Murder Most Medieval

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  “But why did she?” asked Robin.

  Marian flung out a hand. “Serle terrorized his poor wife! He beat Willa without mercy! But he was shielded from justice by his brother’s office. Rocana was just an old woman, but she had potions, so dosed him daily at her stoop. It rendered him harmless as a dog. But since Rocana’s been dead these nine days, Serle’s mind has cleared. You killed Rocana for the wrong reason, Alwyn, but it brought your brother back, damn him.”

  The priest sagged. “God—forgives.”

  Half-dazed by events, Robin Hood fetched a bowl of holy water. He knelt over the priest and dipped his finger to absolve the man—

  Hissing, Marian slapped the bowl away. Holy water splashed and soaked into the dirt floor.

  “Marian!” Robin was shocked. “He’ll die unshriven!”

  “Let him!”

  “He confessed!”

  “It’s not enough! Look at him!” Tears spilled down Marian’s cheeks. “He has no remorse! Never a word for poor Willa, his own sister-in-law, raped and deceived and degraded! Not a word for his bastard child, killed by his own words that made a deluded mother rip open her belly! No regrets for a harmless witch strangled! No regrets for the child I’ll never have! Let him burn in Hell!”

  Robin Hood stood tall over his wife, the back of his hand to his mouth. “God help us all, then.”

  A Gift from God

  Edward Marston

  England, 1371.

  Nobody had told him how beautiful she was. When he heard about her reputation as a weaver of spells, he imagined that she would be an ugly old crone who lived in some hovel, with only a mangy cat or a flea-bitten dog for company. Instead, much to his astonishment and pleasure, Catherine Teale was a handsome woman in her late twenties, alert, bright-eyed, and glowing with health. Her attire was serviceable rather than costly, but it enhanced her shapely figure. Hugh Costaine was duly impressed. As he reined in his horse, he gave her a smirk of admiration.

  “You are the sorceress?” he said in surprise. “No, sir,” she replied with a polite shake of her head. “There is no sorcery involved in what I do. I have a gift, that is all.” “You have many gifts, as I can see.”

  Costaine leered at her. He was a tall, sharp-featured man, little above her own age but coarsened by debauchery that added a greyness to his beard and a decade to his appearance. As befitted the eldest son of Sir Richard Costaine, lord of the manor of Headcorn, he was wearing the finest array and riding a spirited black stallion. Catherine was about to go into the house when he accosted her. She had just returned from a walk across the fields to gather herbs. Costaine feasted his eyes on her.

  “I need your help,” he said at length.

  “It is yours to command, sir.”

  “Prepare me a flask of poison. Something swift and venomous. Our stables are overrun with rats, and I would be rid of them.”

  “Then you must look elsewhere,” Catherine suggested. “I do not make potions to end life, only to preserve it. I medicine the sick. That is my calling.”

  “If you can cure, you can also kill,” he insisted. “I’ll not be balked. Now, get into the house and mix what I require.”

  “I do not know how to, sir.”

  “Hurry, woman!”

  “There is no point.”

  Costaine angered. “You deny my request?”

  “It has been brought to the wrong person.”

  “But I heard many tales about you. They say that you practice sorcery. That you conjure spirits out of the air to help you.”

  “Idle gossip. Do not believe it.”

  “Too many mouths praise your skills.”

  “Skills of healing. Nothing more.”

  “Unnatural skills. Deeds of wonder. Magic. No more of this evasion,” he ordered, dismounting to confront her. “I have ridden five miles on this errand. I need that poison forthwith. Fetch it at once.”

  He was close enough to appreciate her charms even more now. Her face was gorgeous, her skin luminous. Catherine exuded a scent that was almost intoxicating. Costaine inhaled deeply. Lust stirring, he gave her an oily grin and took a step nearer.

  “You will be well-paid,” he promised her. “Give me what I seek, and I will reward you with a kiss. A hundred of them.” He reached out, but she eluded his grasp. He chuckled. “Do you find me so repellent?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why keep me at bay? Is it to whet my appetite?”

  “I would never do that.”

  “Not even to please me?”

  “Not even then, sir.”

  “Do you know who I am?” he boasted. “And what I am?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “You are the son of Sir Richard Costaine, an honest gentleman and a courteous knight who would never show such a lack of gallantry.”

  “To hell with gallantry!” he retorted, snatching her by the arm. “You dare to refuse me? I’ll have more than a kiss from you for that. When you have made my flask of poison, I’ll have a sweeter potion from you in a bedchamber.”

  “But I am married, sir,” she protested.

  “What does that matter? So am I.”

  “You would take me against my will?”

  “Of course not, lady,” he said with a snigger. “I will woo you like any lovesick swain. Now, do as I tell you, and be swift about it.”

