King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  This was typical of Martin, a compliment with a large measure of insult added. A flush rose in Edmund’s cheeks, and I wondered whether we were going to see a display of the temper he was supposed to possess. Since Martin Barton also had a mercurial nature, which some attributed to his Italian mother, I could see a dispute in prospect. So while the pot-boy delivered a second flask of white wine to our table and Martin was distracted in gazing at him (he was a strapping lad), I quickly put in: ‘How is business at the Blackfriars, Martin?’

  It was an innocuous enough question, so I was surprised to see him pull a face. ‘Toothache,’ he said.

  ‘They say the toothache is caused by unbalanced humours,’ said Edmund. ‘Or worms.’

  Barton ignored him and said: ‘Oh, business is very good, Nicholas. We thrive. A more select audience, you know. You should visit us, Edmund Shakespeare. Our boys are more, ah, delicate players than your hulking fellows south of the river.’

  ‘I like it well enough where I am,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Protected under your brother’s wing?’ said Martin. ‘It must be a warm and downy place to nestle.’

  I sensed Edmund growing tense on the bench beside me. The sooner this session was brought to an end, the better. Barton was being his usual needling self, probably aggravated by his teeth, and it appeared that he wanted to meet Shakespeare’s younger brother only out of curiosity. Not benign curiosity like mine, but malevolent.

  ‘William is doing his brother no special favours, Martin,’ I said. ‘Edmund here is making himself useful at the Globe like any apprentice.’

  It was the wrong remark, putting Edmund on his dignity and wanting to show he was more than an apprentice, for he now said: ‘I can tell you that I am helping my brother with his work, Mr Barton.’

  ‘Do you write too? Another poet emerges from the wilds of Stratford!’

  ‘I am providing him with material for his next piece. He is writing about King Arthur.’

  For the first time Martin Barton looked properly interested. He placed his glass of wine carefully on the table and leaned forward, cupping his face gingerly between his hands. I kept my own face impassive but groaned inwardly. As I’ve said, WS did not usually talk about the work he was engaged on. Whether out of superstition or because he feared his ideas being stolen, he would not wish for a member of another acting company to know what he was doing and certainly not Martin Barton. But the words had been spoken.

  ‘Is he? I have sometimes thought of dealing with Arthur myself. A comparison of those golden days with our present corrupt age of iron. A legendary king set beside our diminished rulers. Satirical of course.’

  Satirical wouldn’t do, if Barton wanted to gain favour. King Arthur was taken very seriously by the present royal court, as WS well knew. But let Barton find that out for himself. I was about to say to Edmund that it was time to go, that we should leave Martin to finish his drink (and make friends with the strapping pot-boy). But Edmund was nettled. Before I could stop him he’d launched into a garbled account of how we were going to call on a seller in St Paul’s yard, a seller who had some relics to dispose of, relics connected to King Arthur.

  In other circumstances Martin Barton might have laughed or made some slighting reply. But the red-headed playwright was all seriousness and, learning that we were intending to make our call on Davy Owen that very afternoon, quickly added himself to our company, remarking that it would be a distraction from his face-ache. It was no good my making any objection. Barton could be pleasant enough when he chose, and his manner now switched from mockery to compliment, saying to Edmund that his brother William must be truly glad to have a member of his family with him in the city.

  We made more small talk, rapidly finished our drinks and the last of the oysters and set off towards St Paul’s yard. It was a fine late afternoon. The sky was high and dotted with small clouds that flicked across the sun, while the streets were full of people finishing their activities for the day. I half-hoped we might arrive at St Paul’s yard to find the stalls and shops closing up, but this is one of the busiest parts of town, a place where there are always visitors wanting to gawp and buy and therefore sellers willing to serve them. Edmund told us that Owen had a shop on the booksellers’ side of the yard and that, although he dealt mostly in books and pamphlets, he also traded in other things.

  ‘Like King Arthur’s bones,’ said Martin.

  ‘So he says,’ said Edmund, and I was pleased that he was able to show a touch of scepticism.

