by Mike Ashley
“No, Sir Michael,” Cranston replied. “This is what happened. Sir Robert ran the first course. He returned, took the second spear and couched it in his lance rest. He began his charge: the pressure of the couched lance pushed the rest, weakened in the first tourney, askew. Now, Sir Robert, a professional jouster, could cope with a wayward horse but not with a 14-foot ash pole which suddenly seemed to have a life of its own. For a few seconds Sir Robert panics: he drops his shield, the lance is askew, his horse, though troubled, still gallops forward, taking him on to the spearpoint of the charging Le Marche. Sir Robert falls dead off his horse, his armour dented and mauled, except for that death-dealing lance rest. Anyone else noticing it was loose would have put it down as a casualty of the tournament but, as has been said, the lance rest was unmarked.”
Sir Michael just stared at me.
“You see, Sir Michael,” I observed, “most murderers are caught because of evidence. They carry the bloody knife or take something from their victim’s body or were the last person to hold the poisoned cup but the evidence against you is based on logic. You were the only person who had the right and the authority to visit Le Marche’s pavilion and Woodville’s. You alone had the right to touch both Le Marche’s lances and Woodville’s armour.”
Sir Michael just shook his head wordlessly.
“Oh, yes,” I insisted, “I believe you are guilty, Sir Michael. And who would blame you, the Master Herald, responsible for the laws and customs of the tournament? You would have investigated Woodville’s death and placed the blame wherever you wanted, probably on one or both of these hapless squires. But my Lord of Gaunt summoned Sir John, you panicked and made your most dreadful mistake. Captain!” I turned to the serjeant-at-arms; “I understand Sir Robert’s horse is here. Bring it over together with the saddle!”
The soldier hurried out. Cranston turned his back on Sir Michael and hummed a little ditty between clenched teeth. The two squires stood like statues, their eyes unblinking, mouths open, hands dangling by their sides. Poor lads! They could hardly believe what they were hearing – they, who only a few minutes earlier were facing the possibility of a dreadful death. I saw Sir Oliver take a step towards the Master Herald.
“Sir,” Cranston grunted, “I would be grateful if you sat down and did not make a bad situation worse!”
The serjeant-at-arms returned, his face red with excitement, eager not to miss anything.
“Sir John!” he announced, “the horse is here!”
Cranston nodded and turned to the assembled company.
“Please,” he said, “you will follow us.”
Outside, Sir Robert’s horse, cleaner and a little more refreshed, was waiting patiently in the cobbled yard, its great high-horned saddle on the ground nearby. Along its hindquarters still ran the red, wicked-looking gash Lyons had reported earlier . . .
“Now,” Cranston beamed. “Eustace, stand where you would, if the horse was saddled and your master waiting to charge.”
Eustace shambled up like a sleepwalker and listlessly held the reins. The horse whinnied affectionately and turned to nudge his hand. Eustace patted it on the neck, murmuring quietly for it to be still.
“Well, Eustace,” Cranston said, “let us pretend that your left hand is now holding the reins of the horse and you wish to cut the horse where the scar now is.”
Eustace’s right hand went out.
“See!” Sir Michael shouted triumphantly. “He could have done it!”
“Now,” Cranston continued smoothly, “please put Sir Robert’s saddle on the horse.”
The destrier moved excitedly, its iron hooves skittering on the uneven cobbles.
“Whoa, boy! Whoa!” Eustace whispered.
The serjeant-at-arms adjusted the saddle; first the blue caparisoned cloth, then the saddle itself, going gingerly under the horse’s belly to tie straps and secure buckles.
“Good!” Cranston murmured. “Now, Eustace, pretend you have a knife. Try and cut the horse where the scar is.”
The serjeant-at-arms gasped with astonishment. Eustace raised his hand, but half the scar was now hidden by the saddle and the saddle cloth. Sir Michael’s mouth opened and closed as Cranston confronted him, pushing him roughly on the shoulder.
