Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘He is the chiefest part of my regalia. I wear him about my neck like the mayoral collar. My year in office would not have been the same without Aubrey.’

‘Haply, he will notice the change as well.’

‘Change?’

‘When you hand over to Walter Stanford.’

‘Perish the thought!’ snarled Pugsley.

‘Master Kenyon must feel the same. You and he have worked hand in glove. He will not have the same kind indulgence from that damnable mercer.’

General laughter interrupted their chat and they were forced to join in the hilarity. It was over half an hour before a lull allowed them another murmured debate. Rowland Ashway was remarkably well informed.

‘Have you heard of Stanford’s latest plot?’

‘What idiocy has he invented now?’

‘The Nine Giants. ’

‘Nine, sir? We have but two giants in London.’

‘That I know. Gogmagog and Corinaeus.’

‘From where do the other seven hail?’

‘The Mercers’ Company,’ said Ashway. ‘They are to perform a play at the Lord Mayor’s banquet to celebrate the triumph of their master. It is called The Nine Giants and shows us nine worthies from the ranks of that Guild.’

Pugsley grunted. ‘They do not have nine worthies.’

‘Dick Whittington is first in number.’

‘And the last, Rowland. They have none to follow him. If the mercers would stage a play, let them be honest and call it The Nine Dwarves. They have plenty of those in their company. Walter Stanford is bold indeed.’

‘You have not heard the deepest cut.’

‘Tell me, sir.’

‘He himself will be the ninth giant.’

Sir Lucas Pugsley choked on his meat and had to swill down the obstruction with some Rhenish wine. All his hatred and jealousy swelled up to enlarge his eyes and turn his face purple.

‘ I should remain as Lord Mayor,’ he growled.

‘No question but that you should. But the law stands in your way. It is decreed that no retiring mayor can serve another term of office until seven years has passed.’

‘That law might yet be revoked.’

‘By whom?’

‘By force of circumstance.’

‘Speak more openly, Sir Lucas.’

‘This is not the time or place,’ muttered Pugsley. ‘All I will tell you is this. If Walter Stanford were to fall at the very last hurdle — if something serious were to disable his mayoralty — might not your fellow aldermen turn to me to help them in their plight?’

Sir Lucas Pugsley began to laugh. Rowland Ashway enlarged the sound with his throaty chuckle. Others found the hilarity infectious and joined in at will. The whole table was soon rocking with mirth even though most of those around it had no idea at what they were laughing. Such was the power of the Lord Mayor of London.

They moved with great stealth through the dark streets of Bankside. One of them was tall, muscular and well groomed with a patch over his right eye. The other was shorter and more thickset, a bull of a man with rough hands and rough ways. They each carried a bundle of rags that had been soaked in oil to advance their purpose. When they came to the house, they checked all the adjoining lanes to make sure that they were not seen. Revellers delayed their work by blundering out of a nearby tavern and rolling past them in full voice. Only when the sound died away did the two men set about their nefarious business.

The rags were stuffed tight up against the front door of the dwelling then set alight. The accomplices waited until the flames began to get a hold on the timber then they took to their heels and fled into the night. Disaster crackled merrily behind them.

Anne Hendrik’s house was on fire.

Nicholas Bracewell was the first to become aware of the danger. He had developed a sixth sense where fire was concerned because it was such a constant threat to his livelihood. Sparks from careless pipe-smokers had more than once ignited thatch at the Queen’s Head and the other venues used by Westfield’s Men, and though most of their performances took place in the afternoon, some continued on beyond the fall of darkness and had to be lit by torches or by baskets of burning tarred rope. Extreme care was needed at all times and Nicholas was particularly vigilant. Even in his sleep, his nostrils maintained a watch and so it was that night. As soon as the first whiff of smoke was encountered, he came awake in a flash and leapt up naked.

His bedchamber was at the front of the house and he saw the fierce glow through the window. Instinct took over. After shaking Hans Kippel out of his slumbers, he pulled on his breeches and raised the alarm in the rest of the house. With no means of escape through the front door, he quickly hustled Anne Hendrik, the two servants and the boy into the little garden at the rear then dashed back to tackle the blaze itself. It had now got a firm hold and long tongues of flame were licking their way into the room. Acrid smoke was starting to billow. The triumphant crackle grew louder.

Nicholas moved with great speed. Having once been caught in a blaze in the hold of a ship, he knew that fumes could be as deadly as fire itself. He therefore dipped a shirt in one of the leather buckets of water that stood in the kitchen, then wound it around his neck and mouth. With a bucket in each hand, he hurried back into the drawing room and looked anxiously around. On the wall was one of Anne’s most cherished possessions. It was a beautiful tapestry, depicting the town of Ghent, and given to her as a wedding present by Jacob Hendrik who had commissioned it especially for her in Flanders. She would not willingly have parted with it for anything but sentiment had to give way to survival. Nicholas hurled the water over the tapestry then hastily brought two more buckets from the kitchen to repeat the drenching process.

Tearing down the tapestry, he threw it over the floor to douse the smouldering boards then used it to beat out the flames that were coming in through the door. He was soon given support. Anne Hendrik left her servants to look after the quaking apprentice and came back in to help to save her house. She dipped a broom in the last bucket of water then used it to attack the flames as strenuously as she could manage. Smoke invaded her throat and made her cough. Nicholas rent his sodden shirt in two and gave her a piece to cover her mouth and nostrils. The two of them continued the struggle to save the property.

Noise had now reached deafening proportions. The whole street, then the whole neighbourhood, was roused. Panic was readily abroad. Fire was feared almost as much as the plague and its effects were just as devastating. Like the rest of the city, Bankside was predominantly an area of thatched, timber-built dwellings held together with flimsy lath and plaster. Efforts had been made for well over a century to force people to tile their roofs instead of using reed or straw but the ordinances had scant effect. The only precautions that most householders took were to keep buckets of water on hand or, in far fewer cases, to have firehooks hanging at the ready so that they could be used in an emergency to pull down burning wood or thatch. Organised fire-fighting was virtually unknown and pumps were very rudimentary. In any conflagration, people reacted with unashamed self-interest and looked to their own premises. So it was here.

Nicholas and Anne fought the fire from within while their yelling neighbours did their best to stop it from spreading to their tenements. Because the street was so narrow, the houses opposite were as much at risk as those adjoining and their occupants, too, were contributing freely to the communal hysteria. Water was thrown over thatch and timber to keep the fire at bay. Implements of all kinds were used to beat at the flames. As a ferocious glare lit up the night sky, pandemonium ruled. Children screamed, women howled in fear, men bawled unheard orders at each other. Dogs barked, cats shrieked and wild-eyed horses were led neighing from their stables to clatter on the cobbles and add to the gathering confusion. Everyone was soon involved. One old lady in a house directly opposite even opened the upstairs window to hurl the contents of her chamberpot over the small inferno.