The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Bartholomew took the sword from him. He was no soldier, but even he could tell it was a fine one. He studied the words etched into the steel: qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore . There was too much blood to read the second inscription, but it seemed to condemn miserly men.

‘It warns against telling lies,’ translated Michael, rather loosely. ‘A man who lives out his days in defiance of the truth will lose his soul, as well as his honour. So, let that be a warning to anyone who might be tempted to mislead my investigation.’

‘We should start from the beginning if we want to reduce the length of Sister Rose’s list of suspects,’ said Bartholomew, setting the weapon carefully on a nearby bench. ‘When was the decision made for everyone-except Lymbury-to go hunting?’

Lady Joan indicated with an imperious flick of her hand that Hog was to wipe Lymbury’s chair clean of blood. Then she sat in it, shuffling and testing it for size. A satisfied smile indicated she found the fit a good one. ‘The decision was made last night, by dear Sir Elias. He is an honoured and most welcome guest, so my husband was pleased to oblige him.’

‘I dislike being idle,’ explained Askyl. He watched William take the weapon from the bench and begin to admire it again. ‘A man who haunts the dinner table will find his military edge blunted, and we never know when the Black Prince might need warriors again.’

‘My husband sent word to the priory, to invite Sister Rose to take part,’ Joan went on. ‘I did not approve. The likes of Sister Rose should be on her knees, confessing her sins. Perhaps she should ask absolution for the crime of murder right now.’

Rose did not dignify the accusation with a response, and, aware that both women were looking at him for a reaction, Askyl kept his face carefully neutral.

‘I own some small skill with weapons,’ said Rose modestly, shooting Askyl a sultry smile. ‘My father was a soldier, and he thought women should know how to defend their virtue.’ She ignored Joan’s snort of derision. ‘Sir Philip was impressed with my talents, and always included me on his hunts-so I could provide meat for my sisters at the priory.’

‘I am impressed with your talents, too,’ gushed Dole, regarding her admiringly. ‘We could have done with you in France.’

She inclined her head, then addressed Michael. ‘I came to Ickleton Priory three years ago, and I am still deciding whether to devote my life to God. My family say they do not mind waiting.’

‘That is because you have no dowry,’ said Joan immediately. ‘So, it does not matter to them what you do. I , of course, am a wealthy widow, and so I am highly desirable.’ She looked hard at Askyl, to make sure he had taken the comment on board.

‘Wealth and desirability do not always go together,’ remarked Rose cuttingly. ‘But we are talking about me, not you. It was Sir Elias who brought the invitation to me last night.’

‘I did-but not with any intention of securing your company for myself,’ said Askyl, earning a hurt look from Rose and a triumphant grin from Joan. Bartholomew wondered whether money was already winning the battle against beauty. Askyl saw he had caused offence, and hastened to explain. ‘I mean I did not intend to entice nuns from their devotions on my behalf.’

‘But you did just that,’ said old Dame Pauline sulkily. ‘And I was forced to pay the price. Racing around after deer at my age! It is all wrong, and I shall write to the Bishop about it. Prioress Christiana is not fit to rule our house-she cannot even read. I am the only literate woman there.’

‘So you remind us day and night,’ sighed Rose, stepping smartly to one side when William made a trial sweep with the sword that came perilously close to her elegantly tailored habit.

‘You say you are visiting Lymbury,’ said Michael to Askyl. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘A few weeks,’ replied the knight. ‘I have no family of my own, so it is good to be among friends-Lymbury, William and Dole. Lymbury has been very generous with his hospitality.’

‘You are both priests?’ asked Bartholomew of the chaplain and vicar, wondering whether William had been ordained; an interest in weapons was something he should have forsworn.

Dole nodded. ‘We took holy orders when we returned from Poitiers. I did it out of a conviction that I had killed too many Frenchmen-along with the fact that I am unlikely to secure a bride with no nose. War has made me ugly, I fear.’

‘That is not true,’ said Rose. Dole’s eyes blazed with sudden hope. ‘ Joan will have no trouble getting a suitor-now her husband has left her a fortune-and she is ugly.’

Dole’s eager expectation faded abruptly, while hot colour rose in Joan’s cheeks.

‘We shall see who secures the better husband,’ said Joan coldly. ‘You regard yourself a beauty, but you are swarthy and you dye your hair. Mine is naturally fair.’

‘Ladies, please!’ snapped Michael, when the altercation looked set to continue for some time. ‘A man lies dead, and you should be ashamed of yourselves, quarrelling over hair. Now, Dole: you were telling us why you decided to become a priest.’

Dole nodded again, and looked at Bartholomew. ‘If you were at Poitiers, you do not need me to tell you that while it was a glorious victory for England, there was something deeply distasteful about so much killing. I was detailed to help bury the dead afterwards, and it took days. When Lymbury told me it was in his power to appoint me as chaplain to Ickleton’s nuns, it seemed right to accept.’

‘And you?’ asked Michael of William, who was removing Lymbury’s blood from the sword with some spit and his sleeve.

‘Ickleton needed a vicar, and I needed somewhere to live,’ replied William. ‘Priests have been in short supply since the plague, and villages are grateful for whoever they can get.’

‘That is true,’ said Michael. ‘But there are some standards, even so.’

‘Dole and I both know Latin,’ said William, as if he imagined this to be the sole criterion. ‘And Lymbury liked me to write out his various wills and manage his domestic accounts in addition to my parish duties. Like most military men, he was illiterate.’

‘Lymbury offered you and Dole comfortable posts, but gave nothing to Askyl?’ asked Michael, turning to the knight.

Askyl shrugged. He was standing by the hearth, poking the ashes with a stick and careful to stand precisely equidistant from his two female admirers. Bartholomew wondered whether he knew how fine a figure he cut in his half-armour and nonchalant pose.

‘I am a knight, not a priest,’ said Askyl. ‘He asked me to be his bailiff, but I think Hog might have had something to say about that.’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Hog firmly. ‘My family have served his for generations, and I would not have stood by while I was ousted.’

‘Nor would I,’ said James, who had returned with Dame Pauline’s wine. ‘It would not have been right. My family has always been loyal to the Lymburys.’

‘What will happen now he is dead?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is Joan his sole heir?’

‘I shall have to dig out his most recent testament and see,’ said William. ‘He kept changing his mind, and I cannot recall what he said the last time.’

‘It will leave everything to me,’ cried Joan, suddenly alarmed. Rose started to laugh.

‘I do remember that his friends were remembered, though,’ said William, still polishing the sword. He smiled, rather nastily. ‘Call it self-interest, if you will, but that little detail stuck in my mind.’

The discussion quickly degenerated into another row, and this time even the two servants joined in. Michael rubbed his temples, letting the furious voices wash over him, while Bartholomew went to sit next to him and wished he was back at Michaelhouse. His restful jaunt was becoming unpleasant.