Sword of Shame (31 page)

‘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 unhappily. ‘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.'

‘So why did Curterne take it to Poitiers, then?' asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It sounds as though he thought it might be cursed in some way.'

‘He had no choice,' explained William. ‘He had spent all his available money on horse and armour, and had no means to buy a different weapon. But perhaps he exaggerated his concerns, thought it was less likely to be stolen if folk believed it might bring them bad luck.'

‘No, he should have left it in Devonshire,' argued Dole. ‘He said the first time we met him that there was something odd about it.'

‘Those were stories he invented around the campfire to entertain us,' said William dismissively. ‘I am
surprised at you, Dole, unsettled by silly tales with no truth or basis.'

‘Then why did Lymbury's luck change the moment he acquired the thing,' demanded Dole, unconvinced. ‘A wife unable to give him an heir—'

‘It has only been a year,' objected William, laughing. ‘Give the poor woman a chance!'

‘—sheep killed by mad dogs, fires in his granaries,' Dole went on, cutting across Joan's indignant response. ‘And Curterne told me it was called the Sword of Shame, and only a fool would willingly take charge of a weapon with that sort of name.'

‘So, why did you draw lots for it after Curterne's death, then?' asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘It does not sound as though it is the kind of weapon most men would want to own.'

‘Superstition is for the feeble minded,' said William, smiling fondly at the blade. ‘I am not afraid of ghosts, and neither was Lymbury. I imagine Dole–and perhaps Askyl–would have sold it, had they won the draw. But I would have kept it. These ridiculous tales are a nonsense, and besides, the inscriptions carved into its blade suggest it is a thing of honour.'

Bartholomew took the sword from him. He was no soldier, but even he could tell it was a fine one. He studied the words etched into the steel:
qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore
. There was too much blood to read the second inscription, but it seemed to condemn miserly men.

‘It warns against telling lies,' translated Michael, rather loosely. ‘A man who lives out his days in defiance of the truth will lose his soul, as well as his honour. So, let that be a warning to anyone who might be tempted to mislead my investigation.'

 

‘We should start from the beginning if we want to reduce the length of Sister Rose's list of suspects,' said Bartholomew, setting the weapon carefully on a nearby bench. ‘When was the decision made for everyone–except Lymbury–to go hunting?'

Lady Joan indicated with an imperious flick of her hand that Hog was to wipe Lymbury's chair clean of blood. Then she sat in it, shuffling and testing it for size. A satisfied smile indicated she found the fit a good one. ‘The decision was made last night, by dear Sir Elias. He is an honoured and most welcome guest, so my husband was pleased to oblige him.'

‘I dislike being idle,' explained Askyl. He watched William take the weapon from the bench and begin to admire it again. ‘A man who haunts the dinner table will find his military edge blunted, and we never know when the Black Prince might need warriors again.'

‘My husband sent word to the priory, to invite
Sister
Rose to take part,' Joan went on. ‘I did not approve. The likes of
Sister
Rose should be on her knees, confessing her sins. Perhaps she should ask absolution for the crime of murder right now.'

Rose did not dignify the accusation with a response, and, aware that both women were looking at him for a reaction, Askyl kept his face carefully neutral.

‘I own some small skill with weapons,' said Rose modestly, shooting Askyl a sultry smile. ‘My father was a soldier, and he thought women should know how to defend their virtue.' She ignored Joan's snort of derision. ‘Sir Philip was impressed with my talents, and always included me on his hunts–so I could provide meat for my sisters at the priory.'

‘I am impressed with your talents, too,' gushed Dole, regarding her admiringly. ‘We could have done with you in France.'

She inclined her head, then addressed Michael. ‘I
came to Ickleton Priory three years ago, and I am still deciding whether to devote my life to God. My family say they do not mind waiting.'

‘That is because you have no dowry,' said Joan immediately. ‘So, it does not matter to them what you do.
I
, of course, am a wealthy widow, and so I am
highly
desirable.' She looked hard at Askyl, to make sure he had taken the comment on board.

‘Wealth and desirability do not always go together,' remarked Rose cuttingly. ‘But we are talking about me, not you. It was Sir Elias who brought the invitation to me last night.'

‘I did–but not with any intention of securing your company for myself,' said Askyl, earning a hurt look from Rose and a triumphant grin from Joan. Bartholomew wondered whether money was already winning the battle against beauty. Askyl saw he had caused offence, and hastened to explain. ‘I mean I did not intend to entice nuns from their devotions on my behalf.'