The Nine Giants

by Edward Marston

  ‘I have kissed her fair hand.’

  ‘Rape upon rape!’

  ‘She has been shown the utmost respect, sir.’

  ‘Then prove it now by releasing her entirely,’ said Hoode with vehemence. ‘You have a loyal wife to warm your bed and if her loyalty will not suffice, there are others who clamour for your favours. Take one of them, sir, take two or take them all. But spare this gentle creature.’

  ‘So that you may take my place?’

  ‘No! I renounce her here and now.’

  ‘Then stand aside for I do not.’

  ‘Lawrence, this is plain idiocy!’

  ‘Love makes a fool of all of us.’

  ‘She is married to the Lord Mayor Elect,’ said the other. ‘Nick counselled well. Too much peril follows. The beery alderman may only put us out of the Queen’s Head. Walter Stanford may put us out of our profession.’

  ‘He is the cause I cannot now pull back.’

  ‘Our new Lord Mayor?’

  ‘Do you know how he intends to enter his mayoralty?’ said Firethorn with rolling contempt. ‘With a play. His wife requested a drama such as Westfield’s Men present and he has replied with some rambling pageant.’

  ‘I do not follow.’

  ‘We are the finest company in London. We – and only we – should be summoned to make this occasion memorable. Westfield’s Men have performed before the Queen and all her Court. Yet this mercer, this man of no taste, this money-grubbing merchant of a Lord Mayor spurns our talents and turns to amateurs! It is an insult.’

  ‘It is also his prerogative.’

  ‘I do not give a fig for that!’ barked Firethorn. ‘If he will betray our eminence, then I will gladly betray his. His wife has told me of this pageant that he has arranged. Do you know its subject? Nine worthies of his Guild. What drama lies in that? Was ever such a stale subject foisted upon an audience? And that is what has put us in the shade here.’

  ‘You take it as a personal affront.’

  ‘I do, sir. Matilda alone can recompense me.’

  ‘Yet you spoke just now of love.’

  ‘Love of her and love of my profession.’

  ‘You would take revenge on Walter Stanford?’

  ‘Indeed, I will,’ said Firethorn heartily. ‘Let him have his nine giants. In Richmond, I will have mine.’

  The Bull and Butcher was a small tavern in Shoreditch that offered them an excellent meal in a private room. Rowland Ashway sat on one side of the table and ate with noisy gusto. Seated opposite him, James Renfrew was more interested in the Canary wine than the food. The table was loaded. They started with a dish of boiled carp then had been served with a boiled pudding. Chines of veal and of mutton came next with a calf’s-head pie to follow. A leg of beef roasted whole then made its appearance. Capons were then set before them. A dish of tarts helped to sweeten the taste of all the meat and the rich sauces.

  Ashway raised a cup to announce a toast.

  ‘To our success, my friend!’

  ‘It is not achieved as yet.’

  ‘We have not far to go,’ said the other. ‘The boy has been killed and with him goes the fear of discovery. Now we may turn back to the main business of our little partnership. Walter Stanford must be stopped.’

  ‘I thought to have done that already.’

  ‘We have maimed him but not yet cut him down.’

  ‘Do we proceed against him now?’

  ‘With all haste, sir. He cannot and must not be Lord Mayor or all our hopes will founder.’ Ashway reached for another tart. ‘Luke Pugsley has served my purposes so well that I would keep him there in perpetuity, but the law will not allow it. That is why I chose a successor of like temperament and soft intelligence.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Henry Drewry, the salter.’

  ‘But you could not secure his election.’

  ‘Stanford won the contest by a single vote. The case was altered cruelly. Instead of a pliant salter, I have to contend with a shrewd mercer and that’s not good.’

  ‘What of yourself?’ said Renfrew. ‘Does your own ambition rise as high as the office?’

  Ashway grunted. ‘As high and much higher. But the Brewers come fourteenth in the order of precedence. That puts me two places away from the Great Twelve and it is from them that the mayor is chosen.’

