Sword of Shame (36 page)

‘I felt like hiding under a hedge at Poitiers myself,' admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I did not do it. It would not have been right to let comrades fight alone.'

‘Obviously someone else felt the same way,' said Askyl, ‘because I am sure it was an Englishman who killed Curterne–all the enemy had been rounded up by the time he died. After, as William told you yesterday, when we found the sword in his corpse, we drew lots for it. Lymbury won.'

‘Did Lymbury kill Curterne, then?'

‘Possibly. I did not, and neither did William–William would have kept the sword if he had been the killer, since he really wanted to own it. I believe Curterne's killer was either Lymbury or Dole, although I have no evidence to prove it.'

‘But
you
are still my main suspect for killing Lymbury,' said Michael, watching the knight begin to weep again. ‘You lied to us about your whereabouts during the salient time, and innocent men do not fabricate.'

Askyl raised his tear-mottled face. ‘You expect me to
admit, in front of all those people, that I was hiding from women? With Dole already suspicious of my fondness for William? I did not kill Lymbury, Brother. Why would I?'

‘Because by making William a vicar, Lymbury ensured he would have to stay in Ickleton,' suggested Michael. ‘It interfered with your relationship.'

‘But Lymbury invited me to be his bailiff,' Askyl pointed out. ‘I could have stayed, too.'

‘Speaking of bailiffs, here is Hog,' said Bartholomew, glancing through the open door.

‘James is ill,' said Hog, bursting into the house without invitation. ‘You must come at once.'

 

James was lying on a bench in the manor-house, gasping for breath, his face as scarlet as the setting sun. Bartholomew mixed a potion he prescribed for choleric patients, along with a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then wiped the boy's burning skin with water-cooled cloths. Eventually, James's face returned to a more normal colour, and his breathing eased.

‘He is young to suffer from a morbid excess of this particular humour,' said Bartholomew. ‘Such an ailment is more common in older men.'

‘His mother was the same,' said Hog brokenly. ‘She died before her time.'

Bartholomew suspected James might, too, although nothing would be served by confiding the fact. He did not want the lad's last days to be tainted by fear.

‘Have you learned who killed my husband yet?' asked Joan, fanning James with a cabbage leaf.

Michael shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I am coming close.'

‘It was William,' said Joan, fanning hard enough to make James flinch. ‘Probably because he coveted that damned sword. Philip must have decided to leave it to
Sir Elias instead, so William murdered Philip before he could change his will to that end.'

‘Then who killed William?' asked Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think there are two murderers in Ickleton?'

Joan's voice was cold. ‘If William murdered my husband, then he deserved to die–and I shall reward the brave man who dispatched him.'

Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘We know a lot about William's last movements. He practised his swordplay with Askyl, then went home. When he arrived, he discovered that someone had broken into the cupboard where he keeps his valuables and Lymbury's will had gone. I doubt he would have gone to bed after that, so he probably returned here.'

Michael nodded. ‘He would have wanted to confront the thief and demand the will back.'

‘That assumes he knew who the thief was,' said Hog.

‘I think he did,' said Bartholomew. ‘I certainly do.'

Everyone stared at him. ‘How?' asked Hog eventually.

Bartholomew pointed to the floor, where grain had dropped from the bailiff's clothing onto the polished boards. ‘You have been working in the fields, and corn has fallen into the folds of your tunic. There was corn in William's house, too, near his cupboard–I picked it up, but discarded it as irrelevant. But it was not. It proves you were in William's house last night, because no one else worked near corn yesterday.'

Hog regarded him uneasily. ‘That is not true. The hunt went along some of the fields.'

‘But they were on horseback. The grain came from someone walking among it. You.'

Hog was dismissive. ‘That is ludicrous.'

‘Whoever stole the will broke into William's cupboard with a specific kind of tool,' Bartholomew went on. ‘Not a knife, but something with a flat end,
like a chisel. You have one, because you brandished it at Dole when he walked on your polished floor in his spurs earlier. You used that chisel to break the lock in William's house–you did it when he was sparring with Askyl and Dole, knowing they were enjoying themselves and that you would have plenty of time.'

