Sword of Shame (34 page)

Bartholomew laughed. ‘You say I am free to make the decision, but in the next breath you tell me what to do. You are abrogating the responsibility, without relinquishing the power.'

Michael chuckled. ‘You know me too well. But Michaelhouse has a legal and moral right to this ten marks, so there is really no decision to make. If you offer to let the nuns keep the money, Langelee will hire lawyers. The sisters will lose it eventually–along with fees they will have to pay their own clerk to contest the case. We will all be the poorer if you elect to be generous to this priory.'

Bartholomew was silent for a while, mulling over the situation. As far as Michaelhouse was concerned, the debt remained Lymbury's–or his estate's–and he supposed he could insist it was paid by the manor, and leave the nuns out of it. But it might take months to secure payment if lawyers became involved, and the College needed latrines urgently.

‘I do not think you should look into Lymbury's death,
Brother,' he said eventually. ‘There are too many suspects–especially now we know he was not popular in the village, either. If he was alone in the manor-house all day, anyone could have crept in and driven that sword through his innards.'

‘We shall ask the prioress tomorrow if any villager has fallen especially foul of him. Or perhaps we are wasting our time looking for a human hand in this. What did the sword's previous owner–Curterne–tell Dole? That it can fly through the air and kill whomsoever it likes?'

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I am sure it can–particularly if lobbed by a person.'

‘Well, we should concentrate on the suspects we have already met. There are eight of them: Lymbury's wife, his mistress and his mistress's “chaperon”; his friends William, Dole and Askyl; and his bailiff Hog–and Hog's son James. None can prove where they were to my satisfaction, and all had some sort of quarrel with him.'

‘Except Pauline and Rose,' said Bartholomew. ‘But that may be because we do not know about an argument. He did not sound pleasant, and no one was particularly upset by his death–except Dole.'

‘William is my first choice as the killer.'

Bartholomew tried to look at the monk, but could only see a massive stomach rising like a mountain in the glimmering starlight. ‘Why? Because he sent his parishioners to the far meadows, thus making sure no one would see him if he returned to the manor-house to kill his old comrade-in-arms?'

Michael nodded. ‘And because he has an obvious liking for that sword, and it is clear he intends to have it for himself. When we see Lymbury's will tomorrow, I shall be very surprised if there is no codicil that does not leave the thing to his parish priest and dear friend.'

‘Would a man kill for a sword? Especially if it brings bad luck, as Dole claims?'

‘I would not want one, but then I have never been to war. Battles do odd things to men, Matt, as you will know from personal experience. William cannot have much money of his own, or he would not have accepted the lowly post of parish vicar, so a valuable sword might be a very tempting prize.'

‘I think Lymbury's wife is a more likely culprit. Lady Joan showed no sign of grief when he died–it was Rose who screamed at the sight of his corpse. Perhaps Joan objected to him taking a mistress.'

‘Perhaps,' said Michael. ‘And with Lymbury out of the way, she is free to make a play for the handsome Askyl. Before, she was stuck with an ageing husband, while Rose was making it clear
she
was available. Now Joan has a sporting chance of snaring a comely mate.'

‘More than a chance, if she inherits the bulk of Lymbury's estate.'

‘But is Askyl interested? He simpered at both, but I could not tell if he preferred one to the other.'

‘His choice is wealth or beauty, as Rose herself pointed out. I think he will opt for wealth.'

‘Rose is only right if Askyl thinks she is beautiful. Personally, I find her rather ordinary.'

Bartholomew was surprised. ‘Do you? That will not please her. She goes to a good deal of trouble to make herself attractive.'

‘She is wasting her time,' declared Michael harshly. ‘She does not have the basis for decent looks–she is too swarthy. And her figure is oddly shaped.'

Bartholomew eased himself up on one elbow and stared in the monk's general direction. ‘To be honest, I thought she might be pregnant.'

He heard Michael's blanket rustle. ‘Really? I suppose you are trained to notice that sort of thing. I wonder
if Lymbury is the father. If so, then surely she would prefer him alive? He cannot pay for the brat's upkeep if he is dead.'

