Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

‘What does that mean?’

  Denis sneered. ‘He is always looking for another ale or wine or wench from the vill to slake his lusts. He often goes out and doesn’t return for a day. Usually he’s up at the inn at Bow, although sometimes he rides out as far as Spreyton. He wasn’t at the castle itself.’

  ‘Did you ride out?’

  ‘No! I was working on matters for Sir William in my chamber. I am no murderer!’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘I think it’s clear enough why the man died here. He was chased from the main road, hurried to here, where he was killed at bay.’

  ‘Why would the man want him here?’ Simon wondered.

  ‘The nearest house would be the miller’s,’ Denis said helpfully. ‘Perhaps he sought safety there?’

  ‘Perhaps. How did madam Alice react to Coule turning up at the castle?’

  ‘She was surprised, I think. Who could have expected him to arrive unannounced?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I was in my chamber, and later I heard the master ask where the man was, and that was that.’

  ‘No hue and cry?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No one thought he had stolen anything, let alone the sword. He was the family’s enemy, but he was often at the castle.’

  ‘What of the miller?’ Simon asked. ‘Millers often have disputes with others when folk reckon the miller’s charging too much. Is there bad feeling generally about this miller? Or was there any between Coule and the miller themselves?’

  ‘Them? No. Not that I’ve heard. Hob is a good man. Not the sort to upset people. He’s fair in his business.’

  ‘Did Hob and Coule get on well?’ Simon asked, squinting back along the track they had taken. ‘Could Hob have killed him and stolen the sword?’

  ‘What would a miller do with a sword?’

  There was no answer. Simon looked westwards. ‘This path goes to the mill? Where then?’

  ‘It turns north up to Bow.’

  ‘Where did this Coule live?’

  ‘Up near Clannaborough Cross’

  ‘Which is where, roughly?’

  Denis sighed. ‘It’s over the boundaries of my lord’s lands. I don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should guess, then,’ Simon suggested nastily.

  ‘North east, I suppose.’

  ‘So when he came down here, Coule was not heading even remotely in the right direction,’ Simon noted.

  ‘Why come this way, then?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘I think we ought to ask this helpful miller.’

  Hob was at his vegetables when he heard the horses approaching, and he stood up, leaning on his shovel. It was rare that a man would come this way to visit him. His mill was popular when there was grain to be milled, but now, in the early summer, there was little custom.

  A good thing, too. While the river was full and the waters rushed past the mill’s wheel, he could often find himself overwhelmed. Luckily that tended to be after the harvest, and when the grain was dried well enough. Now, though, was the time when he tended to look to the cogs and see to it that his machine was in excellent condition for when the people brought in their valuable sacks. And made sure that his own garden was growing well.

  ‘Masters,’ he called as the three men appeared, and eyed them cautiously. A man was wise to be wary.

  Baldwin snapped. ‘You are Hob the miller? I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace. My friend here is bailiff to Abbot Champeaux.’

  As he explained that he wanted to ask about the man Hob had found, Hob nodded resignedly. ‘Aye, master. I’ll answer any questions you have.’

  ‘Did he often come this way?’

  ‘Coule? No, hardly ever, I’d say. He’d take the direct road. Now and again he would come here when he had need of my mill–their manor’s mill broke last year and they had to use ours.’

  ‘We heard that he was at the castle to discuss some matter that was before the courts. It is thought that he died on his way home afterwards. Do you know of any affair that could have brought him this way?’

  Hob gave a shy grin at that. ‘I’m just a miller, sir. They don’t talk to me about things like that.’

  Simon nodded, and said, ‘Tell us about the day you found the body. Where was it, and did you see anything odd about it?’

  Hob sighed, let his hoe fall, and jerked his chin towards the mill. ‘You want an ale? It’s hot out here doing the garden.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Simon said with a smile.

  ‘But sirs, you were supposed to be coming with me to Bow to meet my lord, Sir William,’ Denis objected.

