Firethorn writhed at the insult and replied in kind. The volume and intensity of the argument had risen so much by now that a small crowd had formed to cheer and jibe and urge the combatants on. It was a fascinating contest with advantage swinging first one way and then the other. Firethorn had clear vocal superiority and used all the tricks of his art to subdue the waterman. Strudwick had greater experience on his side and vituperation gushed out of him in an endless, inventive stream. Actor met streetfighter in a war of words. It was at the point where they were about to exchange blows that Nicholas Bracewell came running across the yard and dived between them to hold them off.
‘Peace, sirs!’ he exclaimed. ‘Stand apart.’
‘I’ll run this black devil through!’ said Firethorn.
‘I’ll tear his liver out and eat it!’ said Strudwick.
‘Calm down and talk this over as friends.’
‘Friends!’ howled the waterman.
‘Mortal enemies,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’d not befriend this whelp if he was the last man alive in creation.’
‘Let me be judge of this quarrel,’ said Nicholas.
But they were too inflamed for a reasoned discussion of their complaints. They eyed each other aggressively like two dogs bred for fighting. Since the book holder was still keeping them apart, they resolved on another form of attack. Abel Strudwick waved a sheaf of poems in the air and glared at Firethorn.
‘I challenge you to a flyting contest, sir!’ he said.
‘Let it be in public,’ retorted the other.
‘Upon the stage in this yard.’
‘Before a full audience.’
‘Name the day and the time.’
‘Next Monday,’ said Firethorn. ‘Be here at one. When the clock strikes the half-hour, we’ll begin.’
‘My waterman’s wit will destroy you utterly.’
‘Take care you do not drown yourself in it.’
‘I will bring friends to support me.’
‘All London knows my reputation.’
‘Stop, sirs,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is madness.’
But his pleas went unheard. Pride dictated terms. Lawrence Firethorn and Abel Strudwick had gone too far to pull back now. They would continue their duel on the following Monday with sharper weapons.
It would be a fight to the death.
Chapter Nine
The sky over Windsor was dark and swollen as the funeral cortège walked solemnly up the path to St John’s Church. Only a select gathering of family and friends had been invited to watch Lieutenant Michael Delahaye lowered into his final resting place. The priest led the way in white surplice and black cassock with his prayer book open in his hands. Six bearers carried the elm coffin with its ornate brass handles and its small brass commemorative plate. The widowed mother led the procession, leaning for support on the arm of her brother, Walter Stanford, and weeping copiously. Next came her four daughters, each one stricken by the loss, each one helped along by a husband. Black was the predominant colour and Matilda Stanford, who came next, wore a taffeta dress trimmed with black lace and a matching hat with a black veil. Leaning on the arm of her stepson, she wept genuine tears of sorrow and her sympathy for the bereaved was clear to see. Behind her came more figures in black and more lamentation. Michael Delahaye was going out of the world on a tide of grief.
The service was accompanied throughout by sobs, cries and moans as suffering mourners tried to come to terms both with the death of the dear departed and with the brutal nature of that death. Walter Stanford had deemed it wise to keep back the worst details of the horror. His sister and the rest of the family had enough misery to accommodate as it was. They had all been fearful when Michael had announced his intention of joining the army that set out for the Netherlands. His safe return was a cause for celebration and they had planned a small banquet in his honour. Instead of a long table loaded with rich food and fine wine, they were marking his homecoming with funeral bakemeats.
Matilda Stanford went through it all in a daze. The church was filled with so much high emotion that she was overwhelmed and heard very little of the service that was being intoned by the vicar. Only when the coffin was taken out into the graveyard and interred in the family vault did she come out of her reverie and she felt a stab of shame that gave her a prickly sensation. She was not thinking about Michael Delahaye, nor yet about his poor mother, nor even about her husband’s grievous pain. She was not listening to any of the muttered words of comfort that were heard all round her as they began to disperse. She was not succumbing to notions of death itself and how it might visit her when the hour drew near.
At a funeral, in a graveyard, close to her husband and in the midst of a family tragedy, she found herself toying with a vision of Lawrence Firethorn. Guilt made her weep the most bitter tears yet and an arm tightened on hers.
But her mind still belonged to the actor.
After a week of upheavals, it was good to get away from the pressures of the city and out into the freedom of the countryside. A fire at his lodging, an attempt on his life and a puzzling encounter at the house on the Bridge had made Nicholas Bracewell more cautious than ever and he kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure that they were not being followed. It was Sunday morning and he had been instructed by Lawrence Firethorn to ride down to Richmond to take stock of the Nine Giants where the company was due to perform in the near future. Nicholas took Hans Kippel with him so that he could guard the boy and — because she was born there — Anne Hendrik went beside him on the road to Richmond. The book holder was mounted on a chestnut mare with the apprentice clinging on behind him. Anne rode a dapple grey with an easy gait.
It had every appearance of a family outing and this was one of its objects. They had not simply taken on a parental responsibility for Hans Kippel. His damaged mind responded to a sense of familial reassurance and it was only when he was at his most relaxed that his memory began to function properly again. In taking him away from London itself, Nicholas hoped to separate the boy from the well-spring of his malady. The country air of Richmond might do wonders for the lad’s power of recall. At all events, they made a happy picture, moving along at a rising trot and urging the horses into a gentle canter when the terrain invited it.
The book holder was relieved to put the week behind him. Quite apart from personal crises, it had been an extremely taxing period. He had stage-managed four very different plays for Westfield’s Men as well as coping with sundry other duties. Placating Edmund Hoode had proved to be a time-consuming pastime and the ambitious Owen Elias was another constant drain on his patience. Regular sessions with Alexander Marwood had been another burden and Lawrence Firethorn’s demands were endless. Then there was the problem of the versifying waterman.
Hans Kippel raised the problem from the bobbing rump of the horse.
‘May I go to the Queen’s Head tomorrow?’
‘I think not,’ said Nicholas.
‘But I wish to see Master Strudwick on the stage.’
‘It is not for your young eyes,’ decided Anne. ‘And certainly not for your young ears. London watermen use the vilest language in Christendom.’
‘But Master Strudwick makes music.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘He has another kind of harmony in mind for tomorrow, Hans. I will report everything back to you, have no fear.’
‘Who will win the flyting contest?’
‘Neither, if I have my way. It will not take place.’
The boy was disappointed but a half-mile taken at a canter obliged him to hold on tight and suspend his questioning. It was not long before Richmond Palace came into sight to focus all their attention. Overlooking the Thames with regal condescension, it was a magnificent building in the Gothic style, constructed round a paved court and rising up with turreted splendour. Even on such a dull day, its gilded weathervanes added a romantic sparkle and its superfluity of windows lent it an almost crystalline charm. Hans Kippel was awestruck. Glimpsed over the shoulder of his friend, Richmond Palace had a fairy-tale quality that enchanted him.