The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘Why did no one wake me?’ she demanded. At the same time, she stabbed with her knife at the beef and brawn and other dishes, using the implement as if it was a weapon rather than an eating tool. When her plate was piled high, she looked round. ‘Well? Why did no one wake me?’

‘You must have been tired after your journey, cousin Elizabeth,’ said Martha.

I almost jumped to hear that this woman was even named for our late queen, but then I suppose many women of the older generation must have been baptized in the sovereign’s honour.

‘True, I have travelled in the dead of winter and over terrible roads all the way from Saffron Walden to be at the bedside of dear Elias,’ she said. ‘True, a lady of my age is permitted to be exhausted after such a journey. True, she may be allowed to lie down on her bed for a few minutes to recover from her travels. But it was light when I arrived and now it is dark. I should have been woken. You must speak to your servants, Martha dear, and to that housekeeper in particular. Naturally the first thing I did when I awoke was to go in quest of poor Elias. But, on reaching his door, I was refused admittance. I was told that he was asleep.’

‘He is very ill,’ said Martha.

‘He would have been pleased to be woken to see his cousin Elizabeth. I have a gift to give him. Yet the woman-what’s her name, Abigail is it?-barred me from the door, and said that I must wait until he asked to see me. Who are you?’

This last remark was directed at me. Whether she really hadn’t observed a stranger at supper or whether she’d wanted to unburden herself of her complaints first, I don’t know. Swiftly I introduced myself, adding for the third or fourth time that day that I was a player with the King’s Men.

‘So what are you doing here?’ said Dame Elizabeth.

‘Master Revill is here by appointment. He has brought a letter of introduction from his employers in London,’ said Martha. ‘You know how much uncle Elias enjoys plays.’

Elizabeth humphed at this as if she couldn’t see how anyone might enjoy plays, but she asked no further questions. I was grateful for the deft way in which Martha had dealt with her. She had not lied-I was carrying a letter of introduction, after all-but she had left out the fact that I’d come to the wrong house.

The conversation wore on, fuelled by drink. Cuthbert the lawyer boasted of how much money he was making from his cases. Rowland the merchant boasted of how much he was earning from his deals. They were well-to-do, you could see that from the quantity of rings they wore on their fingers. Valentine nodded away at all this, occasionally interjecting some crabbed comment. Dame Elizabeth looked ready to be offended. Towards the end of the meal, the housekeeper called Abigail appeared. She came across to me and whispered, a little too loudly, that the master of the house would like to see me now. This provoked glances between Cuthbert and Rowland, while Dame Elizabeth objected, ‘But he hasn’t even seen me yet!’

‘Those are my orders, my lady,’ said Abigail.

Reluctantly I got up from the table. The reluctance wasn’t altogether put on. I felt as if I was taking part in a play where I knew neither my lines nor how things would unfold. I didn’t even know whether I was participating in a comedy or a tragedy or something in between. Nevertheless, I had little choice but to follow Abigail and once more go down the passage to the sick man’s chamber.

I knocked and entered. Elias Haskell was lying almost flat on his back, his head propped up on a bolster. I glanced towards the corner which was occupied by Grant the monkey. The door of the wooden cage remained closed, as if he’d shut himself away for the night. Elias motioned for me to sit down once more on the chest near the bed.

‘Well, what did you make of them, my carrion birds?’

Elias’s voice seemed to have grown weaker. Only his eyes remained lively, with that glint of malice or mischief at the bottom of them.

‘They are very much as you described them.’

‘That’s disappointing. Can’t you say anything further?’

‘The two, er, younger men are so prosperous by their own account that you wonder they need to come sniffing round someone else’s fortune.’

‘Fortune, ha! Yet it’s true they are well-to-do. Cuthbert in particular thrives as a lawyer with his twists and turns. But it’s a wise man, Nicholas, who knows when his plate is full. Some are never satisfied. I can see that you are one of those wise men, you would not go grasping when your hands were already full.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘I have never had what you call full hands.’

‘Of course not, you’re a player.’

This was halfway to being a compliment, perhaps, yet it made me uncomfortable. I changed the subject.

‘It seemed to me that the old man-Valentine-might be better occupied in thinking about his own end instead of…’

‘Instead of dwelling on mine. But the prospect of gold is a great preservative. It makes people think they will live forever.’

‘Is there gold here?’ I said. The question made me feel that I was playing his game.

‘All rumours,’ Elias said vaguely. ‘My cousins are like chameleons. They can eat the air, it is so full of promises. In return they give me gifts. Their tribute. Over there. Plate from the lawyer, a goblet from the merchant, and a mirror from the old man. He’d have done better to examine his own visage for signs of decay.’

I glanced towards the area of the room which he was indicating. A little mound of objects was heaped there although I could not distinguish one from another. This was the tribute of the heirs, little gifts given in expectation of a greater return.

‘Shall I show you my most precious object, player?’

I nodded, almost beyond caring at the next twist in this peculiar evening yet at the same time thinking that here I was sitting inside a sick man’s chamber, in the presence of a monkey called Grant, within a ramshackle, snow-bound house in Cambridgeshire. A few hours ago I had never heard of the Haskells. Yet now I had been thrust into the heart of this strange family, and already knew more about them than was perhaps proper or prudent.

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Let me see your most precious object.’

‘Then go and take that sword from its resting place,’ said Elias Haskell, nodding in the direction of the chimney-piece.

I walked over to the fire. The sword rested on a couple of iron brackets. This was what had been talked of briefly at supper.

‘Lift it up, Nicholas,’ said the man in the bed.

It was heavy and cumbersome but there was nothing to prevent anyone taking it. Elias wasn’t concerned about thieves, I assumed, otherwise this item would be locked up in a chest if it was really valuable.

I cradled the sword in both arms for fear of dropping it, and also because I was curiously unwilling to wield it like an old-time soldier.

‘Lay it on the bed near me,’ said Elias.

I did so and, half sitting up, he reached forward to grasp the circular pommel and raise the sword. The blade shook with his effort. The man had strength, old and sick as he was. The sinews stood out and his arm quivered as he lifted the dead weight a couple of feet into the air. The weapon gleamed dully in the candlelight. Despite its age and battered condition, there was still a bluish sheen to the blade. I am not particularly knowledgeable or comfortable with weapons but even I could see that in its own way this was an object of beauty, one forged with a craftsman’s care and, more important, a craftsman’s love. At the same time it gave me the goose-bumps to see the old man half sitting up in bed and raising aloft this antique weapon.