Lucifer's Harvest

by Mel Starr

  The chapel was of stones, crudely finished many centuries past, I believe, with a slate roof. The building was no more than six paces wide and eight deep, there were two windows, covered with oiled skins, on each side, to light the interior, and the door stood open. Four candles burned between bier and altar. I would have preferred to move Sir Simon out of the chapel, where better light might tell me more of his death, but thought that Sir John might object. This, however, proved unnecessary.

  Sir Simon had been washed and lay covered with a black shroud. Where Sir John could have found such a winding cloth in the midst of a siege I know not.

  I moved the candlestands to Sir Simon’s head to provide as much light as possible and began my examination. I expected to find a lump or laceration upon the rear of his skull where some man had delivered a blow with a bucket.

  Rigor mortis had faded long since, so I could easily turn Sir Simon’s head. When I did so his misshapen ear was turned to me and I was reminded of my clumsy attempt to stitch the organ back to its proper place. Next time I will know better how to proceed.

  I carefully inspected Sir Simon’s skull. He had begun to go bald, emulating his father, which made the examination some easier. I found no lump or cut which might indicate where a blow had fallen. This did not surprise me greatly. If a man is slain by a blow to his head and dies immediately, often no swelling, or very little, will appear. I cannot tell why this is so.

  But I found no wound, which did surprise me. I was convinced that Sir Simon had been rendered unconscious, then dropped head first into the well, where he drowned. The blood upon the bucket seemed to make this a logical assumption. Perhaps the reddish stain upon the bucket was not blood. If it was, the blood did not come from the back of Sir Simon’s skull, for there was no laceration there. I could not credit this, so examined the scalp again, with the same result.

  Sir John had watched me carefully, and when I went the second time to the rear of Sir Simon’s skull he said, “What have you found?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You seem troubled. Why so?”

  I told Sir John of the bucket at Couzeix’s well, and what I assumed had taken place at the well. He listened with pursed lips. I believe he began to think me innocent of Sir Simon’s death, if he had ever really thought me responsible. Perhaps, I thought, I may no longer fear the shadow of a noose above my head.

  I peeled back the shroud from Sir Simon’s upper body to seek some other wound or sign of injury. The bloodied bucket yet puzzled me. If Sir Simon was struck somewhere on his body below the neck by a bucket, even a blow which would tear open his skin and cause blood to flow, ’tis unlikely that he would have swooned and been rendered incapable of defending himself. And those who had prepared his body for burial would have seen such a wound and surely reported it to Sir John. So whence came the blood on the bucket? And was Sir Simon dead before he went head first into the well?

  “Who of your men drew Sir Simon from the well?” I asked.

  “Osbert and John were there, since it was they who found him. Three others.”

  “Fetch them. Before I seek other sign on Sir Simon’s corpse I must ask of them a question. I don’t need all five. Two or three will do.”

  Several of Sir John’s men had followed us to the chapel. He sent one to do my bidding and urged the fellow to make haste. He did so, and John and an older man soon entered the chapel, peering about in the dim light as their eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight beyond the chapel door.

  “Master Hugh has need of you,” Sir John said by way of greeting. John and the other turned to me. I thought John seemed pale, but perhaps ’twas the dim light, or the presence of his friend’s corpse.

  “When you drew Sir Simon from the well, and when you carried him back to camp, did water issue from his mouth?”

  The older man looked to the squire for a moment, then spoke. “I never seen any water. Did you?”

  John shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  “Why do you ask?” Sir John said. “Why might this be important?”

  “I’m not sure that it is,” I said. “But if Sir Simon fell into the well by mischance, yet breathing, and there drowned, his lungs would fill with water. Some would leak from his lips, I think. If he was dead when pitched into the well, there would be no water within his lungs, for his breath would have already stopped.”

  “Ah,” Sir John said. “I see.”

  If Sir Simon drowned in the well, I thought, and no water was seen issuing from his lips when he was lifted from its depths, then perhaps his lungs were yet filled and pressure applied to his chest might force some out. I explained the thought to Sir John so that he would not mistake what I was about to do.

