Sword of Shame (29 page)

‘I believe that Sir William intended to kill his wife in front of us.'

‘Why d'you think that?' the coroner rumbled.

‘Sir William was eaten with guilt for a murder which he committed many years ago, in order to win the hand of this beautiful lady. He murdered his own best friend, her betrothed, and that crime has remained with him ever since. Every time he looked at her, she reminded him that he had killed to win her. In the end, he persuaded himself that she was herself responsible, I think. His mind was weakened with shame and guilt.'

‘Proof?'

‘He confessed to the crime before my friend Bailiff Puttock and myself,' Baldwin said shortly. ‘It led him to seek absolution. Recently, his father acquired this sword, which Sir William believed was the sword which his ancestor used to kill St Thomas. It seemed to him to indicate God's displeasure at his murder, as though the return to his family of the weapon that had executed Becket was proof of God's anger. Sending it to Canterbury meant the cathedral could dispose of it as they wished. At the same time He could commit himself to perpetual penance by entering the cloister at Tavistock.'

‘All clear enough,' the coroner boomed. ‘But then the sword was stolen.'

‘Not entirely! He paid Coule to take it to Canterbury. Coule gained permission from his master to go, and all seemed well, except Coule was seen leaving by Roger. Perhaps Roger noticed Coule was hiding something, and decided to overtake him. Coule tried to escape to the nearest house, Hob the miller's, but to no avail, clearly.

‘Roger had no idea that Sir William was disposing of it intentionally, so Roger struck down Coule as a felon. But then I think he recognized that if the sword was lost, his brother would leave the manor. All would go to him. So Roger concealed the sword and waited.

‘Sir William was devastated. His plans had gone awry, and he saw this as further evidence of God's displeasure. Even his attempt at atonement was thwarted…but then he realized that he had no duty of guardianship any longer. He began to plan his retreat from the world.'

‘Except the sword reappeared,' the coroner said in a muted thunder.

‘Exactly. He found it himself. After the murder of Coule, there was a search for the missing sword, but Roger told me he organized the search himself. Sir William must have suspected him. When Roger came to me, Sir William did not prevent him. While Roger was with me, Sir William found the sword among Roger's belongings. It persuaded him that his brother and wife were plotting to murder him.

‘He was a jealous husband, and always feared that she might seduce another as he thought she had him. His wife had no vocation, and disliked the idea of the convent. He knew that. But if she was to escape the convent against his wishes, she must have had a means of removing him. The easiest way to achieve that would be to kill him. But to do that, she would need an accomplice. That was his reasoning.

‘Sir William knew the sword was in Roger's room, so he decided to kill Roger. On Roger's body, he found the sword, because Roger had been trying to dispose of it. He brought the sword back and concealed it.'

‘He killed his own brother?' Sir Richard growled, his voice setting the plates rattling on the sideboard.

‘In his eyes, I suppose, it was self defence. He would have killed his wife; he couldn't leave her alive to plot his death with another–he persuaded himself that she could turn the head of any of his staff, even the lawyer.'

‘Quite understandable,' the coroner murmured gallantly.

‘And the last piece of proof for him was Hob finding the sword again,' Baldwin said.

Madam Alice shook herself. ‘I was stupid! I was sure that Roger had the sword, and I looked in his chamber, and found it in his chest. Roger wanted the manor, and he didn't care what happened to me, so he was happy to conceal it. Or so I thought. I sent Denis with it to tell Hob to say that he'd just found it.'

‘But Sir William had put it there in a hurry after killing Roger. He simply put it back where Roger had hidden it before,' Baldwin said. ‘So when it turned up, he thought it proved his wife was in league with his dead brother.'

‘What do you have to say for yourself?' the coroner demanded, turning to the battered lawyer.

Denis closed his eyes against his headache. The Keeper had probably saved his life the day he'd killed Sir William, but he could perhaps have used a little less force. He felt sick again, and hoped he wouldn't vomit. ‘Sir, I could see how Sir William had turned against his wife, and I was worried for her safety.'

