Sword of Shame (25 page)

‘The king had no jurisdiction, for this was a murder of a clergyman in a church. He had to ask the pope what should be done with the three. The pope urged that the three should fast and live a life of continual penance, and that they should be banished from the country and travel to the Holy Land where they might take up arms against the Saracens. De Tracy became a Knight Templar, I understand.'

Simon understood his quietness suddenly. Sir Baldwin had been one of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and had only survived the persecution, torture and slaughter of the suppression of the holy order because he had been out of the Temple in Paris when his comrades were all arrested. Yet there was more: a quizzical, doubtful expression had come into his eyes.

Simon looked at Hob. ‘Is that true? Did de Tracy die in the Holy Kingdom?'

‘I don't know about that. The sword came back only two years ago, though, Sir. It was Sir Humphrey, Sir William's father, who brought it back. He was there in Acre at the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. I think he found it again while he was abroad–in Acre or on his way there–and brought it back for his family.'

Baldwin frowned pensively. ‘He was at the siege?'

‘One of the few brave men who travelled there to defend our faith and Christ's birthplace,' Hob agreed.

‘You reckon he found it out there?' Simon said. ‘How would he know it was his ancestor's sword?'

‘There are ways,' Baldwin said, but in his mind's eye, all he saw was that terrible battlefield: the great city of Acre, last stronghold of the crusaders, being reduced steadily by the thundering artillery of the hordes outside. The crash and rumble of masonry collapsing as the great rocks were flung at them by the catapults, then the shrieks as the enemy managed to enter the city, swords dripping with blood, eyes filled with the desire for slaughter. There were many died there.

‘Yes, well, maybe there are,' Simon conceded. ‘Yet a man would have to be entirely convinced to think a sword found so long after being lost was the correct one, surely?'

‘The man who sold it told of its provenance, I suppose,' Hob said vaguely. ‘Sir Humphrey, Sir William's sire, must have been assured. He looked on it as a sign that his family's crime was forgotten. God had forgiven them.'

‘Sir William was happy to have it returned to him, I suppose?' Simon said, ignoring Baldwin's derisive snort.

‘Hardly! He is pious. To be named for the ancestor who executed a poor saint, that was bad enough, but
to have the sword brought back as well! I think he felt it was cursed–and that was easy to believe since Sir Humphrey died soon after he returned. He had a fever that burst his heart. Many say that the sword should be destroyed for its crime against St Thomas.'

Simon nodded. He had always been prone to an awareness of atmosphere, the sense of evil, the feeling of a devil's presence–the sort of thing that Baldwin laughingly called ‘superstitious rubbish', but which Simon knew was a proof of his sensitivity. There had been times when…but Baldwin would only laugh. Still, a sword that ended such an important life would likely be cursed until blessed in church to expiate the crime.

Baldwin had no patience with such feelings. ‘Well, if you believe that a sword can take on a man's guilt, that is fine. Perhaps it ought to be destroyed…but for now, I think I should like to find this weapon and see whether it was used to murder Coule. We have heard that he was unpopular with the villeins on his estate, but was there any one man who hated him enough to murder him?'

‘Perhaps only his own master.'

‘This man Sir John de Curterne?' Baldwin snapped. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘Sir John always wanted placid, untroubled serfs. Coule wanted his peasants cowed.'

‘Sir John is enlightened, or he has suffered in the past from mutiny and rebellion?' Baldwin asked.

Hob considered. ‘I think a little of both. He's no weakling, but his father used to bully the folk too much and he did have a rebellion. Sir John wants no repeat of that. His trouble is, Coule never feared him. The man was determined to get his own way, and he'd argue with his master in front of the villeins.'

‘Any fool who tried that with me would get a taste of the lash himself,' Baldwin growled.

‘I think it was close with him. When he disappeared, they thought he'd gone on pilgrimage. Everyone could believe that! He had lots to be forgiven for!'

‘He didn't fear losing his position and livelihood?' Simon said.

‘I never saw him afraid,' Hob said.