  ‘You may tell him we’ll be with him when we’re ready,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I can’t say that to my master!’ Denis protested.

  But then, looking at Baldwin’s steady eye, he found that in all likelihood, he would prefer even Sir William’s wrath to this man’s.

  ‘This is the best ale I’ve tasted in some weeks,’ Simon said, smacking his lips.

  ‘You dislike the ale at my home?’ Baldwin growled. ‘You drank enough of it!’

  ‘It is good, but this, this is nectar!’

  Hob smiled and nodded at the compliment. ‘I learned brewing early. When a man spends his life breathing in the dust from the flour, any drink takes on a new importance!’

  ‘So tell me, Hob,’ Simon said. ‘What is all this about the man who died? We’ve heard how unpopular he was with the serfs on his estates, and it seems that the de Tracys had cause to dislike him, if the rumours about his stealing the sword are true.’

  ‘Was there any sign of a sword near the body?’ Baldwin asked.

  Hob spat into the dirt of the floor and studied the puddle gobbet. ‘If it was, I wouldn’t have touched it!’

  Simon and Baldwin exchanged a baffled glance. It was Baldwin who asked mildly, ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you know what that sword was? It was the assassin’s weapon.’

  Simon smiled with blank confusion. ‘You say that Sir William or Roger his brother is a murderer?’

  ‘Not them, no. But it was Sir William de Tracy who was there with the other murderers when they martyred the saint.’

  ‘Good Christ!’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Of course!’

  Simon looked blankly from him to Hob. ‘What?’

  ‘De Tracy…I had forgotten my history. You have forgotten the martyrdom of St Thomas? At Canterbury?’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘St Thomas a Becket sought to confound the king, and the king shouted out to demand whether no man would rid him of his troublesome priest, so they say. Three of his knights, seeking his approval, took to horse that same night and crossed the channel at their first opportunity. They rode as swift as death to the cathedral, and there they slayed the archbishop in his own church.’

  Simon crossed himself. ‘To murder in a church…they must have been mad!’

  ‘This is that very sword that Sir William de Tracy used to execute the poor saint. So you’ll see why I wouldn’t touch it myself,’ Hob said. ‘I couldn’t. It must be cursed.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Simon asked.

  Baldwin answered, speaking softly. ‘He and the other three rode on many adventures, but their crime would not leave them. The guilt and shame was ever at their minds. They rode from Canterbury to Sussex, and there while they ate, the very table on which they had placed their armour and weapons tipped up and threw the lot onto the floor. As it became clear that they were shunned by all men, the King advised them to ride north to live in Scotland, for the Pope had excommunicated them for their crime, but when they arrived, they found that the king of the Scots wanted them arrested, and the people wished to see them hang. So they rode back mournfully to the king whom they had tried to serve. None would sit with them, nor share a meal with them. Even the dogs refused the scraps from their bowls.

  ‘The king had no jurisdiction, for this was a murder of a clergyman in a church. He had to ask the pope what should be done with the three. The pope urged that the three should fast and
live a life of continual penance, and that they should be banished from the country and travel to the Holy Land where they might take up arms against the Saracens. De Tracy became a Knight Templar, I understand.’

  Simon understood his quietness suddenly. Sir Baldwin had been one of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and had only survived the persecution, torture and slaughter of the suppression of the holy order because he had been out of the Temple in Paris when his comrades were all arrested. Yet there was more: a quizzical, doubtful expression had come into his eyes.

  Simon looked at Hob. ‘Is that true? Did de Tracy die in the Holy Kingdom?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. The sword came back only two years ago, though, Sir. It was Sir Humphrey, Sir William’s father, who brought it back. He was there in Acre at the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. I think he found it again while he was abroad–in Acre or on his way there–and brought it back for his family.’

  Baldwin frowned pensively. ‘He was at the siege?’

  ‘One of the few brave men who travelled there to defend our faith and Christ’s birthplace,’ Hob agreed.

  ‘You reckon he found it out there?’ Simon said. ‘How would he know it was his ancestor’s sword?’

