The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘It turns north up to Bow.’

‘Where did this Coule live?’

‘Up near Clannaborough Cross’

‘Which is where, roughly?’

Denis sighed. ‘It’s over the boundaries of my lord’s lands. I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps you should guess, then,’ Simon suggested nastily.

‘North east, I suppose.’

‘So when he came down here, Coule was not heading even remotely in the right direction,’ Simon noted.

‘Why come this way, then?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘I think we ought to ask this helpful miller.’

Hob was at his vegetables when he heard the horses approaching, and he stood up, leaning on his shovel. It was rare that a man would come this way to visit him. His mill was popular when there was grain to be milled, but now, in the early summer, there was little custom.

A good thing, too. While the river was full and the waters rushed past the mill’s wheel, he could often find himself overwhelmed. Luckily that tended to be after the harvest, and when the grain was dried well enough. Now, though, was the time when he tended to look to the cogs and see to it that his machine was in excellent condition for when the people brought in their valuable sacks. And made sure that his own garden was growing well.

‘Masters,’ he called as the three men appeared, and eyed them cautiously. A man was wise to be wary.

Baldwin snapped. ‘You are Hob the miller? I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. My friend here is bailiff to Abbot Champeaux.’

As he explained that he wanted to ask about the man Hob had found, Hob nodded resignedly. ‘Aye, master. I’ll answer any questions you have.’

‘Did he often come this way?’

‘Coule? No, hardly ever, I’d say. He’d take the direct road. Now and again he would come here when he had need of my mill-their manor’s mill broke last year and they had to use ours.’

‘We heard that he was at the castle to discuss some matter that was before the courts. It is thought that he died on his way home afterwards. Do you know of any affair that could have brought him this way?’

Hob gave a shy grin at that. ‘I’m just a miller, sir. They don’t talk to me about things like that.’

Simon nodded, and said, ‘Tell us about the day you found the body. Where was it, and did you see anything odd about it?’

Hob sighed, let his hoe fall, and jerked his chin towards the mill. ‘You want an ale? It’s hot out here doing the garden.’

‘That would be good,’ Simon said with a smile.

‘But sirs, you were supposed to be coming with me to Bow to meet my lord, Sir William,’ Denis objected.

‘You may tell him we’ll be with him when we’re ready,’ Baldwin said.

‘I can’t say that to my master!’ Denis protested.

But then, looking at Baldwin’s steady eye, he found that in all likelihood, he would prefer even Sir William’s wrath to this man’s.

‘This is the best ale I’ve tasted in some weeks,’ Simon said, smacking his lips.

‘You dislike the ale at my home?’ Baldwin growled. ‘You drank enough of it!’

‘It is good, but this, this is nectar!’

Hob smiled and nodded at the compliment. ‘I learned brewing early. When a man spends his life breathing in the dust from the flour, any drink takes on a new importance!’

‘So tell me, Hob,’ Simon said. ‘What is all this about the man who died? We’ve heard how unpopular he was with the serfs on his estates, and it seems that the de Tracys had cause to dislike him, if the rumours about his stealing the sword are true.’

‘Was there any sign of a sword near the body?’ Baldwin asked.

Hob spat into the dirt of the floor and studied the puddle gobbet. ‘If it was, I wouldn’t have touched it!’

Simon and Baldwin exchanged a baffled glance. It was Baldwin who asked mildly, ‘Why?’

‘Don’t you know what that sword was? It was the assassin’s weapon.’

Simon smiled with blank confusion. ‘You say that Sir William or Roger his brother is a murderer?’

‘Not them, no. But it was Sir William de Tracy who was there with the other murderers when they martyred the saint.’

‘Good Christ!’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Of course!’

Simon looked blankly from him to Hob. ‘What?’

‘De Tracy…I had forgotten my history. You have forgotten the martyrdom of St Thomas? At Canterbury?’

‘Oh!’

‘St Thomas a Becket sought to confound the king, and the king shouted out to demand whether no man would rid him of his troublesome priest, so they say. Three of his knights, seeking his approval, took to horse that same night and crossed the channel at their first opportunity. They rode as swift as death to the cathedral, and there they slayed the archbishop in his own church.’

Simon crossed himself. ‘To murder in a church…they must have been mad!’

‘This is that very sword that Sir William de Tracy used to execute the poor saint. So you’ll see why I wouldn’t touch it myself,’ Hob said. ‘I couldn’t. It must be cursed.’

‘What happened to him?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin answered, speaking softly. ‘He and the other three rode on many adventures, but their crime would not leave them. The guilt and shame was ever at their minds. They rode from Canterbury to Sussex, and there while they ate, the very table on which they had placed their armour and weapons tipped up and threw the lot onto the floor. As it became clear that they were shunned by all men, the King advised them to ride north to live in Scotland, for the Pope had excommunicated them for their crime, but when they arrived, they found that the king of the Scots wanted them arrested, and the people wished to see them hang. So they rode back mournfully to the king whom they had tried to serve. None would sit with them, nor share a meal with them. Even the dogs refused the scraps from their bowls.

‘The king had no jurisdiction, for this was a murder of a clergyman in a church. He had to ask the pope what should be done with the three. The pope urged that the three should fast and live a life of continual penance, and that they should be banished from the country and travel to the Holy Land where they might take up arms against the Saracens. De Tracy became a Knight Templar, I understand.’

Simon understood his quietness suddenly. Sir Baldwin had been one of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and had only survived the persecution, torture and slaughter of the suppression of the holy order because he had been out of the Temple in Paris when his comrades were all arrested. Yet there was more: a quizzical, doubtful expression had come into his eyes.

Simon looked at Hob. ‘Is that true? Did de Tracy die in the Holy Kingdom?’

‘I don’t know about that. The sword came back only two years ago, though, Sir. It was Sir Humphrey, Sir William’s father, who brought it back. He was there in Acre at the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. I think he found it again while he was abroad-in Acre or on his way there-and brought it back for his family.’

Baldwin frowned pensively. ‘He was at the siege?’

‘One of the few brave men who travelled there to defend our faith and Christ’s birthplace,’ Hob agreed.

‘You reckon he found it out there?’ Simon said. ‘How would he know it was his ancestor’s sword?’

‘There are ways,’ Baldwin said, but in his mind’s eye, all he saw was that terrible battlefield: the great city of Acre, last stronghold of the crusaders, being reduced steadily by the thundering artillery of the hordes outside. The crash and rumble of masonry collapsing as the great rocks were flung at them by the catapults, then the shrieks as the enemy managed to enter the city, swords dripping with blood, eyes filled with the desire for slaughter. There were many died there.