‘Sir John is well rid of him,' Simon said. He motioned to the sky. ‘It's growing late, Baldwin. If we're to get to the town and then back, we should ride on soon.'

 

Sir John de Curterne was generally a mild-mannered man, and he smiled indulgently at his young son, Matthew. The two-year-old was steady on his legs, and was beginning to talk as he ran about the hall, grasping at balls, sticks and any and every other bauble that took his fancy. He was a son to be proud of. Sir John felt sure that he would be a brave, bold fellow as he grew. The idea made him grin to himself. He had no desire to force his son into a particular mode of thinking or behaviour.

His own father had tried to do that with him. Sir Edward had been convinced that his eldest son, Godfrey, would be a bold, adventurous man with a good estate behind him. He had seen to the marriage with Alice to take over her manors, for her father was wealthy and had no son. Sir Edward had done all he could to promote Godfrey, seeing to his training with a master of defence, acquiring a cleric to teach him how to read and write, as well as the arts of management of estates. He had done well, and until that dreadful day when Godfrey had drowned, he had been a model young warrior.

And then he died, and before long, when Sir John was still a young fellow, his second brother died when the ox fell on him, and suddenly Sir John was the sole remaining heir and must learn a new life of responsibility and duty.

Now in his early thirties, he was proud that he was not at all like his father. Sir Edward had been more keen to impose his will on all those who lived on his lands, and on upholding the ancient liberties and privileges of the manor. Over time the continual struggle had harmed the family. Too much money was extorted from the vills on his lands, and the peasants grew impatient with the constant demands for more taxes, until at last he had been forced to resort to armed strength to keep them quiet.

Not for Sir John a life of litigation and strife. He preferred to negotiate and agree terms that were acceptable to all. His peasants were generally passive, content with their lot. Complaints were few, and he could count on the peasants working harder, now their profits were taxed more sensibly. He was farming his serfs more effectively than his father ever had. It was a source of pride to him, as was his reputation for coolness in adversity and his ability to remain detached and affable under the worst of provocations.

Today, though, as the man was brought to him, he sat back and felt the anger begin to bite at his heart. It was hard to remain in the same room as this arrogant prickle.

‘So, Master Roger. You wished to speak with me?'

‘Your tone is so bitter, Sir John. Do I deserve your enmity?'

Sir John eyed him calmly. For a moment or two he did not speak.

It was long before the birth of either of them that the argument over the land had first risen; it had been back in the days of old Sir Hugh de Curterne, who had received the lands from King Richard. All this trouble over Bradninch stemmed from that transaction.

When they had all been lads, none of them had
cared about the affair. They had been boys together, playing as equals: Sir William with Godfrey, Ralph and John with Roger. Then, when Godfrey died, William appeared to withdraw from that world. Everyone had thought it was because he had always been fonder of Godfrey, but John knew different. He had spoken to William not long afterwards, and William had told him that his family was little better than thieves. They had taken his manor of Bradninch from him, and he would do all he could to retrieve it. Now Sir William would never speak to him unless there was absolutely no alternative, as though it was Sir John's fault that Bradninch had been taken from him. The fool!

Yet if he was a fool, this brother of his was a snake, and a snake all the more poisonous for the apparent friendliness. ‘What do you want with me?'

‘Oh, Sir John, there's no need to be suspicious,' Roger said, holding his hands up in mock hurt. ‘I am here to help.'

‘Why would you want to help me?'

‘Why should I not? You are a close neighbour, after all.'

‘Don't piss lies into my ear! Whatever you give freely, you give because you want something in return.'

‘In that case, let me be frank,' Roger said. ‘I have heard that my brother is considering giving up the secular world. You know he is a keen, pious man? He feels the urge to go into a convent most keenly. Since he has lost our family's most precious possession, shame is likely to hurry that ambition.'

‘The sword?' Sir John said. He leaned forward, elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his fist.

