Murder Most Medieval

by Martin Greenburg

  “It is simply a beggar woman,” the chief cook said. “We see many of them at the kitchen. She was probably beset by thieves.”

  “A beggar woman beset by thieves? That does not seem likely.” Maude stepped outside. She knew why the staff was protecting her. The woman wore garments that Maude recognized from the town’s stew.

  “She is a harlot, Milady,” the chief cook hissed. “Please. It is not right for you—”

  “Enough!” Maude said. She crossed the flagstones and crouched beside the woman.

  The woman smelled of sweat and fear. She was so thin that all the bones in her hand were visible. Her face was swollen and bruised, her teeth blackened and nearly gone. Yet Maude was certain the woman was younger than she.

  Her surcoat had once been a rough wool, but time and use had worn it to nothing. There were several tears in it, recent tears, that rendered it nearly useless. She wore nothing underneath, and Maude could see scars beside the fresh bruises.

  “Milady,” the woman murmured.

  Maude put a hand on the woman’s forehead. No fever. She could not see where the blood came from. “Who did this to you?”

  The woman touched her bloody garment. “Not mine.” She spoke so softly that Maude could barely hear her. “Anne’s.”

  Maude felt a shiver run through her. “Where is Anne?”

  The woman looked toward the forest beyond, and the road that led back into town. “I could not help her any longer…”

  It was then that Maude looked at the woman’s feet. She wore no hose and no shoes. Her right arm, Maude suddenly realized, was twisted in an unnatural way.

  “Help me get her inside,” Maude said to the chief cook.

  “No, Mistress,” the woman said, but Maude ignored her.

  The chief cook crossed his arms. “Milady, she is—”

  “One of God’s children,” Maude said. “We shall take care of her.”

  The chief cook sent out scullions and the indoor grooms. Apparently, the cook was too good to help a woman in need.

  The men slipped their arms beneath the woman and she moaned. Maude wondered how many other bones had been broken.

  “Place her in the servants’ quarters and send for the wet nurse,” Maude said. Her wet nurse knew potions and herbs and healings. She had cursed the doctors when she saw what they had done to Maude’s husband, saying that if Maude had brought her in sooner, she could have saved him.

  Considering that she saved the steward, who later fell to the same disease, Maude believed her.

  The quarters where she had them take the woman were for the greater servants. They had rooms of their own, with cots stuffed with straw, instead of mattresses on the floor. This room had been empty since her husband died. She had lost a few servants and hadn’t had the energy to replace them.

  The men laid the woman on the bed. She was paler than she had been before, and her eyes were glassy with pain.

  “What are you called?” Maude asked.

  “Mistress, your man, he is right about what I am.”

  “Do not argue,” Maude said. “You are here now. What are you called?”

  “Joan.”

  “Joan,” Maude said. “Who did this?”

  Joan closed her eyes. At that moment, the wet nurse appeared. She held a towel as if she had just left the young lord, and her surcoat was not properly fastened.

  When she saw the woman on the bed, her gaze met Maude’s. “Milady, you know—”

  “I know,” Maude said. “See what you can do. She’s been badly beaten and her arm is broken.”

  The wet nurse nodded. She came inside, put a hand on Joan’s forehead, and then began to examine her. Maude stood.

  The men were still crowded inside the room. It was as if they saw Joan as a curiosity and nothing more.

  “Come,” Maude said. “We shall find this Anne.”

  HALFWAY TO TOWN, THEY found what remained of Anne. She lay in a crumpled heap beside the road, her limbs bent at unnatural angles. Her face was bloodied, as if her nose had been broken, but that was not where all of the blood came from.

  She had knife wounds on her hands and arms, and another through her belly. The dry road contained a black trail, as if she had lost blood the entire way.

  Joan had carried her on a broken leg, until she could come no farther.

  Maude turned to the head groom who had accompanied her. She took one of Anne’s cold, damaged hands, and held it out to him.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked.

  He shrugged. He could barely look at her. “This is not your concern, Milady.”

  “Of course it is,” she snapped, startled at the tone that came out of her mouth. Had she ever spoken to anyone so harshly? “This is my land.”

  He looked at her then, and it seemed as though there was pity in his eyes. It made her bristle.

  “What becomes of these women,” he said, “is their choice.”

  “I doubt anyone would choose to die like this,” Maude said. She ran her fingers over the deep wounds. The skin had parted so far that she could see muscle. “I believe she was trying to defend herself.”

  “Be that as it may, Milady,” the groom said, “she knew what such a life would bring.”