  ‘He must be Welsh, this Owen? From his name.’

  ‘He is Welsh. You can hear it in his voice.’

  ‘The old stories link King Arthur with Wales.’

  Barton sounded caught up in the subject. Maybe he really was considering a play about Arthur. By now, after threading our way past several stalls and browsers, we’d reached the shop. A group was emerging from the door, talking and pushing their way through the narrow entrance. Once outside they halted as if their business was not concluded. There were three men, one short and sharp-featured, one tall and very thin, the third also tall yet broad. There was a woman, almost the men’s height and more attractive than any of them.

  ‘That is Davy Owen,’ said Edmund, indicating the little man. The group was so deep in conversation that our presence went unnoticed. I couldn’t hear what they were saying since the largest man had his head bent down towards the short bookseller, but their postures suggested that this was not a friendly exchange. Although the woman was silent, her expression showed displeasure as far as I could see it under the shadow of a great hat. The second man, the one as thin as a rail, was gazing not at them but at her.

  Davy Owen caught sight of us over the other’s shoulder and, with a nod and the touch of a finger on the large man’s sleeve, indicated that they were not alone. The man turned around and looked at us as if we were intruders, although we were all standing in the public space outside the shop. He was an imposing figure, with a wide countenance matching his broad frame and a luxuriant fair beard which spilled out over his ruff.

  He turned back to Davy Owen and uttered a few words before he strode off in the opposite direction. The woman nodded at Owen, not in a friendly way, then took after the man with a gait almost as decisive as her companion’s. In her wake went the thin man. I noticed Martin Barton looking after the woman in particular. The bookseller gazed questioningly at us before recognizing Edmund Shakespeare. Most shopkeepers would be glad to see a returning customer, but Owen was not. In fact he made to scuttle back through the shopdoor, which was still ajar, muttering something about it being time to close.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Edmund. ‘I have brought some friends to see you, Mr Owen.’

  ‘Business is over. It is late in the day, Mr . . . Mr . . . ?’

  I’m pretty certain that Owen knew Edmund’s identity, but for some reason it suited him to pretend otherwise. I heard the Welsh lilt in his voice.

  ‘I am Edmund Shakespeare. You surely remember me, Mr Owen? I bought a bone from you the other day and paid handsomely for it.’

  ‘A bone?’

  ‘The relic of . . . of a famous person.’

  There was a pause while Edmund glared at Davy Owen. Eventually the bookseller said, reluctantly: ‘You may have done.’

  ‘Not only that, but you told me that you had similar items in your possession.’

  ‘Then you must have misunderstood me. I have no more such things under my roof. I’m a bookseller.’

  Davy Owen moved once again to retreat through his door. But Edmund wasn’t so easily put off. He placed a restraining hand on the bookseller’s shoulder.

  ‘I have not come here today, and with my friends too, to be daffed away.’

  ‘I can choose my own hours and my own customers,’ said Owen. The lilt had changed to a whine. He shrugged off Edmund’s hand. Now it was our companion’s turn to intervene.

  ‘I am Martin Barton, the playwright and satirist, you know.’

  He suc
ked in his cheeks, and I saw Owen look curiously at him before saying: ‘I believe I may have seen some of your work, Martin Barton. Seen it while I was using it as spills to light a fire. You insulted the Welsh in one of your pieces.’

  ‘Did I now?’ said Barton. ‘Well, look you, if everyone who’d ever insulted the Welsh was gathered here today they’d need to build a new London.’

  Shakespeare’s brother, evidently growing tired of these verbal blows, started towards Owen as if to resort to something more direct.

  ‘Come on,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t let us trouble this gentleman when he has no wish to relieve us of our money. You cannot force a shopman to sell his goods, especially if he does not have them.’

  ‘Good advice, sir. I wish your friends were as sensible.’

  ‘Nicholas Revill, at your service,’ I said.

  ‘But he does have what we want,’ said Edmund. Seizing the bookseller by the front of his jerkin, he hoiked Owen towards him. The bookseller’s hat fell off to reveal a close-cropped head of hair, coming to an arrow-like point on his forehead. ‘He’s as good as admitted it.’

