‘Perhaps Lady Joan will give you ten marks from her clothing allowance, Brother,’ said Sister Rose, abandoning her row with the lady of the manor, and turning to Michael. She smiled alluringly as she adjusted her low neckline. ‘She and Sir Philip are very wealthy–they rent Valence Manor from Michaelhouse, but they own other estates, too.’
Joan pulled a face at her as she addressed Michael. ‘This nun foisted herself on our hunt, but my real companions are these gentlemen. There are the two priests, and then there is Sir Elias Askyl.’
Even Bartholomew, not always astute when it came to romantic entanglements, could not fail to notice the smouldering glance she shot in the knight’s direction. Askyl returned the look with an expression the physician found hard to interpret. Was it pleasure that he had captured the affections of his host’s wife, or an indication that the attraction was shared? He found the latter hard to believe: Joan was heavily built and plain-faced. However, he knew there was no accounting for taste.
‘Sir Elias is a very brave knight,’ added Rose, treating Askyl to a simper of her own. Askyl bowed in a way that was flirtatious, and Bartholomew wondered what was going on. He glanced at the two clerics, to see if he could gauge anything from their reactions. William was laughing, but his amusement seemed to derive from the fact that Dole’s ravaged face was as black as thunder. Did Chaplain Dole hold a fancy for the nun, and resent the fact that she preferred Askyl? But why should William find pleasure in an old comrade’s discomfort?
‘Sister Rose has taken the veil,’ gloated Joan. ‘Therefore, most things are forbidden to her, including very brave knights.’
‘I am not a nun yet,’ said Rose. ‘I may not take my vows–it depends on what else comes along.’
‘You have a true sense of vocation, then,’ remarked Michael caustically.
‘I have one,’ said old Pauline, still trying to drag her mule away from its grass. ‘And it involves an afternoon doze in a cool dormitory before supper. If I do not get it, I shall be vexed.’
‘You are always vexed,’ said Rose with a sigh. ‘Prioress Christiana was cruel to foist you on me–you have done nothing but whine all day. Go home then, and leave Sir Elias and me to take this carcass to the manor-house. Perhaps Sir Philip will spare you its hooves for a soothing broth.’
‘He had better not,’ declared Pauline venomously. ‘Not when I was promised a haunch. Sir Philip is always forcing me out on these vile jaunts–he likes your company and the prioress will not let you go alone. But she should put a stop to it.’
‘Prioress Christiana is afraid of losing Sir Philip’s good will,’ explained Sister Rose smugly to Michael, trying to annoy the old nun by revealing confidences the priory would probably prefer kept to itself. ‘He supplies the priory with eggs, and she dares not risk such a valuable resource. She knows my company pleases him, so she lets me go to him whenever he asks.’
She shot Lady Joan a spiteful glance, to see whether the comment had aggravated her rival, too.
It had. Joan glowered sullenly. ‘I tell my husband I dislike hunting with nuns, but he always says the priory needs the fresh meat Sister Rose provides. It is not fair because, more often than not, he does not hunt himself, which leaves me in the company of dull monastic ladies.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, when the hunting party began to debate whether meat was of any use to women who knelt around praying all day. ‘What is going on? Joan is married to Lymbury, but clearly adores Askyl. Sister Rose also admires Askyl, but seems to have some sort of understanding with Lymbury. Not surprisingly, the two women detest each other. I cannot decide which of the pair Askyl prefers, but Chaplain Dole has a definite hankering for Rose.’
‘Meanwhile, Dole and William the Vicar are at loggerheads,’ added Bartholomew. ‘And Dame Pauline seems to hate everyone. We have walked into a war.’
Askyl sighed, indicating he was bored with the discussion, and steered his horse towards home. Bartholomew watched fascinated, as Joan and Rose jostled each other to ride next to him. Joan emerged the victor, because her horse was larger, and Rose was livid when she was forced to drop behind. William and Dole hastened to join her, and the former shot a triumphant glance at the latter when he got there first. Chaplain Dole fingered the dagger in his belt as he watched them go, an expression of dark resentment on his face.
