The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

But I must have slept because I woke with a start. At least I think that I woke, since everything which followed seemed to take place in a kind of dream-or nightmare. There was a noise from outside, a panting sound. As I’ve said, there was a little window in my room overlooking the courtyard which lay between the main building and the gatehouse. To peer outside, I had only to swing my legs to the floor and crane forward. The panes in the window were rimed over. I rubbed at one of them and the cold burned my fingertips. I put my eye to the little circle I’d created.

Outside all seemed as before. There was no moon but the stars overhead were blazing fiercely and the snow cast a chill glow of its own in response. The outline of the gatehouse, wearing a new thatch of snow, stood in front of me. Beyond it the skeletal shapes of trees were just visible. Almost immediately my breath fogged up the window again. I wiped at it once more. What was I looking for? I didn’t know. Then I heard that strange panting sound again. It came from below. I peered down. The angle was awkward and it was difficult to see clearly because the porch blocked the view. But there was definitely someone down there, a person standing a few paces in front of the main entrance to the house. I could just glimpse the top of a head. I had the impression of height, unusual height. More than that, the figure seemed to cast a kind of elongated shadow on the snow. Then the pane of glass filmed over once more. Shivering, I wiped at it a third time. When I tried to peer down again, the figure had vanished.

It was cold up here, as I crouched at the narrow window, attempting to keep clear a little circle of glass that gave a glimpse of the night. I told myself that whatever was happening outside was no concern of mine. I was only in this house because of an absurd error, though admittedly one of my own devising. I lay back on the bed. No more sounds came up from outdoors but I heard a subdued shrieking from somewhere within the house which caused my hair to prickle. And then I remembered Grant the monkey and breathed deep and promised myself that I would quit this place on the next morning.

I fell into a shallow sleep and dreamed I was escaping somewhere on a horse which was floundering in the snow. A monkey was clinging round my neck. I didn’t know what-or who-I was trying to escape. Perhaps it was the monkey. Eventually the horse stumbled and I was pitched headlong into a bank of snow. The monkey released its grip and ran off. I thought I might hide from whatever was pursuing me under the snow-blanket but another voice told me I would be suffocated there.

I woke up aching and unrested. The little chamber was bathed in a lurid light. The memory of suffocating in the snow was still in my head and the room felt airless. This time I opened the casement window. It creaked on unwilling hinges and let in a draught of cold morning air. After the stuffy fears of the night, this was refreshing. The sun was just rising, a tight red ball, beyond the fringe of trees that fenced the house. The arrow-shaped spire of the church was dyed red. The sun’s rays struck the upper storey of the house. My first thought was that, provided there was no more snow, the road from Ickleton back to Cambridge might be passable. With luck I could get away from this strange spot. If I set off straightaway, with the minimum of farewells and assuming Rounce was fit to ride…

Without thinking, I gazed down into the snow-filled courtyard. It was still in shadow at ground level and my eyes were full of red dazzle from squinting at the sun. Even so I could make out a darker shadow lying at full length in the snow and almost jumped back from the casement in shock. A second glance confirmed what instinct had already told me. There was a body down there. Whose I did not know.

Pausing only to put on my shoes, I was out of the room and down the narrow back stairs almost before I knew what I was doing. Past the kitchen from which clattering sounds and cooking smells were emanating. I should have stopped there and then to summon help. Got the housekeeper Abigail or the other servant to accompany me. I wish I had now. It would have saved me a deal of trouble later on. Instead, like the fool I was, I half ran down the passage which led to the dining hall. The large chamber was empty. Evidently no one in Valence believed in early rising. The remains of last night’s fire smouldered in the great chimney.

At the main door, I halted for an instant. Even now I might have called out for help. There were at least a couple of able-bodied individuals in the house who would respond. I ought to leave it to them. This was none of my business after all. Yet there is an urge in some of us to be first on the scene of a disaster, a foolish urge. I unbolted the main door and tugged it open. By now the sun had risen a fraction higher so that its first rays were slanting right into the courtyard, glaring off the snow. I shaded my eyes and, standing in the porch, gazed outside.

There was a body perhaps a half dozen paces away and lying in a direct line from the front door. I could not identify him, but he was showing me a clean pair of slippered heels, half buried in the snow. The upper part of the body was pitched forward so that the head was face down and almost completely sunk in the snow. His arms were flung out. It was as if he had set out to leave Valence and stumbled in the snow and not troubled to raise himself again. I recalled my suffocating dream.

But this was real and no dream. I made to step forward, away from the shelter of the house. Not that I could do anything to help the poor fellow-for it was certainly a man (and I had a fairly good idea which man it was by now)-since his whole posture showed that he was long past help. His posture, and the blood which spattered the snow in the area of his sunken head. Even at this point, I did not take fright for myself. After all, what had the goings-on in the Haskell household to do with Nicholas Revill? I was merely an accidental player who’d stumbled onto the wrong stage.

I stepped through the snow, which rose above my ankles. I skirted the body until I came level with the man’s head. He wasn’t wearing a hat nor even a night-cap. Not the kind of weather to go out bare-headed. Not that he would ever care about such matters again, I thought. And felt an unexpected pang and wiped away some water from my eyes. It was Elias Haskell, the old man, the owner of Valence House. His hair, now revealed, was long and white and flecked with blood and snow. There was more blood spilled in the snow beside him although not in great quantity.

My guts did a little turn as my eyes confirmed what instinct had already told me. Even then I didn’t have the wit to be properly alarmed. Instead I examined the scene as if it was going to tell me something or other of interest.

I was facing the body. On my left hand was the little gatehouse. A curl of fresh smoke issued from the chimney, showing that the lodge-keeper or one of his brood was up and about. There was a single small window on this side of the gatehouse, looking into the yard, but evidently no one had yet observed Elias’s corpse. This was not surprising since the whole yard had been in shadow until moments before. As for the main house, most of the rooms lay in the rear area. In fact the only one, apart from the dining hall, that appeared to have a direct view of the courtyard was the chamber I’d been sleeping in. The outbuildings, their roofs newly covered with snow, looked more dilapidated by the bright light of the morning than they’d appeared in the gloom of the previous afternoon. There was no sound or sight of anyone else. Just the dead man and I.

I wondered how long Elias had been lying out here. I was reluctant to touch the body, which would have long since turned cold anyhow. Presumably it had been he whom I’d heard-and glimpsed-last night, the panting sound some sort of death-rattle. What time had that been? For no good reason, it had seemed during the earlier rather than the later part of the night. Why had he been out here at all, the old man, when his proper place was tight asleep in his bed?