‘Well, your father isn’t here,’ his mother retorted. ‘He’s sitting around in gaol, and he hasn’t got to worry about where his next meal’s coming from. I dare say he won’t have been dining on roast goose, but at least the Priory gives their prisoners something to fill their bellies, which is more than we will have today if you don’t get out to that alms gate. If the monks are going to go around arresting innocent men and keep them from earning an honest living, the least they can do is provide their starving families with food. Why your father didn’t stick to pagging and loading for the boatmen down on the quay, I’ll never know. I warned him that play was cursed, but would he listen?’
‘But, Mam,’ Ben wailed, ‘my friends’ll see me there among all the cripples and gammers. They’ll torment the life out of me.’
‘A bit of teasing won’t do you any harm. You and that father of yours were getting far too high and mighty, lording around in that play as if you were the King’s minstrels. And it’s no use you sulking. If you hadn’t made up one of your stories about gold coins and set the men against each other none of this would have happened. Now you see you get to the front and don’t let the others push you aside. Be sure to tell the monk you’ve three little brothers and sisters at home all going hungry.’
She grabbed Ben’s shoulder and marched him out of the door, and with a light cuff around his head she sent him off in the direction of the hill that led up to Heyrow. Ben knew, without turning round, that she was standing in the doorway of the tiny cottage, her arms folded, watching him.
In the past, when his mother had sent him on a errand he didn’t want to perform, he’d run off to play instead, refusing to think about his mother’s wrath until he was finally forced to return home, but no such temptation entered his head now. Ben didn’t need his mother to remind him that it was his fault his father had been arrested. He’d been blaming himself ever since it had happened. He hadn’t made up that story about the half-noble. He had seen it, he had! But if he’d only kept quiet, the men would never have argued, he would still be performing the play and his little brothers would not be whining with hunger. Of course, he didn’t for one moment believe that his father had killed Martin. He couldn’t have. But suppose no one believed him? Suppose they hanged him anyway? That too would be all Ben’s fault. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and tried desperately to think of something else.
By the time he had reached Steeple Gate, a large crowd of beggars were squatting on the ground before the thick wooden door. They were mostly cripples and the old and frail whose faces were as wrinkled as last year’s apples. One man, whose face was half covered in filthy bandages, gripped his crutches tightly as if he feared even these poor things might be snatched from him, while a young hollow-cheeked woman, with a grizzling baby, continually batted at the hands of a small girl to stop her picking at the yellow-crusted sores on her scalp. Ben attempted to step round the prone figures and edge his way to the front, but a hand shot out and caught his leg in a painful grip, dragging him back.
‘Here, where do think you’re going, brat?’
The man was crouching on a low wooden cart. He’d lost both his legs and the knuckles of his hand were covered with thick pads of brown skin where for years he had used them to propel himself along the ground. He might not be able to walk, but the muscles on his arms were harder than those of the paggers who humped loads down at the quayside. Ben wasn’t going to argue with him. He obediently crouched down where the man thrust him.
‘That demon will be hunting again tonight,’ the cripple on the cart said to the old man beside him. ‘You want to make sure you’re back inside your shelter long afore dark. Killed two already, but he must be getting hungry for some more by now.’
All the heads lifted as one, glancing apprehensively up towards the cathedral tower.
‘Two, is it now?’ The old man chewed on the news.
‘Aye, first was that fellow who played the angel, then that Ely boy, Luke. It’s his head they found up on top of the tower.’
‘So we’ve nothing to be afeared of then,’ an old woman cackled. ‘The monster’s only going for the tender, pretty ones.’
The beggars grinned, but their smiles quickly faded and their eyes kept swivelling back up at the grey skies as if they expected any minute to see the creature swoop down.
‘Luke,’ the old man said. ‘His uncle’s one of those they locked up. I knew his brother once, the one that ran off. He—’
‘Shouldn’t be keeping them locked up,’ a woman with a withered arm interrupted. ‘Speaking that cursed play. It’s them who’s to blame for calling up the demon. What they want to do is to hang them from the top of the tower and leave them there for the demon to eat.’
