Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘Ignore him, sirs. Too stupid to listen and too senseless to remember anything he hears.’ He put an arm on each of their shoulders. ‘All roads lead to Richmond. In one bold strike, we may finish off Stanford and get revenge on Westfield’s Men.’

‘Do not forget Master Bracewell,’ said Firk.

Ashway smiled. ‘Deal with him as you will. Firethorn first then this troublesome book holder.’

‘The second will please me most.’

‘How will you do it, Firk?’

‘Strangling, sir. A very quiet death.’

He gave a macabre laugh and Ashway joined in but their companion remained silent and withdrawn. James Renfrew was staring angrily ahead of him as if viewing an object of extreme hatred with his single eye. His lip curled.

‘There is an easier way yet, I think,’ he said.

‘What is that?’ asked the brewer.

‘Murder the man himself.’

‘Walter Stanford?’

‘Cut him down without mercy!’

‘No,’ said Ashway. ‘We can disable his mayoralty by another means. It is far too dangerous to attack him directly. That must only be done as a last resort.’

‘By me, ’ insisted Renfrew.

‘Why?’

‘It is my right and I claim it now. The worthy mercer is all mine and nobody else must touch him. I have waited a long time to settle my score with him.’

‘Do you detest your uncle so much?’

‘Beyond all imagining,’ said the other. ‘He ruined my life. I was young, I was free, I was happy. I spread joy among the ladies of the city and they could not get enough of me. Good Uncle Walter called me to order. He told me that my days in the sun were over. Henceforward, I had to work for him in some dingy room and learn responsibility.’

‘Is that why you went in the army?’

Renfrew nodded. ‘It was my only escape. My only way of prolonging my freedom — or so I fondly thought. The army was a living hell! Thanks to Walter Stanford, I went through two years of complete misery and ended up looking like this.’ He lifted the eye patch to show an ugly, red, raw socket. ‘Do you see, sirs? I went into the army as a handsome man with his whole life in front of him. I came out disfigured!’ He put the patch back in position. ‘My uncle killed the real Michael Delahaye. He deserves to die himself.’

‘This wound is deep indeed,’ said Ashway.

‘He talks of nothing else,’ added Firk.

‘I share his loathing of Walter Stanford.’

‘Nobody could despise him as I do,’ said the vengeful nephew. ‘I denounce all that he is and all that he stands for and will do anything to maim his chances as Lord Mayor. He has condemned me to a half-life under a stolen name. Two short years ago, ladies flocked to me and showered me with their favours. Now I have to buy their bodies and fornicate in darkness where they cannot see my face. That is what I owe to this monster of goodness, Walter Stanford!’

Rowland Ashway and Firk were mesmerised by the intensity of his anger. None of them saw the drayman lift a barrel onto his shoulder and struggle off upstairs with it. He moved ponderously and took care not to drop his cargo. It was a long and troublesome climb.

Leonard was carrying onerous news.

Walter Stanford made no objection at all when his wife asked permission to visit her cousin near Wimbledon. Acting on her maidservant’s advice, Matilda claimed to have been invited to call on her sick relative at the earliest opportunity. Her husband did not even ask the nature of the putative illness because he was too overwhelmed with work and with worry. He simply put his coach at her disposal and told her that he would see her on her return. Grief had aged him visibly and put more distance between him and his wife. Matilda took sad note of it.

‘I feel that I no longer know him,’ she confided.

‘That is often the way in marriage.’

‘We seem to be growing apart.’

‘Fill your life another way.’

‘My husband’s work always comes first.’

‘That is hardly a compliment to you.’

They were being driven along a bumpy road on a dull afternoon by a coachman who was there only to obey orders. Matilda travelled with Prudence Ling and both were thrilled to get away from the confinements of London life. The verdant acres all around them gave promise of a freedom that neither had enjoyed for some time. On the command of his mistress, the coachman drove on to Richmond and stopped at the Nine Giants. While the ladies went inside to dine, he shared a drink with the ostlers and listened amiably to their country gossip. Matilda and her maidservant, meanwhile, had been shown upstairs to the room that had already been reserved by Lawrence Firethorn. Candles were lit and the table was set but the room was dominated by a large fourposter. Prudence giggled.

‘It is big enough for you and him and me besides.’

‘For shame, girl!’

‘You cannot think this room an accident.’

‘Master Firethorn is a gentleman.’

‘Then he will say a proper thank you afterwards.’

‘Prudence!’

‘Why else have we come all this way, mistress?’

‘To dine with my love.’

‘Meat before supper. You are that supper.’

‘I will not hear this vulgarity!’

But Matilda Stanford had heard it in a way that had not impinged upon her consciousness before. Infatuation had made her deceive a kind husband and drive miles to her assignation. What had sustained her all this while was the thought of being alone with the man she loved and admired so that she could feel once again those wonderful sensations that he elicited from her. To dine alone with Lawrence Firethorn was an end in itself to her and she was distressed by the idea that it might only be a means for him. It was a long wait in the upstairs room and the bed seemed to get larger all the time.

Westfield’s Men journeyed to Richmond at a slower pace than the coach. Lawrence Firethorn, Barnaby Gill, Edmund Hoode and the other sharers rode their own horses but most of the company travelled on the waggon that was carrying their costumes, properties and scenic devices. George Dart and some of the other menials trotted at the cart’s tail and dodged any messages left up ahead by the two carthorses. The imminent departure from the Queen’s Head had lowered them all and Nicholas Bracewell tried to lighten the mood of dejection by ordering the musicians to play. Country air and lively ditties soon dispelled the city gloom.

Nicholas drove the cart with Owen Elias beside him.

‘You have strange friends, sir,’ said the Welshman.

‘I would not call you that strange, Owen.’

‘Not me, man. That mountain who accosted you as we left Gracechurch Street. Diu! I thought that you would harness him and let him pull the waggon alone.’

‘And so he might. That was Leonard.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To show his friendship in the kindest way.’

‘One giant sends us off to find the other nine.’

‘He did more than that,’ said Nicholas, recalling the warning that Leonard had given about the plot against his life. ‘We met in peculiar lodgings, he and I. Imprisonment binds two such men together.’

‘Do not speak of imprisonment!’ moaned Elias. ‘I am chained hand and foot in this company.’

‘Master Firethorn would release you.’

‘’Tis he who keeps me in bondage. He takes all the leading roles and I serve my sentence as a galley-slave.’

‘The Wise Woman of Dunstable offers you a hope.’

‘In some small way,’ said Elias. ‘I have a part in which I may briefly shine but it is not enough, Nick. I would be in the centre of the stage. Look at my Jupiter, sir. I was taken for Master Firethorn himself.’

‘No man is great by imitation.’