‘Was it your place to worry about her?'

‘I thought so, Coroner. I believe any man has a duty to protect those weaker than himself if set upon by a madman.'

‘So you hid yourself from Sir William that day?' Baldwin pressed him.

‘Yes. To save her life.'

Baldwin turned to face the coroner again. ‘You see? Sir William thought that his wife would keep the sword here. While it remained, he could not leave; he
must
get it to Canterbury. When he found that his own brother had concealed the sword, he was enraged–especially since he thought his wife had plotted to save herself from the convent, so he thought, at the expense of his immortal soul.'

‘This lawyer protected her by slaying her husband?'

‘Precisely. Denis saved her life. And I saved his by knocking him out so that others wouldn't chase and kill him.'

‘That sword is clearly cursed. To kill St Thomas and then these others…it says much for the foulness of the blade. I consider Sir William had the right idea. It should be sent without delay to Canterbury to atone for its crimes.'

Baldwin made a gesture of disgust. ‘You would accuse the sword? It is a lump of inanimate metal, Coroner!'

‘You said it was the weapon that killed…'

‘Sir William de Tracy killed Becket with his sword; Roger killed Coule with
his
; Roger was killed with Sir William's riding sword; Sir William died from a blow by Denis's. Not one of those deaths was committed with this sword.'

‘Saint…'

Baldwin irritably cut him off. ‘That is the greatest irony. This is
not
the sword that killed St Thomas. That was with Sir William when he joined the Knights Templar as his penance and set sail for the Holy Land. He died on the way. I have seen his grave in Sicily, and in his grave, so I was told by the priest, was the sword that struck down St Thomas, so that when his body rose again on the day of judgement, he would be reminded of his crime. This is not his sword.'

‘Then whose is it?' the coroner growled.

‘Just below the cross there is a mark,' Baldwin said, picking up the sword and pointing. ‘It looks like a shield, and the name “de la Pomeroy”, I think.'

Sir Richard bent his head and peered. ‘Could be…But if it's not the Tracy sword, why is it here?'

‘I doubt that Sir Humphrey thought for a moment that it was the genuine de Tracy sword,' Baldwin said. ‘I knew Sir Humphrey a little. He was cynical fellow.
I'm sure he liked to say that it could have been the original sword, but he bought it for a more mundane reason.'

‘What?'

‘Pick it up and handle it,' Baldwin urged. ‘It has a feel all of its own. Light, nimble, and balanced. He bought it because it is excellent, I deem.'

 

The inquest took little time. As the jurors filed from the hall and the clerk scratched at his parchment, Sir Richard picked up the sword to pass back to Madam Alice. ‘This is yours, lady.'

She flinched. ‘I want nothing to do with that thing! Throw it in the river. Or, better still, carry out my husband's last wish and destroy it. I will not have it in the hall here. I want never to see it again.'

‘I understand that Sir John was offered it by Roger,' Baldwin said quietly. ‘If you really wish to see the sword disposed of, I can take it to him.'

‘Please, just take it away from me. I feel as though I am under a curse all the time that shameful weapon stays here!'

 

When the sword was given to him, Sir John could only laugh at the fortune that had brought it to him. As soon as he picked it up, he could feel the life in the blade. The way that it moved through the air spoke of the marvellous construction, the careful effort taken over the hilt, the bonding of wood and steel and iron together to create such a piece of workmanship.

‘This is ours now, Matthew,' he said as his son teetered at his side, standing without support for a moment.

The boy reached up and touched the pommel, and Sir John laughed, bringing the blade lower so he could feel it, but as he did so, the little boy tottered forward.
His hand slipped forward and ran down the blade: only a short distance, but far enough to open his palm on the sharp blade.

As Sir John threw the sword aside and grabbed urgently at his son, he felt his heart pound uncomfortably, and he cast one suspicious look at the weapon lying innocently on the ground, but then he was calling to the maids to bring him water to wash his son's wound and cloths to bind it.

No, it was only a sword, he told himself. Only a sword.

