The Nine Giants

by Edward Marston

  Abel Strudwick’s defeat was comprehensive and the audience howled and jeered at his expense. He yet had one card to play. Shrugging off Margery’s attack, he ran to the front of the stage and tried to redeem himself by reciting his latest poem about a humble waterman who becomes a famous actor and who plays before the Queen. It was a disastrous remedy. The spectators were provoked to such cruel mirth and ribaldry that missiles soon began to be hurled at the stocky figure. Strudwick kept on, dodging the apple cores and rotten eggs as best he could, caught between death and damnation, between the still-fulminating Margery behind him and the foaming torrent of abuse in front of him. The Queen of Carthage rescued him.

  Seeing his friend in such a quandary, Nicholas gave the signal to start the play early. The trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak. Margery and Strudwick went mute and backed away. When the first scene swirled onto the stage, the two of them nimbly dodged the Carthaginian soldiers to escape. Strudwick dived gratefully forward into the arms of his fellows who felt that he had been somewhat maltreated. Margery beat her retreat through the curtain and hurried into the tiring-house. She made straight for the gold-clad figure of Jupiter and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Well spoken, Lawrence! You mammocked him!’

  ‘Thank you, mistress,’ said a Welsh voice.

  She jumped back. ‘You are not my husband!’

  ‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That honour is denied me.’

  ‘But you were the very image of his Jupiter.’

  ‘That was the intention,’ said Nicholas, waving another four soldiers onto the stage. ‘I sought to uphold Master Firethorn’s reputation while keeping him from any real harm.’

  She was bemused. ‘He had Lawrence’s own voice.’

  ‘But not his luck in love,’ said Elias with a touch of gallantry, placing a bearded kiss on her hand. ‘Edmund Hoode wrote the words. I but learnt them in the manner of our master.’ Celestial music sounded. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, Jupiter is needed elsewhere.’

  With Ganymede beside him, he made his entry.

  Margery began to see how the whole thing had been carefully arranged by the book holder. But for her spirited intervention, the flyting match would never have taken place. As it was, she had conquered a worthy foe in place of her husband. She pulled at Nicholas’s sleeve.

  ‘Where is Lawrence?’ she whispered.

  ‘He will be here even now.’

  ‘How did you keep him away from that ruffian?’

  ‘See there, mistress.’

  Lawrence Firethorn was brought into the tiring-house by four strong men who clung on to him for their lives. Costumed as Aeneas, he was palpitating with anger and spitting out curses. On a nod from Nicholas, the actor was released by his terrified captors.

  ‘Heads will roll for this!’ warned Firethorn.

  ‘Stand by, sir,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘I’ll wreak havoc on the whole lot of you.’ He saw his wife. ‘Margery! You have no place here, woman.’

  ‘I have acted my scene and bowed out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your cue, sir,’ said the book holder.

  ‘Am I locked in a madhouse?’ growled the actor.

  ‘Enter Aeneas.’

  Music played and personal suffering was put aside. Lawrence Firethorn went out into the cauldron of the action as the cunning Aeneas and dallied with the affections of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as portrayed with winsome charm by Richard Honeydew. Here was the actor as his admirers really wanted to see him, not trading verbal blows with a contentious waterman, but operating at the very height of his powers and thrilling minds and hearts with uncanny skill. Back in the tiring-house, Margery raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nicholas smiled.

  ‘All will be explained in time,’ he said quietly.

  Sir Lucas Pugsley sat before a daunting pile of judicial documents and sifted slowly through them. Aubrey Kenyon was on hand to give any help and advice that was needed. The Lord Mayor had to preside at all meetings of the city’s administrative courts. As chief magistrate, he had to act as judge, dealing with an enormous range of cases. Everything from petty law-breaking to complex commercial disputes came before him. It was also his avowed task to supervise the conduct of trade in the city and see that it was carried out in accordance with civic regulations. This function of his office often brought him up against the names of his friends.

  He studied a new document and gave a wry smirk.

  ‘Rowland Ashway is arraigned again.’

  ‘For what, Lord Mayor?’

