Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

Hoode grabbed him. ‘Who was she?’

‘Which one, master?’

‘There is only one, George. That beauteous creature with the luminous skin. That angel from the gallery.’ He shook his colleague hard. ‘What is her name, man?’

‘Matilda Stanford, sir.’

‘Matilda, Matilda …’ Hoode played with the name and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, yes, it becomes her. Sweet Matilda. O, Matilda mine. Edmund and Matilda. Matilda and Edmund. How well they flow together!’ Titters of amusement came from within the room to darken his face. ‘Lawrence and Matilda. There’s discord and damnation for you!’

‘May I go now, Master Hoode?’ whimpered Dart.

‘What’s that?’

‘You are hurting me, sir.’

The poet released his quarry and let him scuttle away down the stairs. His own pain now preoccupied him. The cruel irony of it all lanced his very soul. Hoode’s own verses had been used to deliver up his mistress into the steamy embrace of Lawrence Firethorn. Deprived of the chance to write to her himself, he had been doing so unwittingly on another’s behalf. It was insupportable and the horror of it made him sway and moan. When he put his ear to the door, he heard flattery and laughter and the betrayal of his greatest hopes. Inside the room, mutual desire was flowering into something more purposive.

Edmund Hoode had murder in his heart.

During the performance of Love and Fortune, Hans Kippel sat in a corner of the tiring-house and wondered at everything he saw. Actors came and went, changing their costumes, characters and sex with baffling speed. Scenic devices were carried on and off. Stage and hand props were in constant use. Everyone was involved in a hectic event that gained momentum all the time and it was left to the book holder to impose order and sanity on the proceedings. From the stage itself came heightened language and comic songs that were interspersed with waves of laughter and oceans of applause. Swordplay, music and dance added to the magic of it all. In its own way, it was even more thrilling than watching the whole play in rehearsal. Tucked away in the tiring-house, Hans Kippel was part of a strange, new, mad, marvellous world that set fire to his imagination. He believed he was in heaven.

‘I am sorry to leave you alone so long, Hans.’

‘Do not vex yourself about me, Master Bracewell.’

‘There was much for me to do, as you saw.’

‘I have never seen anyone work so hard,’ said the boy with frank admiration. ‘Not even Preben van Loew.’

‘Did the others keep an eye on you?’

‘Dick Honeydew spoke to me many times though his skirts made him look so like a woman. Master Hoode was very kind and so was Master Gill. I also talked a lot with George Dart and even had a few words with Master Curtis, the carpenter, who helped us at the house this morning.’ His face clouded. ‘Who started that blaze?’

‘I will find out, Hans.’

‘But why was it done, sir?’

Nicholas shrugged evasively and brought the boy out into the yard. The experiment of bringing Hans Kippel to the Queen’s Head had been an unqualified success but he was now in the way. Having supervised the dismantling of the stage, the book holder now took time off to shepherd the boy back down to the wharf where Abel Strudwick was waiting. Nicholas paid him in advance and charged him with the task of rowing the apprentice back to the Surrey side of the river and of accompanying him safely home. The boatman was delighted with his commission, not least because his passenger was so enthused by the play he had just seen and so willing to listen to more of Strudwick’s plangent music. Ambition nudged again.

‘What did Master Firethorn say about me?’ he asked.

‘I go back to raise the matter with him now.’

‘Tell him I am at his disposal.’

‘He may not have need of you directly, Abel.’

‘Shall I bring my verses to him?’

‘I will ask.’

Nicholas strode back through the coolness of the early evening to attend to his final duties. He was checking that everything had been securely locked away when a broad palm gave him a hearty slap on the back.

‘Nick, my bawcock! A thousand thanks!’

‘For what, sir?’

‘A thousand acts of goodness,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘But none more welcome than the service you performed for me of late.’

‘You speak of the lady, I think.’

‘And think of her as I speak. Oh, Nick, my friend, she is an empress to my imperial design. I have never met a creature of such flawless perfection and such peerless beauty.’ Another slap fell. ‘And it was you who found out who she was. A thousand thousand thanks!’

Nicholas had grave reservations about his role as go-between and he was uneasy when he heard what had transpired. Matilda Stanford had come to the Queen’s Head with no chaperone but a maidservant and the two of them had been greeted by Firethorn in a private room. It boded ill for the young lady herself and for the company.

‘Conquest is assured,’ said Firethorn dreamily.

‘Beware of what might follow, sir.’

‘I care nothing for that. The present is all to me.’

‘Have concern for the future as well,’ warned Nicholas. ‘The lady is married and to a man of great wealth and influence. Think what hurt he might inflict if he ever found out about this dalliance.’

‘I fear no man alive, sir!’

‘It is the company I have in mind. Master Stanford will be Lord Mayor of London before long. He could take his anger out on Westfield’s Men and expel us promptly.’

‘Only if he is cognisant,’ said Firethorn. ‘And he will not be. We will pull the wool over his mayoral eyes and make a mockery of him. I am no lusty youth with his codpiece points about to pop. Waiting only enhances the prize and I will bide my time until Richmond.’

‘Richmond, sir?’

‘The Nine Giants.’

‘You have made an assignation?’

‘I have but put the sweet thought into her mind.’

‘And until then?’

‘We simply dote on the ecstasy that lies in store.’

Nicholas was relieved that he was not rushing into his entanglement. Advance notice gave the book holder the opportunity to extricate the young bride. Flushed with excitement, Lawrence Firethorn was in a mood to agree to almost anything and Nicholas plied him with a dozen or more requests concerning company business. When the actor-manager acceded to them all, his employee honoured a promise he had been forced to give.

‘I have a friend who writes verses, sir.’

‘Let me see them, let me see them.’

‘He is but a humble waterman.’

‘What of that, Nick?’ said the actor proudly. ‘I am the son of a common blacksmith yet I have risen to the pinnacle of my profession. Who is this fellow?’

‘Abel Strudwick.’

‘I will read his work and give my opinion.’

Firethorn waved his farewell and swept off down the corridor. Nicholas was glad that he had mentioned his friend but held out little hope for him. The actor would have forgotten all about the request by the next day. Abel Strudwick would be only one of countless dejected scribes who were spurned by the star of Westfield’s Men.

The taproom was the next port of call for the book holder. His intention was to speak to Marwood’s wife but someone else claimed his attention first. Edmund Hoode was almost suicidal. Seated alone at a table, he was pouring beer down his throat as if he were emptying a bucket of water into a sink. Nicholas intervened and put the huge tankard aside.

‘Give it to me, Nick!’ gasped Hoode.

‘I think you have drunk enough, sir.’

‘Fill it to the brim with poison and make me happy.’