Murder Most Medieval

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  “And the man from Staplehurst?”

  “He was a woodcutter, dazed when the bough of a tree chanced to fall on him. He wandered off, lost his bearings, and could not find his way back. I sensed that he had found his way to Maidstone.”

  “Sensed?”

  “Yes, my lord bishop.”

  “What evil powers enabled you to do that?”

  “They are not evil, or the result would not have been so good.”

  “Do not bandy words with me!”

  “When people come to me for help, I give it to them.”

  “By means of sorcery.”

  “By means of my gift.”

  “And from whom does that come?”

  “From the same source as your own—from God Almighty.”

  Her voice was so earnest and her manner so sincere that he was checked for an instant. Bishop Nigel had to remind himself that he was in the presence of a witch, clever enough to dissemble, cunning enough to assume whatever shape she wished. He was engaged in a tussle with the Devil and must not relax his hold.

  “Hugh Costaine alleges that you know how to mix poison.”

  “My whole life is dedicated to healing.”

  “Unless you wish to strike at your husband’s enemies.”

  “Adam has no enemies. Just one or two awkward customers. As it happens, your own steward was far more of a nuisance than Walter Huckvale. He claimed that the bill had been paid. And much more wine was sent to your palace than to—”

  “Forget my steward!” barked the other. “He is immaterial.”

  “The point still holds.”

  “The only thing that holds in my view is the allegation from Hugh Costaine that you boasted about your skill in concocting vile poisons. You claimed that you could turn fine wine to foul simply by casting a spell. Why gainsay it? Hugh Costaine has sworn as much on the Bible.”

  “Bring that same Bible here and I will swear on Holy Scripture that I am innocent of this charge. I have nothing to do with this murder.”

  “But you do admit that you saw Hugh Costaine recently?”

  Yes, my lord bishop. He called at the house.“

  “And you discussed poison?”

  “I made it clear to him that I had no means of making it.”

  “That is not what he says.”

  “Then it is a question of my word against his.”

  “His allegation is buttressed by this list of your crimes,” said the Bishop, waving the document at her. “I have mentioned only three cases of your witchcraft so far. Over two dozen are recorded here.”

  “Have any of the people I helped spoken against me?”

  “They dare not.”

  “Because they have no cause.”

  “Because you put the fear of death into them.”

  Bishop Nigel took a deep breath. He was about to launch into a recital of her alleged misdeeds, when a key grated in the lock and the oak door swung back heavily on its hinges. A tall, stately figure entered. Sir Richard Costaine was an older version of his son, but he had none of the latter’s arrogance or marks of dissipation. Instead, he was a symbol of nobility, a distinguished soldier who had fought beside the Black Prince and a man who was renowned for his fair-mindedness. He glanced at Catherine with a mixture of apology and apprehension, not knowing whether to release her or accuse her of further villainy.

  “Has your examination been completed?” he asked.

  “Not yet, Sir Richard,” said Bishop Nigel, airily. “The creature was on the point of capitulation when you interrupted us. Why have you come? Is something amiss?”

  “I’m afraid that it is, Bishop Nigel. My son has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He has not been seen all day. Nobody has any idea where he can be. A search has been organized, but there is no sign of Hugh.” His eye traveled to Catherine. “I hope that this is not your doing, Mistress.”

  She was adamant. “I give you my word that it is not, Sir Richard.”

  “Do not be misled,” warned the prelate, wagging a finger. “If she is capable of casting a spell on Walter Huckvale’s wine, she has the power to work her evil on your son.”

  “When my hands are manacled?” she said, reasonably. “What sorcery can I practice when I am locked up here? You have been with me since this morning, my lord bishop. Your holiness would quell any evil spirits. Though, in truth, there are none here to quell.”

  Bishop Nigel snorted. “I beg leave to doubt that.”

  “How did Hugh mysteriously vanish?” Sir Richard asked.

  “Not by any sorcery,” returned Catherine.

  “He should have been here hours ago. It is my wife’s birthday. Nothing would keep him away from the celebrations. Hugh has his faults, but he loves his mother dearly. I suspect foul play.”

  “So do I,” decided the bishop. “Hatched in this very cell.”

  Catherine Teale shook her head and gave a gentle smile.

  “No evil has befallen your son, Sir Richard,” she announced. “That I can tell you. Hugh Costaine is alive and well.”

  “Then where is he?” said the anxious father.

  “I do not know. But I could help you to find him.”

  “How?”

  “By using my gift.”

  “Do not trust her, Sir Richard!” warned the bishop. “The only gifts she possesses are for witchcraft and dissimulation.”

  “I find it difficult to accept that, Bishop Nigel.”

