by Mike Ashley
We walked out of the tent. Across the field the gallant was now a little closer to Benedicta. Lady Maude was gazing soulfully over the field as if she realized the young man was not interested in her and she now pined for the return of her corpulent, but ever-loving husband. Benedicta seemed absorbed. The young man was facing her, his hands in his lap only a few inches from hers, his face masked in concentration as he stared into her eyes. I had to control the sense of panic, remind myself that I was a priest, a monk ordained and given to God. I had taken a vow of celibacy and, although I may have a woman as a friend, I cannot lust, I cannot desire or covet any woman whether she be free or not. I steeled myself. I had to because I felt a growing rage at my condition. A deep longing to be with Benedicta. A sense of hurt that she could find someone else so attractive and entertaining. I knew my anger to be unfair and I remembered an old priest once saying how people think priests are different but we are just ordinary men, exercising an extraordinary office. I looked at Sir John, he just stared down at the ground. I knew what he was thinking, he was impatient with me, yet felt sorry.
“Sir John,” I began, taking him by the arm and walking him over to the tilt barrier. “What you said back there, was it true, that a knight guides his horse with his legs rather than his hands?”
Sir John shrugged.
“Of course. Any man who has to fight on horseback knows that you cannot guide your horse in battle if your hands are engaged. That is why each knight forms a close relationship with his horse until his destrier senses every move, even the slightest touch of pressure, where to turn, when to stop, when to rear. Even I,” he tapped his great stomach, “when younger, and a little slimmer, was an excellent horseman.” Cranston coughed. “Le Marche was correct. Sir Robert was a fine jouster, his reputation was well known. I cannot understand how a horse, even if it panicked or reared, should throw him to such an extent that he would lower both lance and shield. Moreover, there is something else.”
“What?” I asked.
Cranston closed his eyes.
“Let us put ourselves in Woodville’s position. He is on a horse, he is in armour, his visor lowered, he carries shield and lance. He charges. His horse, stung to agony by a dagger prick, swerves and turns.”
Cranston opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Yet Woodville could have reasserted himself, turned his horse away and avoided Le Marche’s oncoming lance.” He shook his head. “There must be something else. But, come, let us go back to our guests.”
Inside the tent Sir Michael was issuing orders. Eustace stood with his hands bound behind his back like a convicted felon waiting to be taken to Tyburn. Cranston went up to him.
“Eustace,” he barked. “Did you have any grievance against your lord?”
The squire shook his head, his eyes pleading for mercy.
“He was a good master?”
Eustace nodded.
“So why did you goad your master’s horse with a dagger?”
“I did not!” the man screamed. “I did nothing of the sort. Yes, I had my hand on the horse but no dagger. I inflicted no injury.”
Cranston turned to Giles.
“Do you two know each other?” he asked.
Eustace looked away. Now Giles became agitated, moving from one foot to another, the tent fell silent. The Master Herald who had been on the verge of leaving turned back.
“I asked you a question,” Cranston repeated. “You see, it’s quite simple. If Woodville was murdered, two people must have been involved. One at Le Marche’s end, putting a point on the blunted lance, the other at Woodville’s ready to wound the horse. What I am saying, gentlemen, is the only people who had access to both knights were their two squires. Perhaps,” Cranston looked at the Master Herald triumphantly, “perhaps it is not one murderer, Sir Michael, but two. And so I ask you squires again, did you meet before the tournament?”
“No,” Eustace murmured. “No, no, this is not fair, our words will be twisted.”
Cranston ignored him and looked at Giles.
“You did meet, didn’t you?”
The squire nodded.
“What about?”
Giles licked his lips.
“I had met Eustace before,” he said. “Quite a few times. We know each other well. When great lords assemble in castles their servants are left to wander around, find food and lodgings. They are left to their own devices. When the royal party went to any castle, be it Sheen or Windsor, Eustace was there.”
