The Lost Prophecies

by The Medieval Murderers

  And so it was settled that the three of us would set off the day after tomorrow, once we’d given a final performance of The Melancholy Man at the Globe. I didn’t greatly relish the idea of Thomas Cloke keeping us company, but I could think of no plausible objection, even if he had muscled his way into our trip.

  I had the obligation to visit my dying uncle and doing so as soon as possible. Abel Glaze was offering to accompany me out of friendship, and, as he’d pointed out, we were due to travel in that direction anyway. We’d simply be getting a head start on others in the company and, once I had called in at my uncle’s house, I could join Abel and the rest of the fellows in Warwick. And if Cloke also had family to visit in the area, then it made sense for him to ride with us. The roads were more secure and easier to travel in high summer, but there was something in his comment about safety in numbers. Three men on the road made a more forbidding prospect for thieves and highway robbers.

  Nevertheless, I wasn’t altogether at ease. There was an element in Thomas Cloke I didn’t trust even if I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  II

  It was the third day after the three of us had set off when I started to feel real suspicions that everything wasn’t as it should be. There was nothing amiss in the sunny weather or the state of the roads. They were dry and the hooves of our hired horses threw up plenty of dust, but all that was preferable to the mires of winter and spring. The travellers we passed going towards London or the ones we overtook waved cheerful greetings or at least regarded us with the minimum of suspicion.

  There was nothing wrong with my companions either, or with me, I hope. We got on well enough. Abel Glaze and I were old friends dating back to the days when the King’s Men went under no more ambitious a title than the Chamberlain’s. The two of us talked quite a bit of players’ shop, which Tom Cloke was happy enough to listen to, occasionally chipping in with some comment of his own. I had to admit that Cloke was fair company. He was generous with his purse, buying us our supper on the first two nights because, as he said, he’d wished himself on us and we were entitled to some compensation. Overall, I was enjoying the journey, not thinking much about the deathbed that awaited me at the end. I’m no great rider, but my horse was biddable enough and we proceeded at a gentle jog.

  We were following the usual road out of London on the way to the Midlands – the one through Slough and on to Oxford via Wallingford before heading further north. It was the route that William Shakespeare took on his journeys home. I’d mentioned to WS that Abel and I were leaving London early, explaining about my dying uncle and adding that I’d first heard of this man’s existence scarcely more than twenty-four hours earlier. WS was all quick feeling whenever he heard such news affecting one of his company, and he grasped my hand in farewell.

  ‘It is hard to gain and lose a member of one’s family in the same instant, Nick. But you are doing the right thing by going. One should not neglect family.’

  A shadow passed across his face, and I recalled the company talk about WS: that he did not often go home to Stratford despite acquiring a large house in the town some years ago and – although he would not have said so himself – despite being one of its most notable citizens.

  From the moment when Abel Glaze, Tom Cloke and I gained the open country beyond the fringes of London, I observed that Cloke was watchful. Not just on the more deserted or heavily wooded stretches of the road but when we arrived at the hostelries where we put up each night. These places were nothing special, and we chose them at random. But before we sat down to supper our companion would survey the other guests and travellers almost as if he was searching for someone whom he knew – and feared to see. Only when he’d established that there was no such individual amongst the itinerant merchants and the locals in the room would he breathe more easily and go about ordering food and drink. If someone came in, he stopped eating or drinking for an instant to glance at them. But it was more than a casual glance, if you know what I mean.

  On our first night we shared a room with several other travellers, and Cloke gave them the same scrutiny. The same on the second. On the third night the three of us had a tight little chamber to ourselves, mostly occupied by the large bed. This time, with no one to be suspicious of inside the room, Cloke spent some minutes gazing out of the window after supper. It was growing dark. He beckoned to me. I was just taking off my boots and outer garments before lying down. Abel Glaze was already asleep and snoring his head off. I went to the window.

  In a conspiratorial whisper Cloke said: ‘Do you see those men over there, Nicholas? Under the trees.’