  So this was the quick temper that William had warned me about. I was about to step forward and physically unfasten Edmund’s hands from Owen’s jerkin when Martin Barton suddenly spoke up again.

  ‘If Leonard Leman and his good lady Alice can be your customers, I do not see why we shouldn’t be.’

  Martin must be referring to the couple who’d just walked away. How he knew them while they appeared not to recognize him, I’ve no idea. But his words had an indirect effect on Owen, who said calmly: ‘I may be able to help you after all, Mr Shakespeare. But you will have to let me go first.’

  Edmund allowed the bookseller to work himself free of his grasp. He ducked down and picked up his hat. I expected the man to invite us inside his shop, but he said: ‘I do not have what you are looking for on these premises, but I can direct you towards some more, ah, items which you may inspect later tonight. And your friends too if they please.’

  ‘Where?’ said Edmund. ‘You had better not be sending us on a fool’s errand, Owen.’

  ‘You should go to a house on the corner of Seething Lane and Tower Street, near the Black Swan. A house with narrow windows. Ask there for a gentleman who calls himself Bernardo Scoto. He is Italian, as you may guess. From Mantua, I believe. Do not call on him before ten, however. He works by night.’

  ‘And what the devil has he got to do with this?’ said Edmund.

  ‘I have heard of this Scoto,’ said Martin Barton, wincing as he spoke. ‘He has a mountebank’s reputation.’

  ‘Be that as it may, he may be able to help you with the toothache which seems to be afflicting you,’ said Owen. ‘Signor Scoto also has a collection of relics in his possession which he is willing to part with, for the right fee. Now, if you will forgive me, I must attend to my stock and shut up for the day.’

  Before Edmund could detain him again, Davy Owen slipped inside his shop and we heard the sound of bolts sliding and keys turning.

  I assumed that was it, that our little expedition had come to an end. No point, surely, in trailing off to some dwelling in Tower Street in search of an Italian mountebank. But I reckoned without Edmund’s determination and, more surprisingly, Martin Barton’s wish to see the thing through. I asked him why.

  ‘I am curious to vist this Scoto.’

  ‘For your toothache?’

  ‘I collect types, you know, Nicholas. A quacksalver or mountebank might be just the character for one of my satires on human folly.’

  ‘But it is not very likely that he will have any relics of King Arthur.’

  ‘It is not very likely that anyone will have them. So what harm is done by calling on the man from Mantua?’

  ‘Why do we have to call on him late at night?’

  ‘No doubt because it heightens the effect. He is a man of mystery. Come on, Nicholas, we are men of the theatre. We understand all about mysteries.’

  I couldn’t think of a response, but I still didn’t like any of it. I had another question for Barton, which was how he knew the identity of the striking couple who’d been deep in talk with Owen outside his shop. That answer was easy enough. Leonard and Alice Leman were good patrons of the Blackfriars playhouse, and in fact Martin Barton had some hopes that they might become patrons of him. They didn’t seem to know you, I said. They weren’t looking in our direction, said Barton. And so who was the third man, the one as thin as a rail? Oh, that was their steward, said Barton. A fellow called Jack Corner. Like many stewards, a man of ambition. I wasn’t surprised that Martin Barton knew the names of these well-to-do folk, nor that he talked dismissively of the steward but warmly of the Lemans. The satirist was one of those people who affect to despise wealth and influence but who are covertly respectful of them. He made it his business to be familiar with the important faces in the audience.

  The three of us agreed to meet in a few hours at the junction of Tower Street and Seething Lane. For the first time I regretted having agreed to watch over Edmund Shakespeare.

  III

  Seething Lane is a street of large but unobtrusive houses. Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster Francis Walsingham had lived (and died) here, and plenty of merchants occupy these solid dwellings. Tower Street is more of a mixture, but it grows dignified towards the eastern end, on the Seething Lane corner of which Edmund Shakespeare, Martin Barton and I were now standing as a nearby bell rang ten o’clock. The darkness was relieved by gleams of light coming from a few windows, and there was a crescent moon slipping up the sky.

