The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

The question now was what would his three brothers say when questioned? Even though they were all in holy orders, there was no doubt in Eustace’s mind they would lie. They’d have no qualms of conscience over that. He’d always been aware that he was the only member of the group who took his vows as a priest seriously. But what form would those lies take? Would they name him, try to put all the blame on him? Would they claim he’d murdered Giles and they’d simply stumbled across the body? If he could only find out which of them had the cross and lead the authorities to it, then it would exonerate him and prove their guilt. But where was it?

He glanced up at the casement of Robert’s lodgings, and then looked again. He was certain he’d seen the flash of movement, as if someone had crossed in front of the window. He watched intently. There it was again. There was definitely someone up there, moving around. Had Robert been released already? Well, that wouldn’t surprise him, given his uncle’s influence. Doubtless, Father William intended to spirit his nephew away, send him to a distant town until the scandal blew over, leaving Oswin and John, and Eustace, too, if he wasn’t careful, to carry all the blame and punishment. Robert was probably packing for his journey even as Eustace watched.

Rage boiled up in him. He strode round the side of the building and, keeping to the side of the stairs where there was less risk of the wood creaking, he crept up towards the door. He was determined Robert wasn’t going anywhere until he’d discovered the story Robert had sold to his uncle and exactly what he’d revealed about the members of the Black Crows, even if he had to beat it out of him.

The door was not quite closed. Through the narrow gap, Eustace glimpsed the lid of a chest being opened, but the person behind it was hidden from view. He pushed the door open and, as he stepped through, caught it and pressed it closed with his back. There was a stifled cry of surprise and someone rose up from behind the open chest, but it was not Robert.

A woman stared back at him, her expression as startled as Eustace knew his own must be. His gaze dropped to her hand. She was holding a cross – the cross, he realised, as a surge of shock and excitement flooded through him. It was exactly as Robert had described, silver, decorated with five blood-red garnets and in the centre the little dome of rock crystal, which held the precious hairs.

‘Where did you get that?’ Eustace demanded.

A look of panic flooded the woman’s face. ‘I found it here… Father.’

‘In the chest. You were searching the chest for things to steal?’

‘I… I wasn’t stealing, Father. I swear on the Blessed Virgin, I wasn’t. It was on the table. I… was putting it away safely for Father Robert. Anyone might have come and took it, seeing as he always leaves the key…’

‘How do you know where…?’ Eustace began. ‘Ah, of course, he’s brought you here before. You’re one of his whores, aren’t you?’

‘I’m no whore!’ The woman’s jaw clenched and her expression turned in the instant from fear to hard, cold rage. ‘I come to clean for him, wash his clothes. That’s how I know.’

Eustace took a step towards her. ‘But you didn’t find that cross in here, I know that much. It was not in this chamber yesterday. And, if Robert had brought it here, he most certainly wouldn’t have left it lying around for anyone to find.’ He took another step towards her, his voice dropping to a low and menacing whisper. ‘So, I’ll ask you again, how exactly did you come by it? Answer me, woman, otherwise all I have to do is call out and a dozen of the watch will come running. You are holding all the evidence any justice could need to convict you of theft. They will hang you and then you will find yourself in the eternal darkness of Hell, forever being spun and hurled in a terrible, howling wind, which is the fate of all whores. So, you will tell me truthfully where you got that cross.’

Eustace expected the woman to look terrified, to plead, beg, fall on her knees, but he was not prepared for the fire of pure hatred that flashed in her eyes.

Eustace tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed to have been turned to stone. His head felt as if it was split into two and a wave of nausea engulfed him. He wanted to roll over and vomit, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even heave. He was dimly aware of sounds around him, voices, footsteps, cries and moans, but they seemed to be a long way off, muffled and distorted as if they were drifting towards him through a dense fog.

‘… it seems he staggered as far as the stairs, then fell from the top.’

‘But you said he was already injured before he fell?’ ‘It appears that way. Some passers-by heard a cry and it made them glance up. They all reported seeing him standing at the top of the stairs holding onto the doorframe, the side of his face all bloodied. A few ran across to try to help, but it was too late. Before they could reach him, he either fainted or lost his balance, and came crashing down onto the stones below. He might have recovered from the head wound, but not the fall… He’ll not see another dawn in this world, Father William. Mind you, that might be a mercy, for his back’s broken. He’d have been a cripple had he lived.’

‘Many cripples live worthy lives,’ Father William said sharply. ‘Confined to their beds they are able to devote their lives to praying for others, and what life could be better spent than that?’

‘If you say so, Father.’ The other voice sounded less than convinced. ‘Of course, the poor ones don’t have the luxury of a bed, they spend their time lying on the streets begging for alms. But I dare say you’ll tell me that’s a blessing too, for if it weren’t for them, the rich would have no one to give their charity to. But that aside, we’ve done all we can for Father Eustace. You’d best shrive him before it’s too late.’

Up to that moment, Eustace’s brain had been swamped by the pain of his body and by the terrible sensation of not being able to move. He heard that spirits could be trapped inside the trunk of a tree, and he felt as if some witch had banished him to a tree, encased every inch of him in wood. But now another sensation flooded over him: cold, black horror. He was going to die. He was going to enter that purgatory in which souls are burned and tortured until they are cleansed. He knew as a Christian soul he should be glad of it, rejoice that he was one step closer to heaven. But Eustace felt no such joy. He was terrified.

The infirmarer did not need the art of divination to predict when his patients would pass from this life. He had cared for enough men to read the signs in a man’s body that warn that death is fast approaching. Besides, he’d learned that a strong draught of poppy juice in spiced wine administered just before the last rites, then jerking the feather pillow out from beneath the patient’s head after he’d been shrived, was usually enough to help him pass swiftly and painlessly into the next world, for it is well know that a man cannot die on feathers. The infirmarer was a compassionate soul and he knew how to bring a merciful end to a man’s suffering in this life, though sadly not in the next.

Father William had performed the last rites with devotion and diligence, and Father Eustace had seemed sensible of what was happening. Without even waiting for the questions his confessor was obliged to put to him, Eustace had tried desperately to make a full confession, indeed the words had vomited out of him in a torrent. The only trouble was, very few made any sense.

There was no doubt in Father William’s mind that Deacon Eustace had wanted to unburden himself of some great matter that clearly weighed heavily upon him. His sincerity was evident in his tone, his urgency, his grip. But though he clearly thought he was making himself understood, he was not. The utterances were a random jumble of words and phrases, in English and Latin, some phrases learned by rote from psalters as a child, others vile and obscene. Nonetheless, Father William had absolved him, trusting that God could judge the sincerity of all of His creatures’ thoughts, even if man could not understand their speech. And Eustace had sunk back in the bed, seeming at peace and content. The terror had gone from his eyes.