‘Assuming he is willing to acknowledge it as his own. He might have rejected it–and her at the same time. It is a very good motive for murder. Perhaps I will change my prime suspect from Joan to Rose–especially since I recall her bragging about her skills with weapons when we were in the woods. It was no hollow boast, either: it was she who shot the deer the men could not catch.'

‘The prioress noted a recent cooling in the relationship between Lymbury and Rose,' mused Michael. ‘I wonder why. Did Rose decline to gratify the plain lord of the manor once she had set eyes on his handsome friend?'

‘Dole admires Rose, too, although he cannot hope to compete with Askyl.'

‘I told you, Rose is too swarthy for beauty, so she does not stand a chance with Askyl, either. Lord, Matt! I cannot believe you are encouraging me to discuss women with you. We are in a nunnery for God's sake, and I am a monk!'

‘What about Pauline?'

‘She is far too old to interest me.'

‘I meant what about Pauline as a suspect for murder?' asked Bartholomew impatiently.

‘If it was Pauline, she would have moaned about blood on her clothing or the weight of the sword. She is a malcontent and grumbles about everything. And why would she want Lymbury dead?'

‘She objected to him forcing her out on hunts as an escort for Rose. Perhaps it was the only way she could think of to end it. She had ample opportunity, because Rose abandoned her in order to chase after Askyl.'

‘Meanwhile, Hog and James are also obvious candidates. Lymbury offered Askyl the coveted post of bailiff. Askyl did not say whether he would have accepted, but there is nothing to say he would not. His two friends are happily settled here, and Askyl said he has no family of his own.'

‘What will happen to Hog and James now? Will Lady Joan keep them on?'

‘Who knows? But an estate needs a bailiff–especially at this time of year–and Hog seems competent. Perhaps Michaelhouse will hire him, until a new tenant comes to replace Lymbury.'

‘What about Askyl and Dole? Would either of them have killed their old friend?'

‘Yes,' replied Michael without hesitation. ‘Dole is complex, and I do not know whether he is telling the truth about his motives for joining the priesthood. And Askyl thinks rather a lot of himself. Perhaps one of them learned
he
had been designated as Lymbury's sole heir, and decided to kill the man before he could change his mind and write another will.'

‘We will find out tomorrow, Brother,' said Bartholomew feeling sleep approaching at last. An owl hooted, and somewhere in the distance a vixen yapped. ‘William the Vicar will read it to us.'

 

The glorious sunshine of the past few days had gone by the following morning, and there was drizzle in the air. It dampened the thirsty soil, releasing the scent of wet earth, and thunder rolled in the distance. Wisps of mist lay in strips across the fields and in the woods, and a nightingale sang as the land grew lighter. The priory bell chimed for prime, and the nuns made their way to the chapel in silence. Bartholomew stood in the nave with the lay-folk, listening to Michael's pleasant baritone complement the higher voices of the women.

Breakfast at the priory comprised watered ale, bread and honey, and although it was not exciting fare, there was enough of it to satisfy even Michael's gargantuan appetite. After the tables had been cleared, Prioress Christiana came to talk again. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked as though she had not slept.

‘I had a wretched night,' she confessed, when Bartholomew asked if she was unwell. ‘You are here to take our money; I must find funds to buy masses for Lymbury's soul; Pauline tells me she no longer wants to act as Rose's chaperon; and Rose said this morning that she will leave the priory.'

‘Let us take these troubles one at a time,' said Michael kindly, taking her arm and leading her to a bench in a sheltered arbour near the refectory. It was full of flowers, bees and dripping vegetation. Bartholomew sat on a wall-seat opposite them. ‘First, let us consider the money Lymbury gave you, which rightfully belongs to Michaelhouse.'

‘Ten marks,' whispered Christiana, white-faced. ‘A colossal sum! I have already spent most of it on essential supplies for the winter, and I need the rest to repair the dormitory roof. The building will collapse if we do not tackle the problem soon.'

‘William the Vicar is going to read Lymbury's will this morning, so we shall know the full extent of his assets,' said Bartholomew. ‘If he has ten marks in other goods, we shall claim those instead.'