“Don’t tell him!” Eustace yelled. “Whatever you say will be twisted!”
Cranston walked across and squeezed the young squire’s mouth in his hand.
“You, sir,” he said, “will keep quiet until my questions are answered. And you,” he looked at Giles, “you will tell us the truth.”
Giles chewed his lip, his eyes pleading with Cranston.
“Eustace has lost money,” he began, “in many wagers. He is a gambler, be it dice, the toss of a penny, two flies crawling up a castle wall, two cocks fighting in a ring, bears against dogs, a hunt, a falcon swooping for a heron, you will find Eustace laying his wager.”
Giles smiled.
“He is not very successful and usually loses. He came to me three days ago. He asked me who I thought would win the great tournament, his master or mine? He made enquiries about Sir Oliver’s health, his horse, his armour, whether he had been practising and so on. Of course, I refused to answer even though he pleaded with me, telling me he had wagered on my master winning.” Giles shrugged. “I told him nothing, nothing at all.”
Cranston took his hand away from Eustace’s mouth.
“Is that true, squire?”
Eustace, realizing the futility of further protests, nodded meekly.
“It’s true,” he muttered. “I owe money to the Lombards, to the merchants, to the bankers, to other squires. I thought Sir Oliver would win. I wagered heavily that he would.”
“So,” Le Marche interrupted, “you thought your own master would lose?”
“Yes, yes,” Eustace mumbled, “he was nervous of you. He was infatuated with the Lady Isabella. His wits were not as keen.” His voice rose. “But no bribes were given, no understandings reached. There was no conspiracy to harm Sir Robert!”
Cranston shrugged.
“Well, sir, it looks that way,” he replied. He looked back towards Giles. “The King’s serjeant-at-law may well argue that both of you put your heads together and plotted mischief. You, Giles, put a point on your master’s lance; while you, Eustace, damaged your master’s destrier so when the charge came it was faulted and led to an accident and Sir Robert’s death. Perhaps you did not intend that, just a slight accident. Yet, if such a charge can be proved, both of you will hang at Tyburn.”
Eustace now broke into tears, shaking his head. Giles just stood there as if carved out of wood, his face implacable.
“I am no murderer!” he hissed. “I do not like my master. I do not like the silly games he plays, either here or elsewhere. When my indenture is completed, before God, I will be pleased to go.”
“But my accusation still stands,” the coroner persisted. “It would have taken two men to plot Woodville’s downfall in this tournament one putting a point on Le Marche’s lance, the other damaging Sir Robert’s horse. Gentlemen, you are both under arrest. When I have finished my questions, Brother Athelstan and I will return. If we find nothing new, we will order your immediate committal to Newgate prison or, if His Grace the Duke of Lancaster agrees, perhaps even to the Tower. As you know, Sir Robert was a member of the royal household: an attack on him will be construed as treason.”
Sir John turned and nodded at the Master Herald.
“Sir Michael, we will join you in the tavern.”
As we walked across the tournament field I thought about what Sir John had said.
“Do you really believe,” I said, “that there was a conspiracy between the two squires to kill Woodville? That Eustace wanted his master to lose and b
rought Giles into it?”
“Of course,” the coroner replied, “it’s possible. There is little love lost between Le Marche and his squire and Eustace is heavily in debt. A good lawyer could prove it and send both of those young men to their deaths.”
He stopped and, turning round, waved at his now disconsolate wife. I dare not look. I wanted to reassert myself, concentrate on the matter in hand. There was villainy here, mischief, a knight had been killed and two young men were now being accused. If the accusations were true they would die horrible deaths. Benedicta would have to wait and the problems she caused, perhaps resolved in confession or counselling by a brother monk.
“Sir John,” I began, “accept my apologies for my mind being elsewhere but let us look at this afresh. Let’s start from the beginning. You have seen Sir Robert Woodville’s horse. What about the rest? The lances he used, his armour?”
Sir John nodded.
