The Nine Giants

by Edward Marston

  Nicholas Bracewell was the first to arrive. His visit to the Queen’s Head had only served to deepen his fears that their days at the inn were numbered. With all his appalling faults, Alexander Marwood did actually allow the company to flourish on his premises and the makeshift stage had witnessed some of their finest achievements. If Rowland Ashway acquired the property, he would have no qualms in turning Westfield’s Men out into the street. Fresh anxieties surfaced about the likely fate of his fellows. A huge black cloud hung over the future of the company and Nicholas was the only person who knew about it. How long he could keep the fact to himself remained to be seen but it was already causing him profound disquiet.

  Thomas Skillen was the next to turn up at The Theatre. The venerable stagekeeper had been with Westfield’s Men since their formation but his roots in the drama went much deeper than that. For over forty years now, he had survived in a ruinous profession that had hurled so many people into oblivion, and he had done so by virtue of his quick wits and total reliability. What hope would there be for him if he was driven out of his job now? Advancing age and creaking joints had slowed him down but he could still assert his authority. George Dart found this out when he came running out onto the stage to be given a clip across the ear by the senior man.

  ‘You struck me, Thomas!’ he said in alarm.

  ‘Aye, sirrah, I did.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘For none at all, George. The blow was on account.’

  ‘But I have done nothing amiss.’

  ‘You will, sirrah. You will.’

  Nicholas stepped in to rescue the injured party and to assign jobs to both men. Double Deceit was a highly complicated play which made heavy demands on those behind the scenes. It was an amiable comedy about two pairs of identical twins who get caught up in an escalating series of mistakes and misapprehensions. Inspired by one of the plays of Plautus, it was a glorious romp that never failed to delight its audiences but it called for several scene changes and required an interminable list of properties.

  By the time that others began to appear, Thomas Skillen and George Dart had set the stage so that the rehearsal could begin and were attending to a myriad other duties.

  Lawrence Firethorn waited until the full company was assembled before he strode out onto the stage with his characteristic swagger. A raised hand compelled silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘Let me rid your minds of one abiding error. This is not a rehearsal of an old and ailing text whose sparkle has been dimmed by the passage of time. Double Deceit is no plodding nag who asks no more of us than to sit back lazily in the saddle and guide her in the right direction. She is a mettlesome filly whom we take out on her first full gallop today. Wear your spurs, my friends, and do not be shy of using them. We must ride hell for leather into glory!’

  Younger members of the cast were stirred by his speech but older hands were more cynical. Barnaby Gill leant over to whisper to Edmund Hoode.

  ‘As I foretold, she is coming to the performance.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The latest sacrificial victim for his bed,’ said Gill sardonically. ‘That is why we would put some ginger into Double Deceit. He wants to warm the lady up so that she is glowing strongly when he boards her. Westfield’s Men are being used as his pimps.’

  ‘Lawrence does not always meet with success.’

  ‘Nor shall he this time, Edmund. This ignoble plot shall be nipped in the bud. I’ll act him off the stage and end the matter there.’

  The boast was stillborn. It was easier to perform triple somersaults through the eye of a needle than to out-act Lawrence Firethorn when he turned on his full power. For that is what he did at the rehearsal. There was no holding back, no harbouring of his resources for the afternoon. In the twin roles of Argos of Rome and Argos of Florence, he was a soaring comet who dazzled all around him. Barnaby Gill doubled manfully in the parallel roles of the comic servants, Silvio of Rome and Silvio of Florence, but it took all his energy to keep pace with his two masters, let alone try to overtake either.

  It was a bold decision to tackle two roles each and it necessitated great concentration and perfect timing to maintain the illusion for the audience. Argos of Rome and his much-maligned companion, Silvio, were a jaded pair who dressed in mean apparel. Argos of Florence, however, and his chirpy servant, Silvio, were bubbling extroverts with vivid attire. As one pair left the stage, the other would step out onto it almost immediately. Lightning changes of cloak, hat and manner worked wonders.

