Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

The sense of order did not last. Black Antonio had never been given such a lacklustre performance. Lawrence Firethorn was strangely muted, Barnaby Gill was curiously dull and Edmund Hoode, who usually sparkled in the role of a duplicitous younger brother, was frankly appalling. The disease was infectious and the whole company was soon in its grip. They played without conviction and the mistakes began to multiply. But for the book holder’s consoling authority behind the scenes, Black Antonio might have become a fiasco. As it was, the audience felt so cheated by what it saw that it began to hoot and jeer with gathering displeasure. Only a minor recovery in the fifth act saved the actors from being booed ignominiously off the stage. Westfield’s Men had never taken their bows with such indifference.

Lawrence Firethorn came hurtling into the tiring-house to berate everyone in sight for their incompetence only to be told by Edmund Hoode that he himself was the chief offender. The row that developed between them was not only due to the insecurity they now felt at the Queen’s Head. There was a deeper reason and Nicholas had noted it from the beginning of the performance. Both men had gone out to act to one person in the packed audience.

Matilda Stanford was not there.

Not even the first hints of calamity could keep Walter Stanford away from home. Though he was still deeply concerned about the fate of his nephew, Michael, he did not interrupt his normal schedule to join in the search. That was now being led by his son who had so far come back empty-handed. Lieutenant Michael Delahaye had indeed disembarked on the previous Thursday but he was only one of hundreds of soldiers who had poured off the ship and into the welcoming bosom of London. Nothing further had been gleaned, not even a description of the wound he had collected in the Netherlands. Medical records had not been kept by the army and Michael was, in any case, no longer a member of it. Discharged into civilian life once again, he had contrived to vanish into thin air.

Walter Stanford put it all to the back of his mind as he walked purposefully into the Royal Exchange on Cornhill. Modelled on the Antwerp Bourse, it was the largest building project undertaken in the city during the Tudor dynasty. Eighty houses had been demolished to clear the site. The Exchange was the work of Thomas Gresham, mercer and financial agent to the Crown, who put some of his vast wealth towards the cost. Enmity between England and Spain had led to trading difficulties with Flanders and created a dire need for a bourse in London. Thomas Gresham obliged and it was duly opened in 1570 by Queen Elizabeth. Its value to the merchant community was inestimable and nobody was more aware of this than Walter Stanford. As he looked around, he was struck yet again by the boldness of the concept.

The Exchange was a long, four-storeyed building that was constructed around a huge courtyard. Its belltower was surmounted by a giant grasshopper which was the emblem of the Gresham crest. Covered walks faced out onto the courtyard and statues of English kings stood in the niches above them. It was an inspiring sight at any time but especially so when it was filled with merchants who stood in groups according to their specialised trading interests. Over the years, the Exchange had also become the haunt of idlers who hung about the gates to mock, jostle, beg, sell their wares or offer their bodies but even this did not detract from the bustling dignity that still prevailed.

Walter Stanford mingled happily and struck many deals that Monday morning. Well known and much respected, his position as Lord Mayor Elect made him a popular target and he was courted on every side. Productive hours soon scudded by but it was not only profit that interested him. A gnarled face in the crowd reminded him of a promise to his young wife.

‘Good day to you, Gilbert.’

‘Well met, sir.’

‘Are you not too old for this madhouse?’

‘I will come to the Exchange until I drop, Walter.’

Gilbert Pike was by far the most ancient of the wardens of the Mercers’ Company. Thin, silver-haired and decrepit, he was bent almost double and hobbled along with the aid of a stick. But his mind was still as razor-sharp as it had always been and he could more than hold his own in any business deal. There was also another facet to the old man’s skills and Walter Stanford drew him aside to gain some advantage from it.

‘I need your kind help, Gilbert.’

‘Speak on and it is yours.’

‘My young wife must be pleased.’

Pike cackled merrily. ‘Do not call on me for that!’

‘Matilda is adamant. When I become Lord Mayor, she would have a play performed in my honour.’

‘Then she is a woman after my own heart,’ said the other with croaking enthusiasm. ‘The Mercers’ Company put on many pageants in times past. I wrote many of them myself and took the leading part.’

‘That is why I came to you, Gilbert. Nobody is so well versed in the drama. Would it be possible to stage another piece to brighten up my banquet?’

‘It would be an honour!’ said Pike eagerly. ‘What is more, I have the very play to hand. The Nine Worthies. ’

‘Is that not an antiquated piece?’

‘Not in my version, sir.’

‘Who are these nine worthies?’

‘Three Paynims, three Jews and three Christian men.’

‘Explain.’

‘Hector of Troy, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar; then come Joshua, David and Judas Maccabeus; last are Arthur, Charlemagne and Godefroi de Bouillon.’

‘I see no comedy there,’ said Stanford. ‘Matilda orders laughter. Have you no more lively piece?’

‘The Nine Worthies is my finest invention.’

‘I’m sure it is, Gilbert, but it does not suit our purpose here. Unless …’ An idea took root in his mind and blossomed spontaneously. ‘Unless we change these nine fellows to fit our purpose and advance our Guild.’

‘How say you?’

‘Supposing those same gentlemen wore the livery of the Mercers’ Company? Do you follow my inspiration here? Instead of Hector and the rest, we choose nine persons who have brought our Guild most honour as Lord Mayors of London. I like it well. Richard Whittington must be our first worthy, of that there is no question.’

Gilbert Pike took a few minutes to understand and adapt to the notion but he welcomed it with a toothless grin and clapped his claw-like hands. Other names sprang from him for consideration.

‘Richard Gardener, Lionel Duckett and John Stockton. Ralph Dodmer should be there and even Geoffrey Boleyn that was a hatter first and then a mercer. John Allen must be there, who presented the mayoral collar. Then there is Richard Malorye and many more besides.’ The gums came into view again. ‘Nor must we forget the worthiest man of our own day.’

‘Who is that, Gilbert?’

‘Who else but you, sir?’ The old man was warming to the idea rapidly. ‘Walter Stanford. You shall be the ninth in the line. It will be a fitting climax.’

‘And a wonderful surprise for Matilda,’ agreed the other. ‘But can this play have humour in it, too? May not these nine honourable men make us laugh as well?’

‘They will provide drama and mirth, sir.’

‘This is truly excellent, Gilbert!’

‘And my title remains — The Nine Worthies. ’

‘No,’ said Stanford. ‘It would serve to confuse. That title is too familiar. We must find a new one.’

‘But it describes the play so well,’ argued the old man. ‘Are these men not worthy? And are there not nine of them in number? Each one a giant of the company? What is the objection to my title?’

‘You have just given me a better one.’

‘Have I, sir?’