  ‘Adulterating his beer. The charge will not stick.’

  ‘His brewery has a good reputation.’

  ‘There will always be those who seek to bring a conscientious man down,’ said Pugsley. ‘How can one trust the word of a landlord, I ask you? These fellows pour water into their beer then swear it was done at the brewery so that they may claim some recompense. The law here is nothing but a whip with which a guileful publican can beat an honest tradesman.’

  ‘Will the case come to court?’

  ‘Not while I sit in judgement, Aubrey.’

  ‘That is the third time Alderman Ashway is indebted to your wisdom,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He has aroused much resentment among jealous landlords.’

  ‘They’ll get no help from me.’ He put the document aside, picked up another then cast that after the first. ‘Enough legality for one day, sir. I sometimes think that London runs on the quibbles of attorneys.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘We have worked hard, Aubrey. I flatter myself that I do the labour of any three men.’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘Walter Stanford will not be able to keep my pace.’

  ‘He may not wish to try, Lord Mayor.’

  ‘Signs of hesitation?’

  ‘This death in the family has preyed upon his mind. It has slowed down his steps towards the mayoralty.’

  ‘That is the best news yet. What of this play?’

  ‘The Nine Giants?’

  ‘Is the monstrous piece still promised?’

  ‘By Gilbert Pike. He has written such plays before.’

  ‘This will tax his imagination most,’ said Pugsley sourly. ‘Where will they find nine giants among the mercers? Where eight? Five? One?’

  ‘Richard Whittington must be allowed, sir.’

  ‘Even so. But do not mention his name to Rowland.’

  ‘That story still smarts with Alderman Ashway.’

  ‘And so it should,’ noted the Lord Mayor. ‘When the much-vaunted Whittington sat in my place, he made himself very unpopular with the brewers when he tried to enforce standard sizes for barrels.’

  ‘He also attempted to regulate the price of beer.’

  ‘The brewers got no mercy from a mercer!’

  Aubrey Kenyon creased his face at the feeble joke and took the opportunity to work in a reminder of a subject that he took very seriously.

  ‘The noble gentleman did sterling work during his terms of office. He kept the city busy and he kept its citizens well subdued.’ He crossed over to Pugsley. ‘You have not forgotten the public holiday?’

  ‘This Thursday. Preparations are under way.’

  ‘A strict hand is a sign of a sound mayoralty.’

  ‘Then that is what you will get from me, sir. Let others talk of Dick Whittington. If you want discipline and good government, look no further than Sir Lucas Pugsley. On Thursday I will keep a very careful watch.’

  It took an hour to pacify Lawrence Firethorn and only the presence of his wife held him back from reviling his whole company. In his opinion, he was the victim of a dreadful conspiracy that could never be forgotten or forgiven. A stoup of wine, a barrel of flattery and the gentle persuasiveness of Nicholas Bracewell finally made him see the true value of the stratagem. Abel Strudwick had been bested, Firethorn’s reputation had been enhanced and the performance of The Queen of Carthage scaled peaks it had never before assayed. There could be no better advertisement for
the work of Westfield’s Men.

  Warming to it all, Firethorn summoned George Dart to escort his wife back to Shoreditch then he touched on two important issues with the book holder.

  ‘Has that death’s-head of a landlord signed yet?’

  ‘I have not spoken with Master Marwood yet.’

  ‘Give him my compliments and bring him to heel.’

  ‘Alderman Ashway has much influence.’

  ‘See that you counteract it, Nick.’ He became secretive. ‘First, I have another errand for you. Deliver this letter to Stanford Place.’

  ‘Is this sensible, master?’

  ‘Do as you are bid, sir. The letter is expected and you will present it at the garden gate upon the stroke of five. Someone shall be there to receive it.’

  Nicholas was not happy to leave the Queen’s Head when such a vital talk with the landlord was imminent but he could not refuse the commission. He hastened out into Gracechurch Street and headed north towards Bishopsgate. Fine drizzle was now falling out of a pockmarked sky. When he reached Stanford Place, he went around to the garden and lurked beside the gate until the chimes of the clock were heard. Prudence Ling was a punctual gatekeeper and snatched the letter from him with a giggle before hiding it under the folds of her cloak. She also gave the visitor an admiring glance. Nicholas did not waste his advantage.

