The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

In his small castle, Sir William was unhappy to hear that his miller craved a few minutes of his time.

‘What? Why? Can’t you see I am busy?’ he demanded testily of his steward.

‘He is very insistent, Sir William.’

‘Fetch the fool in. I daresay he’s found another fault with my damned wheel, or the shaft, or more cogs have broken. Why can’t he mend the thing himself instead of troubling me?’

Even in a small manor like this there were always too many distractions for he who craved solitude. Sir William tapped his foot as he waited, profoundly irritated. A man should be granted peace when he had so many concerns. All he sought was an opportunity to leave this place and seek the quiet of the cloister, where he might reflect and beg God’s forgiveness for his sins, yet the petty trials and difficulties of the poorer folk in his demesne were constantly intruding. He had a letter to write to the Abbot of Tavistock, an important letter, now that his main concern in life was gone at last.

‘You should be more generous, husband,’ his wife chided gently.

Sir William bit back the rejoinder. She could not comprehend the troubles he endured. He had heard her describe him as ‘petulant’, as though he was some sort of froward child. If he had been more forceful, she would have felt his belt before now, but that was not his way. No, he had been under her spell from the moment he first saw her, all those years ago. Perhaps, if he had never met her, God would not now punish him like this. Yet soon his misery would be done.

She continued soothingly: ‘He is a sensible man, and his mill earns a good profit each year. I am sure that if he needs to speak to you, it is for an important reason.’

He forbore to point out that the most important thing to any man should be the protection of his immortal soul. Turning from her and returning to his seat, he reminded himself that this frail woman couldn’t be expected to comprehend.

She had no concept of guilt for a crime as vast as that which rested on his shoulders. Christ Jesus! the guilt would never leave him! he thought with a shudder.

The door opened. Sir William turned to scowl at Hob. ‘Well?’

‘Sir, I’ve found a man’s body on the way here.’

Sir William curled his lip. ‘Tell the steward and have him call the coroner.’

‘I thought you should know: it’s Walter Coule, sir. Sir John’s reeve.’

Hob later recalled that meeting, and when he did, all he could remember was Sir William’s appalled expression.

‘Don’t worry, lady.’

Mistress Alice felt her heart lurch at the sly voice behind her, and her hand rose to her breast as the after-shock of thundering blood raced along her veins. ‘You fool,’ she hissed. ‘Roger, you nearly sent me to my grave!’

‘I think it would take more than a little surprise to do that to you, lady-don’t you?’

Roger de Tracy, her brother-in-law, unfolded himself from the corner where he had been lounging. Tall, he always gave the impression of bending slightly, as though there was not the room built that was tall enough for his great height. He loomed over her by at least six inches.

He was good-looking; many of the local women would have been keen to take him to their beds. Slim of waist, with the broad shoulders of a warrior, he wore his clothing with style. The latest, tight fashions might have been designed for him. The red sleeves of his gipon showing his well-muscled arms, while the crimson cotehardie set off his powerful torso.

But Roger was restless and wild. She was never entirely comfortable with him…probably it was foolish, but she had an intuition that he desired her. He always had. And now it was there in his eyes: no matter how urbane and sophisticated he appeared, his eyes were all over her.

‘Why should I worry?’ she demanded as her heart began to return to its normal pace.

‘No need to retreat, lady. I was simply attempting to soothe your fears,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your husband wouldn’t have murdered him. Why, just because he’s…what? bitter towards Coule’s master, that doesn’t mean he’d kill Coule. His master’s slights aren’t Coule’s fault, are they? Of course, some men might wish to see Coule dead. I would have no pity for him myself, if I were master of this manor. But I am not, of course.’

‘No. You aren’t,’ she said acidly.

‘Nay.’ His eyes were on her for a moment, and she saw that they had lost any feeling for that instant, as though just then he was contemplating her not as a sister, but as a foe. It was a look that made her wish to draw away from him.

‘I must return.’

‘You don’t believe me?’ he smiled then, and it gave a horrible aspect to his features as he lifted his eyebrows in mock innocence. ‘Why Alice-surely you don’t believe your husband capable of murder?’

‘Get away from me!’ she spat, and as she span on her heel, she saw that farther down the corridor Denis, her husband’s man of law, was standing and glowering at Roger.

‘Until later, madam,’ Roger said, and pushed past her with a chuckle.

There were two coroners who lived in the north of the county and held inquests, and a third who lived in the east, but when there was a death here in the hundred of North Tawton, it was often easier to contact Sir Richard de Welles, the coroner of the Lifton hundred, because he lived closer to hand and was less encumbered with the sudden deaths of the populations of Exeter and the larger market towns.

Hob knew of him, and when the demand came the next day for him to attend the inquest, he was merely glad that the affair would soon be over. If he had to pay a fine for finding a body, better that he should learn sooner rather than later how much it would be. And he was nervous enough already. He wanted the whole matter over and done with as soon as it may be.

Sir Richard was a tall man with an almost perfectly round face and a thick bush of beard that covered his upper breast like a gorget. His flesh was the colour of tanned hide, his eyes brown and shrewd, his voice like a bull’s bellow, as though incapable of quiet speech. He stood before the juries as the men mumbled their way through the unfamiliar words he recited, and raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes as they stumbled.

‘God’s blood, where did you find this lot? Eh? All are here, I suppose. We may as well open proceedings. ALL THOSE WHO HAVE ANY KNOWLEDGE OF THIS MAN’S DEATH, COME FORTH!’

The hoarse roar silenced the crowd, but there was a comfort in his authority. The jurors knew they must investigate and see whether or not anyone could come to a conclusion about the death. Who wished him dead; who killed him; what weapon was used…there were many questions to be answered, and Sir Richard was experienced in his job.

Hob was first to be called. ‘I found him, sir.’

‘He was here?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘Good Christ, man! Answer!’

‘I don’t think he’s been moved,’ Hob nodded, glancing at the corpse. He could feel a light sweat forming on his back at the sight.

‘I congratulate the vill on protecting the corpse so well,’ the coroner said sarcastically. ‘Although who’d be likely to approach that ! Come! Let’s have the body brought into the open.’

Unwilling men barged through the low vegetation, dragging the noisome figure out on his back.

Lady Alice had to turn away. The cotehardie’s breast was black with dried blood, and even from this distance, some twenty yards away, she could smell the rotten flesh. It was enough to make her gag. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago this was a hale, living man.

‘Roll him over, then,’ the coroner said testily. ‘Do you expect us to guess at his damned injuries?’