by Mike Ashley
“You expect us to believe this?” Sir Gilbert demanded. “Pathetic! It’s the most unbelievable tale I have heard in many years!”
“I swear it is true, Sir.”
“You had the motive and you had the means,” Sir Gilbert said gleefully, pointing at Ham’s belt. “Your knife!”
Baldwin walked to him and held out his hand. “Give me your knife.”
Ham reluctantly pulled it from its sheath and passed it to him, and Baldwin studied it. “No blood,” he said, and then held it up for all to see. “And the blade is a good nine inches long.”
“So?” Sir Gilbert asked.
“So it was not used to kill Humphrey. There is one additional thing about the deadly stab wound,” Baldwin said, walking to the corpse and pointing. “About it there is a ring like a bruise. I think that it means the killer stabbed with main force, driving the blade in sharply as far as he could. The hilt struck Humphrey’s flesh and marked it in this manner.”
“And what does that tell us?” Sir Gilbert asked suavely.
“That the handle struck him, which means that a long blade like this would probably have gone right through him,” Baldwin explained.
“It might not,” Sir Gilbert said. “It could have struck his shoulder bone and thus not penetrated his back.”
“If that were the case, the hilt would not have struck his chest,” Baldwin pointed out. “No, Humphrey was killed with a shorter blade.”
“Who had a shorter blade?”
“Sir Gilbert, you have a shorter blade, don’t you?” Baldwin said mildly, pointing to the blade on his belt.
Sir Gilbert was suddenly very still. “You accuse me?”
“I do not accuse any man,” Baldwin said pointedly. “I only wish to get to the truth. I would like to call another witness. Do you object?”
“I . . .” Sir Gilbert was white-faced with rage, but seeing the interested attention of the whole jury and the reed poised over the paper in the clerk’s hand, he swallowed his ire with difficulty. “Call whomever you wish,” he rasped finally.
“Let us hear your servant,” Baldwin continued, and when the man had been brought in, Baldwin made him stand before the jury, his back to his master.
“I want to ask you about last night,” he said.
“Sir.”
“Were you with your master?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From dusk?”
“Well, all afternoon, sir.”
“So you were with him here when he came to see Humphrey?”
“I was holding his horse for him at the entrance to the alley.”
“I see. When your master appeared, how was he?”
“He was angry, sir.”
“Because the armour was no good?”
“Not only that . . .”
“Why, then?”
The servant tried to turn to look at his master, but Baldwin brought his fist down on the man’s shoulder. “Answer!”
“Because he’d made an offer for the man’s woman, so Humphrey grew wrathful with my master.”
Baldwin looked at Sir Gilbert. He appeared almost to have fallen asleep. “Your master offered Humphrey money for his woman?”
“Yes, but Humphrey said he wouldn’t accept all the gold in the Pope’s palace at Avignon for her.”
“Did your master have blood on his tunic?”
“He was wearing his scarlet tunic, Sir Baldwin.”
“The perfect clothing for murder,” Baldwin observed.
“I killed no one,” Sir Gilbert snapped.
“Then who killed Humphrey?” Baldwin asked.
“The girl said that the candles were out. I left before full dark. If I’d been there, she would have seen me,” Sir Gilbert protested.
“Did Ham collect his pig after Humphrey’s death? The house was locked.” Baldwin mused. “Was it full dark then, Ham?”
“No, it was as the light was fading. It was dull, but not dark yet.”
Baldwin glanced up at the west-facing window, puzzled. “How long was your master gone?”
Sir Gilbert’s man considered. “Not long. I could hear them. Then Sir Gilbert came hurrying. He jumped on his horse and spurred away and I had to hurry to mount my pony and ride off to catch up. As I left Crediton, all I could see was the fading sun catching his harness in the distance.”
“So it was not full dark, even then?” Baldwin asked.
“No, sir.”
Baldwin faced Sir Gilbert. “And you had not paid the armourer, you told me?”