“A good place to start, Brother.”
Cranston turned and yelled instructions to one of the serjeants-at-arms. He then took me by the arm and led me over to the tilt barrier. After a while the serjeant, with a few companions, brought across the dead knight’s armour, horse harness as well as the remains of Le Marche’s shattered lances. We scrutinized these, particularly the saddle, for any deliberate cut but we could find no faults. The same was true of the lances; those Woodville and Le Marche had used in the first course were broken. In the second joust, however, only Le Marche had shattered his lance, the unfortunate Woodville never had the opportunity to engage his enemy. Cranston showed how the pointed metal tip could be slid on as easily as a knife goes into a sheath. Finally, the armour; Sir John donned the dead knight’s helmet and, his voice booming out from behind the visor, pronounced everything satisfactory.
“Sir John,” I asked, “when a knight charges, how does he hold the lance?”
Cranston doffed the helmet and picked up Woodville’s battered breastplate, the great death-dealing gash in its centre.
“Look,” he explained, “years ago a knight would hold his lance under his right arm but” – he pointed to the lance rest on the right side of the breastplate – “nowadays the lance is couched in the rest which is fastened by rivets to the breastplate.” He tapped the loose lance rest with his hand. “Or at least it should be. Woodville’s, of course, must have been wrenched loose during the joust.”
I examined this carefully, the lance rest had been riveted to the breastplate by two clasps. One of these must have broken free. I remembered Woodville swaying in the saddle at the beginning of the second charge. I turned and shouted across at the serjeant-at-arms.
“Is there an armourer here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Fetch him!”
The soldier scurried off. Sir John and I put the breastplate to one side and inspected everything else but we could find nothing unsound. At last the armourer came, lank and greasy, his face grimed with dirt and sweat. He was not too sure on his feet. The fellow must have thought that as the tournament was cancelled, he could spend the rest of the day swigging tankard after tankard of ale. Nevertheless, he had nimble fingers and, with the tools he carried in a small leather bag, he soon had the lance rest completely free. I looked at the breastplate carefully and I guessed the identity of the murderer, not by any evidence or proof but, as old Father Anselm would say, by the application of pure logic. Cranston watched me.
“What is it, Brother?” he grated. “You have found something new, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I have!”
I asked the armourer to stand well out of earshot and I gave my explanation. Cranston, at first, rejected it so I called over the armourer. He listened to what I said and his face paled. He stopped, reluctant to answer but Sir John took him by the wrist, squeezed it and the man stammered that I was probably correct. Sir John then called over the captain of the royal serjeants and told him to saddle Woodville’s horse and bring it over. Once he had done this, I asked the serjeant to stand, holding the reins of the still exhausted horse in one hand, his dagger in the other. He, too, soon caught the drift of my questions and his ready answers faltered till he was reduced to a few stumbled words or phrases. Cranston ordered both to keep quiet and bring Woodville’s breastplate and horse to the “Swooping Eagle”. They followed us across the field, out through the noisy colourful fair, to the tavern where the Master Herald, together with the royal serjeants, now guarded both Sir Oliver Le Marche and the two squires in the huge taproom.
At my request Sir John cleared the room except for Giles, Eustace, Sir Oliver and, of course, the captain of the royal serjeants and the Master Herald. Cranston went up to Le Marche lounging in his chair, a wine cup in his hands. He still had that air of diffidence though he had distanced himself from his squire.
“Sir Oliver,” he asked, “tell me, how did you prepare for this tournament? I mean, today.”
The knight shrugged.
“I told you. I and members of my household, together with this creature,” he nodded towards the squire, “brought my armour and lances down to the tournament field. My pavilion was set up, the Master Herald scrutinized the lances as they were lying on the ground before they were placed on the rack.”
“I see. And your armour?”
“On its rest in my pavilion.”
“And people could come in and out of there?”
“Of course. Lord John of Gaunt as well as other members of the court came in to see me.”