  As Costaine released her arm, a figure emerged from the house. Adam Teale was a big, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. He ambled across to them with an easy smile, but his eyes were watchful.

  “What is the trouble, sir?” he asked. “I heard raised voices. Has my dear wife upset you in any way?”

  “Yes,” snarled the other. “She is trying to thwart me.”

  “Catherine would not do that without cause, sir. I am Adam Teale, the vintner, and I can vouch for my wife’s good temper. There never was a gentler or kinder woman.” He loomed over Costaine. “What is it that you want, sir? Perhaps I can help you.”

  “It’s not wine that I’m after, vintner. It’s poison.”

  “Then you’ve wasted your journey, sir. Only wholesome liquid is on sale here. Your father has been pleased to buy it from me on occasion.”

  “Enough of my father!”

  “Does he know why you have come?”

  “That is nothing to do with you,” said the visitor, dismissively. He turned back to Catherine. “Will you obey me or will you not?”

  She gave a shrug. “I have told you, sir. I do not concoct poison.”

  “It is true,” her husband added. “Such gifts as my wife possesses are put to the relief of pain and sickness. You must search elsewhere.”

  Hand on the hilt of his sword, Costaine squared up to him, but Adam Teale met his gaze without flinching. He was not afraid of his belligerent visitor. Costaine was livid. Not only was he being turned away without the potion he sought, he was being deprived of the joys of ravishing the comely wife. They were two good reasons for his hatred to smolder. He vowed to exact revenge.

  “A vintner, are you, Master Teale?” he sneered.

  “And proud of my trade,” Adam said.

  “Take care your wine is not tainted by this sorceress you married.”

  “Catherine is a devout Christian.”

  Hugh Costaine let out a sudden laugh and mounted his horse.

  “We shall see about that!” he cried.

  As the visitor rode away, Adam put a protective arm around Catherine’s shoulders. She planted a grateful kiss on his cheek.

  “Did I arrive at the right moment?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she answered, fondly. “You always do.”

  AGNES HUCKVALE SAT DUTIFULLY beside her husband throughout the meal. He was in an expansive mood, loud, laughing, boastful, generous with his hospitality, and flushed with wine to the point where he kept shooting sly and meaningful glances at his wife. Agnes could no longer remember if she had ever loved Walter Huckvale. She had been struck by his wealth and impre
ssed by his military feats, but she could not recall if her heart had really opened to him. It seemed so long ago. Agnes had been barely sixteen when she married a man who was well over twice her age. The gap between them had steadily widened and it was not only measured in years. Walter Huckvale pounded the table with his one remaining hand.

  “More wine!” he called.

  “You have already drunk more than your fill,” warned his wife.

  “I could never do that, Agnes.” He looked around the empty tables through bleary eyes. “Where are our guests?”

  “They retired to bed.”

  “So soon? Why did they not bid their host adieu?”

  Agnes sighed. “They did, Walter, but you were too caught up in your memories to listen to them. When our guests took their leave, you were still fighting the Battle of Poitiers.”

  “And Crecy,” he reminded her. “I won true renown at Crecy. It was at Poitiers that I lost my arm.”

  “You told us the story. Several times.”

  “It bears repetition.”

  The grizzled old warrior jutted out his chin with pride. A servant arrived with a jug of wine and poured some into his goblet. He did not offer any to Agnes. The servant bowed and left the room. Husband and wife sat amid the remains of the banquet, their faces lit by the flames of a hundred candles. Walter Huckvale sipped his wine and became playful.

  “Let them go,” he said. “I would be alone with my wife.”

  “I am tired.”

  “Then let me rouse you from your tiredness.”

  “It is too late an hour.”

  “Nonsense!” he announced, taking a long swig from his goblet. “I’ll soon rekindle your spirits. Have you ever known me to fail, Agnes?”

  He thrust his face close to her, and she caught the stink of his breath. There was no point in trying to contradict him. She had pledged obedience at the altar, and there was only one escape from that dread commitment. Agnes was doomed to suffer his bad breath, his coarse manners, his drunkenness, his bursts of rage, and his interminable reminiscences of military campaigns. Worst of all, she had to enjoy the random brutality of his love-making. It was an ordeal.

  Huckvale remembered something, and an accusatory stare came into his eyes. Putting down his goblet, he reached out for her wrist.

  “Where have you been all day?” he asked, sternly.

  “Here.”

  “That’s not true. I wanted you this afternoon, and you could not be found. You sneaked off somewhere, didn’t you?”

  “No, Walter.”

  “Yes, you did. Where was it?”

  “You’re hurting my wrist,” she complained.

  He tightened his grip. “Tell me, Agnes.”

  “I was in the garden, that is all.”

  “Where were you?” he roared.