  I squinted through the leaded panes. The inn, which was called the Night Owl, was on the outskirts of Wallingford. The town and its castle were to one side and to the west was the river, while wooded countryside crept up near the inn. The dust of the road seemed to glow with a light of its own. There was a stand of trees opposite the Night Owl. Tom Cloke said: ‘There! Do you see?’

  The glass in the window was old and lumpy, and the light outside was fading. If it hadn’t been for a sudden spark as someone in the group struck a tinderbox, I don’t think I would have noticed the little knot of men standing in the shadows of the trees. Then I made out the pale blur of faces, the movement of hands.

  ‘Yes, I see them,’ I said.

  ‘They were at supper downstairs.’

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t see clearly enough from here. Anyway, so what if they were?’

  ‘They are looking up at our room,’ said Cloke.

  I could feel his breath on my cheek as we crowded at the little window. His agitation was plain. Such is the power of suggestion that I became convinced for a moment that the group outside was indeed looking up in the direction of our chamber. Like my companion, I grew uncomfortable. An owl hooted in the trees. But then one of the men in the group laughed – the sound carried quite clearly on the still evening air – and common sense returned, to me at least. It was a natural laugh, not a thief’s, not a conspirator’s.

  ‘They’re having a quiet smoke before turning in for the night, that’s all.’

  The little red embers of their pipes pulsated in the dark. I counted four embers. I clapped Tom Cloke on the shoulder and went back to undressing for bed. I lay down next to Abel, who was still snoring. Cloke stayed at the window until it grew completely dark outside. Before he joined us in the bed, I heard him go to the door and softly rattle the latch as well as sliding the bolt back and forth a couple of times. I thought he was going outside but he was only checking that we were secure. Eventually, the bed creaked as Cloke got in. I feigned sleep even as I sensed him lying wakeful beside me. The owl hooted again. I wondered why our travelling companion was so alert, so nervous.

  The morning after we left Wallingford, Cloke seemed to relax. I made some reference to the pipe smokers we’d glimpsed from the window of the Night Owl and he shrugged it off. Abel looked curiously not at him but at me. We paused in Oxford to hire fresh horses and rode a few miles further from the city walls as far as Woodstock to take advantage of the fair weather and the longer hours of summer light.

  We were getting close to the dwelling of Tom Cloke’s cousins, whose family name was Shaw and who lived beyond the small town of Bloxham in a place called Combe House. The three of us had one more shared night in an inn, and then the next day we’d be parting company as I went on to Shipston on Stour and Abel made his way to Warwick to wait for the rest of the King’s Men. Occasionally, I thought of the dying uncle whose name I shared. But since I had never met him or his wife Margaret, my thoughts did not go very far. I hoped to arrive in time, but it was all out of my hands.

  The Green Dragon at Woodstock was comfortable, as befits a hostelry in a town where there is also a royal palace, and we drank and ate heartily. Cloke thanked us for sharing our journey. He bought us supper and I felt well disposed towards him, and not merely because I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him beyond the following day. He wasn’t such a bad fellow after all.

/>   The next morning, however, his nerves seemed once again to have got the better of him. We were leaving the Dragon early, impatient to get to our various destinations. It was crisp, bright August weather, with a hint of autumn already in the air. Cloke was in the stableyard of the inn when Abel and I got there. He’d already taken down Abel’s bag in addition to his own and had offered to take mine too. A man in a hurry. Now he was talking to the ostler, who was bringing out our horses. Tom started when he saw us, his friends and fellow travellers, draw near. The sun was at our backs, streaming over the wall of the yard. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized us at first. Who was he expecting? Yet, close to, he looked more guilty than alarmed.

  ‘Something wrong, Tom?’ said Abel.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cloke. ‘I am anxious to be going, that’s all.’

  We passed through Bloxham, with Tom Cloke telling us that the spire of St Mary’s was the highest in Oxfordshire, although these were almost the only words he uttered during the morning.

