The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘I don’t trust you,’ Baldwin declared, and reluctantly rose from the bed. He shivered a little in the coolness and pulled a linen shirt over his nakedness. ‘This week has been grim. Too many men hanged.’

‘They’ve received their justice.’

‘Aye, true enough, but sometimes a man would prefer to leaven the justice a little,’ Baldwin said absently. In his mind’s eye he could see one man’s face as he confirmed the decision of the other two justices and sent the fellow to the gallows. Most peasants exhibited little emotion. For them death was the end to a life of toil, perhaps. Or they were prepared for death, having seen so many friends and relations die during the famine. Misery and suffering were so common that even a sentence of death could seem like a release.

But this man was young. At his wife’s side was their child, a toddler who stood sucking a thumb and watching wide eyed as his father’s case was dispatched. The peasant glanced at them, and Baldwin had seen tears well in the man’s eyes. There was no wailing or howling to accompany the tears, just the sudden trickling that made Baldwin pause and think, and then the wife started to sob, a racking, tearing noise, and her baby began to bawl, and Baldwin’s heart felt as though it must break.

The verdict was just; there was no doubt of that. The fellow had stabbed another man in a tavern. Such things happened all the time, and usually the community would stand together and suggest that it was a foreigner passing through the vill who had committed the act. The sad fact was, though, that the dead man was a King’s Purveyor; he was in the vill to collect fodder and stores for the King’s household.

It was that which had guaranteed the peasant’s execution. No man could strike down one of the King’s officers with impunity-but how would another respond if he heard a Purveyor deciding to take all the food set aside for winter?

Baldwin had seen too many men die. In an attempt to lift his own spirits, he said, ‘Only a young man would dare to fool with a knight.’

‘True. I am not so old as you.’ Simon chuckled.

Baldwin nodded, but thinking of the felon’s hanging brought to mind his dream again.

The horror of the siege was still fresh in his memory even now, more than thirty years afterwards, and he hoped it would always remain so. It had been the cause of his decision to join the Templars, because he had been saved by the Templars after being wounded. The knights had taken him to Cyprus and nursed him to health. As a result he had lived, and from that day he felt that he owed them his life. To repay the debt he had joined them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at his door.

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘A messenger from the hospital. They’ve got a man in their infirmary who’s been attacked on the road here.’

Baldwin nodded and sighed. Then he ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at Simon. ‘I suppose we ought to talk to him.’

The fellow was lying in a cot with a tired-looking monk standing at his side.

‘Brother?’

‘I am Joseph, the infirmarer. This man was brought to us late yesterday as we were closing the gates.’

‘He looks in a bad way,’ Simon said with that hushed voice used by people in the presence of the sick.

This was a pleasant little chamber, this hospital. Not far from the East Gate, the Hospital of St John was a small chapel with six beds. Each faced the altar, with the cross prominently in view to all, so that all the poor souls in their beds could see it and pray. Brother Joseph could ease their symptoms, but naturally the actual cure was up to them and the power of their own prayers.

Joseph passed a hand over his tired face. Strange to think that only last night he had been cheerfully looking forward to his bed and congratulating himself on the fact that he took such joy in sleep. It was ironic that he should think so just as this poor fellow was being carried to him.

‘He is. His arm is broken, but I think with God’s grace it should mend without too much trouble. I think his ribs are broken, too, and his head was badly knocked. It’s the stab that worries me most, of course, but I have hope.’

‘Why should his assailant beat him so?’ Baldwin wondered.

‘If you wish to learn that, you will have to speak to the porter of the East Gate. He had the body brought here on a hurdle.’

‘Has he spoken at all?’ Baldwin enquired. ‘Has he mentioned the attack?’

‘No. He arrived in this state and has remained silent. If he recovers, perhaps he can tell what happened, but it will be a close-run thing.’

‘Is he from this city or a foreigner?’

‘I do not know. Ask the porters. One of them may know him.’

Baldwin nodded and the two left the brother in the doorway to his little hospital, yawning with exhaustion.

At the entrance to the hospital, Baldwin and Simon spoke to the gatekeeper. He was reluctant to tell them anything, other than the fact that he had been in his lodge preparing to lock up for the night when John, the East Gate porter, had arrived with three or four others and the man lying on his hurdle.

Leaving him there and walking the few yards to the East Gate, Simon muttered bitterly, ‘You would’ve hoped the bastard would want to help us find the man’s attacker.’

Baldwin shrugged. The system of fines to make sure that men turned up in court often led to their being less than helpful. ‘Let us see what we may learn from the porter.’

The lodge was built into the wall, a solid building with a thatched roof set at the back of the two towers about the gate itself, and the porter matched his home perfectly. His face was florid, topped with a messy rick of fair hair, and he was stolid and broad. His face was square, with small, hog-like eyes which held a suspicious leer, as though he doubted the integrity and honesty of any upon whom his eyes might alight. His grim expression was not improved by the sight of Simon and Baldwin. ‘What do you want?’

‘The man whom you took to the hospital yesterday,’ Baldwin said. ‘What can you tell us about him? Was he from the city?’

‘How should I know? So many come past here each day.’

Baldwin’s smile was wearing thin. ‘We need to learn who he is.’

‘Good. Do it and leave me to my work.’

Steel entered Baldwin’s voice. ‘Your work at this moment is to help the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not, I will have you attached and kept in the castle’s gaol to contemplate your obstruction until the coroner holds his inquest, and I will ensure that all here know it is because of you that they are to be fined so heavily for finding the body.’

‘He’s not dead, is he?’ the porter demanded, but his arrogance was already dissipated. The First Finder of a body would be forced to pay a surety to guarantee that he would turn up in court at the trial, and if there was no proof that the dead man was English, the hated murdrum tax would be imposed on everyone in the area.

‘He wasn’t dead when you found him, was he?’ Simon pointed out.

‘If he was, I’d hardly have taken him to the hospital, would I?’

‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A brat: Art. He said there was a man in the ditch out there.’ He pointed through the gate. ‘I wasn’t going to believe him, but he was a persistent little sod.’

‘Did anyone see how he got there?’

‘If they did, they didn’t say. Since the famine fewer men are prepared to help each other. No one wants to be First Finder. I dare say several saw him and chose to forget him.’

Simon knew that. Too often people would ignore a body at the roadside; they’d all grown inured to the sight of the dead. Half the population had died during the famine. ‘Did this helpful child Art say how he found the man?’