Sword of Shame (21 page)

Gradenigo was beginning to ascend the stairs, and I finally backed off, having got him to confirm what I had guessed. I was about to sneak down the secret rear stairs, when a slender hand grabbed my arm, and pulled me into my uncle's bed-chamber. At first I thought it was Caterina, and wondered how she had got there. And how I was going to get her out of this fix. But then I saw it was the boy, Malamocco.

‘You idiot! What are you doing here?'

‘Saving your hide, Barratieri.' Hearing the sound of heavy boots coming up the marble staircase, Malamocco slipped the wooden bolt across the bedroom door, and leaned against it. I grabbed his shoulders, and shook him.

‘You didn't think I was planning to die nobly and unnecessarily, do you? Where's the profit in that? I had my escape route all worked out, and you've gone and spoiled it, you brat. Now what am I going to do?'

His face went pale as a nun's wimple, as his eyes roamed the trap he had created for us both. ‘You could jump out the window into the canal.'

I leaped over to the window, and looked out.

‘Are you mad? It's more mud than water.'

‘Then it'll be a soft landing. Especially if you land headfirst. Anyway, I had to come back.'

‘Eh? Why?'

‘Because the lady told me to.'

‘What lady?'

‘The one who's been trying to speak to you, and was waiting in the
calle
when I left here.'

‘Caterina?'

‘That's her. She says…' he hesitated, obviously embarrassed by the sentimental nature of the message he had been asked to deliver, ‘she says she will wait for you, and will look after your child.'

The truth hit me like a mailed fist in my stomach. I groaned at my stupidity, at my crass lack of sensitivity, at my suspicious nature, and finally at my bad luck.

‘I think we should…'

Before I could reply, the door burst partway inwards, straining the wooden bar and throwing Malamocco to the floor. The metal end of a pike had been thrust through the gap. Had it wounded the boy? Was that blood on his mantle? Impetuously, I drew my blade,
and without thinking, lunged towards the gap between the double doors.

‘Boss! No!'

Malamocco's cry was in vain as I blindly thrust my sword through the gap. There was a cry of pain from the other side, and the pike end was withdrawn. The gap closed, almost holding my sword fast between the leaves of the door. I yanked it back, the blade smeared with blood.

‘Let's go,' yelled an uninjured Malamocco.

I pushed the boy on to the window sill, and he dropped into the darkness of the canal below. I clambered up myself, and looked down. It was a long way, and I am scared of heights. I heard the door bursting open behind me. I jumped.

‘Oooooooooo…'

The landing was uncomfortable but soft. Malamocco's urgent gestures drew me towards the opposite bank. I told him I was OK, and that he should save himself now. That we would do better to split up. Reluctantly, he took my advice, and slunk off into the dark and back to his own world. I heard the angry voices of the men on the balcony. One, that I recognized as the bearded Gradenigo, gave a cry of frustration that chilled me to the heart.

‘Murdering bastard. You killed him. You won't escape.'

I waded along the canal until I was out of sight, dragging my boots out of the sticky mud with ever more exhausted steps. After a while I saw a tiny quay that allowed me to clamber out of the icy waters, and continue my escape on dry land. I was surprised at my own exhaustion, and could barely drag myself over the wooden pilings on to the stone quay. I knew exactly where I was–east of the Grand Canal, and south of SS Apostoli church, and just a few hundred yards from
the quay on the north side of Venice that looked towards the scattering of islands around Murano and freedom.

I trudged along the narrow alleys, leaving a trail of murky footprints behind me. I had eluded those chasing me, and my tracks now didn't matter. The day had not turned out as I had expected, but at least I had stuck it to Fanesi, and escaped with my life. One day I would come back for the sweet, foxy Caterina Dolfin. I should now say, the matronly Caterina, and our child. It was best I was not around as he grew up. After all, I was not only a conspirator against the state, but now a murderer for real, it seemed. What had Ranulf de Cerne's sword made me do?

 

The sword's weight is carrying it in a perfect arc. I am ready to release it. Then I have second thoughts. A sword is just a weapon, so how can I blame this one for what has happened to me? Some like to imbue a blade with a personality–consider even that its maker's own life is somehow hammered and moulded into it. Or that its owners have shaped its destiny by virtue of the way their own lives have played out. But take it from me, it's just a lump of metal without a life of its own. And yet a very pretty lump of metal with an intrinsic value to the right person.

