Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

Leonard’s case had been far more serious. He faced a murder charge that would lead to certain execution. It was a sad tale of being at the mercy of his own muscles. The genial giant had the most easy temperament and no aggressive instincts. When his workmates took him to Hoxton Fair, however, they decided it was time to goad him into some kind of action. Leonard was cajoled into taking on the invincible wrestler, the Great Mario, a towering Italian with too much guile in combat for any of the challengers who came forward in his booth. Most were dispatched without any difficulty but the newcomer was a tougher proposition.

‘I did not think to win the bout,’ said Leonard as he recounted the story again. ‘I only fought to please my fellows. But the Great Mario did not wrestle fair. He tripped and punched and kicked and bit me. I got angry. Ale had been drunk and the weather was hot. My fellows were shouting me on at the top of their voices.’

‘I remember. You grappled with the Great Mario.’

‘And broke his neck. It snapped in two.’

‘He provoked you to it, Leonard.’

‘No matter, sir. They arrested me for murder.’

‘How then came you to escape?’

‘By the grace of God.’

‘Was a general release signed?’

London prisons were notoriously overcrowded and many died inside them from the cramped conditions. Every so often the number of inmates would swell so dramatically that the prisons were bursting at the seams. A general release was sometimes issued to thin out the population in the cells to make room for more malefactors. Leonard would not have been the first alleged murderer to have been granted his freedom in this way but his delivery occurred by a slightly different means.

‘The Lord Mayor of London took up my case.’

‘In person?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell. I was much honoured.’

‘Were you brought to trial?’

‘Sir Lucas Pugsley saved me from that.’

‘But how, Leonard?’

‘I know not but his power is without limit.’ He gave a defensive smile. ‘One minute, I was lying in the straw at the Counter and saying my prayers. Next minute, the sergeant is taking off my chains and letting me go free. If that is what a Lord Mayor can do, then I bow down to him in all humility.’

‘Have you ever met Sir Lucas Pugsley?’

‘Indeed, no.’

‘Then why did he take an interest in you?’

‘Out of the kindness of his heart.’

‘There must be more to it than that.’

‘My master says it was just good fortune.’

‘Your master?’

‘He it was who brought the release to the Counter.’

‘But how was it obtained?’

‘As I told you. From the Lord Mayor’s hand.’

Nicholas was puzzled by the intercession from above.

‘Who is your master, Leonard?’

‘Alderman Ashway. I work for his brewery.’

Rowland Ashway arrived importantly at the Queen’s Head early on Monday morning. He brought his lawyer with him who, in turn, brought the contract for the sale of the premises. Alexander Marwood had his own lawyer waiting and the four of them went though the document with painstaking care for a couple of hours. A few doubts were raised, a few objections stated, a few emendations made. When the quibbling was over, both lawyers claimed their fees then withdrew to the other side of the room to leave the others alone. Alderman Ashway loomed over the funereal publican with oily complacence.

‘All is therefore settled, Master Marwood.’

‘I would like my wife to see the contract.’

‘When you have signed it, sir.’

‘She may have anxieties.’

‘Still them in the marriage bed.’

A retrospective wheeze. ‘Times have changed.’

‘Nothing now detains us,’ said the alderman. ‘Our attorneys have pronounced on the document and I have the money waiting for you to collect. Do but scrawl your name and the business is complete.’

‘Must it be done today, sir?’

‘I grow weary of your prevarication.’

‘It shall be signed, it shall be signed,’ gabbled the other. ‘But I must have a moment to reflect. The Queen’s Head was willed to me by my father. I must pray for his guidance and be reconciled with his soul.’

‘Will you then reach out for your pen?’

‘Most assuredly.’

Marwood bowed obsequiously and rubbed his hands together as if he were grating rotten cheese between them. He had bought another small delay but Rowland Ashway was determined that it would be the last.

‘We will return later,’ he announced.

‘You are always welcome here.’

‘To witness the signature.’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘This is the day of decision, Master Marwood, and I will brook no more evasion. Append your name and your good will to that same document or I will tear it up and leave you to the mercy of Westfield’s Men.’

He sailed out of the room with his lawyer in tow. Alexander Marwood trotted meekly after him and smoothed his acceptance of the ultimatum. When he came out into the yard, however, something stopped the landlord and he became prey to fleeting regret.

The actors were gathering for rehearsal.

Abel Strudwick was a creature of extremes. Once he was committed to a course of action, he went the whole way with no hint of holding back. He had been shocked and wounded by Lawrence Firethorn’s cavalier treatment of him at the Queen’s Head and felt the pangs of the discarded. As one dream crumbled, however, another came into being. In cutting the actor-manager down in a verbal duel, he would not only be gaining his revenge, he would be showing the world his true merit as a performer. When he had made the final thrust into Firethorn’s black heart — he was confident of a swift victory — he intended to bestow the ultimate favour upon the audience by reading some of his poems. This was no mere flyting contest. It was the harbour from which his new career could be launched.

To this end, the visionary waterman had handbills printed to advertise his feat and distributed them freely to his passengers, around the taverns and among his fellows at the wharfside. Abel Strudwick was pitting his skills against a famous thespian. It was an intriguing prospect and it drew scores of people who would not normally have visited a theatrical event. The large audience which had come to watch The Queen of Carthage was thus further enlarged by an influx of rowdy watermen who jockeyed for position near the apron stage. As a prelude to an inspiring tragedy, they were being offered a clash of naked steel.

Somebody was doing his best to spoil their fun.

‘It is not too late to change your mind, Abel.’

‘That would be cowardly!’

‘I talk of a dignified withdrawal.’

‘Talk of what you wish, Master Bracewell,’ said the angry waterman. ‘I have vowed to do battle this day.’

‘Both of you will incur severe injury.’

‘It matters not, sir.’

‘But what if you should lose?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘This would do harm to your reputation.’

‘Defeat is impossible. Rest your tongue.’

They were in the taproom at the Queen’s Head not long before the contest was scheduled to take place. The book holder had made several attempts to talk his friend out of the whole thing but the latter was adamant. He had been slighted and sought recompense in the only way that would satisfy him. By way of preparation, he was sinking pints of Ashway’s Beer to clear his mind for argument.

Nicholas left him alone and slipped off to the tiring-house to make a last appeal to the other half of the dispute. Like the waterman, Lawrence Firethorn had steadfastly refused to listen to reason so far and he could not be diverted from his purpose now. Before he gave his acclaimed performance as Aeneas in the play, he meant to visit destruction upon the hirsute head of Abel Strudwick. The book holder got short shrift.