  “Look at the facts. Her husband argues with a customer, and the man’s wine is poisoned. Your son accuses her, and she casts a spell on him. There are clear connections here. We are dealing with cause and effect.”

  “Are we?” Sir Richard said doubtfully. “I am not so sure. Could we not simply be looking at two coincidences?” He regarded Catherine with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. “I am sorry that you have been treated so harshly, Mistress Teale. When a serious charge is laid against you, it must be answered but I would have thought this interrogation could have been conducted in better surroundings than these.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You say that you can find my son.”

  “I can try, Sir Richard.”

  “By what means?”

  “By sensing where he might be.”

  “Sensing?

  “That word again!” exclaimed the bishop.

  “Let me touch something belonging to your son,” she said. “A garment, a weapon, a personal item of some kind. It will help me in my search. Could you bring such a thing to me, Sir Richard?”

  “I will do more than that, Mistress Teale. I will take you to my house and let you examine all of Hugh’s wardrobe.”

  “But she is being held as a prisoner,” complained Bishop Nigel.

  “The sheriff will release her into my care when he understands the situation. We are in extremity here, Bishop Nigel. My wife is beside herself with fear. So is Hugh’s own wife. They are both certain that he has met a dreadful fate. We want him back to celebrate what should be a happy occasion for the whole family. Hugh is missing. If Mistress Teale can find him for us,” he added, soulfully, “we will believe that she really does have a gift from God.”

  GLAD TO BE RESCUED from her imprisonment, Catherine rode the short distance to Headcorn with Sir Richard Costaine at her side. The house was in a state of mild uproar when they arrived. Everyone was firmly convinced that Hugh was the victim of some attack. It was felt that he was such a strong and capable man that only violence could prevent his return. It was the hapless wife for whom Catherine felt most sympathy. The tearful Isabella Costaine still loved her husband enough to be blinded to his blatant shortcomings. When she heard that the visitor was there to aid the search, she begged Catherine to find her missing spouse soon.

  Sir Richard calmed the household then led his companion off to the private apartments used by his son and his wife. Catherine was given ready access to Hugh Costaine’s wardrobe. When she saw the apparel he was wearing at the time of his conf
rontation with her, she gave a mild shudder. Then she reached out to take the rich material in her hands. Closing her eyes, she let her fingers play with the mantle until she felt a distinctive tingle. She raised her lids once more.

  “We must ride toward Sutton Valence,” she said.

  “But what would Hugh be doing there?” wondered Sir Richard.

  “I do not know, but that is where I am being guided.”

  “By what? A voice? A sign?”

  “By instinct.”

  Within a few minutes, their horses were cantering out of the courtyard. Four men-at-arms acted as an escort. Catherine was a good horsewoman, and they covered the ground at a steady pace. It was only when they reached the woods that she raised a hand to bring them to a halt. After looking all around, she elected to strike off to the right, nudging her mount forward so that it could pick its way through the trees. Sir Richard was directly behind her, trying to control a growing skepticism. Could a vintner’s wife really have divine gifts? Or was he being led on a wild-goose chase?

  When they came to a clearing, Sir Richard’s doubts fled at once. Tethered to a bush was a black stallion, cropping the grass contentedly.

  “It is my son’s horse!” he said, dismounting.

  Catherine nodded. “I expected to find a clue of some sort here.”

  “But what about Hugh himself?”

  “We still have some way to go before we reach him,” she said. “This is only the start. The first signpost, so to speak. But it shows that we are on the right track.”

  “Where do we go next, Mistress Teale?”

  Catherine closed her eyes and was lost in meditation for a few minutes. When she came out of her trance, she spoke with certainty.

  “We must continue on the road to Sutton Valence.”

  “How far?”

  “I will know when we reach the spot, Sir Richard.”

  “And will Hugh be there?”

  “Not this time.”

  Sir Richard Costaine mounted his horse then went back to rejoin his men, towing his son’s stallion behind him by its rein.

  Catherine paused in the clearing long enough to notice the little wine flagon that was all but concealed behind a bush. It was the sign she wanted.

  The six of them rode on until they came to a fork in the road. Without hesitation, Catherine struck off to the left and followed a twisting track down a steep hill and on through a stand of elms. When they emerged from the trees, the track petered out beside a stream. Catherine indicated a tall pile of brushwood, a short distance away on the opposite bank.

  “The trail leads to that dwelling,” she explained.

  “What dwelling? I see nothing but a heap of old wood.”

  “That is where he lives, Sir Richard.”

  “Who?”

  “Thomas Legge.”

  “What manner of man would live in such a place?”

  “A strange one.”

