Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘So why did Curterne take it to Poitiers, then?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It sounds as though he thought it might be cursed in some way.’

  ‘He had no choice,’ explained William. ‘He had spent all his available money on horse and armour, and had no means to buy a different weapon. But perhaps he exaggerated his concerns, thought it was less likely to be stolen if folk believed it might bring them bad luck.’

  ‘No, he should have left it in Devonshire,’ argued Dole. ‘He said the first time we met him that there was something odd about it.’

  ‘Those were stories he invented around the campfire to entertain us,’ said William dismissively. ‘I am surprised at you, Dole, unsettled by silly tales with no truth or basis.’

  ‘Then why did Lymbury’s luck change the moment he acquired the thing,’ demanded Dole, unconvinced. ‘A wife unable to give him an heir—’

  ‘It has only been a year,’ objected William, laughing. ‘Give the poor woman a chance!’

  ‘—sheep killed by mad dogs, fires in his granaries,’ Dole went on, cutting across Joan’s indignant response. ‘And Curterne told me it was called the Sword of Shame, and only a fool would willingly take charge of a weapon with that sort of name.’

  ‘So, why did you draw lots for it after Curterne’s death, then?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘It does not sound as though it is the kind of weapon most men would want to own.’

  ‘Superstition is for the feeble minded,’ said William, smiling fondly at the blade. ‘I am not afraid of ghosts, and neither was Lymbury. I imagine Dole–and perhaps Askyl–would have sold it, had they won the draw. But I would have kept it. These ridiculous tales are a nonsense, and besides, the inscriptions carved into its blade suggest it is a thing of honour.’

  Bartholomew took the sword from him. He was no soldier, but even he could tell it was a fine one. He studied the words etched into the steel: qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore. There was too much blood to read the second inscription, but it seemed to condemn miserly men.

  ‘It warns against telling lies,’ translated Michael, rather loosely. ‘A man who lives out his days in defiance of the truth will lose his soul, as well as his honour. So, let that be a warning to anyone who might be tempted to mislead my investigation.’

  ‘We should start from the beginning if we want to reduce the length of Sister Rose’s list of suspects,’ said Bartholomew, setting the weapon carefully on a nearby bench. ‘When was the decision made for everyone–except Lymbury–to go hunting?’

  Lady Joan indicated with an imperious flick of her hand that Hog was to wipe Lymbury’s chair clean of blood. Then she sat in it, shuffling and testing it for size. A satisfied smile indicated she found the fit a good one. ‘The decision was made last night, by dear Sir Elias. He is an honoured and most welcome guest, so my husband was pleased to oblige him.’

  ‘I dislike being idle,’ explained Askyl. He watched William take the weapon from the bench and begin to admire it again. ‘A man who haunts the dinner table will find his military edge blunted, and we never know when the Black Prince might need warriors again.’

  ‘My husband sent word to the priory, to invite Sister Rose to take part,’ Joan went on. ‘I did not approve. The likes of Sister Rose should be on her knees, confessing her sins. Perhaps she should ask absolution for the crime of murder right now.’

  Rose did not dignify the accusation with a response, and, aware that both women were looking at him for a reaction, Askyl kept his face carefully neutral.

  ‘I own some small skill with weapons,’ said Rose modestly, shooting Askyl a sultry smile. ‘My father was a soldier, and he thought women should know how to defend their virtue.’ She ignored Joan’s snort of derision. ‘Sir Philip was impressed with my talents, and always included me on his hunts–so I could provide meat for my sisters at the priory.’

  ‘I am impressed with your talents, too,’ gushed Dole, regarding her admiringly. ‘We could have done with you in France.’

  She inclined her head, then addressed Michael. ‘I came to Ickleton Priory three years ago, and I am still deciding whether to devote my life to God. My family say they do not mind waiting.’

  ‘That is because you have no dowry,’ said Joan immediately. ‘So, it does not matter to them what you do. I, of course, am a wealthy widow, and so I am highly desirable.’ She looked hard at Askyl, to make sure he had taken the comment on board.

