The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

The props and costumes were kept in a long chest beneath the wagon and securely chained to one of the wheels. Martin reached inside his scrip for the two keys. He slid his hand along the chain to the lock, and by touch alone wriggled the key until it slipped inside. But however carefully he lowered the chain to the ground, he could not avoid the heavy metallic clunk, which echoed through the darkness. He froze, holding his breath, then shook himself impatiently. The chest contained his clothes – why should he not open it anytime he pleased? But all the same he did not want to have to explain his presence on the streets to the night watch.

He groped for the lock on the chest itself and had just turned the key when he heard the sound of shoes scuffing over the grass and the scrape of clothing against sailcloth. Someone was moving down the side of the wagon. Cuddy? John? Had one of them returned to search for the missing coins?

Scarcely daring to breathe, Martin crawled away into the darkness and threw himself flat on the grass, as the figure held up a lantern, shielding the light with the edge of his cloak. The man ran his fingers down the ropes, feeling for the point where he could unhook them and pull aside the stout canvas. Martin cautiously raised his head, trying to make out who he was, but his face was concealed deep within his hood, and the shape of his body was masked by the heavy cloak.

There was a clunk as the man’s shoe knocked against the chain on the ground. The figure glanced down. Martin instinctively scrabbled in his scrip, searching for the keys and cursed himself as he realised they were still in the lock of the chest. Perhaps the man wouldn’t notice them. But his curiosity had evidently been aroused, for he crouched down, holding out the lantern. As he bent over, his face dipped into the pool of light. It was only for a moment, but Martin recognised him at once.

Brother Oswin glanced up at the cathedral as he hurried towards it. Candles shone out from the top of the octagon tower, turning it into a great lantern that could be seen for miles across the dark water of the fens. Always before he had been comforted by the sight of it, a beacon of hope to guide the lost. Its holy light warded off the evil spirits that stalked the causeway, and the dead souls that haunted the marshes waiting to lure men to their deaths in the treacherous bogs. Yet now he saw only accusation and judgement in that light, as if heaven was staring down at him, stripping him naked for all the world to see his vile sin.

Though the watchman at the bridge gate entrance to Ely would normally have refused admittance at this hour, even he could see the young monk was in great distress.

‘What is it, Brother? Why are you out so late?’ He raised the blazing torch, peering closer. ‘You’re as pale as the dead, and shaking. Were you attacked?’

Oswin shook his head, struggling to speak. ‘A sick man… I had to… sit with him.’

The watchman stepped hastily backwards. ‘Holy Virgin, he’s not been stricken with the Great Pestilence, has he?’

Oswin shook his head, drawing his cloak more tightly around him as he tried to stop his teeth chattering. The watchman held open the gate, taking pains to keep at arm’s length in case the monk should brush him as he passed through.

Oswin staggered up the street towards the priory, glancing fearfully upwards at the great looming mass of the cathedral. The monstrous grotesques and gargoyles leered down at him from the shifting shadows as if the walls and turrets of the cathedral were swarming with demons, massing like some great flock of malevolent birds, all watching him, waiting for him.

He could not do it. He would not! Yet he could think of no means of avoiding it. He was certain now that the old priest would carry out his threat and denounce his brother, and if what they said was true, if Father Edmund really could conjure evil spirits, maybe even the devil himself, then… Blessed Virgin, help me! Show me what to do, how to escape! As he stumbled on towards the cathedral, he stretched out his arms in supplication, mumbling frantic prayers in a fever of delirium. Then, without warning, he tripped and found himself sprawling face down on the grass.

He lay where he fell, shaken by the tumble and unable to gather his mind to comprehend where he was. Finally he pushed himself to his knees and felt for what he had tripped over. He knew at once it was a man.

Most of the body lay in darkness, only the feet were caught in the edge of the pool of light spilling from the tower. Oswin shook the man’s leg, but he did not stir. The young monk shuffled forward, still on his knees, and felt the man’s chest. The flesh was still warm, but the ribs were not rising and falling, and as he drew his hand away he felt the warm, sticky fluid on his fingers.

Oswin crossed himself and his lips began to mumble the prayers for the newly dead. But the words ceased abruptly as a thought exploded into his head. His prayers had been answered! The Blessed Virgin had heard him. This was his escape from his tormenter. It was as if the Virgin Mary herself had cast this corpse at his feet. Whispering fervent prayers of gratitude and with hands trembling now, not from fear, but excitement, Brother Oswin fumbled for his knife.

It was after the noon bell when Henry and the Ely men once again assembled behind the wagon, ready to begin the first of the plays. It had rained heavily before dawn and the sky was still grey and swollen with cloud. The corners of the heavy sailcloth lashed over the wagon flapped in the strengthening wind and the ropes creaked with the strain of holding it down. The players prodded the canvas with poles, trying to shake off the puddles of water that had accumulated on the top. The men’s mood was as gloomy as the day. Their pride had been wounded as well as their purses, but they were determined no trickster would make fools of them for a second time.

‘You bring the money straight to me, young Ben,’ Cuddy said. ‘Don’t you let Martin or that cousin of his lay a finger on that bag till we’ve counted the coins.’

He didn’t trouble to lower his great booming voice, and Henry was certain he was meant to hear. John came ambling over, the jawbone already tucked into his leather belt. Henry felt his bruises throb at the mere sight of it.

‘Where is this thieving cousin of yours?’ John demanded. ‘Crowd’s calling for us to start, but he speaks first as the angel so we can’t begin until he takes his place. Too ashamed to show his face to us, is he?’ Then a thought struck him and he grabbed the front of Henry’s robe in his great fist. ‘Has he run off with our money?’

‘Course not!’ Henry protested.

‘Well, where is he, then?’ Cuddy demanded.

‘I haven’t seen him since he left the barn last night,’ Henry said. ‘Look he… he must be around here somewhere. The costume box is unlocked, so most likely he’s taken his robes to dress for his part and has gone for a mug of ale. He’ll want to soothe his throat before the play begins.’

‘He’ll need more than ale to soothe his throat when I get hold of him,’ John said sourly. ‘But never mind that, the crowd is going to start chucking things if we don’t give them something soon. I’ve already seen some lads creeping to the front with rotten fruit in their hands. We’ll just have to start with your first speech. And hope our angel turns up in time to say his “Cursed Cain” part at the end.’

Henry’s stomach lurched. If John had played up to the crowd with that jawbone before, it was nothing to how he might wield it if he thought that Henry had been party to cheating the Ely men of the money.

‘Look,’ he said desperately, ‘why don’t we forget all about “Cain and Abel” and just give them “The Sacrifice of Isaac” and The Shepherds’ Play ? That’ll give me a chance to go and look for Martin.’