The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘It is ancient,’ I said.

‘Centuries old. They say that it was used against the Normans who first came to this island. It has been with my family alone for more than a hundred years. That is why I call it precious.’

‘How did you come by it?’

‘It was discovered in that very chimney,’ said Elias, obviously unwilling to say more. ‘Try it for yourself. Hold it properly.’

I took the sword from his grasp again. The blade was long and straight, tapering only near the point. The cross was like a down-turned mouth. Studying it more closely, I saw that each end had been carved into the shape of a dog’s head. Elias waited until I’d had a good look before saying, ‘There are strange stories attached to that weapon, shameful ones too. Sometimes it almost seems to have a life of its own. As if it had a mind to think with, or wings to fly through the air with. That’s the legend of it. Also that it brings bad fortune.’

‘Why do you keep it then?’

‘In the hope that it will bring bad fortune to my enemies,’ said Elias.

Whether it was the nonsensical words about flying and fortune, or whether it was something within the sword itself (but how could that have been?), it seemed to me that the weapon gave a little start in my hand and I nearly dropped it. I took a firmer grasp on the hilt and banished these foolish thoughts. The sword was weighty. Only an expert would be capable of wielding it to good effect. I wondered how many lives this blade was responsible for finishing. How many fatal slashes and stabbings it had delivered down the years. Many, no doubt, many slashes and stabbings. This was a foolish thought in its way, since it was not the blade but the men who had hefted it that were responsible. Even so, I shivered without knowing why. Perhaps to disguise these feelings I made one or two experimental sweeps through the air, holding the hilt two-handed. I glanced in the direction of the cage in the corner. If Grant the monkey had chosen to reappear at this moment I would have shown him who was master.

The door opened and Martha entered the room. She was carrying a small bowl. She almost dropped it, I thought, perhaps under the impression that I was about to attack her uncle. I lowered the sword-point to the floor and grinned sheepishly. Martha took the bowl across to Elias and cradled his head in her hand so that he might drink from it. After a couple of sips, he said, ‘That’s enough. I’ll finish it later.’

‘You must drink it, uncle. It is a soporific,’ she said, more to me than to Elias, then turning to him once again, ‘You will have a restless night otherwise. And I cannot sleep if I know that you are not sleeping.’

Nevertheless she did not compel him to drink any more but placed the bowl on the floor beside the bed.

‘Is cousin Elizabeth here?’ he said.

‘She tried to see you before supper but Abigail would not admit her,’ said Martha.

‘Send her to me now.’

‘But you are tired, uncle.’

‘Now,’ he repeated. His voice was unexpectedly firm.

As she turned away with a hurt expression, Elias took her wrist. I was surprised at the speed of the gesture. Also, I could see he was grasping her hard. But his tone was gentle.

‘Dear girl,’ he said. ‘You are always concerned for my welfare…unlike those carrion.’

She bent forward and kissed him on the brow. Then she straightened up and, with a nod, indicated that it was time to leave Elias. He told me to replace the sword on the brackets above the chimney-piece. I did so and then returned to the dining hall with Martha. In my brief absence, the diners had drunk deeper. Now it was cousin Elizabeth’s turn to be informed that she was required and she bustled her way to Elias’s room.

Cousin Cuthbert rounded on me. ‘Well, Master Revill, what success did you have with the old man?’

‘Did you squeeze anything out of him?’ said Rowland.

‘Did you creep into his confidence?’ said Valentine.

These were such objectionable questions that I didn’t dignify them with an answer. From the words being bandied round the table I gathered that they each of them planned to visit Elias once more before turning in for the night, no doubt to try and impress on him their love and devotion to his welfare.

For myself, I was too tired to stay up any longer after the day spent riding from Cambridge and the dispiriting sense that the journey had been futile anyway since I’d come to the wrong house. To be frank, the company at table was not altogether to my taste either. Martha, once again bearing a taper, escorted me to the foot of the narrow stairs that led to the next floor. She seemed more attentive to me than she was to her cousins.

‘Goodnight, Nicholas. I hope you sleep well.’

‘Perhaps I should have swallowed some of your concoction. Your uncle’s, that is. The soporific.’

‘Mine?’ She looked confused. ‘No, Abigail makes them to his specifications.’

The point hardly seemed to matter and, taking the offered taper, I climbed the stairs to my little room. It was only when I was inside that it occurred to me I should have thanked her again for the night’s hospitality. I would never have made it back to Cambridge. There was no denying that this was a strange household, though. The little casement window was fogged up but I wiped at it with my sleeve and gazed out. The snow had stopped sometime while we were at supper and it lay, smooth and unmarked, across the courtyard. There was no light from the gatehouse and a dead, blank silence reigned over all.

A night-gown had been thrown across the bed. I suppose I had Abigail to thank for that. It smelled musty. Apart from removing my shoes, I didn’t undress or change. It was too cold. I should have insisted on more blankets after all. I lay down on the narrow bed but without snuffing the taper. Having felt sleepy downstairs, I now discovered that, within reach of a bed and without anything else to distract me, my tiredness had departed. Failing a soporific, perhaps I should have drunk more at supper like the other guests. I wondered again exactly what pleasure or satisfaction Elias Haskell could hope to gain from the presence in Valence House of his would-be heirs, when he so despised them. Surely there must be limits to his fondness for mischief. He was a sick man, even if not in quite such a bad state as he pretended to be for the others. What did he expect to gain? A few trinkets, goblets and mirrors and suchlike? Even if, as Martha had claimed, some of those round the table had altered their wills in his favour-as a hypocritical sign of good faith, presumably-what use would that be to a man on the edge of his grave?

Yet, looking at things from the other side, what fortune could any or all of the Haskell cousins hope to come by in this place? Even to my unpractised eye, the house and its outbuildings were in a state of disrepair. Wasn’t that evidence of a lack of fortune? Not necessarily of course. Some would say that the less there was on display the more must be hidden away. ‘All rumours,’ Elias had said, but he hadn’t denied them. And he’d also claimed that it was a general belief that old families must be rich, especially when they’d been reduced to the nub. Neverthless, I didn’t quite see it. The cousins were prosperous, even if they weren’t wealthy. It must be as the old man had said, that some people were never satisfied, always wishing to pile their plates higher.

And this made me think of my own situation. Nicholas Revill of the King’s Men, the finest and grandest company of players in London. But Revill’s circumstances were neither fine nor grand. I was still a lodger in other men’s houses and without any place to call my own. With hands not full but more or less empty. I retrieved out of my doublet pocket the buckle from my shoe, the one in the shape of a love-knot. I looked at its copper burnish in the taper’s feeble light. Somehow all this confirmed me in my impression of myself as a poor player. Perhaps there’s something about lying on a bed in a strange house during a silent and snow-filled night which encourages introspection and self-pity. I blew out the taper and settled down to a wakeful few hours.