King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘He is.’

  ‘He was adamant that he did not want his brother to know of his . . . predicament.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like Edmund.’

  ‘I must tread carefully where William Shakespeare and the King’s Men are concerned. The king is patron to us all, you know. Plays are not so near the heart of James as are his lions, but I believe his queen is fond of the drama?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Ralph Gill, almost mournfully.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘can you tell me what Edmund has done?’

  ‘Oh, he has done murder,’ said the spectacled gent. ‘It may well be murder. Come with me.’

  He came around from behind the desk and we left the room, going down the spiral stairs, across a lobby and down a further flight. Now that my personal fears were fading, anxiety over Edmund returned. Murder? Was it possible? Yes, I thought, remembering WS’s brother threatening Davy Owen or brandishing a knife at Scoto’s throat, it was possible.

  As we descended through the building with its many twists and turns, I realized that this was not one edifice but several which had grown up and into each over the centuries. Meanwhile, the animal stench became stronger. Eventually we emerged from a tunnel-like passage into a yard via a barred gate that Mr Gill unlocked. The yard was in the shape of a great D, turned the wrong way about, and with the straight side formed by the buildings from which Ralph Gill and I had just come.

  The surrounding walls were so high and the spring sky with its fast-moving clouds, seemed so distant that it was like being at the bottom of a well. A curved viewing platform with a canopy projected from the southern side, supported by scarred wooden struts. That would be where the king and his retinue surveyed the lions as they went about their work of dispatching the lesser beasts. And down here in the yard was where the killing took place, as evidenced by dark stains among the mixture of mud and shit and roughly levelled stone composing the floor. There was a large water trough and a platform-like area scattered with straw on the northern side for the animals to disport themselves.

  Fortunately there were no beasts wandering free but in their place a couple of fellows garbed like the one who had collected me in Tooley Street. They nodded deferentially at Master Gill. I was glad of all the human company available because of the proximity of the beasts. They were at our backs in cages and behind doors set in the walls of the buildings nestling around the Lion Tower. I smelled and heard them. I felt their eyes on me and when I turned fearfully for a better look I caught glimpses of tawny fur, of yellow eyes, dark stripes, bedraggled tails. What I took for a wrinkled human hand thrusting out like a prisoner’s from a panel in a low door belonged, said Ralph Gill, to an ape. There was a brown bear huddling miserably in the corner of its little chamber, and another creature which I mistook for a dog but which Gill informed me was a wolf, the very last in England. It was a lean, ugly thing, maybe on account of pondering its melancholy uniqueness.

  In his pride at his collection, the lion keeper had for a moment forgotten why we had come to this level. But he soon led me off into yet another passage and past more cages and caverns set within the very foundations of the place. It was dark and noisome down here, with the only light provided by torches in iron wall-brackets. Feeble gusts of air indicated that there were hidden holes venting the place; otherwise every living thing would soon have been choked. The low noises, which might almost have been human, the bars and locks everywhere, could not but remind me of a gaol.

  In this honeycomb or warren were little chambers set aside for provisions or the use of the keepers, but Ralph Gill led me to a pair of adjoining cells cut into the rock and meant for beasts. They were presently occupied by men. Candles had been brought in to help them see. In one cell a body lay face up, arms and legs splayed among the dirt. His fair beard and white ruff, his fine doublet and hose, all were dyed with blood. I feared very much that I knew his identity. It was the luxuriant beard that gave the clue.

  In the other pen were three individuals, each of them alive. One was slumped, head in hands, in a corner, while on either side stood two of the fellows that I now recognized by their garb and royal insignia to be assistant keepers. They were holding cudgels, normally used, I supposed, to ward off the wild animals. We stood by the open gate since the interior was too small for five men.

  Edmund Shakespeare looked up. His forehead was bloody and swollen.

  ‘I did not do this thing, Nick. I am innocent, I swear.’

