Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You come from this part of the world, don’t you, Nick?’ said Laurence Savage.

  ‘I believe I have heard Nicholas mention the fact from time to time,’ said Abel.

  ‘A world separates Bath from my old village of Miching,’ I said.

  ‘What surprised me,’ said Laurence, ‘was how quick the audience was here, how ready to lap up all the wickedness on stage. I’d heard they were a bit strait-laced in these parts. You know, afflicted with a touch of the . . .’ He pulled his mouth down and mimed the conical hat that was worn by the Puritans and, as he did so, unintentionally jabbed with his elbow a boy pushing his way through the drapes that fronted the tire-room.

  Once he’d recovered from the blow in the stomach, the lad gazed around in wonderment and perhaps alarm. He saw a dozen grown men and a couple of boys of about his own age with their faces still painted and their costumes half off, in the light of a single lantern and a spill of moon from overhead. The boy’s eyes then darted about as if he were searching for someone.

  ‘Hello, Leonard,’ said Laurence Savage to him. And then to the rest of us: ‘This is Leonard Cuff, son to our host at the Bear. I was chatting to his father this afternoon and had the honour of being introduced to the members of that gentleman’s family.’

  Laurence possessed the knack of remembering names and faces even after the most fleeting meeting. For his part, the boy was relieved to recognise a friendly face. He held up a letter.

  ‘This is for the duke,’ he said in an uncertain voice. ‘Is – is the duke here?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the sharper of my fellows looked at me, realising before I did what the lad was on about. The duke – Duke Peccato, to give him his name – was the Italian part that I had so recently enacted in A House Divided. It was I who had schemed to marry my half-sister, played by Michael Donegrace, and in the process found it expedient to kill off my brother-in-law. My machinations led inevitably to my own violent death and those of my associates, chiefly at the hands of Malcontento, played by Laurence. I was pleased to have been Duke Peccato. It was quite a big part and, more important, it was a very bad part. There’s nothing players like more than a true villain to sink their teeth into. The audience like it too.

  ‘I am the duke,’ I said. ‘Duke Peccato.’

  ‘You are?’ said Leonard.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That is my part, I mean. My name is Nicholas Revill.’

  ‘Well, sir, whoever you may be, this is for you.’

  The boy handed me the letter rather gingerly as if he thought some of the duke’s evil might have rubbed off on the person playing him.

  He added, ‘It’s from a lady.’

  ‘What lady?’

  ‘Don’t know. She was wearing a hat pulled low and I couldn’t see her face clear.’

  There was an outburst of ooh-ing and ah-ing from my fellows at the mention of ‘a lady’. I knew what they were thinking. It was more or less what I was thinking too.

  ‘I’m not acquainted with any ladies in Bath,’ I said, half apologetic but a bit smug as well. I might have asked more questions of the landlord’s son – could he guess at the mystery woman’s age? what about the style of her voice? – but the lad had already slipped away through the drapes.

  ‘Your lucky night,’ said Laurence.

  ‘You dog,’ said Abel.

  ‘I am jealous, I confess it, Duke Peccato,’ said Michael Donegrace, who had so recently glided across the boards as my half-sister and would-be bride, and on whose behalf I had already killed extensively that night.

  I ignored their ribaldry and held the folded paper close to the lantern so as to read the superscription. ‘To him who plays the Duke’, it said in a large but elegant hand. Well, of course, whoever wrote this could not have known my name, only the part I played in A House Divided. There was another line of writing under the address, slightly smaller but in the same hand. No more than three words: ‘A privy message’. I felt my cheeks grow warm and was glad I hadn’t completely wiped off my face-paint because I was being looked at very intently by Laurence Savage and the others. My fingers were itching to tear open this private message – which was sealed with a red blob of wax – but I was not going to give my fellows the satisfaction of reading my expression while I examined its contents.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said, folding up the last bit of my ducal costume with exaggerated care and putting it in one of the tire-chests.

  ‘Will we be seeing you later at Mother Treadwell’s?’ said Laurence.

