Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘It looks exceeding fine,’ he said.

‘Its weight reminds me of my civic burdens.’

‘You have borne them with lightness.’

‘Thank you, Aubrey.’ He stroked the gold collar. ‘This chain was bequeathed to the mayoralty in 1545 by John Allen who held the office twice. I venture to suggest that nobody has worn it with such pride and with such distinction. Am I not the most conscientious Lord Mayor you have ever encountered? Be honest with me, Aubrey, for I trust your opinion above all others. Have I not been a credit to my office?’

‘Indeed, indeed.’

Kenyon bowed his agreement then adjusted the chain slightly to make it completely straight. It consisted of twenty-six gold knots, interspersed with roses and the Tudor portcullis and it set off the gold thread which weighted the gown of stiff silk. Beneath his gown, Pugsley wore the traditional court dress of knee breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes. Aubrey Kenyon held out the mayoral hat with its flurry of ostrich feathers. When it was placed carefully in position, the Lord Mayor of London was ready to attend yet another civic banquet.

‘Is everything in order, Aubrey?’

‘We await but your august self, Lord Mayor.’

‘My wife?’

‘She has been standing by this half-hour.’

‘That is a welcome change,’ said Pugsley with a quiet snigger. ‘When we live at home together, it is always I who am kept waiting if we are dining out. I like this new order of precedence. A Lord Mayor of London can even put a woman in her place.’

‘Unless she be the Queen of England.’

‘Even then, sir. I have spoken honestly with Her Majesty before now and she has respected me for it. My generosity is also well known to her.’

‘As to the whole city.’ The Chamberlain pointed towards the door of the apartment. ‘Will you descend? The coach has been at the door this long time.’

‘There is no hurry,’ said Pugsley grandly. ‘Though the Guildhall be full, none will dare to start before me. I claim the privilege of my office in arriving late.’

The Chamberlain smiled quietly and crossed to open the door. Two servants bowed low at the approach of the Lord Mayor. Sir Lucas Pugsley sailed past them and went down the wide staircase to be met by a further display of obeisance in the hall. With his wife on his arm, he left the house and was assisted into the ceremonial coach. The journey to the Guildhall was marred by only one thought. His year of triumph would be over all too soon. Power invaded his brain and gave his resolve a manic intensity.

He had to cling on to office somehow.

Aubrey Kenyon, meanwhile, was pulling a cloak around his shoulders before slipping discreetly out of the house. He walked quickly through the dark lanes until he came to an imposing property in Silver Street near Cripplegate. He was no deferential Chamberlain now but a determined man with an air of self-importance about him. When he knocked at a side-door of the house, he was admitted instantly by a servant and conducted to the main room. His host was waiting anxiously.

‘You are a welcome sight, Aubrey!’

‘Good even, good sir.’

‘We have much to discuss.’

‘Time is beginning to run out for us.’

Rowland Ashway dismissed his servant then poured two cups of fine wine. Handing one to his guest, he conducted him to a seat at the long oak table. The portly brewer and the poised Chamberlain were an incongruous pair but they had common interests which tied them indissolubly together.

‘How is our mutual friend?’ said Ashway.

‘Sir Lucas is besotted with his authority. He will not easily yield it up.’

‘Nor will we, Aubrey. You are the real power behind the Lord Mayor of London and the beauty of it is that Luke is far too addle-brained to notice it.’

‘The truth will not escape Walter Stanford.’

‘That is why he must never take office. Never, sir!’

The Chamberlain calmly pronounced a death sentence.

‘They must find that boy.’

The passage of time had not so far improved the sleeping habits of Hans Kippel. His body had profited from rest but his mind remained a prey to phantoms. The young apprentice was at the mercy of an unknown enemy who would not show his face.

‘I will be poor company, Master Bracewell.’

‘That is for me to decide.’

‘I would not keep you awake.’

‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘After the day I have endured, I will sleep like a baby.’

‘Go upstairs, Hans,’ advised Anne Hendrik. ‘We have put a truckle bed ready for you.’

‘Thank you, mistress. Good night.’

They exchanged farewells and he went off upstairs. Disturbed nights were taking such a toll on the boy that Nicholas volunteered to share a room with him, hoping that his presence might bring a degree of reassurance. At the same time, he wanted to be on hand in case there was any trickle of information from the memory that had so far been completely dammed up. Anne Hendrik was immensely grateful to her lodger.

‘It is kindness indeed, Nick.’

‘I hate to see that look of terror upon him.’

‘As do I.’

‘Besides,’ he added, ‘Hans may still get the worst end of it. If he does fall asleep, my snoring might yet pull him out of his slumbers.’

‘You do not snore,’ she said fondly.

‘How do you know?’

They shared a gentle laugh then he reviewed his day for her. She was fascinated by it all but understandably alarmed at the news about the Queen’s Head. If the future of Westfield’s Men was in jeopardy, then so was her close relationship with her lodger. He read her concern.

‘You will not shake me off so easily, Anne.’

‘I hope not, sir.’

‘Accompany me through these difficulties.’

‘I’ll pray in church tomorrow.’

‘Add something else while down upon your knees.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Abel Strudwick runs mad.’

When he told about how he had been waylaid by the stagestruck waterman, she was torn between laughter and sympathy. Nicholas was placed in a difficult position. He had somehow to deflect his poetic friend without hurting the man’s feelings. It was an impossible assignment. As the last of the day dwindled, they parted with a kiss and went off to their separate chambers. When he crept quietly into bed, Nicholas was relieved to hear the steady breathing of Hans Kippel beside him in the dark. The boy was asleep at last. It seemed as if the experiment of bringing him there had worked.

The book holder allowed himself to drift and he was soon lost in a world of floating dreams. How long he stayed there he did not know but when he left there, it was with sudden violence.

‘Stop it! No, sirs! Stop it! Stop it!’

Hans Kippel was threshing about in his bed. He sat bolt upright and let out a screech that raised the whole house. He held hands up to defend himself against attack.

‘Hold off, sirs! Leave me alone!’

‘What is the matter?’ said Nicholas, rushing across to him. ‘What ails you, lad?’

He put a consoling arm around the apprentice but it provoked the opposite response. Fearing that he was being grabbed by an assailant, Hans Kippel kicked and fought with all his puny might. Anne Hendrik came rushing into the chamber with a candle to hold over the boy. He was neither awake nor asleep but in some kind of trance. His whole body trembled and perspiration came from every pore. His breathing was faster, deeper and much noisier. Demons of the night turned him into a gibbering wreck. It was a disturbing sight and it destroyed all vain hopes that sleep would restore the pitiable creature.

His delirium was worse than ever.

Night was far kinder to Matilda Stanford. She lay beside her husband in the spacious four-poster that graced their bedchamber and watched moonlight throw ghostly patterns onto the low ceiling. Sleep came imperceptibly and she was led into a land that was full of delight. Sweet songs and lovely images came and went with pulsing beauty and Matilda surrendered to the lackadaisical joy of it all. Greater pleasure yet lay in store for her. A splendid new playhouse appeared before her eyes and she was wafted towards it. When she took up her seat in the topmost gallery, she was part of a large and bubbling audience.