‘Come on.’ Martin tugged at his cousin’s arm. ‘No use trying to talk to the lay brothers. We need to talk to the prior himself.’
Pushing his way through the tide of people flowing towards the cathedral, Martin led the way down the Heyrow, towards Steeple Gate, close to Goldsmith’s Tower where the gold and silver vessels and ornaments were wrought for the cathedral under the gimlet eye of the sacrist, who had his office on the floor above.
Henry trailed after Martin, as he had done ever since he could toddle. Martin, two years older than Henry, was still a head taller than he, even though they were both now in their twenties. Henry was also painfully aware that Martin was the more handsome of the two, with speedwell-blue eyes of disarming innocence, which could entice maids and matrons alike to climb into his bed, and made men foolishly trust him in spite of their own good sense. Henry had only ever been the insipid shadow following on his cousin’s heels, the one who women ignored and men overlooked.
Sometimes he tried to convince himself that women would find him desirable if his handsome cousin wasn’t around to make him look dull and plain by comparison. But he never had the courage to put it to the test and face the world alone. His cousin had always looked out for him, and as Martin reminded him at least once a day, Henry simply didn’t have the wit to fend for himself.
A man squatted in front of Steeple Gate, his arms bound in filthy bandages through which greenish-yellow stains were oozing. Half a dozen more beggars sat around in a state of near stupor, hunched against the cold wind from the river. But as soon as Martin tugged at the bell rope hanging above the gate they sprang to life and clustered round, pushing wooden bowls at Henry and Martin, whining for coins.
A young monk dragged open the gate and took a step forward. The beggar with the bandaged arms almost hit him in the face with his bowl as he thrust it towards him. The monk shoved the beggar hard in the chest, so that he stumbled over the crutches of another and fell sprawling on the stones.
‘I’ve told you before,’ the monk snapped, ‘not another loaf will you get from us, so it’s no use your waiting.’ Seeing the shocked expression on Henry’s face the monk flushed slightly. ‘He’s avering, an old trick. He’s only pretending to be sick, but I reckon he takes the meats we give him and sells them, then spends the money in the local tavern.’
The beggar let forth a stream of vehement denials and curses, and the others joined in, but the young monk was evidently well used to ignoring them.
‘What’s your business here?’ he shouted over the din.
Martin raised his voice to match him. ‘We’ve a proposition to put to the prior.’
The monk raised his eyebrows scathingly. ‘And what might you be wanting to propose that would be of any interest to an important man like the prior?’
‘Those crowds outside the cathedral are on the verge of a riot. We have a plan to keep them calm and quiet.’
‘I’ve a plan to do that myself, but I don’t think the prior will sanction firing arrows down on them from the towers,’ the monk said sourly. Then, as the beggars’ demands grew ever more insistent, he retreated back into the gateway and began pushing the gate closed behind him.
Just before slamming it shut, he peered at Martin through the gap. ‘Look, even if you could perform the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Prior Alan wouldn’t see you. Why don’t you try Subprior Stephen? He went out of here a little while ago making for the quayside. If you hurry you’ll catch him.’
Without looking to see if Henry was following, Martin raced off down the hill, dodging round the pilgrims and traders, the boys hefting great stacks of dried peat on their backs and the women hurrying home with fat eels for their husband’s dinner. Henry didn’t trouble to follow. If there was wheedling and persuading to be done, he could add nothing. He would simply be expected to stand and listen to one of his cousin’s eloquent speeches as he convinced yet another fool to part with his money. Henry might occasionally be called upon to back up some wild claim or other, but he couldn’t even do that without blushing. He sighed. If Martin put half as much effort into finding work as he did into dreaming up schemes for making money, they could both have settled down long ago.
Henry peered down the hill to see if Martin had caught up with the subprior, and noticed a man walking up towards him, threading his way through the crowds. He was taller than most of the men around him. From this distance it was hard to make out his features, but his crow-black hair stood out clearly and there was something about that uneven gait that was vaguely familiar. Then in a sudden flash of recognition Henry realised who he was. He felt as if someone had thrown a pail of ice over him, for he was the last man he wanted to see in Ely. Henry fled across the market square and dived into the nearest inn. He scuttled into the corner, trying to peer out through one of the open casements without being seen.
