Ashway smirked. ‘I love him for that.’
Since 1453, when Sir John Norman was rowed up the river in a fine barge with silver oars, the Lord Mayor’s Show had taken place on both land and water. Both banks of the Thames were thus lined with ranks of spectators who waited expectantly to see a floating marvel. Everyone knew the itinerary. Walter Stanford, Lord Mayor of London, would first tour his ward — that of Cornhill in which the Royal Exchange symbolically stood — then proceed to the nearest stairs where he would embark and be rowed up to Westminster to take his oath in the Exchequer before the judge. After that, he would return by barge to Blackfriars and progress to St Paul’s for a service of thanksgiving before going on to the Guildhall for his Banquet. Veteran onlookers knew how to move around the city to get several perspectives on the Show. Newcomers with staring country eyes stayed rooted to the same spot for hours in order to catch a mere glimpse of the pomp and circumstance that marked the occasion.
Walter Stanford himself took it all with the utmost seriousness. Dressed in the traditional robes and wearing the famous mayoral hat, he was for that day alone the father of the whole city but it was his position as an uncle that worried him. Somewhere along the way was a crazed nephew with a grudge against him and a need to nip his mayoralty in the bud. Behind his smiles and his waves and his apparent delight, therefore, was an anxiety that would not leave him. His faith had been placed in a man who was nothing more than a book holder in a theatrical company. Was his trust well founded?
Leaving his ward, he followed the procession along a cheering avenue that led to the river. At the front of the parade were two men who bore the arms of the Mercers’ Company. They were followed by a drummer, a flute-player and a man with a fife. Behind them, in blue gowns and caps and hose and blue silk sleeves, were sixteen trumpeters blowing their instruments in strident unison. Horse-drawn floats came next, each one elaborately mounted by an individual Guild and competing with each other in colour and spectacle. The Fishmongers’ Ship was among the finest on display, a huge galleon that seemed to sail above the craned heads of the populace as it passed by. Another favoured contender was the Goldsmith’s Castle, a quite magnificent structure that was first produced for the coronation of Richard II. And there were many others to keep the fingers pointing and the jaws dropping.
Fittingly, it was the Mercer’s Maiden Chariot which outshone them all. This pageant was a Roman chariot, some twenty feet or more high, with sides of embossed silver and surmounted by a golden canopy above which sat Fame blowing her trumpet. In the chariot sat the Mercer’s Maiden. This was customarily a young and beautiful gentlewoman with a gold and jewelled coronet on her head. At the Lord Mayor’s feast, she dined royally at a separate table. This year, however, there was a significant break with tradition. Instead of choosing some long-haired young lady from one of the mercers’ families, Walter Stanford selected his own wife as the Maiden and she was overjoyed. Seated high above the long ribbons of yelling people, Matilda Stanford felt the thrill of being a performer and the extraordinary honour of being wife to the Lord Mayor. The journey in the chariot helped her to forget all about Lawrence Firethorn and find her husband instead.
At the rear of it all came the Lord Mayor himself. He was preceded by the Sword Bearer in his immense fur hat and by the Sergeant-at-Arms who bore the mace. Other ceremonial officers walked close by with the Chamberlain among them but Stanford paid him no attention. It was important not to arouse the suspicions of Aubrey Kenyon or of any of the others until they could all be safely apprehended. When the Lord Mayor was not bestowing a genial wave on the crowd, he was keeping one eye on the soldier who marched just ahead of him. Dressed in an armoured breastplate and wearing a steel helmet, the man trailed his pike in the same manner as his fellows but he was no ordinary member of the guard. Nicholas Bracewell had a duty that went well beyond the ceremonial.
Abel Strudwick had rowed his boat out into the middle of the river to be part of the huge armada that accompanied the procession up to Westminster. All around him were other craft with eager spectators and it gave him a feeling of superiority to think that they had simply come to gawp and goggle. Poetry had put the waterman on the Thames that day. He was there to find inspiration for some new verses, to immortalise a great event with the creative fire of his imagination. From where he sat and bobbed, he had a fine view of the parade as it moved from land to water.
First to set off was the Mercers’ Barge with its coat of arms proudly displayed aloft. Behind it came the Bachelors’ Barge which was followed in turn by the vessels of the other companies, strictly in order of precedence. Strudwick saw the arms of the Grocers, the Drapers, the Fishmongers — with Sir Lucas Pugsley aboard — the Goldsmiths, the Skinners, the Merchant Taylors, the Haberdashers, the Salters, the Ironmongers, the Vintners and the Clothworkers. No place for Rowland Ashway there. The alderman had to wait upon the Dyers before his Guild could step forward for attention. It was an imposing sight that was made even more vivid by the fact that the companies wore their distinctive liveries.
The waterman felt no verse stirring as yet but he remained confident. What drew his gaze now was a sight that never failed to impress and even frighten a little at a Lord Mayor’s Show. Two huge and grotesque creatures were in the prow of the last barge, pretending to draw a model of Britain’s Mount. Strudwick recognised them as Corinaeus and Gogmagog, fabled inhabitants of the city in ancient days.
They were giants.
Walter Stanford was vastly more confident now that he was afloat with his guard all around him. Out in the open street, he felt he was a target for a knife, an arrow, even for a sword if its owner could get close enough. He began to enjoy the procession as it sailed slowly down river between the echoing banks of applause. Nicholas was close enough to him for a brief conversation.
‘Your fears were groundless, sir,’ said Stanford.
‘The day is yet young.’
‘What harm could touch us here?’
‘None, I hope,’ said Nicholas.
But his instincts told him otherwise. The Lord Mayor and his retinue were standing on the upper deck of the barge so that they could be seen more clearly. Corinaeus and Gogmagog were several yards in front of them. The book holder took a professional interest in how the giants had been fashioned. They were about twelve feet high and made out of carved and gilded limewood. Skilful painters had given them hideous leering faces. Corinaeus was dressed like a barbarian warrior and sported a morning star on a chain. Gogmagog wore the costume of a Roman centurion and carried a spear and a shield that was decorated with a symbolic phoenix. Nicholas admired the strength of the men inside each of the models. They were even able to manipulate levers that made their weapons lift and fall in the air.
It was when Walter Stanford stepped forward to take a closer look at the giants that the danger came. Corinaeus made no move but Gogmagog responded at once. Through the slit in the bodywork, the man inside saw his chance and acted. Raising his spear, he tried to jab it hard at Walter Stanford but a soldier was there to parry the blow with his pike. What came next caused even more panic in the barge. Gogmagog rose feet in the air and then hurled himself directly at the Lord Mayor with a force that would have killed him had the giant made contact. But the pike of Nicholas Bracewell again did sterling duty and guided the huge wooden object over the side of the barge and into the water. The splash drenched people for twenty yards around and caused some of the smaller boats nearby to capsize.
Michael Delahaye had failed. He glared at his hated uncle with his one malignant eye then hurled a rope at the advancing guards to beat them back. Before they could get him, he had dived over the side of the barge into the river. It all happened with such speed that everyone was totally confused but Nicholas had his wits about him. Throwing off his helmet and divesting himself of his breastplate, he ran to the side of the barge and flung himself after the would-be assassin. Delahaye was strong and cleaved his way through the water but his pursuer was the better swimmer and clawed back the distance between them. Bewildered spectators on boat and bank watched in silence at the two pinheads that seemed to be floating on the waves. None of them understood the significance of what they were witnessing.