The First Murder
Page 14
‘His angel, clear as crystals bright
Here unto you thus I am sent this day.’
Of course, the adults in the crowd knew the sword and the coronet were nothing more than wood, the jewels on the throne were glass and the mouth of hell was not really ablaze, but they were more than willing to allow themselves to believe, for the space of the play, that Abraham really would slaughter his son, and the beautiful creature before them was indeed an angel descended from heaven itself.
As Martin had predicted, though most of the pilgrims had little to give, they were far more willing to pay the players who had entertained them than the keepers of the shrines who would barely allow them time to say a paternoster before the tombs of the saints, despite the many hours they’d waited to get in. So when Ben, John’s doe-eyed little son, went round with the collecting bag, he brought it back bulging to Martin. Even Cuddy was grudgingly forced to admit that if there was a curse on the ‘Cain and Abel’ play, Martin had managed to reverse its fortunes.
Henry, however, was beginning to believe that the Ely men had been right all along when they said the play was ill-omened, at least for him if not for the others. The highlight of ‘Cain and Abel’, at least for the pilgrims, was the moment when Cain bludgeoned Abel to death with a jawbone. Urged on first by Martin when they rehearsed, and then by the crowd thirsting for a good fight, John’s blows were becoming evermore vicious.
By the third performance, Henry, already stiff and aching from the bruises on his arms and shoulders, could not force his shrinking flesh to submit to another battering. As John walked towards him brandishing the jawbone, Henry ran to take shelter behind the throne of God. The crowd jeered, calling Abel to come out and face Cain. But when he showed no signs of moving, Martin, resplendent in his angel’s robes, marched round the other side of the dais and, coming up behind Henry, kicked him hard on his backside so that he sprawled forward across the centre of the stage.
The mob screamed with laughter and as John again advanced on Henry, he scrambled to his feet and the two of them began dodging and weaving round hell and the pyre, to the whooping delight of the crowd. Egged on by the spectators, John assailed his victim with reckless and violent blows until Henry realised there was a very real chance of receiving a fatal crack to the head. The only way he could think of bringing it to an end was to lie down and pretend to be slain. But even that did not prevent John whacking him several more times on the back just to please the pilgrims.
‘“Yeah, lie there, villain! Lie there! Lie!”’ John shouted triumphantly, striking Henry with each cry of ‘lie’!
The mob gleefully joined in, bellowing the line with John.
The takings were greater than ever after that performance, and as Martin stuffed the cloth bag bulging with coins into his leather scrip, he slapped Henry enthusiastically on his throbbing back.
‘Did you hear how that crowd roared when I kicked you up the arse? We’ll have to keep that in tomorrow, and that chase with John. They loved it.’
John grinned. ‘And they paid for it too.’ He held out a meat-slab of a hand. ‘That looks like a weighty purse. Let’s see it.’
Martin glanced around at the crowd. ‘Not here. Too many thieves and cutpurses about, never know who’s watching. I’ll divide up the takings in the barn at the vespers bell this evening, like always. Meantime, my throat’s drier than a bishop roasting in hell. What about you, lads? Who’s for a flagon?’
Henry hunched morosely in the corner of the barn. His back was so sore and stiff he wondered how he was going to lie down to sleep, and his resentment had not been one whit tempered by the ale. Indeed, if anything, he felt himself growing more sober as the others became merrier. The only other one who looked as sullen as he felt was poor Luke, who was as ever the butt of his uncle’s jokes and temper in equal measure.
The men gathered round as Martin drew the sack of coins from his scrip and tipped them onto the top of an upturned barrel. He began counting them out into eight piles with another half-pile for John’s son. Ben was just a boy and even though he had a good many words to declaim, he certainly wasn’t entitled to a grown man’s share.
The coins were of small value: mostly farthings or halfpennies. The men watched intently, making sure the same value was deposited on each pile.
