Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  As Sir John threw the sword aside and grabbed urgently at his son, he felt his heart pound uncomfortably, and he cast one suspicious look at the weapon lying innocently on the ground, but then he was calling to the maids to bring him water to wash his son’s wound and cloths to bind it.

  No, it was only a sword, he told himself. Only a sword.

  ACT FOUR

  I

  Poitiers, France: September 1356

  Matthew de Curterne lay under the hedge near Nouaille Wood, praying no one would notice him. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the clash of arms and the screams of wounded men, and closed his eyes so he would not see the ground churned into bloody mud by the combatants’ feet. When the Black Prince had called for men to fight the French, Curterne had been proud to rally, retrieving the old sword from under his bed in Down St Mary, and selling his family’s silver to purchase armour and a horse. Brave men made their fortunes in war, and Curterne intended to return home wealthy.

  But the campaign had been a misery of torrential rain, burning heat, scant supplies and disease. And now the Black Prince was trapped at Poitiers by a French force far stronger than his own. Curterne scrambled away when a pair of desperate skirmishers came too close, and raised his sword to protect himself. When they had gone, he gazed at the weapon’s tempered steel blade and its dog-headed cross, hating it for making him think he could be a warrior when he had known all his life that he was nothing of the kind. He had always loathed any kind of conflict, and even the sight of blood made him sick to his stomach. It was the sword’s fault, of course. When he was a small child it had cut him badly–he still bore the scar across his palm–but the incident had made him nervous and hesitant with weapons, much to his tutors’ dismay and disgust.

  He glared at the blade, recalling how he had sensed it almost taunting him for his faint-heartedness when he had pulled it from its dusty hiding place all those months ago. He should have known it would bring him bad luck, and he should have resisted the urge to prove it was wrong about him. He ducked down again when a horse galloped past, its rider’s shield raised against a sudden hail of arrows. He fought back bitter tears, frightened to keep the weapon, but even more afraid to toss it away from him and leave himself defenceless. He curled into a tight ball and tried to picture the cool green Devonshire hills, and the peace of home.

  Just when he thought all was lost and the entire English army would be slaughtered, the enemy began to retreat, first as a trickle, then as a rout. Curterne crawled out from under the hedge, scarcely believing his luck–he had survived and the English had won against overwhelming odds! His four companions–men who had shared his campfire these last few months–came to join him, torn and bloodied from the encounter. Elias Askyl was first, his handsome face lit with savage joy, and his fair curls limp with sweat and dirt. Then came Philip Lymbury, the oldest, who had declared himself unwell that morning, but who had still fought with a courage Curterne found impossible to comprehend. Behind Lymbury was the sly Geoffrey Dole, his face awash with blood; Curterne felt queasy when he saw the injury that had deprived Dole of most of his nose. And lastly, there was William, plump and always cheerful.

  ‘What a victory!’ cried Askyl, elated. ‘This day will be remembered for all eternity, and so will the names of those who fought bravely.’

  ‘While those who skulked under hedges will be lost in ignominy,’ said Dole, his voice muffled through the cloth he held to his ravaged face. ‘We needed you, Curterne, but you ran away and hid.’

  ‘What were you thinking, man?’ demanded Lymbury furiously. ‘Your timidity might have seen us all killed.’

  ‘And you with that fine sword, too,’ added William. His normally smiling face was cold and unfriendly. ‘You disgust me.’

  They walked away and Curterne began to sob, feeling shame burning inside him like a wound. He was still weeping an hour later when he heard footsteps behind him. He fumbled for his sword, but the other man reached it first, and there was a sudden pain between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Stabbed in the back,’ said a soft voice. It was familiar–one of his companions, perhaps–but Curterne’s senses were reeling, and he could not remember the name. ‘It is a fitting end for a coward. You have brought shame on this fine weapon, but I have avenged it.’

