Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  Men and women mixed together without distinction. When one of the bathers made to get out, their garments clung close as an onion skin and showed most or all of what lay beneath. We gawped, of course, but it was, in truth, not much of a spectacle. Or at least it was not a stirring spectacle. The majority of the bathers were far from young and it was generally apparent why they had come to try the healing waters of Bath. Some were as rotund as the inflated bladders carried by jesters, others were so thin they looked as though they were being consumed from within. And I have never seen so many misshapen limbs, so large a quantity of bent backs, as I saw gathered together in this steamy pool. Why, if you half closed your eyes, and added a little bit of screaming and groaning to the picture, you might have imagined you were present at one of the infernal pits. The smell of the brimstone and the white, ghost-like garments of the bathers added to this impression.

  Just occasionally, however, our watch was made worthwhile when a woman younger and more comely than the mass climbed from the water or sank herself slowly into it and so revealed much more under her clinging garments than would normally be considered decent. The odd thing was that these women seemed to know the effect they were having and to be prolonging their actions by a few instants. This, no doubt, was why we’d paid our pennies to the doorkeeper.

  A wizened-looking individual emerged from a corner of the gallery and took it upon himself to act as our guide. He told us this was the King’s Bath, which we knew, and that the area round the pinnacled construction in the middle was called the Kitchen on account of its being situated directly over the source of the hot spring. Then he said that there were other interesting sights to be seen elsewhere at the Queen’s Bath and the Lepers’ Bath. Sights of a fleshly nature, he said, both more enticing and more grotesque than anything likely to be seen here at the King’s. If we good gentlemen would like to accompany him . . .

  The others were ready enough but I was not in a the mood. Partly it was because I was thinking of Katherine Hawkins – one of the few younger women in the pool below had hair of a similar colour to hers, although this bather was handsome rather than pretty. I considered that now might be time to return the commonplace book belonging to her uncle. Then I might invite Katherine to attend a performance in the yard of the Bear that evening, and afterwards we could . . .

  Lost in my warm imagination, I hardly realised that I’d been left alone in the gallery, so eager were my fellows to see the sights of the Lepers’ and the Queen’s Baths. I took one final look at the pool with its ghostly bathers and started towards the entrance.

  At the top of the stairs my way was blocked by a burly individual.

  ‘Are you Nicholas?’ he said.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Nicholas of the . . .’ he fumbled in his mind to get the right words in the right order, ‘. . . of the King’s Men presently playing in this town?’

  I nodded. He stuck out his doubleted chest and pushed forward into the gallery. Instinctively I stepped back towards the stone parapet, which prevented spectators from tumbling into the steam bath. I thought, I’m growing weary of being sought out by strangers with an interest in plays and players. This one did not have the advantage of being young, attractive and female.

  ‘You have got something that doesn’t belong to you,’ he said presently.

  ‘I have?’

  ‘A book,’ said this gentleman. He uttered the word ‘book’ as though it didn’t pass his lips very often.

  I understood straight away that he must be referring to Uncle Christopher’s commonplace book. I only just prevented myself from feeling for the pocket where it was stowed.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Give it me now.’

  He lumbered forward and I stepped back in equal measure with him until I felt the parapet against my buttocks. He was a big man with beetling brows and a seamed forehead. With one push he could have shoved me over into the steamy pool.

  ‘I haven’t got the book with me,’ I said.

  ‘So you do have it,’ he said. He wasn’t as slow and stupid as he looked.

  He came to within a couple of inches, face to face, close enough that I smelled his meaty breath. He gripped me by the upper arms. I’m not sure what would have happened next, whether he would have manhandled me or shoved me out and over into the bath. Fortunately, we were interrupted by a shout from the entrance to the gallery. Over my new friend’s shoulder I saw an individual who was dressed in some sort of blue livery and carrying a mace.

  ‘We’ll have none of that filthy behaviour here,’ said this person. ‘Bringing disrepute on the royal baths. Be off with you.’

  The bulky man had taken a pace back from me. I slipped out of his shadow and walked briskly to the stairs, nodding to the individual with the mace on the way. I did not stop to ask what he thought we were up to. I could guess. (Later I learned that he was the sergeant-at-arms for the King’s Bath, employed to ensure decorous conduct among the bathers and the watchers.) I clattered down the stone stairs and out into fresh air and the precincts of the great church.

  I walked fast up Cheap Street towards Vicarage Lane, looking behind me occasionally to see if the lumbering man was on my tail. I was going to return the commonplace book to Katherine Hawkins and I was going to do it now. My thoughts of inviting her to a play performance, and then to something rather more personal after the play, had faded. Instead I felt aggrieved, angry. No one else in Bath knew that I was Nicholas of the King’s Men. No one else was aware I possessed the wretched notebook apart from Katherine, since she had seen me take it from her sick uncle. She had encouraged me to take it! Therefore it must have been she who had set that blockish individual on me. Why hadn’t she simply asked me to return the notebook? I was meaning to do that anyway. Why were threats necessary? Yes, I felt angry and aggrieved.

