world again. The livid scar on the chest of the dead man could now be explained. It was patently a wound sustained in battle but its owner had been cut down before it had been allowed to heal. The connection with Walter Stanford intrigued him. It had been a bad week for the mercer. While he was learning of the murder of his nephew, his wife was being courted by Lawrence Firethorn. If the actor were not prevented, Stanford might well find a corpse on the slab of his marriage as well.

  Nicholas turned towards Gracechurch Street and strolled on as quickly as he could through the morning crush. No play was being performed that day but he was summoned to a meeting about the planned visit to the Nine Giants in Richmond. Night had been quiet at the house and he had felt it safe to leave Hans Kippel there now. The boy’s compatriots
took their duties as bodyguards with the utmost seriousness. They had armed themselves with swords or staves in case of attack and Preben van Loew had found an antiquated pike. Under the command of Anne Hendrik, they were a motley but effective crew. Besides, there was no performance at the Queen’s Head to amuse the boy this time and he would only be in the way.

  The book holder let Abel Strudwick row him across the river from Bankside so that he could thank his friend for taking care of the apprentice on the previous day. The waterman was delighted to have been of help and got what he felt was a rich reward when he was told that his name had indeed been mentioned to Lawrence Firethorn. He could not wait to take his verses to the actor-manager before embracing the stardom that beckoned. Nicholas had tried to dampen his overzealous reaction but to no avail. Strudwick had sensed recognition at last.

  As he turned into Gracechurch Street, Nicholas had put all thought of the water poet out of his mind. His preoccupation was with a murdered soldier who had been stripped of his clothes and his dignity then hurled into the Thames without even a face to call his own. Service to his country should have earned Michael Delahaye some kinder treatment than that. Was the soldier killed by his own enemies or did his relationship with the Lord Mayor Elect have any bearing on the case?

  So caught up was he in his rumination that he did not observe the thickset man who was trailing him through the crowded market. The first that Nicholas knew of it was when a hand grabbed his arm from behind and the point of a knife pricked his spine.

  ‘Do as I bid,’ hissed a voice. ‘Or I kill you here.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘One that is sent to bear a message.’

  ‘With a dagger in my back.’