  Most of us King’s Men were lodging at a couple of rooms in a house near the North Gate of the town, where all of us were crammed into too few beds. The place was run by a good-natured, twinkle-eyed widow woman who welcomed travelling players, and more particularly their gossip.

  ‘Oh, no, we won’t be seeing him later,’ said Abel Glaze, answering for me. ‘Nicholas will be treading well elsewhere tonight, won’t he?’

  ‘More room in the bed for the rest of us then,’ said Michael Donegrace.

  I left them to their envious jokes and made my way out of the changing room and slowly through the inn yard. Most of the audience had watched A House Divided on their feet, like the groundlings at the Globe, although there was a cluster of benches near the front for those who preferred to sit and were willing to pay a bit more. It was a close, warm evening with a little light remaining in the west as well as that provided by the rising moon. There were a few stragglers remaining after the performance, drinking and smoking in corners, the embers of their pipes glowing softly in the near dark. Murmurs of male conversation. No women that I could see, no enticing female strangers with hats pulled low over their brows.

  It was not unknown for players to receive messages from, ah, the better class of women who had been present at our performances on stage. Messages that offered favours. Sadly, it had never happened to me or my immediate fellows, but there were tales about a few of the older men in the company, including an amusing one about William Shakespeare and Dick Burbage having planned an assignation at the same time with the same man’s wife. Mind you, they were much younger then, and playing has become more respectable in these latter days.

  So it was with hope in my heart, and the enticing words ‘A privy message’ tapping in my brain like a drumbeat, that I exited the yard into Cock Lane and turned down towards a thoroughfare that I think is called Cheap Street. The bulk of the great city church of Bath loomed to my left.

  From the first-floor window of a house at the corner of Cheap Street came a gleam of light where the curtain was not completely drawn. That, combined with the beams from the moon, should, I decided, enable me to read the letter. As I stopped under the window, all eager to tear the thing open, I spied a figure carrying a staff and lantern and emerging from the shadows of the great church. A little dog trotted at his heels. It was the bellman on the first leg of his nightly round of the city of Bath. He rang his bell and called out the time – ten o’clock – and gave me a wary look as he passed on down Cheap Street. The dog growled softly before slinking after its master. If the bellman was here, the watch would probably be close at his heels. I did not want to get taken up on suspicion of attempting a house robbery. Being a foreigner in town, and a player as well, would make that all too likely.

  I turned back towards the Bear Inn and waited until a pair of watchmen had gone by in the same direction as the bellman. My fingers fumbled impatiently with the wax seal of the ‘privy message’. I returned to the corner house and the window with its crack of light, and raised the unfolded sheet closer to my eyes. Only to understand that I had been played for a fool for the sheet was completely blank. Even by the uncertain light I could see nothing, nothing at all. There was not a single word on the sheet, let alone a place of assignation, or any fond endearments and promises.

  My first reaction was irritation, more with myself than the unknown ‘lady’ who had given the letter to the landlord’s boy. I wondered whether one of my friends
was playing a joke on me but swiftly discounted the idea. Then I thought that I would have to spend an hour or two drinking ale in a town inn, before slinking back to Mother Treadwell’s and pretending to Laurence Savage and the rest that I had indeed enjoyed the favours of some high-born Bath lady. It would be too humiliating to do anything else. Then it further occurred to me – being primed for the event, as it were – that I should go in search of a house of ill repute and purchase what I was not going to be given tonight for free. Which direction to go, though? In London I’d have known, but in a strange town I was at a loss for a bordello.

  There must surely be one or two such places in Bath, which, although not a very large or populous city, is much visited on account of its curative waters. But since our arrival the previous day, all our time had been spent preparing the stage in the yard of the Bear Inn and then rehearsing for this evening’s performance and the other plays that were to follow. Consequently, I had little notion of the city’s more disreputable quarters although I supposed they’d be away from the shadow of the great church and the centre of the town. Most probably close to one of the old gates. The North Gate wasn’t a good prospect. Nearby was both the city lock-up and a proper gaol, as the twinkle-eyed Mrs Treadwell had informed us, ‘very conveniently placed for naughty players’. And the East Gate in the wall, which we had glimpsed on our approach to the city, was not much more than a postern onto the river bank.

