Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘I expected no less.’

‘We have always dealt honestly with each other.’

‘And both of us have prospered,’ noted Ashway. ‘Bear that in mind in case your wife has further doubts. I will have the contract sent to you forthwith.’

‘Give me time to study it at my leisure.’

‘Keep me waiting and my interest will wane.’

‘All will be well, I am sure.’

‘Good,’ said the alderman going back to the window to gaze down. ‘I’ll take possession of the Queen’s Head and throw Westfield’s Men back into the gutter where they belong, vile rabble that they are! Let their illustrious patron give them all begging bowls!’ Something aroused his curiosity. ‘Come here to me.’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘That man below there.’

‘Which one?’

‘The sturdy fellow with the boy.’

‘I see him.’

‘Who is he?’

Alexander Marwood watched the tall, muscular figure take his scrawny young companion across the yard to the stage and hoist him up with one fluent movement of his strong arms. The landlord knew him as the one member of the company whom he could respect and trust.

‘Well, sir,’ said Ashway. ‘Who is he?’

‘The book holder.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Nicholas Bracewell.’

Expectation put colour in her cheeks and rekindled the spark in her eyes. The day was rich with promise and she let it show in her face, her voice and her movements even though she collected some glances of disapproval from the household steward. Matilda Stanford had been stirred by the touch of true love and nothing could subdue her. The staid Simon Pendleton might expect her to share in the family sorrow over the murder of Michael Delahaye but she did not put on a false show of mourning for his benefit. All her thoughts were fixed on the afternoon ahead. Love and Fortune was more than just another performance by Westfield’s Men. If she had the courage to respond to the message of the sonnet, it was a tryst with her beloved.

‘Shall we be safe, mistress?’

‘Stay close to me, Prudence.’

‘I do not know whether to be excited or afraid.’

‘I confess I am a little of each.’

‘Would that we had a gentleman to protect us!’

‘We shall have. Be patient.’

Prudence Ling was far more than just a maidservant. Small, dark and spry, she was an attractive young woman with lively conversation and plenty of bounce. Most important of all, she was utterly trustworthy. Prudence had been in service with Matilda for some years now and their friendship had reached the point where they could exchange any confidences. The maidservant had no time for moral judgement. If her mistress wished to deceive her husband while he was away, then Prudence was ready to help with all her considerable guile. It was she who had procured the hooded cloaks that the two of them now wore and it was she who had led the way out through the garden gate so that their exit was unobserved by the steward of Stanford Place. Hiding their faces behind masks, they joined the crowd that was converging on the Queen’s Head.

‘I have but one fear, mistress.’

‘Be still, child.’

‘What if they mistake us for ladies of pleasure?’

‘Think on goodness and ignore them.’

The two women paid their entrance fee and went up to the middle gallery to claim seats on the front bench. They were wedged in between a couple of leering gallants but their masks gave them concealment and the badinage soon died. Other ladies with more available charms were taking their places nearby to watch the entertainment and to ply their trade at the same time. Prudence sneaked a sideways look at them and giggled her amusement.

The wind had freshened now and the sky was overcast. A full and fractious audience needed a vigorous comedy to warm them up and that is what they were given. Inspired by the speech that Lawrence Firethorn delivered just before they began, Westfield’s Men played Love and Fortune with a verve and commitment that was lacking from their previous offering. In place of tepid tragedy was a joyous comedy of romantic misunderstanding. Riotous laughter soon filled the makeshift auditorium and hearts were moved by the shifts and sufferings within the drama.

Matilda Stanford was entranced from the moment when Lawrence Firethorn stepped out in a magnificent costume of red and gold velvet to deliver the Prologue in tones of ringing sincerity. Her mask fell from her hand to reveal her in her true beauty and the actor spotted her immediately. Though heard by all, his words were clearly directed at her and she let herself be caressed by the language of pure love. Firethorn continued to woo her throughout in such a way that she was impervious to the presence of other spectators and believed herself to be the sole witness of a command performance. Love and Fortune was bursting at the seams with fun and frolic but her attention never wandered from Lawrence Firethorn. She did not notice the lovelorn swain with his clean-shaven naivety who was also dedicating his performance to her. Nor did she consider for a second that it was he who had written the new Prologue as well as the additional lines which were included for her benefit alone.

Suddenly, it was all over. Matilda was caught up in a torrent of applause that went on for several minutes as Firethorn led his company out onto the stage. His eyes sent further messages of desire to her but she could not fathom their meaning. When the cast vanished behind the curtain and the crowd began to leave, she was plunged into despair. During the play itself, Lawrence Firethorn had been so close to her in spirit that she felt she could reach out to touch him but now he was miles away. Had she taken all those risks to such little purpose? Did her blossoming romance amount simply to this? Was there nothing more?

‘A word with you, mistress!’

‘Away, sir!’ said Matilda.

‘But I bring you a letter.’

‘Do not trouble me further.’

‘It is from Master Firethorn.’

Breathless and battered, George Dart had struggled through the press to get to her with his missive. She snatched it from him and rewarded him with a coin that turned his elfin misery into beaming delight. Matilda opened the letter and read its contents with rising elation. It was an invitation to join Lawrence Firethorn in a private room and share a cup of Canary wine. She accepted on impulse and waved George Dart on so that she and her maidservant might follow. During the journey along the gallery, she showed the letter to Prudence. The maidservant was at once intrigued and concerned.

‘Is this wise, mistress?’

‘There is only one way to find out, Prudence.’

‘What of danger?’

‘I embrace it willingly.’

‘He is certainly the handsomest of men.’

‘Master Firethorn is a god whom I would worship.’

Their guide took them through a maze of corridors until he reached a stout oak door. He paused to knock with timid knuckles. His master’s roar came from within. George Dart opened the door for the two ladies to enter then he closed it behind them as Lawrence Firethorn bent low to plant a first delicate kiss on the hand of Matilda Stanford. Having done his office, the stagekeeper was now superfluous and could return to the multifarious tasks that still awaited him below. He made for the stairs but his way was blocked by a looming figure with staring eyes and gaping jaw. Edmund Hoode was aghast.

‘Who were those ladies?’ he demanded.

‘Guests of Master Firethorn, sir.’

‘But that was her ! And she is mine !’

‘I was sent to bid them here. That is all I know.’

‘This is torture indeed!’

‘You look ill, sir. Shall I send for help?’