  ‘You could translate to another Guild.’

  ‘That is in hand, sir. Why do you think I have been at such pains to woo this fool of a fishmonger? Luke Pugsley has sworn to take me into his Guild and promote me to the mayoralty.’ He scowled darkly. ‘All that will vanish if this mercer takes the chain.’

  ‘I hate the man,’ said Renfrew flatly.

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  The younger man picked up a capon and tore at it with his teeth. There was a violence in him which had not been appeased by the murder of a Dutch apprentice. He was ready to add more deaths to the list in pursuit of his ends. As he emptied another cup of wine, he looked across at the gross figure on whom his future depended.

  ‘What of Master Bracewell?’

  ‘His turn will surely come.’

  ‘Let it be soon. Firk is promised.’

  ‘We may bide our time a little.’

  ‘But this book holder pursues us hotly.’

  ‘He will find nothing,’ said Ashway smugly. ‘What he may know, he cannot prove. The boy was the witness and his voice has been silenced. Do not concern yourself about this Nicholas Bracewell. He is no threat to us now.’

  There was much to do in the aftermath of Hans Kippel’s death. The body had to be cleaned and laid out. A report on the circumstances of his death had to be given to the relevant authorities. In the wake of the riot, the city magistrates would be busy the next day but a murder was a more serious matter than assault or damage to property. Nicholas Bracewell was realistic. The chances of the killers being tracked down by official means was very slim indeed since the crime had been committed behind a shield. An outbreak of holiday anarchy had been provoked by guileful men. Nicholas recognised stage-management.

  It took him a long time to calm Anne Hendrik down and to convince her that it was not her fault. Even if she had kept the boy locked up at home, he would still have been taken. Men who could set fire to a house could just as easily smash down its front door. He left her with Preben van Loew and set out on what was to be a long journey around the taverns of London. The riot was his starting place and it was not difficult to trace it back to the White Hart. Frightened witnesses from Eastcheap all the way down to Southwark had marked its searing trajectory. The inn was still very busy and the drink was still flowing freely. Nicholas was not surprised to learn how the apprentices were first aroused and he knew at once who had supplied the strong beer.

  But he was not in search of unruly youths who had been turned into a marauding pack. His quarry was a man who might be anywhere in the teeming city on that raucous night. With strong legs and a full purse, Nicholas was determined to find him. The first soldiers were in the Antelope, carousing with whores and far too inebriated to give him anything more than the names of other taverns which they frequented. The book holder trailed around them all and bought his information bit by bit with drinks for already drunken men. It was like trying to piece together a jigsaw out of wisps of smoke. Discharged soldiers did not wish to talk about their soldiery. On a public holiday such as this, they simply wanted to submit themselves wholly to the pleasures of the city. Nicholas was therefore sent on what seemed like one long and circuitous tour of every inn, ale-house, stew, ordinary and gambling den within the city walls.

  One man half-remembered Michael Delahaye, another had gone whoring with him, a third knew him better but was too sodden to recall any useful details. It was painstaking but each new fact took Nicholas one step closer to the person who could really help him. He got the name at the Royal Oak, the address of his lodgings from the Smithfield Arms then found the man himself after midnig
ht in the taproom of the Falcon Inn. Though he was fatigued by a whole day of celebration, the reveller responded warmly to the offer of a pint of sack and a plate of anchovies and made room for Nicholas on his settle.

  Geoffrey Mallard was a small, stooping and rather dishevelled individual with a habit of scratching at his ginger beard. He had been an army surgeon with the English expeditionary force to the Netherlands and his memory was not entirely addled by overindulgence.

  ‘Michael Delahaye? I knew him well.’

  ‘Tell me all you can, sir.’

  ‘Do you ask as a friend?

  ‘I pulled his dead body from the Thames.’

  When Nicholas told his tale, the surgeon was sobered enough by the news to supply all manner of new details. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had not taken to soldiering at all. The glamour which had attracted him proved to be illusory and the muddy reality of service abroad was a trial to his free spirit. He writhed under the discipline and cursed the privations. There was worse friction.