‘The sword. While he possessed it, it was a source of immense embarrassment, naturally, and now he's lost it, he's keen to hide himself from the world–urgently,
before anything comparable can arrive to unsettle him.'

‘What's all that got to do with me?'

‘The sword has to remain hidden. If it is found, Sir William will stay. If it's gone…then he will go too, and I will become master of Nymet Tracy. And I'd be a better neighbour than my brother.'

Sir John leaned back again, his head tilted as he studied his guest quizzically. ‘You're a devious little bastard, aren't you? You murder my man, take the sword from him, and now you say you want me to take it from you and hide it? Why? To protect you? After you murdered my man?'

Roger's smile broadened. ‘I'll bring it here for you and your family. For all time, as a proof of my friendship. We were comrades once. Why can we not be so again? It is very valuable.'

 

Sir William was in the market hall, an open building with rough wooden palings to act as a screen from the worst of the weather, when Denis appeared riding slowly down the high street. He rose, walking out to the roadway as Denis drew to a halt.

‘They are here?'

Denis nodded. ‘They are questioning Hob just now. They wanted to speak to him first, before coming to see you.'

Sir William's jaw clenched as he considered all the work he had to do before he could rest that day, and then he nodded curtly. ‘Ride back to the castle and tell my wife I shall be back as soon as I may. I have business to attend to while this precious keeper idles away his time with my miller!'

The man of law nodded, relieved to be escaping with no curse ringing in his ears, and Sir William returned to the market hall to the papers and the pasty-faced,
unwell port-reeve. ‘Come! Let's finish our business this week, eh?'

 

It had not been perfect, but perhaps that was too much to expect after the last years of strife. Still, Roger reckoned the meeting with Sir John had been satisfactory, and he rode back at a steady pace. The knight would agree once he had considered Roger's offer, he was sure of that, and when Sir William departed, that would seal the contract. There would be an end to this daft dispute between the two manors, and the lawyers could at last pack up their books: Denis could go back to whichever stone from beneath which he'd crawled before coming here and taking the family's money.

Roger's road did not lead direct to the castle. In preference he would go to Bow and take an ale or two at the inn. There was a new maid there who had caught his eye recently, a delightful filly who looked as though she'd give him a good gallop–and ah! when his damned brother had left the manor, life would be so much more sweet! She would certainly be more interesting than a return to the castle. It had all the charm and warmth of a charnel house recently: better, he may stay the night at the inn. There he could keep the sword safe, too.

He had hoped that Sir John would take the thing as soon as it was offered, but perhaps that was a little too much to hope for. As he said, if he took the thing, he could be accused of murder, and he was not yet happy to trust Roger with that responsibility. However, his eyes were easier at the end of their meeting, and Roger thought that they would be able to enjoy a better relationship when Roger was in charge of the manor. No bad thing, either, for Sir John to know that Roger could be ruthless when necessary. Yes. All in all, a good day's work. He deserved his ale.

William would be happier in a convent. There was no point in his remaining in the world when all he wanted was a hermit-like existence in a monastery. Roger was ensuring that he would achieve the ambition he had craved for so long.

He turned one of the last bends in the road on the way to Bow, and suddenly a cloak was hurled at his horse. His beast leapt into the air, neighing with surprise. Roger gripped hard with his thighs, his fingers curled into talons as he clutched the reins. ‘Easy! Easy!' he called, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

The beast was startled, but he couldn't seek the culprit as his horse plunged and reared: his concentration was on his mount. Even as he felt the first slip of steel beneath his ribs, he could not face his danger. His mind was so fixed upon his horse that even as the sword thrust upwards, he was at first convinced that it was a strained muscle.

It was only when the strain became a flowering agony that his eyes opened wide with horror. There was a liquid thundering in his breast as blood was pumped into his lungs, and he was starting to drown even before the sword's point burst through his fashionable tight gipon in front of his anguished eyes. He tried to scream, but as he toppled backwards, his weight slipping him down the blade made slick with his own blood, only a gurgling would come from his throat, and he vomited a gush of blood as he died.