Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘He swinged the whole profession.’

‘The Nine Giants will tell it true.’

‘Then harp on the brewers, Gilbert,’ said his friend. ‘That is where we may score against a certain alderman. Let Ralph Dodmer scourge his fellows soundly. I would make another brewer squirm in his seat.’

‘Rowland Ashway, I think?’

‘Turn those red cheeks to a deeper hue.’

‘His blushes will light up the Guildhall!’

With his florid cheeks shining almost as brightly as his scarlet nose, Alderman Rowland Ashway stood in the window of a room that overlooked the inn yard. The White Hart in Cheapside had been chosen because of its size and its situation. Preparations were being made against the morrow. Extra benches and trestle tables had been procured. Additional servingmen had been hired. Fresh barrels of Ashway’s Best Beer were even now being rolled across the pavestones. The brewer was pleased by what he saw. When there was a knock on the door, he swung round and welcomed the tall figure who entered with a grunt of almost porcine satisfaction.

‘Is everything in order, sir?’ said the newcomer.

‘I have seen to it myself.’

‘Then have we no cause for vexation.’

‘Unless our plans go awry.’

‘They will not,’ said the other confidently. ‘Errors cannot be tolerated. All will be done as discussed.’

‘Good. Here’s gold to help your purposes.’

Ashway tossed a bag of coins onto the table and his companion nodded his thanks before picking it up. The man was well favoured and dressed with a lazy elegance that came in sharp contrast to the sartorial pomposity of the brewer. A feathered hat was angled on his head so that its brim came down over one eye that was shielded by a black patch. His chin was clean-shaven. They were not natural friends but mutual advantage had turned them into partners. Rowland Ashway spelt out the terms of that partnership.

‘We are in this together, sir, remember that.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

‘Fail me and you fail yourself even worse.’

‘Success attends my mission.’

‘And Firk?’

‘He is recovered enough to aid me.’

‘I hope to hear good news from both of you.’

‘And so you shall,’ said James Renfrew with a grim smile. ‘So you shall, sir.’

Public holidays did not please the city authorities. They were at best occasions for drunken excess and at worst an excuse for violence and destruction of property. Nobody charged with maintaining the peace could rest easy and the more suggestible of their number had nightmares about total loss of control. The main problems came from the apprentices, exuberant young men who chafed under the yoke of their masters and who seized every opportunity to assert their manhoods with unruly behaviour and passages of mob hysteria. Holidays gave law-abiding citizens a chance to rest from their labours and to celebrate a sacred or secular festival. Those same holidays also spilt a deal of blood, clogged up the prisons and led to a rash of unwanted pregnancies.

Shrovetide was carnival time, a final fling before the rigours of Lent. Mothering Sunday came next, a public holiday when those away from home — the rowdy apprentices in the workshops of London — could visit families with gifts and eat the simnel cakes baked for the occasion. Easter solemnity was offset by Hockside fairs and a variety of entertainments. May Day was the major source of concern. This most important spring festival had no Christian foundation at all for the ancient custom of going a-maying was unashamedly pagan. Londoners revelled in its spacious jollity and its sexual freedom. There was often rioting through the bawdy houses or affrays at playhouses or gratuitous attacks on shops and houses. Those who had to enforce order never lost sight of the spectre of Evil May Day in 1517 when a riot saw hundreds of frenzied youths on the rampage, terrorising the city and showing open defiance to authority. Thirteen of the mob were later arrested and hanged in a savage gesture that imprinted the day for ever on the minds of London.

Whitsun and Midsummer Eve produced their potential dangers but none could rival May Day. October was a quieter month but even the occasional saint’s day could be fraught with difficulty. Caution was advisable.

‘Stay indoors with your mistress, Hans.’

‘I would rather visit the play with you, sir.’

‘The city is too turbulent a place today.’

‘You will keep me safe, Master Bracewell.’

‘Remain here at home.’

The apprentice was plainly disappointed. Though he had yet to recover his memory, his youthful instincts had returned intact. He wanted to be off in search of sport with his fellows or, at the very least, to be part of the audience which would come in high humour to the Queen’s Head to watch a performance of The Constant Lover given by Westfield’s Men. Anne Hendrik ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.

‘Stay here and keep me company, Hans.’

A resigned nod. ‘As you wish, mistress.’

‘Preben van Loew and I will dream up games for you.’

‘Where is the holiday in that?’

Nicholas Bracewell took his leave of his young friend and was seen off at the front door by Anne. The outside of the house was still bruised and blackened from the fire and the very sight of it was warning enough. He gave her a kiss then set off through the streets. Wanting to visit the house on the Bridge again, he yet felt a strong obligation to cross the river by boat. It had given him no pleasure to see Abel Strudwick so totally outwitted at the flyting contest but he felt that it was a necessary hurt to ward off heavier blows for all of them. When he found the waterman at the wharf, he made an apology that was never completed. Strudwick interrupted with chuckling resilience.

‘Nay, sir, do not bother about me. My back is broad though I would rather bend it in the service of these oars than let that harridan beat it with her scoldings. She gave good insults and they were justly deserved.’

‘You take your punishment nobly, sir.’

‘I spoke out of turn, Master Bracewell,’ admitted the other. ‘I’ll face any man in the kingdom with my curses but I’ll not offend a lady if I have choice.’

‘Mistress Firethorn is an honest woman.’

‘She proved that on my pate.’

Abel Strudwick rowed between two other boats that all but collided with him. Ripe language hit both of them like a tidal wave. Replies were foul and fierce but he got the better of them with the virulence of his tongue. It put him into excellent humour again.

‘Have you fresh music?’ asked Nicholas.

‘My Muse has left me awhile, good sir.’

‘She will return again.’

‘Then I will keep her here on the water with me,’ said the other. ‘My verses do not belong on the stage in front of baying clods and sneering gallants.’ He looked all around. ‘ This is my playhouse, sir. The gulls can hear my music and applaud with their wings. I am author and actor when I am out in midstream. No bawling woman can drag me down in my occupation, however well she swim. I am a true waterman, sir.’

Nicholas was delighted that his friend had bowed so humbly to the reality of the situation and he gave him an extra tip when he disembarked. Other passengers clambered into the boat at once. Holidays turned the Thames into a thousand moving bridges. Abel Strudwick would be kept busy until nightfall. He still found time for a farewell.

‘Good fortune attend the play, sir!’

‘Thank you, Abel.’

‘It is a comedy that you stage, I think.’

‘Tragedy is out of place on such a merry day.’

‘Pray God some rabble do not spoil your offering.’

‘No fear of that, I hope.’