  Not sure whether to believe his denial, I nodded at Shakespeare’s brother and spoke instead to Ralph Gill. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘My men discovered early this morning that the lions were roaming in the yard, something never known before. They had a deal of trouble to drive them back to their cages with burning torches. It was only after they had done so that they heard human cries coming from this underground quarter. Here they discovered the sight before you, Mr Revill. A man dead by violence and another man cowering and shouting in this enclosure next door. I was summoned straight away and established this . . . gentleman’s name. I was for calling out the Justice but he begged instead to be allowed to scrawl a note to you. I was minded to refuse, but when I heard his name and that he was a member of the King’s Men I decided to give him that, ah, benefit.’

  I could see how Mr Gill had risen to his present eminence. He had quickly taken stock of what had occurred and, not knowing whether Edmund was really an important person or not, he responded with prudence. Clear-headed and diplomatic, Gill must have been a valuable servant of the Crown. I let it pass that Edmund was not a King’s Man (or not properly so). It was more likely the Shakespeare name which had done the trick.

  ‘Who is the dead man?’ I said, though I was almost certain I already knew. Nevertheless Gill’s answer gave me a jolt. ‘He is called Leonard Leman. He and his wife are frequent visitors to the animals, not as ordinary Londoners but as members of the court parties who grace us with their presence.’

  Leman was one of the group we’d seen arguing with the bookseller in St Paul’s yard.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He has many wounds on his body, Mr Revill, which could have been produced by a knife. And your fellow here was discovered clutching a knife this morning.’

  ‘What happened, Edmund?’ I said.

  ‘I . . . I was tricked into entering this place,’ said Edmund. ‘I received a note telling me to come to the Lion Tower last evening.’

  ‘A note? Who from? Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is gone. But once here, I was surprised by men I could not see and beaten about the head. My hat was lost. See . . .’

  He leaned forward, the better to display the swelling on the front of his head. Hanks of hair which hung down were matted with dried blood. He touched the egg-shaped lump cautiously and then looked at his hands.

  ‘I did not know where I was for a time, but when I came to myself it was here in this filthy sty surrounded by animal noises. I dimly saw the body of that man in the neighbouring cell. I made to leave but there were large beasts out in the yard, slinking through the dark. I was reluctant to move further, so I groped my way back to this place and did my best to secure the door with my belt. See . . . ‘

  It was true. A girdle hung limp from the door. I did not think it would have kept a curious animal away for long.

  ‘I must have slept, for the next I knew was shouting and growling from outside—’

  ‘That was us returning the lions to their quarters,’ said one of Edmund’s guards, speaking for the first time. ‘They didn’t want to go in until we showed ’em fire.’

  ‘—hearing the noise, I set up my own shouting from in here and was found. True, I was clutching a knife, but it was to defend myself against men, against wild animals, against God knows what. They’ll tell you that I willingly surrendered the knife and that the blade was clean.’

  The other guard nodded but said nothing.

  ‘So,
Nick, now you see me . . .’

  ‘Now I see you, Edmund.’

  I didn’t know what else to say. Or, rather, I scarcely knew where to begin. The whole tale sounded like a pack of lies. Had WS’s brother really been summoned by note to the Lion Tower, overcome by unknown assailants and dragged down to the animal level, there to wake with a dead man for company, and – too fearful to make his escape through an arena of lions – had he huddled for safety in a cage overnight? The only bit which was absolutely believable was the last.

  I was reluctant to question Edmund in front of Ralph Gill in case I exposed too many holes in his story. In fact it was more holes than story. Yet whatever he was making up or leaving out of his account, it was hard to regard him as a murderer at the moment. Edmund looked hapless, not guilty. His face was smeared with dirt, but there was no blood detectable on him apart from the front of his head and his fingertips (I thought of the stained note, which I still carried).

