The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘This morning we made an unfortunate discovery. It involves a friend of yours.’

‘Edmund Shakespeare?’

‘Just so. Edmund Shakespeare. It was the name which gave me pause and made me agree to his sending you a note asking for your presence here. You are able to confirm, Mr Revill, that this individual is indeed the brother of William Shakespeare?’

‘He is.’

‘He was adamant that he did not want his brother to know of his… predicament.’

‘Yes, that sounds like Edmund.’

‘I must tread carefully where William Shakespeare and the King’s Men are concerned. The king is patron to us all, you know. Plays are not so near the heart of James as are his lions, but I believe his queen is fond of the drama?’

‘She is.’

‘I thought so,’ said Ralph Gill, almost mournfully.

‘Sir,’ I said, ‘can you tell me what Edmund has done?’

‘Oh, he has done murder,’ said the spectacled gent. ‘It may well be murder. Come with me.’

He came around from behind the desk and we left the room, going down the spiral stairs, across a lobby and down a further flight. Now that my personal fears were fading, anxiety over Edmund returned. Murder? Was it possible? Yes, I thought, remembering WS’s brother threatening Davy Owen or brandishing a knife at Scoto’s throat, it was possible.

As we descended through the building with its many twists and turns, I realized that this was not one edifice but several which had grown up and into each over the centuries. Meanwhile, the animal stench became stronger. Eventually we emerged from a tunnel-like passage into a yard via a barred gate that Mr Gill unlocked. The yard was in the shape of a great D, turned the wrong way about, and with the straight side formed by the buildings from which Ralph Gill and I had just come.

The surrounding walls were so high and the spring sky with its fast-moving clouds, seemed so distant that it was like being at the bottom of a well. A curved viewing platform with a canopy projected from the southern side, supported by scarred wooden struts. That would be where the king and his retinue surveyed the lions as they went about their work of dispatching the lesser beasts. And down here in the yard was where the killing took place, as evidenced by dark stains among the mixture of mud and shit and roughly levelled stone composing the floor. There was a large water trough and a platform-like area scattered with straw on the northern side for the animals to disport themselves.

Fortunately there were no beasts wandering free but in their place a couple of fellows garbed like the one who had collected me in Tooley Street. They nodded deferentially at Master Gill. I was glad of all the human company available because of the proximity of the beasts. They were at our backs in cages and behind doors set in the walls of the buildings nestling around the Lion Tower. I smelled and heard them. I felt their eyes on me and when I turned fearfully for a better look I caught glimpses of tawny fur, of yellow eyes, dark stripes, bedraggled tails. What I took for a wrinkled human hand thrusting out like a prisoner’s from a panel in a low door belonged, said Ralph Gill, to an ape. There was a brown bear huddling miserably in the corner of its little chamber, and another creature which I mistook for a dog but which Gill informed me was a wolf, the very last in England. It was a lean, ugly thing, maybe on account of pondering its melancholy uniqueness.

In his pride at his collection, the lion keeper had for a moment forgotten why we had come to this level. But he soon led me off into yet another passage and past more cages and caverns set within the very foundations of the place. It was dark and noisome down here, with the only light provided by torches in iron wall-brackets. Feeble gusts of air indicated that there were hidden holes venting the place; otherwise every living thing would soon have been choked. The low noises, which might almost have been human, the bars and locks everywhere, could not but remind me of a gaol.

In this honeycomb or warren were little chambers set aside for provisions or the use of the keepers, but Ralph Gill led me to a pair of adjoining cells cut into the rock and meant for beasts. They were presently occupied by men. Candles had been brought in to help them see. In one cell a body lay face up, arms and legs splayed among the dirt. His fair beard and white ruff, his fine doublet and hose, all were dyed with blood. I feared very much that I knew his identity. It was the luxuriant beard that gave the clue.

In the other pen were three individuals, each of them alive. One was slumped, head in hands, in a corner, while on either side stood two of the fellows that I now recognized by their garb and royal insignia to be assistant keepers. They were holding cudgels, normally used, I supposed, to ward off the wild animals. We stood by the open gate since the interior was too small for five men.

Edmund Shakespeare looked up. His forehead was bloody and swollen.

‘I did not do this thing, Nick. I am innocent, I swear.’

Not sure whether to believe his denial, I nodded at Shakespeare’s brother and spoke instead to Ralph Gill. ‘What happened here?’

‘My men discovered early this morning that the lions were roaming in the yard, something never known before. They had a deal of trouble to drive them back to their cages with burning torches. It was only after they had done so that they heard human cries coming from this underground quarter. Here they discovered the sight before you, Mr Revill. A man dead by violence and another man cowering and shouting in this enclosure next door. I was summoned straight away and established this… gentleman’s name. I was for calling out the Justice but he begged instead to be allowed to scrawl a note to you. I was minded to refuse, but when I heard his name and that he was a member of the King’s Men I decided to give him that, ah, benefit.’

I could see how Mr Gill had risen to his present eminence. He had quickly taken stock of what had occurred and, not knowing whether Edmund was really an important person or not, he responded with prudence. Clear-headed and diplomatic, Gill must have been a valuable servant of the Crown. I let it pass that Edmund was not a King’s Man (or not properly so). It was more likely the Shakespeare name which had done the trick.

‘Who is the dead man?’ I said, though I was almost certain I already knew. Nevertheless Gill’s answer gave me a jolt. ‘He is called Leonard Leman. He and his wife are frequent visitors to the animals, not as ordinary Londoners but as members of the court parties who grace us with their presence.’

Leman was one of the group we’d seen arguing with the bookseller in St Paul’s yard.

‘How did he die?’

‘He has many wounds on his body, Mr Revill, which could have been produced by a knife. And your fellow here was discovered clutching a knife this morning.’

‘What happened, Edmund?’ I said.

‘I… I was tricked into entering this place,’ said Edmund. ‘I received a note telling me to come to the Lion Tower last evening.’

‘A note? Who from? Where is it?’

‘I don’t know. It is gone. But once here, I was surprised by men I could not see and beaten about the head. My hat was lost. See…’

He leaned forward, the better to display the swelling on the front of his head. Hanks of hair which hung down were matted with dried blood. He touched the egg-shaped lump cautiously and then looked at his hands.

‘I did not know where I was for a time, but when I came to myself it was here in this filthy sty surrounded by animal noises. I dimly saw the body of that man in the neighbouring cell. I made to leave but there were large beasts out in the yard, slinking through the dark. I was reluctant to move further, so I groped my way back to this place and did my best to secure the door with my belt. See… ‘