Sword of Shame

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘His choice is wealth or beauty, as Rose herself pointed out. I think he will opt for wealth.’

  ‘Rose is only right if Askyl thinks she is beautiful. Personally, I find her rather ordinary.’

  Bartholomew was surprised. ‘Do you? That will not please her. She goes to a good deal of trouble to make herself attractive.’

  ‘She is wasting her time,’ declared Michael harshly. ‘She does not have the basis for decent looks–she is too swarthy. And her figure is oddly shaped.’

  Bartholomew eased himself up on one elbow and stared in the monk’s general direction. ‘To be honest, I thought she might be pregnant.’

  He heard Michael’s blanket rustle. ‘Really? I suppose you are trained to notice that sort of thing. I wonder if Lymbury is the father. If so, then surely she would prefer him alive? He cannot pay for the brat’s upkeep if he is dead.’

  ‘Assuming he is willing to acknowledge it as his own. He might have rejected it–and her at the same time. It is a very good motive for murder. Perhaps I will change my prime suspect from Joan to Rose–especially since I recall her bragging about her skills with weapons when we were in the woods. It was no hollow boast, either: it was she who shot the deer the men could not catch.’

  ‘The prioress noted a recent cooling in the relationship between Lymbury and Rose,’ mused Michael. ‘I wonder why. Did Rose decline to gratify the plain lord of the manor once she had set eyes on his handsome friend?’

  ‘Dole admires Rose, too, although he cannot hope to compete with Askyl.’

  ‘I told you, Rose is too swarthy for beauty, so she does not stand a chance with Askyl, either. Lord, Matt! I cannot believe you are encouraging me to discuss women with you. We are in a nunnery for God’s sake, and I am a monk!’

  ‘What about Pauline?’

  ‘She is far too old to interest me.’

  ‘I meant what about Pauline as a suspect for murder?’ asked Bartholomew impatiently.

  ‘If it was Pauline, she would have moaned about blood on her clothing or the weight of the sword. She is a malcontent and grumbles about everything. And why would she want Lymbury dead?’

  ‘She objected to him forcing her out on hunts as an escort for Rose. Perhaps it was the only way she could think of to end it. She had ample opportunity, because Rose abandoned her in order to chase after Askyl.’

  ‘Meanwhile, Hog and James are also obvious candidates. Lymbury offered Askyl the coveted post of bailiff. Askyl did not say whether he would have accepted, but there is nothing to say he would not. His two friends are happily settled here, and Askyl said he has no family of his own.’

  ‘What will happen to Hog and James now? Will Lady Joan keep them on?’

  ‘Who knows? But an estate needs a bailiff–especially at this time of year–and Hog seems competent. Perhaps Michaelhouse will hire him, until a new tenant comes to replace Lymbury.’

  ‘What about Askyl and Dole? Would either of them have killed their old friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Michael without hesitation. ‘Dole is complex, and I do not know whether he is telling the truth about his motives for joining the priesthood. And Askyl thinks rather a lot of himself. Perhaps one of them learned he had been designated as Lymbury’s sole heir, and decided to kill the man before he could change his mind and write another will.’

  ‘We will find out tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew feeling sleep approaching at last. An owl hooted, and somewhere in the distance a vixen yapped. ‘William the Vicar will read it to us.’

  The glorious sunshine of the past few days had gone by the following morning, and there was drizzle in the air. It dampened the thirsty soil, releasing the scent of wet earth, and thunder rolled in the distance. Wisps of mist lay in strips across the fields and in the woods, and a nightingale sang as the land grew lighter. The priory bell chimed for prime, and the nuns made their way to the chapel in silence. Bartholomew stood in the nave with the lay-folk, listening to Michael’s pleasant baritone complement the higher voices of the women.

  Breakfast at the priory comprised watered ale, bread and honey, and although it was not exciting fare, there was enough of it to satisfy even Michael’s gargantuan appetite. After the tables had been cleared, Prioress Christiana came to talk again. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked as though she had not slept.