Cuddy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Doesn’t look as much there as I thought there was. Sack looked fuller than that. You sure some of it hasn’t dropped out in that scrip of yours?’
Martin obligingly held his scrip upside down and shook it, but nothing more fell out.
The men glanced unhappily at one another, then shrugged. Life had long ago taught them there was no use wishing for roast venison when you only had eel in your pot.
Cuddy’s great fist hovered over one of the piles, preparing to take his share.
‘Which pile has the half-noble in it?’ little Ben suddenly piped up.
Everyone turned to look at the boy.
‘I didn’t see any gold on the barrel,’ Cuddy said.
Martin smiled and ruffled Ben’s hair indulgently. ‘There’s no half-noble, lad.’
‘But there was,’ Ben said indignantly, jerking his head away. ‘A merchant’s wife put it in the bag. She held it up in her fingers and asked me if I’d ever seen one afore. Her husband chided her for giving so much, but she said . . .’ He hesitated, suddenly looking abashed.
‘Said what, Ben? Speak up, his father encouraged him with a prod.
‘That I had eyes that put her in mind of her . . . her lapdog,’ he mumbled to the earth floor, ‘and she was sure I wasn’t getting enough to eat.’
‘Was she indeed,’ John bridled. ‘As if I’d let any son of mine go hungry. Who does she think—’
‘Never mind that,’ Cuddy said impatiently. ‘The boy said she put a half-noble in the bag, so where is it now?’
He took a menacing step towards Martin, who stumbled backwards, spreading his hands wide. ‘I swear by the Holy Virgin, I’ve haven’t seen it. The boy must have imagined it. As if anyone in that crowd would give players a half-noble. The boy said the woman held the coin up. In that bright sunshine it must have looked like gold, an easy mistake to make.’
‘It was gold!’ Ben said stubbornly.
‘Aye, and it’s not just that coin that’s missing either,’ Cuddy growled. ‘I reckon that money sack was considerably more weighty this afternoon.’
‘Doubtless you wish it so, my friend. But I’ve just counted the coins out in front of you all and the bag was not opened before. I’ve been in your company ever since the play ended. I’m sorry that the crowd hasn’t paid us as much as you would like, but I warrant it is a sight more than you would earn hanging around the quayside hoping for a cargo to unload. But perhaps you think my performance isn’t pleasing enough to the crowd. Perhaps you think that’s why they haven’t paid us more.’ Martin snatched up one of the piles of coins and thrust it at Cuddy. ‘Here, take my share and divide it among yourselves, if you think I haven’t earned you enough. Go on, take it!’
So saying, he seized Cuddy’s wrist and slammed the coins into his massive palm. Then, his face a mask of hurt, he swept out of the barn. Cuddy and the other men stared after him in silence. With grim faces they collected their shares from the top of the barrel, glaring at Henry as they filed out and leaving him in no doubt they thought the two of them were in this together.
Henry dragged his aching body over to the barrel and scooped up the one remaining pile of coins, but decided to wait in the barn until he was quite sure the others had returned to their homes. He couldn’t face walking past them. He was as sure as Cuddy was that the bag had been much better stuffed when Ben had brought it back to Martin that afternoon. But if Martin had removed the coins, the question was when? He’d gone out to the back of the inn to piss a couple of times, but the yard was no more private than the inn itself, with men and serving maids crossing to and fro all the time. Besides, he hadn’t been gone long enough to sort through the bag an
d remove all the coins of greater value, though Henry was pretty sure that’s exactly what he had done.
Henry savagely kicked the barrel. After he’d so nearly got caught in Cambridge, Martin promised – no, not just promised, swore on his own life – that he’d never steal again. And now, just when he’d started to believe that for once his cousin had learned his lesson, Martin’s greed had got the better of him once more. But not this time! Martin wasn’t going to drag him through one of his stinking dung heaps again.
‘No more, Martin, do you hear me? No more,’ Henry shouted into the empty cavern of the barn. ‘You are not going to use me again. I’m going to make quite certain of that!’
