The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

The next delicacy was crustardes of herbs and fish. A pastry case enclosed pieces of fish stewed in lemon water to which were added walnuts, parsley, thyme and lemon balm. I don’t suppose that Panaretos had time to taste any of the subtle flavours in his pursuit of excessive consumption, but I complimented Baia on the concoction.

‘I am pleased you like it so, Master Falconer.’

I could get little else out of her, though, and was unable to question her about the more veiled threats that had dogged her husband from the time of the first clear warning contained on the parchment. Theokratos had told me that Panaretos had complained about one particular incident that his wife had reported to him. She had been with her maid in the fish market down by the harbour, and a hooded figure, dressed like a foreigner, had said that she should tell her husband to hurry up and sign the trade deal or he wouldn’t have a pretty wife any more. Perhaps she had refrained from telling Philip this because she was afraid the threat might be carried out if she spoke of it to anyone but her husband. Whatever the reason, Panaretos was not going to give me the chance to ask her.

The next course was a heavy stew called monchelet. Neck of lamb pieces had been stewed in a large pan in a wine and herb stock, along with chopped onions, then the sauce had been thickened with egg yolks. The meat was tender and glossy, and once again Panaretos soon began to demolish his portion. I could hear his breathing, stertorous and heavy, and then he belched. I wondered if he had reached the limit of even his gargantuan appetite. Baia’s announcement of the final course told me.

‘We have a blanc manger next, darling, made from pounded chicken breast flavoured with sugar and almonds.’

‘Good. I am still hungry.’

I silently marvelled at Panaretos’ capacity for ever more servings of rich food, and was ready to decline anything more than a spoonful of the sweet, tempting dish that crusaders had first encountered in Outremer years ago. I was not, however, faced with such a dilemma. Before the blanc manger could be brought, we heard a disturbance in the kitchens, and the sound of running feet. One of Panaretos’ servants came into the room where we sat, and called out a warning.

‘Master, we have been warned that pirates from Sinope – the Emir’s men – have attacked the harbour. They are woring their way up the hill towards us. What shall we do?’

Panaretos lurched to his feet; I could hear his breath quicken in alarm. But before he could give any instructions, his voice became nothing more than a strangled gurgle. I heard his chair crash over, and the cry of alarm from the servant. Then I heard the soft thud of a considerable body landing on the marble floor. I called out to Philip, groping for his arm.

‘What has happened? Philip, tell me.’

It seemed my companion was completely unable to respond, other than to stutter a few meaningless words. It was a female voice that cut calmly through the panic.

‘It looks as though my husband has had an apoplexy. When he rose from his chair, his face turned bright red, his eyes bulged out of his head, and he collapsed. I am afraid he also vomited all down his robe.’

Her tone was unusually calm in the circumstances, and she seemed to be observing a scene in which she took no part, nor had any interest in. Perhaps the shock of such a sudden series of events had overwhelmed her, and she would break down and weep as soon as the consequences struck her. But I was not so sure.

‘What of the Emir of Sinope’s pirate band? Should we not flee for safety?’

The scent of patchouli came closer, and I felt a feminine hand on my arm.

‘Oh, I don’t think there is truly any danger. The gates to the lower town will have been closed already. The Emperor must be protected at all costs, and we shall be safe enough here. The servants are such ninnies, and run around in fright at the slightest danger.’

I heard her sit back at the table.

‘Would you like some blanc manger?’

The old man sensed all the eyes of the assembled pilgrims were on him, boring into him. He hoped he had told his story well, and that the correct conclusion had been reached. It was the woman, Katie Valier, who spoke first. He had known before she even uttered her opening words that it would be she who would guess the truth.

‘Panaretos ate himself to death, and that was the reward for his gluttony.’

Falconer smiled.

‘Oh, it was more than merely his gluttony that killed him. You see, I travelled to Genoa on Finati’s ship, and he swore to me that he never wrote the threatening letter, nor acted in any other way to coerce Panaretos into accepting a trade deal. It only confirmed my own conclusions, which Panaretos did not give me time to expound upon. I could have told him who was threatening his life, but he died before I could.’

Katie was quick to see his point.

‘Then it was Baia who wrote the letter, and she also made up the other threats in order to scare her husband.’

One of the other pilgrims piped up, not fully comprehending the enormity of Katie’s suggestion.

‘But why would she do that? I know that from what you tell us, Master Falconer, that he mistreated her. But what would she gain by making him even more fearful and angry?’

The old man could tell Katie was looking at him in an understanding way, so he completed the story.

‘Because when Panaretos was agitated he turned to his main comfort, which was not his wife, but food. And she gladly complied with his wishes. Over several months, she fed him rich food in ever increasing portions that made him fatter and fatter until the merest exertion brought on an apoplexy. She murdered him just as effectively as if she had used poison or a knife, but it was a much more subtle way to do it that meant she was not even suspected. Except by me, and I saw no reason to tell anyone my suspicions. You see, it was the slowest and the kindest murder I have ever witnessed.’

‘Lust, greed and avarice are grave sins indeed,’ said John Wynter, prior of the Austin canons in Carmarthen, a tall, hatchet-faced man who had nodded approvingly at the punishments meted out to the wrongdoers in the previous tales. ‘But there is one graver yet.’

Wynter had strong opinions about sin, which was why he had been prepared to leave his comfortable monastery when all sensible folk were closing their doors and huddling together in the hope that the deadly pestilence would pass them by. It had not been his own lapses that had driven him east, of course: he had been appointed by his Prior General to sit in judgement over others – at their sister house in Walsingham.

‘A sin worse than greed?’ asked Katie Valier sceptically. Outside, an owl hooted in the night, as if agreeing with her. ‘Or lust and avarice?’

‘Sloth,’ hissed Wynter, ‘is the deadliest sin.’

‘I hardly think so!’ declared Katie. ‘You are wrong, Father Prior.’

‘It is the most deadly transgression because of its insidious effects on the soul,’ boomed Wynter in the deep, sepulchral voice that had made many a Carmarthen novice quail in his boots. ‘And I do not refer to simple laziness, but to an emptiness of the soul.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Katie, shaking her pretty head. ‘Why should-’

‘It is a spiritual apathy that will lead even good men to Hell,’ interrupted Wynter. ‘And I shall prove it. Here is a tale I was told many years ago. It describes what happens to those who allow sloth to rule them, and will be a warning to you all.’