Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘What are you doing?’ said the keeper suspiciously.

‘Looking at his palms, sir. They are quite smooth and the fingernails are well pared. These are the hands of a gentleman.’

‘Not any more. Death treats all as one.’

‘This body was strong and upright while it lived.’

‘The grave is wide enough for anyone.’

‘He would have been able to defend himself.’

‘Not any more, sir.’

Nicholas took a last, sad look at the corpse then indicated that it should be covered over again in the name of decency. He headed for the exit with the man shuffling along behind him.

‘Will you see anyone else?’ said the keeper.

‘I have gazed my fill.’

‘But we have more interesting sights here.’ He plucked at his visitor’s sleeve to stop him. ‘A young woman was brought in but yesternight. Some punk that was strangled in her bed. She is no more than sixteen with a body as soft and lovely as you could wish. One more coin and I would gladly show you.’ He nudged the other. ‘If you have money enough, I will let you touch her.’

Nicholas turned away in disgust and stormed out before he gave in to the impulse to hit the man. He vowed to report the incident when he appeared at the Coroner’s Court on the following Monday. No matter who they were or what they had been, the dead deserved the utmost respect. He came up into the fresh air and inhaled it gratefully. Light was fading and so he hurried in the direction of the river before it went completely. From the wharf where he had been picked up by Abel Strudwick, he looked out across the water and tried to estimate the point at which they had encountered the body. It was somewhere in mid-stream and he wondered how far it had drifted in order to reach them. He decided that the dead man had been put into the Thames under the cover of darkness but the swift current could still have brought him some distance.

The book holder was no stranger to the wharves and harbours along the Thames. The son of a West Country merchant, he had fallen in love with the sea at an early age and been on numerous voyages with his father. The bold venture of Francis Drake caught his imagination and he sailed around the world with him for three long years. That experience had brought endless disillusion but it had not entirely stilled the call of the sea. When he first came to London, he would often come down to the river to watch the ships putting in and to talk with the sailors about their voyages and their cargoes. This visit was a far less pleasant one.

His eye inevitably fell on the Bridge. It was an extraordinary sight that never palled and Nicholas felt a surge of admiration for those who conceived and built it. Twenty solid piers supported nineteen arches of varying widths. Islands were created around the piers to protect them from the tide race. These starlings, as they were called, were shaped like great flat boats and narrowed the water channels under the arches so much that the tide race was dramatically increased. Nicholas had not been surprised to learn that the Bridge had taken over thirty years to complete and had claimed the lives of some one hundred and fifty workmen. It had stood for some four centuries and more as a tribute to their craftsmanship. Because it was the only structure to span the broad Thames, it became the most important thoroughfare in London and properties along its length were much coveted. The Bridge was also the healthiest part of the city. When the Black Death was decimating the population in every other ward, it could only boast two recorded deaths among those who lived above the swirling waters of the river.

Respect soon changed to foreboding. It was that same Bridge which had put such deep fear into the heart of Hans Kippel that he could not even stand there and behold it. Two of the most appealing parts of London had taken on a different character for Nicholas. The Bridge held the clue to what had happened to a Dutch apprentice and the River Thames knew the secret of the maimed body that it had washed up into the hands of the book holder. He stood there in deep contemplation until evening had washed the last rays of light from the sky.

A boat took him across to Bankside and he walked briskly along the winding lanes on his way home. Another problem now concentrated his mind. Alexander Marwood had lit a raging bonfire of uncertainty. An impending change of ownership at the Queen’s Head was a serious threat to the well-being of Westfield’s Men. The landlord was a difficult enough man with whom to bargain but Alderman Rowland Ashway would not even talk terms. Nicholas had thought to confide in Edmund Hoode but his friend was too infected with lovesickness to hear any sense. Lawrence Firethorn would need to be told soon and the book holder resolved to call on him the next day. Trying times lay ahead and they could only be made worse by the fact that a fond poet and a lustful actor had chosen as the object of their passion the same unsuspecting young woman. If tragedy was to be averted, Nicholas would have to provide some highly skilful stage-management.

He walked along between rows of tenements then turned into the street where he lived. The house was still some thirty yards away when he sensed danger and it caused him to slow his pace. Someone was lurking beside the front door, seated on the ground and curled up in an attitude of sleep that he did not trust for a second. Those who walked through the darkness of Southwark were used to the skulking presence of thieves and they used all kinds of tricks to lull the unwary off guard. As Nicholas closed in on the house, one hand fondled the dagger at his waist. The figure on the ground was rough and sturdy with a hat pulled down over his face. There was a sense of crude power about him. Ready for any attack, Nicholas extended a foot to push the man over.

‘God’s blood! I’ll cut your rotten liver out!’

A gushing waterfall of vile abuse came from the man’s mouth until he recognised who had roused him from his slumbers. He leapt up at once to issue a stream of apologies and to ingratiate himself with bows and shrugs. Abel Strudwick had waited a long time for his hope of a new future. A broad grin split his hideous face in two and gave it an even more alarming quality.

‘You may change my whole life, Master Bracewell.’

‘May I?’

‘Put me upon the stage, sir!’

Sir Lucas Pugsley never tired of admiring himself in his full regalia as Lord Mayor of London. He paraded up and down in front of the long mirror and watched his black and gold gown trail along the floor. Power had turned an ambitious man into a dangerous one who sought means both to retain and enlarge that power. As Alderman Luke Pugsley of the Fishmongers’ Company, he was rich, secure and very influential. When he was elevated to the highest civic office, he became like a demi-god and was consumed with his own self-esteem. Over thirty officers belonged to the Lord Mayor’s House. They included the Sword-bearer, the Common Crier, the City Marshall and the Coroner for London as well as the Common Hunt, the Water Bailiff and other assorted bailiffs, sergeants and yeomen. There were always three meal-weighers at his beck and call.

The man on whom he relied most was the Chamberlain.

‘Will you put on your chain of office, Lord Mayor?’

‘Bring it to me, sir.’

‘It becomes you so well.’

‘I carry it with dignity and good breeding.’

Aubrey Kenyon was tall, well built and quite stately with greying temples lending an air of distinction to the clear, clean-shaven face. The Chamberlain was responsible for the financial affairs of the city but Kenyon’s role had enlarged well beyond that. Like his predecessors, the present Lord Mayor found him a source of comprehensive information about civic life and duty, and befriended him early on. Aubrey Kenyon had no airs and graces. Despite the importance of his position, he was happy to perform more menial tasks for the man whom he served. He stood back to appraise the chain.