Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘A duel?’

‘A bloody event it was,’ said Mallard. ‘Had they come to any surgeon but me, they would have been reported and hauled up for court martial. They were there to fight against our foes not against each other.’

‘You say it was bloody …’

‘Both of them were injured.’

‘Was there a wound that ran across the chest?’ He indicated the direction of the gash. ‘Like this, sir?’

‘There was indeed. I dressed that wound myself.’

‘Then was the body that of Michael Delahaye.’

‘How say you?’

‘He was dropped into the Thames from the Bridge.’

‘It could not have been Michael, sir.’

‘No?’

‘His wound was on his face,’ said Mallard. ‘The point of a rapier took the fellow’s eye out. He is condemned to wear a patch for the rest of his life.’

‘Who, then, was his opponent in the duel?’

‘The captain whose chest was sliced open.’

‘What was his name?’

‘James Renfrew.’

Abel Strudwick sat against a wall in Bishopsgate Street and mused on the vagaries of human existence. When he had tried to be a performer upon the stage, he had been cowed by the haughty Jupiter, flayed by the furious Margery Firethorn and stung by the derision of the audience. It had made him abandon all ambition in that direction. Yet here he was, in the person of a beggar, sitting on the ground at the behest of Nicholas Bracewell and actually getting paid for it. The waterman grinned as he reflected on his promotion. What he was doing was acting of a kind and it was professional in nature. It certainly saved him from spending the day on the river with aching sinews. There were handicaps. He was rained on for an hour, spat upon now and again and — if the dog had not been smacked firmly away — there would have been another soaking for his tattered jerkin. Against all this he could see an unlooked for bonus. Because he sat with one leg tucked under him in a tortured posture, the occasional coin was tossed his way to confirm the success of his portrayal.

His job was to keep on eye on Stanford Place so that he could watch the comings and goings. A few visitors called but all had left by the time that Walter Stanford himself came out to make his way to the Royal Exchange. Strudwick caught a glimpse of Matilda Stanford in an upstairs room but that was all. Various tradesmen called to make deliveries but none stayed more than a few minutes. It was late afternoon before the waterman felt that he was able to earn his money. Out of the house came the man whom Nicholas had described to him so exactly. There was a furtive air about Simon Pendleton and his normal measured gait became an undignified scurry as he weaved his way through the back streets towards the Guildhall.

Strudwick dogged him every inch of the way and hid behind a post when the steward stopped and looked around to make sure that he was not seen. Pendleton then opened a door and stepped smartly into a house. It had nothing like the grandeur of the mansion he had left, but it was a sizeable dwelling that conveyed a degree of prosperity. The waterman made a mental note of the address and then shambled past the front of the house so that he could sneak a glance in through the latticed window. The picture he saw was very expressive.

Simon Pendleton was talking in an agitated manner to a tall, stately individual in dark attire. The steward was pointing back in the direction from which he came as if reporting some disturbing news. His companion reacted with some alarm and reached into a desk to take out a roll of parchment. His quill soon scratched out a letter. Strudwick moved away from the window but remained close to the house. When a man wearing the livery of the Lord Mayor’s Household came to the front door, the beggar trotted over to accost him.

‘Away, you wretch!’ said the man.

‘It is not money I want, sir, just a kind word.’

‘The kind word will come with a hard blow if you stay. Stand off, sir. Your stink will infect me.’

‘I seek but instruction.’

‘Then I instruct you to leave.’

‘Does Abel Strudwick live in this house?’

‘Who?’

‘Strudwick, sir. A noble family of some repute.’

‘This is the home of the Chamberlain, sir.’

‘What name would that be?’

‘Master Aubrey Kenyon.’

The man brushed him aside and went into the house. The waterman danced on his toes and clapped his hands together with glee. He was certain that he had just found out a significant piece of information and he had done so by the skill of his performance as an actor. It deserved some recognition. Abel Strudwick turned to an invisible audience and gave a deep bow.

In the busy street, only he could hear the applause.

They met him at the brewhouse and he took them down to the cellar where the barrels of Ashway Beer were kept to await delivery. The familiar aroma made Firk feel very thirsty but James Renfrew had more refined tastes. They found a quiet corner where they could not be overheard. Rowland Ashway had new orders to issue.

‘Gentlemen, you travel to Richmond tomorrow.’

‘Why there?’ said Firk.

‘Because I tell you,’ said the alderman. ‘A play is being staged at an inn called the Nine Giants.’

‘By Westfield’s Men?’ guessed Renfrew.

‘The very same.’

Firk was pleased. ‘Then I’ll go gladly, sir. I have an account to settle with a certain book holder.’

‘That is not the main reason I send you, man. Someone else will be in Richmond tomorrow night.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘Mistress Stanford.’

‘The new young bride?’ said Renfrew with interest.

‘Without her husband.’

‘This is good fortune indeed, sir. But what brings the lady to the Nine Giants?’

‘My informer does not provide that intelligence. When you listen at doors, you do not hear all, but what he has gleaned is enough in itself.’ He chortled aloud. ‘I know more about what happens at Stanford Place then Stanford himself. It pays to have friends in the right position.’

‘What must we do?’ asked Renfrew.

‘Seize on this accident that heaven provides.’

‘Kill the lady?’ said Firk hopefully.

‘Kidnap her. That will cause panic enough. With his wife under lock and key, not even Walter Stanford will have the stomach to become Lord Mayor. We strike a blow where it will damage him the most.’

‘Where will she be taken?’ said Renfrew.

‘That I will decide.’

Firk leered. ‘And may she be tampered with?’

‘No!’ snapped Ashway. ‘Mend your manners, sir.’ He pulled a letter from his belt. ‘And while you are in Richmond, you may do me another favour, sirs. Do you see this letter?’ He waved it angrily. ‘Shall I tell you who sent it? Shall I tell you who favours me with his royal command? None but Lord Westfield himself.’

‘The patron of the players,’ said Renfrew.

‘He takes up their case as if he is judge and jury. The noble lord has heard of my purchase of the Queen’s Head and orders me — orders, mark you, no hint of request here, sirs — he orders me to let Westfield’s Men remain. And he does so in such round terms that I am treated less like an owner and more like the meanest lackey.’ He tore the letter up and threw the pieces away. ‘This is an insult that must be answered forthwith.’

‘How?’ said Firk.

‘I’ll put his company out of sorts for good!’

‘Chase them out from the Queen’s Head?’

‘No, sir. Kill their king. Lawrence Firethorn.’

The prospect of an additional murder brought a low cackle from Firk. He had his own grudge against the company and this would help to assuage it. Before they could discuss the matter further, they were interrupted by heavy footsteps as a vast drayman came down the steps to collect a barrel. Ashway glanced across and relaxed.