Wilbertone, Cambridgeshire Fens
‘Have you brought it?’ Father Edmund wheezed, as soon as the young monk managed to wedge the warped door back in its frame.
Brother Oswin studiously avoided the old man’s intense gaze. ‘I swear I’ve tried, Father. But the cathedral is swarming with pilgrims. The crowds are so great that the lay brothers have had to double their watches in case thieves should use the distraction of the throng to steal anything of value. I cannot get near it, much less take it.’
He stumbled the few steps to the priest’s chair, and fell on his knees, grasping at the old man’s tattered robe. ‘Don’t you see, Father, God is preventing me from taking it. His angels are blocking my path at every turn, just as the angel stood in the road in front of Balaam’s ass and refused to let Balaam pass to sin against God. The angels are keeping us both from sin.’ He bowed his head, crossing himself.
‘And you must have the brains of an ass if you think such feeble excuses will turn me from my purpose,’ Father Edmund growled. ‘You will find a way to get it, boy, unless you want to see your brother hanged.’
Oswin raised his head, his face contorted in anguish. ‘I beg you, Father, don’t force me to do this. You wouldn’t break the sanctity of the confessional, you couldn’t do that. You’re bitter, I know that, and you have every right to be, but you would not damn your own soul with such a sin—’
He broke off with a squeal as Father Edmund grabbed the short fringe of hair around his tonsure and forced his head painfully backwards.
‘Don’t tell me what I would not do, boy! And don’t think for one moment I would not expose you and your brother for the murderers you are. If you care so little for your brother’s life, think of this, boy. You know I once conjured demons to shield de Lisle from the pestilence. Do you imagine I’m so feeble-witted that I couldn’t do it again? Just because my legs don’t bear me up as once they did, doesn’t mean my memory has also deserted me. I still know the signs and symbols, the incantations and the secret names. But if I summon a demon again, boy, it will not be to protect you, of that you can be sure. Get me what I ask, for if you fail me, I promise you will know such torment that before the month is out you will be screaming for the mercy of the hangman’s rope yourself just to bring an end to your suffering.’
He let his hand fall from Oswin’s hair, overcome by a fit of coughing, then hugging his ribs, turned to stare into the embers of the dying fire.
‘You have three days, Brother Oswin,’ he said softly. ‘Just three days left.’
Ely
As soon as he was out of sight of the barn, Martin broke into a run, glancing round several times to make sure he was not being followed. If Cuddy and John caught him out on the street they might take it into their heads to search him by force, and it wouldn’t take them long to find the coins folded into a strip of cloth and tied around his chest. They were the sort of men who would choose to settle a score with their own fists rather than through the justices, and with fists like theirs, he’d be lucky if he could remember his own name by the time they’d finished with him.
Still it had been worth it. That serving girl in the Mermaid Inn on the quayside was good, so good he was sure she’d done it before. She’d waited in the yard for him to slip her the bag of coins on his way to the midden to pass water, giving her the chance to separate the coins at her leisure before handing them back the next time he came out to relieve himself. Of course, he was certain that in addition to what he paid her for her trouble, she’d pocketed a few extra coins herself – it’s what he would have done – but he didn’t begrudge her that so long as she didn’t get too greedy. They could have kept this scam going for days, weeks even. His only regret was there hadn’t been an accident with the knife when young Ben was being sacrificed as Isaac. If he’d known the trouble the boy was going to cause he might have arranged one.
With one further glance up and down the street Martin slipped into the Lamb Inn at the top of the hill and wove his way to the most dimly lit corner. He’d have to be ready to leave as soon as Ely’s gates were opened at dawn, but certainly he wasn’t going to flee empty-handed. There was something he had to retrieve from the wagon first. He had no intention of leaving it behind, not after all the risks he’d taken to acquire it.