  The country grew more hilly and the roads emptier. Tucked away down in a side valley I noticed a splendid house, standing alone. I was wondering whose it might be when, to my and Abel’s surprise, Tom Cloke suddenly straightened in his saddle and pointed.

  ‘There’s Combe,’ he said. ‘It is the home of the Shaws, my kinsmen.’

  We reined in for a moment to examine the prospect. I knew that Tom Cloke came from a well-to-do family but, if this place was anything to go by, he’d been reticent on the subject of his cousins’ wealth.

  In the noonday sun that hung over the west-facing valley, Combe House was set like a jewel against a backdrop of trees and water. The warm stone glowed and the windows sparkled. There was a moat, and a gatehouse approached across a bridge. I guessed Combe House dated from the reign of Queen Elizabeth’s father, a time when prosperous families began to move away from the safety of towns and to construct country dwellings with the appearance of mansions rather than castles.

  ‘You will stop for some refreshment before you go on your way,’ said our companion. It was more of a command than a request. ‘The horses will need watering.’

  There was no disagreeing with that, and I for one would be glad to dismount for an hour or so and stretch my legs, as well as having a bite to eat. We turned our horses off the main road and started down the winding path that led into the valley. The path was wide and rutted with the tracks of wagons and carriages. We made a gradual, sinuous descent through copses of trees.

  ‘This is a fine place,’ said Abel, half-turning and calling over his shoulder. ‘I shall have to speak with more respect to you in future, Tom.’

  By now we were almost on the flat and moving in single file, passing through dense ranks of trees that overhung either side of the path, which was slightly sunken. Combe House was out of sight. When we’d been high up above the valley and looking down I’d been in good spirits, but now something was making me uneasy. There was no sound of birdsong, no sound but the breeze rustling in the leaves and the plodding of our horses. My horse seemed to share the unease I felt. I was in the middle, with Abel to the front and Tom to our rear. A dozen or so yards separated each of us from the other.

  As I glanced back to see whether Cloke was going to respond to Abel’s comment, I heard the whinny of a horse and was puzzled, for it was not one of ours. Then there was a flash and a loud bang from the trees to our rear. Tom was leaning forward but his head was up and his mouth wide open. Even amongst the shadows cast by the trees I could see him gaping ferociously as if trying to force words out.

  With a great effort, Tom Cloke straightened in his saddle and looked down at his chest. Almost in curiosity. There was a bloom of red spreading across his shirt, clearly visible beneath his unfastened doublet. And then several things happened at once. Behind us, from further down the track and between the trees, several men appeared on foot in a jostling mass. They started to run towards us.

  Tom’s horse panicked and cantered ahead. Cloke was bent forward once more, clinging to the reins. My own horse was putting on speed too. I didn’t have to urge him; he was doing so by instinct. I called out a warning to Abel Glaze – in my terror, I don’t know what I said and words were unnecessary anyway since Abel was already twisted around on his mount and staring past me in amazement – and then the three of us were thudding along the narrow path and out into a wide grassy space that fronted Combe House and its encircling moat.

  Either the occupants of the house were on the lookout for us or they had some guardian permanently on duty at the main entrance, for, by the time we’d covered half of the few hundred yards of sunlit grass that separated the trees from the moat, the alarm had been raised and people were gathering under the gatehouse arch at the far end of the bridge, with more arriving at every instant.

  I risked a glance behind me. Tom Cloke was still with us, but he was all huddled up on horseback. I sensed rather than saw a group of men emerging from the shelter of the trees. They halted, no doubt seeing the party waiting on the far side of the moat and realizing that we’d reach the safety of the house before they could catch us. Abel and I managed to rein in our horses when we were almost at the bridge. The band of men by the wood – there were four of them – moved a little out of its shelter. At least two of them were carrying muskets. One of them raised his weapon and sighted down it. I understood now what had happened to Tom Cloke. The meaning of the red stain across his chest. But the man lowered his weapon. We were either out of range altogether or too far away for accurate shooting.

  These men were no common footpads or chance thieves. They must have tethered their own horses in the woodland near Combe House and waited for us to arrive. They had chosen their moment carefully, when we were away from the main road and off our guard near the moated house.

