The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘Someone has broken the lock,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there is a lot of jewellery here. A normal thief would have stolen that, so I conclude the burglar wanted one thing only: the will.’

‘Why would the will be here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why would Lymbury not keep it himself?’

Askyl rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘William always stored them for him. I think he believed no one would risk his soul by breaking in to a priest’s house, and so they would be safer here.’

Bartholomew inspected the damage to the cupboard. ‘Actually, the lock has not been smashed-it has been prised out of the door. Whoever did this did not strike blindly, but attacked with precision.’

‘How curious,’ said Michael, inspecting the marks the physician pointed out. He watched hopefully when Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve something from the floor, then grimaced his disappointment when it was tossed away. Whatever it was had been deemed irrelevant. He turned to the knight, who sat on a bench and made no attempt to wipe away the tears that streamed down his face. ‘You were seen arguing with Lymbury yesterday-during the hunt. What about?’

Askyl sighed. ‘About that damned sword. You see, I slipped back to the manor-house to escape from Rose and Joan. I happened across Lymbury, who was waiting for James to fetch William-to dictate his latest will. He said he intended to leave that sword to William, and I asked him to rethink.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you liked William-you are certainly more distressed by his death than you were about Lymbury’s. Why should you object to him inheriting a fine weapon?’

‘It brings unhappiness and shame,’ explained Askyl unsteadily. ‘And it has a wicked history, as Dole told you. I did not want William tainted with it.’

‘Most men would be flattered by two women lusting after them,’ said Michael, curious as to why the knight should have fled their attentions. ‘One is pretty and the other is rich. It is quite a choice.’

‘I do not think Rose is pretty, and I am not sure Joan will be rich once the will is read,’ said Askyl with a sniff. ‘I go through the motions, pretending to be honoured by their attentions, but I wish they would just leave me alone.’

‘You prefer William,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘He is the reason you came to Ickleton. And you permit Rose and Joan to fawn over you in order to conceal your true feelings. Did William reciprocate?’

Askyl was ashen-faced. ‘I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. Yes, William and I were close and I did use those two ridiculous women to conceal it. I do not know what I shall do now he is gone.’

‘Were you telling the truth when you said William came home alone last night?’ asked Bartholomew, once the knight had composed himself again.

Askyl nodded. ‘I wanted him to stay with me after what had happened to Lymbury, but Dole was beginning to be suspicious, so we separated. The next time I saw William, he was dead.’

Bartholomew looked around the house thoughtfully, then pointed to a domed hat that lay on the table. ‘He was wearing that yesterday, so I think he did come here after leaving you. Then he must have discovered someone had broken into his cupboard, and returned to the manor-house. Perhaps he confronted the thief and was killed.’

‘I suppose Dole could have done it,’ said Askyl, speaking with clear reluctance. ‘After he and I had finished talking about…’

‘About what?’ demanded Michael, when the knight trailed off unhappily.

‘About a man called Curterne. He was killed at Poitiers-stabbed in the back with his own sword. Dole and I discussed it, because it was the same weapon that killed Lymbury.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Was Curterne killed by a Frenchman?’

Askyl chewed his bottom lip. ‘I do not believe so. Lymbury, William, Dole and I saw him alive after the battle-he spent most of it under a hedge. It was cowardly, but not all men are suited to war.’

‘I felt like hiding under a hedge at Poitiers myself,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I did not do it. It would not have been right to let comrades fight alone.’

‘Obviously someone else felt the same way,’ said Askyl, ‘because I am sure it was an Englishman who killed Curterne-all the enemy had been rounded up by the time he died. After, as William told you yesterday, when we found the sword in his corpse, we drew lots for it. Lymbury won.’

‘Did Lymbury kill Curterne, then?’

‘Possibly. I did not, and neither did William-William would have kept the sword if he had been the killer, since he really wanted to own it. I believe Curterne’s killer was either Lymbury or Dole, although I have no evidence to prove it.’

‘But you are still my main suspect for killing Lymbury,’ said Michael, watching the knight begin to weep again. ‘You lied to us about your whereabouts during the salient time, and innocent men do not fabricate.’

Askyl raised his tear-mottled face. ‘You expect me to admit, in front of all those people, that I was hiding from women? With Dole already suspicious of my fondness for William? I did not kill Lymbury, Brother. Why would I?’

‘Because by making William a vicar, Lymbury ensured he would have to stay in Ickleton,’ suggested Michael. ‘It interfered with your relationship.’

‘But Lymbury invited me to be his bailiff,’ Askyl pointed out. ‘I could have stayed, too.’

‘Speaking of bailiffs, here is Hog,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the open door.

‘James is ill,’ said Hog, bursting into the house without invitation. ‘You must come at once.’

James was lying on a bench in the manor-house, gasping for breath, his face as scarlet as the setting sun. Bartholomew mixed a potion he prescribed for choleric patients, along with a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then wiped the boy’s burning skin with water-cooled cloths. Eventually, James’s face returned to a more normal colour, and his breathing eased.

‘He is young to suffer from a morbid excess of this particular humour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such an ailment is more common in older men.’

‘His mother was the same,’ said Hog brokenly. ‘She died before her time.’

Bartholomew suspected James might, too, although nothing would be served by confiding the fact. He did not want the lad’s last days to be tainted by fear.

‘Have you learned who killed my husband yet?’ asked Joan, fanning James with a cabbage leaf.

Michael shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I am coming close.’

‘It was William,’ said Joan, fanning hard enough to make James flinch. ‘Probably because he coveted that damned sword. Philip must have decided to leave it to Sir Elias instead, so William murdered Philip before he could change his will to that end.’

‘Then who killed William?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think there are two murderers in Ickleton?’

Joan’s voice was cold. ‘If William murdered my husband, then he deserved to die-and I shall reward the brave man who dispatched him.’

Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘We know a lot about William’s last movements. He practised his swordplay with Askyl, then went home. When he arrived, he discovered that someone had broken into the cupboard where he keeps his valuables and Lymbury’s will had gone. I doubt he would have gone to bed after that, so he probably returned here.’

Michael nodded. ‘He would have wanted to confront the thief and demand the will back.’

‘That assumes he knew who the thief was,’ said Hog.

‘I think he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I certainly do.’

Everyone stared at him. ‘How?’ asked Hog eventually.

Bartholomew pointed to the floor, where grain had dropped from the bailiff’s clothing onto the polished boards. ‘You have been working in the fields, and corn has fallen into the folds of your tunic. There was corn in William’s house, too, near his cupboard-I picked it up, but discarded it as irrelevant. But it was not. It proves you were in William’s house last night, because no one else worked near corn yesterday.’