  Fortunately the Keeper of the King’s Lions seemed to have come to the same conclusion and, having talked of murder, he was now anxious to discharge Edmund into my custody. I wondered whether he had played up the whole thing so as to get rid of Edmund. The dead man’s body was an embarrassment to an official who had charge of the whole area. Strangers had penetrated what should be a secure place, wild beasts had not been shut away and had got loose. I had a sudden thought.

  ‘Mr Gill, is it possible that the wounds on Mr Leman were caused by your animals? The lions? You say they were wandering free last night. It might be that the unfortunate gentleman was attacked in the yard and, mortally wounded, managed to crawl into the adjoining cell.’

  ‘It might be, it might well be.’

  ‘There is blood along the floor of the passage as if he might have dragged himself so far.’

  Ralph Gill examined the floor and considered this idea. He said: ‘But with such an important individual as Mr Leman, the Justice or the coroner will have to decide, and Mr Shakespeare here will have to give evidence if it comes to it.’

  I helped WS’s brother to his feet and he reclaimed his girdle and even his knife, handed over by one of the guards. The blade and haft were, indeed, spotless (but they could have been cleaned after use). Then, accompanied by the head keeper, we passed the little chamber containing the unfortunate Leonard Leman before making our way into the yard, where the air, though heavy with animal odours, was a relief after the stenchy warren. Then up through the labyrinthine passages of the Lion Tower and along the causeway to the outer gate, the one with the sentry-house and the drawbridge. Here Ralph Gill put a hand on my arm to detain me. Edmund, meanwhile, was looking somewhat unsteady on his feet and taking down great draughts of air.

  ‘Mr Revill, I will speak in confidence. You must see that I am in a delicate position. This is a royal palace and I would not like the king to learn of any, ah, irregularities concerning his lions. Nor would his majesty be happy to hear that the brother of his principal playwright has been caught up in any mischief. Or perhaps it is the queen who would not be happy. You would know better than I do. But a man is dead and must be accounted for, even if it was no more than a misfortune . . . yes, a terrible misfortune.’

  He paused, and I nodded. Taking his cue from me, Gill was evidently working himself into the belief that Leman’s death was an accident.

  ‘Your friend there has given a partial account of what happened. It would be to all our advantages if he gave to you a more precise account, perhaps leaving aside any talk of assailants and so on. No doubt he drank a little too deeply last night?’

  ‘I will see what I can do, Mr Gill. But can you answer me one question? Whatever happened here last night, there seems to have been a great deal of coming and going. I thought this place was a castle, a guarded, secure castle.’

  Ralph Gill looked uncomfortable. His hands flew to his head to keep his hat in place on his white head, even though there wasn’t much of a breeze where we were standing.

  ‘Sir William Ward is the aptly named Constable of the Tower and he has responsibility for our security. The inner wards where prisoners are held are truly fast, but an outer gate such as this is rarely closed. I cannot remember when the drawbridge was last raised. We have building work going on at the moment. There is always a deal of coming and going. Every day the public resort to this area to see the beasts.’

  All of this seemed a roundabout way of saying that the south-west corner of the Tower was a common thoroughfare. The two soldiers in the sentry-house to our back had not noted our exit any more than they’d done with my earlier arrival under escort. Still, it was none of my business if the place was crawling with night-time assailants or if London was shaken by rebels who took it into their heads to storm the Tower. Instead I assured Ralph Gill once again that I’d do my best to get the full story out of Edmund Shakespeare.

  ‘Good, good, Mr Revill. I can see you have a shrewd look to you.’

  We shook hands. WS had recently called me shrewd before putting his brother in my charge. I would have preferred less of a reputation for shrewdness and less of my share of trouble.

  Edmund and I quit the precincts of the Tower. We walked rapidly westwards as if to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the animal den. Neither of us spoke a word until I suggested he clean himself up. By this time we were near a public trough at the Poultry end of Cheapside. Edmund dabbed cautiously at his face and washed his bloody hands in the running water which is supplied by the Great Conduit. The blow on his forehead was turning a shade of blue. It looked as though he had had an encounter with a doorpost.

