The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘This is ours now, Matthew,’ he said as his son teetered at his side, standing without support for a moment.

The boy reached up and touched the pommel, and Sir John laughed, bringing the blade lower so he could feel it, but as he did so, the little boy tottered forward. His hand slipped forward and ran down the blade: only a short distance, but far enough to open his palm on the sharp blade.

As Sir John threw the sword aside and grabbed urgently at his son, he felt his heart pound uncomfortably, and he cast one suspicious look at the weapon lying innocently on the ground, but then he was calling to the maids to bring him water to wash his son’s wound and cloths to bind it.

No, it was only a sword, he told himself. Only a sword.

Poitiers, France: September 1356

Matthew de Curterne lay under the hedge near Nouaille Wood, praying no one would notice him. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the clash of arms and the screams of wounded men, and closed his eyes so he would not see the ground churned into bloody mud by the combatants’ feet. When the Black Prince had called for men to fight the French, Curterne had been proud to rally, retrieving the old sword from under his bed in Down St Mary, and selling his family’s silver to purchase armour and a horse. Brave men made their fortunes in war, and Curterne intended to return home wealthy.

But the campaign had been a misery of torrential rain, burning heat, scant supplies and disease. And now the Black Prince was trapped at Poitiers by a French force far stronger than his own. Curterne scrambled away when a pair of desperate skirmishers came too close, and raised his sword to protect himself. When they had gone, he gazed at the weapon’s tempered steel blade and its dog-headed cross, hating it for making him think he could be a warrior when he had known all his life that he was nothing of the kind. He had always loathed any kind of conflict, and even the sight of blood made him sick to his stomach. It was the sword’s fault, of course. When he was a small child it had cut him badly-he still bore the scar across his palm-but the incident had made him nervous and hesitant with weapons, much to his tutors’ dismay and disgust.

He glared at the blade, recalling how he had sensed it almost taunting him for his faint-heartedness when he had pulled it from its dusty hiding place all those months ago. He should have known it would bring him bad luck, and he should have resisted the urge to prove it was wrong about him. He ducked down again when a horse galloped past, its rider’s shield raised against a sudden hail of arrows. He fought back bitter tears, frightened to keep the weapon, but even more afraid to toss it away from him and leave himself defenceless. He curled into a tight ball and tried to picture the cool green Devonshire hills, and the peace of home.

Just when he thought all was lost and the entire English army would be slaughtered, the enemy began to retreat, first as a trickle, then as a rout. Curterne crawled out from under the hedge, scarcely believing his luck-he had survived and the English had won against overwhelming odds! His four companions-men who had shared his campfire these last few months-came to join him, torn and bloodied from the encounter. Elias Askyl was first, his handsome face lit with savage joy, and his fair curls limp with sweat and dirt. Then came Philip Lymbury, the oldest, who had declared himself unwell that morning, but who had still fought with a courage Curterne found impossible to comprehend. Behind Lymbury was the sly Geoffrey Dole, his face awash with blood; Curterne felt queasy when he saw the injury that had deprived Dole of most of his nose. And lastly, there was William, plump and always cheerful.

‘What a victory!’ cried Askyl, elated. ‘This day will be remembered for all eternity, and so will the names of those who fought bravely.’

‘While those who skulked under hedges will be lost in ignominy,’ said Dole, his voice muffled through the cloth he held to his ravaged face. ‘We needed you, Curterne, but you ran away and hid.’

‘What were you thinking, man?’ demanded Lymbury furiously. ‘Your timidity might have seen us all killed.’

‘And you with that fine sword, too,’ added William. His normally smiling face was cold and unfriendly. ‘You disgust me.’

They walked away and Curterne began to sob, feeling shame burning inside him like a wound. He was still weeping an hour later when he heard footsteps behind him. He fumbled for his sword, but the other man reached it first, and there was a sudden pain between his shoulder blades.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ said a soft voice. It was familiar-one of his companions, perhaps-but Curterne’s senses were reeling, and he could not remember the name. ‘It is a fitting end for a coward. You have brought shame on this fine weapon, but I have avenged it.’

Ickleton, Cambridgeshire: July 1357

The rich agricultural land south of Cambridge was burned yellow by the summer sun. Crops swayed in the afternoon breeze, and a robin trilled in a nearby wood. The horses’ hoofs thumped gently on the baked mud of the path, punctuated by the occasional creak of leather and the jingle of metal. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge, closed his eyes, relishing the peace after the frantic bustle associated with the end of term.

‘This is a nasty place,’ said his travelling companion, Brother Michael, looking around him disparagingly. ‘It is all trees, fields and water-meadows, and we have not passed a proper building in hours. I wish Master Langelee had not sent us on this errand. The rent we receive from the manor at Ickleton is not worth this inconvenience, and my time could be better spent on other matters.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drowsily; Michael had been saying the same thing since they had started their journey at dawn that morning. Personally, the physician was quite happy to spend a few days away. Not only did it mean a respite from examining corpses-part of his duties at the University entailed inspecting the bodies of scholars who had died unexpectedly or violently-but Cambridge reeked in hot weather, and it was good to exchange the noxious stench of sun-seared sewage for grain-scented air. He began to relax for the first time in weeks. The previous term had been desperately busy, and it was a relief to be free of clamouring students.

‘I dislike haring around the country on second-rate nags,’ continued the Benedictine irritably, eyeing his horse with rank disapproval. ‘It is an outrage to provide a rider of my calibre with an animal like this. Langelee thinks of nothing but saving money these days.’

‘He does,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that Michael’s horse was far better than his own. The monk was fat, and Bartholomew had let him take the stronger of the two palfreys on the grounds that he did not think the other could have carried his large friend for the ten miles to Ickleton and then home again. It would have collapsed.

‘Our College owns Valence Manor in the parish of Ickleton,’ Michael rambled on. ‘And the man who lives there, Sir Philip Lymbury, pays us rent each spring. But this year, we have had nothing-except a letter informing us that he has donated our money to Ickleton Priory instead.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleagues’ outrage when the missive had arrived. He was more sanguine about the matter: Michaelhouse possessed the relevant deeds of ownership, and the courts would eventually order Lymbury to pay the outstanding debt. But lawyers were expensive, so instead, Master Langelee had decided to send two of his senior Fellows to find out what Lymbury thought he was doing. Bartholomew and Michael were to collect the outstanding ten marks-either from Lymbury or the priory-and return with it immediately. The money was earmarked to pay for new latrines, and Langelee did not need to stress the urgency of the situation to his two scholars: they had been complaining about the state of the old ones for months.