‘Has the murderer been found?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Tell me the way of it, mistress.’
Prudence needed no second invitation. She gabbled her way through the details and answered every question that he asked. Ten minutes at a garden gate turned out to be a revelation. Nicholas hated being a party to the projected betrayal of a loyal wife but there had been some consolation. Prudence was a mine of information. There was more value yet in his visit. As he made his way back to the front of the house, a coach was just drawing up and Walter Stanford himself was getting out. He was weighted down with sadness and the spring had gone out of his step but it was not the Lord Mayor Elect who commanded attention. Nicholas was far more interested in the steward who opened the door to welcome his master and who bowed ingratiatingly before him. The book holder felt a thrill of recognition as connections were made.
He had met Simon Pendleton on the Bridge.
Chapter Ten
Domestic tragedy inflicted deep wounds on Walter Stanford and he dragged himself around for days after the funeral. He brought his sister back to Stanford Place so that he could look after her properly and they spent much time together on their knees in the little chapel. His work was not entirely neglected and he burnt large quantities of midnight oil in his counting-house. He also resumed his regular visits to the Royal Exchange. His smiling face hid the pain of an anguished soul, his pleasantries concealed a profound sorrow. Though he had disapproved of much that Michael Delahaye did, he had loved him like a second son and felt that he would at last be able to exert a firm paternal influence on his wayward nephew. That fond hope now lay buried in the family vault at Windsor. Requiescat in pace.
The first floor of the Exchange — the pawn, as it was known — had been rented out to shopkeepers whose booths sold such luxury items as horn, porcelain, ivory, silver and watches. It was from one of these shops that Gilbert Pike looked down to espy his friend below and he hurried down to the courtyard as fast as his venerable legs would carry him. He waded out through the waves of bartering humanity until he reached Walter Stanford. Greetings were followed by the old man’s condolences but the Lord Mayor Elect did not wish to dwell on sadness. He turned to a more uplifting subject.
‘Now, sir, how does my play fare?’
‘It is all but finished, Walter,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I still have the trick of words and I vow that The Nine Giants will please you and your good lady mightily.’
‘Does it beat the drum for the Mercers’ Company?’
‘Until every ear be deafened.’
‘And humour, Gilbert? I asked for lightness.’
‘It will set the table on a roar.’
‘That will be welcome at this bleak time,’ said the other. ‘But tell me now, who are our nine giants?’
‘Dick Whittington is first.’
‘No man could question that.’
‘Then come Geoffrey Boleyn and Hugh Clopton.’
‘Both mercers and mayors of high repute.’
‘Fine fellows,’ agreed Pike. ‘Except that Clopton does not lend itself to rhyme. John Allen is the next in line with Ralph Dodmer and Richard Gresham close behind.’
‘All six of these are giants indeed.’
‘Lionel Duckett, too, and with him Rowland Hill.’
‘That brings the number up to eight.’
‘My ninth giant is Walter Stanford.’
‘I pale in such company, Gilbert.’
‘You may yet stand taller than all the rest, sir.’
They fell into a discussion of the pageant and its simple structure. The doddering author could not resist quoting from his work. One of the nine giants brought special pleasure to Walter Stanford.
‘I like the notion of Ralph Dodmer.’
‘Lord Mayor of London in 1529,’ said the old man. ‘He was a brewer who rebelled against the dominance of the Great Twelve. He refused to translate to one of the dozen leading Guilds even though it was the only way to ensure his mayoralty. No mere brewer could get election.’
‘Dodmer suffered for his principles.’
‘Indeed, sir. A spell in prison and a heavy fine changed his mind for him. Our brewer saw common sense.’
‘And became affiliated to the mercers.’
‘Then did he take revenge on all his fellows,’ said the chortling Pike. ‘He kept the aleconners alert enough. Tavern keepers caught watering the beer or serving short measure were fined and jailed, and had their cheating measures burnt in public. Brewers who tampered with their beer were hauled before the court. An alewife found using pitchers with naughty bottoms was sent to play Bo Peep through a pillory.’
‘He swinged the whole profession.’
‘The Nine Giants will tell it true.’
‘Then harp on the brewers, Gilbert,’ said his friend. ‘That is where we may score against a certain alderman. Let Ralph Dodmer scourge his fellows soundly. I would make another brewer squirm in his seat.’
‘Rowland Ashway, I think?’
‘Turn those red cheeks to a deeper hue.’
‘His blushes will light up the Guildhall!’
With his florid cheeks shining almost as brightly as his scarlet nose, Alderman Rowland Ashway stood in the window of a room that overlooked the inn yard. The White Hart in Cheapside had been chosen because of its size and its situation. Preparations were being made against the morrow. Extra benches and trestle tables had been procured. Additional servingmen had been hired. Fresh barrels of Ashway’s Best Beer were even now being rolled across the pavestones. The brewer was pleased by what he saw. When there was a knock on the door, he swung round and welcomed the tall figure who entered with a grunt of almost porcine satisfaction.
‘Is everything in order, sir?’ said the newcomer.
‘I have seen to it myself.’
‘Then have we no cause for vexation.’
‘Unless our plans go awry.’
‘They will not,’ said the other confidently. ‘Errors cannot be tolerated. All will be done as discussed.’
‘Good. Here’s gold to help your purposes.’
Ashway tossed a bag of coins onto the table and his companion nodded his thanks before picking it up. The man was well favoured and dressed with a lazy elegance that came in sharp contrast to the sartorial pomposity of the brewer. A feathered hat was angled on his head so that its brim came down over one eye that was shielded by a black patch. His chin was clean-shaven. They were not natural friends but mutual advantage had turned them into partners. Rowland Ashway spelt out the terms of that partnership.
‘We are in this together, sir, remember that.’
‘I do not doubt it.’
‘Fail me and you fail yourself even worse.’
‘Success attends my mission.’
‘And Firk?’
‘He is recovered enough to aid me.’
‘I hope to hear good news from both of you.’
‘And so you shall,’ said James Renfrew with a grim smile. ‘So you shall, sir.’
Public holidays did not please the city authorities. They were at best occasions for drunken excess and at worst an excuse for violence and destruction of property. Nobody charged with maintaining the peace could rest easy and the more suggestible of their number had nightmares about total loss of control. The main problems came from the apprentices, exuberant young men who chafed under the yoke of their masters and who seized every opportunity to assert their manhoods with unruly behaviour and passages of mob hysteria. Holidays gave law-abiding citizens a chance to rest from their labours and to celebrate a sacred or secular festival. Those same holidays also spilt a deal of blood, clogged up the prisons and led to a rash of unwanted pregnancies.
Shrovetide was carnival time, a final fling before the rigours of Lent. Mothering Sunday came next, a public holiday when those away from home — the rowdy apprentices in the workshops of London — could visit families with gifts and eat the simnel cakes baked for the occasion. Easter solemnity was offset by Hockside fairs and a variety of entertainments. May Day was the major source of concern. This most important spring festival had no Christian foundation at all for the ancient custom of going a-maying was unashamedly pagan. Londoners revelled in its spacious jollity and its sexual freedom. There was often rioting through the bawdy houses or affrays at playhouses or gratuitous attacks on shops and houses. Those who had to enforce order never lost sight of the spectre of Evil May Day in 1517 when a riot saw hundreds of frenzied youths on the rampage, terrorising the city and showing open defiance to authority. Thirteen of the mob were later arrested and hanged in a savage gesture that imprinted the day for ever on the minds of London.