The Nine Giants by Edward Marston Page B

self, Lord Mayor.’
    ‘My wife?’
    ‘She has been standing by this half-hour.’
    ‘That is a welcome change,’ said Pugsley with a quiet snigger. ‘When we live at home together, it is always
I
who am kept waiting if we are dining out. I like this new order of precedence. A Lord Mayor of London can even put a woman in her place.’
    ‘Unless she be the Queen of England.’
    ‘Even then, sir. I have spoken honestly with Her Majesty before now and she has respected me for it. My generosity is also well known to her.’
    ‘As to the whole city.’ The Chamberlain pointed towards the door of the apartment. ‘Will you descend? The coach has been at the door this long time.’
    ‘There is no hurry,’ said Pugsley grandly. ‘Though the Guildhall be full, none will dare to start before me. I claim the privilege of my office in arriving late.’
    The Chamberlain smiled quietly and crossed to open the door. Two servants bowed low at the approach of the Lord Mayor. Sir Lucas Pugsley sailed past them and went down the wide staircase to be met by a further display of obeisance in the hall. With his wife on his arm, he left the house and was assisted into the ceremonial coach. The journey to the Guildhall was marred by only one thought. His year of triumph would be over all too soon. Power invaded his brain and gave his resolve a manic intensity.
    He had to cling on to office somehow.
     
    Aubrey Kenyon, meanwhile, was pulling a cloak around his shoulders before slipping discreetly out of the house. He walked quickly through the dark lanes until he came to an imposing property in Silver Street near Cripplegate. He was no deferential Chamberlain now but a determined man with an air of self-importance about him. When he knocked at a side-door of the house, he was admitted instantly bya servant and conducted to the main room. His host was waiting anxiously.
    ‘You are a welcome sight, Aubrey!’
    ‘Good even, good sir.’
    ‘We have much to discuss.’
    ‘Time is beginning to run out for us.’
    Rowland Ashway dismissed his servant then poured two cups of fine wine. Handing one to his guest, he conducted him to a seat at the long oak table. The portly brewer and the poised Chamberlain were an incongruous pair but they had common interests which tied them indissolubly together.
    ‘How is our mutual friend?’ said Ashway.
    ‘Sir Lucas is besotted with his authority. He will not easily yield it up.’
    ‘Nor will we, Aubrey.
You
are the real power behind the Lord Mayor of London and the beauty of it is that Luke is far too addle-brained to notice it.’
    ‘The truth will not escape Walter Stanford.’
    ‘That is why he must never take office. Never, sir!’
    The Chamberlain calmly pronounced a death sentence.
    ‘They must find that boy.’
     
    The passage of time had not so far improved the sleeping habits of Hans Kippel. His body had profited from rest but his mind remained a prey to phantoms. The young apprentice was at the mercy of an unknown enemy who would not show his face.
    ‘I will be poor company, Master Bracewell.’
    ‘That is for me to decide.’
    ‘I would not keep you awake.’
    ‘Nor shall you,’ said Nicholas with a smile. ‘After the day I have endured, I will sleep like a baby.’
    ‘Go upstairs, Hans,’ advised Anne Hendrik. ‘We have put a truckle bed ready for you.’
    ‘Thank you, mistress. Good night.’
    They exchanged farewells and he went off upstairs. Disturbed nights were taking such a toll on the boy that Nicholas volunteered to share a room with him, hoping that his presence might bring a degree of reassurance. At the same time, he wanted to be on hand in case there was any trickle of information from the memory that had so far been completely dammed up. Anne Hendrik was immensely grateful to her lodger.
    ‘It is kindness indeed, Nick.’
    ‘I hate to see that look of terror upon him.’
    ‘As do I.’
    ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘Hans may still get the worst end of it. If he