I

Poitiers, France: September 1356

Matthew de Curterne lay under the hedge near Nouaille Wood, praying no one would notice him. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the clash of arms and the screams of wounded men, and closed his eyes so he would not see the ground churned into bloody mud by the combatants' feet. When the Black Prince had called for men to fight the French, Curterne had been proud to rally, retrieving the old sword from under his bed in Down St Mary, and selling his family's silver to purchase armour and a horse. Brave men made their fortunes in war, and Curterne intended to return home wealthy.

But the campaign had been a misery of torrential rain, burning heat, scant supplies and disease. And now the Black Prince was trapped at Poitiers by a French force far stronger than his own. Curterne scrambled away when a pair of desperate skirmishers came too close, and raised his sword to protect himself. When they had gone, he gazed at the weapon's tempered steel blade and its dog-headed cross, hating it for making him think he could be a warrior when he had known all his life that he was nothing of the kind. He had always loathed any kind of conflict, and even the sight of blood made him sick to his stomach. It was the sword's fault, of course. When he was a small child it
had cut him badly–he still bore the scar across his palm–but the incident had made him nervous and hesitant with weapons, much to his tutors' dismay and disgust.

He glared at the blade, recalling how he had sensed it almost taunting him for his faint-heartedness when he had pulled it from its dusty hiding place all those months ago. He should have known it would bring him bad luck, and he should have resisted the urge to prove it was wrong about him. He ducked down again when a horse galloped past, its rider's shield raised against a sudden hail of arrows. He fought back bitter tears, frightened to keep the weapon, but even more afraid to toss it away from him and leave himself defenceless. He curled into a tight ball and tried to picture the cool green Devonshire hills, and the peace of home.

Just when he thought all was lost and the entire English army would be slaughtered, the enemy began to retreat, first as a trickle, then as a rout. Curterne crawled out from under the hedge, scarcely believing his luck–he had survived and the English had won against overwhelming odds! His four companions–men who had shared his campfire these last few months–came to join him, torn and bloodied from the encounter. Elias Askyl was first, his handsome face lit with savage joy, and his fair curls limp with sweat and dirt. Then came Philip Lymbury, the oldest, who had declared himself unwell that morning, but who had still fought with a courage Curterne found impossible to comprehend. Behind Lymbury was the sly Geoffrey Dole, his face awash with blood; Curterne felt queasy when he saw the injury that had deprived Dole of most of his nose. And lastly, there was William, plump and always cheerful.

‘What a victory!' cried Askyl, elated. ‘This day will
be remembered for all eternity, and so will the names of those who fought bravely.'

‘While those who skulked under hedges will be lost in ignominy,' said Dole, his voice muffled through the cloth he held to his ravaged face. ‘We needed you, Curterne, but you ran away and hid.'

‘What were you thinking, man?' demanded Lymbury furiously. ‘Your timidity might have seen us all killed.'

‘And you with that fine sword, too,' added William. His normally smiling face was cold and unfriendly. ‘You disgust me.'

They walked away and Curterne began to sob, feeling shame burning inside him like a wound. He was still weeping an hour later when he heard footsteps behind him. He fumbled for his sword, but the other man reached it first, and there was a sudden pain between his shoulder blades.

‘Stabbed in the back,' said a soft voice. It was familiar–one of his companions, perhaps–but Curterne's senses were reeling, and he could not remember the name. ‘It is a fitting end for a coward. You have brought shame on this fine weapon, but I have avenged it.'

II

Ickleton, Cambridgeshire: July 1357

The rich agricultural land south of Cambridge was burned yellow by the summer sun. Crops swayed in the afternoon breeze, and a robin trilled in a nearby wood. The horses' hoofs thumped gently on the baked mud of the path, punctuated by the occasional creak of leather and the jingle of metal. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse
at the University of Cambridge, closed his eyes, relishing the peace after the frantic bustle associated with the end of term.

‘This is a nasty place,' said his travelling companion, Brother Michael, looking around him disparagingly. ‘It is all trees, fields and water-meadows, and we have not passed a proper building in hours. I wish Master Langelee had not sent us on this errand. The rent we receive from the manor at Ickleton is not worth this inconvenience, and my time could be better spent on other matters.'

