The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘It does not sound very likely, does it?’ said Bartholomew. ‘A feeble motive for killing.’

‘Perhaps to the likes of you and me, but Dame Pauline is a totally selfish creature, who will do anything for her own comfort. She was willing to see James or Hog hang for the crime she instigated-she cares for nothing and no one but herself.’

Bartholomew thought about how she had achieved her objective. ‘So, during the hunt, she escaped from Rose-who had bribed her to doze under a tree anyway-and slunk back to the manor-house. There was young James, and there was Lymbury, counting his money. She played on James’s fears and his loyalty to his father, by making him believe all would be well if Lymbury was dead. Then she persuaded Hog to steal Lymbury’s will. Why did she do that, Brother? Did she hope she might be a beneficiary?’

‘When I interviewed her, she admitted that she intended to forge a codicil that favoured the priory. She said she is obliged to eat too much bread and not enough meat, and wants better things in her old age. And then she intended to have Prioress Christiana dismissed for incompetence and herself put forward as a suitable replacement. As I said, Matt, she is wholly devoted to herself and her own wants and desires.’

‘Did she kill William, too? I suppose she must have done, so he would not tell anyone what was really in Lymbury’s last testament.’

‘When we recovered Lymbury’s will from Hog’s house, we found it was not as controversial as we were led to believe. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife, and gave his friends Dole, William and Askyl forty marks each. It is not a fortune, but it is a respectable declaration of friendship.’

‘But if Joan dies childless, then Askyl is to have everything,’ elaborated Bartholomew, who had also listened to the reading, ‘on the grounds that William and Dole have received lucrative posts and Askyl has not yet had anything. Joan had better hurry up and bear a son, or we may be called to investigate another murder in Ickleton.’

‘The priory will get nothing, though. I suppose Lymbury thought the ten marks he gave Christiana was sufficient.’

‘But why did he give away money that belonged to Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It does not sound like something an orderly man would do-and Lymbury was orderly.’

‘That was Pauline again. She persuaded him to donate the money to the priory immediately, and she wrote the letter to Michaelhouse. She denied it when we asked her, but she was not telling the truth.’

Bartholomew snapped his fingers. ‘Of course she wrote it! It is obvious now. William was Lymbury’s clerk, but he said he had scribed no letter to Michaelhouse, and there was no reason for him to lie. And because Lymbury could not read, he had no idea what Pauline had told us.’

‘Precisely, Matt. Christiana told me that Pauline sometimes kept the records of Lymbury’s dealings with the priory when Dole or William were unavailable. Also, I looked through Pauline’s possessions once she was safely incarcerated in Christiana’s cellar, and found an early draft-no doubt the one Lymbury had originally dictated to her. What he had actually asked her to write to us was a polite request for a delay until after the harvest, when the debt would be paid in full with interest . I think she changed the wording from spite.’

‘Or perhaps she intended to keep the interest for herself,’ suggested Bartholomew. He glanced at the monk. ‘What will you tell the Sheriff about James? Unlike Dame Pauline, he cannot claim benefit of clergy. He will hang-although it seems unfair.’

‘You said he will die soon anyway.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You could tell your Bishop the story, and ask him to advise the Sheriff. He is not very efficient, and it will take him weeks to draw up the proper writs. And by then…’

‘That is a devious solution, Matt. But it is one that has already occurred to me.’

Bartholomew dismounted. ‘I am going to find out what is taking Joan so long. If we do not leave soon, we will be travelling in the dark, and that would be unwise with a silver chalice in our bags. It would be a pity to lose it, after all we have been through.’

He stepped into the solar, but stopped short when he saw Joan lying on Hog’s beautifully polished floor. Askyl stood over her, Lymbury’s sword clutched in both hands. When he saw the physician coming towards him, Askyl hurled the weapon at the hearth. Part of the hilt snapped off on the unyielding stone, and a carved dog-head from the cross bounced away under a bench. A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind thought how William would have deplored the damage.

‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘Where is Rose?’

‘Gone to the kitchens for a cloth to bind the wound,’ said Askyl in a low voice. ‘She is taking a long time. Dole has gone to fetch his Bible.’

Bartholomew moved forward cautiously. Joan was still alive, but barely. He heard Michael enter the hall behind him.

‘I asked Sir Elias to marry me,’ Joan whispered when the physician knelt next to her. ‘Philip left me a small fortune, and I need a husband. But I wanted no secrets.’

Bartholomew caught one of her fluttering hands and saw blood on her sleeve. It was not her own, because it was dry. ‘ You killed William?’ he asked, grappling with the implications. ‘I said he had struggled with his attacker-and that his killer would be stained with his blood.’

She started to cry. ‘I killed William because I believed he had murdered Philip. You and the monk said he had good reason for doing so. But then you deduced that Pauline and James were the culprits. I told Elias about my mistake…’

‘You told him you murdered the man he loved more than anyone in the world,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And he was not very understanding about it.’

But Joan was dead. There was a clatter of footsteps and Rose appeared, carrying a bowl of water and a bundle of rags.

‘You are too late,’ said Bartholomew.

‘These are not for her,’ said Rose shakily. ‘They are for Sir Elias. After he struck Joan, he made the mistake of turning his back, and she stabbed him with that little dagger she carries. A soldier should have known better.’

Askyl crashed to the floor, and Bartholomew saw a bloody slit in his leather jerkin. ‘I want only one thing now,’ the knight gasped, pushing the physician away when he tried to inspect the injury. ‘I want to marry Sister Rose.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, and so did Rose. ‘Why?’

‘Because it is the only way I can avenge myself on the woman who murdered my dearest friend,’ said Askyl hoarsely. ‘Here is Dole at last, and he has brought Hog and Prioress Christiana with him. They will be witnesses to the rite he is about to perform.’

When Askyl smiled, his teeth were red, and Bartholomew knew the wound was beyond his medical skills. He shrugged helplessly when Rose raised hopeful eyes.

‘You cannot do this,’ said Michael, as Dole struggled into his vestments. ‘It is a ceremony founded in spite and deceit.’

‘It will give Rose a home, and her child a legal name,’ argued Askyl softly. ‘Joan died childless, and Lymbury’s will stipulated that I will inherit under those conditions. And my last testament-which Dole has already written for me-says I will leave all to my wife. Rose will rent this manor from Michaelhouse, with your blessing, and Hog will continue to be her bailiff. What is spiteful and deceitful about that?’

Michael ignored the question. ‘You cannot marry Rose here-this is not a church.’

‘I shall ask the Bishop for special dispensation later,’ said Dole. ‘He will not deny a dying man’s last request. And you are not an unkind man, Brother-you will not stop us.’