Murder Most Medieval

by Martin Greenburg

  A FEW HOURS LATER, they were no closer to a solution. Gavin swallowed the last of the ale in his mazer and contemplated the dregs. Would that he could read the truth in their pattern. Twas as good a method as any.

  Word had come just before they sat down to sup that the crowner would arrive on the morrow. Gavin was determined to present him with a murderer and be on his way soon after. Truce or no, it was dangerous for a Scot to linger long on the English side of the border.

  Old Lord Bonville had known that. It had been, in truth, his only objection to Gavin’s marriage with Mariotta. Kinship, he’d said, made for a strong bond, but an outsider would always find acceptance hard to come by. A pity, he’d joked, that Gavin did not have the look of a Bonville.

  Gavin blinked. Could the answer be that obvious?

  He turned to Alison, with whom he shared a trencher, and whispered a question in her ear.

  After giving him a startled look, she nodded. “There has scarce been time for word of my father’s death to reach the cadet branch of the family. They settled in Cornwall generations ago.”

  “Motive for murder.” He started to rise.

  Her hand on his forearm stayed him. “Which murder?”

  “Both.”

  But she shook her head. “I do not think so, for I have remembered something, too. And yet, I do think that if you accuse my father’s poisoner of murdering Beatrice, you might just startle her killer into speaking.”

  Gavin did not ask for an explanation. He trusted Alison’s instincts. Abruptly, he stood, scattering the remains of his meal, and called for more light.

  When every sconce boasted a torch, every candlestick a taper, Gavin’s gaze went first to Maplett, then moved on to Michael Barlow. “You are an impostor,” he said to the latter, “and a murderer. You will hang for your crimes.”

  Before he could enumerate his reasons for accusing Barlow, Christiana Talbot cried out in distress. Everyone turned to look at her.

  “You must not harm him. He did not kill Lady Bonville!”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  Christiana sent Barlow a glance filled with painful longing, then squared her shoulders and faced Gavin. “Because I killed her.”

  “Did you, by God?” In spite of Alison’s prediction, Gavin had not expected this. “Why?”

  “To keep Michael from marrying her.” As if that confession sapped all her bravado, she dissolved into tears.

  It was some time before Gavin could extract a coherent story. Details emerged in fits and starts, punctuated by much wailing and many loud lamentations.

  Michael Barlow had promised to marry Christiana, but when Lord Bonville died, he’d told her he intended to wed the widow instead. He’d have it all, he’d bragged. Desperate to win him away from Beatrice, Christiana had confronted the other woman in her bedchamber.

  “I told her she could not have him.” Tears flowed freely down Christiana’s pale cheeks. “He was mine! But she laughed at me. Made sport of me. Said I was too plain of face to take him away from her.”

  In a moment of overwhelming rage, Christiana Talbot had used the knife with which she cut her meat to stab Lady Bonville to death.

  Gavin felt sorry for the woman, even as he ordered her taken into custody. “Seize Barlow, too,” he added.

  “You cannot arrest me,” Barlow protested. “She’s just told you she acted alone. She killed the woman I meant to marry. I had naught to do with it.”

  “But you had everything to do with another crime. You helped Beatrice Bonville kill her husband.”

  Barlow began to sputter a denial. Gavin held up one hand to silence him, then told the gathered company what Isabella had overheard.

  “Arrant nonsense,” Barlow declared. “You say yourself that the child did not recognize the voice of Lady Bonville’s accomplice. He could have been anyone. That Scots emissary—”

  “There might be more than one man willing to kill at Lady Bonville’s bidding,” Gavin interrupted, “but only one had an inheritance to gain. By law, the Bonville title and much of the estate goes to the last baron’s closest male relative. A distant cousin, I believe. Distant enough that church and state would permit him to marry the widow if he chose to.”

  “No. No, I—”

  “You carry the proof of your inheritance with you, Master Barlow. If that is your name. You are the only man here who could be the Bonville heir, for you are the only man here who has the Bonville hair.”

  At a signal from Gavin, the men-at-arms pulled Barlow out of the shadows. His flaxen locks shone silver-gilt in the candlelight, rendering futile any further denials.

  As the prisoners were led away, Gavin turned to Alison. “How did you guess Christiana was guilty?”

  “She slept that night in the same chamber with Beatrice, the same chamber where my father died. That meant there was no reason for her to leave the room to visit the privy. That chamber is furnished with a perfectly good close stool, behind the screen where Isabella hid.”

  “But why did you think she’d confess to save Barlow?” Alison looked surprised he should ask. “Everyone in the castle knew about Christiana’s unrequited passion for my stepmother’s lover.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER the crowner had accepted Gavin’s evidence and ridden away with two murderers in custody, Gavin came to collect his daughter and her belongings. Alison was waiting with the girl, her own possessions packed and ready.

  “I will accompany Isabella to Scotland,” she informed him. “I am certain that whatever distant male cousin is next in line to inherit cares not a whit what I do or where I go.”

