The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Rose shook her head. ‘I was going to tell him yesterday-I know he would have looked after us both. But the killer got there first.’

Christiana rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘I should eject you today. You have brought my priory into disrepute with your wanton behaviour. What will the Bishop say, when he hears one of my nuns is pregnant, and half the men in the county might be the father?’

‘I am not a nun,’ said Rose defiantly. ‘And I never intended to become one. I escaped after vespers last night, to tell Sir Elias about my predicament-I thought it might melt his heart. But I could not find him-he was not at the manor-house. Neither was Joan. I hope they were not…together.’

‘Askyl does wander about a lot,’ said Christiana. ‘He was supposed to be hunting yesterday, but I saw him at the manor-house, arguing with Lymbury. I could not hear what they were saying, because I was too far away, but Lymbury had that horrible sword and was holding it in a very threatening manner.’

‘When did this happen?’ asked Michael.

Christiana shook her head. ‘It was after everyone had gone hunting, because the house was otherwise deserted. I have a standing offer of free eggs, so I collected them from the hen-coop myself. Later, I came across James, who offered to carry them home for me.’

‘James said he had met you,’ said Michael. ‘And we knew Lymbury had quarrelled with his friends, although we were not told that Askyl’s most recent spat was when he claimed to be out hunting.’

‘If Sir Elias had told you that, it would have been asking for everyone to accuse him of murder,’ said Rose, defensive of the man she had a hankering for. ‘So who can blame him for not telling you? But what will happen to me? My hopes of escorting him to the altar are fading-although I intend to persist until I know for certain my efforts are in vain-and I can hardly stay here.’

Michael was unsympathetic. ‘Your predicament is generally known as the “wages of sin”, madam. Perhaps I should ask the Bishop to send you to Chatteris.’

She gave a wan smile. ‘I might go. It is better than being a vagrant, and there are handsome farmers near Chatteris, who might enjoy my company.’

Christiana grabbed her arm and marched her away, presumably to give her a lecture about morals that would be like water off a duck’s back.

Bartholomew watched them go. ‘Last night, Rose was my favourite suspect for Lymbury’s murder, but I think she was right when she said he would have looked after her and her child. His death has put her in an awkward position, and I am inclined to believe she wishes he were still alive.’

Michael agreed. ‘I do not think she is the killer, either. However, the man of her dreams-Askyl-did not tell us he had returned to the manor and argued with Lymbury, which in itself smacks of suspicion. Perhaps he would not make such a good husband after all.’

They turned at the sound of a shout. It was James, crimson-faced and panting furiously yet again.

‘I think there is something wrong with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not normal for a young man to be red all the time-nor to gasp after a run. He works outside and should be fit.’

‘Lady Joan asks if you will go to the hall,’ the boy gulped. ‘She says William the Vicar is dead.’

For the second time, Bartholomew knelt next to a corpse in Valence Manor. William lay in a pool of gore and had been stabbed in the back. From the size of the wound, Bartholomew suspected the vicar had been killed with the same sword as had Lymbury. A good deal of blood had splattered across the floor, covering such a large area that Bartholomew could only suppose that William had staggered around before succumbing to his injury. When he examined the priest’s hands, they were red, but not excessively so.

‘I think he grappled with his attacker,’ he said to Michael. ‘Probably trying to wrest away the weapon that killed him. The blood on his hands was transferred to him by the killer-it did not come directly from his wound, because he would not have been able to reach that high up his back.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, thinking it an odd conclusion to have drawn.

‘Not really. I would have suggested you looked for tell-tale stains on your suspects’ hands, but the killer will have scrubbed them clean by now.’

‘Just as you are about to do,’ said Michael. ‘Here comes James with the water you ordered.’

James had gone from red to white, and after he had delivered the jug to the physician, he stood close to his father, as though he expected Joan to accuse him of another crime. Joan was sitting next to Askyl, who was weeping softly, while Dole stood near the hearth, kicking the ashes with the toe of his boot. Hog sighed angrily when some scattered across the polished floor.

‘Stop that, Father,’ he barked. ‘It takes a lot of work to keep the wood looking nice. And I have asked you before to remove your spurs when you come in here. The metal makes dents, and I have to file down the planks with a special chisel to remove them.’ He waved the tool in a way that made Bartholomew suspect the bailiff would dearly like to plunge it into Dole’s chest-or back.

‘When did you last see William?’ asked Michael, when Dole seemed ready to retort with a sharp comment that would antagonize the bailiff. He did not want to waste time with yet another spat.

Askyl raised a tear-stained face. ‘After you went to the nunnery last night, William and I practised our swordplay in the yard. He used Lymbury’s blade, and I had my own; Dole watched. Then William went to his house, and Dole and I stayed here, talking. When I woke this morning, I came downstairs to find…’

‘William is cold and a little stiff,’ said Bartholomew to Michael in the silence that followed the knight’s faltering explanation. ‘He probably did die during the night.’

‘I have a house near Ickleton Priory,’ said Dole, taking up the tale. ‘I went there when I had finished chatting to Askyl, but I live on my own, so no one can vouch for me. And I left Askyl alone, so no one can vouch for him, either. I can only tell you that we do not murder comrades-in-arms. We did not kill Lymbury, and we did not kill William.’

‘But you disliked William,’ said Michael, regarding him intently. ‘You bickered constantly.’

‘I did dislike him,’ admitted Dole. ‘Lymbury should never have made him Ickleton’s vicar. He had no vocation as a priest, and the villagers deserve better.’

‘You do have a vocation?’ asked Michael. ‘Even though you hanker after Sister Rose, and would marry her in a trice, were she to show any interest in you? You may even be the father of her child.’

Dole regarded him contemptuously. ‘I wondered how long it would be before accusations were levelled from that quarter. Yes, I admire Rose, and yes, I would have taken her as my wife, had she not been repelled by my injury. But it was not to be, and I only broke my vows with her once. I guessed she was with child, but the baby is unlikely to be mine. Others serviced her far more often than I.’

‘It will not be my husband’s, either,’ said Joan spitefully. ‘As Rose will tell you. Oh yes, I knew what they did when I went to visit my mother. But why do you think we have no children of our own? Everyone blames the woman for being barren in such situations, but Philip was married twice before and had mistresses aplenty. And not one has borne him a brat. That should tell you something.’

But Michael did not think Lymbury’s ability to produce heirs was relevant to the murders. He returned to the matter of the vicar. ‘William was going to read Lymbury’s will today. Where is it?’

A search of William’s clothing revealed no documents, so Askyl took Bartholomew and Michael to the priest’s house, a small, pretty building on the edge of Ickleton’s oak-shaded churchyard. Askyl started in shock when he approached a cupboard in the wall near the fireplace. ‘This is where he kept his valuables, but the lock has been smashed. Someone was here before us.’