  But the question went unanswered. As the words left his tongue, they were followed by a gasp of sheer agony. Releasing her wrist, he went into a series of convulsions, his eyes bulging, his face purple, his whole body wracked with pain. Walter Huck-vale put a hand to his stomach and looked appealingly at his wife. Then he pitched forward on to the bare wooden table, knocking his goblet to the floor with a clatter. Agnes drew back in horror. It was minutes before she was able to cry for help.

  THE SHERIFF CAME TO arrest her with four armed men at his back, a show of strength that was quite unnecessary but which deterred her husband from any intervention. Catherine Teale was bewildered.

  “What is my crime?” she wondered.

  “Witchcraft,” the Sheriff said.

  “I am no witch, my lord.”

  “That remains to be proved, Mistress Teale.”

  “Who laid the charges against me?”

  “Hugh Costaine. He traces the murder to your door.”

  “Murder?” echoed Catherine in alarm.

  “Walter Huckvale was poisoned to death last night. It is alleged that you slew him by means of a venomous brew in his wine.”

  “How can that be, my lord sheriff?” Adam Teale asked. “I do not provide the wine for Walter Huckvale’s table.”

  The Sheriff was sarcastic. “And why might that be?”

  “He and I fell out over an unpaid bill.”

  “Yes, Master Teale. Harsh words were exchanged between you and Walter Huckvale. There were many witnesses. I can understand why you wanted to get back at him, but you lacked the means to do so.” He turned to Catherine. “Your wife, however, did not. Because he refused to buy from you, she cast a spell on the wine he got elsewhere. She made him pay in the most dreadful way. He suffered the torments of Hell.”

  “That is a monstrous allegation!” Adam exclaimed.

  “It is one that Mistress Teale must face. Be grateful that I do not arrest you on a charge of complicity. If I did not know you to be so upright and decent a man, I would suspect you had some part in this.”

  “No!” Catherine said firmly. “Take me alone, my lord. My husband is not implicated in any way.”

  “You confess your guilt, then?” demanded the Sheriff.

  “I protest my innocence!”

  “You will be examined by Bishop Nigel.”

  “So be it.”

  Catherine silenced her husband’s protests with a patient smile. There was no point in incurring the sheriff’s anger. Adam was as baffled by the charge as she was, but it was important that one of them remained at liberty. Catherine submitted to the indignity of having her hands tied then she was lifted onto the spare horse that had been brought for her. As the little cavalcade pulled away from him, Adam Teale bit his lip in exasperation. He remembered the parting words of Hugh Costaine. Evidently, their unwelcome visitor had spread his own brand of poison.

  BISHOP NIGEL WAS A wiry little man in his sixties with a bald head that was covered with a network of blue veins and a pair of watery eyes. His voice was quiet but tinged with irritation. Several hours of interrogation had produced nothing but calm answers from the prisoner. Nigel was annoyed that he had not yet broken her spirit. They were alone together in a fetid cell, but it was the manacled Catherine Teale who bore herself with equanimity in the foul conditions. Perspiration glistened on the prelate’s brow. He resumed his examination.

  “Are you in league with the Devil?” he hissed.

  “No, my lord bishop. I am married to the best man alive.”

  “Then your husband is part of this conspiracy.”

  “There is no conspiracy,” she assured him.

  “Adam Teale had a disagreement with Walter Huckvale.”

  “My husband has a disagreement with anyone who does not pay his bill. That is only right and proper. I seem to remember that he once had a mild altercation with your own steward when an account was left unsettled, but he did not wish to poison you, my lord bishop.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “Adam had no reason to strike at Walter Huckvale.”

  “That is why you took retribution upon yourself. Do not deny it, Mistress Teale. Worrying reports about you have been coming in to me for several months now. I can no longer ignore them. You have been covertly engaged in sorcery.” Bishop Nigel consulted the document in his hand, angling it to catch the light from the candle. “I have a full record of your nefarious activities here.”

  “Has anyone laid a complaint against me?”

  “I lay a complaint,” he snapped. “On behalf of the Church. I am enjoined by God to drive out the Devil.”

  “A worthy purpose but hardly relevant here.”

  “Is it not true that you cured an old woman from Pluckley of an ague that threatened to kill her? Is it not true that you brought a stillborn baby back to life in Marden by laying-on of hands? And is it not true that you helped to trace a man who had been missing from his home in Staplehurst for over a week?”

  “I willingly admit all these things.”

  “Then your witchcraft is established!” he said, triumphantly.

  “How?” she challenged. “A herbal compound cured the old woman in Pluc
kley. Such a mixture as any physician would prescribe. As for the stillborn child, it had never really been dead. It needed only some love and prayer to bring it fully to life. Most midwives would have done exactly as I did.”