Standing waist-deep in water, and covered in the stinking mud of Venice's lagoon, I should not have been able to see the positive side of things. But I am a Venetian, after all. Well, half Venetian and half stubborn Englishman. A combination that guarantees I see the possibilities of every situation. Here I am–destitute, half-drowned and being hunted for murder–throwing my only asset into the sea. Well, that is if you don't count my considerable talent at making money. But then, only money makes money, and I realize I can
sell the sword for a goodly sum. There are plenty of Crusaders and Templars passing through this region on the way to Castle Pilgrim to fight Baybars and his Mameluk army. Most of them have more money than common sense, and I can market the sword as a ‘veteran' of the Fourth Crusade. Why throw away money?

The weight of the blade is still carrying it to the apex of its arc, as these feverish thoughts run through my brain. I strive to prevent the silver-wired hilt from slipping through my fingers. But my hands are numbed by the cold waters of the lagoon, and it slides free. I yell in frustration as the big disc of the pommel skids over my palm, and I try to clamp down on it with my other hand. I almost have it, but finally, it slips through, and the sword sails free. But, thank God, I have slowed its momentum, and I watch it land with a splash only a few yards ahead of me. I flounder through the turbid waters, plunging my hands blindly into them, and begin to grovel in the bubbling, stinking mud…

HISTORICAL NOTE

Historians will know that no such election took place in 1262, and that Renier Zeno was doge until 1268. But then no one in authority would have liked it known that the voting system could be so easily suborned, and no record of such an abortive election would have been kept. Suffice it to say that the voting system was made extraordinarily complex in 1268, though the system of choosing a child randomly to act as
ballotino
was used.

At least four people might have seen the body and hadn't admitted to it before Hob the Miller caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye that Monday morning.

He was strolling along beside his tired old packhorse, sacks of flour tied to the beast ready to be delivered to his lord's little castle at Nymet Tracy. It was a journey he must have completed many scores of times since he took over the running of the mill from his father. At least once a fortnight he came this way. Otherwise he'd take the road north to Bow for his provisions.

This lane, the leaves overhead dappling the nettles and thick grass with shadows, was as familiar to him as the mill itself. He knew all the ruts and potholes, the thin undergrowth where a man who had drunk too much could relieve himself; the denser brambles, which at this time of year were lethal, with thorns that would shred a fellow's hosen, but which would soon be sought by all the families when the thick, juicy berries were ready to be picked.

The boot lay beneath one of the dense thickets of bramble.

God's pain, but it was tempting to leave the fellow, just as the others had; there were plenty of footprints all about here to bear witness to the fact. It was not
unusual for the man who discovered a dead body to walk away. The first finder would have to pay a surety, and no one wanted to be fined for no reason.

He knelt by the body. It wasn't as if he had been carefully concealed. Probably some traveller who had been knocked on the head by a footpad and hurriedly dragged from the path. It was common enough. As Hob halted and poked with his staff in the bushes, a cloud of flies rose, and Hob tasted acid in his throat. The murder wasn't very recent, from the smell. It hadn't happened today. In this heat…

Hob was conscientious. If a man committed murder, everyone was in danger. Better that good people should learn who was responsible and bring him to justice. So Hob squatted, nose wrinkled against the foul odour, a short, heavy-set man in his mid-thirties, with pale brown hair protruding from under his hood. He had eyes of grey/blue that held chips of ice as they darted about the ground seeking clues to the killer's identity.

‘Who did this to 'un, eh?' he muttered. There were savage slashes which had ripped through the man's cotehardie. Some wounds had toothmarks: wild dogs or maybe a fox or two had come to gnaw at him. The man's head was covered by a cowl, and Hob, grimacing, took his staff and lifted the front.

In this, the seventeenth year of King Edward II, or as the priests would say, in the thirteen hundred and twenty fourth year of Our Lord, men were well enough used to the sight of death, and Hob could see this poor fellow had tried to defend himself. There was a great blow to his head, which must surely have killed him if all the stabs hadn't. Even his hands were badly cut, his right hand was cut almost in two, as though a sword had fallen between his middle fingers. Hob looked more closely at the distorted features, then he pushed the cowl back farther, peered closer, and swore.

He had a choice: he could hurry on and ignore it, as others had, or declare it. Grunting, he stood a while, then took his horse and continued on to the castle.

Others had pretended not to see this fellow; Hob pulled a sour face. Damn his arse, he was a Christian, and he wouldn't leave a man's corpse to rot in the wilds, no matter how high the fine. No, he'd tell Sir William, and ask for the coroner to be called.

 

In his small castle, Sir William was unhappy to hear that his miller craved a few minutes of his time.

