‘Thirty-two,’ he said.
‘What’s that, Hans?’ asked Anne.
‘Thirty-two heads today. I have not seen so many.’
‘Have pity on their souls,’ said Nicholas.
‘Who were they, sir?’
‘Misguided men.’
‘Did they deserve such treatment?’
‘No, Hans. They have paid for their crime already.’
‘What was it, Master Bracewell?’
By the time that Nicholas had explained, they were passing through the gate and beneath the sightless eyes of the severed heads. Another feature of the Bridge now rose up to dominate and impress.
‘That is Nonesuch House,’ said Anne.
‘I have admired it often, mistress.’
‘Did you know that it was Dutch?’
‘There is no mistaking it,’ he said with a proud smile. ‘I have seen other houses like it in Amsterdam.’
Nonesuch House was well named. No other such house or building stood in the whole of London. Built entirely out of wood, it was a huge, rambling structure that was heavily encrusted with ornament and crowned with carved gables and onion-shaped cupolas. The woodwork was painted with such vivid colours that a remarkable house became quite dazzling in every sense. Nonesuch House was one of the wonders of London and it added immeasurably to the awe-inspiring impact of the Bridge.
Nicholas Bracewell supplied more details for him.
‘The foundation stone was laid in 1577,’ he said. ‘The house was built in Holland and shipped over, section by section, to be reassembled here. Just think, Hans. That building made the same journey as you.’
‘Will I be reassembled?’ he said plaintively.
‘We’ll put you together again somehow, lad.’
‘It has no nails,’ continued Anne. ‘That is the real miracle of it. The whole house is held together with wooden pegs. What you see there is Dutch perfection.’
‘Like the hats of Jacob Hendrik.’
Nicholas coaxed another smile from the boy and a wink of satisfaction from Anne. Their scheme had so far worked. Instead of rebelling at the very sight of the Bridge, the boy was walking steadily across it. Their afternoon stroll was not unimpeded. As ever, the Bridge was liberally overpopulated. Houses and shops stretched every inch of its length and leant over towards each other with such amiable curiosity that they could almost shake hands. The narrow road was made even narrower by the swirling crowds that moved along it in both directions and horse-drawn traffic had to carve its own rough passage through the human wall. Beautiful to behold from a distance, the Bridge was a dangerous place to cross and rolling wheels all too often brought disfigurement and even death.
It was impossible for the three of them to walk abreast. Holding each by the hand, Nicholas led the way and shouldered a path through the press. There were almost forty shops selling their wares. They included a cutler, a glover, a pouch-maker, a goldsmith, a pinner and a painter but many of the tiny establishments sold articles of apparel. Lavishly decorated, the shops faced inwards and advertised their presence with swinging signs. The merchandise was invariably made on the premises and sold by apprentices from a wooden board which was hinged to the open-fronted shop to form a counter. Behind the boards, shrill-throated youths called for attention.
Hans Kippel edged through it all with bemused interest. While Nicholas had one eye on him, Anne kept up her commentary to relax the boy.
‘Do you know the tale of William Hewet?’ she said.
‘No, mistress.’
‘He was Lord Mayor of London over thirty years ago. A clothworker,’ she explained, pointing a finger, ‘who owned that house you see up ahead. Note how the windows hang out over the water. William Hewet’s daughter fell from one of them straight into the Thames.’
‘What happened, mistress?’
‘One of the apprentices dived in after her and dragged her to safety. His name was Edward Osborne. The girl grew up to be a beauty who was much courted but the father turned them away. “Osborne saved her, Osborne shall have her,” he said. And so it was, Hans. He married her and inherited the business. Edward Osborne then became Lord Mayor of London himself.’
‘Apprentices may yet thrive, then?’ said the boy.
‘Indeed,’ said Nicholas. ‘But one detail of the story was missing. The lovely daughter was named Anne.’
He smiled at her by way of compliment and she gave a gracious nod of acknowledgement. In that instant when their attention wandered from the boy, he lost all curiosity in the history of the Bridge. Hans Kippel came to a halt and stared at a house that was boxed in between two shops. Memories came back to test him and to make him gibber soundlessly. He took a few steps towards the house and touched it with his hand as if to make sure that it was the right place. The identification was complete. Mad panic gripped him once again and he turned to race back in the direction of Southwark.
But his way was blocked. A large cart was trundling towards him and it took no account of his youth or his urgency. Before he could get out of the way, the boy was knocked flying by the careless brutality of the vehicle. Nicholas rushed to pick him up in his arms and to search for injury while Anne upbraided the carter roundly. She then joined the little crowd who had gathered around the semi-conscious apprentice. No bones seemed to have been broken and no blood showed but he was severely winded. Nicholas and Anne tended him with concern.
But the keenest interest was shown by someone else. As the sagging body of Hans Kippel was borne away, a pair of dark, malignant eyes stared out from the upstairs window of the house which had alarmed the apprentice so much.
The boy had been found.
Edmund Hoode suffered the pangs of rank injustice. As he toyed with his pint of sack at the Queen’s Head, he came to appreciate just how selfish and sadistic Lawrence Firethorn could be. It was unforgivable. After months of emotional stagnation, the poet had finally found someone to rescue him from his plight and supply a focus for the creative energy of his romantic inclinations. His new love had been blighted before it could blossom. Firethorn was exploiting a cruel contractual advantage over him. Instead of releasing his passion in verses dedicated to his own love, Hoode was simply helping to satisfy the actor-manager’s libidinous desires. Despair made him groan aloud and turn to Barnaby Gill who was seated beside him on the oak settle.
‘Truly, I am out of love with this life.’
‘That was ever your theme,’ said Gill cynically.
‘This time I am in earnest, Barnaby. I would sue to be rid of this wretched existence.’
‘Chance may contrive that for you.’
‘How say you?’
‘Westfield’s Men are threatened with execution, sir. If Alderman Rowland Ashway takes possession here, ours will be the first heads on the block.’
‘I would welcome the axe.’
‘Well, I would not, Edmund,’ said the other peevishly. ‘Blood would ruin my new doublet and ruff. And I would not have my career cut off by the whim of a brewer. If Marwood sells the inn, I must think the unthinkable.’
‘Retire from the stage?’
‘My admirers would never countenance that. No, sir, I would need to put survival first and join Banbury’s Men.’ He saw Hoode’s shock and sailed over it. ‘Yes, it might be an act of betrayal but my art must take precedence. If Westfield’s Men cannot sustain me, I must look to the highest bidder and that must be Giles Randolph. He has coveted my services this long time.’
‘What about Lawrence?’
‘What about him?’ challenged Gill.
Hoode pondered. ‘You are right, sir. We owe him no loyalty after the way he has treated us. I’ll not let him stroke the bodies of his mistresses with my conceits. Do you know his latest demand?’