The Nine Giants (18 page)

‘All is therefore settled, Master Marwood.’

‘I would like my wife to see the contract.’

‘When you have signed it, sir.’

‘She may have anxieties.’

‘Still them in the marriage bed.’

A retrospective wheeze. ‘Times have changed.’

‘Nothing now detains us,’ said the alderman. ‘Our attorneys have pronounced on the document and I have the money waiting for you to collect. Do but scrawl your name and the business is complete.’

‘Must it be done today, sir?’

‘I grow weary of your prevarication.’

‘It shall be signed, it shall be signed,’ gabbled the other. ‘But I must have a moment to reflect. The Queen’s Head was willed to me by my father. I must pray for his guidance and be reconciled with his soul.’

‘Will you then reach out for your pen?’

‘Most assuredly.’

Marwood bowed obsequiously and rubbed his hands together as if he were grating rotten cheese between them.
He had bought another small delay but Rowland Ashway was determined that it would be the last.

‘We will return later,’ he announced.

‘You are always welcome here.’

‘To witness the signature.’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘This is the day of decision, Master Marwood, and I will brook no more evasion. Append your name and your good will to that same document or I will tear it up and leave you to the mercy of Westfield’s Men.’

He sailed out of the room with his lawyer in tow. Alexander Marwood trotted meekly after him and smoothed his acceptance of the ultimatum. When he came out into the yard, however, something stopped the landlord and he became prey to fleeting regret.

The actors were gathering for rehearsal.

Abel Strudwick was a creature of extremes. Once he was committed to a course of action, he went the whole way with no hint of holding back. He had been shocked and wounded by Lawrence Firethorn’s cavalier treatment of him at the Queen’s Head and felt the pangs of the discarded. As one dream crumbled, however, another came into being. In cutting the actor-manager down in a verbal duel, he would not only be gaining his revenge, he would be showing the world his true merit as a performer. When he had made the final thrust into Firethorn’s black heart – he was confident of a swift victory – he intended to bestow the ultimate favour upon the audience by reading some of his poems.
This was no mere flyting contest. It was the harbour from which his new career could be launched.

To this end, the visionary waterman had handbills printed to advertise his feat and distributed them freely to his passengers, around the taverns and among his fellows at the wharfside. Abel Strudwick was pitting his skills against a famous thespian. It was an intriguing prospect and it drew scores of people who would not normally have visited a theatrical event. The large audience which had come to watch
The Queen of Carthage
was thus further enlarged by an influx of rowdy watermen who jockeyed for position near the apron stage. As a prelude to an inspiring tragedy, they were being offered a clash of naked steel.

Somebody was doing his best to spoil their fun.

‘It is not too late to change your mind, Abel.’

‘That would be cowardly!’

‘I talk of a dignified withdrawal.’

‘Talk of what you wish, Master Bracewell,’ said the angry waterman. ‘I have vowed to do battle this day.’

‘Both of you will incur severe injury.’

‘It matters not, sir.’

‘But what if you should lose?’ suggested Nicholas. ‘This would do harm to your reputation.’

‘Defeat is impossible. Rest your tongue.’

They were in the taproom at the Queen’s Head not long before the contest was scheduled to take place. The book holder had made several attempts to talk his friend out of the whole thing but the latter was adamant. He had been slighted and sought recompense in the only way that would
satisfy him. By way of preparation, he was sinking pints of Ashway’s Beer to clear his mind for argument.

Nicholas left him alone and slipped off to the tiring-house to make a last appeal to the other half of the dispute. Like the waterman, Lawrence Firethorn had steadfastly refused to listen to reason so far and he could not be diverted from his purpose now. Before he gave his acclaimed performance as Aeneas in the play, he meant to visit destruction upon the hirsute head of Abel Strudwick. The book holder got short shrift.

‘Speak not to me of retreat, Nick.’

‘Think of the good name of the company, sir.’

‘It is to defend that name that I measure swords with this unbarbered ruffian.’

‘You should not descend to a vulgar brawl with him.’

‘There will be no brawl,’ said Firethorn grandly. ‘I will disarm the rogue with my first speech and he will stand there helpless while I cut him to shreds.’