  ‘There are ways,’ Baldwin said, but in his mind’s eye, all he saw was that terrible battlefield: the great city of Acre, last stronghold of the crusaders, being reduced steadily by the thundering artillery of the hordes outside. The crash and rumble of masonry collapsing as the great rocks were flung at them by the catapults, then the shrieks as the enemy managed to enter the city, swords dripping with blood, eyes filled with the desire for slaughter. There were many died there.

  ‘Yes, well, maybe there are,’ Simon conceded. ‘Yet a man would have to be entirely convinced to think a sword found so long after being lost was the correct one, surely?’

  ‘The man who sold it told of its provenance, I suppose,’ Hob said vaguely. ‘Sir Humphrey, Sir William’s sire, must have been assured. He looked on it as a sign that his family’s crime was forgotten. God had forgiven them.’

  ‘Sir William was happy to have it returned to him, I suppose?’ Simon said, ignoring Baldwin’s derisive snort.

  ‘Hardly! He is pious. To be named for the ancestor who executed a poor saint, that was bad enough, but to have the sword brought back as well! I think he felt it was cursed–and that was easy to believe since Sir Humphrey died soon after he returned. He had a fever that burst his heart. Many say that the sword should be destroyed for its crime against St Thomas.’

  Simon nodded. He had always been prone to an awareness of atmosphere, the sense of evil, the feeling of a devil’s presence–the sort of thing that Baldwin laughingly called ‘superstitious rubbish’, but which Simon knew was a proof of his sensitivity. There had been times when…but Baldwin would only laugh. Still, a sword that ended such an important life would likely be cursed until blessed in church to expiate the crime.

  Baldwin had no patience with such feelings. ‘Well, if you believe that a sword can take on a man’s guilt, that is fine. Perhaps it ought to be destroyed…but for now, I think I should like to find this weapon and see whether it was used to murder Coule. We have heard that he was unpopular with the villeins on his estate, but was there any one man who hated him enough to murder him?’

  ‘Perhaps only his own master.’

  ‘This man Sir John de Curterne?’ Baldwin snapped. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Sir John always wanted placid, untroubled serfs. Coule wanted his peasants cowed.’

  ‘Sir John is enlightened, or he has suffered in the past from mutiny and rebellion?’ Baldwin asked.

  Hob considered. ‘I think a little of both. He’s no weakling, but his father used to bully the folk too much and he did have a rebellion. Sir John wants no repeat of that. His trouble is, Coule never feared him. The man was determined to get his own way, and he’d argue with his master in front of the villeins.’

  ‘Any fool who tried that with me would get a taste of the lash himself,’ Baldwin growled.

  ‘I think it was close with him. When he disappeared, they thought he’d gone on pilgrimage. Everyone could believe that! He had lots to be forgiven for!’

  ‘He didn’t fear losing his position and livelihood?’ Simon said.

  ‘I never saw him afraid,’ Hob said.

  ‘Sir John is well rid of him,’ Simon said. He motioned to the sky. ‘It’s growing late, Baldwin. If we’re to get to the town and then back, we should ride on soon.’

  Sir John de Curterne was generally a mild-mannered man, and he smiled indulgently at his young son, Matthew. The two-year-old was steady on his legs, and was beginning to talk as he ran about the hall, grasping at balls, sticks and any and every other bauble that took his fancy. He was a son to be proud of. Sir John felt sure that he would be a brave, bold fellow as he grew. The idea made him grin to himself. He had no desire to force his son into a particular mode of thinking or behaviour.

  His own father had tried to do that with him. Sir Edward had been convinced that his eldest son, Godfrey, would be a bold, adventurous man with a good estate behind him. He had seen to the marriage with Alice to take over her manors, for her father was wealthy and had no son. Sir Edward had done all he could to promote Godfrey, seeing to his training with a master of defence, acquiring a cleric to teach him how to read and write, as well as the arts of management of estates. He had done well, and until that dreadful day when Godfrey had drowned, he had been a model young warrior.