  ‘There is sorrow in the house, we hear.’

  ‘The master’s nephew, sir. Most horribly killed.’

  ‘Has the murderer been found?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Tell me the way of it, mistress.’

  Prudence needed no second invitation. She gabbled her way through the details and answered every question that he asked. Ten minutes at a garden gate turned out to be a revelation. Nicholas hated being a party to the projected betrayal of a loyal wife but there had been some consolation. Prudence was a mine of information. There was more value yet in his visit. As he made his way back to the front of the house, a coach was just drawing up and Walter Stanford himself was getting out. He was weighted down with sadness and the spring had gone out of his step but it was not the Lord Mayor Elect who commanded attention. Nicholas was far more interested in the steward who opened the door to welcome his master and who bowed ingratiatingly before him. The book holder felt a thrill of recognition as connections were made.

  He had met Simon Pendleton on the Bridge.

  Chapter Ten

  Domestic tragedy inflicted deep wounds on Walter Stanford and he dragged himself around for days after the funeral. He brought his sister back to Stanford Place so that he could look after her properly and they spent much time together on their knees in the little chapel. His work was not entirely neglected and he burnt large quantities of midnight oil in his counting-house. He also resumed his regular visits to the Royal Exchange. His smiling face hid the pain of an anguished soul, his pleasantries concealed a profound sorrow. Though he had disapproved of much that Michael Delahaye did, he had loved him like a second son and felt that he would at last be able to exert a firm paternal influence on his wayward nephew. That fond hope now lay buried in the family vault at Windsor. Requiescat in pace.

  The first floor of the Exchange – the pawn, as it was known – had been rented out to shopkeepers whose booths sold such luxury items as horn, porcelain, ivory, silver and watches. It was from one of these shops that Gilbert Pike looked down to espy his friend below and he hurried down to the courtyard as fast as his venerable legs would carry him. He waded out through the waves of bartering humanity until he reached Walter Stanford. Greetings were followed by the old man’s condolences but the Lord Mayor Elect did not wish to dwell on sadness. He turned to a more uplifting subject.

  ‘Now, sir, how does my play fare?’

  ‘It is all but finished, Walter,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I still have the trick of words and I vow that The Nine Giants will please you and your good lady mightily.’

  ‘Does it beat the drum for the Mercers’ Company?’

  ‘Until every ear be deafened.’

  ‘And humour, Gilbert? I asked for lightness.’

  ‘It will set the table on a roar.’

  ‘That will be welcome at this bleak time,’ said the other. ‘But tell me now, who are our nine giants?’

  ‘Dick Whittington is first.’

  ‘No man could question that.’

  ‘Then come Geoffrey Boleyn and Hugh Clopton.’

  ‘Both mercers and mayors of high repute.’

  ‘Fine fellows,’ agreed Pike. ‘Except that Clopton does not lend itself to rhyme. John Allen is the next in line with Ralph Dodmer and Richard Gresham close behind.’

  ‘All six of these are giants indeed.’

  ‘Lionel Duckett, too, and with him Rowland Hill.’

  ‘That brings the number up to eight.’

  ‘My ninth giant is Walter Stanford.’

  ‘I pale in such company, Gilbert.’

  ‘You may yet stand taller than all the rest, sir.’

  They fell into a discussion of the pageant and its simple structure. The doddering author could not resist quoting from his work. One of the nine giants brought special pleasure to Walter Stanford.

  ‘I like the notion of Ralph Dodmer.’

  ‘Lord Mayor of London in 1529,’ said the old man. ‘He was a brewer who rebelled against the dominance of the Great Twelve. He refused to translate to one of the dozen leading Guilds even though it was the only way to ensure his mayoralty. No mere brewer could get election.’

  ‘Dodmer suffered for his principles.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. A spell in prison and a heavy fine changed his mind for him. Our brewer saw common sense.’