‘Yes,' said Bartholomew drowsily; Michael had been saying the same thing since they had started their journey at dawn that morning. Personally, the physician was quite happy to spend a few days away. Not only did it mean a respite from examining corpses–part of his duties at the University entailed inspecting the bodies of scholars who had died unexpectedly or violently–but Cambridge reeked in hot weather, and it was good to exchange the noxious stench of sun-seared sewage for grain-scented air. He began to relax for the first time in weeks. The previous term had been desperately busy, and it was a relief to be free of clamouring students.

‘I dislike haring around the country on second-rate nags,' continued the Benedictine irritably, eyeing his horse with rank disapproval. ‘It is an outrage to provide a rider of my calibre with an animal like this. Langelee thinks of nothing but saving money these days.'

‘He does,' said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that Michael's horse was far better than his own. The monk was fat, and Bartholomew had let him take the stronger of the two palfreys on the grounds that he did not think the other could have carried his large friend for the ten miles to Ickleton and then home again. It would have collapsed.

‘Our College owns Valence Manor in the parish of Ickleton,' Michael rambled on. ‘And the man who lives there, Sir Philip Lymbury, pays us rent each spring. But this year, we have had nothing–except a letter informing us that he has donated
our
money to Ickleton Priory instead.'

‘I know,' said Bartholomew, recalling his colleagues' outrage when the missive had arrived. He was more sanguine about the matter: Michaelhouse possessed the relevant deeds of ownership, and the courts would eventually order Lymbury to pay the outstanding debt. But lawyers were expensive, so instead, Master Langelee had decided to send two of his senior Fellows to find out what Lymbury thought he was doing. Bartholomew and Michael were to collect the outstanding ten marks–either from Lymbury or the priory–and return with it immediately. The money was earmarked to pay for new latrines, and Langelee did not need to stress the urgency of the situation to his two scholars: they had been complaining about the state of the old ones for months.

Michael twisted around in his saddle. ‘Are you going to agree with everything I say, or do you actually possess a mind of your own?'

‘If I voice an opinion you will argue–but I presided over seventeen student disputations last week and I am tired of debate. Here is the ford across the Cam–barely ankle deep after all this dry weather–and Langelee said our manor lies just beyond that wood.'

Michael led the way along a narrow track lined with ancient trees. ‘According to him, this copse is also part of our manor.'

Bartholomew was about to acknowledge him with another monosyllabic answer, when there was a shout, followed by a lot of crashing. Suddenly, a deer burst from the vegetation in front of them, then tore away
into the undergrowth to their right. It was a beautiful animal, with a coat of russet red. Moments later, three horsemen hurtled from the trees, and the leading one was obliged to rein in sharply to avoid colliding with Bartholomew.

‘Watch out!' The rider was a sturdy man with a slashing scar across his face that rendered him all but nose-less.

Bartholomew wanted to point out that he had not been the one careening wildly across a public highway, but his nag had been frightened by the abrupt commotion, and it started to buck. He was a poor horseman, and trying to control the beast took all his concentration.

‘Be careful, Dole!' shouted the second man, directing his own horse in a tight circle to avoid the melee. He wore the half-armour of a knight at ease, and rode as if he had been born in the saddle. He was tall and strong, and his blue eyes and mane of golden curls rendered him extraordinarily handsome. ‘Lymbury's peasants do not know how to ride.'

‘We are not peasants,' objected Michael, moving forward to take the reins of Bartholomew's horse before the struggling physician could embarrass him further. ‘We are scholars from the University at Cambridge.'

‘Have you seen a deer?' asked the last of the three, trotting up with a smile. He was plump, genial and dressed in the dark habit of a priest. A domed hat kept the sun from his eyes. ‘A red one?'

‘No,' said Bartholomew curtly, dismounting as soon as Michael stopped his horse from prancing. He felt a good deal safer once on solid ground.