“I refused to pay him until my helm was ready. What would you have done?”
Baldwin ignored his question, instead turning to face the four suspects again. “This murder was committed by someone who was well known by Humphrey. That was how the killer got so close to him.”
“A thief might have waylaid him,” Sir Gilbert said.
“Behind what would the thief have hidden? Humphrey was killed in the open, in the middle of his floor. No, he was with someone he knew. He didn’t expect to be murdered. He thought he was safe.”
Baldwin stood still, contemplatively staring up at the window.
“The trouble is, so many of his neighbours disliked him. But they could have killed him at any time. They had no reason to kill him last night. Only one person could have wished to kill him last night, and only one could have got close enough.”
“Do you accuse me?” Sir Gilbert said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Sir Gilbert, please calm yourself. I know you are only recently dubbed knight, but it is not chivalrous to lose your temper,” Sir Baldwin said scathingly, and as Sir Gilbert swelled as though about to explode he continued, “No, it was the Coroner’s argument with the armourer which points us to the murderer. The Coroner wanted to offer money for the woman he had seen going to warm Humphrey’s bed, and that enraged Humphrey.”
“He didn’t attack me, if that’s what you’re leading to,” Sir Gilbert snapped.
“No. He went inside and spoke to his whore, an attractive young woman for whom he felt a very warm affection. Him, a man whose wife had died some while before, a lonely man, living almost in a barn. Look at this place, you can see, you can feel his loneliness! What more natural than that he should want a woman to share this with him? And what could be more natural than that he should want the woman who so regularly comforted him to share his life?”
“I couldn’t do that, sir,” Edith said modestly. “I am already married.”
“We all know of women who can and do leave their husbands,” Baldwin said gently. “And a man in love may even think of disposing of a rival. Did he suggest that to you?”
“Me, sir? Why should he do that?”
“Because he loved you, Edith. And he probably thought you loved him too, which was why he didn’t think you would mind when he told you he could not pay you.”
“Of course he could pay me,” she said, but her face had paled.
“No. He had nothing in his purse. There was plate in his chest, which a robber would have taken, but he had no money. Perhaps he was relying upon Sir Gilbert’s cash to pay you.”
“No! I couldn’t have hurt him!”
“You say it was dark, but all others were here at dusk. Ham was here after the murder, if your story is true and you locked the door before going. Before that Jaket saw Sir Gilbert here. Sir Gilbert left without entering the hall. But you were here.”
“He threatened me, sir, what could I do?” she said, throwing caution to the winds and falling to her knees at his feet. “He wanted me to leave Adam and live with him, wanted me without paying. I couldn’t do that! I was bound to Adam by my vows. I had to draw my knife in defence!”
“He thought you loved him. He thought you would willingly agree to sleep with him for free. And you stabbed him to death.”
“He was killed because I didn’t pay for his armour?” Sir Gilbert said, shocked.
“Edith needed the cash. He made his use of her, but then failed to reimburs
e her. In a rage, she lashed out with her little dagger.”
Sir Gilbert glanced down at her belt and saw her delicate knife. “Which is too short to penetrate both sides of his body.”
“But was long enough to puncture his heart,” Baldwin agreed.
Sir Gilbert motioned to the clerk at his side. “Record that the woman Edith has confessed her guilt.”
Edith stood up and allowed herself to be gripped by Tanner. Baldwin took her dagger and studied it. “Blood,” he said, tossing it to Sir Gilbert.
* * *
“I do not understand how you decided that it was her and not one of the other people,” Sir Gilbert said, pouring wine.
Having completed the public aspects of the inquiry, now the two sat at the table, having supervised the removal of the body, while the clerk took an inventory of the dead man’s belongings.
“It did not make sense to me,” Baldwin explained. “Why should any of his neighbours suddenly kill him? Surely there must be a striking event which gave someone cause to murder him yesterday.”
“The pig?”