  By day you would have seen the slope of Tower Hill further east and, even though the Tower itself was out of sight, you might have been conscious of that great palace or castle over your shoulder. If I chose, I could see it more easily from the other side of the river, since I had lodgings in Tooley Street and had only to turn down a lane leading to the river to catch a glimpse of the mighty walls on the opposite shore. It was comforting, somehow, that the Tower was separated from me by a wide stretch of water. I don’t know whether it was the fearsome reputation of the place – at this very moment Sir Walter Raleigh was captive within its walls – or because noble people were executed nearby, but like many Londoners I generally felt uneasy when in the Tower’s shadow. And I felt uneasy anyway because of the strange mission on which the three of us were engaged.

  We identified the narrow-windowed house on the corner. No light came through the crevices in its shutters, and I hoped we might find it unoccupied or get no answer to the rap that Edmund Shakespeare gave on the door. No such luck. Almost straight away, it was opened by a stocky child.

  ‘You wish to see Master Scoto?’

  The voice was no child’s but deep, a man’s. The little figure was a dwarf. It was impossible to make out his features since the only illumination came from candles in a sconce further down the hall.

  ‘You’ve guessed it,’ said Edmund.

  ‘He is expecting you.’

  This was not a question but a statement and did not increase my comfort. Ushering us inside, the dwarfish shape told us to go to a door at the end of the hallway and knock three times.

  ‘Three times. Why not once? What did I tell you, Nicholas?’ whispered Martin Barton as we passed the flickering light of the sconce. ‘Like the little doorman, it is all to heighten the effect.’

  But we did as we were instructed. Edmund knocked thrice on the oaken door. Did I detect a slight hesitation in Shakespeare’s brother, as if he too was regretting we’d reached this point? A soft voice said ‘Enter’ and Edmund lifted the latch.

  There used to be a shop off St Paul’s Walk owned by an apothecary who styled himself Old Nick, and what I saw now of Scoto’s room reminded me of that place. This one was an extensive den, smoky from the few scattered, guttering candles and with a sweet but disagreeable scent. There were shelves crowded with wooden boxes and earthenware pots, and from the beams over our heads dangled withered roots and bladders and la
rge whitish objects. A table in a corner was encumbered with wide books and greasy glass tubes and alembics. Against the left-hand wall hung a tapestry or arras depicting strange, garbed figures and symbols. The figures seemed half-alive as a draught stirred the arras. On the far side of the room was a desk and behind the desk was a hunched figure, presumably Master Bernardo Scoto. A single candle wavered next to a hand that was scrawling something across a sheet of paper. The hand seemed disembodied from its owner, who was in darkness.

  ‘Benvenuto, signori.’

  The voice out of the shadows was soft, insinuating. It made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. We stood there, three awkward supplicants.

  ‘Your toothache, Signor Barton, ’ow is it?’

  How the Italian was aware of the playwright’s bad teeth, I don’t know. Martin was not wincing or cupping his hand to his face, and besides it was dim in the chamber, as I’ve said. But the remark had the effect, no doubt intended, of giving the hunched figure some unusual powers of penetration.

  ‘You should try chewin’ ’ore’ound,’ said Scoto. ‘I can make you up a preparation if you desire.’

  ‘I’ll attend to my own teeth, with or without the horehound,’ said Barton. ‘We have come about other business.’

  ‘You are in search of some bones?’

  ‘We have been told you have them,’ said Edmund.

  ‘Fai attenzione,’ said Scoto. ‘There are bones above your ’eads.’

  Among the vegetable matter hanging from the ceiling there were indeed some bone-like shapes. Despite the sweet-scented fug of the room, I shivered. It was like being in a charnel house.

  ‘Signor Revill stands beneath the ’orn of a unicorn. Reach up and touch it, sir. It will bring you no ’arm but blessings, i doni della natura. It is a protection against the plague. And beside it there are the ribs of a – ’ow do you say it? – una sirena. Ah, si, a mermaid.’