  To her surprise, Gavin did not argue. He merely pointed out, lest she have any false hopes, that under English law a man could not marry his deceased wife’s sister without a papal dispensation.

  “I am not interested in marriage,” she informed him in a haughty voice. “I am content to be Isabella’s companion.”

  “Better than life in a nunnery,” he agreed.

  Dusk was falling by the time they crossed the border. Gavin turned to Alison and smiled down at her through the open visor of his helmet.

  “Then again,” he said in a conversational tone of voice, as if there had been mere minutes instead of most of a day’s ride between his last remark on the subject and this one, “Scots law on marriage differs from the English.”

  “In what way?” she asked.

  His smile widened into a grin as he produced the Bonville betrothal ring, the one piece of jewelry he’d not returned to the castle treasury. “In Scotland it is a much simpler matter for a widower to marry the sister of his late wife.”

  She smiled back at him, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes.

  “I know,” she said, and extended her hand.

  For the Love of Old Bones

  Michael Jecks

  The sudden violence was a shock: swift and devastating. They came at us from all sides, and what were we supposed to do? We couldn’t run,- we couldn’t hide. There was nowhere to conceal ourselves on that desolate damned moor.

  I was struck down early. When I came to, it was to find my head being cradled in the lap of a rough countryman, a shepherd from the rank smell of him, holding a leather bottle of sour-tasting water to my lips that I drank with gratitude. All about me, when I felt able to gaze around, were my companions: resting, holding broken heads, or wincing as their bruised limbs gave them pain. It was all I could do to pull away and kneel, fingering my rosary as I offered my thanks to God for delivering us from our attackers.

  “The Abbot is dead!”

  The cry broke in upon my devotions and I had to stifle my gasp of horror. I saw Brother Charles at the side of Abbot Bertrand’s slumped figure and hurried over to them as fast as my wounded head would allow.

  Abbot Bertrand de Surgeres, my lord, lay dead,- stabbed in his back.

  IT IS DIFFICULT ALWAYS to try to recall small details after a horrible event. I and my English brethren have suffered much in the years since the great fa
mine of 1315 to 1316. As peasants lost their food, so there was less for us monks,- the murrain of sheep and cattle that followed devastated our meager flocks and herds, and now, late in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and twenty-one, I had myself taken my fill of despair.

  With the pain in my head from the crushing blow, I was in no state to assist my brothers in tidying the body of our Abbot. I sat resting while they unclothed him and redressed him in fresh linen and tunic,- others walked a mile or more northward to a wood, from where they fetched sturdy boughs to fashion a stretcher. The horses had gone, of course. For my part, I could not help them. I knew only pain and sadness as I watched them work.

  It was a cold, quiet place, this. The sun was watery this late in the year, and its radiance failed to warm. We were on the side of a hill, with a small stream gurgling at our feet. A few warped and twisted trees stood about, but all were distorted, grotesque imitations of the strong oaks and elms I knew. The grass itself looked scrubby and unwholesome, while the ground held a thick scattering of rocks and large stones, giving the scene a feeling of devastation, as if a battle had raged over it all. It felt to me like a place blasted with God’s rage. As it should, I thought, with one of His Abbots lying murdered on the ground.

  The shepherd disappeared soon after I awoke, but while my companions set the Abbot’s body on the stretcher and began gathering together the few belongings that the robbers had scattered, I sat quietly. I saw Brother Humphrey pick up the Abbot’s silver crucifix. He saw my quick look and smiled weakly. In our little convent there have been occasions when odd bits and pieces have gone missing, and he knows I suspect him. The cord of the cross was broken, although the cross and tiny figure were fine,- nearby, Abbot Bertrand’s purse lay on the ground. Humphrey picked up both and passed them to me with a puzzled expression.

  As he stood there, I heard hoofs. Looking up, I saw three men at the brow of the hill. One was the shepherd, the other two were on horseback. They were unknown to me,- indeed, I could hardly make out their features for the low, autumnal sun was behind them, and it was hard to see more than a vague shadow. Now, of course, I know Bailiff Puttock of Lydford and his friend Sir Baldwin of Furnshill near Cadbury, but then they were only strange, intimidating figures on their horses, staring down at us intently while the shepherd leaned on his staff.

  At the sight of them Humphrey let out a cry of despair, fearing a fresh attack,- a pair of servants grabbed their staffs and advanced, determined to protect us. The three remaining brothers began reciting the paternoster; me, I simply fell to my knees and prayed.

  THE MEN RODE DOWN the incline and I could make them out. It was soon obvious that one of them was a knight—his sword belt and golden spurs gleamed as the sun caught them. His slow approach was reassuring, too. It gave me the impression that we were safe: he hardly looked like one of the predatory knights who might conceal robbery by making demands in courtly language. In any event, such a one would have brought a strong party of men-at-arms to steal what they wanted.