  “Hmmm. Well, do what you must.”

  I asked Arthur’s help and together we turned Sir Simon so that he lay upon his stomach. I took a position before Sir Simon’s waxen face, opened the lips, and told Arthur to press firmly upon Sir Simon’s back. He did so. No liquid came from the opened mouth.

  I told Arthur to press down again, more firmly this time. Few men could do so more forcefully. Arthur did as I requested, and so close was I to Sir Simon’s mouth that I felt air flow from between his lips. I drew back from the stink of death. Air had come forth, but no water.

  “What have you learned?” Sir John demanded.

  “He did not die of drowning in the well, I think. He was dead before he went into it.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “Certain? Nay. Few things in life are certain.”

  “Then ’twas felony, and no mischance.”

  “Aye. Did those who found Sir Simon seek his clothes?”

  Sir John shrugged. “Dunno … I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t wonder why he was found naked?”

  “Wasn’t naked, truly. Had on his kirtle and cotehardie. ’Twas only his chauces and braes that were gone. I wondered more at why he was found dead. What happened to his clothes seemed less important at the time. And I thought if Lord Gilbert searched your tent later, we’d find his apparel.”

  “You may search when you will. You’ll find none of Sir Simon’s garments in Lord Gilbert’s camp.”

  “Not now, when you had opportunity to discard them.”

  Sir John was not so ready to give up his belief in my guilt as I had thought.

  Arthur and I rolled the corpse to its back and I continued the search for a fatal wound. A few years past I had encountered a similar puzzle when a guest at Bampton Castle was found dead in his bed of a morning. ’Twas as much luck as wisdom which led me to the cause of the knight’s death. A bodkin had been thrust through the man’s ear, into his brain, whilst he slept. The wound was nearly imperceptible.

  With this fresh in my mind I examined Sir Simon’s ears, nose, mouth, even his navel, for any evidence that these had been pierced. There was none.

  When Arthur and I had turned the corpse to its back, the arms we allowed to lie beside the corpse rather than across the breast with hands folded, as we had found Sir Simon upon his bier. This bier was narrow, so as I sought for some fatal wound, his left arm fell from the platform and dangled straight down. This seemed an undignified posture, even for the dead, and so I grasped the cold flesh to replace the limb upon the bier. As I did so a slight discoloration caught my eye.

  The hair of Sir Simon’s armpit nearly obscured this anomaly. Rather than place the arm across the chest, as had been, I lifted it vertical to see more clearly what mark was there.

  ’Twas a wound, nearly hidden in the foliage which sprouts in such a place. Why will a man become bald upon the top of his skull as he grows old, yet have the fur of a squirrel’s tail under his arms till the day he dies?

  I saw no blood. If there had been bleeding when the puncture was first made, immersion in the well had washed it away. The soaking had caused the skin about the cut to pucker, so that I could see that the wound was no insignificant scratch. The blade had not been slashed across Sir Simon’s side. The
cut was little longer than the width of my thumb, but deep. A dagger had evidently been thrust into Sir Simon’s heart and lungs from under his arm.

  Sir John watched my examination but from where he stood could not see what had caught my eye. But he saw that something was amiss.

  “What is there?” he said. “What have you found?”

  I motioned for him to come close, held Sir Simon’s arm high, and said, “Look there.” Sir John did so.

  “What is there? What is that mark?”

  Because the chapel had but four skin-covered windows, and there were few candles, a close inspection had been necessary to identify the wound as made by a dagger. I moved a candlestand near and told Sir John to look closely. A man who has seen battle has seen wounds made by daggers thrust into a man. Sir John knew well what he then saw.

  “Slain,” he said.

  “Aye. So I believe,” I replied.

  “But, if not you, whoso hated my son as to do murder?”

  “You would know better than I,” I said. “I wished to have as little to do with him as possible. Who were his friends? Who was he likely to go off with in the night?”