‘No!’ Ben yelled. ‘It’s not their fault. It was the monks that give them the cursed words. They’re written down, they are, on a scroll. The monks keep it hidden in the priory.’
‘Aye,’ said the women, ‘but a curse doesn’t work until it’s spoken aloud for all the imps of hell to hear.’
‘Well, there wouldn’t be any curse to speak if monks didn’t have that scroll,’ Ben retorted, scarlet with indignation.
‘Lad’s right,’ the old man said. ‘Who knows what other curses they’ve got written down on their bits of parchment. Someone should go in there and burn the whole lot of it, every last scrap, just to make sure they can’t call up something worse.’
‘And who do you think is going to do that?’ the man on the cart sneered. ‘You going to volunteer, you old fart?’
‘Whole town will,’ the woman said sourly, ‘and they’ll burn the cathedral down too if the demon that haunts that tower snatches another soul.’ She swivelled to face Ben. ‘Here . . . I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’re that brat played Isaac, aren’t you?’
An angry rumble ran through the beggars. The woman started towards Ben, clambering awkwardly over the beggars sitting between them. Several of the other beggars were also trying to heave themselves up. Ben scrambled to his feet and fled.
He was already several yards away when he heard the creak of the wooden gate opening behind him and the sudden clamour for alms. He stopped and cautiously turned around. The beggars had forgotten him in their desperation to attract the attention of the two monks in the open gateway. The brothers were handing out loaves of bread from one basket and kitchen scraps from the other, a random assortment of whatever the almoner had cajoled from the cook or gardener. An onion was dropped into one begging bowl, a small measure of withered beans into another, a lump of cheese into the next. The favoured ones were given pork bones, albeit with much of the meat cut from them, but still with enough remaining to make a coveted addition to the cooking pot. Those who had received only beans howled with envy.
Ben jiggled anxiously from foot to foot as the beggars stowed the food in sacks or under threadbare cloaks and shuffled off, glancing warily around them as if they feared cutpurses might be lurking to snatch their loaves from them. Even the man on the little cart had managed to claim his share by dint of ramming his cart hard and repeatedly against the ankles of those in front. The monks’ baskets were emptying fast.
Ben made up his mind and rushed forward, trying to wriggle his way to the gate. But the beggars, even the old ones, were well practised in the art of blocking those behind them, while thrusting forward their own bowls. When Ben finally reached the front he was dismayed to see the monk preparing to close the gate. He clutched at the monk’s basket.
‘Please, I need a loaf and some beans. I’ve a sister and two little brothers at home – my mother too. We’ve no food left and my father . . .’ he hesitated.
He wasn’t convinced that the monks would share his mother’s view that if they’d imprisoned his father, they should be feeding his family. Besides, there were still a few beggars remaining, pressing forward like him, their ears wagging.
‘My father’s dead,’ he finished in a rush and was immediately seized with a terrible panic, as if now
that he had said the words they would come to pass.
‘Too late, it’s all gone, lad,’ the monk said, tipping the bread basket to prove to them all not a crumb remained. ‘He had the last loaf,’ he said, indicating with a jerk of his chin the man on crutches with the bandages over his eye hopping away from the gate. ‘Give thanks to the Blessed Virgin you’re sound in limb, boy. At least you’ve a chance of finding work to help your mother. Poor wretches like him haven’t.’
Ben stared resentfully at the back of the man. ‘But it isn’t fair, he isn’t even a cripple,’ he yelled.
The monk, already with his mind on other things, would scarcely have registered this remark had it not been for the howl of protest that rose from the half-dozen beggars who were still milling around the gate, as frustrated and angry as Ben at having been denied their alms.
One of them roughly grasped Ben’s arm. ‘How do you know he’s no cripple?’