  ‘Wealth and desirability do not always go together,’ remarked Rose cuttingly. ‘But we are talking about me, not you. It was Sir Elias who brought the invitation to me last night.’

  ‘I did–but not with any intention of securing your company for myself,’ said Askyl, earning a hurt look from Rose and a triumphant grin from Joan. Bartholomew wondered whether money was already winning the battle against beauty. Askyl saw he had caused offence, and hastened to explain. ‘I mean I did not intend to entice nuns from their devotions on my behalf.’

  ‘But you did just that,’ said old Dame Pauline sulkily. ‘And I was forced to pay the price. Racing around after deer at my age! It is all wrong, and I shall write to the Bishop about it. Prioress Christiana is not fit to rule our house–she cannot even read. I am the only literate woman there.’

  ‘So you remind us day and night,’ sighed Rose, stepping smartly to one side when William made a trial sweep with the sword that came perilously close to her elegantly tailored habit.

  ‘You say you are visiting Lymbury,’ said Michael to Askyl. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A few weeks,’ replied the knight. ‘I have no family of my own, so it is good to be among friends–Lymbury, William and Dole. Lymbury has been very generous with his hospitality.’

  ‘You are both priests?’ asked Bartholomew of the chaplain and vicar, wondering whether William had been ordained; an interest in weapons was something he should have forsworn.

  Dole nodded. ‘We took holy orders when we returned from Poitiers. I did it out of a conviction that I had killed too many Frenchmen–along with the fact that I am unlikely to secure a bride with no nose. War has made me ugly, I fear.’

  ‘That is not true,’ said Rose. Dole’s eyes blazed with sudden hope. ‘Joan will have no trouble getting a suitor–now her husband has left her a fortune–and she is ugly.’

  Dole’s eager expectation faded abruptly, while hot colour rose in Joan’s cheeks.

  ‘We shall see who secures the better husband,’ said Joan coldly. ‘You regard yourself a beauty, but you are swarthy and you dye your hair. Mine is naturally fair.’

  ‘Ladies, please!’ snapped Michael, when the altercation looked set to continue for some time. ‘A man lies dead, and you should be ashamed of yourselves, quarrelling over hair. Now, Dole: you were telling us why you decided to become a priest.’

  Dole nodded again, and looked at Bartholomew. ‘If you were at Poitiers, you do not need me to tell you that while it was a glorious victory for England, there was something deeply distasteful about so much killing. I was detailed to help bury the dead afterwards, and it took days. When Lymbury told me it was in his power to appoint me as chaplain to Ickleton’s nuns, it seemed right to accept.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Michael of William, who was removing Lymbury’s blood from the sword with some spit and his sleeve.

  ‘Ickleton needed a vicar, and I needed somewhere to live,’ replied William. ‘Priests have been in short supply since the plague, and villages are grateful for whoever they can get.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Michael. ‘But there are some standards, even so.’

  ‘Dole and I both know Latin,’ said William, as if he imagined this to be the sole criterion. ‘And Lymbury liked me to write out his various wills and manage his domestic accounts in addition to my parish duties. Like most military men, he was illiterate.’

  ‘Lymbury offered you and Dole comfortable posts, but gave nothing to Askyl?’ asked Michael, turning to the knight.

  A
skyl shrugged. He was standing by the hearth, poking the ashes with a stick and careful to stand precisely equidistant from his two female admirers. Bartholomew wondered whether he knew how fine a figure he cut in his half-armour and nonchalant pose.

  ‘I am a knight, not a priest,’ said Askyl. ‘He asked me to be his bailiff, but I think Hog might have had something to say about that.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Hog firmly. ‘My family have served his for generations, and I would not have stood by while I was ousted.’

  ‘Nor would I,’ said James, who had returned with Dame Pauline’s wine. ‘It would not have been right. My family has always been loyal to the Lymburys.’

  ‘What will happen now he is dead?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is Joan his sole heir?’

  ‘I shall have to dig out his most recent testament and see,’ said William. ‘He kept changing his mind, and I cannot recall what he said the last time.’

