Abel Strudwick was well placed to view the final struggle. When Nicholas caught the kicking legs of his man, the latter turned to fight, pulling a dagger from his belt and hacking madly at his assailant. But the latter got his wrist in a grip of steel that would not slacken. They struggled and splashed with frenetic energy then both disappeared beneath the dark waters. Strudwick rowed in closer and peered down but he could see nothing. Long minutes passed when nothing happened and then blood came up to the surface of the water to brighten its scum. A head soon followed, surging up with desperation so that lungfuls of air could be inhaled. The swimmer then lay on his back to recover from the fatigue of a death-grapple. The waterman rowed in close and helped Nicholas Bracewell into his boat so that he could enjoy some of the cheers of congratulation that were ringing out.
Michael Delahaye did not surface.
The atmosphere at the Queen’s Head was vastly lighter now that the threat of eviction had disappeared. With the arrest of Rowland Ashway, the contract to buy the inn was effectively rescinded. The alderman would never be able to take possession of his intended purchase now. Relief was so great and comprehensive that a smile dared to flit across the face of Alexander Marwood. He had not only been reprieved from a deal which turned out to be more disadvantageous than he had thought. The landlord was also reunited with a termagant wife who had badgered him incessantly about the idiocy of his action in signing. Nocturnal reconciliation let Marwood recall happier days.
Edmund Hoode was in a generous mood. He bought pints of sack for himself and his friend then sat at the table opposite him. A week had passed since the Lord Mayor’s Show but it still vibrated in the memory.
‘You were the hero of the hour, Nick,’ said Hoode.
‘I thought but of poor Hans Kippel.’
‘His death is well revenged now. And all those other villains are locked secure away, including the Chamberlain himself. Who would have thought a man in such a place would have stooped to such crimes?’
‘Temptation got the better of him, Edmund.’
‘Yes,’ said the other harshly. ‘The same may be said of Lawrence. But for you again, that dalliance might have led us into further disaster. What an actor, Nick! But what a dreadful lecher, too! Margery has much to endure.’
‘She is made of stern stuff.’
They sipped their drinks and enjoyed the comfort of being in their own home again. The Queen’s Head might not be as well appointed as some inns but it was their chosen base and its landlord was anxious to renew his dealings with them. Nicholas had negotiated a new contract that favoured the company and he extracted an important concession from Marwood. A job had to be found at the inn for a man who had been an immense help to the book holder and whose occupation was now at risk. Leonard would henceforth be working at the Queen’s Head and it would be good to see his friendly face around the establishment.
Nicholas thought of another friend and smiled.
‘What do you make of Abel Strudwick?’ he said.
‘His verse is an abomination,’ snapped Hoode.
‘Yet he has finally found a market. His ballad on the Lord Mayor’s Show is the talk of the town. He describes my fight below the water in more detail than I could myself.’
‘The fellow is a bungling wordsmith.’
‘Let him have his hour, Edmund.’
‘He uses rhyme, like a sword, to hack.’
‘There are worse things a man may do.’
Hoode agreed and took a kinder view of the waterman. He felt a vestigial sympathy for him because of the way that he was routed at the flyting contest. It had been a fight between the world of the amateur and that of the professional. Abel Strudwick had no chance. He was entitled to his brief moment of glory as a ballad-maker. Such thoughts led Hoode on to consider the merits of the raw amateur whose passions were not inhibited by too great a knowledge of the technicalities of poetry. He recalled the Lord Mayor’s banquet to which Nicholas had been bidden as an honoured guest.
‘Tell me, Nick. What was it like?’
‘What?’
‘This play of theirs — The Nine Giants.’
‘Do I detect jealousy here?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Hoode quickly. ‘I am above such things, as you well know. My plays have held the stage for years and I fear no rival. I just wish you to tell me what this pageant of the nine worthy mercers was like.’ He fished gently. ‘Tedious, perhaps? Over-long and underwritten? Basely put together?’
‘It was very well received,’ said Nicholas.
‘By Mistress Stanford?’
‘By her especially.’
Hoode drooped. ‘Then is my cause truly lost.’
‘I liked the piece myself. It had quality.’
‘What sort of quality, man?’
‘Height and hardness.’
‘You lose me here.’
‘The Nine Giants resembled our own at Richmond.’
‘They stood in a circle?’
‘They were tall, straight and monstrously wooden.’
Edmund Hoode laughed for an hour.