  Firethorn’s urgency dragged the rest of the cast along behind it. The major technical problem came in Act Five when the two pairs of twins, separated since birth and totally unaware of each other’s existence, finally learn the truth and unite in love and laughter. To effect this climactic moment when all four meet together, two other actors had to stand in as one of the duos. The fleeting appearance as Argos of Rome was made by Owen Elias, a sturdy Welshman whose height and build matched those of Firethorn himself. Dressed in the costume of Silvio of Rome, padded out to give him more substance, was none other than George Dart. The substitute twins were a complete contrast. While the Welshman took the stage with overweening confidence, the assistant stagekeeper crept onto it with all the enthusiasm of a snail crawling into a fiery furnace. The latter was mortified when he knocked over a chair in his nervousness and then accidentally pulled the cloak off Silvio of Florence during an embrace with his putative twin. As the play came to an end, Dart waited in trepidation for the acid comments of Firethorn.

  But none came. Delighted with his own account of the two roles, and certain that his company would rise to the occasion in front of a large audience, the actor-manager dismissed them all with a few kind words then swept off into the tiring-house. Nicholas Bracewell was not so uncritical of what he had seen and he had many notes to give to erring performers before they slipped away. He had just administered a gentle reprimand to George Dart when Edmund Hoode sidled up to him.

  ‘Tell me her name, Nick.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This enchantress who has bewitched Lawrence.’

  ‘That is his business alone.’

  ‘It is ours as well if it affects his conduct here among his fellows. Why, man, he was grinning at us like some lovesick youth just now. If this lady’s magic is so potent, we must lure her into the company and pay her to keep the old bear sweet. It would be money well spent.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘We all would benefit.’

  ‘So who is this paragon?’

  ‘I may not say, Edmund.’

  ‘But it was you who tracked her down.’

  ‘Master Firethorn has sworn me to secrecy.’

  ‘Can you not divulge the name to me?’

  ‘Neither to you nor to any living soul.’

  ‘But I am your friend, Nick.’

  ‘It is my friendship that holds me back,’ said the other seriously. ‘You would not thank me for breaking my oath. Better it is that you do not know who the lady is.’

  Hoode’s eyes widened. ‘Do I spy danger here?’

  ‘Acute danger.’

  ‘For Lawrence?’

  ‘For all of us.’

  Sir Lucas Pugsley, fishmonger, philanthropist and incumbent Lord Mayor of London, finished another gargantuan meal and washed it down with a glass of French brandy. His guest was still guzzling away at his lunch and taking frequent swigs of beer from the two-pint tankard that stood before him. The Mayor was dining in private for once and sharing confidences with an old friend. Pugsley was as thin as a rake and as pale as a spectre. No matter how much food he ate – and his appetite was gross – he never seemed to put on any weight. The narrow face with its tight lips, its high cheekbones and its tiny black eyes resembled nothing so much as the head of a conger eel. Even in his full regalia, he looked as if he were lying on a slab.

  Rowland Ashway was a completely different man. His gormandising had left its mark all too flagrantly upon him. The wealthy brewer
had been turned into a human barrel to advertise his way of life. Regular consumption of his own best beer had given the puffed cheeks and the blob of nose such a florid hue that he appeared to be cultivating tomatoes. The two men had a political as well as a personal connection. As Alderman for Bridge Ward Within, the wily Ashway had promoted Pugsley’s candidacy for the ultimate civic honour. The fishmonger did not forget such loyalty and it had been rewarded by more than the occasional free meal. Ashway pushed the last mouthful down his throat then emptied his tankard after it. He gave a monstrous belch, laughed merrily and broke wind. It was time for them to sit back in their carved chairs and preen themselves at will.

  ‘My mayoralty has been a triumph,’ said Pugsley with easy pomposity. ‘I have grown into the role.’

  ‘It fits you like a glove.’

  ‘This city has cause to be grateful to me.’

