Darkmans

by Nicola Barker

  ‘Well she was perfectly lucid when we chatted at around twelve…’

  ‘Oh.’

  Pause

  ‘I’m still a little confused,’ Kane said.

  ‘But it is quite weird – quite confusing – I mean when you actually stop and think about it…’ Winifred persisted.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The coincidence. She falls off the wall – yeah? – delivering this book to Beede. She breaks her leg. She goes to hospital. She acquires the book again – I’m not entirely sure how. An old Reverend predicts her brother’s death. Her brother suddenly dies. She reads the book and realises that she’s related to this crazy religious nut, this monk…’

  Pause

  ‘Sorry? A monk?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But you said he was a doctor.’

  ‘He was a doctor – or a Physic, as they called them back then – but he was also a monk. Underneath. A Carthusian. They’re a very strict…’

  ‘Yes,’ Kane interrupted her, ‘I know who the Carthusians are.’

  ‘They’re totally fanatical…’

  ‘Yes, Win, I know.’

  ‘Hair shirts, fasting, the whole kit and caboodle…’

  Kane took a long drag on his cigarette. A tall man in a uniform was now climbing from the driver’s side of the car behind him. Kane glanced out of his window, casually exhaling, then he froze –

  Fuck

  It was Dory. It was Isidore. His forehead horribly disfigured by this terrible bruise.

  Kane quickly sank down in his seat, choking back the smoke.

  ‘Kane? Hello?’

  Winifred again.

  ‘Hi.’

  Kane suddenly had a huge frog in his throat.

  ‘Kane?’

  He coughed into his hand to try and dislodge it.

  ‘Hi,’ he croaked, his eyes watering, ‘I’m still here…’

  ‘Is there actually any point in my talking this through with you?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I’m just…’

  He coughed again. Then he sniffed.

  ‘Late for a client,’ she finished off, bored.

  Kane watched through streaming eyes as Dory approached the town house, took out a key and unlocked the front door. He’d barely pushed it open, though, when a blonde woman appeared and invited him inside.

  Kane pulled himself up straight again, with a grunt, rubbing his face dry with his sleeve.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, struggling to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘So just tell her, Win. Be straight up with her. That’s my advice. Ring her. She’ll be fine about it. She’s a very sensible – very practical – girl, beneath all that mouth…’

  ‘But I wish you could’ve heard her…’ Winnie interrupted. ‘I mean it was incredibly…I don’t know…incredibly touching, somehow…’ ‘What was?’

  ‘How happy it made her feel. How delighted she was that her family weren’t all bad. She thought it was important – a sign, a portent…’

  ‘But she was wrong. She simply got her wires crossed.’

  Silence

  ‘I mean you said this monk guy was a lunatic – a nut – so where’s the loss?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘No. I said he was a little flakey,’ Win rapidly rallied to the monk’s defence, ‘but he was an astonishing character. This seething mass of contradictions. He was released from his vows – as a bishop – after twenty-odd years of strict observance, but he still continued to wear the hair shirt, fasted – the whole deal – right up until his death. He was totally hardcore, in other words. It just transpired that his real love, his real calling was medicine. He was talented at it, by all accounts. He travelled extensively – all over the world – working as an ambassador for Britain – a diplomat, even a kind of spy, on occasion. He wrote some of the earliest known texts in the English language. Stuff about building, astronomy, medicine, comedy…’

  ‘But I thought you said…’

  ‘Yeah. There’s some doubt over his authorship of the Scogin book. It may well have been written later and just attributed to him. The Prologue kind of sets out his store – I don’t know if you read it – all this stuff about how “honest mirth” preserves health…That’s very Boardian. But the same introduction also claims he was the King’s Physic, which he definitely wasn’t. He may’ve attended Margaret – Henry’s daughter, once or possibly twice…I mean he was a Catholic – a bishop – he was imprisoned intermittently even after he swore the Oath of Conformity. He died in jail – Fleet Prison…’ Kane frowned.

  ‘…1550 or thereabouts, although he wasn’t locked up for treason. He was imprisoned for maintaining three loose women in his chamber, “for his use” – I quote – “and that of the other priests”.’

  ‘The old dog,’ Kane murmured.

  ‘Yeah. He was a passionate adherent of the humoral theory of the body; this idea that the body of a man contains four main humours which have to be perfectly combined for good health – blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile…And then a similar – equally important – combination of the four elements: hot, cold, wet, dry…The theory originates with Hippocrates. Sounds a little crazy to begin with, I’ll admit, but when you sit down and really think about it, it’s actually quite a cool idea…Kind of modern…Holistic, even…’

  ‘Sure.’

  Kane wasn’t concentrating. He was staring over at the house. ‘So what’s this guy’s name again?’

  ‘Andrew Board. B-o-a-r-d.’

  ‘But that’s completely different.’

  ‘I know. That’s what Kelly thought. That’s why she had her doubts, initially. But I told her how the language was in flux back then. English was only just being established as an official tongue. Nothing was set in stone. How a name sounded was just as significant as how it was spelled…’

  ‘Board/Broad…’ Kane tried this on for size. Then his hand shot into the air – quite spontaneously – and hurled his cigarette on to the dash.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I just…’

  Kane reached out to retrieve it.