  The one question I did not ask myself was why a book containing second-hand quotations and bits of bad verse should be so important.

  I strode up Vicarage Lane, reached the merchant’s house and knocked loudly on the door. It was Katherine herself who opened it. Her eyes were red, her hair was disordered, her dress careless. I was glad to see she was in a state of distress. So distressed, it seemed, that she didn’t even recognise me at first. When she did realise who it was, she said only three words.

  ‘He is dead.’

  No need to ask the identity of the dead man.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ I said, almost without thought.

  ‘You had better come in, Nicholas.’

  ‘No, you had better come outside first.’

  I took her by the shoulders and gently but firmly drew her through the front door. Before she could object, I explained that I had just been accosted by a man in the baths who’d roughly demanded the return of the black-bound book that Uncle Christopher had given me the previous evening, and that it could only have been she – Katherine – who put him on my tail.

  I had scarcely got to the end of my speech when I registered growing confusion on her face.

  ‘My uncle’s black notebook?’ she said. ‘Oh, what does that matter? I don’t know of any man in the baths, Nicholas.’

  The figure of Hannah passed through the lobby. Katherine glanced over her shoulder through the still open door of the house while the old retainer peered curiously in our direction. I realised two things at once: that Katherine Hawkins had nothing to do with the stranger in the King’s Bath and that it must be Hannah who had described me to him. The servant was the only other person to know my name and the acting company I belonged to, as well as the fact that I’d visited this house last night. How she deduced that I had the book, I don’t know.

  Now it was my turn to feel confused. And guilty for having spoken bluntly to Katherine while her grief for her uncle was so raw. I took her more tenderly by the shoulders and ushered her back into the lobby of her own home. Hannah had vanished. If she appeared again, and if I had the chance, I
’d have a word with her.

  ‘I am very sorry to hear of your uncle’s death,’ I said, this time with feeling.

  ‘It was early this morning,’ she said. ‘So long expected yet so surprising when it happens. Thank God the parson got here in time.’

  Uncle Christopher’s demise must have occurred after I crept out of the house, otherwise I would have been alerted by the fuss and alarm of a death, the summoning of the parson and so on. Selfishly, I was glad to have made my exit in time.

  We’d been slowly pacing towards the back of the house and by now we were standing outside the door to what was the dining room. A window gave a view of some apple trees, sun-lit. Inside the panelled chamber it was stuffy and gloomy. A long table stood in the centre of the room, with chairs at each end and benches set on either side. Huddled towards one end were three men, two sitting next to each other, the other on the bench opposite. Wooden boxes and sheafs of paper and documents were arrayed on the table between them, together with a clutch of lighted candles. The men were so absorbed in leafing through the papers that our presence went unnoticed.

  Eventually one of them looked up. He was a very plump individual with a large face. He seemed to start and coughed to draw the attention of the one beside him. This second man was wearing spectacles. He must have been long-sighted for he now removed them in order to scrutinise us – more precisely, to scrutinise me – as we stood in the doorway. This gentleman did not start in surprise but his brow furrowed as if was I presenting him with a puzzle, and not a very welcome one either. By now the third man, who’d been sitting with his back to us, was aware of us too. He twisted his head round. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘This is Nicholas Revill,’ said Katherine Hawkins, as the four of us gave the smallest dip of the head in acknowledgement. ‘He is a friend of my cousin William. They knew each other in London. He is here as a member of the King’s Men. They are playing in the yard of the Bear.’

  I wasn’t very happy that the fiction about my knowing her cousin was being maintained but it was becoming such a frequent story that it might shortly turn out to be true. It transpired that the three men were notable Bath citizens. The one with the spectacles was Edward Downey, a lawyer. Uncle Christopher was both client and friend to him. The plump one was John Maltravers and, like the late Christopher Hawkins, he was a cloth merchant and a member of the city corporation. The third was Dr Price. I remembered that Katherine had mentioned him by name when we first met. On hearing of their friend’s death they had immediately come round to the Vicarage Lane house. I was surprised that the doctor of physic was not upstairs with the body. I thought that if this trio were here to offer comfort and condolence, they were going about it in an odd way, fencing themselves in behind a mass of documents on the dining table.

  I sensed hostility emanating from them, slight but unmistakable. Particularly from Mr Maltravers. Perhaps it was because I was a player, for he had grunted and humphed when Katherine described what I did. I tried to be civil, remembering that Bath corporation was supplementing our takings in the city – even if these important people were doing so not out of love for the drama but because they didn’t want to offend our royal sponsor, King James.

  ‘I hope that you gentlemen will attend a performance,’ I said. ‘We have two nights remaining at the Bear.’

  ‘Two too many,’ said Maltravers.

  ‘Now, now, John,’ said Downey the lawyer. ‘It may not be to your taste but the players provide a diversion for our citizenry. And remember that they are not your run-of-the-mill fellows but the King’s Men.’

  ‘A little diversion does no great harm,’ said Dr Price with a judicious air as though he were measuring out a dose of medicine.