  “Brothers, please don’t fear us,” the other man said as he neared the staffman. “I’m Bailiff Puttock under Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock Abbey and my friend is Sir Baldwin, the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. This shepherd told us of the attack and we have already sent for the Coroner to view the body. May we help you?”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. There was no fearing men such as these. “Godspeed, gentlemen! It is an enormous relief to meet you. Now at least we need fear no footpads while on the moors.”

  It was the knight who spoke first, studying me with an oddly intense expression, like one who has no liking for monks. He was tall, with heavy shoulders and a flat belly to prove that he practiced regularly with his sword. Intelligent dark eyes glittered in a square face with a thin beard that followed the line of his jaw. One scar marred his features, twisting his mouth. “Your name, Brother?”

  “I am Brother Peter, from Launceston Abbey. My Abbot sent me to help our brethren on their arduous journey to France and back. We were on our way to Launceston when this happened.”

  “It’s a long way to go without horses, Brother,” the other man pointed out.

  “We had horses until last night, when they were taken.”

  “You were robbed? God’s teeth! The thieving bastards!” Bailiff Puttock burst out. “How many were there? And which way did they go?”

  “I was knocked down early on,” I grimaced, gingerly feeling the back of my tonsure. The skin was broken slightly and there was a large lump forming that persuaded me not to prod or probe too hard.

  “There were six of them. They appeared like devils as the sun faded, running straight at us…”

  As I spoke I could recall the horror. Screaming, shrieking men, all wielding staves or clubs, springing down from the surrounding rocks, belaboring us, holding us off while two young lads, scarcely more than boys, took our horses. And a short while later, nothing: they had clubbed me.

  The knight was silent, but the Bailiff cocked his head. “None of them had a knife?”

  “I don’t recall. My head—I was unconscious.”

  “What was their leader like?”

  “Heavyset, bearded, with long dark hair.”

  “I have heard of him.”

  “They took most of our provisions as well as our mounts.”

  Sir Baldwin walked off a few yards, bending and studying the ground. He went to the stream and followed its bank a short distance, then round the curve of the hill, disappearing from sight.

  His friend appeared confused. “You say these men attacked and took your horses—but only your Abbot was stabbed? It seems odd…”

  He would likely have added more, but then his friend called, “They went this way. Their prints are all over the mud at the side of the stream. It looks like they have gone westward.”

  “Which is where we should go as well,” Bailiff Puttock said. “If there are thieves on the moors we should warn the abbey. We can send a second messenger to the Coroner explaining where we have gone.”

  “And it would be a good place for these good brothers to recover from their ordeal,” Sir Baldwin agreed.

  “IT SEEMS CURIOUS THAT the thieves should have left such wealth behind.”

  We were resting in a hollow on the old track to Tavistock. All of us were tired after our ordeal and needed plenty of breaks. The knight was squatting, studying the crucifix and purse.

  The Bailiff shrugged unconcernedly. “They grabbed what they could.”

  “But they killed an Abbot.”

  “So? In the dark they probably didn’t realize he was an Abbot, nor that they had killed him. It was a short, sharp scuffle in the gloom.”

  “Hmm.”

  I could see that the knight wasn’t convinced. The Bailiff, too, for all his vaunted confidence, scarcely seemed more certain. Both stared down at the items. I cleared my throat and held up the cold meat in my hand. “Could one of you lend me a knife? My own was still on the packhorse.”

  With a grunt the knight pulled a small blade from his boot and passed it to me.

  “I’ve known thieves leave behind goods after being scared off,” Bailiff Puttock continued after a while.

  “And I have known Bailiffs who have left wine in the jug after a feast—but that does not mean I have ever seen you behaving abstemiously. No, these robbers planned their raid. Two things are curious: first, that they bothered to kill the man,-second, that they left his wealth at his side.”

  “Who were these robbers, Sir Baldwin?” I interjected.

  “We may never catch them, Brother,” he said with a smile. “There are so many who have been displaced since the recent wars in Wales. They have swollen the ranks of the poor devils who lost everything during the famine.”

  “Poor devils, my arse!” Puttock growled. “They should have remained at their homes and helped rebuild their vills and towns, not become outlaw and run for the hills.”

  “Some had little choice,” Sir Baldwin said.


  “Some didn’t, no, but this gang sounds like Hamo’s lot again.”

  “They’ve never killed before,” Sir Baldwin said slowly.

  “True, but the leader sounds like Hamo and the theft of the horses is just like his mob.”

  Sir Baldwin rose. “This is not helping us. You saw nothing of the death of your Abbot, Brother Peter?” I shook my head. “Then let us ask your friends. Could you introduce us?”

  I nodded. “Brother Humphrey is another Englishman like me, but Brother Charles comes from France. He is the shorter of the three. The third, the handsome young one, is Brother Roger, who is also French. He comes from the Abbot’s own convent.”