  ‘I had a wretched night,’ she confessed, when Bartholomew asked if she was unwell. ‘You are here to take our money; I must find funds to buy masses for Lymbury’s soul; Pauline tells me she no longer wants to act as Rose’s chaperon; and Rose said this morning that she will leave the priory.’

  ‘Let us take these troubles one at a time,’ said Michael kindly, taking her arm and leading her to a bench in a sheltered arbour near the refectory. It was full of flowers, bees and dripping vegetation. Bartholomew sat on a wall-seat opposite them. ‘First, let us consider the money Lymbury gave you, which rightfully belongs to Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Ten marks,’ whispered Christiana, white-faced. ‘A colossal sum! I have already spent most of it on essential supplies for the winter, and I need the rest to repair the dormitory roof. The building will collapse if we do not tackle the problem soon.’

  ‘William the Vicar is going to read Lymbury’s will this morning, so we shall know the full extent of his assets,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If he has ten marks in other goods, we shall claim those instead.’

  Christiana brightened. ‘That would be a relief! I was beginning to think we might have to part with our relic to pay you, although I am not sure whether it is really authentic. It is a splinter of the True Cross, stained with Christ’s blood when—’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, recalling the murder and mayhem that had followed when he had last encountered such an item. ‘We do not want any Blood Relics.’

  ‘Your second concern is funding prayers for Lymbury’s soul,’ said Michael.

  Christiana nodded. ‘That is why he gave us the ten marks–to pay a chantry priest to pray for him in perpetuity. Unfortunately, I did not learn the reason for the benefaction until after I had spent it on food. It came with written instructions, but I cannot read and Dame Pauline had a headache, so was unavailable for translation. I was dreading confessing the misunderstanding to Lymbury.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Was this yet another motive for murder?

  ‘His soul will have to be satisfied with your daily prayers and a weekly mass from Dole,’ decided Michael. ‘Your chaplain may as well do something for the convent he serves, and I shall ask the Bishop to send him an official order. But Lymbury was miserly–ten marks could never cover the cost of eternal prayers.’

  Christiana swallowed hard, touched. ‘You are very understanding, Brother.’

  ‘Your third problem is Pauline’s refusal to chaperon Rose,’ said Michael. ‘That is disobedience, which runs contrary to the Rule of our Order. You are her superior, so where lies the problem?’

  Christiana looked close to tears. ‘If I order her about, she refuses to help me with the convent’s administration. She is the only sister who can read, so it is important I keep on her good side. She says I am unfit to be prioress, and is always threatening to expose my failings to the Bishop–although he did know about my illiteracy when he appointed me.’

  ‘She will do nothing of the kind,’ said Michael. ‘And I shall tell him you are above reproach, so that will be the end of the matter. Besides, you do not need her, because Dole can act as your scribe.’

  ‘She told me men are not permitted to dabble in the affairs of nuns,’ said Christiana miserably. ‘She said it is written in the Rule of St Benedict.’

  ‘She made it up to maintain her hold over you. However, if she does not obey your orders in the future, I shall arrange for her to be sent to Chatteris. But let us turn to your fourth problem: Rose. Why has she decided to leave? Is it because she is with child?’

  Christiana gaped at him. ‘How did you guess? She said no
one else knows.’

  ‘Who is the father?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Lymbury?’

  Christiana put her head in her hands. ‘She said several men have enjoyed her favours. Her family brought her to us three years ago–they paid two months’ keep, but we have had nothing since. I could not bring myself to force her out, but now I wish I had–she has brought shame on my priory.’

  ‘Your charity does you credit,’ said Michael. ‘And it was wrong of Rose to have abused it. Will you summon her, and order her to answer our questions? Her liaisons may be relevant to unveiling Lymbury’s killer.’

  Christiana spotted Pauline, who was strolling up and down a cabbage patch with a hoe, although she was making no attempt to use it. The old nun opened her mouth to grumble when she was asked to run an errand, but did as she was told when Michael fixed her with a glare. Eventually, she returned with Rose. The younger woman’s saffron hair was tucked decorously under her veil, and her loose robes concealed the tell-tale bulges Bartholomew had noticed the previous day.

