by Mike Ashley
“Sword?” Sister Harley turned her aristocratic face to Austin. “But no one in the village has a sword.”
“Nor the ordinary robber,” added Austin. “By the cut, the blade was fresh and keen, not some chipped castoff a robber might carry. This blade would be swung from a noble hand.”
An ugly silence fell in the room. England in these unhappy times needed a strong man to lead her, but our Henry VI was made of straw. Local bullies rose and everywhere defied the helpless law. Our local bully was Lord Ranulf Fitzralph. Rich and with friends at court, he took what he wanted and none dared gainsay him. From what we all knew of him, it was not beyond reason that he might amuse himself by killing a villein.
“But this means he’s gone too far at last,” I said. “Sister Harley, send word that I want to see John Freemantle the instant he returns. We will send him to the Sheriff and then with a letter to the bishop.” For Ranulf could defy the Sheriff, defy even the King; but no man would dare defy the Church. And this was Church business; Frick Cotter was, like every villein in Deerfield Village, the property of Deerfield Abbey. By killing him, Lord Ranulf now found himself at the mercy of not just me, as abbess, or even the bishop, but the Church itself, Vicar of Christ on earth.
It was two hours later that the abbey Mass priest, Father Hugh of Paddington, asked to see me. He is a small, brown fellow, rather common, but he knows the ways of the village, and said he had some information about Frick Cotter to impart.
“My lady,” he said from his humble kneeling position, “I am most distressed to report that Frick Cotter was murdered by someone in the village.”
“Nay, Father Hugh; Austin reports the wounds on the body would indicate a sword killed him. We need to raise our eyes to Sir Ranulf to find the doer of this wickedness.”
Father Hugh rose – the floor of my quarters is tile, nearly as hard as stone, so I require no one to remain kneeling long. “Ah, I wish it were that easy. But I have seen men done to death by the sword, and a closer look at Frick’s body tells a different tale.”
I recalled that he had in truth seen men injured in battle, while Austin had not. I asked, “What weapon do you think did this, if not a sword?”
“A billhook, perhaps. But I think it was more likely a scythe.”
The workers in the meadow today had been cutting hay with their scythes. I had heard some of them whistling merrily as they departed along the road home about half an hour before Austin left for the village – to find Frick’s body, freshly killed.
“But surely not,” I said. “No one of our own villeins could do a murder.” Especially when I had my heart so firmly settled on at last ridding the area of Lord Ranulf. “Who among them would do such a thing?”
“I believe, my lady, that old Frick’s gossiping ways may have caught up with him.”
I stared at him. “Then you know who it was?”
“No, no, not yet. But it appears Frick was not such a gossip as we thought. That is, for a price, he would not tell all that he knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he would go to someone whose secret he had discovered, and say that for two cabbages, or a loaf of bread, or a chicken, he would not tell anyone that this someone had feigned sickness to get out of his boonwork plowing in the abbey fields.”
“Who feigned sickness?” I demanded.
“No one, Madame,” replied Hugh, not covering in time the smile tweaking his mouth; “I but used that as an example. But I have learned two secrets Frick knew about, and that the owners of the secrets were angry with him. It’s near Vespers now, too late to continue my search. But with your leave, I will go back in the morning and see what more there is to learn about Frick’s little enterprise.”
“You think it was one of these two who killed Frick, to keep their secret from being told?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it was another, whose secret I don’t as yet know.”
“But if you can’t discover all the secrets, how will you know who did this wicked thing?”
“Madame, I shall trust God to show me the truth.”
I said very well and dismissed him, thinking Father Hugh an unlikely sort of vehicle for trusting in. He is popular among our villeins, who find him more approachable than their own priest, but that’s because he is shabby, clumsy and unlearned, just like them.
The next day Father Hugh came to me about mid-afternoon with a report. I summoned Sister Mildred, in charge of lay labor, and Sister Harley, my chaplain, to hear it with me.
“I feel there are but three men who might have done this deed,” said Father Hugh. “One is Jack Strong. He’s the fellow who claimed a bit of waste near the forest and fenced it and has been raising parsnips in it this year. And enriching the soil with the bones and other scraps of the deer he and his son Will have been poaching.”
