‘I have not recovered from yesterday’s outing yet.’
‘London has much more to offer,’ he said. ‘It is the most exciting city in Europe.’
‘I am learning that to be true.’
‘Let us sail up the river to Hampton Court.’
‘Hold on, sir. Do not hurry me so.’
‘Then let us go riding together instead.’
‘You are so good to me, William.’
‘It is because you are so good for Father.’
William Stanford was a handsome, upright young man of twenty who had inherited all the best features of his parents. He dressed like a gallant and sought out the pleasures of the day but he also had a shrewd business sense and enjoyed working alongside his father. Shaken by his mother’s violent death, he had at first been hostile to the idea of his father’s remarriage but Matilda had soon won him over with her beauty and sincerity. She had brought much-needed cheer into the gloom of Stanford Place and, now that she was losing her shyness, she was able to show an effervescence that was delightful. It was William who had taken her to the Queen’s Head to watch Westfield’s Men in action. He was now anxious to provide further diversions for her.
‘Do but wait until Michael returns,’ he said.
‘When is your cousin due back, sir?’
‘At any time now. He has been serving as a soldier in the Low Countries out of sheer bravado.’ William gave an affectionate smile. ‘You will love Michael. He is the merriest fellow alive and will make you laugh until you beg him to stop lest your sides split.’
‘I look forward to meeting him.’
‘Michael is the very soul of mirth.’
They were interrupted by a tap on the door. Simon Pendleton oozed into the room with the scroll in his hand and inclined his head in the suspicion of a bow.
‘A messenger delivered this for you, mistress.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘He was a ragged creature,’ said the steward, handing over the scroll. ‘I liked not the look of him and hope that his missive will not cause offence.’
‘I do adore surprises,’ she said with a giggle and began to untie the ribbon. ‘What can it be?’
Pendleton lurked. ‘Nothing untoward, I trust.’
‘That will be all, Simon,’ said William dismissively.
The steward hid his annoyance behind a mask of civility and withdrew soundlessly. Matilda unrolled the playbill and stared at it with sudden ecstasy.
‘Dear God, this is wonderful!’ she cried.
‘May I see?’
‘Look, sir. Westfield’s Men play again tomorrow.’
‘Double Deceit,’ he noted. ‘I have seen the piece before. It is an excellent comedy and well acted.’
‘Let us go to this playhouse to see it, William.’
‘But I already have another treat in store for you tomorrow. I purposed to take you to The Curtain to watch Banbury’s Men go through their paces.’
‘I would see Master Firethorn again.’
‘He is a brilliant actor, I grant you,’ said William, ‘but some people believe that Giles Randolph is even better. He has led Banbury’s Men to the heights and plays the title role in the Tragical History of King John. Take my advice and give Master Randolph his chance.’
‘That I will do at some future time,’ she promised. ‘For tomorrow, I pray, conduct me to The Theatre. It is my earnest wish.’ She held up the playbill. ‘It would be churlish to refuse such an invitation.’
William quickly agreed then began to tell her something of the plot of Double Deceit but his stepmother was not listening. Matilda’s mind was racing. She was young and inexperienced in such matters but she sensed that the playbill had been sent for a purpose. Someone was anxious for her to attend a playhouse in Shoreditch on the following day and that set up all sorts of intriguing possibilities. Matilda Stanford was firmly married and she would be going in the company of her stepson but that did not stop her feeling a surge of joyful expectation such as she had never known before.
A grubby playbill had touched her heart.
Hans Kippel had been told to stay at his lodgings and rest but the force of habit was too strong for the lad. It got him out of his bed and along to his workplace early in the morning. Surprised to see him, Preben van Loew had shown a fatherly care for the apprentice and given him only the simplest tasks but even these were beyond his competence. The boy was clearly suffering the after-effects of his ordeal and could not focus his mind on anything for more than a few minutes. The Dutchman tried to probe him for more details of what had occurred on the previous day but none were forthcoming. A blow to the head had locked all memory of the incident inside the young skull of Hans Kippel.
It was early afternoon when Nicholas Bracewell came back to the house in Bankside. He had spent the morning at The Theatre, finalising the arrangements for the performance of Double Deceit and supervising the transfer of costumes and properties from the Queen’s Head. With a little spare time at his disposal, he had hurried home to see if he could coax any further information out of the wounded apprentice. Hans Kippel was pleased to see him and shook his hand warmly but the boy’s face then became vacant again. Nicholas sat beside him and spoke low.
‘We are all very proud of you, Hans.’
‘Why so, sir?’
‘Because you are a very brave young man.’
‘I do not feel brave, Master Bracewell.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Sore afraid. I am lost and know not where to turn.’
‘You are among friends here, Hans. Safe and sound.’
‘Will you protect me, sir?’
‘From what?’
The blank face clouded. ‘I cannot tell. My mind has cut me adrift. But I know I have enemies.’
‘What enemies? Who are they?’
But Hans Kippel had yielded up all that he could. Not even the patient questioning of Nicholas Bracewell could draw anything further out of him. The book holder consulted with Preben van Loew who gave it as his opinion that the boy would be far better off in the comfort of his bed. He was patently not fit for work and needed all the rest that he could get. Nicholas agreed only partly with this, arguing that the apprentice would never make a full recovery until his mind had been cleared of the horror that had possessed it. Since that might not happen of its own volition, he suggested an idea that might help. He volunteered to accompany Hans Kippel as they retraced the steps the boy had taken on the previous day, hoping that somewhere along the way his memory would be restored by the sight of something familiar.
Preben van Loew gave his blessing to the enterprise and waved the two of them off at the door. Hans Kippel was a sad figure with his bandaged head and his limp. It had already occurred to Nicholas that it might have been his nationality which told against the youth. His sober attire, open face and general mien marked him out as a Dutch immigrant and thus the natural target for the resentment of many people. In the company of someone as tall and muscular as Nicholas Bracewell, the boy was not likely to be mocked so openly but he might just recognise the point in the journey at which his humiliation took place. They walked slowly on together.
‘Look all about you, Hans,’ said Nicholas.
‘I will do so, sir.’
‘Tell me if you see aught that you remember.’
‘My mind is still empty.’
‘We will try to put something in it.’
The journey came to an abrupt end. One minute, Hans Kippel was dragging himself along in a daze, the next, he was staring ahead in terror and refusing to move another step. They had come out of the Bankside labyrinth by St Saviour’s Church and were heading towards the Bridge. It was one of the finest sights in London, a truly imposing structure that spanned the murky Thames with a series of arches and which housed a miniature city on its broad back. Visitors came from all over Europe to marvel at London Bridge but here was one foreigner who had no sense of wonder. Hans Kippel turned white with fear and let out a scream of intense pain. His trembling finger pointed at the Bridge. Before Nicholas could stop him, he turned around and limped away as fast as his injured legs would carry him.