  ‘Anything else?’ Pauline asked impertinently. ‘These weeds will not hoe themselves.’

  ‘Forget the weeds,’ said Christiana with sudden spirit. ‘Go to the kitchens and scour all the pans.’

  ‘I certainly shall not,’ said Pauline, regarding her as though she was insane. ‘Cold water is bad for my joints. I shall stay out here, and if the sun comes out, I shall have a doze.’

  ‘Did you say there are several vacancies for literate nuns at Chatteris, Brother?’ asked Christiana, looking at Michael with wide blue eyes. ‘And the Bishop is very keen to fill them?’

  Michael nodded soberly. ‘But no one wants to go, because of the rats–and its tyrannical prioress. The Bishop is always looking for victims…I mean candidates, and I have his ear.’

  ‘You need me here, Mother Prioress,’ said Pauline sharply. ‘I am your secretarius.’

  ‘I am to have another,’ said Christiana sweetly. ‘So your services are no longer required. However, Chatteris is—’

  ‘I shall be in the kitchens,’ said Pauline sullenly, hurling her hoe into the cabbages and moving away with a limp Bartholomew knew was contrived, ‘scouring pans.’

  Christiana allowed herself a smile of satisfaction, then turned to Rose. ‘You said you are with child. When did you first realize you were in this predicament? This morning, when you confided in me?’

  ‘I have known since the beginning of summer. I hoped Sir Elias Askyl might take me as his bride, but he has proven remarkably difficult to pin down. He leers and winks, but politely declines my favours when I catch him alone.’

  ‘Perhaps he prefers Joan,’ suggested Michael baldly. ‘He leers and winks at her, too, and she is no penniless novice.’

  ‘Perhaps he does,’ acknowledged Rose with a resigned scowl. ‘Despite the fact that she is ugly and I am beautiful. No one can deny that wealth is powerful asset.’

  ‘If Askyl rejects your offers, then he is not the father of your child,’ said Christiana. ‘So who is?’

  ‘I told you: I do not know. It might be James–a sweet boy, although inclined to fumble. It might be Chaplain Dole, who is a kinder man than his warrior friends. Hog comforted me one night when Sir Elias failed to arrive for a tryst. Then there are several villagers who are fine fellows…’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Michael, regarding her with round eyes. ‘Perhaps it would be quicker to give us a list of the men who have not lain with you.’

  ‘Askyl,’ supplied Bartholomew helpfully. ‘And you did not mention Lymbury, Sister.’

  ‘Sir Philip thought himself a great lover, but he was not very effective with his weaponry, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael, puzzled and intrigued. ‘I do not.’

  ‘Did Lymbury know about the child?’ interrupted Bartholomew, not wanting Rose to go into those sort of details in front of Christiana. The poor woman was already pale with mortification.

  Rose shook her head. ‘I was going to tell him yesterday–I know he would have looked after us both. But the killer got there first.’

  Christiana rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘I should eject you today. You have brought my priory into disrepute with your wanton behaviour. What will the Bishop say, when he hears one of my nuns is pregnant, and half the men in the county might be the father?’

  ‘I am not a nun,’ said Rose defiantly. ‘And I never intended to become one. I escaped after vespers last night, to tell Sir Elias about my predicament–I thought it might melt his heart. But I could not find him–he was not at the manor-house. Neither was Joan. I hope they were not…together.’

  ‘Askyl does wander about a lot,’ said Christiana. ‘He was supposed to be hunting yesterday, but I saw him at the manor-house, arguing with Lymbury. I could not hear what they were saying, because I was too far away, but Lymbury had that horrible sword and was holding it in a very threatening manner.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Michael.

  Christiana shook her head. ‘It was after everyone had gone hunting, because the house was otherwise deserted. I have a standing offer of free eggs, so I collected them from the hen-coop myself. Later, I came across James, who offered to carry them home for me.’

  ‘James said he had met you,’ said Michael. ‘And we knew Lymbury had quarrelled with his friends, although we were not told that Askyl’s most recent spat was when he claimed to be out hunting.’