“I thought of that, but Humphrey had taken his pig. You can be sure that Humphrey would not let Ham get close. If Ham had been there, Humphrey would have had defensive wounds on his hands and arms, as he would if it was Jaket or Adam. He would be on guard. As he would have been with you. Especially since you refused to pay him. No, that did not seem credible. But the thought led me to think that of all people, a man is at his most defenceless with women. The argument with you about his woman left him furious, and perhaps he was more determined than ever to rescue her from the degrading life of a whore.”
“And she turned upon him.”
“How else would a whore react? He tried to persuade her of his love as soon as you left – when Ham came it was still dusk, and Humphrey was already dead, so he had had no time to bed her. But she assumed he was trying to avoid paying her. In a rage, she stabbed. Maybe she only meant to hurt him, to show that she was not so foolish as to be taken in.”
“Why did she leave her kerchief there?”
“Now you test me,” Baldwin said. “It was by the bed, so I think she agreed to let him keep it as a momento some time ago. Perhaps she thought it would be a good way to keep her client bound to her. He would have something to remember her by even when she was not with him.”
“Why did she lock the door and go through that charade of leaving the forge open?”
“Panic. Her first instinct was to bolt, but then she thought that anyone could come in, and too many knew she had been there. Better if she leave the body hidden for a while.”
“But left the key in the forge where anyone could get it.”
“That was clever. If anyone could get it, anyone could have killed him.”
“She is plainly a dangerous woman.”
“Yes.” Baldwin said, his gaze travelling about the room once more. His voice dropped and he spoke as if to himself. “But only to sad, lonely men who thought her body could be taken as a gift when it was merely a commodity she traded for money. That is the sadness. That Humphrey truly loved her. Did you see how similar her knife was to yours?”
“They could have been twins.”
“They are. She told me that he gave it to her. It was a gift.”
He glanced at the window once more, and shivered.
“Can you imagine how he felt? A lonely man, missing his first wife, who at last declared his love for another woman only to be stabbed with the very token he had given her. It’s no wonder he didn’t protect himself. He probably didn’t want to.”
Benefit of Clergy
Keith Taylor
One of my favourite characters in history is Sir John Mandeville, who lived in the mid fourteenth century and who may or may not have experienced all or some of the adventures he relates in his book of Travels. The Mandeville family were well known during the Middle Ages, and no doubt Sir John Mandeville (if this was his real name) was descended from Geoffrey de Mandeville, constable of the Tower of London during the reign of King Stephen and first Earl of Essex. The Baron Munchhausen of his day, Mandeville was a great yarn-spinner and an ideal character to become a crime-solver, in his own inimitable way.
Keith Taylor (b. 1946) is an Australian writer with an interest in history and myth. He is perhaps best known for his series of historical fantasy novels set at the time of the downfall of the Roman Empire in Britain which began with Bard (1981).
Anne had seen bizarre things since she took to the roads of England in a boy’s disguise. Parades of bleeding flagellants, knightly bandits riding to plunder, a golden hart in a forest, that changed (she was game to swear) to a man at the moment of dawn – Anne had beheld it all on the highways and byways. Still, the two pilgrims she met on the Bristol road made her blink.
“If this doesn’t look very dire I’m a lurden, Squire Mandeville,” she said. “See you these fellows behind us?”
Her mentor turned his large russet head. “Mai foi! This does look evil, Martin.”
Even in private, he always maintained her role as Martin Chinnock, herald. Always, he behaved to her as to a boy, and called her “lad” or “Martin”. She was well accustomed to playing the part by now. Half of her revelled in the freedom and safety it gave, while half hated the constant pretence of being something she was not.
“Here, fellow,” Mandeville called out sternly, “we’re an honest company on lawful business. Shoulder that great axe and walk easily if you’d pass among us.”
The man so addressed gave back an unfriendly stare. Rangy, with great lean muscles and fleas hopping on his wolfskin jacket, he carried a long-hafted woodcutter’s axe, and trod (at times literally) on the heels of a man nearly as large as himself. This person, though, was better fed, with the general look of one who had known comfort and ease.
