The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

My mother’s words soon passed out of my mind when I thought of my next secret meeting with Agnes Rath. But fear of the consequences didn’t put us off. There’s a Latin saying for that, too, and I don’t need anyone to provide it for me, thank you. Amor vincit omnia . Love conquers all. That was our happy state, Agnes and I. And you should have seen Agnes as she was then! Lithe as willow, with hair that tumbled down like a shower of gold when it was loosened.

You may think I have been talking about my father and mother without the reverence that is their due, calling one a gossip or snob, and the other a miser and so on. Perhaps I have spoken of them without due respect. But they are long dead and I can see them clearly now. They had faults, yes, and which of us does not have faults, God have mercy on us? But they had virtues too. I thought my father was an honourable man, who was prepared to be humiliated in the alehouse rather than be considered a thief. Thank God, he was not aware of the presence of his son that day when he was forced to hold up the little length of rope. We could not have looked each other in the eye afterwards if he’d known I was there. And though my mother may have been a snob it meant that she wanted to see her sons rise in the world, and because she had a churchman as an… uncle… she made sure I gained a little more learning than I might have been entitled to as a tenant farmer’s son. My mother’s uncle sometimes gave me lessons himself. I even picked up a few Latin sayings from him.

Agnes and I had appointed to meet towards the end of that same spring day, the day of the market. We had a regular place. It was on the boundary of the land that my father held against her father’s. Because of all the trouble between the two families, the hedges that marked the boundary were left straggling and unkempt, as if to discourage trespassers, and it was these same hedges that must have been the reason for Alfred Rath’s complaint to my mother.

In a remote spot, almost out of sight of any dwelling, there was a stile. This too was overgrown and broken down. Because there was no coming and going between the two families, no one had bothered to maintain or repair the stile. Agnes and I often met there, and one or the other would clamber over to the opposite side so we might spend time together. In the past there had been a path running on both sides of the stile and linking the two properties, but because of the coldness between Carters and Raths, there was no occasion for it to be used. Except by us.

It was early evening, with the wind shaking the blossom in the trees and the sun sending out his long beams from the west. A heavy downpour of rain that afternoon made everything smell damp and fresh. As I was on my way to the meeting-place, I thought I glimpsed Mistress Travis, the cunning-woman, on another path that bordered our land. She was running and her wild hair was streaming out behind her. It was strange to see her away from the Great Wood and the rain-sodden hut. But I thought no more of her and instead of Agnes Rath. As I approached the boundary, I could see my friend approaching from the other side through the gaps in the hedge. Between us was the stile. It wasn’t until I drew much closer that I noticed something draped over the dilapidated steps of the stile. I took them for discarded clothes but, nearer too, I saw that underneath the garments was a figure. At first, I thought he was asleep, then I thought differently. I shouted to Agnes to stay back but she was already as close as me.

If we had any sense we’d have turned tail and left it to someone else to make the discovery. But curiosity nudged us forward. Besides, I felt that this overgrown gap in the hedge belonged to us, and I was almost angry that another person should have been using it. Even if that person was dead. He was draped over the stile as he’d been if struck down in the act of crossing, with his legs on Agnes’s side and his top half dangling down on mine. His head was obscured. I crept closer still and got down on my hands and knees in the damp grass and peered up and sideways at the countenance of the dead man. I already suspected that it was Thomas Flytte the physician but I had to make sure.

The side of his face that was visible to me was swollen and mottled with purple like the colour of the threadbare surcoat he used to wear. There appeared to be a cord buried deep in the flesh of his neck. His eyes were bulging and sightless. It was obvious that he had not died a natural death. It was only later that I had time to experience any sorrow. This was the man who’d spoken kindly to me – and told me I might become a tavern-keeper! Here was the physician who had plucked Agnes from the jaws of death! But at that moment all I felt was a tightness round my own neck. When I heard someone speaking from the other side of the hedge, I sprang up and almost ran away. I thought of Reeve, Flytte’s companion, and half expected him to come slithering out from under the hedge. But the speaker was Agnes. I couldn’t see her. Not clearly, just an outline. She was more composed than me. When she spoke again there was scarcely a tremor in her voice.

‘Who is it, Laurence? It is not my father, is it?’

I suppose she thought this because the dead man had obviously been coming from the direction of her family’s land and house.

‘Not, it is the physician, Thomas Flytte.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘We should raise a hue and cry.’

‘Yes.’

Even then, some instinct kept us from moving, though every moment we delayed in raising the hue and cry meant that the murderer of Thomas Flytte could be making his escape from the district.

‘Wait, Agnes,’ I said. ‘We cannot report this together. People would ask us what we were doing at this deserted place, and our secret would be out. Go home and say nothing. I’ll pretend I was out here by myself, wandering about, looking for birds’ eggs. I’ll say I found him, found the physician’s body. I will keep you out of the story.’

Laurence Carter paused in his present story. He seemed almost overcome by his words, by the memory of the body of Thomas Flytte hanging across the stile. There was a stir from the far side of the group of pilgrims and a woman spoke up. It was the landlord’s wife. She’d already made clear her feelings about her husband’s storytelling by coughing and then harrumphing loudly when he was making comments about the long-haired beauty of his youthful love, Agnes.

‘That’s not how I remember it, husband.’

‘No, my dear?’ said the landlord.

‘No. I remember you were too confused by the discovery of the body to think straight or to have any idea what to do. It was I who said that we couldn’t do this together and that one of us should go and raise the alarm while the other went quietly home.’

‘Well, it may have been so,’ said the landlord.

‘It was so,’ continued the voice from the other side. By now, people were craning round to look at the speaker. ‘And there are one or two other details in your account that were not altogether as you describe them.’

‘Perhaps you would like to take up the tale then, Agnes. To tell the truth, my throat is getting dry. I’d welcome another voice – and another drink. Come forward, my dear.’

‘Thank you, my sweet.’

Laurence Carter stood aside while his wife bustled to the front of the group. There was some amusement among the Walsingham pilgrims, as well as surprise, to see that the girl he’d been referring to all this while – Agnes Rath – had become his wife. And was still his wife. It was as if a character in a story had suddenly come to life. Agnes Carter cut a very different figure from the lithe young girl with flowing hair, as depicted by her equally young lover. She was a substantial woman well into middle age, who looked as though she’d take no nonsense from any of her servants or her guests. Her shape was concealed by a gown of dull red, like a dying fire, while her hair was tucked away beneath a wimple.