Mask of Night (15 page)

I witnessed an odd scene the next morning which I include here only because of what followed from it.

It was a fine morning. Like a butterfly in the sun, I was stretching my wings outside the yard of the Golden Cross Inn – there is something about this city of Oxford which seems to encourage hanging about – when my ears were seized by shouts and screeches close to. The source of the screeching was a woman standing next to a cart which was at the entrance to the Tavern on my immediate left. A wooden crate had fallen from the back of the cart on to the dirty road and, although it looked undamaged, this minor accident had been sufficient to provoke the woman into railing at the carter.

I recognized the carter by his horse, a clapped-out piebald nag.

He was the unfortunate John Hoby, the driver who had run down Mistress Root on the road from Headington and been roundly abused for his clumsiness. This expert in offending women sat on his perch, hapless and hangdog. I recognized him also by the wen that hung from his neck. Although he was, strictly speaking, higher up above the ground than the woman who was giving him a tongue-lashing he seemed on a lower level than her, if you know what I mean.

I recognized the woman also. It was Jane Davenant, the gypsy-like wife of the owner of the Tavern. She who was known to everyone in Oxford and who played at fast-and-loose, according to the ostler Kit Kite. She who might cuckold her husband, according to William Sadler’s finger horn gesture. Such women are always interesting, even when they are unpleasing to the eye – this was my rather worldly reflection – and Mistress Davenant was not unpleasing.

She didn’t seem to mind that her ranting was drawing the attention of everyone at the lower end of Cornmarket, of idlers like myself, of stall-holders and students. She was probably enjoying it, since she shook her splayed fingers at John Hoby and wagged her fine, dark head of hair with an almost theatrical emphasis. From time to time odd phrases – “shotten herring!”, “sad man” – emerged from the welter of abuse being poured over the carter. I was surprised that a woman such as Jane Davenant could sound like a fish-wife but perhaps it was part of her diverse charms.

The appearance of John Davenant on the scene did not affect her one jot. The landlord and husband looked gloomy, as usual. He put a restraining hand on his wife’s arm but she shook it off unawares, as you might a fly’s touch, and continued her ranting. So he stood by with folded arms, as if he was used to her fits, and waited for her to exhaust herself. Meantime the carter sat still as a mouse faced by a cat.

In the end Davenant made to pick up the fallen box himself but it was evidently too awkward for him to shift alone. He went round to the other side of the cart and tugged at the carter’s sleeve so that the little man almost fell into his arms. Then together they hefted the box and carried it into the inn yard. His wife stopped her shouting and looked around at her scattered audience. I caught her eye but could not hold her gaze. Then she too went inside, although not before kicking out a stray dog that was creeping along close to the wall. I supposed that if she couldn’t kick Hoby, then the next best thing was a vagrant cur.

After a short time Hoby emerged warily, as if he expected a fresh attack. He remounted his cart and urged his ancient nag towards the High Street. Having nothing better to do, I watched his departure and wondered what had been contained in the box that was too heavy for one man to carry.

*
see
Alms for Oblivion

There is a willow grows aslant the stream.

Well, there are many willows in this place, and a multitude of streams. During the winter the water rises here, and in midwinter the whole plain freezes over sometimes. But now we are on the edge of spring and there is an unaccustomed gentleness to the late afternoon air as it tilts towards evening. The tips of the branches are spotted with green and the birds are swooping low among the trees. The sound of the church bells, ferried across from the town, blooms in your ear.

Across this watery landscape run several tracks which are passable provided it has not rained recently. Some of them are like causeways, with pools and streams of water on either side. If conditions are good, these tracks provide a quicker route to the outlying villages of the town than the main road. But there are never many people travelling on these by-roads.