‘It definitely came this way,' said the fat priest. ‘I saw it myself.'

‘It must be over there,' said Dole, flinging out a hand
to encompass a vast swathe of woodland. He also wore robes that showed he had taken holy orders, although they were tempered by good boots and spurs. ‘It does not matter–the stag we caught yesterday will provide us with meat for a few days yet. And it is too hot for chasing around the countryside today. Shall we go home?'

‘Already?' asked the second man–the knight. ‘We came out to practise our skills with weapons, and all we have done so far is wave our lances at the crows eating Lymbury's corn.'

‘I did not enjoy using his sword to spar with you yesterday, William,' said Dole to the chubby priest. ‘It may have fine balance and a good grip, but it is overly heavy for my taste.'

‘It is an excellent weapon,' countered William. ‘It is a pity it was not put to better use last summer. That battle would have been over in half the time had it been wielded by a true warrior and not left in the hands of a coward.'

The good-looking knight turned to the scholars when Dole responded with a tart comment and the two clerics began to bicker. ‘We three–and Lymbury–were at the Battle of Poitiers,' he explained.

‘So was he,' said Michael, nodding at Bartholomew, who looked anything but soldierly as he gripped his horse's reins with obvious unease. Michael could see the knight did not believe him, so added, ‘He fought on foot.'

‘Why are you so far from your University?' asked William, raising a plump hand to indicate he had had enough of his quarrel with Dole. Dole looked angry to be cut off mid-sentence. ‘Are you lost?'

Michael gave a pained smile. ‘No, we have come to visit our manor. These woods belong to us–that is, to Michaelhouse.'

William nodded in a way that suggested he was annoyed with himself. ‘You must forgive us, Brother. Of course we know Michaelhouse owns Valence Manor–and that our friend Philip Lymbury pays you rent each year. But we were so engrossed with the hunt that our wits were elsewhere. We shall take you to Lymbury immediately. I am William the Vicar, priest of Ickleton church. My companion here is Sir Elias Askyl, knighted for his courage at Poitiers.'

The handsome knight nodded a polite greeting. ‘But I do not think Lymbury is expecting you. He said nothing this morning.'

‘You did not write, to tell him you were coming,' said William, frowning his puzzlement. ‘I am his clerk, as well as his parish priest, and I read all his correspondence.'

‘He wrote to us, though,' said Michael acidly. ‘He said he was donating
our
rent to the priory.'

William raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘He told me he was
thinking
about deferring payment, in order to raise enough to establish a chantry for his soul, but he did not say he had actually
done
it. He must have dictated your letter to the nuns' chaplain.' He waved a dismissive hand at his fellow cleric.

‘That is me–Geoffrey Dole,' said the scarred man, shooting William a sour look for the unflattering introduction. ‘After we fought at Poitiers together, Lymbury arranged for me to be appointed chaplain to Ickleton Priory.
I
did not scribe your letter, though. One of the nuns must have done it.'

‘Lymbury gave me
my
Ickleton appointment, too,' said William to Michael. ‘He is a man who knows how to treat old companions-at-arms.'

‘Here comes Sister Rose,' said Dole, looking behind the scholars. He smiled politely and rather longingly at the woman who emerged from the undergrowth.

Bartholomew turned to see a woman sitting astride a horse with an ease he immediately envied. She wore the habit of a Benedictine nun, but it had been shaped to show off the slender lines of her figure, and she had abandoned the matronly wimple in favour of a gold fret that kept her saffron-coloured plaits in place. Her eyes were black and her skin dusky, and Bartholomew wondered whether her ancestors had hailed from the hot lands of the south. Behind her, draped across the saddle, was a red deer with an arrow through its neck.

‘God's teeth!' exclaimed Askyl, regarding the animal in astonishment. ‘That is the beast we were chasing; I recognize its markings. Did
you
shoot it?'

‘Well, it did not jump on my saddle of its own accord,' said Sister Rose with a coquettish smirk. She suddenly became aware of Michael, and the grin faded somewhat. ‘Damn! A Benedictine!'