  Only when he looked halfway respectable did we enter a tavern. And only when we had finished a rabbit stew in near silence and started on our bread and cheese, washed down with second helpings of small beer, did I say to William Shakespeare’s brother: ‘Isn’t it time for the truth, Edmund?’

  V

  ‘First I must thank you, Nick. You have treated me better than I deserve, especially after the other night. I cannot tell you the roasting I would have got from William if he had come in your place. He might have let me rot in the animals’ den.’

  ‘Believe me, I was tempted. Enough, Edmund. The truth.’

  But the story Edmund had to tell wasn’t so different from the account I’d already heard. He had, he insisted, been attacked and overcome soon after entering the precincts of the Lion Tower. He had woken to find himself next to the cell containing the mortal remains of Leonard Leman. Too frightened to go through the yard with its wandering lions, he retreated for safety to the empty cell where he was found, knife in hand, by the morning keepers.

  But there was one significant difference. Rather than being summoned to the Tower by some mysterious note – that was a fiction to explain his presence to Ralph Gill, he openly admitted it – Edmund had been in pursuit of someone. Of three people in fact. The bookseller Davy Owen and the dead man, Leonard Leman, together with the dead man’s wife, Alice.

  ‘And this is no fiction, I suppose?’

  ‘God’s truth, Nick.’

  WS’s obstinate brother had been unwilling to give up his quest for those supposed Arthurian bones and was returning once more to Owen’s shop. Again he arrived as the Welshman was about to close up and depart for the day. This time, though, instead of accosting him he had been more discreet. Had followed him at a distance to Bernardo Scoto’s house in Tower Street and waited for him to emerge. Which he did after a time, accompanied by the large gentleman with the fine beard and the tall handsome woman. Edmund recognized them as Mr and Mrs Leman.

  Detecting a plot and keeping in the shadows, for it was growing dark by now, he tailed these three up Tower Hill and so into the Tower itself. They passed unimpeded through the main gate, as did Edmund himself, and spoke briefly with the soldier on duty in the Lion Tower. Edmund wasn’t certain but he thought money might have changed hands, and the soldier vanished. While he was engaged in watching, he was oblivious to his back for he was suddenly seize
d from behind and shoved violently against a stone pillar. He was sick and dizzy and the blood ran into his eyes. He heard voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was hit again and again, this time around the back of the head. Hands grabbed at him – three, four people, he couldn’t be sure – and half-carried, half-dragged him down stairs and along passages. There was the stink and noise of animals. He was thrown into some cell and, for a time, lost all awareness of his surroundings. And after that he would have escaped but was driven back by fear of the loose lions, back into his own cage, where he did his best to secure himself until he was rescued.

  ‘These attackers?’ I said. ‘Who were they? Davy Owen, the Lemans?’

  ‘Possibly, but there was at least one other involved, the man who struck at me from behind.’

  ‘Who was that? Scoto the Mantuan?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was taken by surprise.’

  ‘Ralph Gill would prefer it if you remembered no assailants.’

  ‘Ralph who? Oh, the reverend-looking man who has charge of the animals. What story does he want me to tell?’

  ‘That you were so flustered with drink you somehow wandered into the animal yard. Were you drunk?’

  ‘No, Nick, I was not drunk,’ said Edmund, taking a large swallow of his small beer.

  ‘Did you kill Leonard Leman? Not deliberately kill him, but is it possible that while you were struggling you struck out at him with your little knife?’

  ‘I was overcome, outnumbered. I did not even have time to find my little knife, let alone wield it. The little knife is clean. Truth to tell, although I may be too ready to wave it around, it has never been used in anger.’

  ‘So you are one of those roaring boys.’

  ‘Call me what names you please, Nick. I deserve it and you’ve earned the right. I confess I acquired a bit of a reputation in Stratford for bad behaviour, but I swear to you it was always more noise than substance. And I swear I had nothing to do with that man’s death. Am I going to be called to give evidence?’