‘What? Why? Can't you see I am busy?' he demanded testily of his steward.

‘He is very insistent, Sir William.'

‘Fetch the fool in. I daresay he's found another fault with my damned wheel, or the shaft, or more cogs have broken. Why can't he mend the thing himself instead of troubling me?'

Even in a small manor like this there were always too many distractions for he who craved solitude. Sir William tapped his foot as he waited, profoundly irritated. A man should be granted peace when he had so many concerns. All he sought was an opportunity to leave this place and seek the quiet of the cloister, where he might reflect and beg God's forgiveness for his sins, yet the petty trials and difficulties of the poorer folk in his demesne were constantly intruding. He had a letter to write to the Abbot of Tavistock, an important letter, now that his main concern in life was gone at last.

‘You should be more generous, husband,' his wife chided gently.

Sir William bit back the rejoinder. She could not comprehend the troubles he endured. He had heard her describe him as ‘petulant', as though he was some sort of froward child. If he had been more forceful,
she would have felt his belt before now, but that was not his way. No, he had been under her spell from the moment he first saw her, all those years ago. Perhaps, if he had never met her, God would not now punish him like this. Yet soon his misery would be done.

She continued soothingly: ‘He is a sensible man, and his mill earns a good profit each year. I am sure that if he needs to speak to you, it is for an important reason.'

He forbore to point out that the most important thing to any man should be the protection of his immortal soul. Turning from her and returning to his seat, he reminded himself that this frail woman couldn't be expected to comprehend.

She had no concept of guilt for a crime as vast as that which rested on his shoulders. Christ Jesus! the guilt would
never
leave him! he thought with a shudder.

The door opened. Sir William turned to scowl at Hob. ‘Well?'

‘Sir, I've found a man's body on the way here.'

Sir William curled his lip. ‘Tell the steward and have him call the coroner.'

‘I thought you should know: it's Walter Coule, sir. Sir John's reeve.'

Hob later recalled that meeting, and when he did, all he could remember was Sir William's appalled expression.

 

‘Don't worry, lady.'

Mistress Alice felt her heart lurch at the sly voice behind her, and her hand rose to her breast as the after-shock of thundering blood raced along her veins. ‘You fool,' she hissed. ‘Roger, you nearly sent me to my grave!'

‘I think it would take more than a little surprise to do that to you, lady–don't you?'

Roger de Tracy, her brother-in-law, unfolded himself from the corner where he had been lounging. Tall, he always gave the impression of bending slightly, as though there was not the room built that was tall enough for his great height. He loomed over her by at least six inches.

He was good-looking; many of the local women would have been keen to take him to their beds. Slim of waist, with the broad shoulders of a warrior, he wore his clothing with style. The latest, tight fashions might have been designed for him. The red sleeves of his gipon showing his well-muscled arms, while the crimson cotehardie set off his powerful torso.

But Roger was restless and wild. She was never entirely comfortable with him…probably it was foolish, but she had an intuition that he desired her. He always had. And now it was there in his eyes: no matter how urbane and sophisticated he appeared, his eyes were all over her.

‘Why should I worry?' she demanded as her heart began to return to its normal pace.

‘No need to retreat, lady. I was simply attempting to soothe your fears,' he said smoothly. ‘Your husband wouldn't have murdered him. Why, just because he's…what? bitter towards Coule's master, that doesn't mean he'd kill Coule. His master's slights aren't Coule's fault, are they? Of course, some men might wish to see Coule dead. I would have no pity for him myself, if I were master of this manor. But I am not, of course.'

‘No. You aren't,' she said acidly.

‘Nay.' His eyes were on her for a moment, and she saw that they had lost any feeling for that instant, as though just then he was contemplating her not as a sister, but as a foe. It was a look that made her wish to draw away from him.

‘I must return.'

‘You don't believe me?' he smiled then, and it gave a horrible aspect to his features as he lifted his eyebrows in mock innocence. ‘Why Alice–surely you don't believe your husband capable of murder?'

‘Get away from me!' she spat, and as she span on her heel, she saw that farther down the corridor Denis, her husband's man of law, was standing and glowering at Roger.

‘Until later, madam,' Roger said, and pushed past her with a chuckle.

 

There were two coroners who lived in the north of the county and held inquests, and a third who lived in the east, but when there was a death here in the hundred of North Tawton, it was often easier to contact Sir Richard de Welles, the coroner of the Lifton hundred, because he lived closer to hand and was less encumbered with the sudden deaths of the populations of Exeter and the larger market towns.