  ‘He made an enemy of his captain,’ said Mallard.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They loathed each other on sight, sir. Two worthy fellows in their own right who could never lie straight in the same bed together. They were warned and they were threatened but their enmity continued to the point where a gentleman must defend his honour.’

  ‘A duel?’

  ‘A bloody event it was,’ said Mallard. ‘Had they come to any surgeon but me, they would have been reported and hauled up for court martial. They were there to fight against our foes not against each other.’

  ‘You say it was bloody …’

  ‘Both of them were injured.’

  ‘Was there a wound that ran across the chest?’ He indicated the direction of the gash. ‘Like this, sir?’

  ‘There was indeed. I dressed that wound myself.’

  ‘Then was the body that of Michael Delahaye.’

  ‘How say you?’

  ‘He was dropped into the Thames from the Bridge.’

  ‘It could not have been Michael, sir.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘His wound was on his face,’ said Mallard. ‘The point of a rapier took the fellow’s eye out. He is condemned to wear a patch for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Who, then, was his opponent in the duel?’

  ‘The captain whose chest was sliced open.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘James Renfrew.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Abel Strudwick sat against a wall in Bishopsgate Street and mused on the vagaries of human existence. When he had tried to be a performer upon the stage, he had been cowed by the haughty Jupiter, flayed by the furious Margery Firethorn and stung by the derision of the audience. It had made him abandon all ambition in that direction. Yet here he was, in the person of a beggar, sitting on the ground at the behest of Nicholas Bracewell and actually getting paid for it. The waterman grinned as he reflected on his promotion. What he was doing was acting of a kind and it was professional in nature. It certainly saved him from spending the day on the river with aching sinews. There were handicaps. He was rained on for an hour, spat upon now and again and – if the dog had not been smacked firmly away – there would have been another soaking for his tattered jerkin. Against all this he could see an unlooked for bonus. Because he sat with one leg tucked under him in a tortured posture, the occasional coin was tossed his way to confirm the success of his portrayal.

  His job was to keep on eye on Stanford Place so that he could watch the comings and goings. A few visitors called but all had left by the time that Walter Stanford himself came out to make his way to the Royal Exchange. Strudwick caught a glimpse of Matilda Stanford in an upstairs room but that was all. Various tradesmen called to make deliveries but none stayed more than a few minutes. It was late afternoon before the waterman felt that he was able to earn his money. Out of the house came the man whom Nicholas had described to him so exactly. There was a furtive air about Simon Pendleton and his normal measured gait became an undignified scurry as he weaved his way through the back streets towards the Guildhall.

  Strudwick dogged him every inch of the way and hid behind a post when the steward stopped and looked around to make sure that he was not seen. Pendleton then opened a door and stepped smartly into a house. It had nothing like the grandeur of the mansion he had left, but it was a sizeable dwelling that conveyed a degree of prosperity. The waterman made a mental note of the address and then shambled past the front of the house so that he could sneak a glance in through the latticed window. The picture he saw was very expressive.

  Simon Pendleton was talking in an agitated manner to a tall, stately individual in dark attire. The steward was pointing back in the direction from which he came as if reporting some disturbing news. His companion reacted with some alarm and reached into a desk to take out a roll of parchment. His quill soon scratched out a letter. Strudwick moved away from the window but remained close to the house. When a man wearing the livery of the Lord Mayor’s Household came to the front door, the beggar trotted over to accost him.

  ‘Away, you wretch!’ said the man.

  ‘It is not money I want, sir, just a kind word.’

  ‘The kind word will come with a hard blow if you stay. Stand off, sir. Your stink will infect me.’

  ‘I seek but instruction.’

  ‘Then I instruct you to leave.’

  ‘Does Abel Strudwick live in this house?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Strudwick, sir. A noble family of some repute.’

  ‘This is the home of the Chamberlain, sir.’

  ‘What name would that be?’

  ‘Master Aubrey Kenyon.’