  Did she? Did anyone? Maude remembered the day after her marriage, as she rode in her husband’s carriage to her new home, the estate she now ran. Had she known that day how many miscarriages she would have? How the first babe born to them would die three days later in so much pain that his little wails broke her heart? Had she known then that she would love her surviving son so much that it hurt?

  Of course not. And the greatest surprise of all had been how badly she missed her husband, now that he was gone.

  “You know something of these women then?” she asked her groom.

  He flushed. “Only what I have overheard in taverns, Milady.”

  She narrowed her eyes, not believing him. “They are from the stew, are they not?”

  He nodded.

  “Is such treatment common there?”

  His flush grew deeper. “Milady, I am not—”

  “I am a woman married and widowed,” she said. “I am not unfamiliar with such things.”

  “There are perversions, Milady, that I cannot speak of to a gentle-born lady.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Perversions that would result in this?”

  He looked away from her. His skin was the color of dark wine. “There are men who enjoy inflicting pain.”

  She shuddered once and decided that perhaps he was right,-she was not ready to hear such things. Still, a woman had died on her land and another had come to her for help.

  “What do you think they were doing here?” she asked. “Where do you think they were going?”

  He shook his head. He knew, as well as she, that no one would have taken the women in.

  The hand did not feel human. It was too cold, the flesh hard.

  “We shall give her a Christian burial,” Maude said.

  “Milady! She deserves no such treatment.”

  “Did you know her then?” Maude asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Then you do not know who and what she was. Like me, you can only guess. And I choose to guess that she was a godly woman. You shall send some men to bring her back to the house. We shall place her in the chapel, find her suitable clothes before the priest arrives, and have him say a few words over her.”

  “He will not like this, Milady.”

  “He will not know,” she said.

  “How will he not learn of it?” the groom asked. “So many have seen her, so many already know.”

  She raised her head, anger making her feel stronger than she had for almost a year. “If anyone speaks of this,” she said firmly, “he will be fired.”

  The groom’s eyes widened. She had never been this cold before.

  He nodded once. “As you wish,” he said.

  BECAUSE OF HER DUTIES to young Henry, the wet nurse enlis
ted the aid of two kitchen maids and a chambermaid, all of whom, the wet nurse said, also had knowledge of healing.

  Maude was amazed that she knew so little of her staff. They bowed to her when she came into the room. It now smelled of wine and camphor. While Maude was gone, Joan’s sore feet had been cleaned and bound with cloth, her bruises rubbed with hot stones, and her broken arm set and splinted.

  But she was awake, her eyes dark against her pale face.

  “Leave us for a moment,” Maude said to the servants.

  They bowed again and slipped through the door. Maude took Joan’s hand. It was fragile as a bird’s wing, but at least it felt alive, warm and callused, the bones delicate against her palm.

  “Anne is dead,” Maude said.

  Joan closed her eyes for a moment, and nodded. It was as if Maude’s words made the death real.

  “I am giving her a Christian funeral,” Maude said. “She is in the chapel. If you are well enough, you may attend.”

  Joan bit her lower lip. “You do not want me there.”

  “Of course I do,” she said.

  “Tis not a place for me.” Joan bowed her head.

  “Our Lord did not think so,” Maude said. “Mary Magdalene was of your profession, yet she was at his side.”

  Joan squeezed Maude’s hand. “You are a good woman. I did not mean to burden you.”

  “It is no burden.” Maude put her other hand on top of Joan’s. “Who did this to you?”

  “Milady, it is not for you to hear.”

  “I am so tired of everyone telling me what I may and may not hear,” Maude said. “I have lived more than a score of years, and I know of the stew and the men who frequent it. Now, stop protecting my dainty ears and tell me who did this to you.”

  “A man,” Joan whispered. “I do not know his name.”

  “Is he the same one who killed Anne?”

  A tear eased out of Joan’s right eye. “No.” “Yet you left together.”

  “She would not have been hurt if not for me.” “Tell me,” Maude said, and so Joan did.

  THE STORY CAME OUT in fits and whispers, sometimes lost beneath the choking sound of Joan’s heavily drawn breath. A man—a customer—had ill used her, and Anne, seeing how badly Joan was hurt, went to William, the stewholder, asking him to send for a doctor. He refused and demanded that Joan, who was popular, finish her night’s work.

  Anne returned to Joan’s room and bundled her up, taking, bread from the kitchen, and rolled it and some clothing in two; blankets. Anne had heard of nunneries that took in Daughters of Eve—the Order of Saint Mary Magdalene—and they would travel until they found such a place.

