The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

These were the names of well-known printers, distinguished and successful ones. Christopher Dole cut across what threatened to turn into a bout of self-pity from Bruton. He said, ‘You’ll do it then, you’ll print the play?’

Bruton paused. There was a further outbreak of laughter from the men in the opposite corner. The printer said, ‘On one condition. Tell me now the author of The English Brothers . If you do not, I shall be forced to the conclusion that it must be you after all.’

William Shakespeare was the supposed author, of course, but Christopher did not name him. Even George Bruton, however negligent, would never have accepted that this bundle of untidy, blotched papers was by the man from Stratford. So he invented an imaginary author.

‘It is by a gentleman called Henry Ashe. He is a friend of mine. He has asked me to be his agent in this matter.’

Christopher Dole spoke so promptly and confidently that he almost believed himself. Henry Ashe? Where had that name come from? It seemed to have dropped out of the dark, smoky air of the tavern. Yet Bruton must have been convinced for he nodded and went on: ‘This play by Henry Ashe, which you say is not for performance, contains nothing seditious or blasphemous?’

‘I guarantee it,’ said the playwright. ‘One more thing. I don’t want my brother, Alan, knowing anything about this.’

‘As it happens,’ said Bruton, ‘I saw your brother the other day. Or rather he saw me. Demanded to know if I knew the whereabouts of a scroll called the Oseney text. Apparently it’s disappeared from his shop.’

‘I’ve no idea what he was on about,’ said Christopher Dole, but guessing that this might be a reference to the manuscript he’d uncovered at Alan’s place. Quickly, he changed the subject.

‘Time for another?’

‘Always time for another, in my opinion,’ said Bruton, clinking his plump fingers against the pot.

So Christopher Dole summoned the drawer again and bought George Bruton yet another drink. His own was scarcely touched. They shook hands on the arrangement. The English Brothers would be printed and published.

George Bruton’s printing establishment was in Bride Lane on the city side of the Fleet Bridge. Downstairs was where the work was carried on. Upstairs was where the family – Martha Bruton and her many children – lived. Bruton employed two men. One was Hans de Worde, a long-time apprentice and then assistant to Bruton. Hans was second-generation Dutch, one of two brothers, and the respectable one. The other brother, Antony, had somehow shouldered his way into the rough but closed world of the ferrymen and he transported passengers across the Thames for a living. As for Hans de Worde, the joke was that George Bruton had taken him on originally because of his surname. Hans wore spectacles and had a nose on whose very tip was a large black mole as though he had dipped it in a pot of ink.

George Bruton’s apprentice was called John. He was a wiry figure, and adaptable, which was just as well since he slept in a space hardly bigger than a cupboard in the press room. Hans de Worde, as befitted his higher standing in the household, occupied a little room at the top of the house.

These young men had not met Christopher Dole before but the playwright became a familiar figure at Bride Lane when he called in from time to time to check on the progress of The English Brothers and to help clarify the blotches and crossings-out in the foul papers. If it occurred to Hans or John that it was odd to be printing a play that had never been performed, they did not mention it. Probably they were not even aware of the fact. Hans was a serious individual and a devout attender at Austinfriars, the Dutch church in the city. His spare time was spent poring over religious pamphlets and tracts in his top-floor eyrie, undisturbed by the racket of the family coming up from the floor below. John was supposed to be bound by the terms of his apprenticeship and to avoid taverns, playhouses, brothels and the like, but George Bruton tended to turn a blind eye so it’s likely that he went to at least one or two of those places.

During one of the playwright’s visits, George Bruton had a question for Christopher Dole. Using the same gesture as when he signalled for another pint pot in The Ram, the printer tapped with his fingernails at a bit of verse on the page in front of him. They were standing to one side of the press room. From overhead came the thump of children running around. Christopher wasn’t sure how many there were up there. Perhaps Bruton himself did not know.

‘Where did this come from?’ said Bruton. ‘This Cain and Abel stuff. “Oh, go and kiss the Devil’s arse! It is your fault it burns the worse.” Or “With this jawbone, as I thrive, I’ll let you no more stay alive!”’

‘I believe that Henry Ashe copied it from an old manuscript that he found… somewhere,’ said Christopher, suddenly remembering that Bruton had heard of the Oseney text from his brother.

‘It is cleverly worked in,’ said Bruton. ‘There is a troupe of mummers performing a fragment of an old play that reflects the action of the main piece. Ingenious.’

‘I’ll tell Mr Ashe,’ said Dole.

‘You haven’t said yet what you want on the title page. No author’s name, I assume?’

‘No, no. Not even initials.’

Bruton did not look surprised. It was usual for plays to be printed anonymously.

‘But I am asking you to include this device,’ said Dole, taking a scrap of paper from his pocket. On it was a simple drawing of a shield with a bird perched on the top. It appeared to be a coat of arms but when one looked closely it was more of a mockery than anything else since the bird was a ragged black thing and clutching a drooping lance in one of its claws.

‘I’m not so sure about this,’ said George Bruton. ‘It is a serious matter, the right to bear arms. I don’t want to find myself in trouble with the law. Your own name may not be appearing on the title page, Mr Dole, but mine will be as printer.’

‘It is not anybody’s coat of arms, I promise you. I’ll pay you extra for this. Mr Ashe is very insistent on it.’

‘Very well.’

George Bruton agreed because he did not have much pride remaining in what his workshop produced and because he needed the money. There were dozens of printers in London – more than the city required – and he knew now that he would never achieve the reputation of a Day or a Barker, those names he’d mentioned to Christopher. Besides, there was always the insistent beat of little feet overhead, reminding him of the many mouths gaping to be fed. Although Bruton preserved what money he could to spend on himself in The Ram, sitting snug and alone in his corner-place, he was still a responsible family man. As regularly as the turning of the seasons, Martha produced another little mouth to add to those responsibilities. So when someone like Dole was willing to pay more than the going rate for printing an odd piece of work, Bruton wasn’t going to protest or look too closely at it.

As for Christopher Dole, he wasn’t concerned about the money which he was paying out. It amounted to everything he had, but since he did not think he was much longer for this world, he reasoned he would not have any further need of money. He had no wife to think of, nor any children. Death was on its way. He’d dreamed recently of a figure lying flat out on a bed, with a couple of others standing round in attitudes of mourning. Squeezing past them to see who was lying there, he’d been astounded to see that it was himself. When he’d turned round to identify the onlookers, they had disappeared. He had woken chilled and sweaty at the same time.

It was more than a matter of simple dreams and premonitions. The thinness and pallor that George Bruton had commented on during their meeting in the tavern were not only the result of a sleepless night or two. For several months Christopher had observed himself growing more scrawny. His appetite was diminished. He was subject to inexplicable pains everywhere, and bouts of nausea and dizziness.