  “You know the fellow?”

  “Only by repute.”

  They crossed the stream and headed along the opposite bank. As they got closer, they could see a thin wisp of smoke emerging from the top of the brushwood. A small dog suddenly leaped out and yapped at them. The noise brought Thomas Legge out of his lair. The entrance to his little home was so low that he had to crawl out on his hands and knees. The newcomers looked down at the bedraggled old man who peered up at them with suspicion. Thomas Legge seemed to be more animal than human, a misshapen creature with white beard and hair that were grimed with filth. He scrambled to his feet and kicked his dog into silence. His speech was slurred, his tone unwelcome.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “We need your help,” Catherine explained. “This is Sir Richard Costaine, and we have come in search of his son.”

  “He’s not here,” Legge said. “Nobody’s here but me.”

  “But I believe he came here.” She pointed to the black stallion. “On that horse. Do you recognize the animal?” Legge gave a reluctant nod. “I thought so. He came in search of something, didn’t he?”

  “That’s private,” grunted the old man.

  “Not if it concerns my son,” Sir Richard said sharply. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, or you’ll feel the flat of my sword. We want answers.”

  “I think I can give you one of them,” Catherine ventured. “Your son came here to buy some rat poison. True or false, Thomas Legge?”

  “True,” Legge mumbled.

  “He told you that his stables were overrun with rats, didn’t he?”

  “But they’re not,” Sir Richard said. “We keep too many dogs to have any trouble with vermin. Hugh knows that.” He glared at the old man. “Is that what my son told you? We were plagued by rats?”

  “Yes,” agreed Legge.

  “Did you give him the poison there and then?” Catherine asked.

  “No. It took a long time to mix.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He told me a man would come to fetch the poison that same afternoon. I had it ready. The man paid me.”

  “Who was the man?” said Sir Richard.

  Legge gave a shrug. “No idea.”

  “Which direction did he come from?”

  “I can tell you that, Sir Richard,” Catherine said. “We have learned all that we can here. Follow me.” She swung her horse around and led the party away.

  Watching the group leave, Thomas Legge scratched his head in surprise. Why was he so popular all of a sudden? He could go for weeks without seeing anyone, yet he had had two visits already that day. He did not much care for the lady with her armed escort. His first visitor was much more preferable. Climbing back into his lair, he reached for the flagon of wine that the man had left him by way of reward. He took a long, satisfying swig.

  IT TOOK THEM ONLY a short time to identify the man they sought. When they arrived at the house, they found it deep in mourning.

  The body of Walter Huckvale still lay in the mortuary at the family chapel. His wife, the lovely Agnes, was bearing up well under her grief and was able to give her unexpected visitors a welcome. She was puzzled by their request.

  “You wish to talk to my servants, Sir Richard?” she said.

  “That is so,” he replied, softly. “We have reason to believe that one of them may be able to help us. I was shocked to learn of your husband’s untimely death. He and I fought together at Crecy and at Poitiers. Walter Huckvale deserved a hero’s end.”

  Agnes nodded, showing a loyalty she did not really feel. She was clearly discomfited by Sir Richard’s presence. Catherine believed that she could guess why.

  “Let us get on with it,” Sir Richard suggested briskly. “Perhaps you could have the servants sent into us one by one so that we can question them. We hope to throw new light on your husband’s murder.”

  But the examination proved unnecessary. When the word spread among the servants, one of them took fright and bolted. Sir Richard’s men had to ride for a mile before they ran him to ground. The man was dragged unceremoniously back to the house. He was squirming with guilt. Sir Richard was merciless.

  “You helped poison your master,” he accused.

  “No, Sir Richard!” bleated the other.

  “Do not lie to me!” A blow to the face knocked the man to the ground. “You served him that fatal draught of wine, didn’t you?” The man shook his head. A kick made him groan. “Didn’t you, you rogue?”

  “Yes,” confessed the servant.

  “On whose orders?”

  “I cannot tell you, Sir Richard.”

  “Do I have to beat the truth out of you, man?”

  The servant looked up with a mixture of pleading and defiance.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he said with a hollow laugh. “You might hear something that you wish you hadn’t.”

  It was Catherine who once again led them with unerring accuracy to the right place. The cottage was on the edge of the Huckvale estate, small, comfortable, isolated, and wel
l hidden by woodland. They found Hugh Costaine in the bedchamber, securely bound, gagged, and blindfolded. When he heard them enter the house, he kicked violently on the floor to attract their attention. Sir Richard was the first person to see him. He gazed down at his son with contempt before removing the blindfold and the gag. Hugh Costaine squinted in the light. He recognized the figure who towered over him.