Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘All this I accept,’ said Hoode. ‘Where is my obligation to wear the livery of your wandering eye?’

‘I am coming to that.’ Firethorn turned the screw with a slow smile. ‘Six, that you shall write prologues and epilogues as required. Seven, that you shall add new scenes to revived plays. Eight, that you shall add songs as required. Nine, that you shall write inductions to order. Finis !’ The smile became a smirk. ‘This is covenanted and agreed between us. Do you concede that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then must you bow to my purpose here.’

‘How can it be enforced?’

‘By those same terms I listed even now, Edmund.’

‘No lawyer would support you.’

‘I think he might.’ Firethorn swooped. ‘I require you to write prologues and epilogues. I instruct you to add new material to a revived text. I desire that songs be inserted. Inductions will I command. Shall you follow my meaning now, sir? What I demand for public plays I can use for my personal advantage — and I have a legal contract to hold you to your duty.’

‘This is treachery!’ spluttered Hoode.

‘I think I will start with a song.’

‘Can you descend to such foul devices?’

‘Only upon compulsion,’ said the genial Firethorn. ‘Now, sir, write me a ballad of love to be included in Cupid’s Folly. I will sing it before my inamorata.’

‘My quill would moult in disgust at such a task!’

‘Then cut yourself a new one and pen me a prologue to Love and Fortune. Let it touch on the themes of the play and speak tenderly to my lady.’

‘You will drain my inspiration dry!’ wailed Hoode.

‘Do your duty with a gladsome mind.’

‘I want to woo my own beloved.’

‘Watch me, Edmund,’ advised Firethorn with avuncular condescension. ‘And I will show you how it is done.’

Consternation broke out at Stanford Place to ruffle the smooth piety of a Sunday at home. Matilda was listening to her stepson read from the Bible when her husband came striding into the room. Walter Stanford’s affability was for once edged with concern. Without even apologising for the interruption, he held up the letter in his hand.

‘I have received disquieting news.’

‘From whom?’ said Matilda.

‘My sister in Windsor. She sends word that Michael has still not returned home. Yet his ship docked at the harbour here some three days ago.’

‘That is cause for alarm,’ she agreed.

‘Not if you know Michael,’ said her stepson. ‘Do not vex yourselves about him too soon. He has been fighting for his country in the Netherlands. After the hardship of a soldier’s lot, he will want to celebrate his return by seeking out the pleasure haunts of the city. That is where we will find him, have no fear.’

‘I like not that thought,’ said Stanford solemnly. ‘Michael promised to turn his back on his idle ways.’

‘Give him but a few days of licence, Father.’

‘When he shows no consideration to his mother?’

‘All will be mended very soon.’

‘Not until I have said my piece to him!’ Stanford moved between anger and apprehension. ‘He is so careless and crack-brained, some ill may have befallen him. If he has been carousing all this while, I’ll fill his ears with the hot pitch of my tongue. Yet what if he has strayed into danger? I scorn him — yet fear for his safety.’

‘Can he not be tracked down?’ said Matilda.

‘I have already set a search in train, my love.’

‘Look that they visit the taverns,’ added William.

His father bristled. ‘It will be the worse for him if they find him in such a place. Michael was due to report first to me before travelling to see his mother in Windsor. I am not just his uncle now. For my sins, I have elected to be his employer.’

‘Then there is the explanation,’ said his son with a fatuous grin. ‘Michael is in hiding from your strict rule.’

‘This is not an occasion for levity, sir!’

‘Nor yet for wild surmise, Father.’

‘My nephew has been missing for three days. Only accident or dissipation can explain his absence and both give grounds for concern.’ He waved the letter. ‘There is fresh intelligence here. Michael saw action as a soldier and received a wound.’

‘Merciful heavens!’ said Matilda. ‘Of what nature?’

‘He did not say but it bought him his discharge.’

‘This throws fresh light,’ said William anxiously.

‘Indeed, it does,’ reinforced his father. ‘If my nephew carries an injury, why did he not mention it in his letters to me? How serious is it? Will it disable him from working? Then there is the darkest fear of all.’

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked his wife.

‘A wounded man may not defend himself so well.’

Walter Stanford said no more but the implication was frightening. A person whose return had been awaited with such pleasure was unaccountably missing. The even tenor of their Sunday morning had been totally disrupted.

A troubled William spoke for all three of them.

‘In God’s good name, Michael — where are you?’

The burly figure crouched over the corpse and studied the great scar that ran the whole width of the pale chest. Having recovered from one dreadful wound, the man had been subjected to far grosser injuries in the course of his murder. Abel Strudwick had paid his money to view the body and he now stood over it with almost ghoulish interest. A low murmuring sound came from his lips and cut through the cold silence of the charnel house. The keeper inched closer with his torch and let the flames illumine his visitor’s face.

‘Did you say something, sir?’

‘Only to myself,’ grunted Strudwick.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Writing a poem.’

Rowland Ashway finished off a plate of eels and a two-pint tankard of ale by way of an appetiser for the huge meal that awaited him at home. He was seated in a private room at the Queen’s Head and gazing around its ornate furnishings with proprietary satisfaction. It was the finest room at the inn and was always set aside for Lord Westfield and his cronies whenever they came to see a play performed in the yard outside. The rotund Alderman smacked his lips with good humour. To have penetrated to the inner sanctum of a disdainful aristocrat was in the nature of a victory. It remained only to expel Lord Westfield completely and the triumph would be complete.

Alexander Marwood fluttered around the table like a moth around a flame, anxious to please a potential owner yet keen to drive as hard a bargain as he dared. His twitch was at its most ubiquitous as he moved in close.

‘I have been having second thoughts, master.’

‘About what?’ said Ashway.

‘The sale of the Queen’s Head.’

‘But it is all agreed in principle.’

‘That was before I listened to my wife.’

‘A fatal error, sir. Wives should be spoken at and not listened to. They will undo the best plans we may make with their womanly grumbles and their squawking reservations. Ignore the good lady.’

‘How, sir?’ groaned Marwood. ‘It is easier to ignore the sun that shines and the rain that falls. She will give me no sleep in bed at nights.’

‘There is but one cure for that!’ His crude laugh made the landlord recoil slightly. ‘Have your pleasure with her until she succumbs from fatigue.’

‘Oh, sir,’ said the other, sounding a wistful note. ‘You touch on sore flesh there.’ He became businesslike. ‘And besides, her major objection mirrors my own.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Tradition. My family has owned the Queen’s Head for generations now. I am loath to see that end.’

‘Nor shall it, Master Marwood. You and your sweet wife will run the establishment as before with full security of tenure. To all outward appearance, the inn will remain yours.’