  II

  Ickleton, Cambridgeshire: July 1357

  The rich agricultural land south of Cambridge was burned yellow by the summer sun. Crops swayed in the afternoon breeze, and a robin trilled in a nearby wood. The horses’ hoofs thumped gently on the baked mud of the path, punctuated by the occasional creak of leather and the jingle of metal. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge, closed his eyes, relishing the peace after the frantic bustle associated with the end of term.

  ‘This is a nasty place,’ said his travelling companion, Brother Michael, looking around him disparagingly. ‘It is all trees, fields and water-meadows, and we have not passed a proper building in hours. I wish Master Langelee had not sent us on this errand. The rent we receive from the manor at Ickleton is not worth this inconvenience, and my time could be better spent on other matters.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drowsily; Michael had been saying the same thing since they had started their journey at dawn that morning. Personally, the physician was quite happy to spend a few days away. Not only did it mean a respite from examining corpses–part of his duties at the University entailed inspecting the bodies of scholars who had died unexpectedly or violently–but Cambridge reeked in hot weather, and it was good to exchange the noxious stench of sun-seared sewage for grain-scented air. He began to relax for the first time in weeks. The previous term had been desperately busy, and it was a relief to be free of clamouring students.

  ‘I dislike haring around the country on second-rate nags,’ continued the Benedictine irritably, eyeing his horse with rank disapproval. ‘It is an outrage to provide a rider of my calibre with an animal like this. Langelee thinks of nothing but saving money these days.’

  ‘He does,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that Michael’s horse was far better than his own. The monk was fat, and Bartholomew had let him take the stronger of the two palfreys on the grounds that he did not think the other could have carried his large friend for the ten miles to Ickleton and then home again. It would have collapsed.

  ‘Our College owns Valence Manor in the parish of Ickleton,’ Michael rambled on. ‘And the man who lives there, Sir Philip Lymbury, pays us rent each spring. But this year, we have had nothing–except a letter informing us that he has donated our money to Ickleton Priory instead.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleagues’ outrage when the missive had arrived. He was more sanguine about the matter: Michaelhouse possessed the relevant deeds of ownership, and the courts would eventually order Lymbury to pay the outstanding debt. But lawyers were expensive, so instead, Master Langelee had decided to send two of his senior Fellows to find out what Lymbury thought he was doing. Bartholomew and Michael were to collect the outstanding ten marks–either from Lymbury or the priory–and return with it immediately. The money was earmarked to pay for new latrines, and Langelee did not need to stress the urgency of the situation to his two scholars: they had been complaining about the state of the old ones for months.

  Michael twisted around in his saddle. ‘Are you going to agree with everything I say, or do you actually possess a mind of your own?’

  ‘If I voice an opinion you will argue–but I presided over seventeen student disputations last week and I am tired of debate. Here is the ford across the Cam–barely ankle deep after all this dry weather–and Langelee said our manor lies just beyond that wood.’

  Michael led the way along a narrow track lined with ancient trees. ‘According to him, this copse is also part of our manor.’

  Bartholomew was about to acknowledge him with another monosyllabic answer, when there was a shout, followed by a lo
t of crashing. Suddenly, a deer burst from the vegetation in front of them, then tore away into the undergrowth to their right. It was a beautiful animal, with a coat of russet red. Moments later, three horsemen hurtled from the trees, and the leading one was obliged to rein in sharply to avoid colliding with Bartholomew.

  ‘Watch out!’ The rider was a sturdy man with a slashing scar across his face that rendered him all but nose-less.

  Bartholomew wanted to point out that he had not been the one careening wildly across a public highway, but his nag had been frightened by the abrupt commotion, and it started to buck. He was a poor horseman, and trying to control the beast took all his concentration.

  ‘Be careful, Dole!’ shouted the second man, directing his own horse in a tight circle to avoid the melee. He wore the half-armour of a knight at ease, and rode as if he had been born in the saddle. He was tall and strong, and his blue eyes and mane of golden curls rendered him extraordinarily handsome. ‘Lymbury’s peasants do not know how to ride.’

  ‘We are not peasants,’ objected Michael, moving forward to take the reins of Bartholomew’s horse before the struggling physician could embarrass him further. ‘We are scholars from the University at Cambridge.’

