The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

He started to move more quickly, much more quickly. And the rope started to sway because of his jerky movements and because he was emerging from the shelter provided by the bulk of the Bridge overhead. The swaying became more violent and Nick found himself twisting helplessly in the air so that one moment he was facing the stonework of the pier and the next confronting the open river. The end of the rope lashed around beneath him like a monstrous tail. At the conclusion of one swing his back struck the stone flank of the pier and the jarring force of the blow almost caused him to release his hold. He willed himself to be still, to keep gripping tight with hands and feet, and to wait until the worst of the swaying, sickening motions of the rope had diminished.

Only now did he look down and, this time, was surprised to see that he had less than twenty feet to go, as far as he could judge. By good fortune the rope would take him through that distance. But those twenty feet would also deliver him straight into the foamy water, whose smell filled his nostrils and whose roaring filled his ears. To one side was the edge of the foundation of the pier holding up Nonesuch House. At this instant, just when he needed to swing himself across to reach the foundation, he hung quivering, almost without motion. His arms and shoulders burned with labour, his bare hands were slick with sweat or blood or both.

One final effort. He jerked his body until he managed to gain some momentum and the rope was swaying now out above the current, now over the boat-shaped projection below the pier. At the same time he shifted himself lower. And then it seemed to Nick as though the rope began to slide down of its own accord before making an abrupt descent of some dozen feet. It jolted to a stop. The knot around the hoist in the storeroom was giving way. Or someone up there was attempting to loosen it. Without thought, and as the arc of his swing brought him back once again over the pier foundation, Nick let go his hold and, though his feet struck the top of the wooden piles, he tumbled onto solid ground. At the same moment, the rope sprang free and snaked down behind him into the water.

For some time Nick lay where he’d fallen. The noise of the river was thunderous. He scarcely dared to move for fear that he would not be able to move at all. He tested his limbs with slight flexing movements. There were some pains but nothing beyond bearing. He scrabbled in the loose stone and gravel and got to his feet. He looked up. Nonesuch House hung above his head like a Jonah’s whale brought to land. He could not see the trapdoor hole through which he had descended. There were no lights up there. Perhaps his escape was not yet detected after all.

He huddled against the elmwood stakes that surrounded the pier-foundation. He wondered what to do next. He had escaped from one predicament into another. There was no way off this place except by boat and, although there were still lights showing a little traffic on the river, no means of attracting anyone’s attention in the cold and dark. He could not even climb back into Nonesuch House since the rope that had delivered him had disappeared, presumably to join all the other rubbish in the river.

He didn’t know how long he huddled there. It was bitterly cold and his hurts were beginning to trouble him. He might even have slept for a few moments. He was afraid that the winter’s night might do for him. He staggered to his feet. Keep moving, keep warm, keep alive. He stumbled over one of the stone blocks beneath his feet. He cried out in pain and anger and crashed to the ground. He lay there, wondering if this was his last night on earth. Then he saw two figures clambering over the piles.

One of them said: ‘Mr Revill? Are you there? Please answer.’

All was explained by Hans de Worde. He was very apologetic for having deserted Nick when the Privy Council agents strode into view in Long Southwark. It was pure fear. But after a moment or two his better and braver nature prevailed. Overcome by guilt, he turned back to follow the band of four as they took up Nick and ushered him into the ground-floor of Nonesuch House. There by the entrance he had hung about, in an anguish of indecision, watching the comings and goings, and unnoticed himself in all the busyness of the Bridge. After about an hour there was a great stir, with men rushing out of Nonesuch and word spreading like fire along the Bridge that someone had toppled into the river from the very wing of the house where Nick had disappeared. Convinced it must be Nicholas, and consumed twice over by guilt, Hans went to find his brother, the ferryman, so that they might go in search of Nick’s- Here Hans stopped himself from saying ‘body’ although that was surely the most likely outcome of the search.

Nick and Hans were in the Southwark lodgings of Antony de Worde, ferryman and brother to the printer’s journeyman. Antony was a rough-hewn version of the fastidious Hans. No attender at the Dutch church, he was, like other inhabitants of Southwark, and especially those engaged in the ferry-trade, almost indifferent to the law. He was not taken by his brother’s suggestion. Not until Hans offered the ferryman enough money to take his boat out onto the river by night in this futile quest.

By chance, a miraculous chance, the brothers were about to give up and were navigating their way back to the dock by St Mary Overie’s and so passing the region of the Bridge near Nonesuch House when they heard, above the roar of the river, a cry of pain coming from one of the foundations. Nick owed his life to the fact that he had fallen and shouted out in rage, in pain, in fear.

Once in the warmth and comfort of Antony de Worde’s lodging – so much better than anything that Nonesuch could offer – Nick was revived with warm spirits. Salves were put on his scraped and bleeding hands. Finally, Nick removed his lamb’s-wool beard, thinking that it had provided a useful disguise both on and off stage.

Words tumbled out of Hans de Worde’s mouth as he described how glad he was to see Mr Revill alive and well, or at least fairly well. How he could not forgive himself for bringing down trouble on the player’s head. How he could not wait to hand over the Oseney text, which he had retrieved from Christopher Dole’s room, from its hiding place in the dead man’s chest. He thought he recognised the text as he was setting it up in type for The English Brothers and the source was confirmed by a chance remark of George Bruton’s, when Dole visited his printing-house the day he died. Hans was familiar with the stories about The Play of Adam . He did not believe that such a dangerous script should be allowed to roam free in the world. It was against religion.

More quick-witted than his employer, George Bruton, Hans had already worked out that Dole (and not the imaginary Ashe) was the author of The English Brothers. Believing that Dole must have the text of the old play as well, he went to his lodgings. Shaken to discover the hanging body – and wondering whether this was not another malign effect of The Play of Adam – he nevertheless persisted in his search and rapidly unearthed the scroll from among the few shirts and other items in Christopher’s chest.

Hans now reached into his doublet and brought out an antique roll of vellum. He handed over the manuscript known as the Oseney text, saying, ‘I don’t want it any more. I should never have taken it. It is a play and you, sir, are a player. Do with it what you will, Mr Revill. There are words of warning on the outside of the scroll. Read them and ponder.’

The scroll was unexpectedly weighty, as though made of more than mere vellum. Hans tapped at some words on the outside, to indicate it was the warning he’d just mentioned. Nick thought, this is the very item for which Henry Ashe is searching, on behalf of the King. His first impulse was to hobble out of the Southwark lodging of Antony de Worde, to return to Nonesuch House, find the man calling himself Ashe and deliver the manuscript with some pithy comment. But a moment’s further thought told him that that would be foolish. He’d be walking back into the lions’ den all over again. No, he’d return the scroll to Alan Dole, who owned it.