  I was still standing underneath the lighted window on the corner of Cheap Street, clutching the blank sheet of paper. By now indecisive as well as irritated, I mused on whether I’d be more likely to find what I was looking for down by the South Gate or the West one. Then I wondered how sensible it was to go wandering around unfamiliar streets in a darkened city, no doubt encountering the bellman and the members of his watch. In the process I found my appetite, my itch, subsiding.

  It was a surprise when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard anyone come up behind me. I spun round and there she was! A woman, quite tall and slender from her outline, and wearing a large hat.

  ‘You were the duke, sir? In the recent play?’ Her voice was low, well bred. Doubtless a lady.

  ‘You are responsible for this, madam?’ I said, flourishing the blank ‘privy message’ and not hiding my anger.

  ‘I must apologise, sir. I was in a great hurry and although a thousand phrases were whirling through my head, I could think of nothing to write that would guarantee your attention. But I believed you would be intrigued enough by what I wrote on the cover not to want to break the seal in front of your friends in the company. I thought you’d want to open it in private, by yourself. I have been watching you since you left the inn yard.’

  All this was said in a rush with hardly a pause for breath. It was irritating that she had been able to predict my response to the letter so exactly. Hardly reassured, I said: ‘So you watched our play sitting in the yard of the Bear Inn? I didn’t notice you.’

  ‘I wasn’t in the yard but in a house, standing at a window high above the stage. I could see and hear quite well from up there.’

  I remembered the face glimpsed while I was lying down dead, the white countenance peering from the gable window. For some reason, I shivered at the memory, and to cover the moment I laughed and said, ‘Well, madam, not only do you draw me away from my company and my bed-rest with a silly note – a blank sheet of paper – but now you inform me that you didn’t even pay good money to watch our play. I hope you enjoyed it.’

  ‘I did. I was much struck by your duke.’

  ‘That was a part that I played. I am not Duke Peccato,’ I said wearily.

  ‘I was frightened by the scene in the madhouse,’ she said.

  ‘We meant to frighten,’ I said, wondering where these compliments were leading. Still, it was good to know that the devilish masks and the white smocks worn by the players acting as lunatics were effective.

  To put an end to our conversation, I said: ‘Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not a duke or lunatic after all, merely a member of the King’s Men, and one who is tired after an evening’s work and now intends to return—’

  I stopped as she stretched out a hand and clasped my arm tight.

  ‘Help me.’

  That was the point where I should have shaken off her hand, turned on my heel and gone back to Mother Treadwell’s to face the jokes and the prying questions of my fellows. But I didn’t. Foolishly, I stayed and said: ‘At least give me the courtesy of your name since you did not include it in this – this privy message.’

  ‘Katherine Hawkins. I live there, in a house overlooking the yard of the Bear.’

  Still holding my arm, as if afraid I might break away, she gestured behind her with her other hand.

  ‘Well, I’m Nick Revill. I live in London.’

  ‘You can do me a great service, sir.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By visiting a dying man.’

  ‘You need a priest, not a player,’ I said. Gently I prised her fingers from my arm.

  ‘The priest will come soon enough. I need you now.’

  It’s hard to resist when a young woman appeals to you directly. At least, I found it so. It had occurred to me that this might be a trap but she was speaking very earnestly and I believed her honest – or wanted to believe it.

  ‘Who is dying? What can I do? I’m a player, I say again, not a priest or a doctor of physic.’

  We were disturbed by the scrape of a window opening overhead, from where the gleam of light shone. A head thrust out. A male voice said: ‘Do your business elsewhere. Be off or I’ll call the watch.’

  We both looked up. She quickly averted her head from the man above, perhaps fearful of being recognised, but I had a glimpse of her face, pale, drawn, beautiful. The window was shut, firmly. We were speaking quietly after my initial burst of anger but we’d been there for a few minutes. Anybody looking down on a man and woman in a public street late at night, talking low, negotiating, would have come to the obvious conclusion.