  ‘Have you seen a deer?’ asked the last of the three, trotting up with a smile. He was plump, genial and dressed in the dark habit of a priest. A domed hat kept the sun from his eyes. ‘A red one?’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, dismounting as soon as Michael stopped his horse from prancing. He felt a good deal safer once on solid ground.

  ‘It definitely came this way,’ said the fat priest. ‘I saw it myself.’

  ‘It must be over there,’ said Dole, flinging out a hand to encompass a vast swathe of woodland. He also wore robes that showed he had taken holy orders, although they were tempered by good boots and spurs. ‘It does not matter–the stag we caught yesterday will provide us with meat for a few days yet. And it is too hot for chasing around the countryside today. Shall we go home?’

  ‘Already?’ asked the second man–the knight. ‘We came out to practise our skills with weapons, and all we have done so far is wave our lances at the crows eating Lymbury’s corn.’

  ‘I did not enjoy using his sword to spar with you yesterday, William,’ said Dole to the chubby priest. ‘It may have fine balance and a good grip, but it is overly heavy for my taste.’

  ‘It is an excellent weapon,’ countered William. ‘It is a pity it was not put to better use last summer. That battle would have been over in half the time had it been wielded by a true warrior and not left in the hands of a coward.’

  The good-looking knight turned to the scholars when Dole responded with a tart comment and the two clerics began to bicker. ‘We three–and Lymbury–were at the Battle of Poitiers,’ he explained.

  ‘So was he,’ said Michael, nodding at Bartholomew, who looked anything but soldierly as he gripped his horse’s reins with obvious unease. Michael could see the knight did not believe him, so added, ‘He fought on foot.’

  ‘Why are you so far from your University?’ asked William, raising a plump hand to indicate he had had enough of his quarrel with Dole. Dole looked angry to be cut off mid-sentence. ‘Are you lost?’

  Michael gave a pained smile. ‘No, we have come to visit our manor. These woods belong to us–that is, to Michaelhouse.’

  William nodded in a way that suggested he was annoyed with himself. ‘You must forgive us, Brother. Of course we know Michaelhouse owns Valence Manor–and that our friend Philip Lymbury pays you rent each year. But we were so engrossed with the hunt that our wits were elsewhere. We shall take you to Lymbury immediately. I am William the Vicar, priest of Ickleton church. My companion here is Sir Elias Askyl, knighted for his courage at Poitiers.’

  The handsome knight nodded a polite greeting. ‘But I do not think Lymbury is expecting you. He said nothing this morning.’

  ‘You did not write, to tell him you were coming,’ said William, frowning his puzzlement. ‘I am his clerk, as well as his parish priest, and I read all his correspondence.’

  ‘He wrote to us, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘He said he was donating our rent to the priory.’

  William raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘He told me he was thinking about deferring payment, in order to raise enough to establish a chantry for his soul, but he did not say he had actually done it. He must have dictated your letter to the nuns’ chaplain.’ He waved a dismissive hand at his fellow cleric.

  ‘That is me–Geoffrey Dole,’ said the scarred man, shooting William a sour look for the unflattering introduction. ‘After we fought at Poitiers together, Lymbury arranged for me to be appointed chaplain to Ickleton Priory. I did not scribe your letter, though. One of the nuns must have done it.’

  ‘Lymbury gave me my Ickleton appointment, too,’ said William to Michael. ‘He is a man who knows how to treat old companions-at-arms.’

  ‘Here comes Sister Rose,’ said Dole, looking behind the scholars. He smiled politely and rather longingly at the woman who emerged from the undergrowth.

  Bartholomew turned to see a woman sitting astride a horse with an ease he immediately envied. She wore the habit of a Benedictine nun, but it had been shaped to show off the slender lines of her figure, and she had abandoned the matronly wimple in favour of a gold fret that kept her saffron-coloured plaits in place. Her eyes were black and her skin dusky, and Bartholomew wondered whether her ancestors had hailed from the hot lands of the south. Behind her, draped across the saddle, was a red deer with an arrow through its neck.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Askyl, regarding the animal in astonishment. ‘That is the beast we were chasing; I recognize its markings. Did you shoot it?’