  I realized all this later. Now my attention was caught by the sight of poor Tom Cloke vainly trying to hold on to his horse. He must have pulled on the reins, for the animal veered around, away from the house, and began to bolt towards our ambushers.

  A handful of men started out from the gatehouse on the far side of the bridge. Some were carrying staves, one of them a musket of his own. Abel crossed the narrow bridge; I was close behind him. Several men grabbed at the reins of our horses. Abel and I jumped down. All was confusion, with the horses jinking about, men shouting and dogs barking. No one could decide whether to take shelter in the courtyard, which lay beyond the gatehouse, or to venture to the far side of the moat and confront the ambushers.

  The individual with the musket ran to the far end of the bridge and raised his gun in the direction of the trees, but he did not fire either. Our companion’s horse, with Tom slumped across it, had almost reached the woods. Then it slowed as if uncertain where to go next, and one of our assailants walked forward quite nonchalantly, like a man strolling in a meadow, hand outstretched. He seized Tom’s horse by the bridle. At the same time Tom’s body fell from the horse. The ambusher, who was clad in black, at first seemed inclined to leave him lying there. Then he beckoned to one of his fellows. The two of them unceremoniously hoisted up our friend and tossed him over the saddle as though he were a hunter’s quarry. From their handling of the body, Tom was dead. Dead or dying. The horse and its burden were led off into the woods.

  I was surprised the men made no attempt to approach closer to Combe House. Although they were outnumbered, they were obviously determined individuals. Perhaps they’d got what they had come for.

  So far, no one had spoken directly to us. But now a tall, handsome young woman came forward. ‘What trouble have you brought to our house?’ she said.

  III

  ‘You think it was the same men you saw at Wallingford?’ said Abel Glaze.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘All I know is that Tom was worried about something and he called me to the window of our room as it was getting dark. You were fast asleep. There were four men standing outside. They were smoking pipes and laughing amongst themselves. I thought nothing of it at the
time, but it seems as though they must have been stalking us all the while and waiting for their opportunity.’

  ‘Why wait until we’d almost arrived here?’

  ‘Perhaps they needed to be certain of our destination before they attacked.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, Nick. What did they want?’

  ‘They are not common thieves, that’s certain.’

  ‘I noticed that Tom was anxious through the whole journey.’

  ‘I did too,’ I said, wondering why Abel hadn’t mentioned this earlier.

  ‘So it must have been Tom Cloke they were after,’ said Abel. ‘Why would anyone bother to follow a couple of poor players?’ There was almost relief in his voice. Nothing to be ashamed of. He was expressing my own thoughts.

  ‘Poor Tom,’ said Abel. He sunk his head in his hands.

  Abel and I were sitting in an upper bedchamber of Combe House. The interior of the place was as fine and spacious as the outside promised. After the striking young woman by the gatehouse had asked us that question about the trouble we’d brought them, we spent some moments identifying ourselves to her, since she seemed to speak with authority.

  While we were busy explaining our connection to Tom Cloke and the reason why we’d pitched up at the moated house, a young man appeared in the courtyard, closely followed by an older couple. There was such a strong likeness amongst these handsome people that it was evident they were father and mother, son and daughter. These were indeed the Shaw family, and I’ll say more about them later.

  The older man gave orders that an armed party from the house was to scour the woods and valley in search of our assailants and, although he did not say this in our hearing, most probably of Tom’s body. Meanwhile we were taken inside and given refreshment, while our horses were stabled. Neither Abel nor I had much appetite for food, but we drank several draughts of some fiery spirit which helped steady our nerves. We sat in the hall of the house. The two women of the household, Elizabeth and Mary Shaw, mother and daughter respectively, attended to us in person, dismissing the servants once they’d brought the refreshments. There were younger children peering at us curiously, but they too were ushered away. A couple of spaniels that were too idle and pampered to go on the hunt for our assailants hung around the table. Abel fed them scraps.