“I never believed the horse was cut before it charged,” he said. “To do that Eustace would have had to cut him as he held the reins but the horse would have bucked immediately. Nor could he have cut the horse after he had released the reins and Sir Robert began to charge, that would have been very dangerous. The horse would undoubtedly have lashed back and a kick from an iron-shod hoof can be as lethal as a blow from a mace. Finally, however, Eustace could never have made that gash, as you have seen the hindquarters were covered by the saddle and its cloth, yet both of them are unmarked.”
“Logic!” I quipped to the now sullen Sir Michael. “Once again, Master Herald, we have logic! The only time Sir Robert’s horse could have been cut was after the joust when the saddle had been removed, and you did that. You panicked when Sir John was sent to investigate Woodville’s death. You had to make certain one or both of those squires got the blame.” I patted the horse. “You created your own evidence by cutting this poor horse and showing it to us. Only you could have done that: Sir Oliver and his squire had been detained in their pavilion, Eustace stayed by his master’s corpse.”
“Why?” Cranston rasped.
Sir Michael gazed back, eyes hard, face closed.
“Oh, I think I know,” I said. “Sir Michael has a lovely daughter. It was nice to see her fought over by two stalwarts but Sir Michael, as you remarked earlier, Sir Oliver and Sir Robert were poor men. Why should your daughter and her lands go to men such as those?”
Sir Michael drew himself up.
“You have no jurisdiction over me, Sir John!” he snapped; “I keep my counsel to myself. I demand by the law and usages of this realm that I be tried by my peers in parliament!”
Suddenly both Cranston and myself were shoved violently aside. Sir Oliver pushed through, his face a mask of fury; before we could stop him, he spat full into the Master Herald’s face and, with one gloved hand, struck him on the cheek before taking the gauntlet off and throwing it at the Master Herald’s feet.
“Laws and usages!” Sir Oliver hissed. “I challenge you, Sir Michael Lyons, to a duel à l’outrance, to the death! And, if you are innocent of Sir Robert Woodville’s death, you can prove it on my body.”
Sir Michael moved his lips silently. He stared at Le Marche and, without demur, picked up the fallen gauntlet.
“I accept!” he replied.
Cranston strode across and knocked the gauntlet from his hand.
“You will stand trial!” the coroner declared. “God has already delivered you into the hands of the law. Why test His anger further?” Cranston turned and nodded at Le Marche. “You will arrest him. Have him conveyed to the Tower, let my Lord of Gaunt now decide.”
Cranston picked up his belongings, stared around the assembled company who just stood like statues, their faces still full of surprise and shock at Cranston’s revelations.
“Well?” Cranston barked.
Le Marche grasped Sir Michael’s wrist. The two squires went to assist and Cranston left the taproom whilst I hastened behind.
“Sir John,” I gasped, “why the hurry?”
The coroner didn’t answer until we were out of the tavern yard.
“Sir John,” I repeated. “Not even a pause for a bowl of claret or a jug of ale?”
Cranston stared back at the tavern. “I will not drink within earshot of that murdering bastard! Because of him, one good man was killed, another nearly lost his honour, and those two squires could have died at Tyburn!” Cranston’s eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “You did well, monk.”
“Friar,” I corrected. “And don’t thank me, my lord coroner, thank Queen Logic. Le Marche is too full of honour to do anything amiss. Oh, he likes killing people but according to the rules – whilst the sq
uires? One’s too feckless; and can a man who is seriously considering being a priest plot murder?”
Cranston grinned. “If you have met some of the priests I have, yes! But come back to Cheapside. The Lady Maude and Benedicta will be waiting for us in the ‘Holy Lamb of God’!”
“Lady Maude may be,” I muttered, “but Benedicta seemed more interested in that young courtier.”
Cranston turned, his face solemn as a judge. “Tut! Tut! Tut!” he clicked. “Lust and envy in a friar?”
I just looked away.
“Brother!” Cranston was now grinning from ear to ear.
“What is it, Sir John?”
“Didn’t I tell you? That young courtier is a friend of mine. I told him to look after Benedicta.”
“But, Sir John, she seemed so attentive back.” I coughed with embarrassment. “Not that I have any objection.”
