The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘Meant no harm? You don’t know him,’ said the man, watching as his son slunk inside the little gatehouse with a puzzled glance in my direction.

‘I don’t know him, true, but then I don’t know anyone here,’ I said.

The man-the porter or lodge-keeper, I suppose-looked slightly askance at this, as if I ought to be familiar with at least some of the inhabitants of Valence House. He didn’t ask my business, though.

‘My horse needs attention,’ I said. ‘He has a stone in his hoof.’

‘Girl’ll take you to the stables.’

He turned his head and bellowed into the interior. A large girl emerged, another of this man’s brood, I guessed, although she had a pig-like cast to her countenance with little red eyes and a narrow mouth. The smell of cooking clung to her ample frame. She went up to Rounce, stroked his nose and took the reins from me.

Without a word, she led me and the hobbling horse into the large quadrangle that fronted the house. There were low-lying thatched outbuildings on either side. The impression of neglect hung over the whole place. The gusting snow stung my face and my shoes were leaking.

‘What’s your name?’ I said.

‘What’s yours instead?’

‘Nick Revill. I’m a player.’

‘Do you play the fool?’

‘I’ve never played the Fool-never on stage, I mean.’

‘They are all fools that come here.’

The conversation was more than I’d bargained for. By this time we’d reached a broken-down outbuilding to one side of the house. The girl gave a shrill whistle and a shambling young man emerged from the dilapidated structure. A hank of pale hair hung over one eye like the forelock on a horse. He grinned vacuously, before saying, ‘Why, it’s Meg.’

‘Horse, Andrew. Take care of him.’

‘I’d rather take care of you.’

Meg giggled.

‘My horse has a-’ I started to say, but the shambling youth took Rounce by the reins and led him inside the stables, looking over his shoulder at the girl. Meg hesitated, then indicated with a wave of a podgy hand that I should go to the main entrance of the house. She followed the stable-hand inside.

I felt at a distinct disadvantage, having been put in my place in different ways by the lodge-keeper and by his boy and his girl, and now by the stable-hand who’d scarcely so much as glanced at me. So much for hoping to impress these people with my provenance as one of the King’s Men. If the retainers of the Maskell household were able to treat visitors like this, then what would the actual residents be capable of? And my business here was, or should be, so straightforward. It was merely to establish that the house would provide a suitable playing area for the King’s Men next summer. But my most immediate concern now was to get out of the cold.

I walked back to the main door which was sheltered by an ornate porch that looked more recent than the rest of this section of the house. I half expected my approach to have been spied on and the door to be flung open before I could rap on it. But nobody was watching or waiting on the other side. There was a great knocker on the door, but it was swathed in cloth to muffle its sound, the usual sign of sickness in a dwelling. I raised the knocker and let it fall with a dull clack. After a time the door opened to reveal a stoutish, middle-aged man wearing a grey-white cap.

‘Come in,’ he said.

He spoke wearily. Was he a servant too? He didn’t look like one. I went in and he shut the door firmly behind me.

Inside, it wasn’t quite as I’d visualized it. A sizeable, old-fashioned chamber, panelled, yes, but with a high ceiling and a gallery at one end, reached by a flight of stairs. From the actor’s point of view, and at first glance, it would do well. A large dining table was set to one side of the hall. There was a welcoming fire in a chimney-piece opposite to the front door and a few tapers had been lit to ward off the growing gloom of the afternoon. Another man was standing by the fire, leaning against the carved chimney-piece. There was a woman sitting in a chair nearby. None of them said anything but all three looked at me with curiosity and, I thought, a touch of wariness. Back in London I’d been told that the head of the household was called Roger Maskell-and one of the Globe shareholders added that he had the reputation of being a jovial old fellow. Neither of the two men here fitted that description. For one thing, they didn’t have enough years on them.

‘Nicholas Revill at your service,’ I said, dipping my head slightly and feeling that they needed a lesson in manners. ‘I’m the player.’

‘Player? The player ?’ said the woman in the chair. She did not speak with recognition but rather with bemusement.

‘From the King’s Men. Of London.’ I put a tiny emphasis on King’s but to no effect. To look at the expressions on the faces of these three I might as well have dropped down from the moon.

‘You’re here to see Elias?’ said the one who’d opened the door to me. He had moved across to stand by the woman, holding the back of the chair where she sat. Now my eyes were more accustomed to the light indoors, I noticed that what I’d taken for a greyish cap was in fact his natural hair but cut very short and fitting as snugly to his head as a baby’s caul. While I was wondering who Elias was-for he certainly couldn’t be the Roger Maskell I’d been told of-the individual by the chair said, ‘You’re here to see the old man?’

‘I suppose so,’ I said.

As if this was a cue in a play, it was an old man that now entered the room by a side door. He was clutching a stick and shuffling along with an odd sideways gait. Somehow sensing a newcomer, he steered himself in my direction. The others watched as he approached. When he was a few feet away, he halted and peered at me through the spectacles perched on the tip of his long nose. He was very thin and stringy, as if he was already rehearsing himself for death. Presumably this was old Elias. I did my best to smile. I went through the motions of introducing myself all over again although without adding the ‘King’s Men’ bit. In response the old man cupped his hand to his ear and said, ‘Revill?’ as if I was some strange species of animal.

‘You won’t get anywhere with him,’ said the man standing by the fire. It was the first time he’d spoken. I wasn’t sure whether he was addressing me or the old man. The remark would have fitted either of us. The bespectacled individual continued to stare at me, like the boy at the gate. I decided that this wasn’t Elias after all. For two pence, I would have turned on my heels and made my way back to Cambridge, leaving my horse behind and going on foot if necessary. But a growing impatience-even anger-at the manner in which I was being treated made me stay. And say what I said next.

‘Look, I don’t know what you imagine my business to be. But I have been given a task to do on behalf of my company of players and I would like to talk to the head of this household. Then I’ll leave you to your own devices. Happily leave you.’

Now it was the woman’s turn to intervene. She got up from her seat near the fire. ‘I’ll take you to Elias,’ she said.

As she rose I saw that she was younger than I’d first thought. I followed her to the foot of the stairs that led to the gallery, assuming we were going to go up there. Instead she picked up a taper from a small table and made to turn a corner that led into the depths of the house. I put out a hand to detain her.

‘Madam, I…’ I began.

‘Not yet.’

She nodded in the direction of the hall. I looked back. The three men were in the same positions: one leaning against the chimney-piece, the stout individual still clutching the back of the chair even though it was empty, and the old one with the stick and spectacles stooped in the middle of the hall. The stout one said something like ‘Give our greetings to Master Grant’, but since the remark made no sense to me and I was unsure whether I’d heard him properly, I didn’t respond.