Murder Most Medieval

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  Murder Most Medieval

  Edited by Martin Greenburg and John Helfers

  Introduction

  There’s no doubt that the medieval period (A.D. 750-1500) was a time of great hardship. After the fall of the Roman Empire, most of Europe and the British Isles remained mired in the Dark Ages. Nobles controlled the land, the Catholic Church attempted to rule the royalty, and the peasants owned nothing. Add to this the human devastation caused by the Black Plague, which killed as much as one-third of the population of Europe, and the outlook for humanity appeared very grim. Would Europe fall apart as nobles bickered and battled for lands and crowns? Not likely. The aristocracy and the Church made sure no one overstepped their bounds. Would the continent remain stuck in these medieval ways forever? No. In the fifteenth century, Johann Gutenberg and the Renaissance put an end to the Middle Ages.

  During this era mankind continued doing what it had always done: living and dying. The former was difficult (one of every three babies died within six months of birth), and the latter was all too easy (because of plague, starvation, and war, among other factors). But humanity, like the cockroach, is exceedingly easy to kill but very difficult to exterminate. Even with plagues, starvation, and war, mankind was growing, expanding, even learning. One lesson people learned very well was how to survive.

  Survival was what everyone fought for in one form or another. Everybody struggled to survive: from kings and queens, who fought to hold their crowns and their countries,- to the Church, which fought to maintain control over the masses,- to the nobles, who fought to retain their lands and way of life,- to the merchants, who fought for trade routes and business,- to the peasants, who fought simply to stay alive. Most people would do anything to ensure their survival, to keep what was theirs and perhaps gain a little bit more when the opportunity presented itself. They would conspire for it. They would lie for it. They would steal for it. They would even kill for it.

  Which brings us to the theme for this anthology. Of the crimes man commits against his fellow man, murder is the basest one of all. Depriving another human being of life simply to gain what they have, to protect what the murderer has, or to protect one’s reputation, is an act that shocks and appalls society, regardless of motive. Even in cases of self-defense, no matter how justifiable, there is a certain amount of wonder about the person who can be pushed no farther, believing that the only way to save themselves is by committing murder.

  It is certainly conceivable that there would be people who lived in the Middle Ages who felt this way. Peasant women, subject to a lord’s whim if he fancied one, were sometimes treated as badly or worse by their own husbands. Lords spent their whole lives scrabbling for a piece of land and the tenants to make it profitable, or at least livable. Kings did not know which to fear more—their enemies abroad or the ones in their own court—so they hid their treachery behind false smiles and promises of allegiance.

  The following stories examine the medieval world—a world of dirt and struggle—and the men and women who lived and died in it. Murder is committed in these stories for many of the same reasons that murder is committed today. And, as always, there were men and women in medieval times who crusaded against the lawlessness that, at times, threatened to overwhelm the land. Peter Tremayne’s Celtic detective Sister Fidelma makes an appearance here, solving a twenty-year-old crime of passion. The noble highwayman Robin Hood, as written by Clayton Emery, is also found within these pages, solving a mystery of witchcraft and heresy, with the help of the indomitable Marian. And, of course, what collection of medieval murder mysteries would be complete without a tale from the late, lamented grande dame of historical mystery, Ellis Peters, and her soldier-turned-sleuthing-monk, Brother Cadfael?

  From Gillian Linscott’s tale of a lord whose survival needs necessitate starting a war, to Margaret Frazer’s story of political intrigue and deception at King Henry’s court, we are pleased to bring you thirteen tales of murder most foul, murder most malicious, murder most malevolent. So turn the page and prepare to be swept back through time into a world of intrigue, danger, and history—to a time when death was all too common, and murder was a crime committed by everyone from kings to peasants—a time of murder most medieval.

  Like a Dog Returning… A Sister Fidelma Mystery

  Peter Tremayne

  It’s very beautiful,“ Sister Fidelma said softly. ”Beautiful?“ Abbot Ogan’s voice was an expression of disbelief. ”Beautiful? It is beyond compare. Worth a High King’s honor price and even more.“

  Fidelma frowned slightly and turned toward the enthusiastic speaker, a question forming on her lips. Then she realized that the middle-aged abbot was not looking at the small marble statuette of the young girl in the robes of a religieuse, which had caught her eye as she had entered the chapel of the abbey. Instead, he was looking beyond the statuette, which stood at the entrance to a small alcove. In the recess, on a small altar, stood an ornate reliquary box worked in precious metals and gemstones.

  Fidelma regarded the reliquary critically for a moment.

  “It is, indeed, a valuable object,” she admitted. But the reliquary box was not unusual in her experience. She had seen many such boxes in her travels, all equally as valuable.