  ‘And became affiliated to the mercers.’

  ‘Then did he take revenge on all his fellows,’ said the chortling Pike. ‘He kept the aleconners alert enough. Tavern keepers caught watering the beer or serving short measure were fined and jailed, and had their cheating measures burnt in public. Brewers who tampered with their beer were hauled before the court. An alewife found using pitchers with naughty bottoms was sent to play Bo Peep through a pillory.’

  ‘He swinged the whole profession.’

  ‘The Nine Giants will tell it true.’

  ‘Then harp on the brewers, Gilbert,’ said his friend. ‘That is where we may score against a certain alderman. Let Ralph Dodmer scourge his fellows soundly. I would make another brewer squirm in his seat.’

  ‘Rowland Ashway, I think?’

  ‘Turn those red cheeks to a deeper hue.’

  ‘His blushes will light up the Guildhall!’

  With his florid cheeks shining almost as brightly as his scarlet nose, Alderman Rowland Ashway stood in the window of a room that overlooked the inn yard. The White Hart in Cheapside had been chosen because of its size and its situation. Preparations were being made against the morrow. Extra benches and trestle tables had been procured. Additional servingmen had been hired. Fresh barrels of Ashway’s Best Beer were even now being rolled across the pavestones. The brewer was pleased by what he saw. When there was a knock on the door, he swung round and welcomed the tall figure who entered with a grunt of almost porcine satisfaction.

  ‘Is everything in order, sir?’ said the newcomer.

  ‘I have seen to it myself.’

  ‘Then have we no cause for vexation.’

  ‘Unless our plans go awry.’

  ‘They will not,’ said the other confidently. ‘Errors cannot be tolerated. All will be done as discussed.’

  ‘Good. Here’s gold to help your purposes.’

  Ashway tossed a bag of coins onto the table and his companion nodded his thanks before picking it up. The man was well favoured and dressed with a lazy elegance that came in sharp contrast to the sartorial pomposity of the brewer. A feathered hat was angled on his head so that its brim came down over one eye that was shielded by a black patch. His chin was clean-shaven. They were not natural friends but mutual advantage had turned them into
partners. Rowland Ashway spelt out the terms of that partnership.

  ‘We are in this together, sir, remember that.’

  ‘I do not doubt it.’

  ‘Fail me and you fail yourself even worse.’

  ‘Success attends my mission.’

  ‘And Firk?’

  ‘He is recovered enough to aid me.’

  ‘I hope to hear good news from both of you.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ said James Renfrew with a grim smile. ‘So you shall, sir.’

  Public holidays did not please the city authorities. They were at best occasions for drunken excess and at worst an excuse for violence and destruction of property. Nobody charged with maintaining the peace could rest easy and the more suggestible of their number had nightmares about total loss of control. The main problems came from the apprentices, exuberant young men who chafed under the yoke of their masters and who seized every opportunity to assert their manhoods with unruly behaviour and passages of mob hysteria. Holidays gave law-abiding citizens a chance to rest from their labours and to celebrate a sacred or secular festival. Those same holidays also spilt a deal of blood, clogged up the prisons and led to a rash of unwanted pregnancies.

  Shrovetide was carnival time, a final fling before the rigours of Lent. Mothering Sunday came next, a public holiday when those away from home – the rowdy apprentices in the workshops of London – could visit families with gifts and eat the simnel cakes baked for the occasion. Easter solemnity was offset by Hockside fairs and a variety of entertainments. May Day was the major source of concern. This most important spring festival had no Christian foundation at all for the ancient custom of going a-maying was unashamedly pagan. Londoners revelled in its spacious jollity and its sexual freedom. There was often rioting through the bawdy houses or affrays at playhouses or gratuitous attacks on shops and houses. Those who had to enforce order never lost sight of the spectre of Evil May Day in 1517 when a riot saw hundreds of frenzied youths on the rampage, terrorising the city and showing open defiance to authority. Thirteen of the mob were later arrested and hanged in a savage gesture that imprinted the day for ever on the minds of London.