The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

There were lanterns hanging above the doors within the tunnel-like walkway, through which people and vehicles passed like shadows. The leader of the group rapped at a door to the left. It was promptly opened and Nick was half ushered, half pushed down a couple of steps and into a lobby. A maidservant was waiting on the other side of the door. She lowered her head as the group came in. A mark of deference or fear? The individual with the wide hat said nothing but gestured with a gloved hand and the two men on either side of Nick, who had not relinquished their grip since hoisting him up from the roadway, now escorted him down a wide panelled passageway. The floor was so polished that their boots squeaked across it. At the end, one of them reached out, opened a door and nudged Nick as a sign for him to enter the room. The door closed behind him.

He had expected to see someone inside but the chamber was empty. It was lavishly furnished, with desks, small tables and upholstered chairs scattered about. The wall-hangings rippled slightly in the draughts of air penetrating even such a finely constructed dwelling as this. Candles burned in sconces on the wall and a fire flickered in an elaborate chimney-piece. Facing Nick as he stood by the door was an oriel window with a quilted bench beneath. He walked across and, leaning against the bench and shielding his eyes from the light in the room, he squinted through the thick leaded panes.

The view was to the west and upstream, with Southwark to his left and the city to his right. Extending away in front of him was the black river. There were glimmers of light from the little ferries still at work as well as from the buildings on either shore, but these feeble sparks served only to intensify the cold and dark beyond the wooden walls of Nonesuch House. From beneath Nick’s feet came the unceasing rumble of the water. On this spot he was standing directly above it since the sides of Nonesuch House projected out from the piers of the Bridge. It occurred to Nick that, if it were daytime and the tide in full flow around the piers, it would be like standing on the prow of a ship. Then it occurred to him that he ought to feel afraid, taken against his will from the public street and confined in the grandeur of Nonesuch House.

Continuing to gaze at the dark river, although without really seeing it, Nick considered his predicament. He had a fair idea now of who was responsible for it. Hans de Worde, also, must have recognised the people striding towards him in Long Southwark. Recognised them not as individuals, perhaps, but for what they represented. They were surely the same ones who had called at George Bruton’s printing-house. They were…

The door opened. A shadow cut across the candlelight reflected in the windowpanes. Nick turned slowly. It was the leader of the group. He was still wearing his broad-brimmed hat and Nick could not be sure whether this was for disguise or as an affectation. Nick saw only that he was clean-shaven. Behind him came the servant who had opened the front door. She was carrying a tray on which was a pitcher and two glasses, already filled.

The man indicated that Nick should sit and, when he did, the woman offered him a glass. He took it and sipped, wondering what fate he was being softened up for. The wine was spiced and warm. By this time, the man had sat down on a chair opposite and taken the other glass. The woman placed the tray and pitcher on a nearby table. Then she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Only when the man had swallowed some of the contents of his glass did he finally remove his hat. He did it with a flourish that would have done him credit on the stage. Nick had been expecting someone sinister or threatening but here was a man of about his own age, with a full head of straw-coloured hair and an open gaze. The man took another swallow from his glass.

‘This is very welcome on a cold night, eh, Mr Newman?’

These were the first words he had spoken. His voice, like his manner, was easy, confident. Nick examined his glass, as if to savour the mere sight of the warmed wine. But his mind was elsewhere, working furiously. The man had addressed him as Newman, hadn’t he? Not as Revill. Which meant that he was unaware of his real identity. As if to confirm the mistake, the man now added in a tone that was more of a statement than a question: ‘You are Richard Newman of Prince Henry’s Men.’

‘That’s right, although we still refer to ourselves as the Admiral’s Men,’ said Nicholas Revill in a tone that he hoped would convey slight surprise at how well-informed the speaker was. For an instant, it occurred to him to put the man right, to give his real name and to declare he was a member of the King’s Men. But some instinct told him to stick with the assumed name. And, even as he decided this, he struggled to remember the limited number of people who knew him as Richard Newman.

Meanwhile, it seemed that the man wanted to test Nick’s claims for he now said: ‘So, if you are with Prince Henry’s or the Admiral’s, you must be acquainted with Thomas Downton and Richard Jones of that company?’

‘Of course I know them, and I also know…’ And here Nick reeled off half a dozen names of players with the Admiral’s Men. He did know some of them personally, while the rest he had heard of. It was unlikely the man would detect the pretence, or at least it would take him a bit of time to do so. The big names in any group of players were familiar but there was quite a bit of coming-and-going between the London companies and no outsider would be able to keep track of all the latest arrivals and departures. For once, Nick was glad of his relatively junior status in Shakespeare’s company. He decided to take the initiative.

‘Since you know who I am, you ought to return the courtesy,’ he said, pleased at the steadiness in his voice.

‘You can call me Henry Ashe,’ said the man, staring at Nick as if daring him to dispute the name. Nick’s hold on his glass tightened. When he next spoke, it was harder to keep his voice even.

‘Henry Ashe, the author of The English Brothers ?’

‘That’s a seditious and satirical piece, so it is not likely that I would be the author.’

‘Why is it unlikely you’d be the author, Mr Ashe? Who are you? Why am I here?’

Nick did not meant to ask so many questions but they came tumbling out. Be careful, he told himself.

‘I said that you can call me Henry Ashe, Mr Newman. Let’s be satisfied with that, as I am satisfied for the moment that you are who you say you are. As for the reason I keep sedition at arm’s length – why, that is what any true-born Englishman should do. But, more precisely, it is because I work for… because I am a Messenger of the Chamber.’ This title was uttered with a little flourish, like the hat-removing.

Nick nodded. It confirmed his fears. The harmless sounding ‘Messenger of the Chamber’ was a title sometimes used by agents of the Privy Council. From the number and efficiency of the group that had apprehended him on the Bridge, as well as the opulence of the chamber in Nonesuch House, Nick already knew he could be at the mercy of only one particular arm of the state. This was the Council, operating under the direct control of its secretary, Robert Cecil. Diminutive Cecil, now the Earl of Salisbury. Cecil, the man with the crooked back, who had his finger in more pies than you could count and who ran a network of spies and informants in the name of national security. Nick had encountered Robert Cecil once at the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. It was not a happy memory.

Nick’s only weapon was that, for the time being, the man calling himself Henry Ashe thought he was someone else.

‘If you are what you say you are,’ he said to Ashe, ‘then of course you cannot be the author of The English Brothers .’