  “Valuable? It is breathtaking, and inside it is the original Confessio penned in the hand of Patrick himself.” Abbot Ogan was clearly annoyed at her lack of homage before the reliquary.

  Fidelma was unimpressed and not bothered at all by his look of disfavor.

  “Who is the young girl whose statuette guards the entrance to the alcove?” she demanded, turning the conversation to what she considered to be the object of greater interest. Somehow the artist had brought the young religieuse to life, endowing her with a vibrancy that burst through the lines of the cold stone: It seemed that she would leap from the pedestal and greet the worshippers in the tiny abbey church with outstretched hands.

  The abbot reluctantly turned from his contemplation of his community’s most famous treasure—the reliquary of Saint Patrick. His face darkened slightly.

  “That is a likeness of Sister Una,” he said shortly.

  Fidelma put her head to one side to examine it from every angle. She could not get over the extraordinary vitality of the piece. It was almost as if the artist had been in love with his model and only thus able to draw forth some inner feeling into the cold marble.

  “Who was the sculptor?” she asked.

  The abbot sniffed, clearly not approving of the interest she was showing.

  “One of our brethren, Duarcan.”

  “And why is her statuette in this chapel? I thought only the holy saints could achieve such honor?”

  The corner of Abbot Ogan’s mouth turned down. He hesitated and then, observing the determination on Fidelma’s face, asked, “Have you not heard of the story of Sister Una?”

  Fidelma grimaced irritably. It was surely obvious that she would not be asking the question had she heard the story. The abbot continued: “She was killed on this very spot some twenty years ago.”

  “What happened?” Fidelma’s eyes had widened with greater interest.

  “Sister Una entered the chapel when someone was attempting to steal the holy reliquary. The thief struck her down and fled but without the reliquary.”

  “Was the thief caught?”

  “He was overtaken.”

  “How did the Brehons judge him?”

  “Sister Una was very beloved by our local community.” The abbot’s features were set in deep lines, and there appeared a defensive note in his voice. “Before the culprit could be secured and taken before a Brehon for judgment, the people hanged him from a tree. This small marble st
atuette was erected in the chapel in Una’s honor to guard the reliquary for all eternity.”

  “Who was the thief and murderer?”

  The abbot again hesitated. He clearly was unhappy at her interest.

  “A man who worked in the abbey gardens. Not one of our community.”

  “A sad tale.”

  “Sad enough,” the abbot agreed shortly.

  “Did you know Sister Una?”

  “I was a young novitiate in the abbey at the time, but I hardly knew her.” The abbot turned, clearing his throat as if in dismissal of the memories. “And now… I believe that you are staying with us until the morning?”

  “I will be continuing my journey back to Cashel in the morning,” Fidelma confirmed.

  “Stay here then and I will send Brother Liag, our hostel keeper, to you. He will show you to the dormitory of the religieuse. We eat after Vespers. You will forgive me leaving you here. There are matters I must now attend to.”

  Fidelma watched as he hurried along the aisle and vanished beyond the doors of the chapel. As they banged shut behind him, her eyes were drawn back once again to the extraordinary statuette. It held a curious fascination for her. The artist had, indeed, given the poor Sister Una life and, for a while, she was lost in examining the lines of the fine workmanship.

  There was a sound behind her: a shuffle of sandals and an exaggerated cough.

  She turned. A religieux had entered and stood a little distance off with his arms folded inside his robe. He was balding and wore a doleful expression.

  “Sister Fidelma? I am the hostel keeper, Brother Liag.”

  Fidelma inclined her head toward him. Yet her gaze was still reluctant to leave the intriguing statuette. The newcomer had observed her interest.

  “I knew her.”

  Brother Liag spoke softly and yet there was a curious emotion in his voice that caught her attention immediately.

  “Yes?” she encouraged after a pause.

  “She was so full of life and love for everyone. The community worshipped her.”

  “As did you?” Fidelma interpreted the controlled emotion of his voice.

  “As did I,” Brother Liag confirmed sadly.

  “It is an unhappy story. I have heard it from your abbot.”

  Did a curious expression flit across his features? She was not sure in the gloomy light.

  “Did you also know the man who killed her?” she pressed when it seemed that he was saying no more.

  “I did.”

  “I gather he worked in the gardens of the abbey?”

  “Tanaf?”

  “Was that his name?”

  “That was the man who was lynched by the community for the crime,” Brother Liag affirmed.

  Fidelma exhaled softly as she gazed at the marble face of the young girl.

  “What a miserable waste,” she observed, almost to herself, envious.

  “What sort of man was this Tanaf? How did he think that he, a gardener, could steal that precious reliquary and sell it—for presumably he did it for mercenary gain?”

  “That was the theory.”

  Fidelma glanced quickly at him.

  “You do not agree?”