Martin had consumed several tankards of good ale before he deemed it late enough to return to the wagon without risk of being seen. Yawning, the innkeeper hustled his last remaining customers out into the cold chill of the night. Martin huddled in the darkness of a doorway, watching them reeling up the street, and remained there until the last drunken calls had faded. Then he cautiously made his way back to the wagon.
A scattering of shards of yellow light marked where candles and rush lights flickered through holes in the shutters of the dozing buildings, otherwise the night was as black as the devil’s armpit. Doors rattled in the wind and somewhere a cat yowled unseen. Martin edged around the back of the wagon.
The props and costumes were kept in a long chest beneath the wagon and securely chained to one of the wheels. Martin reached inside his scrip for the two keys. He slid his hand along the chain to the lock, and by touch alone wriggled the key until it slipped inside. But however carefully he lowered the chain to the ground, he could not avoid the heavy metallic clunk, which echoed through the darkness. He froze, holding his breath, then shook himself impatiently. The chest contained his clothes – why should he not open it anytime he pleased? But all the same he did not want to have to explain his presence on the streets to the night watch.
He groped for the lock on the chest itself and had just turned the key when he heard the sound of shoes scuffing over the grass and the scrape of clothing against sailcloth. Someone was moving down the side of the wagon. Cuddy? John? Had one of them returned to search for the missing coins?
Scarcely daring to breathe, Martin crawled away into the darkness and threw himself flat on the grass, as the figure held up a lantern, shielding the light with the edge of his cloak. The man ran his fingers down the ropes, feeling for the point where he could unhook them and pull aside the stout canvas. Martin cautiously raised his head, trying to make out who he was, but his face was concealed deep within his hood, and the shape of his body was masked by the heavy cloak.
There was a clunk as the man’s shoe knocked against the chain on the ground. The figure glanced down. Martin instinctively scrabbled in his scrip, searching for the keys and cursed himself as he realised they were still in the lock of the chest. Perhaps the man wouldn’t notice them. But his curiosity had evidently been aroused, for he crouched down, holding out the lantern. As he bent over, his face dipped into the pool of light. It was only for a moment, but Martin recognised him at once.
Brother Oswin glanced up at the cathedral as he hurried towards it. Candles shone out from the top of the octagon tower, turning it into a great lantern that could be seen for miles across the dark water of the fens. Always before he had been comforted by the sight of it, a beacon of hope to guide the lost. Its holy light warded off the evil spirits that stalked the causeway, and the dead souls that haunted the marshes waiting to lure men to their deaths in the treacherous bogs. Yet now he saw only accusation and judgement in that light, as if heaven was staring down at him, stripping him naked for all the world to see his vile sin.
‘What is it, Brother? Why are you out so late?’ He raised the blazing torch, peering closer. ‘You’re as pale as the dead, and shaking. Were you attacked?’
Oswin shook his head, struggling to speak. ‘A sick man . . . I had to . . . sit with him.’
The watchman stepped hastily backwards. ‘Holy Virgin, he’s not been stricken with the Great Pestilence, has he?’
Oswin shook his head, drawing his cloak more tightly around him as he tried to stop his teeth chattering. The watchman held open the gate, taking pains to keep at arm’s length in case the monk should brush him as he passed through.
Oswin staggered up the street towards the priory, glancing fearfully upwards at the great looming mass of the cathedral. The monstrous grotesques and gargoyles leered down at him from the shifting shadows as if the walls and turrets of the cathedral were swarming with demons, massing like some great flock of malevolent birds, all watching him, waiting for him.
He could not do it. He would not! Yet he could think of no means of avoiding it. He was certain now that the old priest would carry out his threat and denounce his brother, and if what they said was true, if Father Edmund really could conjure evil spirits, maybe even the devil himself, then . . . Blessed Virgin, help me! Show me what to do, how to escape! As he stumbled on towards the cathedral, he stretched out his arms in supplication, mumbling frantic prayers in a fever of delirium. Then, without warning, he tripped and found himself sprawling face down on the grass.