  ‘It will leave everything to me,’ cried Joan, suddenly alarmed. Rose started to laugh.

  ‘I do remember that his friends were remembered, though,’ said William, still polishing the sword. He smiled, rather nastily. ‘Call it self-interest, if you will, but that little detail stuck in my mind.’

  The discussion quickly degenerated into another row, and this time even the two servants joined in. Michael rubbed his temples, letting the furious voices wash over him, while Bartholomew went to sit next to him and wished he was back at Michaelhouse. His restful jaunt was becoming unpleasant.

  ‘We are unlikely to get our ten marks now Lymbury is dead,’ said the physician to Michael. ‘And if several wills exist, all contradicting each other, we shall have to wait for lawyers to sort them out.’

  ‘That could take months, and we need new latrines now,’ grumbled the monk. ‘Besides, a man has been murdered, and I doubt these people will see justice done–they are too wrapped up in their own concerns. I do not think I have ever encountered so many blazing hatreds under one roof. At least we scholars keep our dislikes decently concealed under a veneer of civility.’

  ‘Then you had better resume your questioning, or you will have another death on your hands. Dole’s surliness has finally shaken William’s equanimity–and William is holding that sword.’

  ‘The so-called Sword of Shame,’ said Michael thoughtfully, watching the vicar grip the hilt. ‘Is it valuable, do you think? It looks to me as if William intends to keep it for himself.’

  ‘All good weapons are expensive, and that one is better than most. Perhaps he knows Lymbury left it to him–or perhaps he added a codicil without Lymbury’s knowledge, to be sure he inherits it.’

  ‘We know Lymbury could not read, so a dishonest clerk could write whatever he liked and be sure of having it signed and sealed. Is William dishonest, do you think?’

  ‘He is not a very devoted priest–he is not rushing to take Lymbury’s body to his church and pray for it. But dishonest? I suppose that depends on how badly he covets that sword.’

  While they had been talking, Dole had opened a chest and retrieved several documents. He regarded them with exasperation. ‘Here are his wills, but none is dated, and several are unsigned. Lawyers will be wrangling over these for years.’

  ‘This is your fault,’ shouted Joan, real tears appearing at last as she glared at William. ‘You were his clerk–you should have made sure they were in order.’

  William was smug. His flash of temper with Dole had cooled, and the sword lay on the bench, gleaming from its recent polish. ‘Those are just drafts. The latest will–signed and dated–is in a safe place. Lymbury was fond of his riches, and liked thinking about where to bequeath them.’

  ‘All this is very interesting, but it is not helping us learn what happened to him this morning,’ said Michael. ‘What time did you all arrive for the hunt?’

  ‘Sir Elias and I were already here, obviously,’ said Joan, going to stand at the knight’s side, ‘since we live in the manor-house. William arrived next, then Dole, and finally Rose and Pauline.’

  ‘It was horribly early,’ said Dame Pauline bitterly. ‘Before breakfast. It is not good for elderly—’

  ‘Hog and James were here, too,’ interrupted Joan. ‘They had already saddled the horses, and came inside to eat a bowl of pottage with us before we left.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Michael. ‘Just after dawn?’

  ‘Much later,’ said Hog icily. ‘Dawn has different meanings for men who need to make the most of daylight hours, and I had been in the fields for some time before I came to prepare the horses. James and I ate the pottage while we waited for the nuns to arrive. Then, eventually, after more valuable time was lost in idle chatter, they all trooped outside and mounted up.’

  ‘But not Lymbury?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not?’

  ‘After the pottage, he decided to forgo the pleasures of the kill and think about his last testament instead,’ replied Askyl. ‘It was not the first time. As William says, he enjoyed composing them.’

  ‘Did anything happen to make him think he might need one soon?’ asked Michael.

  ‘He had aching bones,’ supplied Pauline, rubbing her hip. ‘Like me. But he was not ill.’

  ‘Was there an argument, then?’ Michael raised his hands. ‘Forgive me: that was an extremely foolish question, given the present company. What I meant to ask was: was there an argument more bitter than your usual quarrels, which prompted him to alter the terms of his most recent will?’