  ‘I re-examined the Scogin text this morning,’ Winifred blithely chatted on, ‘a very early edition, even earlier than the one I photocopied for Beede…’

  ‘Huh?’

  Kane was dusting flecks of ash from the top of his speedometer.

  ‘John Scogin, the jester…’

  ‘John?’ He glanced up. ‘John Scogin?’

  ‘Yeah. I was bearing in mind all these academic theories on why it was that Board hadn’t written the book – and then it suddenly occurred to me, as I worked my way through it, how the story adheres – and in the weirdest way – to the Hippocratic theory…’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Win.’

  Kane dabbed at his eyes again.

  ‘It’s a fascinating business. Kind of like solving a crime. Like unravelling a mystery story. All the clues are in the text and your job is simply to sniff them out.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I mean it’s hardly rocket science or anything – my reading’s simply based on the loosest possible literary interpretation…’

  ‘Win?’

  ‘But I think it pays off – in fact it’s actually very interesting, really illuminating…’

  ‘Win?’

  ‘The way I see it – and I’ll try and keep this brief – is that John Scogin – simply as a character – seems to personify the coming together of all these totally disparate extremes – the same way Board himself does – I mean he’s this well-educated guy who advances his path in life by pretending to be a fool – a jester – and thoughout the narrative we see this bizarre opposition between fire and water which – the way I choose to interpret them, anyway – kind of represent passion and reason – sex and loyalty – lust and faith…’

  ‘Win…’

  ‘Just listen, Kane,’ she snapped, ‘and you might actually
learn something…’

  Kane rolled his eyes.

  ‘Early on – yeah? – when Board describes John setting fire to the barn, for example…’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Kane froze.

  ‘The barn. He sets fire to the barn. For me it’s one of the standout anecdotes of the entire book. An awful story, by modern standards, but presented in the text as simple high jinks – just a joke…’

  ‘He sets fire to a barn?’

  ‘Yeah. He sets fire to a barn which he’s filled – at his wife’s behest – with dozens of pesky beggars from the local area who are waiting patiently inside in the misguided belief that he’s going to distribute alms…’

  Alms

  Kane started, involuntarily –

  Arms

  – then glanced down at his wrist. He’d pushed up his sleeve and was plucking at his scar –

  Ow.

  He quickly desisted, wincing.

  ‘…but instead he actually locks them in there and he sets the barn on fire…’

  ‘What?’ Kane was horrified. ‘He burns them?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Does he kill anyone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Boorde doesn’t say. The act itself is the punch-line, and then afterwards he accuses the beggars of setting fire to the barn themselves, out of pure spite…’

  ‘But this isn’t a true story, surely?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Absolutely. Exaggerated a little, perhaps…’

  ‘But that’s…’

  ‘I know. Totally fucked. The point is that John has this powerful association – this affinity – with fire. And it’s a very female vibe, somehow, a very negative, very sexual vibe, which is later played out fully in his warring with Elizabeth Woodville and his bizarre – almost neurotic – attacks on her honour…’

  ‘Elizabeth who?’

  ‘The queen. Elizabeth Woodville. Edward IV’s wife.’

  ‘So he was jester to the king? I mean in real life?’

  ‘Of course. Who else?’ Win tutted, impatiently. ‘Keep up, Kane. So that’s the fire side dealt with – although there’s more – much more – obviously: his threat to burn down his house in Cheapside as a ruse to get protection money from his neighbours, climbing into an oven and leaving his arse hanging out so he doesn’t have to stare Edward in the face – because he’d been banned from doing so by royal edict…this was shortly after his return from France…’

  ‘He went to France?’

  ‘Yeah. He was banished there. But he was incredibly ambitious. He worked for Louis – the French king – and this uptight bishop who he alienates by making jokes about his long nose. He’s such an idiot. So arrogant. You kind of have to admire it, really. I mean there are no lengths he won’t go to, no lines he won’t cross. He’s a force of nature, this Dionysian spirit. This total arsehole. Utterly vicious and amoral. The absolute personification of misrule…’

  ‘Did they ever meet?’ Kane wondered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Board and this jester, this…this John character?’

  ‘Uh…I’ve no idea. Scogin would’ve been much older, but he was apparently quite long-lived, so there’s just an outside chance, I suppose. And he would’ve been a legendary figure during his own lifetime. All the top jesters were. Jesters held this very special place in medieval culture because the Motley served as a kind of protective armour. They were pretty much the only people in society who were permitted to speak their minds freely. They had a kind of intellectual immunity. This meant that humour could often be a direct route to power, and these guys knew it, Scogin more than anybody.

