The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

The carpenters had done their work well. The entrance to hell, in the form of the gigantic gaping jaws of a great sea monster, was lined with sharp white teeth and real smoke belched from its scarlet maw. On the opposite side of the long cart the throne of heaven mounted on a high dais glittered with tiny glass jewels, and a painted rainbow arched triumphantly over it. Between the two was a pyre of wooden twigs, which would serve as the altar upon which Abel would make his sacrifice, then the place where Isaac was to be slain, and finally the fire around which the shepherds would watch their flocks. It too could be made to pour with smoke.

The whole cart had been covered with sailcloth lashed to the sides to protect the scenery as the carpenters worked, and to keep out the more inquisitive of the local brats. When it was finally rolled up to reveal the stage, to the accompaniment of a lively tune played on frestelles and drums, appreciative murmurs broke out among the waiting crowd.

But it was nothing to the gasps of admiration that arose as Martin strode onto the stage. He had decided that it was only natural for him to play the angel in each of the three plays and blithely ignored the angry muttering of the Ely man who always took that role in The Shepherds’ Play . But even the Ely man was forced to admit his appearance in the third play would only have been an anticlimax after Martin’s. For Martin was clad in white, with a pair of wings covered in swans’ feathers fastened to a concealed harness on his back. His luxuriant blond curls were freshly washed and crowned with a circlet of gold that dazzled in the sun. In his right hand he carried a gleaming silver sword, which he thrust high into the blue sky.

‘His angel, clear as crystals bright

Here unto you thus I am sent this day.’

Of course, the adults in the crowd knew the sword and the coronet were nothing more than wood, the jewels on the throne were glass and the mouth of hell was not really ablaze, but they were more than willing to allow themselves to believe, for the space of the play, that Abraham really would slaughter his son, and the beautiful creature before them was indeed an angel descended from heaven itself.

As Martin had predicted, though most of the pilgrims had little to give, they were far more willing to pay the players who had entertained them than the keepers of the shrines who would barely allow them time to say a paternoster before the tombs of the saints, despite the many hours they’d waited to get in. So when Ben, John’s doe-eyed little son, went round with the collecting bag, he brought it back bulging to Martin. Even Cuddy was grudgingly forced to admit that if there was a curse on the ‘Cain and Abel’ play, Martin had managed to reverse its fortunes.

Henry, however, was beginning to believe that the Ely men had been right all along when they said the play was ill-omened, at least for him if not for the others. The highlight of ‘Cain and Abel’, at least for the pilgrims, was the moment when Cain bludgeoned Abel to death with a jawbone. Urged on first by Martin when they rehearsed, and then by the crowd thirsting for a good fight, John’s blows were becoming evermore vicious.

By the third performance, Henry, already stiff and aching from the bruises on his arms and shoulders, could not force his shrinking flesh to submit to another battering. As John walked towards him brandishing the jawbone, Henry ran to take shelter behind the throne of God. The crowd jeered, calling Abel to come out and face Cain. But when he showed no signs of moving, Martin, resplendent in his angel’s robes, marched round the other side of the dais and, coming up behind Henry, kicked him hard on his backside so that he sprawled forward across the centre of the stage.

The mob screamed with laughter and as John again advanced on Henry, he scrambled to his feet and the two of them began dodging and weaving round hell and the pyre, to the whooping delight of the crowd. Egged on by the spectators, John assailed his victim with reckless and violent blows until Henry realised there was a very real chance of receiving a fatal crack to the head. The only way he could think of bringing it to an end was to lie down and pretend to be slain. But even that did not prevent John whacking him several more times on the back just to please the pilgrims.

‘“Yeah, lie there, villain! Lie there! Lie!”’ John shouted triumphantly, striking Henry with each cry of ‘lie’!

The mob gleefully joined in, bellowing the line with John.

The takings were greater than ever after that performance, and as Martin stuffed the cloth bag bulging with coins into his leather scrip, he slapped Henry enthusiastically on his throbbing back.

‘Did you hear how that crowd roared when I kicked you up the arse? We’ll have to keep that in tomorrow, and that chase with John. They loved it.’

John grinned. ‘And they paid for it too.’ He held out a meat-slab of a hand. ‘That looks like a weighty purse. Let’s see it.’

Martin glanced around at the crowd. ‘Not here. Too many thieves and cutpurses about, never know who’s watching. I’ll divide up the takings in the barn at the vespers bell this evening, like always. Meantime, my throat’s drier than a bishop roasting in hell. What about you, lads? Who’s for a flagon?’

Henry hunched morosely in the corner of the barn. His back was so sore and stiff he wondered how he was going to lie down to sleep, and his resentment had not been one whit tempered by the ale. Indeed, if anything, he felt himself growing more sober as the others became merrier. The only other one who looked as sullen as he felt was poor Luke, who was as ever the butt of his uncle’s jokes and temper in equal measure.

The men gathered round as Martin drew the sack of coins from his scrip and tipped them onto the top of an upturned barrel. He began counting them out into eight piles with another half-pile for John’s son. Ben was just a boy and even though he had a good many words to declaim, he certainly wasn’t entitled to a grown man’s share.

The coins were of small value: mostly farthings or halfpennies. The men watched intently, making sure the same value was deposited on each pile.

Cuddy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Doesn’t look as much there as I thought there was. Sack looked fuller than that. You sure some of it hasn’t dropped out in that scrip of yours?’

Martin obligingly held his scrip upside down and shook it, but nothing more fell out.

The men glanced unhappily at one another, then shrugged. Life had long ago taught them there was no use wishing for roast venison when you only had eel in your pot.

Cuddy’s great fist hovered over one of the piles, preparing to take his share.

‘Which pile has the half-noble in it?’ little Ben suddenly piped up.

Everyone turned to look at the boy.

‘I didn’t see any gold on the barrel,’ Cuddy said.

Martin smiled and ruffled Ben’s hair indulgently. ‘There’s no half-noble, lad.’

‘But there was,’ Ben said indignantly, jerking his head away. ‘A merchant’s wife put it in the bag. She held it up in her fingers and asked me if I’d ever seen one afore. Her husband chided her for giving so much, but she said…’ He hesitated, suddenly looking abashed.

‘Said what, Ben? Speak up, his father encouraged him with a prod.

‘That I had eyes that put her in mind of her… her lapdog,’ he mumbled to the earth floor, ‘and she was sure I wasn’t getting enough to eat.’

‘Was she indeed,’ John bridled. ‘As if I’d let any son of mine go hungry. Who does she think-’

‘Never mind that,’ Cuddy said impatiently. ‘The boy said she put a half-noble in the bag, so where is it now?’

He took a menacing step towards Martin, who stumbled backwards, spreading his hands wide. ‘I swear by the Holy Virgin, I’ve haven’t seen it. The boy must have imagined it. As if anyone in that crowd would give players a half-noble. The boy said the woman held the coin up. In that bright sunshine it must have looked like gold, an easy mistake to make.’