The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Michael twisted around in his saddle. ‘Are you going to agree with everything I say, or do you actually possess a mind of your own?’

‘If I voice an opinion you will argue-but I presided over seventeen student disputations last week and I am tired of debate. Here is the ford across the Cam-barely ankle deep after all this dry weather-and Langelee said our manor lies just beyond that wood.’

Michael led the way along a narrow track lined with ancient trees. ‘According to him, this copse is also part of our manor.’

Bartholomew was about to acknowledge him with another monosyllabic answer, when there was a shout, followed by a lot of crashing. Suddenly, a deer burst from the vegetation in front of them, then tore away into the undergrowth to their right. It was a beautiful animal, with a coat of russet red. Moments later, three horsemen hurtled from the trees, and the leading one was obliged to rein in sharply to avoid colliding with Bartholomew.

‘Watch out!’ The rider was a sturdy man with a slashing scar across his face that rendered him all but nose-less.

Bartholomew wanted to point out that he had not been the one careening wildly across a public highway, but his nag had been frightened by the abrupt commotion, and it started to buck. He was a poor horseman, and trying to control the beast took all his concentration.

‘Be careful, Dole!’ shouted the second man, directing his own horse in a tight circle to avoid the melee. He wore the half-armour of a knight at ease, and rode as if he had been born in the saddle. He was tall and strong, and his blue eyes and mane of golden curls rendered him extraordinarily handsome. ‘Lymbury’s peasants do not know how to ride.’

‘We are not peasants,’ objected Michael, moving forward to take the reins of Bartholomew’s horse before the struggling physician could embarrass him further. ‘We are scholars from the University at Cambridge.’

‘Have you seen a deer?’ asked the last of the three, trotting up with a smile. He was plump, genial and dressed in the dark habit of a priest. A domed hat kept the sun from his eyes. ‘A red one?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, dismounting as soon as Michael stopped his horse from prancing. He felt a good deal safer once on solid ground.

‘It definitely came this way,’ said the fat priest. ‘I saw it myself.’

‘It must be over there,’ said Dole, flinging out a hand to encompass a vast swathe of woodland. He also wore robes that showed he had taken holy orders, although they were tempered by good boots and spurs. ‘It does not matter-the stag we caught yesterday will provide us with meat for a few days yet. And it is too hot for chasing around the countryside today. Shall we go home?’

‘Already?’ asked the second man-the knight. ‘We came out to practise our skills with weapons, and all we have done so far is wave our lances at the crows eating Lymbury’s corn.’

‘I did not enjoy using his sword to spar with you yesterday, William,’ said Dole to the chubby priest. ‘It may have fine balance and a good grip, but it is overly heavy for my taste.’

‘It is an excellent weapon,’ countered William. ‘It is a pity it was not put to better use last summer. That battle would have been over in half the time had it been wielded by a true warrior and not left in the hands of a coward.’

The good-looking knight turned to the scholars when Dole responded with a tart comment and the two clerics began to bicker. ‘We three-and Lymbury-were at the Battle of Poitiers,’ he explained.

‘So was he,’ said Michael, nodding at Bartholomew, who looked anything but soldierly as he gripped his horse’s reins with obvious unease. Michael could see the knight did not believe him, so added, ‘He fought on foot.’

‘Why are you so far from your University?’ asked William, raising a plump hand to indicate he had had enough of his quarrel with Dole. Dole looked angry to be cut off mid-sentence. ‘Are you lost?’

Michael gave a pained smile. ‘No, we have come to visit our manor. These woods belong to us-that is, to Michaelhouse.’

William nodded in a way that suggested he was annoyed with himself. ‘You must forgive us, Brother. Of course we know Michaelhouse owns Valence Manor-and that our friend Philip Lymbury pays you rent each year. But we were so engrossed with the hunt that our wits were elsewhere. We shall take you to Lymbury immediately. I am William the Vicar, priest of Ickleton church. My companion here is Sir Elias Askyl, knighted for his courage at Poitiers.’

The handsome knight nodded a polite greeting. ‘But I do not think Lymbury is expecting you. He said nothing this morning.’

‘You did not write, to tell him you were coming,’ said William, frowning his puzzlement. ‘I am his clerk, as well as his parish priest, and I read all his correspondence.’

‘He wrote to us, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘He said he was donating our rent to the priory.’

William raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘He told me he was thinking about deferring payment, in order to raise enough to establish a chantry for his soul, but he did not say he had actually done it. He must have dictated your letter to the nuns’ chaplain.’ He waved a dismissive hand at his fellow cleric.

‘That is me-Geoffrey Dole,’ said the scarred man, shooting William a sour look for the unflattering introduction. ‘After we fought at Poitiers together, Lymbury arranged for me to be appointed chaplain to Ickleton Priory. I did not scribe your letter, though. One of the nuns must have done it.’

‘Lymbury gave me my Ickleton appointment, too,’ said William to Michael. ‘He is a man who knows how to treat old companions-at-arms.’

‘Here comes Sister Rose,’ said Dole, looking behind the scholars. He smiled politely and rather longingly at the woman who emerged from the undergrowth.

Bartholomew turned to see a woman sitting astride a horse with an ease he immediately envied. She wore the habit of a Benedictine nun, but it had been shaped to show off the slender lines of her figure, and she had abandoned the matronly wimple in favour of a gold fret that kept her saffron-coloured plaits in place. Her eyes were black and her skin dusky, and Bartholomew wondered whether her ancestors had hailed from the hot lands of the south. Behind her, draped across the saddle, was a red deer with an arrow through its neck.

‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Askyl, regarding the animal in astonishment. ‘That is the beast we were chasing; I recognize its markings. Did you shoot it?’

‘Well, it did not jump on my saddle of its own accord,’ said Sister Rose with a coquettish smirk. She suddenly became aware of Michael, and the grin faded somewhat. ‘Damn! A Benedictine!’

Bartholomew understood her discomfort, given the way she was dressed-and he could hear a distant bell announcing the office of nones ; Rose was breaking several of her Order’s rules.

Michael’s expression was stern. ‘My Bishop deposed a prioress of Ickleton five years ago for permitting licentious behaviour among her nuns. Perhaps her successor’s morals are no better.’

Rose pouted prettily. ‘Sir Philip Lymbury invited me to hunt-to give me an opportunity to exercise his horses and provide fresh meat for my sisters. What is wrong with that? Besides, the party includes Chaplain Dole and William the Vicar, so it is all perfectly respectable.’

Michael’s expression said there was a very great deal wrong with that, particularly since he was not convinced that the clerics in question were particularly righteous ones. But before he could speak, there was another thud of hoofs, and two more people appeared. One was a large lady in a tight green kirtle. Her head-dress was in disarray, and she made a hasty attempt to straighten it when she spotted Askyl. The second was an elderly nun on a mule, who looked as though she heartily wished she were somewhere else, and who winced as though riding caused her pain.