Edward Marston - The Nine Giants

‘What am I to tell my sister?’ he asked.

‘What she needs to know.’

‘She believes her son was hauled out of the river.’

‘Then that is what happened, sir,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘There is no need for her to learn the full truth. The son whom she loved and knew died in the Netherlands. Do not bring him back to torment her.’

Once again, Stanford accepted sage advice and looked across at the other with increased respect. Nicholas clearly had to be given some freedom where the stage-management of everything was concerned. He would know how to flush the villains out of their holes.

‘When will they strike?’ said Stanford.

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘At the Lord Mayor’s Show.’

Ridings were an integral part of life in the capital. The processions were not merely a source of entertainment and wonder for the commonalty but a means of impressing upon them the dignity and power of their rulers. In medieval times, the most splendid processions were those on royal occasions, especially a coronation or a wedding. By the later years of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, however, the Lord Mayor’s Show had come to rival even these, taking the whole city as its stage and encompassing traditions that went back to the very origin of old London town. The Show had now completely taken over from the Midsummer Marching Watch as the main civic annual parade and nobody dared to miss it. Ridings meant public holidays when people could enjoy a dazzling spectacle then go off to celebrate what they had seen in general merry-making.

Extra soldiers and constables were on duty as a result of the recent riot but nobody expected that there would be any real troubles. A Lord Mayor’s Show did not stir up apprentices to attack the immigrant craftsmen of Southwark. It was an attestation of civil power in a city that was nominally ruled by a sovereign, a shared belief that London was the most eminent place in Europe, a time when the whole populace was bathed in feelings of pride and identity and well-being. Walter Stanford was known to be exceptionally keen on civic tradition. The Show which carried him into office promised to be an outstanding one.

Some wanted to make it more memorable still.

‘Everything turns on today,’ said Rowland Ashway.

Aubrey Kenyon nodded. ‘We must not lose our nerves.’

‘Indeed, sir, or we are like to lose our heads.’

‘Hopefully, that might be Stanford’s fate.’

‘It has to be, Aubrey, or we are undone.’

They were talking in Kenyon’s house before going out to take up their places in the procession. The aldermanic robes made Ashway look fatter and more florid than ever whereas the Chamberlain’s stateliness was enhanced by his regalia. They looked an ill-matched pair but they were yoked together in crime now and depended critically upon each other. There was someone else upon whom they relied.

‘Can he be trusted to do his office?’ said Kenyon.

‘Nobody is more eager to perform it.’

‘He let us down at Richmond.’

‘That was the fault of Firk,’ sneered Ashway. ‘He hanged the wrong man and fell foul of that book holder. Did he but know it, Master Bracewell did us a favour. He killed off Firk and saved us the trouble of doing it ourselves. Delahaye is another kind of man again.’

‘Renfrew,’ said the other. ‘He likes to be called James Renfrew. Lieutenant Delahaye is dead.’

‘So will this Captain James Renfrew be in time,’ said Ashway quietly. ‘When he has done what we have paid him for, we must finish him off as well. He knows too much, Aubrey. It is the only way.’

‘And today?’

‘We must put our faith in his madness.’

‘He hates Stanford even more than we do.’

Ashway smirked. ‘I love him for that.’

Since 1453, when Sir John Norman was rowed up the river in a fine barge with silver oars, the Lord Mayor’s Show had taken place on both land and water. Both banks of the Thames were thus lined with ranks of spectators who waited expectantly to see a floating marvel. Everyone knew the itinerary. Walter Stanford, Lord Mayor of London, would first tour his ward — that of Cornhill in which the Royal Exchange symbolically stood — then proceed to the nearest stairs where he would embark and be rowed up to Westminster to take his oath in the Exchequer before the judge. After that, he would return by barge to Blackfriars and progress to St Paul’s for a service of thanksgiving before going on to the Guildhall for his Banquet. Veteran onlookers knew how to move around the city to get several perspectives on the Show. Newcomers with staring country eyes stayed rooted to the same spot for hours in order to catch a mere glimpse of the pomp and circumstance that marked the occasion.

Walter Stanford himself took it all with the utmost seriousness. Dressed in the traditional robes and wearing the famous mayoral hat, he was for that day alone the father of the whole city but it was his position as an uncle that worried him. Somewhere along the way was a crazed nephew with a grudge against him and a need to nip his mayoralty in the bud. Behind his smiles and his waves and his apparent delight, therefore, was an anxiety that would not leave him. His faith had been placed in a man who was nothing more than a book holder in a theatrical company. Was his trust well founded?

Leaving his ward, he followed the procession along a cheering avenue that led to the river. At the front of the parade were two men who bore the arms of the Mercers’ Company. They were followed by a drummer, a flute-player and a man with a fife. Behind them, in blue gowns and caps and hose and blue silk sleeves, were sixteen trumpeters blowing their instruments in strident unison. Horse-drawn floats came next, each one elaborately mounted by an individual Guild and competing with each other in colour and spectacle. The Fishmongers’ Ship was among the finest on display, a huge galleon that seemed to sail above the craned heads of the populace as it passed by. Another favoured contender was the Goldsmith’s Castle, a quite magnificent structure that was first produced for the coronation of Richard II. And there were many others to keep the fingers pointing and the jaws dropping.

Fittingly, it was the Mercer’s Maiden Chariot which outshone them all. This pageant was a Roman chariot, some twenty feet or more high, with sides of embossed silver and surmounted by a golden canopy above which sat Fame blowing her trumpet. In the chariot sat the Mercer’s Maiden. This was customarily a young and beautiful gentlewoman with a gold and jewelled coronet on her head. At the Lord Mayor’s feast, she dined royally at a separate table. This year, however, there was a significant break with tradition. Instead of choosing some long-haired young lady from one of the mercers’ families, Walter Stanford selected his own wife as the Maiden and she was overjoyed. Seated high above the long ribbons of yelling people, Matilda Stanford felt the thrill of being a performer and the extraordinary honour of being wife to the Lord Mayor. The journey in the chariot helped her to forget all about Lawrence Firethorn and find her husband instead.

At the rear of it all came the Lord Mayor himself. He was preceded by the Sword Bearer in his immense fur hat and by the Sergeant-at-Arms who bore the mace. Other ceremonial officers walked close by with the Chamberlain among them but Stanford paid him no attention. It was important not to arouse the suspicions of Aubrey Kenyon or of any of the others until they could all be safely apprehended. When the Lord Mayor was not bestowing a genial wave on the crowd, he was keeping one eye on the soldier who marched just ahead of him. Dressed in an armoured breastplate and wearing a steel helmet, the man trailed his pike in the same manner as his fellows but he was no ordinary member of the guard. Nicholas Bracewell had a duty that went well beyond the ceremonial.