“Jack Strong has been poaching deer?” said Sister Harley, surprised.
“Yes, of course he has,” I interjected. “Sister Mildred told me about it months ago. He’s only taken three in the past two years, and for all the hunting King Henry does, he’ll not miss those few. Though if Jack takes another before winter, I’ll have to warn him I know about it. Go on, Master Hugh.”
“The second is Tiffany Dickins.”
Sister Mildred said, “He’s father to Christopher, Madame, who ran away right after Michaelmas last year.” Villeins may buy their freedom if they can save the money, or they may run away to a city, where, if they manage to survive a year and a day, they gain the status of citizen, making them free.
Christopher had taken this second choice, and was but two months from his year-day, if he had not by now starved to death, or fallen victim to one of the diseases that infest the cities, or gone to another manor and accepted anew the burden of villeinage for a bit of land and something to eat.
“Have you news of Christopher?” asked Harley.
Father Hugh nodded. “Christopher slips home to visit his family every so often. He was here just last Sunday.”
“Why the fool!” I said, because should anyone catch him outside the city, he would forfeit the time he spent there, and must begin again. We could have sent men searching after him, but Christopher was a lazy lout and it would be a waste to send good labor to go after bad – and he would just have run again at first chance. “He ran to Oxford, I believe?”
“Yes,” nodded Father Hugh. “But he’s finding it difficult to make a living. He comes home to be fed and to court Hob’s daughter Megan.”
“Does he now!” said Sister Mildred. “We’ll have to put a stop to that. It’s all very well for him to run off, but I’ll not have him trying to steal away Megan!”
I agreed; the girl was a talented weaver and a hard worker, a credit to her family. “Besides, she’s only thirteen.” I frowned. “You don’t think it was Christopher who set upon Frick?”
“No, Christopher left Deerfield Sunday evening. But someone saw Frick speaking to Chris’ father this morning as he was coming out to the meadow with his scythe, and said Tiffany walked off with a face like a thundercloud. It may be that Frick saw Christopher during his last visit and offered to keep the news from us, for a price.”
“That wicked old eavesdropper; I wish God had struck him blind for a Peeping Tom!” said Mildred.
“Yes, a blind snoop is much less dangerous than a sighted one,” said Sister Harley. “And if God had struck, perhaps no mortal would have put his soul in danger by killing him. And then Frick, living his allotted days, might have gone to judgement from his bed, with a priest to shrive him, instead of leaping into eternity with his sins hot and smoking on him. God have mercy on us all, though His ways are ever mysterious.” And we all crossed ourselves and hoped to die peacefully in our beds, properly shriven.
“I begin to see that my policy of keeping silent about transgressions among our villeins is not a wise practice,” I remarked. “Who is your third suspect, Master Hugh?”
“Evan Harmony. He’s been . . . er, delving Toby�
��s wife. Or so Frick hinted to someone.”
“Oh, my,” I said. Toby, the village blacksmith, was typical of the breed, large and strong, but Toby came also equipped with a violent temper. Evan Harmony wasn’t small or frail, but he was no match for our blacksmith. Killing Frick Cotter might seem the obvious way to keep him from telling our blacksmith Evan had made a cuckold of him.
“Perhaps we should look at the blacksmith himself,” I said. “If Frick went to Toby with his tale, Toby might have killed him to keep the news from spreading. Or, if Toby didn’t believe him, he might not take kindly to someone telling such tales about his wife.”
But Father Hugh shook his head. “No, Toby is the sort who uses his hands, or, at worst, reaches for his hammer. A scythe is an awkward weapon for someone not used to it. I think, madam, ladies, our murderer is Tiffany, Jack or Evan, one.”
“So which is it?” asked Mildred.
Father Hugh lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “They came home separately and no one saw them along the road. Jack has a bloodstained tunic in his house, but he says it’s from the deer he poached – and there’s almost half a deer hanging from the rafters in that shed behind his house. Tiffany has a brand new haft on his scythe, but he says he cracked it yesterday in the field and came home a little early to replace it. There are three witnesses who say he left the meadow early, but none of them noticed a cracked haft. Evan knocked Frick down after Mass last Sunday and said if he ever caught him alone he’d kill him. Half the village saw and heard it – some cheered. Frick was not a popular person.”