  ‘Please. Come with me, Mr Revill – Nicholas,’ said Katherine Hawkins. ‘I promise you . . . promise you on . . . on my mother’s grave . . . that there is nothing to be wary of. I will explain as we go.’

  We walked round the corner and along Cheap Street, keeping clear of the kennel that ran down the middle of the street and which, in this dry midsummer, smelled of the muck and waste deposited there.

  In the same soft tones, the woman said that she lived with her uncle, Christopher Hawkins, a respectable and well-to-do cloth merchant and a member of the town corporation. It was he who was dying. He had no more than a day or two of life left in him. The crisis might come at any moment, according to Dr Price. Although Christopher Hawkins was rambling in his wits he had clear moments. He was half deaf and almost blind too. His wife was dead and he had a single surviving son called William, a young man whom he had not seen for several years. William Hawkins was of about my age and build.

  ‘Where is your cousin, this William?’

  ‘I do not know. He is restless. The last I heard he was in London. He was searching for his course in life. He once said he wanted to be a player, like you,’ she said, folding her arm under mine and pressing close. ‘Then he said in a letter to me that he might try his fortunes in the New World, in the Americas.’

  ‘If he did, then he is thousands of miles away. He may as well be dead.’

  ‘I know. But my uncle has been calling out for his son, mumbling his name, asking for him. He has taken it into his head that William is quite close, that he may arrive at any minute.’

  ‘Perhaps he will.’

  ‘No, no, he will not. Or if he did it would be a miracle. I cannot depend on miracles. I do not need a miracle now that you are here, Mr Revill. Nicholas.’

  She made to turn up a lane between houses but I stopped, forcing her to a standstill. The only light was that shed by the moon and, from down the lane, a couple of lanterns outside the houses.

 
‘I see what you’re proposing, madam. You want me to go and see your dying uncle and impersonate his son and clasp his hand and speak some words of greeting and comfort to him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will not do it.’

  ‘But you are a player.’

  ‘This isn’t a play. It’s real.’

  ‘So much the more important, sir. My uncle is all in all to me. He and his wife took me in when my parents died in the plague in the old Queen’s time. I have no one else in the world except my absent cousin. I would be glad for Uncle to die happy.’

  The mention of her parents’ death in the plague may have caused me to lean more attentively towards her. At any rate she sensed a slight softening in my attitude, for she went on: ‘You see, there was an estrangement between William and Uncle Christopher, a quarrel over nothing, but the last of many quarrels for he quit this house soon afterwards and went off to make his way in the world. I know that my uncle blames himself for what occurred. He would die happy knowing that you – he, I mean – had come back again. You have the manner of Cousin William, the height, something of the look, the voice even.’

  ‘As to the voice, I come from this part of the world,’ I said.

  ‘I knew it! I could almost believe this was fated.’

  ‘It is an imposture, madam, a lie.’

  ‘A white one. No guilt or blame attaches or, if it does, it is mine alone. It will only take an instant.’

  ‘What if he recognises me?’ I said. ‘I mean, what if he recognises that I am not his son, William. That would be worse than doing nothing.’

  ‘Uncle Christopher can hardly see, he can hardly hear,’ she said. ‘It is enough if he knows you are in the same room. I promise that if my uncle is not in a fit state to receive you, if he is wandering too much in his mind, I will not ask you again. It is now or never.’

  ‘Let it be now then,’ I said.

  II

  Had I stopped to think the matter through, I would have refused her request. A great deal of trouble would have been avoided. Some danger too. But I was persuaded to do this merciful deed by her manner, by her pleading – by her attractions too, of course. If I hoped anything at all it was that the old uncle might be so deep asleep or far gone that no pretence on my part would be necessary. As I followed Katherine Hawkins down the narrow road, which I later learned was called Vicarage Lane, I reflected that this errand was very different from what I’d been imagining when I was handed the ‘privy message’.