The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Seated at his desk, John Lascelles is tapping his ivory gavel on the immaculate and uncluttered surface. He does not notice how small, round indentations are appearing in the highly polished mahogany. Opposite him, late but apparently unrepentant, slouches the historical researcher who has compiled the story of the sword from fragmentary documents, and family references. Like many of his ilk, Wallis Barker affects the dress of a Victorian eccentric. His tweed jacket is buttoned only at the top, and where it flares open below, his stomach is resplendent in a mustard-coloured velvet waistcoat. A watch chain dangles portentously between the waistcoat pockets. He flicks his deliberately quiffed hair, and curls one side of his long moustache. He drawls as he speaks.

‘You want me to tell you the results of my most recent research?’

Lascelles nods impatiently. He cannot stand the man’s affectations, and is amused to see that Barker has forgotten to remove a bicycle clip from his left ankle. Incongruously, he sees it as some sort of fetishistic adornment. Chasing this fresh image from his mind, he reminds himself that Barker is good at his job, rooting out provenance for important items. Like the ancient sword the auctioneer is to sell tomorrow.

Barker hooks his thumbs in each waistcoat pocket, and leans back in his chair. For the first time he sees he has not removed one of his bicycle clips, and quickly crosses his right ankle over the offending left one. He delineates again the known details of the sword’s ownership by the Devon branch of the de la Pomeroy family. All traced back from the small crest added in medieval times to the bottom of the blade. Barker is particularly pleased how, from fleeting references, and oblique asides in the family’s archives, he has traced the sword’s passage down through the years.

‘Of course, what is most interesting is the hint that the sword is associated with dark deeds, or bad luck. I seem to recall that once…’

Lascelles shudders, and raises his elegant hand to stop the historian’s flow of words. ‘Wallis, please. Nothing about bad luck.’

Barker tips his head to one side in an interrogatory fashion, the wattle under his chin wobbling. Lascelles is put in mind of a pompous bantam cockerel strutting in the farmyard. Suppressing a smile, he is at pains to explain to Barker that any attachment of ill luck to an auction item can drastically affect its potential value.

The historian nods sagely, as if he knew that all along. ‘Yes, yes, naturally.’

He returns to safer ground with what he has found out about the sword’s recent history. ‘When it came to you, I believe you were surprised by its good preservation.’

Lascelles nods, and unconsciously returns to tapping his gavel on his no-longer pristine desktop. ‘Yes. Most medieval swords are dug up from the ground, and are fragmentary at best. You’ve seen this one. It’s in excellent condition, considering its age.’

‘Indeed. But then it does come from the Barnwell collection.’

‘That’s right. And we might have ignored it in the circumstances, guessing it to be some sort of Victorian fakery. Sir Gregory Barnwell was one of those seemingly interminable Victorian eccentrics who collected anything and everything, regardless of quality or value. That’s why his collection is mostly worthless.’ Lascelles fails to see Barker bristling at his assessment of the Victorian philanthropist, so he presses on. ‘But it was soon apparent that the sword is something else entirely. And you say you have some new information?’

Barker licks his lips, and frames the enquiry he has been yearning to put since arriving in Lascelles’s office. ‘Yes. But first, may I see it again?’

The sword seems to be gleaming even brighter in the light of the spot that illuminates where it lies on its bed of velvet. John Lascelles approaches it reverently, his hands gloved in white cotton. Beside him dances the excited figure of the historian Wallis Barker. For a moment it seems like Barker is tempted to touch the sword with his bare hands.

‘Don’t!’ admonishes Lascelles. And Barker jumps away at the abruptness of his companion’s words. He is peeved at Lascelles’s possessiveness, and for a moment he is tempted to relate a family tale of how Sir Gregory came to own the sword. But he decides to keep his mouth shut.

By rights, the sword should belong to Trinity College, which owned Valence House in Ickleton. The sword was found hidden in a chimney there, hence its good preservation. But then some debauched nineteenth-century poet rejoicing in the name of Alfred Sturge Bliss, filched it from Trinity College before it was properly recorded, and sold it to Barnwell for a song. The fact that the poet was later found with his skull crushed in the strangest of circumstances was glossed over due to Bliss’s irregular lifestyle and imbibing of drugs. So the sword was subsequently untraceable back to its proper owner. A stroke of luck for Barnwell that a modern police service might have found more suspicious than did their Victorian forebears. At least the sword’s long residence in the Barnwell collection did much to re-establish its bona-fides.

And that was where Wallis Barker came into the story, tracking it back to the de la Pomeroys. But now, he has linked the sword to an old Conquest tale that led him to identifying the name of the swordsmith. Now, greedily drinking in the vision of the sword lying on its velvet cushion, he tells Lascelles his news.

‘The story goes that two brothers, separated at birth or some time later-the details are not accurate of course-ended up on opposite sides at the Battle of Hastings. Their father was the swordsmith, and his name was Bran. One of the brothers is called Deda and the other Swine, and they meet in the heat of the battle. But the curious thing is that one of them-Deda-has their father’s sword, and he uses it to kill his own brother before he realizes who his adversary is. Then he falls on his own sword. Or something like that. The last bit may all be romantic embellishment, after all. But it’s satisfying, is it not, to imagine the father’s sword taking the lives of both brothers.’

He looks at Lascelles, who seems unimpressed by the implications of the story. In fact, he seems to be strangely protective of the sword. He reminds Lascelles of the swordmaker’s name, sure that the thought of owning a sword that had been forged a thousand years ago by the hands of a man called Bran will appeal to a certain someone with money.

‘If I hadn’t have uncovered the probable name of the maker…’

Lascelles ignores the man’s bleatings, and cannot stop himself from laying his hand on the hilt. Suddenly, he feels electrified. He sees himself grasping the sword, and hefting it like a medieval knight. He swings it in a glittering arc, and separates Wallis Barker’s chattering head from his overweight body. The blood spurts from the historian’s severed neck in a great arc, splattering the walls of the sale room. Slowly the headless body crumples to the blood-stained carpet.

‘…it would sell for far less than if…’ Barker drops his voice to church-like tones. ‘…a certain person was interested.’

Letting go of the sword, Lascelles recovers his senses. He smiles at the smug Wallis Barker, whose head unfortunately is still attached to his body. He looks in wonder at the gleaming blade, afraid to touch it again.

‘You’re quite right, Wallis. Wealthy bidders are what we will be looking for. And soon, the sword will belong to a new owner. Let’s hope the bad luck you talk about does not follow it.’

The night security man is about to close the imposing front doors of the auction house, when a portly, moustachioed figure thrusts his velvet-clad stomach into the gap. He is red-faced, and flustered.