  Anne was helping Joan out of the stew when William found them. He accused Anne of stealing, and he drew a knife. He cut her, and that brought him to a frenzy. He attacked her like a madman, and did not stop. Joan could not help her.

  Blood spattered her face, and then his, and that seemed to awaken him from his fit. He left them in the road outside the stew, left them, Joan believed, to die.

  She managed to lift Anne over her shoulder, holding her in place with her good hand. Somehow she managed to make it to the middle of the forest before she fell, unable to go on. There she realized that Anne’s eyes were open and unseeing, that Anne; was not drawing a breath.

  She remembered no more.

  “I do not even think I saw your manor,” she said. “I was just walking because I did not know what else to do.”

  MAUDE DID NOT KNOW what to do either. She sat in her private chamber, head bowed. But she did not ask for God’s aid. Somehow she felt that God’s presence was in none of this.

  The stewholder, she knew, had rights over his women. He could prevent them from leaving. He could punish them for an obvious theft. But Maude did not believe the theft of bread and blankets was sin enough for this. She did not believe that women who sought to better themselves deserved to die by the side of the road, to be left there like discarded clothes.

  It took her an hour to come to her decision.

  And then she sent for her steward.

  HE WAS A MAN of some years, thin after his illness, his hair gone except for graying tufts at the sides. Her husband had trusted him implicitly and Maude had trusted him as well. His advice had been sound, his care for the estate excellent.

  He seemed uncomfortable to be in her private rooms. He waited, with the door open, for her instruction.

  “Have the sheriff arrest the stewholder,” she said. “His name is William.”

  “Milady,” the steward said. “Since your husband’s death, we have had no magistrate.”

  She nodded. “I will sit in judgment,” she said.

  He stared at her for a long moment, as if she were not someone he recognized.

  “What would be the charge, then?” the steward asked.

  “Murder,” she said.

  SHE HELD THE HEARING the next day. She sat in her hall as the sheriff brought in William the Stewholder. He was a portly man whose scarlet tunic was made of an expensive serge and whose shoes were lined with fur.

  He looked as if he could afford the loss of a blanket or two.

  His hands were shackled, but his feet were not.

  When he saw her, his face flushed the color of his tunic. “I’ll not sit before a woman!” he cried.

  “You have no choice,” she said in her new voice, the voice that had been born of this experience. “I am the trustee of my husband’s lands, and until my son comes of age, I am the one who runs them.”

  “That means she’s the magistrate,” the sheriff said, shaking William.

  “Did you,” she asked, “stab a woman named Anne?”

  “She stole from me.”

  “Enough to warrant two dozen wounds?” Maude asked.

  “The price of theft is death!” he shouted, spittle coming from his mouth. Apparently, he felt that she would only understand him if he yelled.

  “I determine the price of theft on these lands,” Maude said, amazed she could sound so calm. “Those women were injured. They wanted medical care.”

  “Only one was injured,” he said.

  “Yet you wanted her to work.”

  He shrugged. “She’d done it before.”

  Maude stared at him for a long moment. He stared back, unrepentant.

  “I sentence you,” she said, “to a pilgrimage. You shall visit holy sites until you learn the meaning of humility.”

  “How shall that be judged?” the sheriff asked.

  “I believe it will take many years,” she said. “Perhaps your pilgrimage shall be eternal. I shall think on it and come to that decision by the morrow, when you shall be shipped out.”

  “You cannot do this,” he said.

  “We’ve already established that I can.”

  “Those whores you’re so worried about will have no one to manage them.”

  She felt cold. She hadn’t thought of that. She looked at the sheriff. “You shall bring them here. They shall learn useful work.”

  “Milady, they may leave, but that will not stop someone else from opening a stew,” the sheriff said.

  “I am aware of that,” she said. “But at least it will not be William here.” She waved in dismissal. “Take him away.”

  THAT EVENING, SHE SAT alone in the chapel as the priest sent Anne’s soul on its way. Joan had been too ill to come. It would take many weeks for Joan to heal.

  By then, Maude hoped the men she had sent to find the nearest Order of Saint Mary Magdalene would have returned with good news.

  For it did not matter how a woman was born, as a daughter of Eve, or a daughter of Mary, she deserved to live a life free of brutality and pain.

  Maude lived such a life, but she had not known it until now. And it had taken a sight that most would have shielded her from to teach her that she had strengths she had never expected.

  She would hold these lands in trust for her son. And when he came of age, she would give them to him gladly, better than t
hey had been when she came to them.

  Better, because she had made them so.

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