So it is now as you wait in the shelter of a stand of willows. Water gurgles at your feet, water cold from the winter. Nobody has passed along this path leading from the village of Whittingham to Oxford during the hour you have been waiting. At this instant, though, you hear the creaking of wheels and the heavy breathing of a horse. The driver is eager to get home before dark. But the horse is old and feeble, and has already dragged the cart around the edges of the town today. At least it is empty now. The carter has made his profit. A profit which he must now pay for.

Naturally, you have dressed for the occasion. You have grown used to your gear by now and are practised at slipping it on and off. At the last moment you tie the hood about your face, securing the points and buttons at the back. There is a comfort in being garbed like this. It is your armour against the world. The costume bestows power on you, of itself. You remember old mother Morrison’s last moments. The look of terror in her eyes, the desperate struggle to raise herself from her narrow bed, the final spasm. You did not even have to touch her (although she had already been weakened by the tainted sweetmeats you had sent). When it came to the point she expired through sheer fright.

The horse and cart draw nearer. You glimpse them through the branches. The horse whinnies. It is uneasy, scenting your presence. The carter is muttering to himself under his breath. You cannot hear what he is saying, the hood prevents that, but even through the eyepieces you see his lips mouthing words. The growth on his neck seems to quiver with a life of its own. Abruptly, almost before you are aware of what you are doing, you step out from the clump of willows by the water’s edge and stand there, in the way of horse, cart and driver.

The piebald horse shies away and then shuffles its forefeet. The driver looks – bemused. Then fearful. He begins to speak but can scarcely get the words out.

“Y-y-y-you. Is it you?”

He rears back on his wooden perch atop the little cart, and his cap falls off. He half stands up, as if minded to flee. But he cannot run without first getting down from the cart and that would put him on the same level as you. You move forward, waving your white wand from side to side. A slow but inexorable movement. The horse, profoundly unhappy now, attempts to turn round but it is hitched to the cart and the path is narrow. The creature’s hooves slide on the muddy bank and it grows more panic-stricken.

Meantime the carter has decided to leap from the cart and in his confusion he jumps in your direction. Now he is trapped. The cart is turned aslant the narrow track, with the slithering horse to one side. The carter tries to duck under the overhang at the back of the cart but, as he bends under the tail, you bring the cane down sharp on his back. It must be the shock of the blow, rather than the force behind it, which causes him to fall flat on his face in the mud at your feet.

He scrabbles around and looks up to see – the black bird of death hovering above him. If he were not so purely terrified he would scream or cry but, as it is, he opens his mouth and no sound emerges. He does not move or he cannot move, and you are reminded of the way in which a mouse will sometimes turn to stone in the presence of a cat.

You are far removed from this man, far above him. Through your eyepieces you observe your arm as it lifts itself up together with the stick it wields. Then the cane comes down again and again across the carter’s exposed face. You strike at the disgusting growth which depends from his scrawny neck. He raises his arms to try to protect himself and, too late, scrabbles backwards to escape the blows hailing down on him. But he cannot see, cannot think. He flails about and falls into the water. His head, all battered and bloody, dips underneath the cold spring pool. He tries to rise but there is nothing for him to grasp hold of, and anyway you lean out over the water and strike at his waving arms. After a short period he falls back, exhausted, into the water. A trail of bubbles spurts to the surface of the pool and there is a great sighing sound. Then there is nothing.

You are gripped by a knot of sensations which, until later, you cannot unpick. It is excitement, a great excitement, but with a dash of pity. The pity redeems you but it is the excitement that drives you forward.

T
he peculiar request that Susan Constant had made of me was that I should use my eyes and ears to find out whether there was any truth in her belief that her cousin Sarah was being poisoned, slowly and secretly poisoned. An outsider might be helpful, she’d said, might see something she was blind to. It was of little use to claim that I was no expert and that she would be better off talking to a physician or at least unfolding her concerns to another member of her family. For some reason she was adamant that she would not speak to Hugh Fern. And I could only conclude that she was unwilling to involve her adopted family because – terrible as the idea was – she suspected someone within that family circle of being responsible.