  ‘Your bounty is in evidence on all sides,’ noted the other. ‘You have founded schools, built almshouses and donated generously to the Church.’

  ‘Nor have I been slack in my love of country,’ said the fishmonger piously. ‘Queen Elizabeth herself – God bless her – has been ready to borrow Pugsley money for the defence of the realm. English soldiers are the salt of the earth. I feel honoured that I was able to put uniforms onto their backs and weapons into their hands.’

  ‘A knighthood was a fitting reward, Luke.’

  ‘Sir Lucas, if you please.’

  ‘Sir Lucas.’ Ashway fawned obligingly. ‘The pity of it is that you cannot remain in place as Lord Mayor.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more, Rowland.’

  ‘We have all been beneficiaries of your term of office and are like to remember it well.’

  ‘There is more still to come. I value friendship above all else and set a true value on it. Aubrey and I were discussing the matter only this morning.’

  ‘Aubrey Kenyon is an upright man,’ said the brewer. ‘His opinions are to be taken seriously.’

  ‘That is why I always seek them out. My Chamberlain is always the first person I consult on any subject. He is a complete master of the intricacies of municipal affairs and I could not survive for a second without him.’

  ‘You are in safe hands, Sir Lucas.’

  ‘None safer than those of Aubrey Kenyon.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ Ashway did some fishing of his own. ‘And you say there is something in the wind for me?’

  ‘A small reward for your unfailing loyalty.’

  ‘You are too kind.’

  ‘A trifling matter to a man of your wealth but it may bring some pleasure. You will acquire the control and rent of certain properties in your ward. My Chamberlain advised me on the form of it and he is drawing up the necessary documents.’

  ‘I must thank Master Aubrey Kenyon once again.’

  ‘Where I command, he takes action.’

  ‘Your Chamberlain is truly a paragon.’

  ‘I would trust him like my own brother.’ Pugsley took another sip of brandy then appraised his companion. ‘Does your business still thrive, Rowland?’

  ‘Assuredly. We go from strength to strength.’

  ‘Feeding off the drunkenness of London!’

  ‘Stout men need strong ale. I simply answer their demand.’

  They shared a chuckle then Pugsley fingered his chain with offhand affection. ‘I have felt happy and fulfilled as never before in this office,’ he said. ‘Would that I might stay in it for ever!’ A wistful sigh. ‘Alas, that is not to be. Election has already been made.’

  ‘I did not vote for him, that I swear.’

  ‘Others did.’ Pugsley’s sadness turned into cold fury. ‘It is painful enough to have to retire from office but to be forced to hand over to Walter Stanford is truly galling. I detest the man and all that he represents.’

  ‘You are not alone in that, Sir Lucas.’

  ‘He is unworthy to follow in my footsteps.’

  ‘As for that young wife of his …’

  ‘It ought not to be allowed,’ said the other in a fit of moral indignation. ‘A man should pay for his pleasures in private, not flaunt them before the whole city of London!’

  ‘She is a pretty creature, though, I grant him that.’

  ‘Stanford is bestial!’

  ‘He is not Lord Mayor yet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.’

  Sir Lucas Pugsley sat upright in his chair and spat out his words like a snake expelling its venom.

  ‘I would do anything to stop him!’

  Fine weather and high expectation saw large crowds of playgoers surging north out of the city. Many of them converged on The Curtain, the other public playhouse in Shoreditch, a circular structure that stood on land that had once been part of Holywell Priory. Banbury’s Men were in residence there and the audience flocked to see Giles Randolph as the evil King John. His reputation was overshadowed by that of Lawrence Firethorn, who brought even more spectators hurrying through the doors of The Theatre. Once again, Westfield’s Men had the critical edge over its hated rivals.

  Abel Strudwick had never been to a play before and he was bewildered by the whole experience. Having paid his penny to one of the gatherers, he went through into the yard and stood as close to the stage as he could. He was soon part of a jostling throng with a carnival spirit and he succumbed willingly to the prevailing atmosphere of mirth. His poems were a source of immense pride to him but he had only so far recited them to his wife and to Nicholas Bracewell. The thought of standing up on that scaffold and entertaining a huge crowd with the work of his creative imagination was quite exhilarating. Long before Double Deceit began, he had got his penny’s worth.

