Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

In the hope that prayer might succeed where all else had failed, Anne took him with her to Evensong at the parish church of St Saviour. It was too close to the Bridge for the boy’s complete comfort but far enough away for his attention to be diverted from it by his employer. As the Gothic beauty and the sheer bulk of the building rose up before them, she told him an apocryphal story about its past.

‘It was once the Priory church of St Mary Overy,’ she explained. ‘Do you know how it got its name?’

‘No, mistress.’

‘From the legend of John Overy, who was the ferryman before ever a bridge was built across the river. Because his ferry was rented by the whole city — small as it must have been in those days — he became exceedingly rich. But there was a problem, Hans.’

‘What was it?’

‘John Overy was a notorious miser. He hoarded his money and looked for new ways to increase his wealth. Shall I tell you how mean this fellow really was?’

‘If you please.’

‘He believed that if he pretended to die, his family and servants would fast out of respect and thus save him the expense of a whole day’s food for the household.’

‘That is meanness indeed.’

‘Master Overy put his plan into action,’ said Anne. ‘But his servants were so overjoyed by his death that they began to feast and make merry. He was so furious that he jumped up out of his bed to scold them. One of the servants, thinking he was the Devil, picked up the butt end of an oar and knocked out his brains.’

‘It served him right, mistress.’

‘Many thought likewise, Hans. But his daughter was grief-stricken. She used her inheritance to found a convent and retreated into it. That convent became, in time, the Priory of St Mary Overy so his name lingers on.’

The apprentice had listened with interest and almost smiled at one point in the story. Anne had a fleeting sensation of making real contact with him at last, of breaking through the mental barrier which surrounded him. They went into the massive church and walked along the shiny-smooth flagstones of the nave beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Breathtaking architecture and artistry enveloped them and it was impossible not to be touched by the scrupulous magnificence of it all.

They filed into a pew. As Anne knelt in prayer, she felt Hans Kippel drop down beside her and start to gabble in Dutch. She could hear the note of alarm in his voice and sense his trembling. Words that she could recognise finally slipped out of the boy.

‘Please, God … do not let them kill me …’

The Coroner’s Court was held early on Monday morning and among those charged to appear were Nicholas Bracewell and Abel Strudwick. The book holder was the first to give his testimony, speaking under oath and explaining exactly how and when he had found the dead body in the Thames. His friend made more of the opportunity that was offered. The waterman was not content with a simple recital of the facts of the case. He had transformed it into a dramatic event. Standing before the Coroner and the whole court, he responded to the presence of an audience with alacrity.

They never found out. With stern command, the Coroner ordered him to stop and give his evidence in a more seemly manner. Strudwick was truculent and had to be cowed into obedience by the sternest warnings. When he gave a straightforward account of the incident, it tallied in every respect with that of Nicholas Bracewell. Both were dismissed and hurried out.

The waterman was anxious for some praise at least.

‘What did you think of my music?’

‘Quite unlike anything I have ever heard, Abel.’

‘Will you commend me to Master Firethorn?’

‘I shall mention your name.’

‘Instruct him in my purpose.’

‘I must away. Rehearsal soon begins.’

Nicholas was glad of the chance to break away and race off to Gracechurch Street. Abel Strudwick could be entertaining enough as a versifying waterman. As a prospective member of the theatrical profession, he was a menace. The book holder was going to have to row very carefully with him through choppy waters.

He made up for his late arrival at the Queen’s Head by hurling himself into his work. The stage was set up on its trestles, the props, furniture and scenic devices made ready, and the costumes were brought into the room that was used as the tiring-house. Black Antonio was another tragedy of revenge with some powerful scenes and some unlikely but effective comedy from the Court Fool. It had been part of their repertoire for some time now and posed no serious problems. The rehearsal was rather flat but without any mishap. Lawrence Firethorn gave them only a touch of the whip before dismissing them from the stage.

Nicholas knew the cause of the general lethargy. The company took its cue from its acknowledged stars and both were jaded. Fear of ejection from the Queen’s Head had seeped into the performances of Black Antonio himself and of the Court Fool. They were still in costume as they accosted the book holder.

‘Keep that ghoul away from me, Nick,’ said Firethorn. ‘Or I will slit his ungrateful throat and string up his polecat of a body for all to see.’

‘Master Marwood keeps his own counsel, sir.’

‘I spurn the ruffian!’

He went out with a swirl of his cloak and left the book holder alone with Barnaby Gill. The latter was no friend of Nicholas but adversity had taken the edge off his animosity. Dressed as the Fool, he advised wisdom.

‘Reason closely with the man, sir.’

‘I will, Master Gill.’

‘Do nothing to provoke this starchy landlord.’

‘We may win him around yet.’

‘Remind him of the magic of my art. I have reached the heights upon this stage to please the vulgar throng. Master Marwood owes it to me to let me continue. Let him know the full quality of my work.’

‘It speaks for itself,’ said Nicholas tactfully.

‘We count on you for our salvation.’

Barnaby Gill gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, an uncharacteristic gesture that showed how upset he was by the shadow hanging over them. As Gill sloped off to the tiring-house, another voice sought the book holder’s ear.

‘We must talk alone, Nick,’ said Edmund Hoode.

‘When I have finished here. Meet me in the taproom.’

‘It is the worst blow I have ever suffered.’

‘We are all still reeling from its force.’

‘How can I endure it?’

‘Try to put it out of your mind.’

‘It sits there like an ogre that will not shift.’

‘Master Marwood may be converted to common sense.’

‘What use is that?’ said Hoode peevishly. ‘I want Lawrence Firethorn converted to a eunuch. It is the only way to solve my plight. He compels me to write songs of love to his new doxy when I have a mistress of my own to woo. Come to my aid, Nick. I perish.’

It was hectic. In the short time between rehearsal and performance, Nicholas attended to all his duties, ate a meagre lunch, sympathised with Hoode’s predicament, fought off another sally from Owen Elias (‘Ramon was a disgrace to the theatre this morning. Let me take over’), managed an exchange of pleasantries with Alexander Marwood then went back to his post to watch the stage being swept and strewn with green rushes. When the audience swarmed in to take up their places in the yard or their seats in the galleries, everything was apparently under control.