Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘And it does not stop here,’ said Pugsley irritably. ‘Bristol, Norwich and other towns besides have their own foreign quarters. The rot is slowly spreading.’

‘I know it well,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘There are over five thousand registered aliens here and that does not include the many who conceal the origin and escape the census. We have French, German, Italian, Dutch …’

‘Dutch! Those are the ones I hate most.’

‘An industrious people, sir.’

‘Then let them stay in their own country and be industrious, Aubrey. We do not want them here to compete with honest English traders and craftsmen.’ He was so animated now that his chain jingled. ‘London is fast becoming the sewer of Europe. What other nations spew out, we take in and suffer. It is not good, sir.’

‘The city has never welcomed foreigners.’

‘Can you blame it?’

Before the Lord Mayor could develop his theme, they were interrupted by the arrival of a friend. Alderman Rowland Ashway was perspiring freely from his exertions. He was conducted into the dining room and rested on the back of a chair while he recovered, letting an expert eye rove around the tempting remains of the banquet. Aubrey Kenyon gave his graceful bow then slid out through the door to leave them alone together.

‘What means this haste?’ said Pugsley.

‘I bring news that may advantage you.’

‘Then let me hear it.’

‘Walter Stanford is much discomfited.’

‘That is sweet music to my ear. How?’

‘His nephew has been killed,’ said Ashway. ‘They pulled the dead body of Lieutanant Michael Delahaye from the Thames. He was cruelly murdered.’

‘How has Stanford taken it?’

‘Sorely. He had high hopes of the young man and made a place for him in his business. Coming after the death of his first wife, this blow is doubly painful.’

Pugsley smirked. ‘This is good news indeed. But will it make the Master of the Mercers abandon his mayoralty?’

‘It will make him think twice.’

‘That is some consolation. Thank you, Rowland. You shower many favours on me. I know not how to repay them all. You did well to bring me this intelligence.’

‘We must pray that further disasters befall him.’

‘If that young wife of his should vanish,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘Now that would really cut him to the quick.’

Ashway was thoughtful. ‘Most certainly.’

‘Lieutenant, you say? The nephew was in the army?’

‘Recently discharged.’

‘Remind me of his name.’

‘Michael Delahaye.’

‘Michael Delahaye, sir. A soldier lately returned from the Netherlands.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘The body was released an hour ago.’

‘To whom?’

‘His uncle. Alderman Stanford.’ ‘The Lord Mayor Elect?’

‘Even he.’

Nicholas was surprised. Having called at the charnel house to see if the body had yet been identified, he found the old keeper replaced by a more respectful individual and the corpse from the river replaced by one that was hauled out of a ditch. He collected all the details he could then came back up into the living world again. The livid scar on the chest of the dead man could now be explained. It was patently a wound sustained in battle but its owner had been cut down before it had been allowed to heal. The connection with Walter Stanford intrigued him. It had been a bad week for the mercer. While he was learning of the murder of his nephew, his wife was being courted by Lawrence Firethorn. If the actor were not prevented, Stanford might well find a corpse on the slab of his marriage as well.

Nicholas turned towards Gracechurch Street and strolled on as quickly as he could through the morning crush. No play was being performed that day but he was summoned to a meeting about the planned visit to the Nine Giants in Richmond. Night had been quiet at the house and he had felt it safe to leave Hans Kippel there now. The boy’s compatriots took their duties as bodyguards with the utmost seriousness. They had armed themselves with swords or staves in case of attack and Preben van Loew had found an antiquated pike. Under the command of Anne Hendrik, they were a motley but effective crew. Besides, there was no performance at the Queen’s Head to amuse the boy this time and he would only be in the way.

The book holder let Abel Strudwick row him across the river from Bankside so that he could thank his friend for taking care of the apprentice on the previous day. The waterman was delighted to have been of help and got what he felt was a rich reward when he was told that his name had indeed been mentioned to Lawrence Firethorn. He could not wait to take his verses to the actor-manager before embracing the stardom that beckoned. Nicholas had tried to dampen his overzealous reaction but to no avail. Strudwick had sensed recognition at last.

As he turned into Gracechurch Street, Nicholas had put all thought of the water poet out of his mind. His preoccupation was with a murdered soldier who had been stripped of his clothes and his dignity then hurled into the Thames without even a face to call his own. Service to his country should have earned Michael Delahaye some kinder treatment than that. Was the soldier killed by his own enemies or did his relationship with the Lord Mayor Elect have any bearing on the case?

So caught up was he in his rumination that he did not observe the thickset man who was trailing him through the crowded market. The first that Nicholas knew of it was when a hand grabbed his arm from behind and the point of a knife pricked his spine.

‘Do as I bid,’ hissed a voice. ‘Or I kill you here.’

‘Who are you?’

‘One that is sent to bear a message.’

‘With a dagger in my back.’

‘Walk towards that alley or I finish you here.’

The book holder pretended to agree. In the heaving mass of a market day, he had no choice. His assailant had caught him off guard and was now easing him towards a narrow alley. Once he entered that, Nicholas knew, he would never come out again alive. He tried to distract the man.

‘You are Master Renfrew, I think.’

‘Then must you think again, sir.’

‘There is no patch over your eye?’

‘No, sir. I see well enough to stab you in the back.’

‘Do you lodge at a house on the Bridge?’

‘That is of no concern to you.’

‘Did you play with fire the other night?’

‘Keep moving,’ grunted the man.

As Nicholas was prodded by the dagger again, he reacted with sudden urgency. Hs free arm struck out at the canopy of a market stall while a heel was jabbed hard into the shin of his captor. Wrenching his other arm away at the same time, he lurched forward a few paces then swung around to confront the man who was now hopping on one leg and trying to disentangle himself from the canopy while being abused by the stallholder. Nicholas had only a few seconds to study the swarthy, bearded face before the bull-like frame came hurtling angrily at him. He caught the wrist that held the dagger and grappled with his attacker. Uproar now spread as the two men cannoned off the bodies all around them. The irate stallholder joined in the fight with a broom which he used to belabour both of them.

The assailant was strong but Nicholas was a match for him. Recognising this, the man made a last desperate effort to seize the advantage, angling the dagger towards the other’s body and thrusting home with all his might. The book holder took evasive action in the nick of time. He turned the man’s wrist sharply and sent the blade towards the latter’s stomach. The animal howl of pain was so loud and frightening that it silenced the crowd and even made the stallholder hold off with his broom. With a surge of strength, the man flung off Nicholas and ran off through the crowd with bullocking force. The book holder looked down at the front of his jerkin.