He clearly had none in his soul now. He clutched a wooden cross in both hands and often glanced back, pop-eyed with terror. Whenever he did, the second man would glare and snarl, his hands closing more fiercely on the axe. A pure craving to kill blazed in his bloodshot eyes.
“My business is honest and lawful too,” he answered roughly. “Don’t meddle in it, my smooth clerk, or you may wish you hadn’t.”
“Lawful!” croaked the man with the cross. “Lawful! Over in Bedfordshire this man is known as a highway-thief! Cut him down, I beg, or call those who can!”
“Stay fast!” the axe-man roared. “I’m Bartholomew Ainslie, an honest woodcutter! This gallows-meat here is the thief and slayer, for which he’s been tried and found guilty – over in Bedfordshire, as he says. In his whole tale those are the only true words.”
Ainslie had marred the truth himself in calling Mandeville smooth, unless he meant smooth by comparison, for Ainslie rather resembled a walking bramble. The herald’s russet beard might be short, neatly barbered, and grow on a fresh-skinned rubicund face, but it was respectably thick and virile. His dubious frown as he looked from one stranger to the other showed that he had yet to be filled with confidence in either.
Pitching her voice to its now-accustomed male depth, Anne asked the obvious. “Convicted of such crimes, why isn’t he dangling high?”
“Benefit of clergy!” the man with the cross nearly screamed. “I’m chaplain to the noble Sir Oliver Ketters! The bishop’s court alone had power to hear my case, and he has commanded that I walk to Bristol –”
“Aye!” Ainslie interrupted. “Walk to Bristol holding that cross, and there take ship on a far pilgrimage. Then he’s absolved of his crimes. My nephew’s murder among ’em!” With a dreadful grin, he whirled the axe in his labour-toughened hands. “Carelessly drop that rood, though, you dog, or leave the road by one yard, and you’re outlawed. Then are you mine! By Saint Swithin, I will split you like a log on the chopping block.”
The entire party of travellers had gathered to listen by now. Chapmen, a cloth-merchant, a half-dozen shipwrights on their way to Bristol, a fur-trimmed prioress, and the rest, all heard with
interest. Their sympathies seemed to lie with Ainslie. The chaplain, the dullest among them had noted, made no denial of being a highway-thief, or of having murdered Ainslie’s nephew.
Ainslie, glaring around at them, asked if they had had their complete fill of staring.
“Peace, fellow,” Mandeville said. “A chaplain? Can you show written proof of your office?”
“I have it here! The Bishop himself appointed me and sealed my warrant!”
“May I see it?”
Ainslie snorted. “What are you, then? Some sleek lawyer who robs with a quill instead of cudgel or knife?”
“I’m a herald,” Mandeville said equably. “A good one. I was at Crécy, and then a year at Calais. Except for the Black Death, I would not be adrift on the roads bearing with your foul lack of courtesy.”
Maybe impressed, and maybe somewhat influenced by Mandeville’s cutting words to Ainslie, the chaplain passed over a rolled parchment. Mandeville scanned it, and his eyebrows rose.
“It’s the Bishop’s name and seal right enough. It confirms all you say, master chaplain. If indeed you are Leonard of Dunstable.”
“That’s my name,” the chaplain said. “Restore me the Bishop’s writing, for nothing else restrains this man’s hand, and let me travel with you for protection of numbers, I beg.”
“What, afraid of bandits, you bloody dog?” snarled his nemesis. “Be afraid of me.”
“It appears,” lisped the Prioress, “that if we accept you, master chaplain, we take this rough fellow besides, and that is asking much.”
“I’m Leonard the Chaplain’s shadow to the ends of the earth,” Ainslie said implacably, “or until he forfeits Church and law’s protection, and I may do justice.”
“We have all heard you,” Mandeville said dryly. “In the meantime, how if you surrender the axe? In exchange we will halter the chaplain so that he cannot take to his heels.”