  ‘Plays are not a diversion but a corruption,’ said Maltravers. He rose from the table and waddled towards where we were standing in the doorway. He stuck out a stubby, accusatory forefinger. ‘The days of plays and players in this city would be numbered if I had my way. We should go back to the times when players were treated as vagrants, when they were stripped naked from the middle upward and whipped when found anywhere they were not wanted.’

  He seemed to grow excited as he said this. This sort of hostile talk is familiar enough if you’re a player, at least from those who incline towards the puritan view. It was disturbing to be talked of as a vagrant but I tried to maintain the civil tone.

  ‘If you had heard and seen our audience last night, sir, you would have known that we were very much wanted.’

  ‘John, John,’ said Downey, making downward motions with his hand in a placating way, ‘this Mr . . . Mr . . . er . . .?’

  ‘Revill.’

  ‘This Mr Revill is right. I have heard that their efforts were well received last night. Remember they are the King’s Men.’

  ‘And guests in our city,’ added Dr Price.

  Maltravers might have said more but he merely humphed again, waddled back to the dining table and returned his attention to the documents. The others soon followed. I wondered why Katherine had wanted to introduce me to them.

  She motioned me back into the passageway and said, ‘Did you notice how they stared at you? For a moment they thought you were William Hawkins, returned at long last to the house of his father. I told you that you look like him – a little like, anyway.’

  My affairs in this place were done. I did not want any further involvement with the Hawkinses. I certainly had no intention of urging Katherine to come to this evening’s performance, let alone to any renewal of last night’s post-play activities. She was thinking only of her uncle. I would intrude no longer on a house of grief.

  There was one more thing to do: to return Uncle Christopher’s commonplace book. If I was accosted again by the burly man from the baths I could genuinely claim not to have it. Even better, to avoid such a disagreeable situation in the first place, I’d make sure I was not out of the protective company of my fellow players for as long as we remained in the city of Bath.

  I was about to get the wretched black book out of my doublet when there came a great commotion from the lobby. The sound of women’s voices raised, crying out, interrupting each other. Underneath was a male voice, trying to make itself heard. Was this grief for the dead Christopher? It did not sound like grief.

  Then Hannah came running down the passageway and almost collided with Katherine. The young woman put her hands on the shoulders of the older one. She gave the white-faced servant a few moments to recover her breath before asking, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, it is only William come back,’ panted Hannah. ‘Only William, your cousin and Mr Christopher’s long-lost son!’

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. It was as if I was the guilty party in all this. I almost ran through the lobby, past a gaggle of female servants, and a young man who was standing there, looking about him like a stranger. I thought, I played the part of you last night. In passing, I did not note any very strong resemblance between us.

  III

  The play we were performing that evening in the yard of the Bear Inn was called A City Pleasure. It was written by Edgar Boscombe, a playwright who may not be familiar to you. He was never very prolific and now he can write no more for he is dead. A City Pleasure is a satirical comedy about a young man from the provinces who comes to London with his sister, looking for pleasure and edification. There are other things in the story but this is the main one. The city of London takes its pleasure with this young couple, duping them and trying to assail their virtue, but throughout the action the two retain a curious integrity and when they return home – sadder, wiser and poorer – they discover that they never were brother and sister. Instead, they are cousins. And so they may marry. Which they do at the end of Act Five under the eye of a kindly, bumbling country parson. This is a play well suited to a provincial audience, for it shows how dreadful and corrupt London is, how honest and honourable are those who dwell outside the capital, and how virtue always triumphs in the end.

  A
City Pleasure was also a contrast to the blood-letting of the previous night, A House Divided. Contrast and variety make for happy audiences.

  I didn’t have such a big part in this satire as in the revenge tragedy, and I confess I spent some of my time off-stage mulling over the strange events of that morning, and the way in which William Hawkins had turned up at the house in Vicarage Lane mere hours after his father’s death. Was this a piece of very unfortunate timing? Or very neat timing? Was it even William Hawkins? Maybe it was another imposter. I had not waited around to see Katherine greet her (presumed) cousin. I would have been uncomfortable in the presence of a man I’d impersonated, even if the act had been done with the best of intentions.

  And still I had in my possession the commonplace book belonging to the late Uncle Christopher. At one point I’d flicked through its pages again to see why the burly fellow in the King’s Bath should – under orders, no doubt – have been wanting to take it from me by force. But I saw nothing different from my first examination of it: pages of homemade verses and a few drawings, interspersed with copied-out comments. The subject of Christopher’s poetry, if one could call it that, seemed to be some great battle involving knights of old, the kind of subject that was popular years ago and that has now fallen from favour.

  We of the King’s Men finished our second play for the second evening in the Bear Inn yard. A City Pleasure was well received by the Bath audience. They enjoyed our depiction of innocent country cousins who are able to withstand the lures of the big city. As we disrobed in the makeshift tire-room after the performance, there was some suggestive speculation from my friends about my plans for the dregs of the evening. Where was the next letter from my sweetheart? Would I be joining the lady from the town that night? I retaliated by asking whether they’d enjoyed their tour of the Queen’s Bath and the Lepers’ Bath. I was pleased to hear that it had been disappointing.