Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

Matilda Stanford was also entranced by the whole experience. Deeply moved at the Queen’s Head, she had been dizzied by the sheer extravagance of today’s frolic. A simple playbill had brought her to The Theatre with a curiosity that was soon satisfied. Lawrence Firethorn himself had sent the invitation and he had left her in no doubt of that. Whether he was playing Argos of Rome or Argos of Florence, he found a way to direct certain lines straight at her by way of tribute. Matilda was utterly enraptured. With his scintillating display in the twin roles, the actor-manager had even surpassed his sublime performance as Count Orlando — and this was the man who had deigned to notice her. Concluding the Epilogue, he blew her a kiss and bowed in acknowledgement of her smile. Even in the thunder of the curtain call, Firethorn found time to speak to her with his eyes.

A faithful young wife forgot about her husband.

Walter Stanford was indefatigable. He rose early each day and worked late into the night, attending to his business affairs with jovial energy and pushing out the frontiers of his operations all the time. Sunday was his only day of rest and even then stray thoughts of his latest enterprises mingled with his prayers. The Master of the Mercers’ Company did not believe in resting on his many laurels. Expansion was his watchword.

Other men would have been daunted by the additional amount of work entailed in being Lord Mayor Elect but Stanford welcomed it. He simply got up even earlier and laboured longer into the darkness. If fatigue ever laid a hand upon him, he never showed it. If obstacles fell across his path, he leapt nimbly over them. If anything even began to depress his spirits, he invoked the memory of his mentor, Dick Whittington, and carried on with restored vigour. It was impossible to compete with Walter Stanford. He was invincible.

That afternoon found him sitting at the table in his study leafing through some contracts pertaining to the coal mines that he owned up in Newcastle. He checked the figures carefully before entering them into a large account book then he turned to consider another part of his burgeoning empire. It did not worry him in the least that his wife was watching a play at The Theatre while he was slaving on at Stanford Place. He worked so that she might enjoy her leisure and he was content with that arrangement. Rocked by the loss of one wife, he could not believe his luck in being given a second chance of happiness and he did not spurn it. His wife and family were all to him and his industry was at their service.

A knock on the door interrupted his concentration. He looked up as Simon Pendleton sidled into the room carrying a long flat box that was tied with string. A faint whiff in the air made Stanford’s nose wrinkle.

‘I am sorry to intrude, master,’ said the steward.

‘What have you brought me?’

‘This has just been delivered, sir.’

‘By whom?’

‘He did not stay to declare himself,’ said the other with mild disapproval. ‘When I opened the front door, I found this box upon the step. It is addressed to you.’

‘What is that strange odour?’

‘I am not sure, sir, but it made the dogs sniff their fill. That is why I brought the box straight to you. They would have torn it open else.’

‘Thank you, Simon. Put it on the table.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Pendleton laid the box down as if he was glad to part with it then stood back so that its pungency did not invade his nostrils any more. Stanford used a knife to cut through the string then lifted the lid with interest. His eyebrows shot up in amazement when he saw what lay inside. It was almost two feet long and weighed several pounds. The silver scales glittered in the light. He took the item out and held it on the palms of both hands to feel its substance and wonder at its meaning. Gifts from friends or debtors were quite common but he had never received an anonymous present of this nature before. Master and steward stared in complete bafflement.

They were looking at a dead fish.

Nicholas Bracewell was still at The Theatre well after the audience and the cast had departed. With the help of Thomas Skillen and his assistant stagekeepers, he gathered up everything belonging to Westfield’s Men and loaded it into a cart. When he had paid the manager for the rental of the playhouse and confirmed details of their next visit to the venue, he drove the cart back towards the city and in through Bishopsgate with his motley crew sitting on the vehicle behind him. As the old horse pulled them on a jolting ride over the cobbles, Nicholas looked up with misgiving at Stanford Place. It was an imposing edifice but perils loitered within for the whole company. George Dart felt it as well. Shrinking away from the house as it appeared on his left, he heard the distant bark of dogs and shivered violently.

They were all glad to reach the Queen’s Head where their effects would be stored until required on the following Monday. Willing hands unloaded and locked everything away then extended themselves towards the book holder with open palms. It was the end of the week and their wages were paid. Most of them went straight off to spend some of their money on ale and to toast the end of another long and tiring stint of work. The solitary exception was George Dart who scampered off home to his lodgings in Cheapside to appease his landlady with his rent and to catch up on some of the sleep that he invariably lost in the service of Westfield’s Men.

Nicholas went into the taproom to be pounced on by the egregious publican. Alexander Marwood saw the chance to wallow in further misery.

‘One of my serving wenches is with child,’ he said. ‘I blame Westfield’s Men.’

‘ All of them?’ queried Nicholas.

‘Actors are born lechers.’

‘Has the lady named the father?’

‘She does not need to, Master Bracewell. The finger points at a member of your company.’

‘Then the finger is too hasty in its accusation,’ said the book holder. ‘Lechery is not confined to our profession. Other men are prey to such urges and you have hundreds of red-blooded customers here during any week. Besides, why must you judge the girl so harshly? Perhaps it was love and not lust that was at work here. Haply, she and her swain plan to wed.’

‘There is no talk of that,’ said Marwood bitterly. ‘ She has lost her virtue and I have lost a serving wench. Acting and venery go hand in hand. I will not be loath to see Westfield’s Men quit my premises.’

‘You are unjust, sir. Do not thrust us out before we have been able to argue our case.’

‘What case?’

‘Consider how well our arrangement has worked in the past. We have all been beneficiaries.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

‘Come now,’ said Nicholas firmly. ‘If our contract did not yield advantage, why did you suffer it these three or four years past? When it suited your purpose, you were quick enough to sign the articles of agreement. All that needs to be done now is to make those provisions a little more appealing to you.’

‘The offer comes too late, Master Bracewell.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have another suitor at my door.’

Alexander Marwood gave a sickly grin and pointed towards the corpulent figure at the far end of the bar counter. Rowland Ashway was dispensing some flabby charm on Marwood’s wife, impressing her with his aldermanic importance and wooing her with smiling promises about the rosy future that lay ahead if she and her husband agreed to let him take over their inn. A stone-faced harridan was being turned into a compliant woman. The landlord marvelled at the transformation, then hurried across in the hopes of gaining some personal advantage from it. Marwood was soon beaming alternately at his wife and at Rowland Ashway, hanging on the words of both with an almost childlike eagerness.