The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

I refrained from saying that she hadn’t even noticed him outside Owen’s shop the other day and instead remarked: ‘You don’t write elegies but satires.’

‘Like Edmund’s brother, the great William, I can turn my hand to anything,’ said Martin Barton. ‘Besides, the widow’s patronage would be useful.’

Martin grew more animated. I don’t know whether he had suggested the visit out of simple curiosity or whether he was really on the watch for a patron. I was more convinced than ever that all of Barton’s satirical bile was a cover for a fawning attitude towards those more powerful and wealthy than he – which, in the case of a writer (or a player), comprises nearly everybody. Nevertheless, and almost against my will, I felt myself warming towards the redhead. There was something artless about his guile.

‘I will come with you,’ I said. ‘I too will condole with the widow Leman.’

‘What about me?’ said Edmund.

‘You? You will keep out of mischief,’ I said. ‘You’d be recognized – particularly if Alice Leman was one of those who attacked you.’

‘What’s all this?’ said Martin. ‘So you were attacked, Edmund Shakespeare, and by a woman too. Now you must keep your side of the bargain and tell all.’

It didn’t take long for Edmund to recount his time in the animal house in the Tower or for me to throw in my ha’p’orth. Edmund was voluble enough now that his immediate fear of being accused and incarcerated seemed to be receding. In fact his chief anxiety was that his brother might get to hear of his adventures. For myself, I thought that he remained in great danger from the law and that an interrogation by WS would be as nothing to what he’d get from a Justice. He was still open to blame.

We left him nursing his wound in Martin Barton’s lodgings and likely to fall asleep after such a testing night. The Lemans lived near the Strand and so the playwright and I set off westwards. Despite everything that had happened, it was not yet midday. The sun burned with holiday warmth, and the air, softened by a pleasant breeze, was clearer than usual. Naturally Martin had taken the trouble to find out about the Lemans’ dwelling, which was called Pride House. ‘Not on account of the aspirations of the owner, Nicholas,’ he said, ‘but because a religious foundation once stood on the site. The name is probably a corruption of “prayer” or “priory”.’ Martin was unusually cheerful and chattered away about widows and wealth and the corruption of all earthly things.

Leonard and Alice Leman did not have one of the great dwellings by the Strand, but Pride House was ample enough, with a main entrance in a high wall fronting a courtyard. There was a porter to whom Martin spoke in a lofty fashion, saying that we’d come to pay our respects to Mrs Leman. The porter said not a word but waved us through with a supercilious smile, as if he knew we were the mere sweepings of the public stage. Either that or he felt an obligation to live up to the name of the house. I might have thought it odd that the gatekeeper did not look particularly sad even though the master of the house was dead, but the idea never occurred to me.

What did occur was regret that I had offered to accompany Martin. I had no business being here, no part to play. Weren’t we just prying? Prying in Pride House? But another, inner voice said that, if we could somehow discover the truth about what had happened in the animal arena the previous night, it would help to exonerate Edmund Shakespeare from blame. I had time to think these thoughts because the paved courtyard was empty and the house presented a blank face to us. There were no servants scurrying about, no open windows, no sounds. Perhaps this really was a place in mourning.

The silence was abruptly broken by a woman’s cry. It sounded almost like grief and came not from within the house but from a wide walk that led down one flank of the building. Martin and I glanced at each other and together we moved towards the source. Flowering trees and shrubs clustered next to the pebbled path, and flakes of blossom floated through the air. The walk opened into a garden at the rear of the house, and at the point where it did there was an arbour so that the owner might sit in peace, shaded and secure, to survey his property. One side of the arbour was the outer wall of the garden, while along and over the wooden lattice which shielded it from our eyes there grew rosemary and roses which were not yet in full bloom.

But despite the foliage we were aware of figures, unidentified figures, on the other side of the lattice. There was the sound of rustling fabric, there were subdued sighs and groans. Grief? I did not think so.

We crept closer. Fortunately there was grass under our feet now. But I do not think we would have been heard anyway. The persons in the arbour were too occupied with their own concerns. Getting as close as we dared, Martin and I squinted between the interstices of the wooden frame, with the scent of rosemary tickling at our nostrils.

There was a long stone seat immediately below us. It must have been quite hard – the notion drifted across the back of my mind – quite hard to lie on, especially when you were bearing the weight of another individual. But Alice Leman did not seem to be aware of the stoniness of her couch. Rather, her eyes were tight shut and her arms firmly fastened around the back of the man who was lying on top of her, shoving away. I could have reached through and grasped one of the lady’s shod feet since it and the corresponding leg were awkwardly propped on the back of the stone bench, while the other was out of sight, no doubt planted on the ground as a kind of buttress. The man’s posture looked nearly as uncomfortable as hers, but he too was oblivious to his surroundings. I wasn’t sure of the man’s identity. It certainly wasn’t Alice Leman’s husband. Not only was he dead, but he had fair hair which was quite unlike the dark locks on the fellow assailing the widow.

We watched the scene for a while. Once we’d had enough, we crept backwards like villains in a play. When we were at a safe distance, we did an about-face and I said to Martin Barton: ‘That puts paid to your idea of writing an elegy. Alice Leman has better things to do with her time than lament a dead husband.’

‘Not at all, Nick,’ said Martin. ‘She’ll feel guilty as sin after a while and welcome a lament.’

‘Who was that man with her?’

‘I believe it was the household steward, Jack Corner.’

I remembered the individual, thin as a rail, who’d been keeping company with Mr and Mrs Leman outside Davy Owen’s bookshop. I remembered the way he’d been gazing at her. It is not unknown for stewards to enjoy a liaison with the lady of the house and, for every one who succeeds, there may be a dozen who aspire to it. The only surprising thing was the speed with which the affair was being consummated.

Then two or three things happened at once. We were about halfway down the path beside the house and, believing that the couple in the arbour were fully occupied, did not trouble to keep our voices down as much as we should. But the silence from that quarter might have told us that they were finished and more at leisure to pay attention to their surroundings. Then I was seized with a fit of sneezing. Something spring-like and itchy – the memory of the rosemary on the arbour lattice or a different plant beside the path – got up my nose, and I was convulsed with atishoos. At the same instant a person appeared at the point where the path met the courtyard at the front of the house. He halted when he saw us. There were shouts from our rear, a man and a woman. It was the steward and the widow.

Martin Barton and I took to our heels. As we neared the individual standing at the corner of the house, we swerved to avoid him, one on either side. But in all the confusion Martin and I managed to strike him a blow on each shoulder so that he tumbled backwards to the ground and almost took us with him. Though my eyes were still blurry from the sneezing fit, I recognized Davy Owen. He was carrying a rectangular box that flew out of his hands and up over his head, landing with a crack on the paving of the courtyard. Without thinking, I stooped to pick it up. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was intending to return it to the St Paul’s yard bookseller out of some sense of guilt. But there came more cries from behind us and Martin tugged at my sleeve to urge me on. We made for the entrance.