I looked towards Eustace who had now regained some composure.
“And the same at the other end of the lists?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Of course. The same routine. Sir Robert’s baggage was brought down in a cart and unloaded. I supervised the setting up of the pavilion, and the armour rest and placed Sir Robert’s armour there. The Master Herald examined the lances, the horse and saddle.” He shrugged. “The rest you know.”
“And, of course,” I said, “no knight wears his armour until he has to?”
Sir Oliver laughed.
“Of course, in this heat, you do not go strutting around in armour. After an hour like that you would be too exhausted to climb on your horse, never mind couch your lance! Why? What are you saying, Brother?”
“Captain,” I turned to the serjeant-at-arms, “in the tavern yard, there’s a cart with the lances from the tournament field, those not used. Get one out and stand with it!”
The fellow hurried off and, at my insistence, we followed soon after. The serjeant stood, rather embarrassed and ill at ease, the huge tilting lance alongside him; the butt on the cobbles and its tip towering above him, its pennant snapping in the early evening breeze.
“Captain,” I asked, “is that lance capped or blunted?”
He shrugged.
“I cannot say, Brother. I pulled it from the cart by the handle.”
“Well, look up, man!”
He tried to.
“What can you see?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s too high and the pennant at the top obscures my view.”
I turned.
“Sir Oliver? Sir John?”
Both narrowed their eyes, squinting up into the sky but neither could give a definite answer. I smiled and led them back into the taproom.
“Now, Sir John,” I began, “had a theory that Woodville’s death was caused by a conspiracy between the two squires. That was a logical deduction; someone at one end of the lists replaced the points on the lance and someone else damaged Woodville’s horse. But now I put a new theory. I believe that the same person who put the point on the lance injured Woodville’s horse and also ensured that the lance rest on his armour was deliberately weakened. When Woodville charged the second time the lance slipped and this caused Woodville’s death.”
The tent fell silent. I noticed Cranston had gone to block the exit.
“Now who could do this? Someone who had access to both pavilions. The only person who had t
hat access,” I turned to Sir Michael Lyons who had now lost his bluster as the blood faded from his rubicund face, “was you, Sir Michael Lyons, the Master Herald. I suggest this happened: Le Marche’s lances were laid in a row on the ground. When you went to inspect them, you crouched down and quite simply placed metal points on three of the lances.”
“That’s preposterous!” the Master Herald interrupted. “Anyone could have seen the lances were pointed!”
“No, they wouldn’t,” I said. “They would only see the point if they were looking for it, our serjeant-at-arms has just proved that.” I paused. “Now,” I continued, “at the tournament, the lances were placed in the rack, in the same order as they were on the ground. The first lance was blunted, the next three pointed. However, everybody thought the lances had been examined. Now Giles here comes to take one. The lances are fourteen feet long, over twice a man’s height.” I looked at the squire. “He picked it up by the handle, and when the lance is in the air, who sees the point? He carries it to the rack and leaves it there. The next time he touches it he’s hurrying in a frenetic haste; his master has already run a course and he needs a fresh lance. Giles runs up, takes the lance from its rack and gives it to his master. Sir Oliver also does not examine the top of the lance, towering some eleven feet above him in the air. He charges. Meanwhile, at the other end of the field Woodville is also waiting. His lance has no cutting edge, no pointed steel to break the armour. What he does not know is that the lance rest on his breastplate has been weakened by you, Sir Michael, when you went to inspect his armour.”
“No!” Le Marche shouted out. “If the lance rest was broken, it was damaged when I struck him!”
“That’s what Sir Michael would have liked us to think,” Cranston added. “But the lance rest was untouched: it was not dented or even marked, it just swung loose on Woodville’s breastplate.”
Sir Michael, his face now wet with sweat, shook his head.
“This is foolishness!” he snapped. “The lance rest could have swung loose during the second charge or even the first.”
