The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘Sir William, I am sorry,’ the port reeve said, and his expression told better than his words how true was the sentiment. It was not unknown for a man to lose his reason and attack the bearer of such tidings.

The knight sat in his seat with his right hand clenched on the arm rest. His face betrayed no emotion, other than the tic that pulled at his right eyelid every few moments. At his side his wife rested a hand on his shoulder, and he petulantly pushed it away. ‘Leave me! All of you. Now!’

Gleaming on the table, freshly cleaned, the object of his hatred lay pointing at him like an accusation, and he felt it like the finger of God.

This sword was the cause of his shame and despair. It had twisted him, making him no better than the murderer Sir William de Tracy who had stormed into the cathedral at Canterbury all those years before, with this sword drawn, and hacked at the saint there in his own church. Abysmal, cursed action! It had tainted and destroyed him, just as it had others. He had been torn from the path of decency and honour, and his life was ruined.

He could not bear to have that thing pointing at him any longer. Standing, he walked around the table, looking down at it with loathing. The thing shone like a new tool, as though it was innocent of any offence. Yet he knew its nature: evil, like a weapon of the devil. It should be destroyed.

It could be destroyed. It would be destroyed! He took it up, revulsion on his face, and carried it to the door. ‘Call the smith to me!’

Baldwin and Simon rode into the court after questioning the miller to find the place quiet.

‘Now what has happened?’ Baldwin said.

‘It’s a bit grim and brooding, isn’t it?’ Simon said glowering about him.

This late in the day the place should have been a mess of men hurrying about finishing the last tasks before nightfall. Grooms and cooks should have been running to their jobs, but tonight all was still, as though the place was deserted.

‘Hoi! Groom!’ Simon bellowed.

There was no immediate response, but then a tousled head appeared in a doorway near the stables.

‘Come on, boy! Get over here,’ Simon roared, growing irritable.

The lad was clearly upset at being called, but he trotted over to them and took their reins from them as they dropped to the floor.

‘Where is everyone?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘The steward sent many to the body to protect it.’

‘Master Roger?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Yes, sir. He was dead. Murdered.’

‘How?’

‘Run through with a sword, they say, and left in the woods to rot.’

‘Which woods? Quickly, boy, where?’

He was shocked by the intensity in Baldwin’s voice. ‘Up near the town, sir, north and east of Bow, so they say. A groom’s been sent to the coroner already.’

Baldwin sighed. ‘So I was right, then. Where is your master?’

‘Sir William’s in the smithy, sir. He’s having the forge lit.’

‘Nonsense!’ Baldwin muttered to himself. ‘Come, Simon. Let’s stop this foolishness.’

Simon opened his mouth, and then closed it again. With a muted curse against all keepers, and especially mad ones from the wilder parts of Devon, he trailed after Baldwin into the smithy.

It was a small chamber, and not yet hot. The coals had been allowed to cool after the day’s work was done, and now a small fire had been lit in the middle: tinder was glowing beneath kindling, while the smith blew carefully on it. A boy stood nearby with a bellows in his hand, ready to begin fanning the flames and adding coals.

‘You are in time to see this foul thing destroyed!’ Sir William spat.

He stood in the far corner of the smithy, in the dark. All Simon could see of him after the light outside was a gleam every so often from the sword’s blade.

Baldwin eyed the fire. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My master wants the blade destroyed,’ the smith said nervously, eyeing his master.

‘He will change his mind. You can both leave us,’ Baldwin said flatly.

The smith looked at him, then at his master. He motioned to the boy, who scampered off, and then with a second glance at Sir William, the smith nodded and left.

Baldwin went to the forge and scattered the kindling. ‘It would achieve nothing, Sir William.’

‘My brother is dead.’

‘I am sorry about that. I feared as much.’

‘He was spitted like a boar on a spear, and left to rot in among the trees,’ Sir William said softly.

‘It is not the fault of the sword, though,’ Baldwin said. ‘The sword had nothing to do with it.’

‘You think so?’

Sir William strode forward and stood before Baldwin, the sword in his fist. He lifted it, and Simon automatically reached for his own hilt, only hesitating when he saw that Baldwin had not flinched.

‘See this, Sir Baldwin? It looks so fine, so pretty! But it’s the sword that killed St Thomas. They say Sir William hacked at the saint’s head as he lay on the ground and opened his skull, spilling his brains on the ground. I expect that’s how the point got so scratched and marked, because it clashed on the stone flags of the floor.’

‘A sword is not evil. Only the man who wields it,’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘Or woman, yes,’ Sir William grunted, his voice almost a sob. ‘Yes, you are right. It’s me. Me who is evil, not this! I have tainted all I have touched. I am cursed!’

‘You are guilty of murder. You have broken two of God’s commandments.’

‘I know!’ Sir William put his hands to his face, the sword’s point almost catching in a beam overhead. ‘I could not help it, though.’

‘You may destroy this thing if you wish, but it will stop nothing. It will serve no purpose. The guilty person is the one who should pay. Not some lump of metal.’

‘I can’t!’

‘There are three deaths already, including your brother.’

‘It’s all because she won’t go to the convent. She has seduced someone to do her bidding, and he has killed for her,’ Sir William said brokenly. ‘To kill for her ambition and pride.’

‘Her?’ Simon asked.

‘My wife never wished for an arranged marriage between herself and Godfrey de Curterne. So she told me that she had fallen desperately in love with me. I was a willing tool in her hands, a boy whom she had grown to know as she was introduced to Godfrey’s friends. Knowing me, it was easy for her to twist my affections and make me love her.

‘And that would have been enough. But then this sword arrived back. And with it, the memory of the murder of St Thomas. My God, but it is an evil tale!’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But it’s not your tale, and it’s not the sword’s. You knew of the story before the sword appeared, did you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were intending to go to the monastery?’

Sir William let his hands fall. ‘The guilt of killing Godfrey has been eating at me for years. I was his best, his closest, friend and I killed him with a rock. I knocked him into the water, and then held him under while he struggled, so that I may keep his woman for my own. Oh, my God!’

‘When the sword reappeared, what then?’

‘She saw her chance. She said she didn’t want it in the castle, said it reminded her of the murder of St Thomas. I could never forget the thing. Nor the murders. My ancestor’s and mine. And then I felt I could not remain while the sword existed. I had a duty to keep it safe. That was what she told me: it was my duty. She showed me how it would be the deepest cowardice to leave the sword behind. I should have destroyed it long ago!’

‘All this has nothing to do with the sword,’ Baldwin said more harshly. ‘It’s people who have killed. A man killed Godfrey, a man killed Coule, and a man killed your brother.’