Hog's face was white. ‘And why would I do that?'

‘Does this mean Hog killed William and my husband, too?' demanded Joan, cutting across Bartholomew's reply. It was just as well, because the physician did not know why Hog should have stolen the will.

‘No!' cried James from his bench. ‘My father is not a killer.'

‘No, he is not,' agreed Bartholomew gently. ‘He is not even a proper thief–no self-respecting robber would have left all that jewellery untouched.'

Suddenly, the door crashed open, and Prioress Christiana marched in, pushing a subdued Dame Pauline before her. Rose had followed, her eyes bright with interest.

‘I have just found
this
,' said Christiana furiously, waving an old, time-yellowed garment that was liberally splattered with blood. ‘Dame Pauline was about to burn it.'

‘Pauline is the killer?' asked Joan, her jaw dropping in shock.

‘Of course not!' screeched Pauline, clearly frightened. ‘I am a nun! I do not go around jabbing swords into the backs of men sitting in chairs as they count their money.'

‘How do you know Lymbury was counting his money?' pounced Michael. ‘Matt found a gold coin in his hand, but only he and I knew about that. Your innocence is looking shaky, madam.'

‘Pauline may well have been present when Lymbury died,' said Bartholomew, watching the old woman flail
around for an answer. ‘But she did not deliver the killing blow. That was James.'

Everyone turned to look at the ailing youth, who closed his eyes tightly, as if he could pretend none of them were there.

‘That is a lie,' said Hog in a whisper. ‘James is ill. He could not have killed Lymbury.'

‘He was not ill yesterday,' said Bartholomew. ‘He ran all over the manor looking for William to write the new will. And that is
his
tunic in the prioress's hand. The one he wears now is new, very clean and so white it dazzles in the sunlight–but what servant dons such a garment when there is so much work to be done in the fields? The truth is that James killed Lymbury, and his clothes were befouled with blood. Hog said James was too dim-witted to think of ridding himself of stained garments, but someone else was not.'

‘I admit I helped him,' said Pauline in a wheedling voice. ‘But only because he is a good boy, and I do not want to see him hang for a moment of silly temper.'

‘James is not hot tempered,' said Bartholomew. ‘He is soft and malleable. He is upset about the prospect of his father losing his post to Askyl–he loves Hog, and will do anything for him.'

Hog went to kneel next to the boy. ‘Is it true?'

James nodded unhappily, his eyes still screwed closed. ‘Dame Pauline said killing Lymbury would make your position safe. She gave me the sword and said no one would ever know it was me–she said everyone would think one of his friends had done it, because they are warlike.'

‘Lies!' screeched Pauline, starting to move towards him. Bartholomew blocked her path.

‘I did it for you,' whispered James to his father. ‘Pauline said Lady Joan would inherit all his property,
including the right to rent the manor from Michaelhouse, and all would be well again. You love Ickleton, and I do not want your heart broken by leaving it.'

Hog rested his hand on his son's forehead, then stood and faced Michael. ‘He is rambling.
I
killed Lymbury. And last night, I went to William's house and stole the will. It is in my house–I hid it under the table. James has nothing to do with any of this. It was me.' He faltered, and gazed uncertainly at Pauline. ‘Although I still do not understand why you ordered me to steal the will and hide it until later.'

Pauline licked dry lips. ‘Do not listen to him, Brother. I did not tell either of them to do anything. Killing Lymbury would not have secured Hog's post, as any fool would know. Michaelhouse is now free to rent the manor to anyone it chooses, and Hog will be dismissed.'

Bartholomew saw James's stricken expression. ‘But the boy did not know that. He believed you when you told him murder would save his father from unhappiness. You preyed on his gullibility.'

Pauline's expression was cold and disdainful. ‘What do you know about what James thinks? Besides, you heard Hog. He admitted everything. He killed Lymbury. I did nothing–except burn…'

‘Except burn
James's
tunic,' finished Michael. ‘Which you would not have done if
Hog
had killed Lymbury. This murder is just as much your doing as the boy's. You were like a devil, sitting on his shoulder, whispering evil into his ear.'

