Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘This will tax his imagination most,’ said Pugsley sourly. ‘Where will they find nine giants among the mercers? Where eight? Five? One?’

‘Richard Whittington must be allowed, sir.’

‘Even so. But do not mention his name to Rowland.’

‘That story still smarts with Alderman Ashway.’

‘And so it should,’ noted the Lord Mayor. ‘When the much-vaunted Whittington sat in my place, he made himself very unpopular with the brewers when he tried to enforce standard sizes for barrels.’

‘He also attempted to regulate the price of beer.’

‘The brewers got no mercy from a mercer!’

Aubrey Kenyon creased his face at the feeble joke and took the opportunity to work in a reminder of a subject that he took very seriously.

‘The noble gentleman did sterling work during his terms of office. He kept the city busy and he kept its citizens well subdued.’ He crossed over to Pugsley. ‘You have not forgotten the public holiday?’

‘This Thursday. Preparations are under way.’

‘A strict hand is a sign of a sound mayoralty.’

‘Then that is what you will get from me, sir. Let others talk of Dick Whittington. If you want discipline and good government, look no further than Sir Lucas Pugsley. On Thursday I will keep a very careful watch.’

It took an hour to pacify Lawrence Firethorn and only the presence of his wife held him back from reviling his whole company. In his opinion, he was the victim of a dreadful conspiracy that could never be forgotten or forgiven. A stoup of wine, a barrel of flattery and the gentle persuasiveness of Nicholas Bracewell finally made him see the true value of the stratagem. Abel Strudwick had been bested, Firethorn’s reputation had been enhanced and the performance of The Queen of Carthage scaled peaks it had never before assayed. There could be no better advertisement for the work of Westfield’s Men.

Warming to it all, Firethorn summoned George Dart to escort his wife back to Shoreditch then he touched on two important issues with the book holder.

‘Has that death’s-head of a landlord signed yet?’

‘I have not spoken with Master Marwood yet.’

‘Give him my compliments and bring him to heel.’

‘Alderman Ashway has much influence.’

‘See that you counteract it, Nick.’ He became secretive. ‘First, I have another errand for you. Deliver this letter to Stanford Place.’

‘Is this sensible, master?’

‘Do as you are bid, sir. The letter is expected and you will present it at the garden gate upon the stroke of five. Someone shall be there to receive it.’

Nicholas was not happy to leave the Queen’s Head when such a vital talk with the landlord was imminent but he could not refuse the commission. He hastened out into Gracechurch Street and headed north towards Bishopsgate. Fine drizzle was now falling out of a pockmarked sky. When he reached Stanford Place, he went around to the garden and lurked beside the gate until the chimes of the clock were heard. Prudence Ling was a punctual gatekeeper and snatched the letter from him with a giggle before hiding it under the folds of her cloak. She also gave the visitor an admiring glance. Nicholas did not waste his advantage.

‘There is sorrow in the house, we hear.’

‘The master’s nephew, sir. Most horribly killed.’

‘Has the murderer been found?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Tell me the way of it, mistress.’

Prudence needed no second invitation. She gabbled her way through the details and answered every question that he asked. Ten minutes at a garden gate turned out to be a revelation. Nicholas hated being a party to the projected betrayal of a loyal wife but there had been some consolation. Prudence was a mine of information. There was more value yet in his visit. As he made his way back to the front of the house, a coach was just drawing up and Walter Stanford himself was getting out. He was weighted down with sadness and the spring had gone out of his step but it was not the Lord Mayor Elect who commanded attention. Nicholas was far more interested in the steward who opened the door to welcome his master and who bowed ingratiatingly before him. The book holder felt a thrill of recognition as connections were made.

He had met Simon Pendleton on the Bridge.

Domestic tragedy inflicted deep wounds on Walter Stanford and he dragged himself around for days after the funeral. He brought his sister back to Stanford Place so that he could look after her properly and they spent much time together on their knees in the little chapel. His work was not entirely neglected and he burnt large quantities of midnight oil in his counting-house. He also resumed his regular visits to the Royal Exchange. His smiling face hid the pain of an anguished soul, his pleasantries concealed a profound sorrow. Though he had disapproved of much that Michael Delahaye did, he had loved him like a second son and felt that he would at last be able to exert a firm paternal influence on his wayward nephew. That fond hope now lay buried in the family vault at Windsor. Requiescat in pace.

The first floor of the Exchange — the pawn, as it was known — had been rented out to shopkeepers whose booths sold such luxury items as horn, porcelain, ivory, silver and watches. It was from one of these shops that Gilbert Pike looked down to espy his friend below and he hurried down to the courtyard as fast as his venerable legs would carry him. He waded out through the waves of bartering humanity until he reached Walter Stanford. Greetings were followed by the old man’s condolences but the Lord Mayor Elect did not wish to dwell on sadness. He turned to a more uplifting subject.

‘Now, sir, how does my play fare?’

‘It is all but finished, Walter,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I still have the trick of words and I vow that The Nine Giants will please you and your good lady mightily.’

‘Does it beat the drum for the Mercers’ Company?’

‘Until every ear be deafened.’

‘And humour, Gilbert? I asked for lightness.’

‘It will set the table on a roar.’

‘That will be welcome at this bleak time,’ said the other. ‘But tell me now, who are our nine giants?’

‘Dick Whittington is first.’

‘No man could question that.’

‘Then come Geoffrey Boleyn and Hugh Clopton.’

‘Both mercers and mayors of high repute.’

‘Fine fellows,’ agreed Pike. ‘Except that Clopton does not lend itself to rhyme. John Allen is the next in line with Ralph Dodmer and Richard Gresham close behind.’

‘All six of these are giants indeed.’

‘Lionel Duckett, too, and with him Rowland Hill.’

‘That brings the number up to eight.’

‘My ninth giant is Walter Stanford.’

‘I pale in such company, Gilbert.’

‘You may yet stand taller than all the rest, sir.’

They fell into a discussion of the pageant and its simple structure. The doddering author could not resist quoting from his work. One of the nine giants brought special pleasure to Walter Stanford.

‘I like the notion of Ralph Dodmer.’

‘Lord Mayor of London in 1529,’ said the old man. ‘He was a brewer who rebelled against the dominance of the Great Twelve. He refused to translate to one of the dozen leading Guilds even though it was the only way to ensure his mayoralty. No mere brewer could get election.’

‘Dodmer suffered for his principles.’

‘Indeed, sir. A spell in prison and a heavy fine changed his mind for him. Our brewer saw common sense.’

‘And became affiliated to the mercers.’

‘Then did he take revenge on all his fellows,’ said the chortling Pike. ‘He kept the aleconners alert enough. Tavern keepers caught watering the beer or serving short measure were fined and jailed, and had their cheating measures burnt in public. Brewers who tampered with their beer were hauled before the court. An alewife found using pitchers with naughty bottoms was sent to play Bo Peep through a pillory.’