Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘Come back, you hound! You snivelling, sneaking rat! Come here, you caitiff. Show your monkey’s face again and I will knock off your knavish helmet and put a cuckold’s horns upon your head. ’Twas I that rode your foul fiend of a wife and had such clamorous sport between her spindly legs. Thy dame is pizzle-mad, sir, and her oily duckies are sucked by every gallant in the town!’

‘WHAT!!!!!’

The scream of fury was so loud and penetrating that it silenced Strudwick and the whole audience at once. Margery Firethorn climbed out through the window like a tiger hurtling out of its lair in search of prey. She pushed her way through the seated spectators in the lower gallery and cocked a leg over the balustrade before jumping down onto the stage itself. Words came hissing out of her like poisonous steam.

‘Who are you to speak, you pimp, you goose, you carrion crow! I am that same wife you talk so rudely of and I am as sound a Christian as any woman alive. Fie on your foul tongue, you varlet, on your sewer of a mouth, on that running sore of a mind that you scratch for argument to make it bleed villainy. Out, out, you clod, you tottering wretch, you drunken bawd, you scheming devil, you thrice-ugly beggar, you vile and noisome vapour. Draw off lest you infect us all with this leprous speech of yours!’ She stood over him with such fearsome rage that he cowered before her. ‘A foul fiend, am I, sir? I will haunt your haunches with my housewife’s toe for that. I have spindly legs, you say. They hold me better than those poor, mean sticks of yours that cannot hold up the weight of a beer-filled belly without they bend like longbows at full draw. Pizzle-mad, you claim …’

Abel Strudwick’s defeat was comprehensive and the audience howled and jeered at his expense. He yet had one card to play. Shrugging off Margery’s attack, he ran to the front of the stage and tried to redeem himself by reciting his latest poem about a humble waterman who becomes a famous actor and who plays before the Queen. It was a disastrous remedy. The spectators were provoked to such cruel mirth and ribaldry that missiles soon began to be hurled at the stocky figure. Strudwick kept on, dodging the apple cores and rotten eggs as best he could, caught between death and damnation, between the still-fulminating Margery behind him and the foaming torrent of abuse in front of him. The Queen of Carthage rescued him.

Seeing his friend in such a quandary, Nicholas gave the signal to start the play early. The trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak. Margery and Strudwick went mute and backed away. When the first scene swirled onto the stage, the two of them nimbly dodged the Carthaginian soldiers to escape. Strudwick dived gratefully forward into the arms of his fellows who felt that he had been somewhat maltreated. Margery beat her retreat through the curtain and hurried into the tiring-house. She made straight for the gold-clad figure of Jupiter and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Well spoken, Lawrence! You mammocked him!’

‘Thank you, mistress,’ said a Welsh voice.

She jumped back. ‘You are not my husband!’

‘No,’ said Owen Elias. ‘That honour is denied me.’

‘But you were the very image of his Jupiter.’

‘That was the intention,’ said Nicholas, waving another four soldiers onto the stage. ‘I sought to uphold Master Firethorn’s reputation while keeping him from any real harm.’

She was bemused. ‘He had Lawrence’s own voice.’

‘But not his luck in love,’ said Elias with a touch of gallantry, placing a bearded kiss on her hand. ‘Edmund Hoode wrote the words. I but learnt them in the manner of our master.’ Celestial music sounded. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, Jupiter is needed elsewhere.’

With Ganymede beside him, he made his entry.

Margery began to see how the whole thing had been carefully arranged by the book holder. But for her spirited intervention, the flyting match would never have taken place. As it was, she had conquered a worthy foe in place of her husband. She pulled at Nicholas’s sleeve.

‘Where is Lawrence?’ she whispered.

‘He will be here even now.’

‘How did you keep him away from that ruffian?’

‘See there, mistress.’

Lawrence Firethorn was brought into the tiring-house by four strong men who clung on to him for their lives. Costumed as Aeneas, he was palpitating with anger and spitting out curses. On a nod from Nicholas, the actor was released by his terrified captors.

‘Heads will roll for this!’ warned Firethorn.

‘Stand by, sir,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’ll wreak havoc on the whole lot of you.’ He saw his wife. ‘Margery! You have no place here, woman.’

‘I have acted my scene and bowed out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your cue, sir,’ said the book holder.

‘Am I locked in a madhouse?’ growled the actor.

‘Enter Aeneas.’

Music played and personal suffering was put aside. Lawrence Firethorn went out into the cauldron of the action as the cunning Aeneas and dallied with the affections of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as portrayed with winsome charm by Richard Honeydew. Here was the actor as his admirers really wanted to see him, not trading verbal blows with a contentious waterman, but operating at the very height of his powers and thrilling minds and hearts with uncanny skill. Back in the tiring-house, Margery raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nicholas smiled.

‘All will be explained in time,’ he said quietly.

Sir Lucas Pugsley sat before a daunting pile of judicial documents and sifted slowly through them. Aubrey Kenyon was on hand to give any help and advice that was needed. The Lord Mayor had to preside at all meetings of the city’s administrative courts. As chief magistrate, he had to act as judge, dealing with an enormous range of cases. Everything from petty law-breaking to complex commercial disputes came before him. It was also his avowed task to supervise the conduct of trade in the city and see that it was carried out in accordance with civic regulations. This function of his office often brought him up against the names of his friends.

He studied a new document and gave a wry smirk.

‘Rowland Ashway is arraigned again.’

‘For what, Lord Mayor?’

‘Adulterating his beer. The charge will not stick.’

‘His brewery has a good reputation.’

‘There will always be those who seek to bring a conscientious man down,’ said Pugsley. ‘How can one trust the word of a landlord, I ask you? These fellows pour water into their beer then swear it was done at the brewery so that they may claim some recompense. The law here is nothing but a whip with which a guileful publican can beat an honest tradesman.’

‘Will the case come to court?’

‘Not while I sit in judgement, Aubrey.’

‘That is the third time Alderman Ashway is indebted to your wisdom,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He has aroused much resentment among jealous landlords.’

‘They’ll get no help from me.’ He put the document aside, picked up another then cast that after the first. ‘Enough legality for one day, sir. I sometimes think that London runs on the quibbles of attorneys.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘We have worked hard, Aubrey. I flatter myself that I do the labour of any three men.’

‘At least.’

‘Walter Stanford will not be able to keep my pace.’

‘He may not wish to try, Lord Mayor.’

‘Signs of hesitation?’

‘This death in the family has preyed upon his mind. It has slowed down his steps towards the mayoralty.’

‘That is the best news yet. What of this play?’

‘The Nine Giants? ’

‘Is the monstrous piece still promised?’

‘By Gilbert Pike. He has written such plays before.’