‘And it was all for selfishness,' added Bartholomew. ‘You killed Lymbury so you would not have to play chaperon to Rose on any more hunts.'

‘I hate riding,' said Pauline in a pitiful whine. ‘It jolts my old joints, and I am often in agony for days afterwards. You are right in that I would do virtually anything to avoid riding–but not murder.'

Bartholomew did not believe her. ‘You need not have troubled yourself. In a few weeks, she will not be able to go out into the woods anyway. She is pregnant.'

Pauline was more angry than shocked. She turned on Rose. ‘You told me your heaviness was down to too much bread. You lied–and that made me take poor decisions. This is
your
fault!'

‘Do not shirk responsibility,' said Michael sharply. ‘Take her back to the convent, Prioress Christiana. I shall arrange for her transfer to Chatteris within the week.'

With a screech of outrage, Pauline launched herself at the monk. Bartholomew dived to intercept her, but she was faster than he anticipated and he missed. Joan drew the small knife she carried in her belt, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought she intended to stab the old nun as she hurtled past. But Joan hesitated, and suddenly, the dagger was in Pauline's gnarled fingers. Rose was made of sterner stuff, however. Calmly, she stretched out a foot as Pauline powered past, and the old woman went sprawling across the wooden floor, dagger skittering from her fingers.

‘She was going to kill you, Brother,' said Hog in horror, hurrying to grab the weapon and return it to Joan. ‘She is truly a fiend from Hell.'

‘And I saved your life,' said Rose comfortably. ‘So, you would not be sending
me
to Chatteris for disobedience, would you, Brother?'

 

Later that day, Bartholomew and Michael collected their horses and prepared to go home. There were four hours of daylight left, more than enough time to ride to Cambridge before the sun set. In Bartholomew's saddlebag was a chalice Lymbury had removed from a church near Poitiers, which Dole estimated was worth ten marks. Master Langelee could sell it to pay for the
latrines, and the manor's debt to Michaelhouse would be discharged. The two scholars lingered, waiting for Joan to bring them a parcel of pastries to eat on the journey home.

‘So, it was all Dame Pauline,' said Michael, rubbing his horse's neck. ‘She disliked acting as chaperon to Rose and riding was becoming increasingly painful for her, so she decided to murder the lord of the manor so she would not have to do it again.'

‘It does not sound very likely, does it?' said Bartholomew. ‘A feeble motive for killing.'

‘Perhaps to the likes of you and me, but Dame Pauline is a totally selfish creature, who will do anything for her own comfort. She was willing to see James or Hog hang for the crime she instigated–she cares for nothing and no one but herself.'

Bartholomew thought about how she had achieved her objective. ‘So, during the hunt, she escaped from Rose–who had bribed her to doze under a tree anyway–and slunk back to the manor-house. There was young James, and there was Lymbury, counting his money. She played on James's fears and his loyalty to his father, by making him believe all would be well if Lymbury was dead. Then she persuaded Hog to steal Lymbury's will. Why did she do that, Brother? Did she hope
she
might be a beneficiary?'

‘When I interviewed her, she admitted that she intended to forge a codicil that favoured the priory. She said she is obliged to eat too much bread and not enough meat, and wants better things in her old age. And then she intended to have Prioress Christiana dismissed for incompetence and herself put forward as a suitable replacement. As I said, Matt, she is wholly devoted to herself and her own wants and desires.'

‘Did she kill William, too? I suppose she must have
done, so he would not tell anyone what was really in Lymbury's last testament.'

‘When we recovered Lymbury's will from Hog's house, we found it was not as controversial as we were led to believe. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife, and gave his friends Dole, William and Askyl forty marks each. It is not a fortune, but it is a respectable declaration of friendship.'

‘But if Joan dies childless, then Askyl is to have everything,' elaborated Bartholomew, who had also listened to the reading, ‘on the grounds that William and Dole have received lucrative posts and Askyl has not yet had anything. Joan had better hurry up and bear a son, or we may be called to investigate another murder in Ickleton.'