Cranston’s smile became even more wicked.
“Oh, yes, and I told her that he was a friend who also was very lonely and would she talk to him during the tournament.”
I grasped Sir John by his fat elbow. “What’s the penalty for striking a coroner, Sir John?”
“A cup of claret but, if it’s a priest, then it’s two!”
THE WITCH’S TALE
Margaret Frazer
Margaret Frazer is the pen name of the writing team of Mary Pulver Kuhfeld and Gail Bacon. Mary Pulver has another story in this anthology under her own name. Between them they have created the character of Sister Frevisse, a fifteenth-century nun at the priory of St. Frideswide’s in Oxfordshire. She first appeared in The Novice’s Tale (1992), followed by The Servant’s Tale (1993) and The Outlaw’s Tale.
The following story was inspired by a notice that Mary Pulver read years ago which said: “Roger, Reeve of Rattlesden, with the whole township of Rattlesden, took away from the coroner of the liberty of St. Edmund, Beatrice Cobb and Beatrice, daughter of said Beatrice, and Elias Scallard, indicted for and guilty of the death of William Cobbe, husband of said Beatrice, and thus prevented the coroner from doing his duty.”
“I have always wondered,” Mary commented, “what sort of fellow William Cobbe was that the whole town would collaborate in the freeing of his murderers.”
The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men,
As whilom to the wolf thus spak the mare.
Geoffrey Chaucer, The Reeve’s Tale
The night’s rain had given way to a softened sky streaked with thin clouds. The air was bright with spring, and the wind had a kindness that was not there yesterday. In the fields the early corn was a haze of green across the dark soil, and along the sheltered southward side of a hedgerow Margery found a dandelion’s first yellow among the early grass. The young nettles and wild parsley were up, and in a few days would be far enough along to gather for salad, something fresh after the long winter’s stint of dried peas and beans and not enough porridge.
Margery paused under a tree to smile over a cuckoo-pint, bold and blithe before the cuckoo itself was heard this spring. Farther along the hedge a chaffinch was challenging the world, sparrows were squabbling with more vigor than they had had for months, and a muted flash of red among the bare branches showed where a robin was about his business. As she should be about hers, she reminded herself.
She had set out early to glean sticks along the hedgerows but there was not much deadwood left so near the village by this end of winter; her sling of sacking was barely a quarter full, and all of it was wet and would need drying before it was any use. But she must go home. Jack would be coming for his dinner and then Dame Claire at the priory was expecting her.
Though she and Jack were among the village’s several free souls and not villeins, Margery’s one pride was that she worked with Dame Claire, St. Frideswide’s infirmarian. They had met not long after Margery had married Jack and come to live in Priors Byfield. In the untended garden behind the cottage she had found a plant she could not identify despite the herb lore she had had from her mother and grandmother. With her curiosity stronger than her fear, she had gone hesitantly to ask at the nunnery gates if there were a nun who knew herbs. In a while a small woman neatly dressed and veiled in Benedictine black and white had come out to her and kindly looked at the cutting she had brought.
“Why, that’s bastard agrimony,” she had said. “In your garden? It must have seeded itself from ours. It’s hardly common in this part of England and I’ve been nursing ours along. It’s excellent for strengthening the lungs and to ease the spleen and against dropsy, you see.”
“Oh, like marjoram. Wild marjoram, not sweet. Only better, I suppose?” Margery had said; and then had added regretfully, “I suppose you want it back?”
Dame Claire had regarded her with surprise. “I don’t think so. We still have our own.” She looked at the cutting more closely. “And yours seems to be doing very well. Tell me about your garden.”
Margery had told her and then, drawn on by Dame Claire’s questions, had told what she knew of herbs and finally, to her astonishment, had been asked if she would like to see the priory’s infirmary garden. One thing had led on to another, that day and others; and with nothing in common between them except their love of herbs and using them to help and heal, she and Dame Claire had come to work together, Margery gathering wild-growing herbs for Dame Claire’s use as well as her own and growing plants in her garden to share with the infirmarian, as Dame Claire shared her own herbs and the book-knowledge Margery had no way of having. And for both of them there was the pleasure of talking about work they both enjoyed, each with someone as knowledgeable as herself.