  ‘We do not know the terms of his most recent will,’ said Dole, regarding William coolly. ‘Someone will not tell us what they are.’

  ‘They are confidential,’ said William. ‘But you will all know tomorrow, because I shall read them to you. I refuse to do it today, while the poor man is still warm. It would be disrespectful.’

  ‘Unlike playing with his sword,’ muttered Dole.

  Michael tried to steer the conversation back to that morning, and was obliged to raise his voice when everyone started to yell at William for his hypocrisy.

  ‘So,’ said the Benedictine, once he had silenced everyone by picking up the sword and dropping it to the floor with a metallic clang. William squeaked in horror, while Hog was furious about the damage to the highly polished floorboards. ‘You all rode away to hunt.’

  ‘James did not,’ said Joan. ‘He stayed here to make sure Philip had everything he needed.’

  The boy swallowed. ‘Sir Philip sat in his chair and stared out of the window. Eventually, he said he had thought long enough, and told me to fetch William the Vicar. I looked in the meadows, then down by the river, but there was no sign of him. Then I met Prioress Christiana, who asked me to carry eggs to the convent for her. But by then I was hungry, so I went home for some bread.’

  ‘You were eating, when you should have been following orders?’ asked Joan accusingly.

  James blushed and stared at his feet. ‘I am sorry, My Lady, but I did not linger at home long. I finished the food, then ran to the upper pastures. But William was not there, either. It was only when the whole hunt was coming back to the manor-house that our paths finally crossed. By then, I had been racing around for hours.’

  Bartholomew recalled the boy’s flushed face when they had first met, and imagined the Lord of the Manor must have been growing impatient, being forced to wait so long for the priest to arrive.

  ‘Did you go back inside the house at all after Lymbury had sent you to fetch William?’ he asked.

  James shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I did not. He would have been angry to see me without the vicar, and I am not a fool. I just told you everything I did.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘So, no one can confirm where you were for most of the time?’

  ‘I saw James leave the manor-house,’ said Hog. ‘We are short-handed from losing men in the French wars, so I was in the top field on my own. But I saw James leave, and I did not see him go inside again until you all arrived back from the hunt. James cannot possibly be the killer.’

&
nbsp; ‘He can–if Lymbury was dead before James left the house,’ Michael pointed out.

  ‘Well, he was not,’ said James firmly. He raised his chin defiantly, trying to mask his unease. Bartholomew felt sorry for him–his was an unenviable position. ‘He was alive. I did not kill him.’

  ‘Of course you did not,’ said Hog soothingly. ‘You have no reason.’

  ‘Except the possibility of losing a hereditary post to Askyl,’ said Michael. He raised his hand when Hog started to object. ‘I am not saying James did kill Lymbury. I am merely pointing out that he has a motive and he was the last person to see Lymbury alive. And the same goes for you, Hog, as far as motive is concerned. You say you were working alone, so it is possible that you slipped into the house after James had left, and killed the man who was thinking of dismissing you.’

  ‘It was wicked of Sir Philip,’ said Hog sullenly. ‘I have spent my whole life on this manor, and he had no right to threaten my position. But I did not kill him for it.’

  ‘So, the hunt eventually comprised Askyl, William and Dole, accompanied by Rose, Joan and Pauline?’ asked Michael thoughtfully. ‘James was searching for William, and Hog was in the fields?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Askyl. ‘So we six hunters are innocent of this murder, because we were away from the house.’

  ‘You remained together all day?’ asked Michael.

  ‘We are not wolves, hunting as a pack,’ said William scornfully. ‘Of course we did not stay together. Sometimes we were in pairs, sometimes in threes, sometimes alone.’

  ‘The woods are not far from the hall,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So, any of you could have come back, killed Lymbury and returned to your sport with no one any the wiser.’

  The six looked at each other. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ admitted Askyl. ‘But we did not. Someone would have seen us–one of the peasants in the fields.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Hog, a little smugly. ‘At William’s request, I sent them to the far meadows today–as I informed the hunt as it left. No labourer would have noticed anyone moving between house and woods.’