  Matilda Stanford was ushered into the second gallery by her stepson. A friend of his had helped to escort her at the Queen’s Head but the young man felt able to look after her alone at The Theatre. William Stanford had opted for a black doublet with a wide-shouldered look and for matching hose. Silver flashes relieved the impression of total darkness and silver feathers adorned his hat. His stepmother had chosen a blend of subtle greens in a dress that displayed all her best features to advantage. Her hair and clothing were perfumed and she carried a pomander to ward off any unpleasant smells that might arise in a packed auditorium. The mask which dangled from her other hand could be used to hide the blushes that were already threatening to come as her presence was noted by the gallants who surrounded her. Compliments and comments ambushed her from all sides.

  The keenest attention she received, however, was from Argos of Rome. Costumed for his first entrance, Lawrence Firethorn peered through a chink in the curtain at the rear of the stage to pick out his beloved. She looked even more alluring than before, with those blue eyes and red lips lighting up her porcelain skin. Matilda Stanford had true radiance and he prostrated himself before it.

  Nicholas Bracewell came quietly up behind him.

  ‘Stand by, sir.’

  ‘She had my invitation, Nick. She is here.’

  ‘So is the hour of two.’

  ‘I knew that she would not disappoint me!’

  ‘Stand by, Argos of Rome!’

  ‘This is earthly paradise.’

  ‘We begin!’

  The book holder was firmly in control of the whole operation once the performance started and not even the company’s star was allowed to forget that. Firethorn moved quickly across to join Barnaby Gill in readiness for their entrance. The signal was given by Nicholas, the trumpet sounded and the Prologue stepped out in a black cloak to receive a virgin ripple of applause and to outline the plot of Double Deceit in rhyming couplets. Argos and Silvio then burst onto the stage in a flurry of arms and legs as the master upbraided his servant and beat him black and blue. Firethorn’s voice was hoarse with outrage as he listed his complaints and Gill made the audience collapse with laughter at the hilarious way he fell to the ground each time he was struck. The comic timing and the physical dexterity of the two me
n was breathtaking. They had won everyone over by the time they made their exit then they reappeared instantly in other guises to win the spectators over even more completely.

  Double Deceit had never been played with such panache.

  There was only one dissentient voice.

  ‘I am wasted in this verminous comedy.’

  ‘Your hour will come, Owen.’

  ‘It is a crime to subdue such talent as mine.’

  ‘Do but wait awhile and it will shine forth.’

  ‘I have waited too long already, Nick.’

  ‘So have many others, I fear.’

  ‘Who cares about those wretches? I am better.’

  Owen Elias was no shrinking violet. While other hired men took what they could get and were profoundly grateful, he was forever trying to plead his cause. He was without question a far more skilful performer than most of his fellows and his lilting voice was a joy to hear when it was given blank verse to declaim. But his talent as an actor was not matched by his tact as a diplomat. In thrusting himself forward so openly, he jeopardised his already slim chances of advancement. Nicholas liked him immensely for his Celtic charm and forthrightness but he recognised the fatal flaw in his friend. The runaway arrogance made Owen Elias into his own worst enemy.

  ‘Do you see what I mean, Nick?’

  ‘Tell me later, sir.’

  ‘I can do all that Master Firethorn can.’

  ‘You distract me, Owen.’

  ‘They loved me.’

  ‘Stand aside, I pray.’

  Nicholas was too busy at his post to listen to the actor at that moment but there was a degree of truth in what the Welshman said. In his brief appearance as Argos of Rome, he not only looked and moved remarkably like Lawrence Firethorn, he even sounded like him. Indeed, the audience was so stunned by the similarity between the two men that they really believed they were looking at a pair of identical twins. It was, literally, a double deceit.