  Brother Liag returned her gaze and his expression had not changed. It was still mournful.

  “I think that we share the same thought, Sister. The only way such an object could be sold for gain is by its destruction. Where and to whom could such a priceless treasure be sold? The selling of jewels pried from the box might be sold individually. The value of the box itself and the greater value of that which is contained in it would be entirely lost. There would be no market for anything so invaluable. Who would purchase such a treasure?”

  “Yet if Tanaf was merely a laborer in the garden here, he might not have considered that aspect of the theft. He might simply have seen a precious jeweled box and been overcome by greed.”

  The hostel keeper smiled for the first time, more a motion of his facial muscles than indicative of any feeling.

  “It is true that Tanaf worked here as a gardener. He was an intelligent man. He had been an apothecary and herbalist. One day he mixed a wrong prescription and one of his patients died. He answered before the Brehons for manslaughter and was fined. The Brehons said it was an accident, and there was no guilt of intent involved—only the guilt of error. But Tanaf was conscientious and, although he could have continued to practice as a herbalist, he withdrew here to the abbey and did penance by returning to study the plants and herbs, living a life of penury and self-sacrifice.”

  Fidelma glanced at Liag cynically.

  “Until he coveted the reliquary,- for what you are telling me is that he was intelligent enough to know its real value. Maybe he thought he would find someone who would endanger their immortal soul for possession of it?”

  Brother Liag sighed deeply.

  “That is what everyone has thought these last twenty years.”

  “You sound as though you still do not agree?” she commented quickly.

  Brother Liag was hesitant, and then he sighed reflectively: “The point that I was making is that he was intelligent enough to know that he could never sell the reliquary, if that was his motive.

  There are some questions to which I have never found satisfactory answers. Tanai had removed himself to the monastery with his wife and young daughter because he felt he must do penance for a mistake. That strikes me as the action of a man of moral principle. He worked in the abbey gardens in a position of trust for five years. Never had there been a whisper of anyone’s distrusting him. He could have been appointed apothecary of the abbey for the old abbot—he died many years ago now—who had several times urged him to take the position, saying that he had paid for his mistake more than enough.

  “Why did he have such a sudden mental aberration? For over five years he was in a position in which he could have stolen the reliquary or, indeed, any one of the several treasures of the abbey. Why did he attempt the theft at that point? And to kill Una! He was never a violent man, in spite of the mistake that led to the manslaughter charge. The killing of poor Sister Una was so out of character.”

  “What actually connected him with the attempted theft in the first place?” Fidelma asked. “The abbot said that he fled without the reliquary.”

  Brother Liag inclined his head.

  “The reliquary was untouched. Sister Una had disturbed the thief before he could touch it, and she was killed while trying to raise the alarm.”

  “Where was Tanai caught?”

  “Trying to enter the abbot’s rooms.” Brother Liag shot her a keen glance. “The community caught up with him at the entrance and dragged him to the nearest tree. God forgive all of us. But Sister Una was so beloved by all of the community that common sense was displaced by rage.”

  “The abbot’s rooms? That is a strange place for a man to run to when he has apparently just committed murder,” murmured Fidelma.

  “A question that was raised afterward. Abbot Ogan, who was one of the community, a young brother at the time, pointed out that Tanai must have known that he would be caught and was trying to throw himself on the old abbot’s mercy and seek sanctuary.”

  “I suppose that it is plausible,” Fidelma conceded. “What happened to Tanafs family?”

  “His wife died of shock soon after, and his young daughter was raised by the Sisters of the abbey out of charity.”

  Fidelma was perplexed.

  “There is something here that I do not understand. If Tanai was found at the abbot’s rooms, if the only witness was killed and the reliquary had not been touched, and there was no eyewitness, what was there to link Tanai with the crime? Indeed, how do you know that theft was even the motive for the murder?”

  Brother Liag shrugged.

  “What else could have been the motive for killing poor Sister Una? Anyway, everyone was crying that it was Tanai who did the deed and that he had been seen running from the chapel. I presumed that this was without question since e
veryone was shouting it.”

  “How much time had passed between the time the crime was committed and when Tanai was found?”

  Brother Liag shifted his weight as he thought over the matter, trying to stretch his memory back two decades.

  “I can’t really recall. I know it was some amount of time.”

  “An hour?”

  “No, well under an hour.”

  “A few minutes?”

  “More than that. Perhaps fifteen minutes.”

  “So who identified Tanai as the culprit?”

  Brother Liag gestured helplessly.

  “But everyone was shouting that… I saw Brother Ogan, the abbot as he now is. In fact, it was Ogan who was foremost in the hue and cry,- but there was Brother Libren, the rechtaire… the steward of the abbey. Everyone was shouting and looking for Tanai… I have no idea who identified him first.”