The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘Yes, I’ll come with you. I’m curious.’

I was curious too. Davy Owen was the bookseller from whom Edmund had bought the bone – King Arthur’s limb – to present to his brother as some sort of peace offering. Now it appeared as though the St Paul’s vendor possessed other items relating to that legendary ruler which he might wish to dispose of. Or so he had told Edmund. Usually I would have dismissed the whole thing as a confidence trick. But William Shakespeare’s odd belief in the Arthurian relic that lay on his desk – the queer sensation he had experienced when first touching it – was enough to make me want to see any further items for myself. And if it was a confidence trick, then it would be as well for me to accompany Edmund to St Paul’s yard and discourage him from wasting the cash that he’d received as an advance for his menial work at the Globe playhouse.

‘You are a curious man altogether, Nick,’ said Edmund.

‘I am?’

‘Curious about my brother William, I mean. All those questions you’ve been asking about him growing up in Stratford.’

Questions? I suppose so. Had I been asking too many questions? To cover my discomfort, I reached for an oyster myself and gulped it down. I’ll admit I was interested in WS’s life. But there was such a gap of years between William and Edmund that the latter did not have much direct knowledge of his famous brother. However, he did possess a stock of stories which had been preserved in the family and was happy to pass them on, perhaps because several of them showed WS in a less-than-respectable light. Even so, Edmund had a high regard for his brother. That was shown by his coming to London to emulate WS. And he carried a copy of WS’s early poem Venus and Adonis , which he showed me with a touch of pride. Indeed, on the title page of Venus and Adonis Edmund had inscribed his name as if he were the author as well as the owner of the book (WS’s own name did not appear).

Yet now he said: ‘Did I tell you about the time he was caught poaching deer? Yes, the great playwright was a schoolboy poacher on Sir Thomas Lucy’s estate.’

I was keen to hear more but we were interrupted by the arrival of Martin Barton. It would have been hard to imagine Barton as a poacher or indeed as a person engaged in any kind of outdoor activity. He was a gangly, redheaded individual who wrote rather bitter satirical pieces. One of his plays, The Melancholy Man , had gone down well with the Globe audiences but Barton had recently fallen out with the shareholders and he was now a regular writer for our rivals, the Blackfriars Children. Plays that were acted out by boys in all the parts (and not just playing the females) were fashionable in London and had been for some years. Barton was no doubt happier there since a principal reason for his quitting the King’s Men was a fondness for our own boy players.

Now he inclined his head towards us in his usual manner – that is, a mildly mocking one – and said: ‘Mr Shakespeare, I presume. Mr Edmund Shakespeare.’

I made the introductions and Martin Barton seated himself on the other side of the table, helping himself to one oyster, then another and yet one more for luck. He got the attention of a passing pot-boy and, in an insinuating rather than a mocking manner, requested more drink. Then he said to Edmund: ‘You are better looking than your brother, a little better.’

This was typical of Martin, a compliment with a large measure of insult added. A flush rose in Edmund’s cheeks, and I wondered whether we were going to see a display of the temper he was supposed to possess. Since Martin Barton also had a mercurial nature, which some attributed to his Italian mother, I could see a dispute in prospect. So while the pot-boy delivered a second flask of white wine to our table and Martin was distracted in gazing at him (he was a strapping lad), I quickly put in: ‘How is business at the Blackfriars, Martin?’

It was an innocuous enough question, so I was surprised to see him pull a face. ‘Toothache,’ he said.

‘They say the toothache is caused by unbalanced humours,’ said Edmund. ‘Or worms.’

Barton ignored him and said: ‘Oh, business is very good, Nicholas. We thrive. A more select audience, you know. You should visit us, Edmund Shakespeare. Our boys are more, ah, delicate players than your hulking fellows south of the river.’

‘I like it well enough where I am,’ said Edmund.

‘Protected under your brother’s wing?’ said Martin. ‘It must be a warm and downy place to nestle.’

I sensed Edmund growing tense on the bench beside me. The sooner this session was brought to an end, the better. Barton was being his usual needling self, probably aggravated by his teeth, and it appeared that he wanted to meet Shakespeare’s younger brother only out of curiosity. Not benign curiosity like mine, but malevolent.

‘William is doing his brother no special favours, Martin,’ I said. ‘Edmund here is making himself useful at the Globe like any apprentice.’

It was the wrong remark, putting Edmund on his dignity and wanting to show he was more than an apprentice, for he now said: ‘I can tell you that I am helping my brother with his work, Mr Barton.’

‘Do you write too? Another poet emerges from the wilds of Stratford!’

‘I am providing him with material for his next piece. He is writing about King Arthur.’

For the first time Martin Barton looked properly interested. He placed his glass of wine carefully on the table and leaned forward, cupping his face gingerly between his hands. I kept my own face impassive but groaned inwardly. As I’ve said, WS did not usually talk about the work he was engaged on. Whether out of superstition or because he feared his ideas being stolen, he would not wish for a member of another acting company to know what he was doing and certainly not Martin Barton. But the words had been spoken.

‘Is he? I have sometimes thought of dealing with Arthur myself. A comparison of those golden days with our present corrupt age of iron. A legendary king set beside our diminished rulers. Satirical of course.’

Satirical wouldn’t do, if Barton wanted to gain favour. King Arthur was taken very seriously by the present royal court, as WS well knew. But let Barton find that out for himself. I was about to say to Edmund that it was time to go, that we should leave Martin to finish his drink (and make friends with the strapping pot-boy). But Edmund was nettled. Before I could stop him he’d launched into a garbled account of how we were going to call on a seller in St Paul’s yard, a seller who had some relics to dispose of, relics connected to King Arthur.

In other circumstances Martin Barton might have laughed or made some slighting reply. But the red-headed playwright was all seriousness and, learning that we were intending to make our call on Davy Owen that very afternoon, quickly added himself to our company, remarking that it would be a distraction from his face-ache. It was no good my making any objection. Barton could be pleasant enough when he chose, and his manner now switched from mockery to compliment, saying to Edmund that his brother William must be truly glad to have a member of his family with him in the city.

We made more small talk, rapidly finished our drinks and the last of the oysters and set off towards St Paul’s yard. It was a fine late afternoon. The sky was high and dotted with small clouds that flicked across the sun, while the streets were full of people finishing their activities for the day. I half-hoped we might arrive at St Paul’s yard to find the stalls and shops closing up, but this is one of the busiest parts of town, a place where there are always visitors wanting to gawp and buy and therefore sellers willing to serve them. Edmund told us that Owen had a shop on the booksellers’ side of the yard and that, although he dealt mostly in books and pamphlets, he also traded in other things.