Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘I have skills that are all my own but they wither on the vine. Give me the role I covet above all others and I will prove my worth!’

‘What role is that, Owen?’

‘A Welsh one, sir.’

‘Henry the Fifth?’

‘Aye, man — Harry of Monmouth!’

Lawrence Firethorn had to mix desire with diplomacy in a way that irked him. The company reached the Nine Giants a mere half an hour after the two ladies and his first impulse was to bound up to his room to claim the favours of his mistress. But Edmund Hoode’s sensibilities had to be borne in mind. If he were to learn of Matilda’s presence at the inn — let alone of her tryst with Firethorn — he would be uncontrollable. It was important, therefore, to settle him and the rest of the company down before its leading man could slip away to enjoy the spoils of war.

What he did do — while the others were being shown to their accommodation — was to make contact with his beloved to reassure her that all was well.

Matilda Stanford jumped up with a mixture of joy and alarm when he let himself into the room. He showered her hand with kisses and told her that he would return within the hour to dine alone with her, making it very clear that Prudence was expected to withdraw tactfully to the next chamber. He was at once inspiring and frightening, a noble knight with high ideals of chivalry and a lecher in search of a lay. Matilda was thrown into confusion. He swung open the door and paused for effect.

‘When I come back, my love,’ he said softly, ‘I will tap on the door like this.’ He knocked three times. ‘That is my password to paradise. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many times?’

‘Three.’

‘At least!’ he said under his breath. ‘Admit no other to this chamber until I knock thrice.’ He blew her a kiss and withdrew. ‘Out, then, into the night.’

The door closed and Matilda clutched at her breast to stop her heart pounding. She wanted him more than ever but not in the way that he had implied. Her plan had been to dine with him alone before being driven on to spend the night near Wimbledon with her cousin, who had been advised by letter in advance of the visit. Firethorn evidently had ideas for her sleeping arrangements and the anxious Matilda did not know how to cope with them. Part of her wanted to flee, another part urged her to stay. A wild suggestion sprang from Prudence.

‘To save your honour, I will change places with you.’

‘How so?’

‘Lend me that dress,’ she said, ‘and blow out some of the candles. If the room be dark enough, I’ll make him think I am you, mistress.’ She giggled again. ‘And when we lie abed together, he will not know the difference.’

‘Prudence!’

‘I do it but as an act of sacrifice.’

‘Leave off these jests.’

‘This way, all three get satisfaction.’

‘I will not hear another word,’ said Matilda firmly. ‘Both of us will stay here. Your presence will shield me from any danger.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that.’

Before they could debate it further, they heard footsteps outside the door and craned their necks to listen. There were three loud knocks on the door. They exchanged an astonished look. Firethorn had talked about a delay before his return. Obviously, he had dealt with his business much faster than expected. The three knocks were repeated. Matilda gave a signal and Prudence rushed to throw the door wide open.

‘Welcome again, good sir!’

The man with the black eyepatch smiled slyly.

‘Thank you.’

Westfield’s Men were given excellent hospitality by mine host and found another treat in store. Staying at the inn with them were several who were due to be guests at the wedding on the morrow. It was as part of the nuptials that the company were to present their play. Hearing of this, the wedding guests called for some entertainment in advance and were quickly answered. Peter Digby and his musicians played for them, Richard Honeydew sang sweet madrigals, Barnaby Gill made them guffaw with his comic dances and Firethorn obliged with a speech or two off the cuff from his extensive repertoire. Westfield’s Men were not only given free cakes and ale. The wedding guests each tossed in a few coins to make their gratitude more substantial. With one exception, the company was thrilled.

That exception was Owen Elias, an eager talent who was proud of abilities that were just never given an opportunity to display themselves. It was others who won the plaudits from the guests. He lurked somnolently on the fringes and drank too much beer. When Gill was asked to perform his jig for a fourth time, Elias could take no more and slunk quietly out into the yard in search of his own audience.

Nicholas was pleased by the turn of events but he had not forgotten Leonard’s warning and kept his wits about him. He was much exercised, too, by the information that Abel Strudwick had supplied. If there was a form of conspiracy afoot and the Chamberlain were part of it, then it must reach to the very highest levels of municipal administration. Alderman Rowland Ashway was deeply involved in it and his agents were totally ruthless. If a defenceless young apprentice like Hans Kippel could be murdered, then the killers would stoop to anything — even to an attack on Lawrence Firethorn. The book holder started as he recalled the warning. Leonard had told him that both he and the actor-manager were marked men. In the middle of a large gathering in the taproom, Nicholas was quite safe but there was no sign of Firethorn. Concern flared up.

A quick search of the ground floor of the premises yielded nothing. Nicholas was about to go upstairs when he heard a distant sound that stilled him somewhat. Out in the darkness was a voice so quintessentially that of Lawrence Firethorn that he relaxed at once. The great man was merely rehearsing under the stars and giving the angels themselves some nocturnal entertainment. Letting himself out in the yard, the book holder realised at once from where the speech was coming. The paddock was a ghostly silhouette in the moonlight. Nine giant oak trees stood in a circle to form a natural amphitheatre. Sublime verse was declaimed with such feeling and ferocity that it sailed upwards into the branches of the trees and came back in weird echoes.

Lawrence Firethorn was truly supreme. Only he could make a speech crackle with such intensity and only he would steal off into the night to rehearse alone and to perfect his art. Nicholas walked towards the paddock so that he might enjoy the treat to the full. It was only when he recognised the play that his panic returned. Henry the Fifth was haranguing his troops before battle in the lilting cadences of a true Celt. Once again, the imitation had been uncanny but this was not the actor-manager in conference with the giant oak trees. It was Owen Elias.

The moment Nicholas realised this, the speech was cut dead to be replaced by a loud gurgling. He ran towards the paddock as fast as he could but the foliage was so dense and widespread that it shadowed the whole area. Only the terrible noise guided him, the final, fading cries of an actor on the verge of the ultimate exit. Nicholas sprinted all round the circle until he collided with a pair of dangling legs and was knocked to the ground. High above him, swaying to and fro, was the twitching Owen Elias who grasped feverishly at the rope around his neck. For a man whose voice was his own greatest joy, it was a cruel way to die.

The Welshman was an unintended victim. Taken for Lawrence Firethorn, he was at least quitting his life in a leading role. The rope was slung over a branch then secured around the trunk of a tree. Nicholas drew his dagger and hacked through the hemp to bring his friend crashing to the ground.

There was no time to attend to him because Firk leapt out from his hiding place with a sword in his hand. He circled his prey menacingly. Nicholas had only the dagger with which to defend himself. Firk rushed in and slashed the air viciously with his blade, catching the other a glancing blow on the left arm. The stinging pain and the gouting blood made Nicholas change his tactics at once. At their last encounter, his attacker had been stabbed in the stomach and must still be suffering from that injury. The book holder put pressure on the wound. He dodged behind a tree then skipped on to another so that Firk had to waddle after him. Nicholas broke into a run and weaved in and out of the nine giants with the sword whistling at his heels all the way. The further he went, the more he tired his pursuer. Firk was panting violently and threshing the air with increasing fury. Leaves fell at each stroke and whole branches were lopped off. Fatigue eventually slowed him and he leant against a tree to catch his breath, one hand holding the sword while the other grabbed at his wounded stomach.