Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

But the keenest interest was shown by someone else. As the sagging body of Hans Kippel was borne away, a pair of dark, malignant eyes stared out from the upstairs window of the house which had alarmed the apprentice so much.

The boy had been found.

Edmund Hoode suffered the pangs of rank injustice. As he toyed with his pint of sack at the Queen’s Head, he came to appreciate just how selfish and sadistic Lawrence Firethorn could be. It was unforgivable. After months of emotional stagnation, the poet had finally found someone to rescue him from his plight and supply a focus for the creative energy of his romantic inclinations. His new love had been blighted before it could blossom. Firethorn was exploiting a cruel contractual advantage over him. Instead of releasing his passion in verses dedicated to his own love, Hoode was simply helping to satisfy the actor-manager’s libidinous desires. Despair made him groan aloud and turn to Barnaby Gill who was seated beside him on the oak settle.

‘Truly, I am out of love with this life.’

‘That was ever your theme,’ said Gill cynically.

‘This time I am in earnest, Barnaby. I would sue to be rid of this wretched existence.’

‘Chance may contrive that for you.’

‘How say you?’

‘Westfield’s Men are threatened with execution, sir. If Alderman Rowland Ashway takes possession here, ours will be the first heads on the block.’

‘I would welcome the axe.’

‘Well, I would not, Edmund,’ said the other peevishly. ‘Blood would ruin my new doublet and ruff. And I would not have my career cut off by the whim of a brewer. If Marwood sells the inn, I must think the unthinkable.’

‘Retire from the stage?’

‘My admirers would never countenance that. No, sir, I would need to put survival first and join Banbury’s Men.’ He saw Hoode’s shock and sailed over it. ‘Yes, it might be an act of betrayal but my art must take precedence. If Westfield’s Men cannot sustain me, I must look to the highest bidder and that must be Giles Randolph. He has coveted my services this long time.’

‘What about Lawrence?’

‘What about him?’ challenged Gill.

Hoode pondered. ‘You are right, sir. We owe him no loyalty after the way he has treated us. I’ll not let him stroke the bodies of his mistresses with my conceits. Do you know his latest demand?’

‘A new prologue for Love and Fortune? ’

‘Even so. It is to contain an intimate message.’

‘His intimate messages are all contained in his codpiece,’ sneered Gill. ‘I wonder that he does not teach it to speak for itself. It cannot declaim lines any worse than he and it holds the major organ of his ambition.’

‘I’ll not endure it longer, Barnaby!’

‘Write sixteen lines for Master Codpiece.’

‘Lawrence must relent.’

‘Not until Margery bites off his pizzle.’

‘He’ll use me this way no longer.’

‘Free yourself from womankind and learn true love.’

‘I’ll tell him straight.’

Fortified by the sack and by the conversation, Edmund Hoode leapt up from the table and went in search of his colleague. Firethorn had gone to give instructions about some new costumes to Hugh Wegges, their tireman, who worked with needle and thread in the room where the company’s equipment was stored. Hoode strode purposefully in that direction but he soon slowed down. A strident voice began to fill the inn yard.

Now here upon this field of Agincourt

Let each man take his oath to fight with me

And give these French a taste of English steel,

With bravest arrows cutting down their knights,

With stoutest hearts o’ercoming any odds

That angry France can muster ’gainst our will.

March onwards, lads, into the ranks of death,

Until we vanquish, no man pause for breath!

The voice of Lawrence Firethorn thrilled the ear as it reverberated around the empty yard to fill the place with sound and frighten the stabled horses. Edmund Hoode knew the lines well because he had written them himself for King Henry the Fifth, a stirring saga of military heroism. Firethorn had always been superb in the role but this time he added some Welsh cadences by way of tribute to the king’s birthplace of Monmouth. Stoked up with rage to confront the actor-manager, Hoode yet spared a moment to admire his art afresh. No man could equal Firethorn even when he was just showing off his talent as now. That did not excuse his treatment of his resident poet and it was with seething indignation that Hoode swept out into the yard to tackle the barrel-chested figure who stood right in the middle of it.

‘Lawrence!’ he said. ‘I demand to speak to you!’

‘Speak to me instead, sir.’

The man turned around with an arrogant smile that stunned Hoode completely. It was not Firethorn at all. The extempore performance had been given by Owen Elias.

Walter Stanford and his son were grief-stricken when they returned home. Michael’s death was a shattering blow in itself but the nature of his exit made it unbearably worse. Someone so young and full of promise had been cut down savagely in his prime. Stanford resolved that he would not rest until the murderer had been found and made to pay the full penalty of the law. Vengeful as he was, he did not let his feelings warp his behaviour. In an effort to protect his wife from the full horror, he gave her only an attenuated account of what they had seen. Matilda was devastated by the news. Even though she had never met Michael Delahaye, she had heard enough about him to form some very favourable impressions. Sharing the loss with her husband and stepson, she reserved most sympathy for her sister-in-law.

‘What of dear Winifred?’ she asked.

‘She must be told at once,’ said Stanford. ‘William and I will ride to Windsor today to break the sad tidings to her. It will be the ruination of poor Win.’

‘Let me come with you,’ she offered. ‘I may be of help at this trying time.’

‘Your kindness is appreciated, my love, but this is a task for me alone. I need to frame Win’s mind to accept what has happened. It will be a long and arduous business and too distressing for you to witness.’

‘Have funeral arrangements been made?’

‘They are set in motion,’ he said. ‘When Michael’s body is released, it will be brought to Windsor for burial in the family vault. It is then that I will call upon you for your comfort and company.’

‘Take both for granted, Walter.’

‘You are a solace to me.’

He gave her a perfunctory embrace then held back tears as he thought about the body on the slab. It had been hauled out of the Thames without a shred of clothing to give it decency in its last moments. A thought struck him with sudden force.

‘I see the meaning of it now,’ he said.

‘Of what, sir.’

‘That present I received, Matilda.’

‘Present?’

‘The salmon.’

‘What did it signify?’

‘That Michael slept with the fishes.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley chewed happily on a crisp mouthful of whitebait. Being the Lord Mayor of London obliged him to entertain on a regular basis but only a small number of guests were dining at his house that evening. One of them was the massive figure of Rowland Ashway who was tucking into his meal with voracious appetite. Placed at the right hand of his friend, he was able to have private conference with a lowered voice.

‘Has that contract been allocated, Sir Lucas?’

‘What contract?’

‘We spoke of it even yesterday.’

‘Ah, that,’ said the Lord Mayor airily. ‘Have no fears on that score, Rowland. You will get your just deserts. I have instructed Aubrey Kenyon to handle the matter.’

‘That contents me. Master Kenyon is most reliable.’