Ben had blurted it out even before he’d realised how he knew, but now he thought about it. ‘That leg he’s dragging – it’s as thick as the good leg. Not like his,’ Ben pointed to one of the other beggars in the little group, who also supported his weight on a crutch. ‘His crippled leg’s no more than a stick next to his good leg.’
‘The lad’s right!’ the beggar said. ‘That leg should be wasted if he can’t use it.’
The man was still hopping away up the road, oblivious to the growing commotion behind him at the gate. The monks threw down their baskets, and with a surprising turn of speed raced up the road. Before the beggar even knew what was happening they had seized him, one on either side, and were dragging him back towards the gate. The man’s crutches clattered down onto the stones as the beggar struggled to break free, but the monks managed to keep their grip on him.
They had almost dragged him back as far as Steeple Gate when the almoner appeared, bristling with anger.
‘Who left the gate wide open and unattended?’ he began, then seeing the beggar struggling between the two sweating monks, he took a step forward, frowning.
‘What’s all this? Why have you laid hands on this man?’
‘He’s an averer,’ one of the monks spat. ‘Pretending to be crippled to get alms, and taking food from the mouths of those who are in genuine want.’
A growl of fury went up from the other beggars.
‘Is that so?’ the almoner said grimly. He seized the beggar by the front of his filthy shirt, almost pushing his face into his. ‘It’s wicked enough to steal from the needy when food is plentiful, but with harvests as bad as they were last year, we certainly haven’t any to waste on scoundrels like you. I’m going to ensure you’re made an example of, my lad. I’ll see to it that you’re whipped bloody for this.’
The other beggars grinned their approval, all except one who was quietly slinking away, no doubt thinking he had come perilously near the same punishment.
The averer was fighting to free himself, while at the same time begging for mercy.
‘I didn’t take the food for myself, it was for my poor bedridden mother, I swear.’
The almoner was unmoved. He reached up and tugged at the end of the filthy bandage covering half the man’s face.
‘I warrant this is false too and we’ll find a good eye beneath here.’
The man desperately tried to extricate himself from the monk’s grasp. ‘No, I beg you. The pain! I can’t bear the pain of the light in that eye. It’s agony. Don’t!’
But it was too late. The last twist of bandages was torn away to reveal a somewhat crumpled but unblemished face and a second eye as bright and blue as its twin.
For a moment Ben gaped up at the figure in disbelief. ‘But you’re dead!’
‘You recognise this man?’ the almoner said.
Ben, his eyes bulging like a frog in fear and bewilderment, could only nod his head.
‘Well, who is it, boy?’ the almoner demanded in exasperation.
‘He’s the angel. He’s Martin.’
The almoner didn’t trouble to disguise his glee when he bustled into the prior’s hall at the head of the small procession comprising the two monks, Martin struggling between two lay brothers and, nervously bringing up the rear, the small figure of Ben. There was always a certain amount of rivalry and squabbling between the obedientiaries who held posts of responsibility in the priory. And it was no secret among the brothers that Prior Alan blamed his subprior for all the misfortunes of the last few weeks. Now here was another humiliation. Stephen had men combing the fens for Martin’s murderer, and all the time the victim had been very much alive and sitting at the priory gate.
The almoner could barely keep from smirking when he announced that he had personally apprehended the murderer of the poor Ely lad, Luke. The two monks who had in fact caught Martin exchanged sour looks, but they were resigned to their superiors taking credit for anything that had gone well, though they were never so eager to take the blame when things went amiss.
Prior Alan lowered himself into the chair at the far end of the long table.
‘Come closer.’
The two lay brothers shoved Martin forward with such force that, with his wrists bound behind him, he almost fell sprawling across the table, but he pulled himself upright.
‘There’s been a mistake . . . I confessed that I begged a little food at the alms gate, but my poor mother is dying—’
‘Dying now, is she?’ the almoner said. ‘She’s suffered a remarkably sudden decline in her health. Just now you told us she was merely bedridden.’