  ‘If Sir Elias had told you that, it would have been asking for everyone to accuse him of murder,’ said Rose, defensive of the man she had a hankering for. ‘So who can blame him for not telling you? But what will happen to me? My hopes of escorting him to the altar are fading–although I intend to persist until I know for certain my efforts are in vain–and I can hardly stay here.’

  Michael was unsympathetic. ‘Your predicament is generally known as the “wages of sin”, madam. Perhaps I should ask the Bishop to send you to Chatteris.’

  She gave a wan smile. ‘I might go. It is better than being a vagrant, and there are handsome farmers near Chatteris, who might enjoy my company.’

  Christiana grabbed her arm and marched her away, presumably to give her a lecture about morals that would be like water off a duck’s back.

  Bartholomew watched them go. ‘Last night, Rose was my favourite suspect for Lymbury’s murder, but I think she was right when she said he would have looked after her and her child. His death has put her in an awkward position, and I am inclined to believe she wishes he were still alive.’

  Michael agreed. ‘I do not think she is the killer, either. However, the man of her dreams–Askyl–did not tell us he had returned to the manor and argued with Lymbury, which in itself smacks of suspicion. Perhaps he would not make such a good husband after all.’

  They turned at the sound of a shout. It was James, crimson-faced and panting furiously yet again.

  ‘I think there is something wrong with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is not normal for a young man to be red all the time–nor to gasp after a run. He works outside and should be fit.’

  ‘Lady Joan asks if you will go to the hall,’ the boy gulped. ‘She says William the Vicar is dead.’

  For the second time, Bartholomew knelt next to a corpse in Valence Manor. William lay in a pool of gore and had been stabbed in the back. From the size of the wound, Bartholomew suspected the vicar had been killed with the same sword as had Lymbury. A good deal of blood had splattered across the floor, covering such a large area that Bartholomew could only suppose that William had staggered around before succumbing to his injury. When he examined the priest’s hands, they were red, but not excessively so.

  ‘I think he grappled with his attacker,’ he said to Michael. ‘Probably trying to wrest away the weapon that killed him. The blood on his hands was transferred to him by the killer–it did not come directly from his wound, because he would not have been able to reach that high up his back.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Michael, thinking it an odd conclusi
on to have drawn.

  ‘Not really. I would have suggested you looked for tell-tale stains on your suspects’ hands, but the killer will have scrubbed them clean by now.’

  ‘Just as you are about to do,’ said Michael. ‘Here comes James with the water you ordered.’

  James had gone from red to white, and after he had delivered the jug to the physician, he stood close to his father, as though he expected Joan to accuse him of another crime. Joan was sitting next to Askyl, who was weeping softly, while Dole stood near the hearth, kicking the ashes with the toe of his boot. Hog sighed angrily when some scattered across the polished floor.

  ‘Stop that, Father,’ he barked. ‘It takes a lot of work to keep the wood looking nice. And I have asked you before to remove your spurs when you come in here. The metal makes dents, and I have to file down the planks with a special chisel to remove them.’ He waved the tool in a way that made Bartholomew suspect the bailiff would dearly like to plunge it into Dole’s chest–or back.

  ‘When did you last see William?’ asked Michael, when Dole seemed ready to retort with a sharp comment that would antagonize the bailiff. He did not want to waste time with yet another spat.

  Askyl raised a tear-stained face. ‘After you went to the nunnery last night, William and I practised our swordplay in the yard. He used Lymbury’s blade, and I had my own; Dole watched. Then William went to his house, and Dole and I stayed here, talking. When I woke this morning, I came downstairs to find…’

  ‘William is cold and a little stiff,’ said Bartholomew to Michael in the silence that followed the knight’s faltering explanation. ‘He probably did die during the night.’

  ‘I have a house near Ickleton Priory,’ said Dole, taking up the tale. ‘I went there when I had finished chatting to Askyl, but I live on my own, so no one can vouch for me. And I left Askyl alone, so no one can vouch for him, either. I can only tell you that we do not murder comrades-in-arms. We did not kill Lymbury, and we did not kill William.’

  ‘But you disliked William,’ said Michael, regarding him intently. ‘You bickered constantly.’