  ‘He was definitely at his creative peak during Edward’s reign. There was this astonishing kind of – I don’t know – affinity between them. Edward was hugely charismatic. Sensual. Very physically powerful. Brave. But ultimately degenerate. His main flaw was his love of beauty – of women, of sex. He was a terrible philanderer, and his wife tolerated it – extremely well, under the circumstances – but John wouldn’t let it go. He was like a cat with an injured bird, he kept on throwing it in her face, mocking her, deriding her, humiliating her. He put the king into an impossible position. He forced his hand. It was such an amazing period in history, so diverse and corrupt and fascinating; the very end of an age…Ends are so much more interesting than beginnings, don’t you think?’

  She didn’t wait for him to answer.

  ‘So much more telling – everything in stasis, everything in flux. I mean think about it this way: John survived the Black Death, he lived on his wits, he wormed and blagged his way into the top echelons of society where he would’ve rubbed shoulders with the likes of the legendary Jane Shore – the king’s famous whore – and the young Richard. He would’ve been a witness to the murder of those two boys in the tower. And as loyal as he was to Edward, I’m guessing he was a pragmatist at heart, that he may well’ve served Richard too – which would’ve taken a huge leap, emotionally, morally…Although huge leaps were apparently very much his forte…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He loved to jump. To leap things. It was all part of his act…’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He may even have survived through to the reign of Henry. He was one of the last of a great breed…’

  ‘The last? How d’you mean?’

  ‘Because of the development of the printed word. Books. The growth of the English language is generally believed to have precipitated the end of the jesting profession.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People started reading. They started entertaining themselves. They became more sophisticated. And what Board actually did was to solidify that process – to actively encourage it – both as a writer and as a physic. He condensed all the best known elements of John Scogin’s life into a loose narrative. He created one of the first ever joke books. He pinned John down with words, skinned and filleted him, dissected him. He made him tabloid. He sold him. I mean we’re talking 150, 200 years before Richardson wrote Clarissa – the first, great English novel…’ she paused, speculatively. ‘But that’s hardly the point…’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Because what’s really interesting is the text itself – this all-pervasive yin/yang quality, this literary opposition – as Board describes it – between fire and water. The wet side, the liquid side,’ Win ran on, ‘which is equally important – is personified by John’s loyalty to the masculine, to the king – Edward IV. When he arrives at court he stands under this dripping pipe and pretends he hasn’t realised he’s getting wet. It’s rather stupid, if you ask me, but this prank – which seems to go on for many hours – causes a real stir in court. Eventually it comes to the king’s attention and the long and the short of it is that the king employs Scogin as his jester…’

  ‘Did Beede mention why it was that he wanted this book?’ Kane suddenly enquired.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Beede. Did he ever mention why?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. He’s become totally fascinated by the period. And he has this crazy theory about how the British Renaissance took place – at least in part – because of the evolution of English as a language…’

  ‘Sure,’ Kane said flatly, ‘I heard all about that.’

  ‘There’s actually another book which I haven’t managed to get a hold of yet called Tales of the Jesters. I was chatting to this guy – this comedy journalist – who had his own copy, and he was telling me how Scogin’s final request when he died was that he should be buried beneath a waterspout in Westminster Abbey. “I ever liked good drinks,” he apparently said. And that’s exactly what happened. They buried him there, under this dripping waterspout. But only a handful of years later the king decided to build a new chapel on that spot – so the old jester’s bones were just casually unearthed. I don’t know where they ended up…’

  Kane was staring out of his window again, over towards the house. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Yeah. I mean this stuff’s
a fair old hike away from my usual scholastic stamping ground, but since I’ve been studying the original texts again this morning I’ve become totally fascinated by the whole thing. Completely hyped-up. Really excited. In Board’s book we definitely see the jester ducking and hiding between words. Words are his allies. It’s like he’s at his most powerful, his most mischievous, when experimenting with the variableness of language. Does that make sense at all?’

  Kane didn’t bother to answer her.

  ‘Many of the stories are about deceiving and then disappearing, about pulling a fast one and then doing a runner, and the language itself really seems to aid and abet him. Beede’s little hypothesis has some validity in that respect…In fact I was having a quick look at this book edited by Gamini Salgado which I noticed Beede reading the other week – it’s a collection of texts from the mid-sixteenth century – many of them totally contemporaneous with the Scogin book – and one of them in particular by a John Awdeley called The Fraternity of Vagabonds is basically a dictionary of the slang of the Elizabethan criminal underclass. This bizarre secret language. It’s amazingly weird. Very beautiful, too. Most of it’s probably fallacious – just a wild fabrication. But that hardly even matters, really. I mean where do words come from anyway? What is it that gives a word its longevity, its staying power? Who legitimises it? Why? And how? I’m seriously thinking about researching further into this whole area now, creating some kind of spontaneous academic thesis around it. Bringing it all right up to date, too, via patois – my speciality – musical and urban street-slang, African prison languages…Maybe even researching another book.’

  Kane snorted, bitterly, ‘Beede’ll be ecstatic.’

  ‘Yeah…’ (She didn’t take his bait.) ‘I mean just this idea that language is constantly changing, that it creates these weird little loopholes which allow people of different classes and races and backgrounds to gain ready access to an otherwise inaccessible parent culture…’