  “A friend would not slay him.”

  “Friends may have quarrels, and do things in heat that they later rue.”

  Sir John did not respond to that assertion. Perhaps he was considering which of Sir Simon’s friends might have had a falling out with him. I spoke again.

  “Where are his chauces and braes? And his dagger? If they are found we might learn something from them of this felony. And was there no cut in his cotehardie to mark the place where he was stabbed?”

  “I saw a seam opened, so I thought, under the arm of his cotehardie. But there was no bloodstain there. Mayhap water from the well washed the blood away. And no point in seeking his garments in his tent,” Sir John said. “He’d not go off half naked.”

  “Aye. Unless the murderer took clothing and dagger, perhaps to sell, the garb will be somewhere near to Couzeix, likely hidden.”

  “Will you seek it?” Sir John asked.

  “Aye. This day. I and my men will go to Couzeix. Some of your lads might come also. The more searchers, the greater chance of discovery. If there is anything left in Couzeix to discover.”

  There was.

  To assist me in searching Couzeix, Sir John sent John the squire and the older groom who had helped fish Sir Simon out of the well. With Arthur, Uctred, and William we were six searchers. If we could not find Sir Simon’s clothing in Couzeix, it was not likely to be found anywhere. John did not seem pleased to be assigned this work. He had already found a corpse. Perhaps he thought that his obligation in the matter of Sir Simon’s death had been discharged.

  At Couzeix I assigned each of the searchers two houses and their accompanying sheds and barns. I walked to the end of the village where a more substantial house abutted the churchyard. This, I thought, was likely the vicarage.

  Nothing of value remained in the house. The priest had fled the village with his parishioners, taking with him all that he possessed. Behind the vicarage was the village’s small tithe barn. A large, crude iron lock was fixed to a hasp which in turn fastened an iron bar across the door.

  I tugged at the bar and felt it move. Several iron nails driven through a hinge secured the bar to the hinged side of the door, and these were loose due to the age and desiccation of the jamb. I pulled vigorously upon the bar and it came free in my hand. I wondered that no man before me had done the same.

  Three slit-like, skin-covered windows, purposely made too narrow for a man to slip through, gave some light to the interior of the barn. I saw there three sacks, filled with grain and perhaps also peas and beans. Vermin had gnawed a hole at the base of one sack, and barley spilled out upon the packed earth of the floor.

  I carefully examined the sacks, but found no sign that they had been recently moved. No garments were hidden under them. Two sacks, however, had been opened and peas and barley taken. When, I could not know. Perhaps the priest had taken from his store before he fled. If the village priest was as poor as his parish he would have no cart, nor beast with which to draw it. What grain he could not carry would need to be left behind, locked away, for the priest’s return. The barn had no loft, so nothing could be hid in the rafters. I left the barn and entered the church.

  The font was locked, of course, so witches could not get holy water for their black arts. The lock was heavy and had been greased with lard or some such stuff. There was no sign that any man had tried to pry the lock from its hasp or force open the lid of the font. And who would think to hide braes and chauces in a font?

  I peered under and behind every object and table in the church. I even tested the altar. It was fixed firmly to the flags. The stubby tower rose over the west entrance to the church. A ladder gave access to the upper room of the tower. A bell hung there, but elsewise the small chamber was empty of all but cobwebs. I descended to the ground and walked slowly about the church once again. ’Twas then I noticed the threadbare curtain hung across the Easter Sepulcher. The drape was so old and faded it was not thought worth taking, either by the vicar or by pillagers. And who would risk the wrath of God by absconding with such a sacred object? I idly brushed the timeworn velvet aside, expecting to find nothing there of import. ’Twas the yellow cap which first caught my eye.

  The cap, with its long liripipe, lay atop brown chauces, and beneath the chauces I found white linen braes, all of these garments carefully folded. Were these Sir Simon’s? I remembered seeing him wear brown chauces, and his usual cap was yellow. Whose clothing would be cast off in such a hidden place but for a man who would no longer need the apparel?

