The Nine Giants by Edward Marston Page A

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.

Chapter Three
    A bel Strudwick passed a troubled night in restless contemplation of the incident. Not even the sonorous snoring of the wife who lay beside him could lull him into slumber and this was unusual. As a rule, the waterman enjoyed his sleep to the full, wearied by the physical strains of his working day and by the consumption of ample quantities of bottle ale. He would be dead to the world within minutes and spend a restorative night in dreams of being plucked from the toil of his occupation to become a revered poet. A corpse in the Thames had changed all that. Strudwick had hauled bodies out of the water before now but none had been so gruesome as this one and even his strong stomach had rebelled. Memory turned night into one long, lacerating ordeal.
    The next day found him tired and fractious, more ready than ever to burn the ears off his customers with a positiveinferno of vituperation. Unlike most watermen, Strudwick plied his trade on his own. The bulk of his fellows took their passengers across the river in six-or eight-oared wherries that enabled them to cope with large parties. Strudwick had only a small rowing boat. He and his son had operated very successfully in it until the latter was press-ganged during the panic that preceded the news of the approach of the Spanish Armada. The loss of their apprentices to the navy was a source of great pain in the watermen’s community but their protests went unheard and unregarded. It was not surprising that they therefore resorted to all kinds of stratagems to protect their young men from such a dire fate.
    Strudwick paid a young lad to help him from time to time and to sleep in the boat at night to prevent it from being stolen, but the aspiring poet mostly worked alone. The others mocked him cruelly for his ambitions but none dared do so to his face. In contests of verbal abuse and in wharfside brawls, he was a fearsome opponent who could see off the best. Abel Strudwick’s black tongue and bulging biceps created the space in which his verse could thrive unhampered. Drink lubricated his creative powers and it was in a tavern that most of his inspiration came.
    So it was that afternoon as he sat in the corner of the taproom at the Jolly Sailor and gave his fertile mind free rein. The verse came haltingly at first, then more fluently and, finally, in a torrent that had him leaping up from his stool. Keen to oblige a regular customer, the landlord had pen and ink at the ready for the waterman and Strudwick pulled out the scrap of parchment that he always carriedwith him for such precious moments. He scratched away happily for half an hour before he felt it was time to return to work. The Bankside theatres would be emptying soon and there would be passengers for every boatman who was moored on the Surrey side of the river.
    As Abel Strudwick came tumbling out of the inn, it was another playhouse that caught his attention. Stuck to a post nearby was something which he felt had been put there by the hand of God. It was a playbill advertising the performance of
Double Deceit
by Westfield’s Men on the following day and it crystallised a plan which had been forming in his mind for several months. His days as a fumbling amateur in the world of words were numbered. He wanted to see and hear how a professional pen could write verse in a dramatic vein and get the encouragement to fulfil his vaulting ambition. Nicholas Bracewell was a good friend who had never let him down in the past.
    It was time to put that friendship to the test.
     
    Margery Firethorn was kept as busy as ever. In addition to her normal household complement of souls, she had to cater for the three actors who were staying