Christiana brightened. ‘That would be a relief! I was beginning to think we might have to part with our relic to pay you, although I am not sure whether it is really authentic. It is a splinter of the True Cross, stained with Christ's blood when—'

‘No, thank you,' said Bartholomew hastily, recalling the murder and mayhem that had followed when he
had last encountered such an item. ‘We do not want any Blood Relics.'

‘Your second concern is funding prayers for Lymbury's soul,' said Michael.

Christiana nodded. ‘That is why he gave us the ten marks–to pay a chantry priest to pray for him in perpetuity. Unfortunately, I did not learn the reason for the benefaction until after I had spent it on food. It came with written instructions, but I cannot read and Dame Pauline had a headache, so was unavailable for translation. I was dreading confessing the misunderstanding to Lymbury.'

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Was this yet another motive for murder?

‘His soul will have to be satisfied with your daily prayers and a weekly mass from Dole,' decided Michael. ‘Your chaplain may as well do something for the convent he serves, and I shall ask the Bishop to send him an official order. But Lymbury was miserly–ten marks could never cover the cost of eternal prayers.'

Christiana swallowed hard, touched. ‘You are very understanding, Brother.'

‘Your third problem is Pauline's refusal to chaperon Rose,' said Michael. ‘That is disobedience, which runs contrary to the Rule of our Order. You are her superior, so where lies the problem?'

Christiana looked close to tears. ‘If I order her about, she refuses to help me with the convent's administration. She is the only sister who can read, so it is important I keep on her good side. She says I am unfit to be prioress, and is always threatening to expose my failings to the Bishop–although he did know about my illiteracy when he appointed me.'

‘She will do nothing of the kind,' said Michael. ‘And
I
shall tell him you are above reproach, so that will be
the end of the matter. Besides, you do not need her, because Dole can act as your scribe.'

‘She told me men are not permitted to dabble in the affairs of nuns,' said Christiana miserably. ‘She said it is written in the Rule of St Benedict.'

‘She made it up to maintain her hold over you. However, if she does not obey your orders in the future, I shall arrange for
her
to be sent to Chatteris. But let us turn to your fourth problem: Rose. Why has she decided to leave? Is it because she is with child?'

Christiana gaped at him. ‘How did you guess? She said no one else knows.'

‘Who is the father?' asked Bartholomew. ‘Lymbury?'

Christiana put her head in her hands. ‘She said several men have enjoyed her favours. Her family brought her to us three years ago–they paid two months' keep, but we have had nothing since. I could not bring myself to force her out, but now I wish I had–she has brought shame on my priory.'

‘Your charity does you credit,' said Michael. ‘And it was wrong of Rose to have abused it. Will you summon her, and order her to answer our questions? Her liaisons may be relevant to unveiling Lymbury's killer.'

Christiana spotted Pauline, who was strolling up and down a cabbage patch with a hoe, although she was making no attempt to use it. The old nun opened her mouth to grumble when she was asked to run an errand, but did as she was told when Michael fixed her with a glare. Eventually, she returned with Rose. The younger woman's saffron hair was tucked decorously under her veil, and her loose robes concealed the tell-tale bulges Bartholomew had noticed the previous day.

‘Anything else?' Pauline asked impertinently. ‘These weeds will not hoe themselves.'

‘Forget the weeds,' said Christiana with sudden spirit. ‘Go to the kitchens and scour all the pans.'

‘I certainly shall not,' said Pauline, regarding her as though she was insane. ‘Cold water is bad for my joints. I shall stay out here, and if the sun comes out, I shall have a doze.'

‘Did you say there are
several
vacancies for literate nuns at Chatteris, Brother?' asked Christiana, looking at Michael with wide blue eyes. ‘And the Bishop is very keen to fill them?'

Michael nodded soberly. ‘But no one wants to go, because of the rats–and its tyrannical prioress. The Bishop is always looking for victims…I mean candidates, and I have his ear.'

‘You need me here, Mother Prioress,' said Pauline sharply. ‘I am your
secretarius
.'

‘I am to have another,' said Christiana sweetly. ‘So your services are no longer required. However, Chatteris is—'