‘I had better engage Dole in polite conversation before we witness a murder,’ said Michael. ‘And you should help Pauline: her mule will still be eating grass tomorrow unless someone steps in.’
Bartholomew led his horse and Pauline’s mule along the woodland track, well behind the others. The old nun began a litany of complaints about everything–from her painful hips to the muddy taste of river trout–and he reflected wryly that her conversation was no more edifying than Michael’s had been.
Eventually, they emerged from the trees and followed a brook through pretty water-meadows. As they approached the village, Bartholomew saw people hoeing the fields. The labourers stopped work to watch the little cavalcade pass, but none returned the physician’s friendly greetings.
The village comprised small crofts scattered along a winding road. A large and unusually beautiful church nestled in the heart of the settlement; Michaelhouse’s manor lay to its south-east, and the priory to its west. The land was flat, and most trees had been felled for building or firewood, so Bartholomew could see for a considerable distance. He commented to Pauline that some houses were larger than the others. She told him there were several manors in the parish, some of which were owned by Lymbury, although he preferred to live in the one he rented from Michaelhouse because of its central location and its new tiled roof. She pointed to it–a fine hall set amid a range of thatched outbuildings. A track fringed with young oaks led to its front door, and Askyl, who was in the lead, was just about to turn down it, when a youth stumbled towards them. The boy’s face was red, and he was panting so hard he could barely breathe. He wore a fine new tunic, so white it hurt the eyes in the strong sunlight.
‘There you are, Father,’ he gasped to William. ‘I have been looking for you ever since this morning–I must have run miles! Sir Philip says please come straight away. He is composing his new will, and wants you to write it down for him.’
‘Lymbury is unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing mortal illness might explain the man’s unusual attitude towards paying the rent.
William shook his head. ‘He is always making wills. I have scribed at least six since Poitiers.’
‘My husband always leaves me well provided for, though,’ said Joan smugly. ‘I am no poor nun. If he dies, I shall have plenty with which to satisfy a new husband.’
Rose’s expression was resentful. ‘Except beauty, of course. Still, a man could always have his daily bread from you, and go elsewhere for his meat. But my throat is dry, and I imagine Dame Pauline will appreciate a cup of wine before returning to the priory. We shall avail ourselves of Sir Philip’s hospitality, and listen to him dictating his latest will at the same time.’
Pauline glared at her. ‘I am tired, and want to go—’
‘It is very good wine,’ said Rose firmly. She slid off her horse and marched towards the house before the nun could object further. Since Askyl was aiming for the door, too, Joan hurried to catch up with him, and Michael sniggered as all three became jammed in the entrance. William gave them a shove to relieve the blockage, and the entire contingent shot through in a rush, leaving the two scholars standing alone outside. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. Michael and Bartholomew stared at each other for a moment, then entered the manor at a run–up the spiral stairs to the main hall on the first floor.
Valence Manor’s chief room was a handsome solar, which smelled of wood smoke and the honeyed beeswax that had been used to polish its fine oaken floor–someone obviously took a great deal of trouble over it. The hunting party and the red-faced boy had gathered around a grey-haired man who sat in a chair near the hearth. At first, Bartholomew th
ought the fellow was asleep, but then he saw blood. When he looked at the back of the chair, he saw a sword had been thrust through the wooden panels with such force that it had skewered its victim from behind.
‘Stabbed in the back,’ breathed William, appalled. ‘Lord have mercy on his soul.’
When no one did more than gaze at the corpse, Bartholomew went to inspect it. The sword had sliced through the soft tissues below the ribs, probably bringing instant death. The physician rested his hand on the man’s neck, and felt the cool skin beneath his fingers. He also noted the blood was beginning to congeal. The dead man clutched a gold coin in his clawed fingers, which Bartholomew showed to Michael. He expected the others to notice, too, but they were more intent on fixing each other with accusing stares.
Joan, who did not seem particularly distressed by the discovery of her husband stabbed in his own solar, rounded on the flushed youth. ‘I hope he did not destroy his previous wills before he started composing the new one.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Rose, her voice contemptuous. ‘I see you are grief-stricken by your loss.’