‘A little diplomacy might save a lot of pain.’

‘Begone, sir! I’ll not be flouted out of my purpose.’

Nicholas Bracewell had foreseen the impasse and had evolved a contingency plan. It was time to activate it.

Meanwhile, in another part of the inn, another plan of his was being implemented. Margery Firethorn was paying a call on Sybil Marwood. They were in a private room that overlooked the courtyard and their interview was thus punctuated by the throbbing murmur of the crowd. Margery eschewed her usual over-assertive conversational style and 
opted for a softer and more confiding approach. She had been well primed by the book holder with information that he had gleaned from his chat at the Nine Giants with his old friend from the Counter. The mighty Leonard had unwittingly provided valuable insights into the working methods of Rowland Ashway.

‘I came to express my sympathy, Mistress Marwood.’

‘On what account, pray?’

‘Why, this betrayal that your husband is about.’

‘Betrayal?’

‘He intends to sell the inn to Alderman Ashway.’

‘For a good price, Mistress Firethorn.’

‘What do men know of price?’ said Margery with cold scorn. ‘When they have money in their hand, they cannot conceive its value. Only a woman can set a true price.’

‘That is so,’ conceded the other.

‘Your husband sells the Queen’s Head and gets a fair return for the inn, that is agreed. But, mistress, how much does he get for the home he is also losing? For the good will he has built up here? For the years of sweat and toil that both of you have put into the establishment?’ Margery heaved a sympathetic sigh. ‘This is a place with historic value. It breathes tradition. Did your spouse exact payment for that?’

‘I have not seen the terms of the contract.’

‘No?’ said the other, driving a wedge between husband and wife. ‘That is not considerate. My own dear husband would never dare to sign away our property without my amen to the notion. Master Marwood abuses you. He writes his name on a document and your whole lives are at risk.’

‘Risk?’ The alarm bell was ringing.

‘Surely, your husband has informed you.’

‘
What
risk, madam? Speak it plain.’

‘Eviction.’

‘From our own home!’

‘It will belong to Alderman Ashway.’

‘The contract will protect us.’

‘How do you know when you have not seen it?’ Margery got up and headed for the door. ‘Thank you for listening to me. I will not take up any more of your time.’

‘Wait!’ said Sybil Marwood. ‘I desire more clarity.’

‘It would only distress you further.’

‘I wish to know, madam. Advise me in this matter and I will be deeply in your debt.’

Margery turned with queenly charm and smiled at her.

‘I talk to you but as a woman.’

‘Let me hear you.’

‘And I do not take sides in this quarrel. But …’

‘Well?’ said the other impatiently. ‘But, but,
but
…’

‘The Queen’s Head is not the only inn that the gluttonous alderman has gobbled up. The Antelope and the White Hart in Cheapside have both been swallowed and the Brazen Serpent is to be his next meal.’

‘That is his pleasure. He is a wealthy man.’

‘Whence comes this wealth, Mistress Marwood?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Alderman Ashway seeks a good profit,’ said Margery sweetly, ‘but that cannot be obtained if he gives too good a
price for the property. Or if he pays too good a wage to his tenant publican. Do you follow me here?’

‘I begin to, madam.’

‘The landlord of the Antelope was driven out within six months of yielding up ownership. His successor works for longer hours and a lower wage.’

‘Can this be so?’ gasped the other.

‘Look to the suburbs. The alderman bought both the Bull and Butcher in Shoreditch and the Carpenters Arms in Islington. Speak to the unhappy landlords. They are now mere slaves where before they were masters. Would you and your husband wear this humiliation?’

A rousing cheer from the yard below took Margery over to the window but she had done her work. Stung with rage and flustered with fear, Sybil Marwood raced out of the room in search of her husband. She felt that she had been kept wilfully in the dark by the menfolk and it was time to voice her complaint. As she stormed into the taproom, her husband greeted her with open arms.

‘Come, Sybil! Our future joy is assured.’

‘What say you, sir?’

‘I have signed the contract with Alderman Ashway.’

‘Tear it up at once!’ she yelled.

‘Too late, madam.’