“But you don’t know who actually did it?” I asked.
“No, my lady. And I can’t think of a way of finding out.”
There the matter stood, and would stand, we thought. Then, late in the afternoon, Father Hugh sent word he would like me to come to the stables, as he was about to accuse the murderer.
“Did he say who it is?” I said, rising.
“Nay, madame,” said Austin. “He’s put on his best robe and carrying the good processional cross, and talks as if he’s expecting a sign from heaven. And he’s sure enough that he’ll get one that he’s sent for a beadle to detain the guilty party for your judgement.”
Concerned because I do not like anyone, most especially a priest, to trifle with miracles – there is such a thing as getting more than you ask for – and angry with my little priest for rousing my concern, I left the cloister and went into the inner courtyard, where I saw Sister Harley just coming out of the guesthouse. I gestured at her to accompany me. We went out the double wooden doors that led to the big outer yard, with its barns, sheds, and smell of animal muck. The sunlight fell slantwise from a still brazen sky, and the air was hot and motionless. Good haying weather, Sister Mildred would have declared.
She was there, part of a small gathering by the stables, which also included our swineherd, a shepherd, a girl from the kitchen with a bowl of scraps for the chickens, a few others. I made note of their faces, for I would scold them later as idlers, if Sister Mildred did not.
The three suspected villeins were standing beside the beadle with an air of being in custody. Jack Strong, the poacher, was a tallish man, with broad shoulders and a lot of shaggy brown hair. Tiffany of the runaway son was also strongly built, if not so tall, and there was a lot of gray in his dark hair and beard. Young Evan, as befits an adulterous lover, was handsome, with fair hair, a red mouth, and eyes as gray as glass.
The beadle turned at our approach and reported gravely, “Father Hugh assures me one of these three is the guilty one. He asked that they bring their scythes, which I made them do, but all three have been carefully cleaned.”
“Yes, all scythes are cleaned after use,” said Father Hugh from behind, making me start. I hadn’t heard him come up. “They are cleaned and sharpened and put away dry against the next use.” He was, as reported, in his best new habit, and dwarfed by the height of the processional cross he carried, which ought not to leave the cloister, especially to be dragged in the dirt of a barnyard.
“For a townsman you know a lot about farm tools,” remarked Sister Harley.
“The villeins of Deerfield village are my people, too,” replied Father Hugh. “I spend a certain amount of time in their company, and naturally I learn something of their ways. Even the wicked ones. Where are the scythes?”
“Over there by the stable door,” replied the beadle.
“Father Hugh squinted against the lowering sun, spied the scythes, and went for a closer look, not noticing the puddle of filth he was walking through, nor how the tail of his good habit dragged in it. Then he looked at the three villeins and ordered, “Each one of you will go and stand beside his scythe!”
The villeins looked at the beadle, who nodded curtly, and each walked across the yard to stand beside his tool, facing Father Hugh and the rest of us. The beadle, frowning officiously, moved closer, but I stayed where I was with Sisters Harley and Mildred. As abbess I would have to punish the guilty one, but this inquest was man’s business.
The ungainly weapons – for so the scythes appeared to me now – leaned against the wall in a row, each very like the other.
Father Hugh began pacing up and down the line, throwing each villein a sharp glance. “When God first made the world,” he said, in that measured tone he uses when beginning a sermon, “He chose Adam and Eve to be His stewards on earth. They were his creatures, who swore Him fealty. But then!” The little monk whirled and gestured sharply. “Came the devil – ” he growled the word – “and he tempted Eve, who foreswore her oath! She went to Adam, who wickedly abjured his on her advice. And therefore all the earth came under the devil’s dominion, until our Lord Jesu came and bought it back with His blood, alleluia!” If there is one thing Father Hugh can do well, it is preach. His sermons are as racy as any friar’s. He raised a small hand in affected horror. “Yet, O yet, there are those who would still break the oath sworn for them at baptism, and take livery and maintenance of – Beelzebub.” He drew out the name with a hiss, and a little tremor ran through us all. “There is among you,” he said, turning and pointing a small finger at the villeins, “one who serves not God but the devil! Who is so puffed up with PRIDE and ANGER he cannot – even now that I know who he is – repent and confess his sin!”