Joan composed her face into an expression that approximated sorrow. ‘I am devastated,’ she declared, taking Askyl’s arm and clinging to it rather hard. ‘So I shall need my husband’s friends around me, to console me in my time of need.’
‘You need a priest, not a soldier,’ said Rose tartly. ‘Put Sir Elias down, and let Father William comfort you instead. It would be more seemly.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Dole, aghast. The pallor of shock made his scar more prominent–a raw, vivid slash across a face that had probably once been comely. Uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether Lymbury’s death might mean the loss of Dole’s post as priory chaplain.
‘I think it might have something to do with the sword in his back,’ whispered William. He addressed the others more loudly. ‘I have seen enough death on the battlefield to know this terrible thing probably happened this morning, when we were out hunting.’
‘I mean how did he come to be speared in his own home?’ snapped Dole angrily. ‘I can see he died by that damned sword.’
‘Father William is right: we were all off hunting,’ said Joan. She turned to the youth and a heavyset man who had come to stand beside him. Their looks and ages suggested they were father and son.
‘Are you saying a servant did it?’ asked Dole, following the direction of her accusing gaze.
The burly man glowered. ‘She had better not be–every last man, woman and child on this estate has been busy in the fields since first light. It is a hectic time of year, and there is hard work to be done.’ His disapproving tone indicated what he thought about a frivolous activity like hunting.
‘Not every last child, Hog,’ said Joan, her eyes fixed on the boy. ‘James was ordered to remain behind, in case Sir Philip needed anything.’
The lad became alarmed when everyone looked at him. ‘But I did not see anyone kill him!’ he squeaked. His father rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘Actually, I was thinking of you not as a witness, but as a culprit,’ elaborated Joan.
Old Dame Pauline gave an irritable sigh. ‘Do not spout nonsense, woman! Of course James did not kill your husband. Why would he? His father is Lymbury’s bailiff, and with Lymbury dead, Hog may find himself without profitable work. James would be a fool to bite the hand that feeds him.’
James gazed at his father in alarm. ‘Is it true? Will we be cast out, to live like vagrants?’
‘Sir Philip’s death is a bitter blow,’ admitted Bailiff Hog. His expression was defiant. ‘But there are still crops in the fields and sheep on the hills. We shall stay here, and hope his heirs will hire us. However, because we have so much to lose from his death, it means we cannot be suspects for his murder.’
‘Well someone killed him,’ said Sister Rose. ‘He obviously did not stab himself in the back.’
Michael addressed the gathering, silencing the mounting accusations and recriminations. ‘It is too late fetch the Sheriff from Cambridge today, so we shall send word of what has happened first thing in the morning. But meanwhile, I am the University’s Senior Proctor and Bartholomew is my Corpse Examiner. Between us, we have solved many murders. Since this death occurred on College land, we are under an obligation to investigate it. The Sheriff is an old friend, and will appreciate our help.’
‘Yes, do explore the matter, Brother,’ said Rose maliciously. ‘Sir Philip had a wife who is now free to take a younger, more comely husband; friends who argued with him–excepting dear Sir Elias, of course; servants who despised him for sitting indoors when he was needed in the fields; and a prioress who was afraid he might withhold donations of eggs. You have a wealth of suspects to choose from.’
‘I feel sorry for Lymbury,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael, when everyone started to shout again. ‘No one seems very upset by his death, with the possible exception of Dole.’
‘Was his killer a man?’ asked Michael. ‘It must have taken a lot of power to drive a blade through the back of a chair and then into a body.’
Bartholomew did not think so. ‘It was pushed through a gap in the panelling. The killer struck hard, but it was not a demonic kind of strength. Anyone could have done it–including Lady Joan and Sister Rose, who are fit, healthy women.’
‘But it was not my son,’ shouted Hog, his furious voice silencing the others by sheer dint of its volume. ‘Not James. Whoever killed Sir Philip will be covered in blood, and you can see for yourselves that there is not a spot on James. You also know he is not a cunning boy–it would never have occurred to him to rid himself of incriminating stains if he had committed this crime. You know this, because you know James.’