‘Ale, is it? We’ve a stew of eels, if you’re hungry.’ A disheveled-looking girl, balancing a flagon on each hip, wriggled up beside him and peered curiously out of the window. ‘What’s so interesting out there? A fight, is it?’
‘I was waiting for someone.’
She snorted and moved away from the window. ‘You can drink while you wait, can’t you? What’ll I bring you?’
But Henry had already crept back to the door. He anxiously scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of the face he was searching for. Maybe he had turned off down one of the lanes. Then he saw Martin sauntering up the street with all the arrogance of a cat with a sparrow in its mouth. Even before he was near enough to speak, Henry knew that Martin had managed to persuade the subprior.
‘He says he will have to consult the other obedientiaries who have the running of the cathedral grounds, but he is sure they will be persuaded. And he says they have a wagon long enough for us to perform on. He will even ask the sacrist to loan us a couple of carpenters to build the mouth of hell and the celestial heaven. So, young cos, we are in business! The Play of Adam will be performed to the adulation of the crowd, well, as much of it as we have time to prepare. Subprior Stephen says that they have the whole manuscript in their library, and he’ll assign some of the younger scribes to copy out the parts for each actor when we’ve decided what we will perform. I tried to persuade him to let me borrow the manuscript so that I could find the best sections, but he says the scroll is over two hundred years old and far too valuable.’ Martin scowled. ‘I don’t know why he wouldn’t trust me with it.’
If he had, Henry thought to himself, it would certainly have been the last the subprior ever saw of it.
Martin brightened again. ‘No matter. At least we’ll make good money from the crowd. You wait, they’ll be showering us with silver.’
When he finally paused for breath, Henry managed to deliver his own news. ‘The alchemist is here . . . from Cambridge . . . I saw him walking up the hill. He could only have been a few yards in front of you. Saints be praised that I recognised him in time and managed to hide before he saw me, but we have to get out of here. We must leave Ely today.’
‘Haven’t you been listening, young cos? It’s all settled. We are going to perform The Play of Adam and I’ve no intention of leaving until we’ve milked this pretty little goat completely dry.’
Henry stared at his cousin as if he was insane. ‘Don’t you understand what I said – the alchemist is here! We can’t possibly perform in front of a crowd now. That would be the quickest way of drawing attention to ourselves. If he recognises us we’ll be arrested and hanged.’
Martin laughed. ‘And the stars might fall out of the sky tonight. Why do you always have to imagine the worst? Even if he is here, what does it matter? He’ll have come on business. He’s no reason to suspect us of anything. I covered our tracks carefully. So if you do bump into him just act as if you’re delighted to see an old friend. And whatever you do, don’t start stammering and turning red like a naughty schoolboy expecting a birching.’ He flicked Henry’s chest hard with his finger. ‘How often do I have to tell you
, young cos, I have brains enough for the both of us, so stop worrying. Now what we need to do is round up a few more actors, and there’s only one place to find actors – in any tavern that sells good cheap ale.’
The Mermaid Inn on the bank of the great river was empty of drinkers save for eight men clustered around the fire. It was barely an hour after sunrise, as the yawns and scowls of the serving maid testified, and the boatmen still had many hours of work ahead of them before they could stop for a flagon of ale and some slices of brawn fried in lard. But Martin had insisted that the players must make an early start.
Cudbert, known to his friends as Cuddy, was a coarse-featured man with a neck as thick and corded as a plough ox. He took a large swig of ale from his leather tankard, and wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand.
‘So are we doing The Shepherds’ Play, or what? I always play Gib, him with the sour wife.
“As sharp as a thistle, as rough as a briar
She is browed like a bristle, with eyes full of ire
When she once wets her whistle she can outsing the choir.”’
Cuddy roared out the words as if declaiming in front of a raucous crowd.