This made an uneasy stir among the trio, but none opened his mouth, even in protest.
“Do you know what Beelzebub means?” asked Father Hugh, and even I shook my head. “Lord of the Flies. The filthy fly, engendered in filth, drawn to filth all its life, a true blazon for the livery of its filthy lord, Beelzebub.” His voice dropped on that last word and we all leaned forward a little to hear what he would say next.
“And here, in worship of their master, and in witness to the devil’s human servant, the flies gather . . . on the weapon used to take the life of Frick Cotter!” Father Hugh pointed suddenly at the third scythe, the one belonging to Jack Strong, deer poacher.
Jack stared at his tool, then kicked at it until it fell, sending the flies in all directions. “Nay, see?” he cried. “Them flies gather where they wist, then go off and gather some’eres else. Thee cannot be blamin’ me for where the flies land!”
“Perhaps,” said Father Hugh, but as one who knows otherwise, “it is as you say. Very well, all of you, wave the flies off, send them a good distance. Then we’ll watch where they gather again.”
The villeins set to with a will, shouted and kicked at the dusk and muck of the yard, flapping their tunics at the air, clearing a wide space around themselves and the scythes. Jack worked hardest, which is only natural, but even he was satisfied at last, and they came back and stood each in front of his scythe again. Now even I came closer to watch, because it seemed to me Jack Strong was perfectly right; flies gather here, then there, then are gone, all to no purpose or understanding, unless there is a heap of filth to draw them.
But silence had scarce fallen when they were back, thicker than ever, clustering all along
the sharp blade of Jack’s scythe, especially near where it fastened to the handle. Their numbers were so great they made a buzz as loud as if from bees.
The other two men stared and crossed themselves, backing off to leave Jack by himself in front of the damning blade. Jack swung at the flies again, but half-heartedly, and watched them collect as swiftly as before. He swallowed, then said, as if continuing a statement, “He says he seen me with the deer, and wanted half to keep his mouth shut. Half! He couldn’t eat half a deer, not if he sat in his cottage all day and night stuffing himself; it’d spoil before he ate a quarter of it. And anyway there wasn’t a half left; I’d only a half to start with, bein’ I’d gone shares with – ” Jack stopped, wiped his mouth. “With someone else.” His angry gaze moved to me. “We be not horses or oxen, Mistress; we can’t live on grass and roots, like!” And continued, to Father Hugh, “With all the work of my own strips in the fields to do, and the bidreaps and boon work for yon nuns, and trying to keep up that little patch we claimed from the waste, my family needs meat. Frick don’t – didn’t need it, not the way he lays idle, and I told him so. I offered to share other of my harvest with him. But he laughs and wipes that nose of his and ’e says, ‘Jack, bring half of that deer to me after dark tonight, or I tell what I know.’ And I was so angry I just swung at him without thinkin’, forgettin’ like I was carryin’ that scythe, and he flings up his arm and the blade takes it off like it was a stem of grass. I couldn’t say who was the more surprised, him or me. But I’d started it then, and though he run I had to ketch him, and finish it, and so I did; and went home as if nothing had happened, and cleaned the blade with grass and dirt and washed it best I could and put it away. I meant to take it off the haft and put it in the fire tonight to rid it of the last of the blood – ” He did stop then and pointed at Father Hugh.
“You an’ your Beelzebub! St. Mary, what a load of old codswallop! It was blood, that’s all; it came like a fountain out of his arm, and his leg when I brought him down after I ketched him up, and, and – I’m surprised there was any left to come out of his throat, though it did, like a river in flood. It clings, does blood, and fills into cracks, like. And it draws flies; anyone who’s ever been to a butcherin’ knows that. So you can take your Beelzebub and hang him – ” He drew breath in a ragged sob. “Just like they’ll do to me.”