James hung his head. ‘A while after you had all gone hunting, Sir Philip sent me to fetch William the Vicar, because he said he was finally ready to dictate his new will. He was alive when I left, and I did not see anyone else nearby. Every villager is out in the fields, as my father said.’
‘I do not think this case will greatly tax your scholarly wits, Brother,’ said Lady Joan spitefully. ‘This morning, I went to escort Sir Elias to his destrier, and I left Rose alone with Philip.’
‘Not alone,’ corrected Rose. ‘Dame Pauline was with us–and it was only a matter of moments anyway, because I did not want to be left behind. Sir Philip asked after my health and I told him I was well. That was the full extent of our conversation.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ said the old nun bitterly. ‘I was hoping she might linger, to reduce the time I was obliged to spend astride that horrible mule–you all know how it pains my hips to ride the thing–but she rushed out far too quickly.’
‘And it is irrelevant anyway,’ added Rose loftily. ‘James saw Sir Philip alive after all this had happened and we had gone.’
‘That is true,’ acknowledged James. He looked frightened. ‘But that does not mean I killed him.’ He appealed to Michael. ‘Please, Brother! You have to believe me!’
‘Well, my husband was hale and hearty this morning—’ began Joan angrily.
‘He was not,’ contradicted Rose. ‘He said he was unwell.’
‘He often claimed he was ailing,’ said William. ‘But it meant nothing–he said he was feverish before Poitiers, but that did not stop him from killing a dozen Frenchmen.’
‘He had my trouble,’ agreed Pauline. ‘Aching joints. What happened to this claret I was promised? And none of that slop you feed the servants, either. I want the good stuff.’
Hog tapped his son on the shoulder, and James escaped to fetch the wine with some relief. Bartholomew wondered whether he would come back: the manor’s residents were eager for a culprit, and it would not be the first time innocent blood was spilled in the rush to secure an explanation.
‘Shall we remove the sword?’ asked Hog in the silence that followed his boy’s departure. ‘It is not right to leave the thing where it is.’
‘That damned blade,’ said Dole unhapp
ily. ‘It brought him nothing but trouble. Yes, pull it out, Hog. It distresses me to see it there.’
Bartholomew watched Hog extricate the weapon from Lymbury, then helped him lay the body on the floor. Dole muttered a few prayers before asking William to see about its removal to the church. William, however, was more interested in the sword than in the mortal remains of its owner.
‘It is magnificent,’ he said, taking one or two practise sweeps. ‘Look at the elegant dog-head carvings on the cross and this perfectly balanced blade. It belonged to a fellow called Matthew de Curterne from Down St Mary. Remember how Lymbury found it with his corpse after Poitiers? We drew lots for it, and Lymbury won.’
‘You did not return it to Curterne’s family?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. It was the usual custom in such a situation.
William shook his head. ‘Lymbury sent them a silver chalice instead. A fine weapon like this belongs in the hands of a warrior, and Curterne told us all his kin were farmers.’
‘It is old and heavy,’ said Dole disagreeably, watching William prance. ‘And I did not like the tales Curterne told us about its origins–how it brought bad luck and shame to its owners. I particularly did not like the story about the coroner’s man in Exeter, who was hanged for a crime he did not commit.’
‘He was not hanged,’ said William, his priestly robes swinging as he feinted and parried with an imaginary foe. ‘Curterne said the fellow’s master secured his freedom through some clever thinking. You know how sharp these coroners can be.’
‘And there was that business in Venice,’ Dole went on, unconvinced. ‘It was hurled into the sea, but contrived to have itself hauled out again. Very sinister. Curterne also told me it has the ability to fly through the air and embed itself in people it does not like.’
‘Does it, indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘That would be a convenient solution for someone here.’
‘It cut his hand when he was a child,’ insisted Dole. ‘He bore the scar to prove it–he said it came out of nowhere and almost severed his thumb. And he mentioned a servant who tried to steal it from him, who ended up breaking his neck when he tried to escape over the roof.’
Sword of Shame Page 26
