The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Taking Rounce by the bridle I paced towards the house. The view down here wasn’t as good as it had been up on horseback, and the snow had started to fall again, but from what I was able to see it appeared a ramshackle sort of place. But I was glad to see smoke from a couple of chimneys mixing dirtily with the falling snow. There were people inside. There was warmth.

While I walked towards the gatehouse whose thatched roof poked above the wall, I ran through the reasons for my visit to the Maskell household, rather as if I was accounting for myself like an everyday hawker or pedlar.

Who are you?

Revill’s the name, Nicholas Revill. I work at the Globe Playhouse in Southwark. That’s in London. ( Pause ) I’m with the King’s Men.

The King’s Men!

( Modestly ) That’s right, the King’s Men.

Sounds impressive.

Now-and not that I’d repeat this to anyone outside the trade or mystery of playing, you understand-it may be that the best thing about being part of the King’s Men was the sound of those words rather than their substance.

Soon after the arrival of James (the sixth in his native Scotland but the first of that name ever to rule over us in England), our playing company had been elevated from being mere Chamberlain’s Men to being the King’s. In truth, James the Scot wasn’t very interested in the playhouse, unlike his predecessor, Elizabeth. James’s consort, Queen Anne (hailing from Denmark), showed some taste for the theatre but her preference was for masques which, in my view, don’t have much to do with real playing. Just about all we’d received as a mark of royal favour were four and half yards of red cloth each to make doublet and breeches for the coronation procession. That, and a couple of guineas for the whole company which scarcely covered the cost of getting our collective beards trimmed for the great day.

Don’t be dazzled by titles when it comes to patrons, then, however elevated they are. What we want above all from these gentlemen-or ladies, since we’re not particular-is a passionate interest in the theatre. And a deep purse. Or the other way round. As I say, we’re not particular.

Which goes a little way towards explaining why I now found myself leading a hobbling horse up a snowy, treelined track towards a large, dilapidated house in the country. As you’ll have guessed, the time now was the middle of winter. But I’d been visiting Cambridge to discuss the possibility of the King’s Men doing a tour the next summer. Summer is the season when playing companies go on the road. It’s good to get away from the stench and heat of London, for all that it’s the finest city in the world. It’s good to bring the gift of our playing to different towns and parishes in the kingdom when people are in holiday mood. And, more practically, the roads aren’t so passable the rest of the year.

We’d played Oxford before but never Cambridge. University towns are tricky places. They’re stuffed full of people who consider themselves to be clever. These clever people can be sniffy about ‘uneducated’ players, even if, in my opinion, our principal playwright, William Shakespeare, is cleverer and more witty than a whole college-full of students. In addition, the authorities sometimes take a dim view of players as likely to foment trouble. At least it had been so when we visited Oxford in the year of Queen Elizabeth’s death. But I enjoyed a warmer reception in Cambridge, where various civic worthies assured me that they’d be delighted to receive the King’s Men the following summer.

So this was my business, entrusted to me by the Burbage brothers, Richard and Cuthbert, and the other shareholders who ran the Globe. Or part of my business. The other was to call on the people who lived in the house now looming through the snow. Like all playing companies, however humble or grand, we are quite happy to stage private performances as well as public ones. I had no idea why the Maskell family wanted us to perform in their house next summer, but the usual reason for a private show is to celebrate a wedding. We’ve done a few of those in our time, marking forthcoming nuptials with dramas such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Romeo and Juliet (though the last one’s a bit of an oddity if you’re planning on a long and happy union). What the shareholders wanted to know was whether there would be adequate playing space for us in this house. From the outside the place didn’t look very promising. I visualized an old-fashioned hall with a low ceiling, full of draughts in winter and stifling airs in summer. Still, as long as it didn’t fall down about our ears while we were mouthing our lines, it would do. And even if it did fall down, we’d probably be able to stage something in the grounds.

By now I’d reached the gatehouse. This wasn’t much more than a blocky swelling in the wall, with a couple of pinched windows set above an arched, gated entrance. The arch was wide and high enough to drive a cart through, with a postern-like door set into the larger wooden gate. A wisp of smoke fluttered from the gate-house chimney. With Rounce breathing down my neck, I raised my hand to rap on the little door. To my surprise the door opened before I could bring my fist down. A young fellow with jug ears stuck his head out. He looked at me without surprise. It was almost as if I’d been expected, an impression reinforced by his first words.

‘Another one,’ he said. He peered more closely at me, while the snow flakes swirled between us. If his first words had been odd enough, his next were totally inexplicable.

‘Though I can’t say as you’ve got the nose.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The nose. You haven’t got it.’

‘Perhaps it’s fallen off in this cold,’ I said, resisting the temptation-which was quite a strong one-to reach up and check that my nose was still attached to my face. ‘Is this Valence House?’

The jug-eared boy nodded as he continued to inspect my face. Maybe they had people turning up every quarter of an hour, even on a winter’s afternoon, to present their noses for inspection. If I hadn’t been so taken aback I might have felt that jug-ears was being insolent or playing a joke. With some reluctance, I was about to account for myself when he stepped away from the little door and disappeared. There was the sound of bolts and bars being withdrawn, and the large gate slowly swung open. It gave a view onto a snow-covered courtyard.

I led the hobbling Rounce through the deep archway. A door pierced it on the right-hand side. The door was open. Smells of smoke and cooking crept out and I remembered I’d eaten nothing since breakfast. A man appeared in the doorway. He stretched out his arm and collared the youth, who was standing to one side to let me through. He yanked the boy towards him and cuffed him on the side of the head. The boy yelped like a dog when you tread on its tail.

‘That’ll learn you to show some respect for your betters, Davey,’ said the man. ‘I heard every word about noses.’

It was easy to see that the man was the lad’s dad. For one thing they had the same protuberant ears. Still angry, he spun Davey round and made to boot him in the rear. Without thinking, I put out a hand to restrain him. The man looked at me but lowered his foot. Rounce grew uneasy and started shifting behind me. I was growing uneasy too. What was this place? A madhouse, a Cambridgeshire bedlam, where people were obsessed with noses?

‘Leave him be. The boy meant no harm, I’m sure,’ I said, slightly fearful of what the man might do next and wondering how I might make my excuses and leave this place. In fact, if the snow hadn’t been coming down more heavily now and if Rounce hadn’t been limping, I might have turned tail with my horse and made my way back to Cambridge, mission unaccomplished. If only I had done just that thing, I would have saved myself from a great deal of discomfort-to say nothing of danger.