‘Why?’

‘It has been sent back to him by messenger.’

The commotion which drew Margery Firethorn to the window was caused by the appearance onstage of Abel
Strudwick. With the aid of his fellow watermen, he scrambled up onto the scaffold and paraded around like a wrestler showing off his muscles. Good-natured jeers went up and there was a ripple of applause. It was only when Strudwick stopped to acknowledge his reception that he realised how much beer he had consumed. His head was muzzy and he had to splay his legs to prevent himself from swaying. There was another, more immediate problem. Viewed from the yard below, the work of the actors had looked as easy as it was stimulating. Now that he was actually up there himself as the cynosure, he became aware of what a test of nerve it was. A sea of heaving bodies lay below. Galleries of grinning faces stretched above. Shouts and cheers and wild advice came from hundreds of throats. His iron confidence began to melt in the fiery heat of all the attention.

It was not helped by the sonorous bell that chimed the half-hour and made him jump with fright. Before he could recover, there was a fanfare of trumpets and then Lawrence Firethorn made a triumphal entry. Flanked by six resplendent soldiers, he wore golden armour, a golden helmet and golden greaves upon his shins. A glittering sword was held aloft in one hand while the other bore a golden shield. The contrast was startling. On one side of the stage was a dishevelled, bow-legged waterman with a round-shouldered stoop: on the other was a virile warrior who stood straight and proud. As the fanfare ended, the actor delivered his rebuke with imperious force.

With the words still echoing around the yard, the godlike presence turned on his sandalled heel and made his exit with dignified briskness. Lawrence Firethorn had been so impressive that he had robbed Strudwick of all power to reply. It was only when a burst of applause broke out for Jupiter that the boatman came out of his daze and tried to strike back. When he lurched after the actor, however, he found his way barred by the six soldiers in shining armour, each holding a pike whose blade had been dutifully polished that morning by George Dart. In the heat of the moment, Strudwick resorted to intemperate abuse.

‘Come back, you hound! You snivelling, sneaking rat! Come here, you caitiff. Show your monkey’s face again and I will knock off your knavish helmet and put a cuckold’s horns upon your head. ’Twas I that rode your foul fiend of a wife and had such clamorous sport between her spindly legs. Thy dame is pizzle-mad, sir, and her oily duckies are sucked by every gallant in the town!’

‘WHAT!!!!!’

The scream of fury was so loud and penetrating that it silenced Strudwick and the whole audience at once. Margery Firethorn climbed out through the window like a tiger hurtling out of its lair in search of prey. She pushed her way through the seated spectators in the lower gallery and cocked a leg over the balustrade before jumping down onto the stage itself. Words came hissing out of her like poisonous steam.

‘Who are you to speak, you pimp, you goose, you carrion crow! I am that same wife you talk so rudely of and I am as sound a Christian as any woman alive. Fie on your foul tongue, you varlet, on your sewer of a mouth, on that running sore of a mind that you scratch for argument to make it bleed villainy. Out, out, you clod, you tottering wretch, you drunken bawd, you scheming devil, you thrice-ugly beggar, you vile and noisome vapour. Draw off lest you infect us all with this leprous speech of yours!’ She stood over him with such fearsome rage that he cowered before her. ‘A foul fiend, am I, sir? I will haunt your haunches with my housewife’s toe for that. I have spindly legs, you say. They hold me better than those poor, mean sticks of yours that cannot hold up the weight of a beer-filled belly without they bend like longbows at full draw. Pizzle-mad, you claim …’

Abel Strudwick’s defeat was comprehensive and the audience howled and jeered at his expense. He yet had one card to play. Shrugging off Margery’s attack, he ran to the front of the stage and tried to redeem himself by reciting
his latest poem about a humble waterman who becomes a famous actor and who plays before the Queen. It was a disastrous remedy. The spectators were provoked to such cruel mirth and ribaldry that missiles soon began to be hurled at the stocky figure. Strudwick kept on, dodging the apple cores and rotten eggs as best he could, caught between death and damnation, between the still-fulminating Margery behind him and the foaming torrent of abuse in front of him.
The Queen of Carthage
rescued him.