The Chamberlain was a rock at all times.
‘I have brought the judicial accounts, Lord Mayor.’
‘Thank you, Aubrey.’
‘Here also is some correspondence from Amsterdam.’
‘I have been awaiting that.’
‘You have to deliver a speech this evening.’
‘Lord save us! I had quite forgot.’
‘That is why I took the liberty of drafting it out for you, Lord Mayor. Three foreign ambassadors dine at your house this night. A speech of welcome is in order. You are too busy to give much time to it yourself.’ He handed the documents over. ‘I hope that my humble scribblings find favour.’
‘Indeed, they do, man. You are my saviour, Aubrey!’
‘I try to be of service.’
As Chamberlain to the city of London, he had wide-ranging duties with regard to finance but his omnicompetence raised him above his calling. Like many before him, Pugsley used the man’s advice and expertise at every turn and confided in him things that he kept from almost everyone. That was another reassuring trait of Aubrey Kenyon. He was the very soul of discretion.
They were in the palatial room that Pugsley used as his office. He was seated at the long oak table with documents piled high in front of him. Without the aid of his Chamberlain, he could never hope to find his way through them. Power made him capricious.
‘Do I have appointments this afternoon?’
‘Five in total, Lord Mayor.’
‘I am in no mood to receive anyone. Cancel them.’
Kenyon bowed. ‘I have already done so.’
‘You know my mind better than I,’ said Pugsley with a chuckle. ‘You have learnt to read me like a book, sir.’
‘Then I hope I have read aright.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I dismissed only four of your five visitors.’
‘And the fifth?’
‘He waits outside. I did not think you would wish him to be turned away like the others.’
‘Who is the fellow?’
‘Alderman Rowland Ashway.’
‘Once more, you share my thinking, sir. Rowland Ashway must never be sent away from this door. It is largely because of him that I sit this side of it.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Admit him at once.’
‘I will, Lord Mayor.’
Kenyon bowed, left the room quietly then returned almost at once with the waddling Ashway. With another formal bow, the Chamberlain left them alone to trade warm greetings and even warmer gossip. The old friends were soon chatting away happily about the pleasures of high office. Sir Lucas Pugsley let self-importance get the better of him.
‘Nothing can compare with this feeling, Rowland.’
‘I trust it well.’
‘It is a gift from the gods.’
‘And from your admirers on the aldermanic roll.’
‘Think, man! A fishmonger who has the Queen’s ear.’
‘We are two of a kind,’ said Ashway complacently.
‘In what regard?’
‘You have the Queen’s ear. I have the Queen’s Head.’
Nicholas Bracewell bided his time until the landlord came out into the courtyard to speak to one of his ostlers. As Alexander Marwood broke away, the book holder intercepted him. It was early evening at the Queen’s Head and the disgruntled audience had long since departed. Westfield’s Men had sullied their glowing reputation.
‘Good even, good sir,’ said Marwood. ‘You gave a paltry account of yourselves here today.’
‘Some blame must fall on you, I fear.’
‘I am no actor, Master Bracewell.’
‘Indeed you are not,’ said Nicholas. ‘Had you been so, you would know the lurching misery of those without a regular wage or a regular home. The Queen’s Head has been a beacon in our darkness, sir. Take but that away and you plunge us into blackest night.’
‘I must do the best for myself and my family.’
‘Granted, sir. But we are part of that family now and feel cut off. When you threaten to exile us, you lower our spirits and our performance. The result was plain for all to see this afternoon.’
‘Do not put this guilt upon me.’
‘I appeal only to your finer feelings.’
Marwood’s twitch had been quiescent until now, lying dormant while it considered which part of his grotesque face to visit next. It reappeared below his left eye and made him wink with alarming rapidity. Nicholas pursued him for more information.
‘Has anything been settled with Alderman Ashway?’
‘In broad outline.’
‘Our contract still has some weeks to run.’
‘It will not be renewed, Master Bracewell.’
‘Despite the mutual advantage it has brought?’
‘All things must come to an end, sir.’
‘Would you surrender ownership so easily?’
His question made the landlord smart and shifted the nervous twitch to his pursed lips which now opened and shut with fish-like regularity. Evidently, he had some misgivings about the new dispensation. Nicholas tried to apply some gentle pressure.
‘The proud name of Marwood has favoured this inn for over a century. That is a fine achievement.’
‘I know my family history, Master Bracewell.’
‘Then have some thought for your forbears. Would any of them have yielded up their inheritance like this?’
‘No, sir,’ agreed Marwood. ‘Nor would they have given shelter to a troupe of bothersome actors. My father would not have let Westfield’s Men across the threshold.’
‘Would he turn away the custom of our noble patron?’
‘He liked not plays and players.’
‘You have been a kinder host.’
‘It is time to show kindness to myself.’
‘By giving away all that you hold most dear?’
‘Only at a price.’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘That is your privilege, sir. But I wonder that you have not looked more fully into this.’
‘More fully?’
‘Alderman Ashway is an ambitious man. The Queen’s Head will not be the only inn he has gobbled up. Look to the Antelope and to the White Hart in Cheapside.’
‘What of them?’
‘Talk to the landlords,’ said the other. ‘See if they are happy that they sold out to the good brewer. You will find them weighed down with regret, I think.’
‘That is their fault,’ insisted Marwood. ‘I have wrested better terms for myself. You cannot frighten me in that way, Master Bracewell. The Antelope is a scurvy hostelry and the White Hart draws in low company. I’ll not compare the Queen’s Head with them.’
‘They all serve Ashway’s Beer.’
‘You have drunk your share without complaint.’
Nicholas was making no headway. Foreseeing the attack, Marwood had shored up his defences with care. The twitch might travel to and fro across his battlements but his wall would not be breached. Another form of entry had to be found. The book holder searched with care.
‘How does your wife face the impending loss?’
‘That is a private matter, sir.’
‘Mistress Marwood has her doubts, then?’
‘She will see sense in time.’
‘Would you sign a contract without her approval?’
The landlord fell into a stony silence but his twitch betrayed him completely. It broke out in four different areas simultaneously so that a swarm of butterflies seemed to have settled on his face. As he watched the fibrillating flesh, Nicholas Bracewell saw that there might be a shaft of hope for them after all. The future of Westfield’s Men rested on a woman.
Matilda Stanford was in reflective mood as she strolled along the winding paths in the garden. Early autumn was offering floral abundance and bending fruit trees, all wrapped in a heady mixture of sweet fragrances and brought alive by bright sunshine and birdsong. Stanford Place was blessed with one of the largest and most luxuriant gardens in the area, and its blend of privacy and tranquillity was exactly what she needed at that moment. The front of the house looked out on the daily turbulence of Bishopsgate Street but its rear gazed down upon an altogether different world. In the heart of the busiest city in Europe was this haven of pure peace. Matilda had loved it from the start but she came to appreciate it far more now. What had once been a pure delight was today a means of escape. In the twisting walks of the garden, she could find true solitude to relieve the sharpness of her melancholy.