  The man brushed him aside and went into the house. The waterman danced on his toes and clapped his hands together with glee. He was certain that he had just found out a significant piece of information and he had done so by the skill of his performance as an actor. It deserved some recognition. Abel Strudwick turned to an invisible audience and gave a deep bow.

  In the busy street, only he could hear the applause.

  They met him at the brewhouse and he took them down to the cellar where the barrels of Ashway Beer were kept to await delivery. The familiar aroma made Firk feel very thirsty but James Renfrew had more refined tastes. They found a quiet corner where they could not be overheard. Rowland Ashway had new orders to issue.

  ‘Gentlemen, you travel to Richmond tomorrow.’

  ‘Why there?’ said Firk.

  ‘Because I tell you,’ said the alderman. ‘A play is being staged at an inn called the Nine Giants.’

  ‘By Westfield’s Men?’ guessed Renfrew.

  ‘The very same.’

  Firk was pleased. ‘Then I’ll go gladly, sir. I have an account to settle with a certain book holder.’

  ‘That is not the main reason I send you, man. Someone else will be in Richmond tomorrow night.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Mistress Stanford.’

  ‘The new young bride?’ said Renfrew with interest.

  ‘Without her husband.’

  ‘This is good fortune indeed, sir. But what brings the lady to the Nine Giants?’

  ‘My informer does not provide that intelligence. When you listen at doors, you do not hear all, but what he has gleaned is enough in itself.’ He chortled aloud. ‘I know more about what happens at Stanford Place then Stanford himself. It pays to have friends in the right position.’

  ‘What must we do?’ asked Renfrew.

  ‘Seize on this accident that heaven provides.’

  ‘Kill the lady?’ said Firk hopefully.

  ‘Kidnap her. That will cause panic enough. With his wife under lock and key, not even Walter Stanford will have the stomach to become Lord Mayor. We strike a blow where it will damage him the most.’

  ‘Where will she be taken?’ said Renfrew.

  ‘That I will decide.’

  Firk leered. ‘And may she be tampered with?’


  ‘No!’ snapped Ashway. ‘Mend your manners, sir.’ He pulled a letter from his belt. ‘And while you are in Richmond, you may do me another favour, sirs. Do you see this letter?’ He waved it angrily. ‘Shall I tell you who sent it? Shall I tell you who favours me with his royal command? None but Lord Westfield himself.’

  ‘The patron of the players,’ said Renfrew.

  ‘He takes up their case as if he is judge and jury. The noble lord has heard of my purchase of the Queen’s Head and orders me – orders, mark you, no hint of request here, sirs – he orders me to let Westfield’s Men remain. And he does so in such round terms that I am treated less like an owner and more like the meanest lackey.’ He tore the letter up and threw the pieces away. ‘This is an insult that must be answered forthwith.’

  ‘How?’ said Firk.

  ‘I’ll put his company out of sorts for good!’

  ‘Chase them out from the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘No, sir. Kill their king. Lawrence Firethorn.’

  The prospect of an additional murder brought a low cackle from Firk. He had his own grudge against the company and this would help to assuage it. Before they could discuss the matter further, they were interrupted by heavy footsteps as a vast drayman came down the steps to collect a barrel. Ashway glanced across and relaxed.

  ‘Ignore him, sirs. Too stupid to listen and too senseless to remember anything he hears.’ He put an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘All roads lead to Richmond. In one bold strike, we may finish off Stanford and get revenge on Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Do not forget Master Bracewell,’ said Firk.

  Ashway smiled. ‘Deal with him as you will. Firethorn first then this troublesome book holder.’

  ‘The second will please me most.’

  ‘How will you do it, Firk?’

  ‘Strangling, sir. A very quiet death.’

  He gave a macabre laugh and Ashway joined in but their companion remained silent and withdrawn. James Renfrew was staring angrily ahead of him as if viewing an object of extreme hatred with his single eye. His lip curled.

  ‘There is an easier way yet, I think,’ he said.