‘But that’s the play we do for the Christmas feast, Uncle,’ a graceful, fresh-faced lad protested. ‘It isn’t fitting for this season.’
Cuddy curled one massive paw into a fist. ‘Anyone ask for your opinion, whelp?’ He turned to Martin, rolling his eyes. ‘My nephew, Luke, or so his mother swore afore she died. My brother ran off and abandoned him, not that I can blame him when he saw what he’d been cursed with as a son. I mean, does he look like he’s got our family’s blood running in his veins? Ditchwater, more like. But my old woman insisted we took the brat in. Seventeen, he is now, and still useless. But I say this for him, he makes a comely maid when you dress him in skirts. Course, he doesn’t need to do any acting to play a virgin.’
The other men, including Martin, roared with laughter as Luke flushed scarlet and glowered at the rushes on the floor, trying to hide his humiliation behind an unruly tangle of dark hair. Henry alone didn’t smile, wincing as if he felt the lash of the words on his own back.
‘The Shepherds’ Play it is,’ Martin said. ‘And, from The Play of Adam, “The Sacrifice of Isaac”. Always makes the women cry, that one. The crowds won’t care what we give them so long as it’s bawdy and bloody.’
‘John’s eldest son can play Isaac,’ Cuddy said. ‘He’s small for his age, but he’s as sharp as a whetted scythe.’ Catching sight of Martin’s alarmed expression, he added, ‘Don’t fret, young Ben looks nothing like his old man.’
It was just as well, Henry thought, for John was a stocky, pugnacious-looking man, with a broken nose and fists as big as turnips, hardly the type to meekly lie down and prepare to be slaughtered.
‘Then young Ben shall indeed play Isaac,’ Martin beamed round at the assembled company. ‘But we’ll start with “Cain and Abel”, a play that Henry and I know well.’
A murmur of consternation rippled around the other men.
Cuddy shook his grizzled head. ‘No, we won’t be doing that one. That’s the play of the Glovers’ Guild. They’ll not take kindly to us performing that.’
Martin flicked his fingers dismissively. ‘It’s to be performed on cathedral grounds and it’s the Priory who has to right to say what will be performed and by whom. Besides, I’m told the guild haven’t performed “Cain and Abel” for three years now.’
‘Aye, and there’s good reason for that,’ another man piped up. ‘“Cain and Abel” brings bad luck, everyone knows that. I’ve heard tell that the very first time the words of that play were said aloud one of the actors was murdered, and he a holy monk. Glovers swear the spilling of his blood must have sealed the curse that Cain utters in the play and made it come to pass in truth, ’cause any man who acts in that play has nothing but ill fortune for the rest of the year.’
Cuddy nodded vigorously. ‘One poor bastard had his workshop burned down and him with a new stock of leather just bought in.’
‘Remember the man who played Abel?’ another said. ‘His son drowned in the river the very next day and he could swim like an eel.’
A couple of the men crossed themselves as they recalled other misfortunes that had overtaken members of the guild – mysterious fevers, a man struck down with apoplexy, not to mention a wife running off with her lover. It was as plain as the balls on a bull, they said, that the play of ‘Cain and Abel’ was cursed.
John reached across the table and poured himself another generous measure of ale from the flagon. ‘You’re talking out of your backsides as usual. Hugh’s wife running off had nothing to do with the play. The whole town knew her for a brazen strumpet long afore the glover married her. She was bound to be up to her old tricks sooner or later. Anyhow, I don’t hold with this curse nonsense. They’ve been playing “Cain and Abel ” since I was in clouts. It stands to reason, if it was cursed they’d have stopped it years ago.’
Martin laughed. ‘And I’ve played in “Cain and Abel” for years and not one drop of ill fortune has fallen on me, nor on any others who acted in it. Isn’t that right, Henry?’
Henry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. There was plenty of ill fortune he could have named, not least that business in Cambridge, but he knew from bitter experience not to contradict Martin, especially not in front of others.
‘See,’ Martin beamed. ‘And just to prove it, Henry and I will act in the play ourselves. Nothing like a good murder to keep the crowds entertained. I told Subprior Stephen as much and he agrees. Besides, he says it will remind the people not to hold back their tithes even when the harvest is poor, for fear of being cursed like Cain.’