  And then he died, and before long, when Sir John was still a young fellow, his second brother died when the ox fell on him, and suddenly Sir John was the sole remaining heir and must learn a new life of responsibility and duty.

  Now in his early thirties, he was proud that he was not at all like his father. Sir Edward had been more keen to impose his will on all those who lived on his lands, and on upholding the ancient liberties and privileges of the manor. Over time the continual struggle had harmed the family. Too much money was extorted from the vills on his lands, and the peasants grew impatient with the constant demands for more taxes, until at last he had been forced to resort to armed strength to keep them quiet.

  Not for Sir John a life of litigation and strife. He preferred to negotiate and agree terms that were acceptable to all. His peasants were generally passive, content with their lot. Complaints were few, and he could count on the peasants working harder, now their profits were taxed more sensibly. He was farming his serfs more effectively than his father ever had. It was a source of pride to him, as was his reputation for coolness in adversity and his ability to remain detached and affable under the worst of provocations.

  Today, though, as the man was brought to him, he sat back and felt the anger begin to bite at his heart. It was hard to remain in the same room as this arrogant prickle.

  ‘So, Master Roger. You wished to speak with me?’

  ‘Your tone is so bitter, Sir John. Do I deserve your enmity?’

  Sir John eyed him calmly. For a moment or two he did not speak.

  It was long before the birth of either of them that the argument over the land had first risen; it had been back in the days of old Sir Hugh de Curterne, who had received the lands from King Richard. All this trouble over Bradninch stemmed from that transaction.

  When they had all been lads, none of them had cared about the affair. They had been boys together, playing as equals: Sir William with Godfrey, Ralph and John with Roger. Then, when Godfrey died, William appeared to withdraw from that world. Everyone had thought it was because he had always been fonder of Godfrey, but John knew different. He had spoken to William not long afterwards, and William had told him that his family was little better than thieves. They had taken his manor of Bradninch from him, and he would do all he could to retrieve it. Now Sir William would never speak to him unless there was absolutely no alternative, as though it was Sir John’s fault that Bradninch had been taken from hi
m. The fool!

  Yet if he was a fool, this brother of his was a snake, and a snake all the more poisonous for the apparent friendliness. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Oh, Sir John, there’s no need to be suspicious,’ Roger said, holding his hands up in mock hurt. ‘I am here to help.’

  ‘Why would you want to help me?’

  ‘Why should I not? You are a close neighbour, after all.’

  ‘Don’t piss lies into my ear! Whatever you give freely, you give because you want something in return.’

  ‘In that case, let me be frank,’ Roger said. ‘I have heard that my brother is considering giving up the secular world. You know he is a keen, pious man? He feels the urge to go into a convent most keenly. Since he has lost our family’s most precious possession, shame is likely to hurry that ambition.’

  ‘The sword?’ Sir John said. He leaned forward, elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his fist.

  ‘The sword. While he possessed it, it was a source of immense embarrassment, naturally, and now he’s lost it, he’s keen to hide himself from the world–urgently, before anything comparable can arrive to unsettle him.’

  ‘What’s all that got to do with me?’

  ‘The sword has to remain hidden. If it is found, Sir William will stay. If it’s gone…then he will go too, and I will become master of Nymet Tracy. And I’d be a better neighbour than my brother.’

  Sir John leaned back again, his head tilted as he studied his guest quizzically. ‘You’re a devious little bastard, aren’t you? You murder my man, take the sword from him, and now you say you want me to take it from you and hide it? Why? To protect you? After you murdered my man?’

  Roger’s smile broadened. ‘I’ll bring it here for you and your family. For all time, as a proof of my friendship. We were comrades once. Why can we not be so again? It is very valuable.’

  Sir William was in the market hall, an open building with rough wooden palings to act as a screen from the worst of the weather, when Denis appeared riding slowly down the high street. He rose, walking out to the roadway as Denis drew to a halt.