The village itself had grown steadily throughout the century as more and more people moved out of the plague-ridden city to its healthier suburbs. Many of the local inhabitants gained their livelihood from the Palace itself and it dominated their existence in every way. Nicholas escorted Anne to a cottage on the far side of the village and stayed long enough to witness the tearful reunion with her parents. Hans Kippel was lifted off the sweating chestnut to share in the hospitality. Nicholas rode back across the wide expanse of village green to get to the inn he had come to visit.
One glance told him that the Nine Giants would be ideal for their purposes. It was larger and altogether more generous in its proportions than the Queen’s Head. Erected around a paved courtyard, it had three galleries with thatched roofs. Its timber framing gave it the magpie colouring of most London houses but it was vastly cleaner and more well preserved than its equivalents in the city. Not for the first time, Nicholas reflected on how much filth and pollution a large population could generate. Richmond was truly picturesque. The smile had not been wiped off its face by the crude elbows of the urban multitude. A presenting feature of the inn was the cluster of oak trees which gave it its name. Rising high and wide out of the paddock at the rear, they formed a rough circle of timber that had an almost mystic quality. The nine giants were soon joined by a tenth.
‘Good day to you, master.’
‘And to you, good sir.’
‘Welcome to our hostelry.’
‘It is a fine establishment you have here.’
‘I’ll be with you anon.’
Nicholas had come into the yard to see a huge barrel being carried aloft by a giant of a man in a leather apron. He was loading up a brewer’s dray with empty casks from the cellar and the work was making him grunt. The book holder dismounted and tethered his horse to a post. At that moment, the man dropped his barrel onto the dray with a terrifying thud then wiped his hands on his apron. Nicholas saw his face properly for the first time and laughed with sheer astonishment.
‘Leonard!’
‘Is that you, Master Bracewell?’
‘Come here, dear fellow!’
They embraced warmly then stood back to appraise each other. Nicholas could not believe what he saw.
His friend had come back from the grave.
The thickset man lay on the bed with heavy bandaging around his midriff. His self-inflicted wound had been serious but not fatal and he was recovering with the aid of regular flagons of bottle ale. James Renfrew looked down at him with mild disgust.
‘Drink wine and cultivate some manners,’ he said.
‘I’ll look to my own pleasures, Jamie.’
‘How do you feel today, sir?’
‘Better.’
‘Can you stand?’
‘Stand and walk and carry a weapon.’
‘There’ll be time enough for that.’
‘He is mine,’ hissed the other.
‘Master Bracewell?’
‘Look what he did to me. I want him.’
‘The boy is our main concern. He is a witness.’
‘I’ll pluck his Dutch eyes out!’ He glanced up at the black patch and blurted out a clumsy apology. ‘I am … sorry, Jamie. I did … not mean to …’
‘Enough of that!’ said Renfrew sharply. ‘Hold your peace and get some rest.’
‘Has the time been set?’
‘It is all in hand.’
‘When is it?’
‘You will be told, Firk.’
‘Give me but a day or two and …’
‘The plan is conceived, have no fear. We will not move without your help. It will be needed.’
‘And Master Bracewell?’
‘That will come, too. That will come, too.’
Renfrew crossed to the window of the bedchamber and surveyed the river below. It was a forest of rigging that rose and fell on the undulating surface. He watched a boat being rowed expertly across the Thames and followed it until it vanished from sight behind a larger vessel.
Renfrew threw a nonchalant question over his shoulder.
‘Firk …’
‘What?’
‘Have you ever killed a waterman?’
Nicholas Bracewell was delighted to see the mountain of flesh again. Leonard had a natural gentleness to offset his immense bulk and his big, round, freckled face shone with hope. He was still in his twenties with receding hair that exposed a wide forehead and a full beard that was split with a snaggle-toothed grin. They had met in the most trying circumstances. Both had been incarcerated in the Counter in Wood Street, one of the city’s worst and most repulsive prisons. Nicholas had been falsely accused of assault by enemies who had wanted him out of the way for a time but his connection with Lord Westfield had soon purchased his release. Even that brief period of custody had been enough to convince him that he must never be locked away in one of the city’s hellholes again.
Leonard’s case had been far more serious. He faced a murder charge that would lead to certain execution. It was a sad tale of being at the mercy of his own muscles. The genial giant had the most easy temperament and no aggressive instincts. When his workmates took him to Hoxton Fair, however, they decided it was time to goad him into some kind of action. Leonard was cajoled into taking on the invincible wrestler, the Great Mario, a towering Italian with too much guile in combat for any of the challengers who came forward in his booth. Most were dispatched without any difficulty but the newcomer was a tougher proposition.
‘I did not think to win the bout,’ said Leonard as he recounted the story again. ‘I only fought to please my fellows. But the Great Mario did not wrestle fair. He tripped and punched and kicked and bit me. I got angry. Ale had been drunk and the weather was hot. My fellows were shouting me on at the top of their voices.’
‘I remember. You grappled with the Great Mario.’
‘And broke his neck. It snapped in two.’
‘He provoked you to it, Leonard.’
‘No matter, sir. They arrested me for murder.’
‘How then came you to escape?’
‘By the grace of God.’
‘Was a general release signed?’
London prisons were notoriously overcrowded and many died inside them from the cramped conditions. Every so often the number of inmates would swell so dramatically that the prisons were bursting at the seams. A general release was sometimes issued to thin out the population in the cells to make room for more malefactors. Leonard would not have been the first alleged murderer to have been granted his freedom in this way but his delivery occurred by a slightly different means.
‘The Lord Mayor of London took up my case.’
‘In person?’
‘Yes, Master Bracewell. I was much honoured.’
‘Were you brought to trial?’
‘Sir Lucas Pugsley saved me from that.’
‘But how, Leonard?’
‘I know not but his power is without limit.’ He gave a defensive smile. ‘One minute, I was lying in the straw at the Counter and saying my prayers. Next minute, the sergeant is taking off my chains and letting me go free. If that is what a Lord Mayor can do, then I bow down to him in all humility.’
‘Have you ever met Sir Lucas Pugsley?’
‘Indeed, no.’
‘Then why did he take an interest in you?’
‘Out of the kindness of his heart.’
‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘My master says it was just good fortune.’
‘Your master?’
‘He it was who brought the release to the Counter.’
‘But how was it obtained?’
‘As I told you. From the Lord Mayor’s hand.’