‘I’ll take a part in it too,’ Luke said eagerly, obviously desperate to play someone other than a girl. ‘I could play the angel.’
‘I will play the angel,’ Martin announced firmly. ‘The part calls for a man who has a commanding presence.’ He struck a pose, his eyes turned beatifically up to heaven, his right hand lifted in blessing.
‘Hear that, boy?’ Cuddy said. ‘It takes a man to play an angel, so you’ll still be playing simpering wenches when you’re in your dotage.’
The men all laughed, and the muscles of Luke’s jaw tightened so hard, Henry was sure he was going to break a tooth.
‘Besides,’ Martin said, ‘I have the robe and the sword of justice, and I shall wear a gold coronet.’
A look of alarm flashed across Henry’s face. ‘No . . . you wouldn’t. Don’t be a fool.’
Martin wrapped an arm about Henry’s shoulder, and tousled his hair with his other hand as if he was a silly child. ‘Stop fretting, little cos, or everyone will think you are as much of a girl as young Luke here. Now I think Luke should play the role of the timid and lazy servant Brewbarrel.’
His uncle roared with laughter, slapping his thigh. ‘Aye, he’s suited to that role, right enough.’
‘And what should your part be, little cos? Yes, the pious Abel, I think. You fit that role.’
Blushing nearly as hard as Luke, Henry jerked himself out of Martin’s grasp. ‘I will play Cain.’
His cousin laughed. ‘You’d never make a convincing Cain. You couldn’t kill a mouse, never mind a man. You,’ he gestured towards the man with the broken nose, ‘John, isn’t it? Could you learn the part of Cain if I teach you?’
‘Heard it often enough. Used to be my favourite. I reckon most of it would come back to me with a bit of prompting.’
‘Settled then,’ Martin declared, beaming. ‘There’s a barn the subprior said we could use to practise in. It’s big enough for us to rehearse all three plays at the same time. Then if one of us is needed in another play he can just walk across and say his lines.’
He looped his arm through Henry’s and grinned at him. ‘So in the words of that saintly little Abel:
“Let us both go forth together.
Blessed be God, we have good weather.”’
Come the
morning of the first performance, the weather had indeed turned to the good. Although it had been windy and cold for weeks, now the sun sparkled down out of a cloudless sky, tempered only by the pleasingly refreshing breeze from the river. The mood of the queuing throng lifted in the sunshine and they settled themselves on the grass, more than willing to be entertained now that they were no longer shivering in the biting wind.
The carpenters had done their work well. The entrance to hell, in the form of the gigantic gaping jaws of a great sea monster, was lined with sharp white teeth and real smoke belched from its scarlet maw. On the opposite side of the long cart the throne of heaven mounted on a high dais glittered with tiny glass jewels, and a painted rainbow arched triumphantly over it. Between the two was a pyre of wooden twigs, which would serve as the altar upon which Abel would make his sacrifice, then the place where Isaac was to be slain, and finally the fire around which the shepherds would watch their flocks. It too could be made to pour with smoke.
The whole cart had been covered with sailcloth lashed to the sides to protect the scenery as the carpenters worked, and to keep out the more inquisitive of the local brats. When it was finally rolled up to reveal the stage, to the accompaniment of a lively tune played on frestelles and drums, appreciative murmurs broke out among the waiting crowd.
But it was nothing to the gasps of admiration that arose as Martin strode onto the stage. He had decided that it was only natural for him to play the angel in each of the three plays and blithely ignored the angry muttering of the Ely man who always took that role in The Shepherds’ Play. But even the Ely man was forced to admit his appearance in the third play would only have been an anticlimax after Martin’s. For Martin was clad in white, with a pair of wings covered in swans’ feathers fastened to a concealed harness on his back. His luxuriant blond curls were freshly washed and crowned with a circlet of gold that dazzled in the sun. In his right hand he carried a gleaming silver sword, which he thrust high into the blue sky.
The First Murder Page 13