Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

At a funeral, in a graveyard, close to her husband and in the midst of a family tragedy, she found herself toying with a vision of Lawrence Firethorn. Guilt made her weep the most bitter tears yet and an arm tightened on hers.

But her mind still belonged to the actor.

After a week of upheavals, it was good to get away from the pressures of the city and out into the freedom of the countryside. A fire at his lodging, an attempt on his life and a puzzling encounter at the house on the Bridge had made Nicholas Bracewell more cautious than ever and he kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being followed. It was Sunday morning and he had been instructed by Lawrence Firethorn to ride down to Richmond to take stock of the Nine Giants where the company was due to perform in the near future. Nicholas took Hans Kippel with him so that he could guard the boy and — because she was born there — Anne Hendrik went beside him on the road to Richmond. The book holder was mounted on a chestnut mare with the apprentice clinging on behind him. Anne rode a dapple grey with an easy gait.

It had every appearance of a family outing and this was one of its objects. They had not simply taken on a parental responsibility for Hans Kippel. His damaged mind responded to a sense of familial reassurance and it was only when he was at his most relaxed that his memory began to function properly again. In taking him away from London itself, Nicholas hoped to separate the boy from the well-spring of his malady. The country air of Richmond might do wonders for the lad’s power of recall. At all events, they made a happy picture, moving along at a rising trot and urging the horses into a gentle canter when the terrain invited it.

The book holder was relieved to put the week behind him. Quite apart from personal crises, it had been an extremely taxing period. He had stage-managed four very different plays for Westfield’s Men as well as coping with sundry other duties. Placating Edmund Hoode had proved to be a time-consuming pastime and the ambitious Owen Elias was another constant drain on his patience. Regular sessions with Alexander Marwood had been another burden and Lawrence Firethorn’s demands were endless. Then there was the problem of the versifying waterman.

Hans Kippel raised the problem from the bobbing rump of the horse.

‘May I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow?’

‘I think not,’ said Nicholas.

‘But I wish to see Master Strudwick on the stage.’

‘It is not for your young eyes,’ decided Anne. ‘And certainly not for your young ears. London watermen use the vilest language in Christendom.’

‘But Master Strudwick makes music.’

Nicholas smiled. ‘He has another kind of harmony in mind for tomorrow, Hans. I will report everything back to you, have no fear.’

‘Who will win the flyting contest?’

‘Neither, if I have my way. It will not take place.’

The boy was disappointed but a half-mile taken at a canter obliged him to hold on tight and suspend his questioning. It was not long before Richmond Palace came into sight to focus all their attention. Overlooking the Thames with regal condescension, it was a magnificent building in the Gothic style, constructed round a paved court and rising up with turreted splendour. Even on such a dull day, its gilded weathervanes added a romantic sparkle and its superfluity of windows lent it an almost crystalline charm. Hans Kippel was awestruck. Glimpsed over the shoulder of his friend, Richmond Palace had a fairy-tale quality that enchanted him.

The village itself had grown steadily throughout the century as more and more people moved out of the plague-ridden city to its healthier suburbs. Many of the local inhabitants gained their livelihood from the Palace itself and it dominated their existence in every way. Nicholas escorted Anne to a cottage on the far side of the village and stayed long enough to witness the tearful reunion with her parents. Hans Kippel was lifted off the sweating chestnut to share in the hospitality. Nicholas rode back across the wide expanse of village green to get to the inn he had come to visit.

One glance told him that the Nine Giants would be ideal for their purposes. It was larger and altogether more generous in its proportions than the Queen’s Head. Erected around a paved courtyard, it had three galleries with thatched roofs. Its timber framing gave it the magpie colouring of most London houses but it was vastly cleaner and more well preserved than its equivalents in the city. Not for the first time, Nicholas reflected on how much filth and pollution a large population could generate. Richmond was truly picturesque. The smile had not been wiped off its face by the crude elbows of the urban multitude. A presenting feature of the inn was the cluster of oak trees which gave it its name. Rising high and wide out of the paddock at the rear, they formed a rough circle of timber that had an almost mystic quality. The nine giants were soon joined by a tenth.

‘Good day to you, master.’

‘And to you, good sir.’

‘Welcome to our hostelry.’

‘It is a fine establishment you have here.’

‘I’ll be with you anon.’

Nicholas had come into the yard to see a huge barrel being carried aloft by a giant of a man in a leather apron. He was loading up a brewer’s dray with empty casks from the cellar and the work was making him grunt. The book holder dismounted and tethered his horse to a post. At that moment, the man dropped his barrel onto the dray with a terrifying thud then wiped his hands on his apron. Nicholas saw his face properly for the first time and laughed with sheer astonishment.

‘Leonard!’

‘Is that you, Master Bracewell?’

‘Come here, dear fellow!’

They embraced warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Nicholas could not believe what he saw.

His friend had come back from the grave.

The thickset man lay on the bed with heavy bandaging around his midriff. His self-inflicted wound had been serious but not fatal and he was recovering with the aid of regular flagons of bottle ale. James Renfrew looked down at him with mild disgust.

‘Drink wine and cultivate some manners,’ he said.

‘I’ll look to my own pleasures, Jamie.’

‘How do you feel today, sir?’

‘Better.’

‘Can you stand?’

‘Stand and walk and carry a weapon.’

‘There’ll be time enough for that.’

‘He is mine ,’ hissed the other.

‘Master Bracewell?’

‘Look what he did to me. I want him.’

‘The boy is our main concern. He is a witness.’

‘I’ll pluck his Dutch eyes out!’ He glanced up at the black patch and blurted out a clumsy apology. ‘I am … sorry, Jamie. I did … not mean to …’

‘Enough of that!’ said Renfrew sharply. ‘Hold your peace and get some rest.’

‘Has the time been set?’

‘It is all in hand.’

‘When is it?’

‘You will be told, Firk.’

‘Give me but a day or two and …’

‘The plan is conceived, have no fear. We will not move without your help. It will be needed.’

‘And Master Bracewell?’

‘That will come, too. That will come, too.’

Renfrew crossed to the window of the bedchamber and surveyed the river below. It was a forest of rigging that rose and fell on the undulating surface. He watched a boat being rowed expertly across the Thames and followed it until it vanished from sight behind a larger vessel.

Renfrew threw a nonchalant question over his shoulder.

‘Firk …’

‘What?’

‘Have you ever killed a waterman?’

Nicholas Bracewell was delighted to see the mountain of flesh again. Leonard had a natural gentleness to offset his immense bulk and his big, round, freckled face shone with hope. He was still in his twenties with receding hair that exposed a wide forehead and a full beard that was split with a snaggle-toothed grin. They had met in the most trying circumstances. Both had been incarcerated in the Counter in Wood Street, one of the city’s worst and most repulsive prisons. Nicholas had been falsely accused of assault by enemies who had wanted him out of the way for a time but his connection with Lord Westfield had soon purchased his release. Even that brief period of custody had been enough to convince him that he must never be locked away in one of the city’s hellholes again.