The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘Well, there wouldn’t be any curse to speak if monks didn’t have that scroll,’ Ben retorted, scarlet with indignation.

‘Lad’s right,’ the old man said. ‘Who knows what other curses they’ve got written down on their bits of parchment. Someone should go in there and burn the whole lot of it, every last scrap, just to make sure they can’t call up something worse.’

‘And who do you think is going to do that?’ the man on the cart sneered. ‘You going to volunteer, you old fart?’

‘Whole town will,’ the woman said sourly, ‘and they’ll burn the cathedral down too if the demon that haunts that tower snatches another soul.’ She swivelled to face Ben. ‘Here… I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’re that brat played Isaac, aren’t you?’

An angry rumble ran through the beggars. The woman started towards Ben, clambering awkwardly over the beggars sitting between them. Several of the other beggars were also trying to heave themselves up. Ben scrambled to his feet and fled.

He was already several yards away when he heard the creak of the wooden gate opening behind him and the sudden clamour for alms. He stopped and cautiously turned around. The beggars had forgotten him in their desperation to attract the attention of the two monks in the open gateway. The brothers were handing out loaves of bread from one basket and kitchen scraps from the other, a random assortment of whatever the almoner had cajoled from the cook or gardener. An onion was dropped into one begging bowl, a small measure of withered beans into another, a lump of cheese into the next. The favoured ones were given pork bones, albeit with much of the meat cut from them, but still with enough remaining to make a coveted addition to the cooking pot. Those who had received only beans howled with envy.

Ben jiggled anxiously from foot to foot as the beggars stowed the food in sacks or under threadbare cloaks and shuffled off, glancing warily around them as if they feared cutpurses might be lurking to snatch their loaves from them. Even the man on the little cart had managed to claim his share by dint of ramming his cart hard and repeatedly against the ankles of those in front. The monks’ baskets were emptying fast.

Ben made up his mind and rushed forward, trying to wriggle his way to the gate. But the beggars, even the old ones, were well practised in the art of blocking those behind them, while thrusting forward their own bowls. When Ben finally reached the front he was dismayed to see the monk preparing to close the gate. He clutched at the monk’s basket.

‘Please, I need a loaf and some beans. I’ve a sister and two little brothers at home – my mother too. We’ve no food left and my father…’ he hesitated.

He wasn’t convinced that the monks would share his mother’s view that if they’d imprisoned his father, they should be feeding his family. Besides, there were still a few beggars remaining, pressing forward like him, their ears wagging.

‘My father’s dead,’ he finished in a rush and was immediately seized with a terrible panic, as if now that he had said the words they would come to pass.

‘Too late, it’s all gone, lad,’ the monk said, tipping the bread basket to prove to them all not a crumb remained. ‘He had the last loaf,’ he said, indicating with a jerk of his chin the man on crutches with the bandages over his eye hopping away from the gate. ‘Give thanks to the Blessed Virgin you’re sound in limb, boy. At least you’ve a chance of finding work to help your mother. Poor wretches like him haven’t.’

Ben stared resentfully at the back of the man. ‘But it isn’t fair, he isn’t even a cripple,’ he yelled.

The monk, already with his mind on other things, would scarcely have registered this remark had it not been for the howl of protest that rose from the half-dozen beggars who were still milling around the gate, as frustrated and angry as Ben at having been denied their alms.

One of them roughly grasped Ben’s arm. ‘How do you know he’s no cripple?’

Ben had blurted it out even before he’d realised how he knew, but now he thought about it. ‘That leg he’s dragging – it’s as thick as the good leg. Not like his,’ Ben pointed to one of the other beggars in the little group, who also supported his weight on a crutch. ‘His crippled leg’s no more than a stick next to his good leg.’

‘The lad’s right!’ the beggar said. ‘That leg should be wasted if he can’t use it.’

The man was still hopping away up the road, oblivious to the growing commotion behind him at the gate. The monks threw down their baskets, and with a surprising turn of speed raced up the road. Before the beggar even knew what was happening they had seized him, one on either side, and were dragging him back towards the gate. The man’s crutches clattered down onto the stones as the beggar struggled to break free, but the monks managed to keep their grip on him.

They had almost dragged him back as far as Steeple Gate when the almoner appeared, bristling with anger.

‘Who left the gate wide open and unattended?’ he began, then seeing the beggar struggling between the two sweating monks, he took a step forward, frowning.

‘What’s all this? Why have you laid hands on this man?’

‘He’s an averer,’ one of the monks spat. ‘Pretending to be crippled to get alms, and taking food from the mouths of those who are in genuine want.’

A growl of fury went up from the other beggars.

‘Is that so?’ the almoner said grimly. He seized the beggar by the front of his filthy shirt, almost pushing his face into his. ‘It’s wicked enough to steal from the needy when food is plentiful, but with harvests as bad as they were last year, we certainly haven’t any to waste on scoundrels like you. I’m going to ensure you’re made an example of, my lad. I’ll see to it that you’re whipped bloody for this.’

The other beggars grinned their approval, all except one who was quietly slinking away, no doubt thinking he had come perilously near the same punishment.

The averer was fighting to free himself, while at the same time begging for mercy.

‘I didn’t take the food for myself, it was for my poor bedridden mother, I swear.’

The almoner was unmoved. He reached up and tugged at the end of the filthy bandage covering half the man’s face.

‘I warrant this is false too and we’ll find a good eye beneath here.’

The man desperately tried to extricate himself from the monk’s grasp. ‘No, I beg you. The pain! I can’t bear the pain of the light in that eye. It’s agony. Don’t!’

But it was too late. The last twist of bandages was torn away to reveal a somewhat crumpled but unblemished face and a second eye as bright and blue as its twin.

For a moment Ben gaped up at the figure in disbelief. ‘But you’re dead!’

‘You recognise this man?’ the almoner said.

Ben, his eyes bulging like a frog in fear and bewilderment, could only nod his head.

‘Well, who is it, boy?’ the almoner demanded in exasperation.

‘He’s the angel. He’s Martin.’

The almoner didn’t trouble to disguise his glee when he bustled into the prior’s hall at the head of the small procession comprising the two monks, Martin struggling between two lay brothers and, nervously bringing up the rear, the small figure of Ben. There was always a certain amount of rivalry and squabbling between the obedientiaries who held posts of responsibility in the priory. And it was no secret among the brothers that Prior Alan blamed his subprior for all the misfortunes of the last few weeks. Now here was another humiliation. Stephen had men combing the fens for Martin’s murderer, and all the time the victim had been very much alive and sitting at the priory gate.