The sensible course of action would have been for me to refuse to have anything to do with the business. But she had flattered me with mystery-solving powers, and just because a particular task is beyond our ability doesn’t mean that we’re immune to being cajoled into it. Also she had given a good impression of having no one else to turn to, she had appealed to my chivalrous nature. (Yes, I know, foolish Revill.)

Susan had informed me that I would have a good opportunity to observe both families together, the Constants and the Sadlers, at the performance of
Romeo and Juliet
at Fern’s house on Headington Hill, which was scheduled for a few days after the first public performance. In the meantime, however, she contrived an encounter with Sarah for me. At least I assumed it was a contrived meeting, for I bumped into Susan and another young woman wandering one morning in a wide street which I’d heard called both Horsemonger Lane and the Broad. I had the feeling that she’d been keeping her eye open for me.

“Master Revill, you escaped from the riots?”

“William Sadler gave me refuge in his college. But I was concerned for you, madam.”

“I was with Mistress Root. She lives nearby in Cats Street and so we were not far from shelter. In any case she is worth a dozen bulldogs.”

I laughed, remembering the way Nurse Root had beaten Sadler over the head with the stockfish.

Susan Constant seemed to have fallen into the habit of introducing me to others, and she did so now. I’d been right in my assumption that this was her cousin Sarah.

Sarah Constant was a pretty, slight thing. Delicate, as Susan had described her. She was wrapped up against a cold March wind which swept down this exposed street just beyond the old city walls. There was a sharpness in her features. She was pale, perhaps unhealthily so, and she was half leaning on her cousin as if for support. But not knowing what she looked like normally, as it were, I couldn’t have said whether there was anything really wrong with her.

“This is a terrible spot,”said Susan.

“Why is that?” I said, looking about. We were opposite the dour-looking tower gateway of the college called Balliol. Beyond the college were open fields, criss-crossed with overflowing streams. Oxford is very flat.

Sarah Constant said, “I can never pass here without seeing the flames and hearing the screams.”

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about but tried to be facetious by assuming that she was referring to more of the bad behaviour between town and gown.

“Obviously they make a profession of riot in this town.”

“This is the place where the blessed martyrs met their end in Mary’s time,” explained Susan, with a stern look at me. “Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley were burnt to death in this very street.”

Taken aback, I looked about as if there might still be signs of the sacrifice. There were indeed a couple of charred stumps not many yards away which I did not want to examine too closely. A chaplet of flowers, now withered, had been draped over one of them.

“My grandfather told me that gunpowder was hung about their necks,” said Sarah. “He witnessed it. It was Ridley’s brother-in-law who obtained permission to speed their end with gunpowder.”

This was cheerless talk on a cheerless March day.

“Oh Mistress Sarah,” I said. “All that was long ago. We should each of us pray that those dark days of persecution never return. But we are young, aren’t we. Shouldn’t we be looking forward? You have a wedding to celebrate, I believe.”

For the first time a smile visited her face, and she was transformed. Susan Constant, I noticed, did not look so pleased. But then she wasn’t the one who was getting married. I hoped that William Sadler would prove a worthy husband to this fragile woman.

We exchanged a few pleasantries after this, keeping off the gloom and martyrdom, and ending with an assurance from Susan that both cousins would come to the Golden Cross performance of
Romeo and Juliet
that very afternoon.

I protested that that might spoil the story for them, when we came to perform it in the Doctor’s house on Headington Hill.

“Oh, everybody knows the story. It ends unhappily,” said Susan Constant.

“That’s no secret,” I said. “The Prologue tells us so within a few seconds of the opening.”

“Then we are really coming so that we can see your mettle,” she said.

I think that the comment was intended to be a little flirtatious. But she couldn’t really manage flirtation – she was too clear-cut and serious. Sarah Constant managed another smile which, in her white face, was like the sun on a snowfield but welcome for all that.