  ‘Well, it did not jump on my saddle of its own accord,’ said Sister Rose with a coquettish smirk. She suddenly became aware of Michael, and the grin faded somewhat. ‘Damn! A Benedictine!’

  Bartholomew understood her discomfort, given the way she was dressed–and he could hear a distant bell announcing the office of nones; Rose was breaking several of her Order’s rules.

  Michael’s expression was stern. ‘My Bishop deposed a prioress of Ickleton five years ago for permitting licentious behaviour among her nuns. Perhaps her successor’s morals are no better.’

  Rose pouted prettily. ‘Sir Philip Lymbury invited me to hunt–to give me an opportunity to exercise his horses and provide fresh meat for my sisters. What is wrong with that? Besides, the party includes Chaplain Dole and William the Vicar, so it is all perfectly respectable.’

  Michael’s expression said there was a very great deal wrong with that, particularly since he was not convinced that the clerics in question were particularly righteous ones. But before he could speak, there was another thud of hoofs, and two more people appeared. One was a large lady in a tight green kirtle. Her head-dress was in disarray, and she made a hasty attempt to straighten it when she spotted Askyl. The second was an elderly nun on a mule, who looked as though she heartily wished she were somewhere else, and who winced as though riding caused her pain.

  ‘You should have waited,’ said the woman in green, regarding Sister Rose angrily. ‘It was unkind to ask us to put the deer on your horse, then canter off alone. Tell her, Sir Elias.’

  ‘Very mischievous,’ said the knight uncomfortably, not looking at either woman. ‘You should probably apologize.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Sister Rose coolly. She turned to Michael again. ‘This is Lady Joan Lymbury, wife to the lord of several local manors, which she thinks makes her better than the rest of us. And my escort, to keep me free from sin on this wicked outing, is Dame Pauline de Gras.’

  Pauline looked Michael up and down with sharp black eyes. ‘The Bishop is always sending spies to learn why our priory is poor, and you have the portly look of an Ely monk about you. Have you come to paw through our accounts again–my accounts, since I am the only one there who can write?’

  Bartholomew struggled not to l
augh. He had visited Ely Abbey, and had never seen so many well-fed men; Michael had appeared positively slender beside some of the monstrous girths that waddled through its cloisters. Michael regarded her icily, he disliked people commenting on his weight.

  ‘I may inspect them, if I feel it necessary,’ he replied stiffly. ‘However, the main reason for our visit is to collect the rent from Valence Manor.’

  ‘That may be difficult,’ said Pauline defiantly. ‘Lymbury gave it to our priory, and we are in desperate need.’

  ‘So is Michaelhouse,’ said Michael tartly. ‘And if you saw our latrines, you would know why.’

  ‘But we need the money for food,’ argued Pauline. She eyed Michael’s paunch meaningfully.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dole, ‘you wrote the letter to the scholars, did you, madam? Telling them that Lymbury had given Michaelhouse’s rent to—’

  ‘What letter?’ demanded Pauline. ‘I have scribed no letters–especially ones that bring greedy men here in an attempt to deprive us of something that was freely given. Do you think me a fool?’

  ‘You are in an awkward position,’ muttered Bartholomew in an aside to Michael, when Sister Rose and Lady Joan started to quarrel about who had shot the deer, both vying for the attention of the god-like Askyl. ‘You have your College on one hand, and a house of your Order on the other. You may find your loyalties conflict. Do you want to return to Cambridge, and leave me to deal with this?’

  ‘You are not sufficiently cunning,’ replied Michael in a whisper. ‘And sly nuns will take advantage of you. I do not like the look of their companions, either–those dubious clerics or that pretty knight. We should stick together if we want to best them.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ announced Dame Pauline, flailing with her heels in an attempt to move the mule. It snickered angrily and continued to eat grass. ‘My bones ache from all this bouncing about–just as I told the prioress they would. Is this any way to treat the only literate woman in her convent?’