Hob knew of him, and when the demand came the next day for him to attend the inquest, he was merely glad that the affair would soon be over. If he had to pay a fine for finding a body, better that he should learn sooner rather than later how much it would be. And he was nervous enough already. He wanted the whole matter over and done with as soon as it may be.

Sir Richard was a tall man with an almost perfectly round face and a thick bush of beard that covered his upper breast like a gorget. His flesh was the colour of tanned hide, his eyes brown and shrewd, his voice like a bull's bellow, as though incapable of quiet speech. He stood before the juries as the men mumbled their way through the unfamiliar words he recited, and raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes as they stumbled.

‘God's blood, where did you find this lot? Eh? All
are here, I suppose. We may as well open proceedings.
ALL THOSE WHO HAVE ANY KNOWLEDGE OF THIS MAN'S DEATH
,
COME FORTH
!'

The hoarse roar silenced the crowd, but there was a comfort in his authority. The jurors knew they must investigate and see whether or not anyone could come to a conclusion about the death. Who wished him dead; who killed him; what weapon was used…there were many questions to be answered, and Sir Richard was experienced in his job.

Hob was first to be called. ‘I found him, sir.'

‘He was here?' Sir Richard demanded. ‘Good Christ, man! Answer!'

‘I don't think he's been moved,' Hob nodded, glancing at the corpse. He could feel a light sweat forming on his back at the sight.

‘I congratulate the vill on protecting the corpse so well,' the coroner said sarcastically. ‘Although who'd be likely to approach
that
! Come! Let's have the body brought into the open.'

Unwilling men barged through the low vegetation, dragging the noisome figure out on his back.

Lady Alice had to turn away. The cotehardie's breast was black with dried blood, and even from this distance, some twenty yards away, she could smell the rotten flesh. It was enough to make her gag. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago this was a hale, living man.

‘Roll him over, then,' the coroner said testily. ‘Do you expect us to guess at his damned injuries?'

The two pulled and heaved the heavy body over.

‘I'd guess this was no accident, then,' Sir Richard said.

‘Time, I think, to strip him,' the coroner continued, clapping his hands together happily. ‘Any chance of a jug of wine, Sir William? I'm parched here.'

The procedure continued. Naked, the body was turned over and over before the juries from neighbouring vills while the coroner intoned his conclusions and his clerk scribbled down his findings. The number of wounds was counted, and the length and depth of each gauged, not that the coroner was over-happy about poking in some of the stab wounds: they were already filled with maggots.

‘Well, I find this man was set upon and slain by someone unknown. The weapon was long-bladed, and stabbed right through him on three occasions–all from in front of him. There were more wounds on his hands, where he tried to defend himself. One great slash at his head. It's likely the weapon was a heavy bladed sword with weight behind it. A weapon like that would cost not less than six shillings, so I'll guess that to be a fair fine. Now, can anyone prove he was English?'

‘I can vouch for him,' said one man from the vill, and then a shorter man at the back of the group of witnesses stepped forward.

‘So can I. He was my reeve.'

‘You are?'

‘Sir John de Curterne.'

‘I see you, sir. I accept his Englishry. When did you last see him?'

‘On Friday last. When he left my hall to go to Sir William's castle at Nymet Tracy. I have not seen him since.'

‘You did not report his disappearance?'

‘He had been going on pilgrimage to Canterbury to visit the shrine of St Thomas a Becket,' Sir John said, and he stared as he spoke at Sir William, who studiously avoided meeting his eye.

 

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, keeper of the king's peace for Crediton, was staying with his wife at her small
manor of Liddinstone when the man arrived from Nymet Tracy.

‘I don't understand,' he said when the rider had given his message, panting slightly from his hasty journey in the hot, dusty weather.

‘Perhaps if you had given him time to pause and rest, his meaning would be more comprehensible?' his wife Jeanne chided him and turned to the fellow. ‘You look tired; please, sit and drink some wine or ale. Have you eaten?'

‘My lady, I'm very grateful. Yes, I should be most grateful for refreshment.'

‘You are the brother of Sir William de Tracy?' Baldwin said. ‘Yet he did not wish to send for my help?'

‘I fear…this is a matter too close to his heart. He means well, but…'

‘You say the reeve was murdered?' This was from the other man in the room, a tall, ruddy-complexioned man with calm grey eyes who had been introduced as the Bailiff, Simon Puttock, a friend of Sir Baldwin. He stood leaning against the wall near the door.