The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Bartholomew led his horse and Pauline’s mule along the woodland track, well behind the others. The old nun began a litany of complaints about everything-from her painful hips to the muddy taste of river trout-and he reflected wryly that her conversation was no more edifying than Michael’s had been.

Eventually, they emerged from the trees and followed a brook through pretty water-meadows. As they approached the village, Bartholomew saw people hoeing the fields. The labourers stopped work to watch the little cavalcade pass, but none returned the physician’s friendly greetings.

The village comprised small crofts scattered along a winding road. A large and unusually beautiful church nestled in the heart of the settlement; Michaelhouse’s manor lay to its south-east, and the priory to its west. The land was flat, and most trees had been felled for building or firewood, so Bartholomew could see for a considerable distance. He commented to Pauline that some houses were larger than the others. She told him there were several manors in the parish, some of which were owned by Lymbury, although he preferred to live in the one he rented from Michaelhouse because of its central location and its new tiled roof. She pointed to it-a fine hall set amid a range of thatched outbuildings. A track fringed with young oaks led to its front door, and Askyl, who was in the lead, was just about to turn down it, when a youth stumbled towards them. The boy’s face was red, and he was panting so hard he could barely breathe. He wore a fine new tunic, so white it hurt the eyes in the strong sunlight.

‘There you are, Father,’ he gasped to William. ‘I have been looking for you ever since this morning-I must have run miles! Sir Philip says please come straight away. He is composing his new will, and wants you to write it down for him.’

‘Lymbury is unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing mortal illness might explain the man’s unusual attitude towards paying the rent.

William shook his head. ‘He is always making wills. I have scribed at least six since Poitiers.’

‘My husband always leaves me well provided for, though,’ said Joan smugly. ‘ I am no poor nun. If he dies, I shall have plenty with which to satisfy a new husband.’

Rose’s expression was resentful. ‘Except beauty, of course. Still, a man could always have his daily bread from you, and go elsewhere for his meat. But my throat is dry, and I imagine Dame Pauline will appreciate a cup of wine before returning to the priory. We shall avail ourselves of Sir Philip’s hospitality, and listen to him dictating his latest will at the same time.’

Pauline glared at her. ‘I am tired, and want to go-’

‘It is very good wine,’ said Rose firmly. She slid off her horse and marched towards the house before the nun could object further. Since Askyl was aiming for the door, too, Joan hurried to catch up with him, and Michael sniggered as all three became jammed in the entrance. William gave them a shove to relieve the blockage, and the entire contingent shot through in a rush, leaving the two scholars standing alone outside. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. Michael and Bartholomew stared at each other for a moment, then entered the manor at a run-up the spiral stairs to the main hall on the first floor.

Valence Manor’s chief room was a handsome solar, which smelled of wood smoke and the honeyed beeswax that had been used to polish its fine oaken floor-someone obviously took a great deal of trouble over it. The hunting party and the red-faced boy had gathered around a grey-haired man who sat in a chair near the hearth. At first, Bartholomew thought the fellow was asleep, but then he saw blood. When he looked at the back of the chair, he saw a sword had been thrust through the wooden panels with such force that it had skewered its victim from behind.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ breathed William, appalled. ‘Lord have mercy on his soul.’

When no one did more than gaze at the corpse, Bartholomew went to inspect it. The sword had sliced through the soft tissues below the ribs, probably bringing instant death. The physician rested his hand on the man’s neck, and felt the cool skin beneath his fingers. He also noted the blood was beginning to congeal. The dead man clutched a gold coin in his clawed fingers, which Bartholomew showed to Michael. He expected the others to notice, too, but they were more intent on fixing each other with accusing stares.

Joan, who did not seem particularly distressed by the discovery of her husband stabbed in his own solar, rounded on the flushed youth. ‘I hope he did not destroy his previous wills before he started composing the new one.’

‘You poor thing,’ said Rose, her voice contemptuous. ‘I see you are grief-stricken by your loss.’

Joan composed her face into an expression that approximated sorrow. ‘I am devastated,’ she declared, taking Askyl’s arm and clinging to it rather hard. ‘So I shall need my husband’s friends around me, to console me in my time of need.’

‘You need a priest, not a soldier,’ said Rose tartly. ‘Put Sir Elias down, and let Father William comfort you instead. It would be more seemly.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Dole, aghast. The pallor of shock made his scar more prominent-a raw, vivid slash across a face that had probably once been comely. Uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether Lymbury’s death might mean the loss of Dole’s post as priory chaplain.

‘I think it might have something to do with the sword in his back,’ whispered William. He addressed the others more loudly. ‘I have seen enough death on the battlefield to know this terrible thing probably happened this morning, when we were out hunting.’

‘I mean how did he come to be speared in his own home?’ snapped Dole angrily. ‘I can see he died by that damned sword.’

‘Father William is right: we were all off hunting,’ said Joan. She turned to the youth and a heavyset man who had come to stand beside him. Their looks and ages suggested they were father and son.

‘Are you saying a servant did it?’ asked Dole, following the direction of her accusing gaze.

The burly man glowered. ‘She had better not be-every last man, woman and child on this estate has been busy in the fields since first light. It is a hectic time of year, and there is hard work to be done.’ His disapproving tone indicated what he thought about a frivolous activity like hunting.

‘Not every last child, Hog,’ said Joan, her eyes fixed on the boy. ‘James was ordered to remain behind, in case Sir Philip needed anything.’

The lad became alarmed when everyone looked at him. ‘But I did not see anyone kill him!’ he squeaked. His father rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Actually, I was thinking of you not as a witness, but as a culprit,’ elaborated Joan.

Old Dame Pauline gave an irritable sigh. ‘Do not spout nonsense, woman! Of course James did not kill your husband. Why would he? His father is Lymbury’s bailiff, and with Lymbury dead, Hog may find himself without profitable work. James would be a fool to bite the hand that feeds him.’

James gazed at his father in alarm. ‘Is it true? Will we be cast out, to live like vagrants?’

‘Sir Philip’s death is a bitter blow,’ admitted Bailiff Hog. His expression was defiant. ‘But there are still crops in the fields and sheep on the hills. We shall stay here, and hope his heirs will hire us. However, because we have so much to lose from his death, it means we cannot be suspects for his murder.’

‘Well someone killed him,’ said Sister Rose. ‘He obviously did not stab himself in the back.’

Michael addressed the gathering, silencing the mounting accusations and recriminations. ‘It is too late fetch the Sheriff from Cambridge today, so we shall send word of what has happened first thing in the morning. But meanwhile, I am the University’s Senior Proctor and Bartholomew is my Corpse Examiner. Between us, we have solved many murders. Since this death occurred on College land, we are under an obligation to investigate it. The Sheriff is an old friend, and will appreciate our help.’