Now, this third spring of their friendship, the soil would soon be dry enough, God willing, for this year’s planting. Margery and Dame Claire had appointed today to plan their gardens together, so that Dame Claire could ask the priory steward to bring back such cuttings as they needed when he went to Lady Day fair in Oxford.
But Margery had to hurry. Her husband Jack wanted both her and his dinner waiting for him when he came into the house at the end of the morning’s work, and his displeasure was ugly when she failed him. She had left herself time enough this morning, she was sure, even allowing for her dawdling along the hedgerow; but as she let herself into her garden by the back gate from the field path she saw with a familiar sick feeling that Jack was standing in the cottage’s back doorway, fists on his hips and a mean grin on his fleshy mouth. He was back early from hedging – Margery would have sworn he was early – and neither she nor his food was waiting and no excuse would make any difference to what he would do now.
Wearily, Margery set down her bundle on the bench beside the door and looked up at him. It was better to see it coming.
“Y’know better than to be late,” he accused. “Y’know I’ve told you that.”
“I can have your dinner on in hardly a moment.” She said it without hope. Nothing would help now; nothing ever did.
“I don’t want to wait!” Jack put his hand flat between her breasts and shoved her backward. He always began with shoving. “I shouldn’t have to wait!”
Margery stumbled back. Jack came after her and she turned sideways, to make a smaller target, for all the good it would do her. He shoved her again, staggering her along the path, then caught her a heavy slap to the back of her head so that she pitched forward, her knees banging into the wooden edging of a garden bed, her hands sinking into the muddy soil. She scrambled to be clear of him long enough to regain her feet. So long as she was on her feet he only hit. Once she was down, he kicked. His fists left bruises, sometimes cuts. His feet were worse. There were places in her that still hurt from last time, three weeks ago. From experience she knew that if she kept on her feet until he tired, he did not kick her so long.
But her fear made her clumsy. He was yelling at her now, calling her things she had never been, never thought of being. A blow alongside of her head sent her stumbling to one side, into her herb bed among the straw and burlap meant to protect her best plants t
hrough the winter. She scrambled to be out of it but Jack came in after her, crushing his feet down on anything in his way.
Margery cried out as she had not for her own pain. “Stop it! Leave my plants be!” Jack laughed and stomped one deliberately.
“Them and you both,” he said, enjoying himself. “You’ll learn to do what you’re told.”
Margery fumbled in the pouch under her apron and, still scrambling to keep beyond his reach and get out from among her herbs, snatched out a small packet of folded cloth not so big as the palm of her hand. She brandished it at him and screamed, “You stop! You stop or I’ll use this!”
For a wonder Jack did stop, staring at her in plain surprise. Then he scoffed, “You’ve nothing there, y’daft woman!” and grabbed for her.
Margery ducked from his reach, still holding out the packet. “It’s bits of you, Jack Wilkins!” she cried. “From when I cut your hair last month and then when you trimmed your nails. Remember that? It’s bits of you in here and I’ve made a spell, Jack Wilkins, and you’re going to die for it if you don’t leave me alone and get out of my garden!”
“It’s not me that’s going to die!” he roared, and lurched for her.
After two days of sun the weather had turned back to low-trailing clouds and rain. But it was a gentle, misting rain that promised spring after winter’s raw cold, and Dame Frevisse, leaving the guest hall where everything was readied should the day bring guests to St. Frideswide’s, paused at the top of the stairs down into the courtyard to look up and let the rain stroke across her face. Very soon the cloister bell would call her into the church with the other nuns for the afternoon’s service of Vespers, and she would be able to let go the necessities of her duties as the priory’s hosteler to rise into the pleasure of prayer.
But as she crossed the yard toward the cloister door, Master Naylor overtook her. He was the priory’s steward, a long-faced man who kept to his duties and did them well but managed to talk with the nuns he served, as little as possible. Bracing herself for something she probably did not want to hear, Frevisse turned to him. “Master Naylor?”