‘She’s bedridden because she’s dying,’ Martin said, glowering at him. ‘Please, Father Prior, I have to get back to her. Suppose she should die alone, thinking her only son has abandoned her? I swear I will return and undertake any penance you wish. But you would surely not deny an old woman the comfort of her son’s hand in her final hours.’
The almoner opened his mouth to protest but the prior held up his hand to silence him. ‘You say this is the man we thought was dead. How do you know it’s him?’
The almoner looked round for Ben, who had retreated to the furthest corner and was gazing round the long panelled room in wide-eyed astonishment.
‘The boy identified him. He’s the lad who acted the part of Isaac in The Play of Adam. And I understand the lad’s father is one of the men you arrested, Father Prior. You, boy, come here.’
Ben was so busy staring at the brightly stitched wall hangings that he didn’t even seem to be aware he was being talked about, never mind addressed. Impatiently the almoner strode over and grabbed him, propelling him towards where the prior sat.
Prior Alan adopted what he clearly thought was a kindly expression, but it did nothing to reassure the boy, who stared at him like a rabbit bewitched by a stoat.
‘Do you see the man with his hands bound?’
Ben’s gaze flicked to Martin and back to the prior. He nodded, uncertain why the prior should be asking him if he could see someone who was standing only feet away, unless Martin really was a ghost.
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘M . . . Martin.’
‘No, I swear I’m not. I know no one of that name. I live out in the fens. I came to Ely to find food for my poor dying mother. I’ve never seen this boy before. The child is mistaken.’
I’m not,’ Ben said indignantly. ‘You are Martin and there was a half-noble in the bag. You stole it.’
‘You see the boy is clearly making all this up. No doubt he hopes for a reward.’
Prior Alan gestured to the two lay brothers. ‘Be so good as to find Subprior Stephen and ask him to come here. He’s spoken to the actor on several occasions; if this is the fellow Stephen will know. And please fetch Custodian Will too. You need not return here yourselves. When we have done with the prisoner, I shall send for you again to conduct him to the hell-pit. Whoever he may prove to be, one thing is clear, he is guilty of posing as a cripple to beg for alms and he will be punished for that, though I suspect that will prove to be t
he very least of his crimes.’
When Stephen came hurrying into the prior’s hall, no one could be left in any doubt as to the identity of the man.
‘That’s him, that’s Martin,’ Stephen said the moment he caught sight of him. ‘So he is alive. Where did you find him?’
The almoner had been anticipating this question and had been rehearsing the words of his gloating reply in his head while they had been waiting, but he never got a chance to utter them.
Prior Alan at once dismissed him from the hall, together with the two monks, ordering that the boy should be taken to the kitchens there to be given a generous basket of food and a few coins by way of a reward. Scowling, the almoner marched Ben from the room, gripping his shoulder so tightly in his indignation at being excluded that the lad would have protested had he not been so delighted at the prospect of taking home not just a loaf but a whole feast.
When the heavy door had closed behind them, Prior Alan turned his attention back to his prisoner. ‘You look remarkably well for a man who’s been dead for over two weeks.’
Martin said nothing. Even he realised that there was little point in continuing to deny who he was. They had only to bring his cousin, Henry, here, or Cuddy or John. They would take the greatest pleasure in identifying him.
Prior Alan rose and paced the length of the room. Only when he reached the far end did he turn and address Martin.
‘So, you murdered your fellow player Luke. You cut the head from the corpse and hid it, and you dressed him in your robes. The question is why? Was it to make everyone believe you were dead, so that you could escape with the relic?’
Martin gaped at him. Only a few of the words had filtered through the panic fogging his mind. ‘Murder? No! No! I swear it on the bones of every saint in Ely, I did not kill Luke. He was already dead when I found him.’
‘I seem to recall just moments ago you swearing you were not Martin,’ Alan said coldly. ‘It would appear little value can be placed upon your oaths.’
The First Murder Page 17