  A man in a hurry would not have placed the clothing so neatly. Why do so, I wondered, even if haste was not required?

  I lifted the braes and then the chauces, seeking a cut or bloodstain on the fabric. I found nothing on either article. Were these not Sir Simon’s dress? If not his, whose, and why would such be hid away in an Easter Sepulcher? If the garments were Sir Simon’s, and I felt certain that they were, had they been removed before he was pierced? By whom? Did Sir Simon disrobe himself? If not, who had required that he do so? Discoveries in the matter of Sir Simon’s death were raising as many questions as they answered.

  I had found no dagger with the clothing. I remembered the weapon well. ’Twas finely made, and worth a shilling or two, but there was little distinctive about it. And no shoes were in the Easter Sepulcher. One dagger is much like another; likewise shoes. A felon could carry these off and use or sell them with no one the wiser.

  I took the garments and departed the church through the tiny porch. I had told my companions to meet at the well when they had completed searching their assigned places. Uctred and John were there, empty-handed, which, after my discovery in the Easter Sepulcher, was no surprise. John saw me leave the church, spoke, and Uctred turned. Together they gazed at the bundle in my arms and the squire backed away.

  “Are these Sir Simon’s chauces and cap?” I asked John.

  “Aye. You’d see yellow caps like his, but not of that pale hue. Not in the camp, anyway.”

  Within minutes Arthur, William, and Sir John’s older groom had completed their searches and joined us at the well. No one had seen shoes or dagger. William had discovered an old, discarded, moth-eaten tunic, but Sir Simon would not have owned or worn such apparel.

  “Odd, though,” William said. “Tunic wasn’t in a house. ’Twas in a barn, tossed in a corner.”

  We were on our way from the village when William’s discovery caused me to hesitate.

  “Where is the barn where you found the cast-off tunic?” I said.

  “Just there,” he pointed, “behind second house.”

  “We will see what is there,” I said, although at the time I had no notion that a worn tunic could have anything to do with Sir Simon’s death.

  William led the way through the overgrown toft to the ramshackle structure. Several chinks in the daub all
owed air, light, and vermin into the barn, and the thatching was rotted and thin.

  The door stood open, and William stood aside from it so that I could enter. Holes in walls and roof allowed enough light that the dark fabric was visible upon the lighter straw.

  “Is this where you found it?” I asked William as we gazed upon the tattered garment.

  “Nay. ’Twas in the corner, just there, as if ’twas thrown there.”

  The tunic was surely ancient. ’Twas nearly threadbare and worn through in several places, and the hems at neck, sleeves, and the base of the tunic were frayed.

  I lifted the tunic for a closer examination. It was worth little, but to an impoverished villager even such shabby garb would have some value. Why was it left behind when the householder fled?

  And why the straw? There was no sign that any beast had made the barn a home. No manure littered the pounded earth of the floor. The straw covering a part of the floor seemed fresh, cut this year after the harvest, perhaps only a few weeks ago. With holes in the roof and walls of the barn, straw would soon become wet and moldy. Why would a man scatter fresh-cut straw if he knew he was to abandon his place to seek safety elsewhere?

  I am unsure if my curiosity is due to my service to Lord Gilbert, or to a natural nosiness. But I was not satisfied with any explanations for the tunic and the fresh straw which came to me. I lifted the tunic from the straw, took it to the toft, and in the sunlight laid it upon the earth.

  “What you searchin’ for?” Arthur asked.

  “Don’t know,” I shrugged. “Does it not seem odd that this ragged tunic should be found in a decrepit barn with a layer of fresh straw nearby?”

  Arthur pulled upon his beard and considered my words whilst I knelt in the dirt to examine the tattered wool. Whoso had previously worn the tunic had dark hair. Close examination yielded three long brown strands. I held them up to the light. These did not come from Sir Simon’s pate, I thought. He was fair, nearly blond, whereas these hairs were near to black. And each was as long as my forearm. Here were hairs from a woman’s scalp.